Copyright 2001 by Morris Rosenthal
Eric and Connie arrived at the Lincoln commune at nine in the morning, a full hour early for the fund-raiser. Tess was loudly supervising a rag tag gang of laborers whom she later introduced as her family, who were engaged in setting up folding tables for petition signing and refreshments. The event was donations optional, but a small glass of spring water in a recycled paper cup cost one dollar, and you had to drink it fast because the paper wasn't coated. Compared to a cup of water to wash down the ecstasy at an all night rave, it was dirt cheap. Some laid back techno gurus from the commune were setting up the sound system on the permanent bandstand next to the photovoltaic grid. The system was rated at five kilowatts peak, but the weak New England sun rarely pushed the meter past three, even on the brightest days.
The complete solar system, along with the DC/AC converter and a computerized sun tracking panel had cost in excess twenty thousand dollars, and returned less then five dollars a day of electricity in the prime summer months. The workers committee for educating children was thrilled to have an extra attraction, but they never charged for the school tours as a matter of principle. Grace Butforth, the pragmatic head of the commune council, set out to find a way to make their investment pay off. The answer turned into the commune's biggest profit maker.
The gentle sloping pasture where the array was installed was rented out for 'solar events'. By the second summer, the commune was booked solid, Saturday and Sunday, right from Memorial Day to Labor Day. A five hundred dollar fee covered the electricity and use of the field, but with tent and sound system rentals, and a bunch of tacked on fees for rubbish removal and outhouse usage, the average take was around twelve hundred. Grace was lobbying to have the unexpected revenue used for building more private residences, but the council was leaning towards a wind powered pump for the artesian well. The same energy consultant who had sold them on the solar array had persuaded the council that the new wind turbine technology would pay for itself in a few short years. Grace looked around the valley at the motionless tree tops and was unconvinced.
The quabin Sanctuary Project had landed a date left open by the canceled Sherhoffer wedding in a complicated barter deal that would have done a brace of corporate lawyers proud. Tess Bookman, in her quasi-official Green Valley capacity, promised to provide free advertisements for music events at Lincoln during the coming school year. The size and number of advertisements was to be determined by the number of attendees at the aforementioned events who brought a discount coupon clipped out of the said ads in the Green Valley. The redeemed coupons would in turn be used by Brian Frost as leverage with advertisers who focused on the college students who swelled the local population by fifty thousand or so every fall. Grace, in addition to providing the facilities for the QSP event, agreed to provide Brian with a Sunday dining pass to the Fellow Travelers restaurant, an expensive vegetarian joint run by the commune in Amherst. Brian would in turn waive his commission structure, and produce the ads for free. This way, as Brian explained it to Eric, at least his indigestion from having to eat the stuff on dates wouldn't be compounded by having to pay carnivore prices.
None of the other participants had shown up yet, so Eric and Connie wandered around the commune to which they were first time visitors. Along each path and in front of every building was an all weather display case describing the history and significance of the landmarks. The display by the old farmhouse at the main entrance oddly explained that the commune was named not for the Abraham Lincoln Brigade which fought the Fascists in Spain, but for the President who stood up for the equality of people. 'People' was scrawled by hand with a thin magic marker over the typed word 'mankind'.
The various paths radiating from the central (and centrally planned) hub, were creatively named for their destinations; Milk Path, Vegetable Garden Path, Lecture Hall Path, Solar Path, and so on. The informational bulletin for each landmark brimmed with boring statistics about it's namesake, and an identical closing paragraph proclaiming the ideological importance of plainly naming things by their function rather then after dead demagogues. The only seeming exception to the rule was the new and expensive looking dining hall, which was honestly named 'A gift of Mr. and Mrs. Saul Berkowitz', although Eric correctly pointed out they may still be among the living. Connie found the whole thing so amusing that she needed to backtrack to the Outhouse Path.
