Feenix Mission

THE ARRIVAL

Stop gaping and pull hard right so we can dock properly!

Zefir turned around and gave Flint a weary look, then bore down on the port oar with his blood-blistered hand. They had been on the river for eleven exhausting days, and even Flint, normally a patient soul, had grown prickly and demanding. Sunburn, voracious mosquitoes and treacherous currents had transformed their much anticipated sojourn into a mirthless ordeal.

After tying up the skiff, the scouts grabbed their meager gear and trudged down a dilapidated dock to a narrow fieldstone building situated atop the river bank. Flint rapped on the oak door, which contained a small window made out of real glass.

Seconds later, a woman’s citrus-sour face appeared within the rectangular frame. Zefir quickly surmised that she didn’t smile very often and wouldn’t appreciate his ribald jokes and tales of hijinks. The door opened with an indignant creak and the woman stared at her visitors as if they were diseased beggars. We’re the upriver scouts Scholar Toth sent for, Flint announced, removing his tattered otterskin hat and giving a cursory nod reserved for special occasions.

I’m Harper, Transportation Division, she announced in a voice too large for her diminutive body.

It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I’m Flint Coalwood and this is Zefir Hawkes.

You’re two days late.

Flint shrugged. We hit a snag and had to make some repairs. You know how the river can be.

Save your excuses for Scholar Toth and Secretary Dunkel. We need to get moving.

Zefir was barely listening to the conversation, as his attention was focused on a colossal building with an enormous porch and flat-topped roof supported by a series of identical posts that dwarfed nearby pedestrians. Beyond the blocky monolith, a sky-piercing tower shone with the gilded light of the late evening sun. He assumed the magnificent structure allowed city dwellers to commune with ancestral spirits who must, he reasoned, be extraordinarily powerful.

Harper took note of Zefir’s distracted gaze. What’s his problem?

He’s never seen anything like this. It’s his first visit to the city.

Harper scanned the teenager’s lithe physique and focused with obvious distaste on his tangled brown mop of hair. He looks like he should be in school or an apprentice program of some sort.

I got kicked out of both, Zefir replied indifferently, not bothering to make eye contact.

Well, I certainly hope you don’t disappoint Scholar Toth! He is a man of high standards and expectations.

Zefir is a natural-born scout and tracker with instincts that in my experience just can’t be learned.

Why do you smell like a flower? Zefir asked.

Excuse me? Harper replied with a hint of offense.

I’m asking why you smell like a patch of wild geraniums.

It’s soap. A material with which you should become acquainted.

Do bees follow you around? Because it seems to me—

Let’s not waste this lady’s time, Flint sharply interrupted.

Harper gave Zefir a squinty-eyed look and led them around the back of the building, which featured a large pair of wooden doors that opened onto a cobblestone road.

Those are some strange looking wolfdogs you’ve got in there! Flint exclaimed. I’ve never seen them that big.

They aren’t wolfdogs. It’s a special type of dog that was specifically bred to pull carts following the extinction of horses.

Zefir peered into the building and counted six pairs of enormous broad-chested animals that wagged their tails and yelped with excitement as Harper entered the building. He was surprised that such formidable beasts exhibited puppy-like behavior, as if one type of development had usurped the other.

Do any of them have a mean streak? he asked warily. I ain’t sure you can ever get the wolf out of a dog no matter how you breed them.

"Young man, these animals are quite tame and very well disciplined."

I’ll go first, Flint said, leading the way down the column of dogs, which were hitched to a sleek carriage crafted from an unblemished silvery-white metal. The strikingly curious conveyance seated up to four people—one behind the other—and rode very low to the ground on wheels largely concealed within the metal body.

This is a nice piece of work, Flint praised, running his hand over the smooth metal surface with the appreciation of a skilled artisan.

Harper paid no heed to Flint’s comment, as she had become fully engaged in petting her shaggy charges while making encouraging doggy sounds. After completing the greeting ritual, she reached into an oak barrel and fed each dog a piece of dried meat. The dogs eagerly scarfed down the ripe-smelling treat, licking their chops and begging for another helping. Zefir thought the meat smelled pretty good but thought it best not to ask for a piece, having been instructed by Flint to upgrade his manners. Upon dispensing the last ration, Harper leaped into the front seat of the carriage with surprising agility.

