The Postman

  He looked coldly into the glare of the lamp. “Always,” he emphasized. And for a moment he felt a thrill. He was a courier, at least in spirit. He was an anachronism that the dark age had somehow missed when it systematically went about rubbing idealism from the world. Gordon looked straight toward the dark silhouette of the Mayor, and silently dared him to kill what was left of their shared sovereignty.

  For several seconds the silence gathered. Then the Mayor held up his hand. “One!”

  He counted slowly, perhaps to give Gordon time to run, and maybe for sadistic effect.

  “Two!”

  The game was lost. Gordon knew he should leave now, at once. Still, his body would not turn.

  “Three!”

  This is the way the last idealist dies, he thought. These sixteen years of survival had been an accident, an oversight of Nature, about to be corrected. In the end, all of his hard-won pragmatism had finally given way … to a gesture.

  There was movement on the parapet. Someone at the far left was struggling forward.

  The guards raised their shotguns. Gordon thought he saw a few of them move hesitantly—reluctantly. Not that that would do him any good.

  The Mayor stretched out the last count, perhaps a bit unnerved by Gordon’s stubbornness. The raised fist began to chop down.

  “Mr. Mayor!” a woman’s tremulous voice cut in, her words high-pitched with fear as she reached up to grab the bossman’s hand. “P-please … I …”

  The Mayor shrugged her hands away. “Get away, woman. Get her out of here.”

  The frail shape backed away from the guards, but she cried out clearly. “I … I’m Grace Horton!”

  “What?” The Mayor was not alone in turning to stare at her.

  “It’s my m-maiden name. I was married the year after the second famine. That was before you and your men arrived.…”

  The crowd reacted noisily. The Mayor cried out, “Fools! He copied her name from a telephone book, I tell you!”

  Gordon smiled. He held up the bundle in his hand and touched his cap with the other.

  “Good evening, Mizz Horton. It’s a lovely night, yes? By the way, I happen to have a letter here for you, from a Mr. Jim Horton, of Pine View, Oregon.… He gave it to me twelve days ago.…”

  The people on the parapet all seemed to be talking at once. There were sudden motions and excited shouts. Gordon cupped his ear to listen to the woman’s amazed exclamation, and had to raise his voice to be heard.

  “Yes, ma’am. He seemed to be quite well. I’m afraid that’s all I have on this trip. But I’ll be glad to carry your reply to your brother on my way back, after I finish my circuit down in the valley.”

  He stepped forward, closer to the light. “One thing though, ma’am. Mr. Horton didn’t have enough postage, back in Pine View, so I’m going to have to ask you for ten dollars … C.O.D.”

  The crowd roared.

  Next to the glaring lantern the figure of the Mayor turned left and right, waving his arms and shouting. But nothing he said was heard as the gate swung open and people poured out into the night. They surrounded Gordon, a tight press of hot-faced, excited men, women, children. Some limped. Others bore livid scars or rasped in tuberculin heaviness. And yet at that moment the pain of living seemed as nothing next to a glow of sudden faith.

  In the middle of it all Gordon maintained his composure and walked slowly toward the portal. He smiled and nodded, especially to those who reached out and touched his elbow, or the wide curve of his bulging leather bag. The youngsters looked at him in superstitious awe. On many older faces, tears streamed.

  Gordon was in the middle of a trembling adrenaline reaction, but he squelched hard on the little glimmering of conscience … a touch of shame at this lie.

  The hell with it. It’s not my fault they want to believe in the Tooth Fairy. I’ve finally grown up. I only want what belongs to me!

  Simpletons.

  Nevertheless, he smiled all around as the hands reached out, and the love surged forth. It flowed about him like a rushing stream and carried him in a wave of desperate, unwonted hope, into the town of Oakridge.

