Parable of the Sower

  “I was going to say thank you for coming after me,” he said. “That woman was conscious almost until she died. The only thing I could do for her was stay with her.”

  “I was afraid you might have been shot out there.”

  “I was flat on the ground until I heard the woman groaning.”

  I sighed. “Yeah.” And then, “Rest.”

  He lay down next to me and rubbed my arm—which tingled wherever he touched it. “We should talk soon,” he said.

  “At least,” I agreed.

  He grinned—I could see the flash of teeth—and turned over and tried to sleep.

  The boy’s name was Justin Rohr. His dead mother had been Sandra Rohr. Justin had been born in Riverside, California just three years ago. His mother had gotten him this far north from Riverside. She had saved his birth certificate, some baby pictures, and a picture of a stocky, freckled, red-haired man who was, according to a notation on the back of the photo, Richard Walter Rohr, born January 9, 2002, and died May 20, 2026. The boy’s father—only twenty-four when he died. I wondered what had killed him. Sandra Rohr had saved her marriage certificate and other papers important to her. All were wrapped in a plastic packet that I had taken from her body. Elsewhere on her, I had found several thousand dollars and a gold ring.

  There was nothing about relatives or a specific destination. It seemed that Sandra had simply been heading north with her son in search of a better life.

  The little boy tolerated us all well enough today, although he got frustrated when we didn’t understand him at once. When he cried, he demanded that we produce his mother.

  Allie, of all people, was his choice for substitute mother. She resisted him at first. She ignored him or pushed him away. But when he was not being wheeled along, he chose to walk with her or demand to be carried by her. By the end of the day, she had given in. The two of them had chosen each other.

  “She used to have a little boy,” her sister Jill told me as we walked along State 156 with the few other walkers who had chosen this route. It was empty. There were times when we could see no one at all, or when, as we headed east and north, the only people we could see were heading west and south toward us, toward the coast.

  “She called her little boy Adam,” Jill continued. “He was only a few months old when…he died.”

  I looked at her. She had a big swollen purple bruise in the middle of her forehead, like a misshapen third eye. I don’t think it hurt her much, though. It didn’t hurt me much.

  “When he died,” I repeated. “Who killed him?”

  She looked away and rubbed her bruise. “Our father. That’s why we left. He killed the baby. It cried. He hit it with his fists until it stopped.”

  I shook my head and sighed. It was no news to me that other people’s fathers could be monsters. I’d heard about such things all my life, but I’d never before met people who were so clearly their father’s victims.

  “We burned the house,” Jill whispered. I heard her say it, and I knew without asking what she wasn’t saying. But she looked like a person talking to herself, forgetting that anyone was listening. “He was passed out drunk on the floor. The baby was dead. We got our stuff and our money—we earned it!—and we set fire to the trash on the floor and the couch. We didn’t stay to see. I don’t know what happened. We ran away. Maybe the fire went out. Maybe he didn’t die.” She focused on me. “He might still be alive.”

  She sounded more scared than anything else. Not hopeful or sorry. Scared. The devil might still be alive.

  “Where did you run from?” I asked. “What city?”

  “Glendale.”

  “Way down in L.A. County?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then he’s more than three hundred miles behind you.”

  “…yeah.”

  “He drank a lot, didn’t he.”

  “All the time.”

  “Then he’d be in no shape to follow you even if the fire never touched him. What do you think would happen to a drunk on the highway? He’d never even make it out of L.A.”

  She nodded. “You sound like Allie. You’re both right. I know. But… I dream about him sometimes—that he’s coming, that he’s found us… I know it’s crazy. But I wake up covered in sweat.”

  “Yeah,” I said, remembering my own nightmares during the search for my father. “Yeah.”

  Jill and I walked together for a while without talking. We were moving slowly because Justin demanded to be allowed to walk now and then. He had too much energy to spend hours sitting and riding. And, of course, when he was allowed to walk, he wanted to run all around, investigate everything. I had time to stop, swing my pack around, and dig out a length of clothesline. I handed it to Jill.

  “Tell your sister to try harnessing him with this,” I said. “It might save his life. One end around his waist, the other around her arm.”

  She took the rope.

  “I’ve taken care of a few three-year-olds,” I said, “and I’ll tell you, she’s going to need a lot of help with that little kid. If she doesn’t know that now, she will.”

  “Are you guys just going to leave all the work to her?” Jill demanded.

  “Of course not.” I watched Allie and Justin walking along—lean, angular woman and pudgy, bumblebee of a child. The boy ran to investigate a bush near the roadside, then, startled by the approach of strangers, ran back to Allie and hung on to the cloth of her jeans until she took his hand. “They do seem to be adopting each other, though,” I said. “And taking care of other people can be a good cure for nightmares like yours and maybe hers.”

  “You sound as though you know.”

  I nodded. “I live in this world, too.”

  We passed through Hollister before noon. We resupplied there, not knowing when we would see well-equipped stores again. We had already discovered that several of the small communities shown on the maps no longer existed—had not existed for years. The earthquake had done a lot of damage in Hollister, but the people hadn’t gone animal. They seemed to be helping one another with repairs and looking after their own destitute. Imagine that.