Well, get in! You’ve kept Scholar Toth waiting long enough! The scouts were not quite seated when their irascible escort shouted a command to the lead dogs. Grover! Calvin! Pull!

The carriage jerked forward, following a trail that eventually merged onto a paved road that ran east alongside a long, rectangular farm field. From this vantage point, Zefir could see that the colossal building with the formidable porch occupied one end of the green expanse. The tower was located near the field’s midpoint, where it cast a sunset shadow that bisected the landscape as far as the eye could see. Another large building at the opposite end of the field, some three thousand paces distant, appeared to have an enormous inverted turnip affixed to its roof.

Within minutes the carriage approached the base of the tower, which seemed even more remarkable from their neck-craning vantage point. As they passed its graffiti-covered base, Zefir looked up and down the two rows of large stone buildings that flanked both sides of the field. He wondered who lived in the massive, inscrutable structures, each of which was, he reckoned, capable of housing his entire forest village several times over.

At that instant, Zefir was belatedly struck by an oddity. Very few people were visible apart from uniformed foot soldiers, a lamplighter, and scattered field workers. There were no rambunctious children or scolding mothers. No fathers finishing their daily chores. Virtually everyone, he assumed, must therefore have retreated into the buildings for the evening. Yet the structures showed no outward sign of habitation. These observations, coupled with the gathering darkness, began to temper Zefir’s initial wonder with a vague uneasiness.

Flint, who was sitting directly behind Harper, remained preoccupied by the silvery-white metal comprising the carriage. He was an able craftsman always looking for new and interesting materials in the ancient ruins scattered around Green Ridge, which he would fashion into basic tools and weapons.

What sort of iron this is? he asked, tapping the side of the carriage with his knuckles.

It’s not iron. It’s aluminum. It’s very light and strong for its weight. And it lasts just about forever if you take proper care of it—which we do. This carriage is made from a single piece of aluminum that was salvaged decades ago from somewhere outside the city. But even small pieces are hard to find these days, and for that reason it’s considered a semi-precious metal.

So it doesn’t ever rust?

No. This metal will outlast all of us and generations to follow. We would dearly like to manufacture more. But until that time comes—if ever—we need to carefully use and preserve what we have.

Could I get a few scraps to work with? It clearly has properties you don’t find in iron.

Not a chance, Harper flatly replied before returning her attention to the dogs. Grover! Calvin! Halt! This is it, she stated, gesturing toward a large building to their left.

As the scouts gathered their belongings, two bedraggled field workers carrying hoes approached them on the road. One was a slump-shouldered woman who looked like Father Time’s grandmother—at least fifty years old, Zefir supposed. The other was a young man with a pronounced limp and a once-broken and badly-healed nose. Flint tipped his otterskin hat at the old woman, who only grunted in response. The young man glumly nodded and yawned, revealing a mouth mostly devoid of teeth.

Hey! What are you growing out there?

Tobacco, the man responded in a lead-weighted voice.

What the hell for? Zefir persisted.

By this time the pair had passed the carriage. Without so much as looking over his shoulder the young man replied, We just do what we’re told, and shuffled off into the gloaming with his ancient companion.

We send the tobacco to the Brown Teeth, Harper remarked as she stepped out of the carriage. They mix it with honey and chew it. They can’t get enough of the stuff, which we gladly provide in exchange for peaceful relations and protection from the other savages that infest the region. Harper started up the path leading to the building with Flint and Zefir on either side. About all they do is chew tobacco and fight, she continued. Their ferocity stems in part from their belief in some sort of dead warrior’s paradise. They don’t value life or fear death like civilized people, which makes them especially dangerous. That’s why no enemy has, or probably ever will, penetrate the border as long as we keep the tobacco flowing.

I once heard that tobacco can make people real sick, Flint said.

Harper shrugged nonchalantly. That’s not relevant to the Brown Teeth, since most of them die violent deaths before the age of thirty.

A bearded sentry wearing a white tunic beneath a copper breastplate stood alert at the main entrance. As the trio got nearer, Zefir noticed that his breastplate bore an image of a spread-winged bird. The bird, Zefir conjectured, must be an object of worship, which was logical since a winged deity was well-suited to carry messages to and from the spirit world.

Sergeant Boussard. These men are here to see Scholar Toth, Harper announced.