  INTERLUDE

  In spring orange blazes,

  Dust of ancestors glowers—

  Cooling Earth with hazes

  II

  CYCLOPS

  NATIONAL RECOVERY ACT

  PROVISIONALLY EXTENDED CONGRESS OF THE RESTORED UNITED STATES

  DECLARATION

  TO ALL CITIZENS: Let it be known by all now living within the legal boundaries of the United States of America that the people and fundamental institutions of the nation survive. Your enemies have failed in their aggression against humanity, and have been destroyed. A provisional government, acting in continuous succession from the last freely elected Congress and Executive of the United States, is vigorously moving to restore law, public safety, and liberty once more to this beloved land, under the Constitution and the righteous mercy of the Almighty.

  TO THESE ENDS: Let it be known that all lesser laws and statutes of the United States are suspended, including all debts, liens, and judgments made before the outbreak of the Third World War. Until new codes are adopted by due process, local districts are free to meet emergency conditions as suitable, providing—

  1. The freedoms guaranteed under the Bill of Rights shall not be withheld from any man or woman within the territory of the United States. Trials for all serious crimes shall be by an impartial jury of one’s peers. Except in cases of dire martial emergency, summary judgments and executions violating due process are absolutely forbidden.

  2. Slavery is forbidden. Debt bondage shall not be for life, nor may it be passed from parent to child.

  3. Districts, towns, and other entities shall hold proper secret ballot elections on every even-numbered year, in which all men and women over 18 years of age may participate. No person may use official coercion on any other person unless he or she has been so elected, or is directly answerable to a person so elected.

  4. In order to assist the national recovery, citizens shall safeguard the physical and intellectual resources of the United States. Wherever and whenever possible, books and prewar machinery shall be salvaged and stored for the benefit of future generations. Local districts shall maintain schools to teach the young.

  The Provisional Government hopes to reestablish nationwide radio service by the year 2021. Until that time, all communications must be carried via surface mail. Postal service should be reestablished in the Central and Eastern States by the year 2011, and in the West by 2018.

  5. Cooperation with United States Mail Carriers is a requirement of all citizens. Interference with a letter carrier’s function is a capital crime.

  By order of the Provisional Congress

  Restored United States of America

  May 2009

  1

  CURTIN

  The black bull terrier snarled and foamed. It yanked and strained at its chain, whipping froth at the excited, shouting men leaning over the low wooden walls of the arena. A scarred, one-eyed mongrel growled back at the pit bull from across the ring. Its rope tether hummed like a bowstring, threatening to tear out the ring bolt in the wall.

  The dog pit stank. The sick-sweet smoke of locally grown tobacco—liberally cut with marijuana—rose in thick, roiling plumes. Farmers and townspeople yelled deafeningly from rows of benches overlooking the crude arena. Those nearest the ring pounded on the wooden slats, encouraging the dogs’ hysterical frenzy.

  Leather-gloved handlers pulled their canine gladiators back far enough to grip their collars, then turned to face the VIP bench, overlooking the center of the pit.

  A burly, bearded dignitary, better dressed than most, puffed on his homemade cigar. He glanced quickly at the slender man who sat impassively to his right, whose eyes were shaded by a visored cap. The stranger sat quite still, in no way showing his feelings.

  The heavyset official turned back to the handlers, and nodded.

  A
hundred men shouted at once as the dogs were loosed. The snarling animals shot at one another like quarrels, their argument uncomplicated. Fur and blood flew as the crowd cheered.

  On the dignitaries’ bench, the elders yelled no less fiercely than the villagers. Like them, most had bets riding on the outcome. But the big man with the cigar—the Chairman of Public Safety for the town of Curtin, Oregon—puffed furiously without enjoyment, his thoughts cloudy and thick. Once more he glanced at the stranger sitting to his right.

  The thin fellow was unlike anyone else in the arena. His beard was neatly trimmed, his black hair cut and combed to barely pass over the ears. The hooded blue eyes seemed to pierce and inspect critically, like in the images of Old Testament prophets the Chairman had seen in Sunday School as a boy, long before the Doomwar.