  21

  ❏ ❏ ❏

  The Self must create

  Its own reasons for being.

  To shape God,

  Shape Self.

  EARTHSEED: THE BOOKS OF THE LIVING

  MONDAY, AUGUST 30, 2027

  THERE IS STILL A little water in the San Luis Reservoir. It’s more fresh water than I’ve ever seen in one place, but by the vast size of the reservoir, I can see that it’s only a little compared to what should be there—what used to be there.

  The highway runs through the recreational area for several miles. That gave us a chance to travel through on the road until we spotted an area that would make a good rest-day camp and that wasn’t occupied.

  There are a lot of people in the area—people who have set up permanent camps in everything from rag-and-plastic tents to wooden shacks that look almost fit for human habitation. Where are so many people going to the bathroom? How clean is the water in the reservoir? No doubt cities that use it purify the water when it reaches them. Whether they do or not, I think it’s time for us to break out the water purification tablets.

  Around several of the tents and shacks, there are small, ragged gardens—new plantings and remnants of summer vegetable gardens. There are a few things left to harvest: big squashes, pumpkins, and gourds still growing along with carrots, peppers, greens, and a little corn. Good, cheap, filling foods. Not enough protein, but perhaps the people hunt. There must be game around here, and I saw plenty of guns. People wear holstered handguns or carry rifles or shotguns. The men in particular go armed.

  They all stared at us.

  As we went past, people stopped their gardening, outdoor cooking, or whatever to stare at us. We had pushed ourselves, had been eager to arrive ahead of the crowd I believe will soon come in from the Bay Area. So we didn’t arrive with the usual human river. Yet by ourselves we are enough o
f a crowd to make the local squatters nervous. They let us alone, though. Except during disaster-induced feeding frenzies like the ones after the earthquake, most people let one another alone. I think Dominic and Justin are making it easier for us to fit in. Justin, now tethered to Allie’s wrist, runs around staring at the squatters until they make him nervous. Then he runs back to Allie and demands to be carried. He’s a cute little kid. Lean, grim-faced people tend to smile at him.

  No one shot at us or challenged us as we walked along the highway. No one bothered us later when we left the highway and headed into the trees toward what we thought might be a good area. We found old campsites and toilet places and avoided them. We didn’t want to be within sight of the highway or of anyone else’s tent or shack. We wanted privacy, not too many rocks to sleep on, and a way of reaching the water that didn’t put us too much on display. We looked for over an hour until we found an isolated old campsite, long abandoned and a little higher upslope than others we’d seen. It suited all of us. Then, with hours of daylight left, we rested in enormous comfort and laziness, knowing we had the rest of today and all of tomorrow to do almost nothing. Natividad fed Dominic and the two of them drifted off to sleep. Allie followed her example with Justin, although preparing him a meal was a little more complicated. Both women had more reason to be tired and to need sleep than the rest of us, so we left them out when we drew lots for a watch schedule—one for day and night. We shouldn’t get too comfortable. Also, we agreed that no one should go off exploring or getting water alone. I thought the couples would soon start going off together—And I thought it was just about time for Bankole and me to have that talk.

  I sat with him and cleaned our new handgun while he cleaned the rifle. Harry was on watch and needed my gun. When I went over to give it to him, he let me know he understood exactly what was going on between Bankole and me.

  “Be careful,” he whispered. “Don’t give the poor old guy a heart attack.”

  “I’ll tell him you were worried,” I said.

  Harry laughed, then sobered. “Be careful, Lauren. Bankole is probably all right. He seems to be. But, well… Yell if anything goes wrong.”

  I rested my hand on his shoulder for a moment and said, “Thank you.”

  The nice thing about sitting and working alongside someone you don’t know very well, someone you’d like to know much better, is that you can talk with him or be quiet with him. You can get comfortable with him and with the awareness that you’ll soon be making love to him.

  Bankole and I were quiet for a while, a little shy. I sneaked glances at him and caught him sneaking glances at me. Then, to my own surprise, I began to talk to him about Earthseed—not preaching, just talking, testing I guess. I needed to see his reaction. Earthseed is the most important thing in my life. If Bankole were going to laugh at it, I needed to know now. I didn’t expect him to agree with it or even to be much interested in it. He’s an old man. I thought he was probably content with whatever religion he had. It occurred to me as I spoke that I had no idea what his religion was. I asked him.

  “None at all,” he said. “When my wife was alive, we went to a Methodist church. Her religion was important to her, so I went along. I saw how it comforted her, and I wanted to believe, but I never could.”

  “We were Baptists,” I said. “I couldn’t make myself believe either, and I couldn’t tell anyone. My father was the minister. I kept quiet and began to understand Earthseed.”

  “Began to invent Earthseed,” he said.

  “Began to discover it and understand it,” I said. “Stumbling across the truth isn’t the same as making things up.” I wondered how many times and ways I would have to say this to new people.

  “It sounds like some combination of Buddhism, existentialism, Sufism, and I don’t know what else,” he said. “Buddhism doesn’t make a god of the concept of change, but the impermanence of everything is a basic Buddhist principle.”

