The Great Unknowable End Read online

  It’s not that there was anything ominous about the way Saff told me. She caught me on my way into Heather House and said Rod wanted to see me in his office, at the start of morning prayer. She didn’t look angry about it, or even disappointed. But it’s possible she doesn’t yet know what Rod knows. About my misconduct. About the Dreamlight and the weed and Stella Kay Mercer in the flesh. Though I wonder—does Rod know all that? How much should I play dumb when he calls me into his office and asks me to explain myself?

  My head is so jammed with questions, at first I don’t notice the men right in front of me, exiting Council House as I come up the dirt path entrance. There are two of them, one tall and bulky, one tall and thin. They’re wearing uniforms—policemen from the Outside. And since I’m thinking doomsday shit as it is, my first thought is, They’ve come for me They know I’ve broken their Outside rules, and they’re going to put me in their Outside prison.

  That doesn’t happen. One of them gives me a look as though I reek of body odor, but neither says a word as we pass on the path. The winds of the past two days have finally settled down, turning the world hushed and hot, and I notice a long trickle of sweat running down the tall one’s cheek. They keep heading out, quiet. I walk slow, way slower than usual. I take the stairs to the Council House door one deliberate step at a time. I try the handle, hoping it won’t turn—stupid, since not a single door in Red Sun has a lock.

  Galliard! you’re shouting. Quit delaying the inevitable and get on with it! I know, I know.

  I get to Rod’s office. Though the door is open, Rod is hidden from view, sitting in a tall-backed armchair, facing away from where I stand. I get this horrible urge to shout, “Boo!” Because if he’s going to revoke my Crossing privileges, I at least want to scare the shit out of the guy. And he deserves getting scared shitless regardless, what with locking down our record collection. But before I can be any stupider than usual, Rod swivels his chair, and we’re facing each other.

  “Galliard,” he says.

  “Rod,” I reply.

  Then I clear my throat of a familiar, unclearable fog.

  “Have a seat.” He motions to the folding wooden chair before me, on the opposite side of his desk. I take it. It squeaks under my weight. I try not to freak the fuck out about any of this.

  “I appreciate you coming in this early—”

  “What were the police doing here?”

  I shouldn’t be asking questions, and I definitely shouldn’t be interrupting Rod, but hey. If I’m in trouble anyway, right?

  Rod looks kind of surprised. He leans forward and picks up a paperweight from his desk. It’s glass, a sphere cut clean in half. He turns it over in his hand. Even though he doesn’t owe me a reply, I can see him thinking, deciding if he’ll give one to me anyway.

  “There have been some deaths on the Outside,” he says, and when my chair squeaks again at my sudden shift, he adds, “Animal deaths. Dogs, mostly. They thought our crossers might have had something to do with it.”

  I clear my throat, making a face. “They think we’re killing animals for fun? Who do they think we are?”

  Rod scratches his jaw, which is so cleanly shaven the morning sun gleams off it. Rod is always clean-shaven. I’ve never seen him with scruff, not once.

  He says, “That is the heart of the matter, Galliard. They think we’re villains. That’s how it is on the Outside: No one takes responsibility; everyone looks for someone else to blame. Since they do not understand us, they fear us. Since they fear us, they blame us.”

  Rod isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know. This topic comes up a lot during commune meetings—especially when Rod is the one talking. The Outside doesn’t like us. They think we should have families made of mother and father and child, and we don’t. They think we should go to their public schools, and we don’t. They think we should go to their churches, and we don’t. So really, I shouldn’t be surprised that the Outside assumes we have something to do with their animals dying.

  “It’s insulting,” Rod’s saying, “but we must always be the ones to defend ourselves against their accusations. When they are the guilty ones. When it is their chemicals and their mass production—you understand that, don’t you, Galliard? You see the irony of it?”

  Sure, I see irony, though not the kind Rod’s talking about. I see a guy talking about how the Outside is bad for blaming us, and then two seconds later he’s turning around, blaming them. It’s hilarious. It makes me want to blow up in laughter right here, in front of him. Rod is a creep for saying this stuff. I told you: I like him least.

  But I say, “Sure, Rod. I see it.”

  And Rod says, “I know you do. That’s why I called you here.” He scratches his smooth, pale jaw again. “Do you know why I called you in, Galliard? Any guess?”

  Absolutely. It’s because Archer and I smoked weed on the Outside, and also I’ve been carrying on a correspondence with an Outsider under false pretenses, and also I hate my assignment in the kitchen, and also if you’re a mind reader, you know I kind of hate you and wish you’d lift your stupid regulations on the Back Room record collection.

  My throat rumbles with another clearing.

  Then I say, “No, sir. Not a clue.”

  “Then let me explain myself.” Rod leans closer. He folds his hands over the midpoint of the table between us. I shift a little. The chair squeaks.

  “Galliard,” he says, “I know you’re upset over not receiving our resident artist position.”

  Well, lo and behold, he is a mind reader.

  “I want you to know,” Rod continues, “it was, indeed, a difficult decision. The Council is well aware of your gift for music, and we do not doubt your sincere desire to help extend Red Sun’s influence beyond our walls.”