The dour sentry scanned the visitors’ crude deerskin attire with condescension and contempt.

Is that thing on your chest made of semi-precious alu-minium? Zefir asked, tapping on the metal breastplate. Boussard glared at the scruffy youth, clenched his jaw and squeezed the hickory shaft of his halberd with enough force to strangle a rabid wolfdog.

Zefir! We’d best be tending our business, Flint advised, placing a firm hand on his protégé’s shoulder.

I hope you meet Scholar Toth’s needs, Mr. Coalwood, Harper said, casting a disparaging glance at Zefir. And with that, she turned on her heels and walked down the path toward her aluminum carriage and panting charges.

You bet we will! Zefir called after her. Oh, and ma’am, you ought to watch your step over there—Calvin just answered Nature’s call!

This way, Boussard curtly instructed, ushering them inside.

They entered an atrium illuminated by lanterns hung at regular intervals along smooth, polished stone walls. Flint and Zefir walked on cat’s feet as was their custom, while the sentry’s heavy leather boots made a clomping sound with each footfall that echoed throughout the dimly illuminated space.

The room, despite its disciplined geometry, was reminiscent of Grimslaw’s Cave. After Zefir’s mother died, he and Orvis Bickle would occasionally make the half-day trek to explore its narrow passages with nothing more than oil lamps and youthful audacity. On one sullen November day, Zefir climbed some thirty feet down a narrow vertical fissure before common sense prevailed. Orvis, none too bright or agile, entered the fissure, lost his grip on the slimy limestone, and fell to such a depth that Zefir never heard an impact. His body was never recovered and Orvis’s mother, whose youngest son had been mauled to death by a wolfdog, screamed until her vocal cords hemorrhaged. Zefir was widely blamed since he was, after all, his wretched father’s son.

Boussard escorted the scouts down a flight of stairs and through several large and mostly empty rooms. Zefir wondered why these people had constructed such an immense building for no obvious reason. Hardly a soul was present with the exception of a few guards, all of whom appeared bored and listless. It would have made a very serviceable barn, but not a single pig was in sight. Perhaps, he reasoned, the place had been given over to ancestral spirits which were more likely to answer prayers and not make mischief when offended.

The trio finally arrived at a door bearing a brass-inscribed plate which read: T. Toth—Senior Scholar. Boussard opened the door and escorted the scouts inside a large room lined with rows of large see-through boxes, each containing several objects of the likes Zefir had never seen before.

Dr. Toth should be here momentarily, he announced, standing at attention near the door.

I’ve never seen so much high quality glass in one place, Flint marveled. Do you make it here in the city?

Yes, Broussard stiffly responded, without bothering to elaborate.

Zefir noticed that each displayed object was identified with a card bearing a short description written in very precisely drawn letters.

Look at that horn. I saw one like that in a picture Tutor Grunwald showed us. He called it a ‘toompit’, or something like that, and said in the old days a person could practice up and play some real nice tunes on it.

Flint looked at the shiny metal object and the picture of a man with very dark skin holding a similar object to his mouth. I don’t understand it at all, but I’m supposing that Armstrong fellow knew how to use it. Maybe it’s made out of aluminum, he remarked, moving on to the adjacent case. Hey, these are some fine looking clothes! he exclaimed, motioning toward a broad-brimmed hat and brown leather jacket.

Yep. I think you’d look good in them, too. Hey! Look at these funny-looking shoes! Zefir exclaimed.

Those were worn by Judy Garland while filming the Wizard of Oz, announced a rich baritone voice. At one time they were bright red and sparked in the light.

The scouts spun around to confront a robust-looking man with dark, curly hair and a thick moustache. His large blue-gray eyes twinkled with the room’s reflected lamplight.

Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m Scholar Toth. And unless I’m mistaken, you are the highly regarded Green Ridge scouts that we’ve been eagerly expecting. Welcome to Washington D.C.

CHAPTER 2

SECRETARY DUNKEL

The following morning the aluminum carriage was waiting to shuttle Flint, Zefir and Scholar Toth to the Capitol Building. Harper, bristling with fidgety energy, was enthusiastically petting and nuzzling the dogs as her passengers prepared to board.

Good morning, ma’am, Flint greeted with a felicitous nod.