By the time they got back to the bandstand, everything was apparently ready to go, and the other morning acts had arrived. Tess was trying to coordinate the order of appearance, while holding back 'Vegetable Dan', the food processor salesman, for the grand finale. The Native American story teller offered to go first, but when Tess pushed him to estimate how long he would be on, he could only reply that stories told themselves in their own time. Tess remained stone faced in response to this bit of Plains philosophy, and the story teller finally granted that most stories are comfortable telling themselves in around twenty-five minutes.
Eric was scheduled second, and if Tess was at all put off at his response of "A couple minutes", she was too much of a professional to show it on game day.
A last minute addition to the lineup was a Doctor Ragheed, an Eastern healer who was internationally famous for leading chanting sessions for world peace. His answer to the time question was "As long as they have breath in their bodies." He was scheduled in to "Ommmm" until eleven o'clock. The Moon Spirit Dance Group leader, who Tess was meeting for the first time, explained that he didn't have a group, per se, but counted on audience participation to round out his performance. "I encourage people to shed their inhibitions and join me on-stage to move with the mellow melodies of the night that I have here on CD." Vegetable Dan groaned out loud.
Connie had been predicting a light turn out, in part to keep Eric from getting nervous, and in part to keep him from being disappointed. She was wrong. By ten A.M. there were at least two hundred people swilling spring water like it was beer, some of them playing impromptu jam sessions on acoustic instruments that they brought along. A good crowd was gathered around the sole game booth, where they paid fifty cents a toss to throw wet sponges at the good natured Mr. Bookman. He stood behind a life sized cutout from a poster of a famous TV sport fisherman, his face protruding over the headless shoulders. He kept yelling offensive lines at the crowd like, "I love catching trout because of the fight they put up," and "The only good tuna is a canned tuna." It was very cathartic for everyone on both sides of the cutout.
A little past ten, Tess climbed up on the bandstand, and deftly adjusted the microphone to a comfortable speaking height. The crowd drifted towards her, pitching their blankets on the descending slope which created a natural amphitheater. Tess gave them plenty of time to settle in, spying out acquaintances and sending them greetings through the PA system. By the time she was ready to start in earnest, it was ten-thirty, and the crowd had reached around two hundred and fifty, including some bored commune members.
"Welcome one and all to the first benefit for the quabin Sanctuary Project," she began enthusiastically. There was a sprinkling of light applause. "We are joined here today to enjoy the good earth and raise money to help protect some of her defenseless children. These citizens of nature about whom I speak have no portion in the American dream. They clear no virgin land to build houses, they own no polluting cars, the only polymer they are likely to encounter is the deadly six pack holder cast from a fiberglass bass boat. They have hearts, and blood, they feel pain and panic, yet they have been relegated to the role of a diversion for our red toothed neighbors. Their lives are forfeit for the few hours of sick pleasure their agonies grant those who hunt them. The deer, the fish, the fowl, THEY ..ARE .. OUR .. BRETHEREN."
Thunderous applause. Tess paused, and bent down to pick up the cup of water she'd set down near her feet. She looked in disgust at the sodden paper mess that she had been counting on as a prop. Taking frequent drinks during a speech was an essential part of public speaking as taught in the continuing education program she'd attended at Smith. She tossed her head a couple times like an angry bull, then continued.
"What can we do?" she asked rhetorically, "How can we fight the powerful lobbies of the death mongers who profit from the killing tools they deceptively market as 'sporting goods'. I'll tell you," she answered herself to no ones surprise, "We can fight them ON .. THEIR .. OWN .. GROUND. The money we raise today will be used to set up an office for the QSP to begin our campaign against terror. We will fight them with mailing lists, with telephone solicitations and with bumper stickers. We will fight them on public access television and in informational comic books and in the schools. We will waken the slumbering spirit of the silent majority and together we will cry, 'ENOUGH BLOOD. STOP THE KILLING.'"