  I wish he wouldn’t say this stuff. Every sentence he completes is a fresh punch to my face. If I were qualified, I’d be resident artist. But I’m not resident artist, so what is the fucking point here?

  “Galliard,” says Rod. God, he’s using my name a whole lot. “Have you considered that you were meant for something other than resident artist? Something better?”

  I clear my throat, and I stare at him like some stupid kid who doesn’t know the answer to a math problem.

  “What I’m trying to say, Galliard, is that the Council thinks you have potential. So much so, we believe you will make an excellent leader.”

  I’m damn slow. Rod is making some grand connection, but I don’t see it.

  “Uh. Sure.” Seems the safe thing to say.

  Rod can see I’m not getting it. He scoots his folded hands closer to me. He leans in. “What I’m saying, Galliard, is that we can see you on this Council one day.”

  Now I get it. Man, do I get it. My chair squeaks real loud. Sound bursts from my throat—three quick clears.

  Then I say, “Wow. Oh wow. Wow, that’s . . . okay.”

  “Have you never considered the possibility?” Rod’s lips are stretching outward. I think he’s laughing at me.

  “Honestly? No.”

  I could give the long answer, say I’ve never considered being on the Council because ever since I was a piano-playing pip-squeak I fucking wanted to be resident artist. Something tells me Rod wouldn’t appreciate this elaboration, though.

  “Think about it,” Rod tells me. “You were born here. You were raised here. You clearly love Red Sun enough to want to share its message with the Outside. You’re a model resident, Galliard. You’re happy here. Aren’t you happy here?”

  “Uh.”

  “More than that, you’re our only youth, to date, who has chosen not to engage in Crossing. You chose instead to continue contributing to the commune. That demonstrates high moral fiber. Don’t think it’s gone unnoticed.”

  “Uh.”

  I feel hot all over. Sweaty under my linen collar. I give a giant throat clear.

  “Now, I know.” Rod pulls apart his hands and raises them high, like I’m shouting him down. “I know how dearly
you love your music, son. I want you to think about it, though. Think, long and hard. To be a musician is a fine thing. You can create songs and words that will outlive you. But Galliard, a song is just a song. As a leader, you can effect change. You can shape minds. You can alter the course of a group’s future. This group’s future. That outlives you too. And that outlives you longer than songs ever will. It lives on in generation after generation. Do you see what I’m saying? Do you understand the possibility?”

  I could say a lot here. A whole lot. I could argue. I could say that a song is never just a song. I could say that Hendrix’s riffs make me feel alive down in the grit of my bones. The thing is, Rod is being nice to me. Instead of revoking my Crossing privileges, he’s offering me more privilege. More possibility. And even if it isn’t the possibility I want, it’s something.

  That’s why I say, “I get what you’re saying.”

  Rod looks immensely satisfied. He lowers his raised hands, grips them tight together, and bows his head. “You understand, then, why we’ve chosen to keep you in the kitchen. When the time comes for you to step up to a position of leadership, the members of Red Sun will want to know you’re one of them. They couldn’t respect you if they thought you’d been given a free pass—done little more than write songs, knew nothing of what it means to support our group with your own two hands.”

  “Yeah. Sure. No one respects a musician, right?” I try pushing out a laugh, but it clogs at the top of my throat before sludging out, pathetic—my very body punishing me for my betrayal of Holly, Hendrix, and Joplin. After that embarrassment, a throat clear manages to push itself out.

  Rod smiles at me, even though he doesn’t seem particularly happy about anything. “Starting in September, I am going to bring you into this office. Not in place of your work at the Moonglow. A supplement. You’ll get to see how I work, help with some odd tasks. Little by little, you’ll learn what it means to lead a community. Sound agreeable?”

  “Uh, sure. Agreeable.”

  “I’m glad we understand each other, Galliard. I’m glad we had this talk.”

  “Yeah, me too. Definitely. Thanks.”

  I stand up, because it sure feels like Rod’s asked me to leave. As I head for the door, he says, “I hear you went out last night.”

  Damn.

  I turn around. “Yeah, with Archer. To the movies, that’s all.”

  “Your first time Crossing. Even though you could’ve gone anytime in the past two summers. Why is that, I wonder?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know, I guess I . . . don’t know.”

  Rod’s looking straight at me. I look back at his clean, hairless face. He knows why I crossed. I know why I crossed. And we each know that the other knows.

  “Now that we’ve had our talk,” says Rod, “I think things have changed for you. Do you think so, Galliard?” He’s not actually asking me, though, because he goes on. “Crossing is for the weak among us. You’re not weak, Galliard. Leaders aren’t weak. Keep that in mind.”

  A different tic shows up. My jaw jolts to the right.

  “Sure. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “For every action we take, there is a consequence. The Life Force sees to that. Weak actions—wrong actions . . . those result in negative consequences. Here at Red Sun, we strive only for the positive consequences. For harmony with our Life Force. Understood?”

  Sure I do. I’ve heard the law of consequence my whole life.

  My jaw twitches. I say, “Understood.”

  “Good.”

  And that is Rod dismissing me.