Rain is expected this afternoon, she brusquely replied, turning her attention to Scholar Toth. I don’t mean to be pushy, sir, but we’d best hustle if we’re going to make your appointment. You know how Secretary Dunkel is about punctuality.

I quite agree, Miss Harper. Punctuality is the soul of business—so said Thomas Haliburton, the renowned nineteenth century Canadian writer.

Zefir was reasonably certain that their driver preferred dogs to people. He also suspected that the mustachioed scholar sought every possible opportunity to show off his accumulated knowledge.

Okay, everyone on board. Grover! Calvin! Pull! Harper commanded.

The carriage jerked into motion as the twelve beasts, fresh from a night’s rest, lunged forward, snapping the leather traces taut. Zefir, who was in the third seat between Flint and Scholar Toth, was ready to nod off in spite of the bumpy ride and glaring morning sun. He had slept fitfully in spite of the accumulated fatigue from their journey down the Potomac.

Part of the problem was Flint, who snored and grumbled in his sleep about those savages that killed and ate my granddaddy. The Green Ridge colony and Brown Teeth had been mostly at peace for nearly forty years, largely owing to incentives offered by Washington. But hard feelings bubbled up like putrid swamp gas every now and again, leading to the occasional brawl where a villager would lose an ear or finger to a trophy-seeking barbarian.

Zefir also found his soft-mattressed bed to be extremely uncomfortable. While on hunting expeditions, he took refuge in a tree-slung hammock high enough off the ground to keep toothsome beasts from sampling a piece of thigh meat. And there were none of the familiar and soothing night sounds that usually lulled him to sleep. No chirping crickets. No hooting owls. No howling wolfdogs.

His eyes had just about drooped closed when Flint turned around in the carriage to address Scholar Toth. What’s that big white building with the wrap-around porch near the boat docks?

Ah, that’s Mr. Lincoln’s home.

The remark clearly puzzled Flint who, like Zefir, had received only rudimentary instruction in First Republic American history from itinerant tutors.

Why, I thought he was long dead. I must be thinking of someone else.

Sorry—you’re quite right. I was speaking figuratively, which is one of my many questionable habits. Mr. Lincoln was assassinated over five centuries ago, but his legacy was commemorated in the construction of that great marble and limestone memorial.

Scholar Toth went on to describe the memorial’s history and architecture, including the twelve visible Greek Doric columns Zefir saw as porch roof supports. He was surprised to learn that the marble statue of President Lincoln would be twenty-eight feet tall if it could magically rise from its chair.

Are Mr. Lincoln’s bones in there? Zefir asked.

No, he’s buried very far away, Scholar Toth replied, with a hint of sadness in his voice. His final resting place is located in a region of the Western Territory once known as Illinois. No one knows if his tomb is still intact. We’ve sent several scouting parties to the area, but they never returned. One day, perhaps, we’ll conquer the region and reunite it with the Second Republic.

What about that tower we just passed? Flint asked. Does anyone live up top?"

No, but at one time people ascended its height just to enjoy the view of the surrounding area. In those days it was somewhat taller, but years of structural decay forced us to remove the upper forty feet or so and create an observation platform. A small contingent of soldiers does, however, live on the ground floor. There are always at least two people at the summit standing watch for possible invaders.

Zefir surveyed the gracefully tapered monument and the other buildings that lined both sides of what Scholar Toth referred to as the the mall. Now, in the full light of day, he could see that the structures—though imposing in size—had long suffered from neglect. Most of the stonework was badly stained by the elements, and in many places large zigzagging cracks were visible.

Zefir turned his attention to a long, rectangular structure that had largely collapsed into tangled steel girders and pink-hued marble rubble. Why are people crawling over that busted-up building like a bunch of cockroaches? he asked.

"They’re salvaging whatever they can find for other uses since the building is considered beyond repair. To think it once contained Spirit of Saint Louis, Bell X-1 and Apollo 11 command module. All gone now. What a pity."

Grover! Calvin! Halt! Harper commanded. This is it. Everybody out! You’re not my only responsibility today—with all due respect, sir.

The passengers disembarked in front of the building which Scholar Toth identified as the Capitol of the First and Second Republics. It, too, was in dire need of repair. The great iron dome—which Zefir had previously seen as an inverted turnip—was badly rusted. Still, it was an impressive sight compared to the crude huts and communal longhouses in Green Ridge.