  “I know,” I said. “I’ve done a lot of reading. Some other religions and philosophies do contain ideas that would fit into Earthseed, but none of them are Earthseed. They go off in their own directions.”

  He nodded. “All right. But tell me, what do people have to do to be good members of an Earthseed Community?”

  A nice, door-opening question. “The essentials,” I answered, “are to learn to shape God with forethought, care, and work; to educate and benefit their community, their families, and themselves; and to contribute to the fulfillment of the Destiny.”

  “And why should people bother about the Destiny, farfetched as it is? What’s in it for them?”

  “A unifying, purposeful life here on Earth, and the hope of heaven for themselves and their children. A real heaven, not mythology or philosophy. A heaven that will be theirs to shape.”

  “Or a hell,” he said. His mouth twitched. “Human beings are good at creating hells for themselves even out of richness.” He thought for a moment. “It sounds too simple, you know.”

  “You think it’s simple?” I asked in surprise.

  “I said it sounds too simple.”

  “It sounds overwhelming to some people.”

  “I mean it’s too…straightforward. If you get people to accept it, they’ll make it more complicated, more open to interpretation, more mystical, and more comforting.”

  “Not around me they won’t!” I said.

  “With you or without you, they will. All religions change. Think about the big ones. What do you think Christ would be these days? A Baptist? A Methodist? A Catholic? And the Buddha—do you think he’d be a Buddhist now? What kind of Buddhism would he practice?” He smiled. “After all, if ‘God is Change,’ surely Earthseed can change, and if it lasts, it will.”

  I looked away from him because he was smiling. This was all nothing to him. “I know,” I said. “No one can stop Change, but we all shape Change whether we mean to or not. I mean to guide and shape Earthseed into what it should be.”

  “Perhaps.” He went on smiling. “How serious are you about this?”

  The question drove me deep into myself. I spoke, almost not knowing what I would say. “When my father…disappeared,” I began, “it was Earthseed that kept me going. When most of my community and the rest of my family were wiped out, and I was alone, I still had Earthseed. What I am now, all that I am now is Earthseed.”

  “What you are now,” he said after a long silence, “is a very unusual young woman.”

  We didn’t talk for a while after that. I wondered what he thought. He hadn’t seemed to be bottling up too much hilarity. No more than I’d expected. He had been willing to go along with his wife’s religious needs. Now, he would at least permit me mine.

  I wondered about his wife. He hadn’t mentioned her before. What had she been like? How had she died?

  “Did you leave home because your wife died?” I asked.

  He put down a long slender cleaning rod and rested his back against the tree behind him. “My wife died five years ago,” he said. “Three men broke in—junkies, dealers, I don’t know. They beat her, tried to make her tell where the drugs were.”

  “Drugs?”

  “They had decided that we must have something they could use or sell. They didn’t like the things she was able to give them so they kept beating her. She had a heart problem.” He drew in a long breath, then sighed. “She was still alive when I got home. She was able to tell me what had happened. I tried to help her, but the bastards had taken her medicine, taken everything. I phoned for an ambulance. It arrived an hour after she died. I tried to save her, then to revive her. I tried so damned hard…”

  I stared down the hill from our camp where just a glint of water was visible in the distance through the trees and bushes. The world is full of painful stories. Sometimes it seems as though there aren’t any other kind and yet I found myself thinking how beautiful that glint of water was through the trees.

  “I should have headed north when Sharon died,” Bankole said. “I thought
about it.”

  “But you stayed.” I turned away from the water and looked at him. “Why?”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t know what to do, so for some time I didn’t do anything. Friends took care of me, cooked for me, cleaned the house. It surprised me that they would do that. Church people most of them. Neighbors. More her friends than mine.”

  I thought of Wardell Parrish, devastated after the loss of his sister and her children—and his house. Had Bankole been some community’s Wardell Parrish? “Did you live in a walled community?” I asked.

  “Yes. Not rich, though. Nowhere near rich. People managed to hold on to their property and feed their families. Not much else. No servants. No hired guards.”

  “Sounds like my old neighborhood.”

  “I suppose it sounds like a lot of old neighborhoods that aren’t there any more. I stayed to help the people who had helped me. I couldn’t walk away from them.”

  “But you did. You left. Why?”

  “Fire—and scavengers.”

  “You, too? Your whole community?”

  “Yes. The houses burned, most of the people were killed… The rest scattered, went to family or friends elsewhere. Scavengers and squatters moved in. I didn’t decide to leave. I escaped.”

  Much too familiar. “Where did you live? What city?”

  “San Diego.”

  “That far south?”

  “Yes. As I said, I should have left years ago. If I had, I could have managed plane fare and resettlement money.”

  Plane fare and resettlement money? He might not call that rich, but we would have.

  “Where are you going now?” I asked.

  “North.” He shrugged.

  “Just anywhere north or somewhere in particular?”

  “Anywhere where I can be paid for my services and allowed to live among people who aren’t out to kill me for my food or water.”

  Or for drugs, I thought. I looked into his bearded face and added up the hints I’d picked up today and over the past few days. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”