She emphasized each point with a clenched fist and finished with both arms raised above her head. The crowd rose to their feet, whistling and clapping. "You tell 'em Tess," and "We're with you," they cried. She stood silently, milking her applause for a full minute, before lowering her hands and reaching again for the defunct cup of water. Damn, she said to herself, and improvised with a cough to cover the natural water sip opening. Then she continued in her regular voice.
"Our first guest speaker is a Native American storyteller, a full blooded member of the Dakota Nation. As a young man, he studied nature at the feet of his grandfather, a powerful medicine man who related his grandson the sacred stories of the days when the Dakota were free. Without further ado, I give you Jimmy Storm Bringer." More applause, as Tess hugged the middle aged, heavily built storyteller. He disengaged himself gently, and said something in her ear. A knowing look covered her face, and she stepped back to the microphone. "Jimmy has reminded me that a story is worthless if its path from the heart of the speaker to the heart of the listener is not a true one. Therefore, he will speak without the aide of an artificial amplification device, even though it is solar powered," she added wistfully.
Jimmy carefully switched off the microphone, then tapped it with his knuckle to make sure that it was inoperative. The audience became very still, and he began to speak. His voice was powerful, yet low, and he accompanied his words with a deft pantomime of the roles he was taking. He was an angry grizzly, then a soaring eagle, and then a helpless turtle turned on its back. His extraordinary acting ability held the crowd enthralled, which was a good thing since it was doubtful that any of them could understand the Sioux dialect that he spoke. In fact, it hurt Eric's throat a little just listening to it.
Twenty-five minutes later, he finished to a standing ovation. Tess came out, turned the microphone back on, and thanked him profusely for the enchanting story. He turned to her, poker faced, and asked, "What was your favorite part?"
The smile froze on her face, and her family had the rare treat of seeing her momentarily at a loss for words. Before she could come up with a diplomatic response, Jimmy chucked her lightly on the shoulder and said, "Just kidding. You think we could survive a hundred years on a reservation without a sense of humor?" She laughed warily, and he took advantage of her momentary confusion to speak into the microphone. "If any of you are interested in learning more about the sacred stories, I will have my book and video cassettes for sale at my car, the gray Chevy Nova with the North Dakota plates." He started away, and then remembered to add, "Oh yeah. The book and tapes are in English."
"Well, thank you again, Jimmy Storm Bringer." Tess had recovered her composure. "Our next speaker is a Eric Levy, a local poet. His most recent work was published in the Green Valley, and we are fortunate to have him here today to give a reading of some of his work. Eric?"
He walked to the microphone, dragging his feet a little, searching the crowd for Connie. She was supposed to position herself in the middle of the scattered audience to give him a friendly face to address himself too. He spotted Brian with his latest Swede, and Brian waved as they made eye contact. There was a carrot in his hand, vegetarian junk food. Someone stood up in the middle of the field, and he realized that it was Connie, who appeared slightly miffed that he hadn't been able to spot her quicker. He cleared his throat, and read Mercy Killing the way he had practiced it on the pigeons walking around Wilkins.
There were some appreciative snorts from those who got the humor, and restrained applause from the rest. "Thank you," he said, "I had intended to read some older works, but I couldn't sleep last night and I wrote this poem. I hope you like it."
Children of Atlantis
Eric finished and stepped away from the microphone to a good round of applause. Tess came out and launched into a flowery thank you, then went on to introduce the chanter. Eric didn't hear a word she said as he descended from the stage. It's over, he was thinking, I didn't choke! People were smiling and complimenting him as he worked his way towards Connie. She met him with a congratulatory kiss, which was interrupted after a few seconds by an extra hand on his back. It was Brian, who motioned with his head for them not to sit, but to follow he and his girlfriend out of the crowd. A sound like a cow stuck in a bear trap started up behind them.
"I'm Ingrid," Brian's girlfriend introduced herself. Eric silently appended a four to her name as they shook hands. "I really enjoyed your reading," she added.