  So I leave. I get out of that room before I can tic again.

  10

  Stella

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 2

  Slater is holding a town meeting this afternoon. I know all about it, because working at Vine Street Salon means knowing everything about anything in town.

  This morning, the salon has been crackling with talk of the strange weather in Slater these past two days. The town meeting was not called to specially address this issue—Slater always holds a town meeting the first Tuesday of every month—but there is a consensus in the salon that the meeting’s discussion should be wholly devoted to the strong winds and their effects.

  The winds died down last night, and though they didn’t bring in the storm everyone expected, they have blown in a different kind of disturbance. It seems that I’m not the only one who has had an encounter with a dead animal. One client recounts how a robin slammed into her window and dropped dead. Another talks about the deceased raccoon her husband found in the garbage bin. Far more common than deaths, though, is mere odd behavior.

  “Pam’s little tabby was walking along the windowsill one moment, and fhwip! Like that, she drops to the floor hissing, when she’s never hissed before. I swear to heaven, that is God’s honest truth.”

  Mrs. Grace Corich, who owns the dress boutique three shopfronts down, is in a flurry. Her salon cape rustles and swells as her hands move beneath it, fighting against their captivity to illustrate her every word. Not for the first time, Connie asks her to tilt her head down so she can get a proper trim in the back. Mrs. Corich complies for a few seconds, until a new thought comes to her and she straightens, fervent as ever.

  “It’s those hippies! It’s a scheme, that’s what it is. They’ve gotten greedy. They want this town for themselves, and they’ve sent out their young people—those crossers, as they call themselves—to poison our animals. They are trying to scare us from town.”

  “Grace. If you could—”

  “Oh right, yes.” Mrs. Corich bends her head and Connie snips straightaway, trying to get in as many good strokes as possible before Mrs. Corich’s next thought.

  “I read the paper this morning,” says Connie, “and it said several vets have found no evidence of poisoning or any other cause for alarm. And if it’s due to a weather disturbance, as so many are saying, Red Sun can hardly control that.”

  “That’s what they’d like you to believe, isn’t it?” Mrs. Corich sits straight again, and Connie backs away, scissors held high. “I’ll ask you this, though, Connie: Why is it only happening here in Slater?”

  Mrs. Corich is right about that, at least. There have been no reports of heavy winds or oddly behaving animals outside Slater. None of our clients from other towns have seen anything out of the ordinary in the past two days. They claim the weather’s been calm and hot as an oven. Slater, and only Slater, seems to have been affected.

  Sudden and swift, the image of eyeless garter snakes flashes into my memory. What was it that drove them to death? What killed them in the end? And what about the all-too-familiar collie, or Velma the goldfish? Could it be they heard or saw something in those winds that we humans could not? Then I think of those numbers, violet and glowing, written on my closet door. I shut my eyes and shake both the memories and the questions free.

  • • •

  When I leave the salon, I have every intention of cycling straight home. I’ve attended town meetings before. Our townspeople do not discuss anything I don’t already hear ad nauseam in the salon. More than that, they come to fewer conclusions and courses of action than our clientele. Town meetings are a place for loudmouthed, big-opinioned people to be heard. I suppose it’s cathartic for them, but it’s not very constructive for anyone else. That’s what I expect from today’s town meeting: more of the same.

  I’m biking past town hall, with no plans of stopping, when I see it. There’s a large crowd—dozens and dozens of people—gathered before town hall’s columned entrance. There, above the doors but below the clock tower, superimposed upon brick, are six violet numbers separated by two colons, shining like a fluorescent sign. Only not as solid as a sign. They’re more of a . . . “hologram” is the only word I can think for it. The numbers are solid enough to be read, but they hang over the bricks as though they’re a projection of light.

  I stop my bike and wheel it across the sidewalk to join the gawking crowd. These numbers were not here this
morning; I would’ve seen them on the ride in. They must have appeared very recently, as suddenly as they did on . . . my closet door. I’ve been trying to forget since last night, trying to pretend it was all a dream. I checked this morning, though, as I got ready for work. I opened my closet, and there they were, as clear as they’d been before: numbers, violet and undeniable.

  A countdown.

  I study the massive projection above my head. It is very like my own closet countdown, except that each of its numbers must be at least as tall as Jill. Combined, they read out 16:08:13.

  It’s the same. I am positive that if I could instantly transport myself home and check my closet, that door would bear the very same numbers. Not that I’m going to let on to anyone here that I have a secret at home. I’m scared enough as is, and more confused than ever. I am not about to risk getting mobbed by the people around me. Though I desperately want to ask, Who else has seen this? Everyone? Only a few? Who else has seen these numbers in their own house?

  Then the projection alters. The last of the numbers changes before our eyes: Thirteen flickers into twelve, and the crowd gasps. A child shouts. Close to me I hear a man say, “God help us.”

  My heart turns heavy. Because this is not a shock to me, as it was to them. I knew this was a countdown. I’ve known since last night. And if any of these people had a countdown of their own, emblazoned on their closet doors, would they be surprised?

  Now there is another question I want to ask—more desperate and terrible than the others: Am I the only one?