Levi raises a hand as if he could calm the nerves rattling up inside everyone’s throats. “We don’t yet know how severe her condition is.”
“I do,” Bee replies, oddly defiant. Lines of confusion tug across Levi’s forehead—Bee doesn’t normally speak to him like this, certainly not in front of the others at the gathering. This birth, this child, has upset Bee more than usual, and I’m not sure why. She uncrosses her arms. “The baby needs medicine, possibly surgery,” she adds. “Or she’ll die.”
“We should take the child into town,” Birdie interjects, swiveling around to face Levi.
More heads nod, severe and quick.
“There is nothing to decide,” a male voice says now. “We will go get help.” A different kind of silence falls over the group. It’s Ash who’s spoken up—Colette’s husband and the baby’s father. He’s been quiet this whole time, listening, but now he stands up from his seat and everyone turns to face him. He is a tall, broad man, but he is also soft-spoken, careful with his words. “No one’s traveled the road in years,” he appeals, his voice sounding like it might break, close to giving out completely. “Maybe someone could pass through safely without getting sick.”
A chatter of yesses and motions of agreement stir like a spring breeze, calm at first, but a storm could easily be brewing deep within.
“We should try,” Roona—the community cook—says.
“Poor Colette,” Olive chimes in—one of the guardians who teaches lessons to the younger children.
The group often makes decisions on matters like this together, through vote or simply by beginning a project in earnest （i.e. the building of a new storage shed, the tearing down of a dying tree）。 We operate collectively. But we also defer to Levi when a decision cannot be made. His opinions are final, and are not questioned.
A moment passes and Levi holds his palms up to the group, asking them to quiet so he may speak. It’s not a forceful gesture—it’s patient, reverent, and again, I think how difficult this must be for him, to see his people desperate to save a life while also bearing the responsibility of protecting us all. “We should not be foolish in thinking the road is clear or safe. Many of you have seen the trees breaking open along the boundary in recent days, and we cannot risk more lives for the life of one. The safety of our community is most important.”
I feel in my pocket for the small silver token I found in the garden. I grip the miniature book in my palm, grains of dirt still stuck to the edges. It’s a peculiar object, one I don’t understand, yet I keep it secret in my pocket so Theo won’t see. A thing only meant for me.
My eyes find Henry—seated near the front of the circle, his white-gray hair trimmed closely along the nape of his neck, shoulders bent forward, old bones unable to find a posture that doesn’t hurt on the hard wood benches. Henry is one of the oldest members in Pastoral—he arrived on the yellow school bus with the other founders. He’s seen the hardest winters and known every decision our community has made over the years. He’s also mended and repaired and built many things within the community: dining chairs, windchimes, spoons, garden gates, and doorknobs. Theo even had him craft the wedding band I wear on my ring finger, forged from an old bit of scrap metal. I trust Henry, and I wait for him to speak up, to share some knowledge he’s gathered from all his years inside Pastoral, about what should be done. But instead, he merely tilts his gaze up to the trees, as if he’s recalling something, a time that’s slipped from his grasp.
“We are grateful for this new life Colette has brought into the world,” Levi says now, walking from one side of the stage to the other, keeping our focus on him. “But we should not get carried away with ideas that could endanger our community or our lives. Our solitude is what has allowed us to endure.” All eyes meet with Levi’s. A toddler makes a soft sputtering sound to my right, fussing in his mom’s arms. “We should not make a foolish mistake; we should not risk our safety by venturing down the road. We should not risk more lives.”
A mix of words are passed down the rows. Members deciding for themselves if they agree with Levi’s assessment, or if it’s worth going past the border… and leaving Pastoral.
“We could take one of the cars,” someone suggests softly, meekly. “Maybe one of them still runs.”
The collection of cars sitting abandoned in the dirt lot just south of the community haven’t been started in years. Most have been picked apart, tires taken off, motors repurposed, fuel siphoned. The odds of one of their engines actually turning over seem unlikely.