As they walked up the marble staircase to the Capitol’s main entrance, Zefir looked over his shoulder and saw Harper doting over her eager, panting dogs. He wondered how she would get along with the wolfdogs that lived in the forest near his village.

Today, gentlemen, we are going to meet with Secretary Dunkel, a very important man in Washington. He’s in charge of Technology Acquisition and Development.

Sounds like a bunch of foofaw to me, Zefir mumbled.

Well, I suppose it does, Scholar Toth replied, smiling in spite of the skeptical remark. Basically, Washington wants to reestablish society as it existed in the early part of the twenty-first century. Our aspiration—some would say fantasy—is to once again travel by automobile and airplane. Restore electrical power and all manner of electrical devices to the city. Communicate over large distances with hand-held devices. Use powerful and sophisticated machinery for the construction of large buildings, bridges, and dams. You can’t imagine how frustrating it is to know such things once existed and lack the technology to recreate them. At any rate, it’s Secretary Dunkel’s job to determine how this can be done.

You’ll have to pardon our ignorance, but we really don’t know much about those things, except through what little was taught by tutors or passed down through the generations, Flint confessed.

We don’t know much more than you, I’m afraid. And that’s the crux of our dilemma.

Flint and Zefir were astounded by the spectacle that greeted them inside the Capitol. The dome, grandly imposing from the outside, appeared gargantuan when viewed with an upturned head from within. The scouts stopped to gawk at the enormous canopy fresco located at its two-hundred-and-eighty-eight foot summit. Neither one of them had ever seen a modest wall-hung painting, yet alone the massive spectacle that adorned the interior of the great dome.

"It’s called The Apotheosis of George Washington, Scholar Toth remarked, noting the scouts’ amazement. President Washington is the man draped in purple fabric, which was associated with royalty. It’s supposed to show him ascending into the heavens as a god. The goddess Victory sits to his left and the goddess Liberty to his right. Each of the ladies forming the remainder of the circle represents one of the original colonies of what were later called states. You Green Ridge Forest folk live in what was once the Commonwealth of Maryland, which is represented by one of those ladies."

Well, sir, I must confess to being a bit confused by all this.

That’s perfectly understandable, Flint. It’s an allegorical painting, that is, one that tells a story through symbols. The problem is that most people living today don’t understand its cracked and time-faded symbolism.

So, if he’s a god, do you pray to him? Zefir asked.

Well, no. People didn’t really consider Mr. Washington a real god, but rather a very important person who deserved a good deal of respect—like Mr. Lincoln.

Scholar Toth allowed them another minute to stare at the puzzling fresco before returning to business. Gentlemen, we shouldn’t keep Secretary Dunkel waiting.

The trio made its way into a large semicircular room with a double-vaulted coffered ceiling. Imposing stone columns arranged at regular intervals along the wall had weathered the centuries; however, the plaster walls presented a landscape of ominous bulges, crude patches and stress cracks.

"This is—or at least was—Statuary Hall. At one time it contained statues of famous people from the original fifty states. When the First Republic collapsed, many of the Capitol’s other treasures were stored here with the statues and sealed up like a Pharaoh’s tomb to discourage looters. Unfortunately, thieves eventually gained entrance and stole or destroyed most of the statues and other treasures.

All sorts of strange stories about the statues’ fates have been passed down through the generations. One claimed a Civil War buff lopped off Robert E. Lee’s head and carried it back to his Virginia home in Chancellorsville as a souvenir of the sacking of Washington. The general’s head supposedly spent decades in the man’s basement before being toted off by a savage tribe that prayed to it before going into battle. So the tale goes.

So did it work? Zefir asked.

Excuse me?

Praying to the head. Did they win their battles?

Scholar Toth stopped walking and turned pensive. Why, come to think of it, they usually did!

Soon thereafter the group arrived at a door with a sentry posted outside. This portal guardian, like Boussard, appeared stiff and inhospitable. Zefir was beginning to wonder if anyone in the city other than their learned host could crack a smile or muster a kind word.

Scholar Toth and the Green Ridge scouts to see Secretary Dunkel.

The dour-looking guard curtly nodded, knocked on the oak panel door, and entered the secretary’s office. A moment later he