  He had the weathered look of a traveler. And he wore a uniform … one no living citizen of Curtin had ever expected to see again.

  On the peak of the stranger’s cap, the burnished image of a horseman gleamed in the light of the oil lanterns. Somehow it seemed shinier than any metal had a right to be.

  The Chairman looked at his shouting townspeople, and sensed a difference about them tonight. The men of Curtin were yelling with more than their usual gusto at the Wednesday Night Fights. They, too, were aware of the visitor, who had ridden up to the city gates five days ago, erect and proud like some god, demanding food and shelter and a place to post his notices …

  … and who then began distributing mail.

  The Chairman had money riding on one of the dogs—old Jim Schmidt’s Walleye. But his mind wasn’t on the bloody contest on the sand below. He could not help glancing repeatedly at the Postman.

  They had staged a special fight just for him, since he was leaving Curtin tomorrow for Cottage Grove. He isn’t enjoying himself, the Chairman realized unhappily. The man who had turned their lives upside down was apparently trying to be polite. But just as obviously, he did not approve of dogfights.

  The Chairman leaned over to speak to his guest. “I suppose they don’t do this sort of thing back East, do they, Mr. Inspector?”

  The cool look on the man’s face was his answer. The Chairman cursed himself for a fool. Of course they wouldn’t have dogfights—not in St. Paul City, or Topeka, or Odessa, or any of the civilized regions of the Restored United States. But here, here in ruined Oregon, so long cut off from civilization …

  “Local communities are free to handle their affairs as they see fit, Mr. Chairman,” the man replied. His compelling voice carried softly over the shouting in the arena. “Customs adapt to the times. The government in St. Paul City knows this. I’ve seen far worse in my travels.”

  Absolved, he could read in the postal inspector’s eyes. The Chairman slumped slightly and looked away again.

  He blinked, and at first he thought it was the smoke irritating his eyes. He dropped the cigar and ground it out under his foot, but the stinging would not depart. The bull pit was out of focus, as if he were seeing it in a dream … as if for the very first time.

  My God! the Chairman thought. Are we really doing this? Only seventeen years ago I was a member of the Willamette Valley ASPCA!

  What’s happened to us?

  What’s happened to me?

  Coughing behind his hand, he hid the wiping of his eyes. Then he looked around and saw that he was not alone. Here and there in the crowd at least a dozen men had stopped shouting, and were instead looking down at their hands. A few were crying openly, tears streaming down tough faces, hardened from the long battle to survive.

  Suddenly, for a few of those present, the years since the war seemed compressed—insufficient excuse.

  The cheering was ragged at the end of the fight. Handlers leapt into the pit to tend the victor and clear away the offal. But half the audience seemed to be glancing nervously at their leader and the stern, uniformed figure next to him.

  The slender man straightened his cap. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. But I think I’d better retire now. I have a long journey tomorrow. Good night, all.”

  He nodded to the elders, then rose and slipped on a worn leather jacket with a multicolored shoulder patch—a red, white, and blue emblem. As he moved slowly toward the exit, townsmen stood up silently and made way for him, their eyes downcast.

  The Chairman of Curtin hesitated, then got up and followed, a murmur of voices growing behind him.

  The second event was never held that evening.

  2

  COTTAGE GROVE

  Cottage Grove,

  Oregon

  April 16, 2011

  To Mrs. Adele Thompson

  Mayor of Pine View Village

  Unreclaimed State of Oregon

  Transmittal route: Cottage Grove, Curtin,

  Culp Creek, McFarland Pt.,

  Oakridge, Pine View.

  Dear Mrs. Thompson,

  This is the second letter I’ve sent back along our new postal route through the Willamette Forest region. If you received the first, you’ll already know that your neighbors in Oakridge have chosen to cooperate—after a few initial misunderstandings. I appointed Mr. Sonny Davis postmaster there, a prewar resident of the area liked by all. By now he should have reestablished contact with you in Pine View.