"Well, thank you," Eric replied, "And thank you, Brian, for getting us out of there before they started doing whatever it is that they're doing."
"Chanting for peace," Brian answered, "And you can thank Ingrid again. It was her idea to get out."
"I saw Doctor Ragheed in Sweden ten years ago when he came to the local university," she explained, "For two hours we all groaned for peace together in a crowded auditorium. I was deaf and dumb by the time I got out of it. The next day Iraq invaded Kuwait."
"Let's not walk too far," Connie said, "I want to get back for the Moon Spirit dancing."
Brian spread out the blanket he was carrying under a maple tree at the top of the rise. They had a clear view of the chanters, now standing and holding hands in a serpentine human chain. The moaning rose and fell with the swaying of their bodies, but Eric was sure it was the gusting breeze and not the Doppler effect causing the variation.
"Ingrid eats dairy products," Brian said proudly, pulling her to him by the waist, "She also eats fish once a week."
"You must be proud," Connie started, but Eric pinched her hard. "Your English is very good," she changed the barb into a compliment. "How long have you been in the States?"
"Almost a year now, but we study English in school from when we are very small. They are even considering making it the official language of the school system."
"That might be logical," Eric said, "But it seems sort of sad just the same."
"Poets," Connie said derisively to Ingrid, "He's so damn emotional that I'm afraid to watch the news with him."
"What are you talking about?" Eric interrupted, but Connie was getting her revenge for the pinch.
"Just the other day he broke out crying when he read that the library was replacing the card catalog with computers. He hates change."
Ingrid nodded sagely. "I knew a poet in the university who killed himself when they cut down some trees to make a golf course. They named a sand trap after him as a memorial."
"Does anyone want some wine?" Brian offered, and added "Ingrid drinks alcohol in moderation."
"You must try some," Ingrid coaxed, fishing the wicker wrapped bottle out of her oversized shoulder bag. "My landlord is an old Italian who makes it from his own grapes. He says it is peasant wine and is best drank warm."
"You don't live on a commune?" Connie asked, accepting a contraband Styrofoam cup half filled with the dark red wine.
"No," Ingrid replied, filling a cup for Eric, and passing it to him. "What made you think I did."
"Eric must have told me," Connie covered for herself, "He gets things wrong all the time. Sort of absentminded, you know the type."
"Old senile me," Eric said, "Time to put me out to pasture." He looked around as if just then recognizing his surroundings. "What! You've tricked me." He did his best imitation of Granpa from the Simpson's and looked about in fright. "Don't leave me out here," he begged, "I want to go back to the old age home."
"So are you student?" Connie asked, ignoring the bad geriatric act.
"I'm a Ph.D. candidate in economics," Ingrid replied, "Although I don't know if I'll stick it out. It's a lot less interesting then I had imagined, and the department is full of weirdoes."
"Ingrid is a capitalist," Brian offered.
"Ingrid wishes you would stop embarrassing her in front of your friends," Ingrid told Brian.
"Sorry," he apologized.
The crowd down by the bandstand was beginning to shimmer in the heat, and Ingrid passed around the bottle for refills. The wine was very strong, and they were soon lolling lazily on their backs under the protective shade of the maple.
"Will she get anywhere with this Sanctuary Project business?" Eric asked Brian.
"You never know," he replied, "You got a much bigger turnout then I expected this morning. Normally nobody shows up for these things until the bands go on."
"I mean, do you think they can have any effect on how the state handles the quabin reservation?"
"Depends on how many people she gets signed up. We live in a democracy, remember? Policy is shaped by pressure groups and special interests, not debate."
"If I wasn't ready to fall asleep," Connie let them know how interesting she found their conversation, "I am now."
"What about the Moon Spirit dancing?" Eric reminded her.
"So wake me when you see it," she answered drowsily, "The moon, I mean."