“Rose, Blanche!” he called as he stopped across the short, heavy wire fence from the hogs. White, pink, and deep red, a gang of snorting noses grunted as they stampeded toward the feeding platform and its long, bolted-down metal trough. They oinked loudly, pushing and shoving like children fighting over treats, shrill squeals hurting Nathan’s ears. He didn’t name all the pigs, but Rose and Blanche were foundation breeders. Nobody was going to eat them.
Nathan talked to the hogs, trying to calm them as he shoveled feed into the trough. They scarfed it up the instant the scrap produce landed. Soybean hulls, corn husks, bean stalks, molding bread crusts, old eggs, bruised fruit, and anything else Meadowgate couldn’t eat or sell went to the hogs. They also feasted on nuts that fell from the trees in season and dried corn in winter. For centuries, they had been a Southern staple, as they bore large litters of piglets that grew to over a hundred pounds each in no time. Mr. Thatcher had a hog roast every Saturday night, and Nathan’s share lasted him for days. Old man Thatcher, a fixture forever, from what Nathan could tell, owned the livestock farm and operated it fairly to man and beast alike.
“Back before the war,” Thatcher had related at one of Nathan’s first hog-roast nights, “folks ran farms like prisons, animals locked up in cages and stuffed with unnatural foods and chemicals.” He shook his head. “I never liked it. Cruel it was. Luckily, the Frosts agreed. I was a young’un when the bombs dropped, and everything changed. This place saved my life, and I never went hungry. Had to fight off some bandits and varmints of all descriptions, but I was never without. Got a wife, had some kids, then King Frost came to visit and declared us official. Holdfast has kept a contract with Nelanta ever since. Course, I had to hire on more workers to expand the operation, but it’s all good.”
Nathan liked the old codger. Thatcher told colorful stories and was more generous than the people Nathan was used to dealing with in Appalachia.
When the last leaf had been scraped from the wheelbarrow, Nathan turned it around and headed back between the pastures toward the barns. There were several—two for hay, one for milking cows, and another for working horses. At the front of the complex, by the road, stood Thatcher’s family home, the workers’ bunkhouse, and smaller cottages for two other families who shared the farm, all built around a clean well. Thatcher also kept a cistern atop a tower, with a pipe system that carried rainwater to the animals.
With a hundred acres, split between pastures, woodland, hayfields, and an orchard, there was plenty for the dozen workers to do. Fences required constant mending, vegetable gardens tended, animals fed, pens cleaned, fruit picked, and so much more. Nathan felt part of the community almost at once.
After helping with the evening milking and rinsing off in the shower hut, Nathan returned to the bunkhouse he shared with five other single workers: three men and two women. The four guys shared a room, the two women their own, and a spacious common area with comfortable seating and an efficient kitchen. High ceilings, tall windows, and shotgun-style construction aided airflow, making the temperature bearable. They chatted, laughing about whatever they could, but the tension never quite lifted. They avoided the topic of the Iron Army’s invasion, but it still held the room in a tight fist throughout the meal.
Nathan excused himself, washed his plate, and retired to his bunk to write a letter to Soren—his nightly ritual.
Hey there, Heart of my Heart,
What have you been up to? Probably acing all your classes at the Institute. Is your wife working out for you? I kind of hope so because I love you and want you to be happy. Then again, I hope you’re miserable enough to change your mind about joining me here. Can I want both at the same time?
This morning, I went to Nelanta to see Secretary of Agriculture Beaudean. Can you believe he received me and even remembered my name? This invasion is serious, dangerous business, and I went to talk to him about volunteering forthe military. I want to help protect the people who’ve been good to me, and I really don’t want to lose the freedom I’ve found here.
Holdfast Farm is great—kind of like Harmony Ridge, only smaller, one of several independent farms around Meadowgate. I’ve made new friends but remain true to you. So far, I’ve visited four different kinds of meeting houses and get strange looks if I mention the Oracle. Verdancian religions vary widely, but most teach about a spirit realm that we can’t see, only feel. They call the Creator by different names and study unfamiliar teachings, but the common threads are love, forgiveness, and kindness toward others.
But back to my meeting this morning. Secretary Beaudean discouraged me from enlisting. He said an army travels on its stomach, and, without food, they’re useless. He said the kingdom needs farmers as much as, or even more than, it needs soldiers if we’re to succeed.
People here talk a lot about President Irons and how he wants to steal our land and outlaw our freedoms. I worry that if he succeeds here, he’ll come for Appalachia next. He wants our food and land. He’ll want your technology.
I miss you, Soren. I lay on my bed each night, picturing your face, replaying every moment we spent together. My heart is sick, a constant ache I can’t soothe. Other than that, I love living here. Come to your senses, my love. We wouldn’t have to hide here. We could be together as a married couple. That is, if we drive out the invaders and send Irons packing.
I’m worried. The churches say God, the Universe, or some higher power being will defend us, but they didn’t protect the world from the disaster that fell before. I just wish you were with me.
Yours always,
Nathan
Nathan laid his pencil down and reread his letter in private, the other guys playing cards in the common room. With a heavy heart, he folded the paper, touched it to the candle’s flame, and held it while it burned.
Chapter seventeen
Recall to Arms
Nelanta, the early morning after General Calder was captured
Azaleen woke to a pounding noise. Was it coming from inside her head? Her eyes cracked open to darkness, and she rolled over. A knock at her bedroom door, and she shot up, fully awake.
“Madame Queen,” Maggie said from the hallway, her voice low. “There’s been an urgent development.”
Wrapping a light robe over her thin sleeping gown, Azaleen peeked out, her heart pounding. It wasn’t often affairs of state woke her before dawn, and she feared the worst—whatever that could be.
“What is it?” she asked, struck to the bone with dread. Surely the Iron Army hadn’t already made it this far east.
“General Stark is downstairs,” Maggie informed her. She shot a glance down the hall toward the boys’ rooms.
“Tell him I’ll only be a moment.” Azaleen hastily dressed in comfortable clothes and shoes, anticipating a long, hard day to come. Running a brush through her hair, she didn’t bother with fragrances or cosmetics, feeling the urgency of the matter. Abandoning a regal pace, she jogged down the stairs and around the corner into the living room, scanning for the general. Maggie was handing him a mug of coffee.
“What’s happened?” Concern edged Azaleen’s voice, not panic.
“My Queen, I apologize for waking you so early.” The solid man in uniform hadn’t taken time to shave.