  Gordon Krantz lifted his pencil from the sheaf of yellowed paper the citizens of Cottage Grove had donated for his use. A brace of copper oil lamps and two candles flickered over the antique desk, casting bright reflections off glass-framed pictures on the bedroom wall.

  The locals had insisted Gordon take the best quarters in town. The room was snug, clean, and warm.

  It was a big change from the way things had been for Gordon only a few months before. In the letter, for instance, he said little about the difficulties he had faced last October in the town of Oakridge.

  The citizens of that mountain town had opened their hearts to him from the first moment he revealed himself as a representative of the Restored United States. But the tyrannical “Mayor” almost had his unwelcome guest murdered before Gordon managed to make it clear he was only interested in setting up a post office and moving on—that he was no threat to the Mayor’s power.

  Perhaps the bossman feared his people’s reaction if he didn’t help Gordon. In the end, Gordon received the supplies he asked for, and even a valuable, if somewhat elderly, horse. On leaving Oakridge, Gordon had seen relief on the Mayor’s face. The local chief seemed confident he could keep control in spite of the stunning news that a United States still existed out there, somewhere.

  And yet townspeople followed Gordon for over a mile, appearing from behind trees to shyly press letters into his hands, eagerly talking about the reclamation of Oregon and asking what they could do to help. They complained openly of the petty local tyranny, and by the time he had left that last crowd on the road, it was clear that a change was blowing in the wind.

  Gordon figured the Mayor’s days were numbered.

  Since my last letter from Culp Creek, I’ve established post offices in Palmerville and Curtin. Today I completed negotiations with the mayor of Cottage Grove. Included in this packet is a report on my progress so far, to be passed on to my superiors in the Reclaimed State of Wyoming. When the courier following my trail arrives in Pine View, please give him my records and my best wishes.

  And be patient if it takes a while. The trail west from St. Paul City is dangerous, and it may be more than a year before the next man arrives.

  Gordon could well imagine Mrs. Thompson’s reaction, on reading that paragraph. The scrappy old matriarch would shake her head, and maybe even laugh out loud at the sheer blarney that filled every sentence.

  Better than anybody else in the wild territory that had once been the great state of Oregon, Adele Thompson knew there would be no couriers from the civilized East. There was no headquarters for Gordon to report back to. The only thing the city of St. Paul was capital of was a still slightly radioactive bend in the Mississippi River.

  There had nev
er been a Reclaimed State of Wyoming, or a Restored United States for that matter, except in the imagination of an itinerant, dark-age con artist doing his best to survive in a deadly and suspicious world.

  Mrs. Thompson was one of the rare folks Gordon had met since the War who still saw with her eyes, and thought with a logical mind. The illusion Gordon had created—at first by accident, and later in desperation—had meant nothing to her. She had liked Gordon for himself, and shown him charity without having to be coaxed by a myth.

  He was writing the letter in this convoluted way—filled with references to things that never were—for eyes other than hers. The mail would change hands many times along the route he had set up, before finally reaching Pine View. But Mrs. Thompson would read between the lines.

  And she wouldn’t tell on him. Gordon was sure of that.

  He only hoped she could contain her laughter.

  This part of the Coast Fork is pretty peaceful these days. The communities have even started trading with each other in a modest fashion, overcoming the old fear of war plagues and survivalists. They’re eager for news of the outside world.

  That’s not to say all is placid. They tell me the Rogue River country south of Roseburg is still totally lawless—Nathan Holn country. So I’m headed northward, toward Eugene. It’s the direction most of the letters I’m carrying are addressed, anyway.

  Deep in his saddlebag, under the bundled letters he had accepted from excited, grateful people all along his way, was the one Abby had given him. Gordon would try to see it delivered, whatever eventually happened to all the others.

  Now I must go. Perhaps someday soon a letter from you and my other dear friends will catch up with me. Until then, please give my love to Abby and Michael and all.

  At least as much as anywhere, the Restored United States of America is alive and well in beautiful Pine View.