Chapter Twenty-Three #2
I get my answer when their argument is cut short by a pair of horses trotting up the hill, towing a wagon.
Nay, a carriage. This is easily the most elegantly appointed vehicle I have seen since coming to Salt Spring, with tassels dangling from the corners of the enclosed box.
I make out Tom Sullivan through a window, sour-faced as usual, but the real sight to behold is the man driving the buggy.
He’s wearing a black fedora, patent leather shoes and a tailored suit that somehow puts Amy’s dress to shame.
“Bradley! You made it.” Amy rushes forward. “And thank you for bringing Uncle Tom.”
“It wasn’t any trouble,” says the man, getting down from the carriage seat. “I like driving. Does me good to get outside.”
“No…”
I turn at the sound of April’s voice. She’s staring at the carriage too, but her face is so pale, it reminds me of when she was still sick.
“What is it?” I ask her.
“It’s… it’s nothing.” She blinks furiously. “I just thought… it’s nothing.”
Normally, I would press for further details, but the arrival of our last two guests means Amy is eager to get the tour started and the woman from the newspaper starts snapping photos again. Sid’s hand clenches around mine as the man in the fedora strolls up to us.
“Sid Charles! And this must be your wife. Amy told me all about you.”
“Bradley.”
“Hi.” I hold my hand out for him to shake, since Sid seems incapable of doing that.
“It’s good to see all of you.” Tom Sullivan gives me nothing but a curt nod.
My pulse jerks as he strides past, and I wonder if Bradley Patterson can feel it through my trembling fingers.
Wanting something to focus on other than Tom, I look up at Bradley.
He’s not a bad-looking man. He doesn’t have the sheer presence of Sid, or the magazine swagger of someone like James, but I would guess he’s a couple of years younger.
There’s a boyish charm to him. His hands look so soft, I wouldn’t avoid him if I came across him the wilds.
Which is to say, I’m certain I could kick his ass if I needed to.
“And… April, was it? I think my sister goes to school with you,” says Bradley, turning to her.
“Oh. Does she? I’m still learning everyone’s names,” says April, unconvincingly. “Especially last names.”
“I imagine so. You’re in a mixed education stream, yes? So you’ll have lots of students to meet across all the grade levels.”
“Something like that,” mutters April.
“But that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Getting into Grade Ten at all is impressive for a girl who grew up a Wildling. You must be very proud of her, Mrs. Charles.”
“Oh, sure. Proud as can be.”
Well, now we’re on the same page. Bradley may look harmless but he’s clearly a pretentious prick. No wonder Sid hates him. And I’m guessing based on April’s horrified reaction to his carriage that his sister sucks just as much as he does—though luckily there are no signs of another surprise guest.
Bradley takes off his fedora and pulls a small hand mirror out of his pocket so that he can fluff up his hair.
“Welcome everyone!” Amy beams at her small audience, and April shoulders her way to the front of the group.
“I’m Amy Sullivan, head logistics officer at the Reinventor’s Guild, one of the bedrocks of our community on Salt Spring.
People come here because we promise them both the future and the past. Medicine, electricity, plumbing.
We make those promises to you, but living up to them isn’t easy.
The necessities of yesterday are the luxuries of life today.
But here, we’re putting in the work to help create that beautiful, comfortable future all of us deserve. All of you deserve.
“One of you asked me recently, how does a photo get in the newspaper these days? Well, step inside and let’s find out.
This is where the magic happens!” She pulls a large key out of her purse and unlocks the door behind her.
“Please keep to the marked walkway inside. We don’t want to get in the way of the engineers and scientists. ”
“Scientists…” April whispers the word and my heart strains.
Is this something she’s dreamed of? How did I not know that?
The idea that she managed to keep anything to herself during all those years in the woods makes me feel inadequate.
Then again, why would she ever mention a dream like that?
It would have been impossible. Like dreaming of toilet paper.
April and Amy lead the way into the massive barn and the whirling cries of machinery intensify.
This is hardly the science lab I saw illustrated in children’s books—no twirly tubes or beakers filled with mysterious substances.
That doesn’t make it any less impressive.
Amy points us to the most powerful working furnace in the Pacific Northwest. The artisans surrounding it are bent over workbenches, smoothing out moulds for a variety of projects.
Gears for water turbines, rudder blades for boats, letters for the printing press that keeps the newspaper running.
They also create mounts that an artisan can use to insert a woodblock, which is how they make prints.
In other words, that photographer is only taking pictures for references images.
If the newspaper wants to print any photos, they’ll need someone to meticulously carve the image before it can go through the press.
Up next is an area stationed by someone dressed like a traditional scientist. She wears a protective coat, gloves, and goggles. A massive collection of plants, rocks, and bits of seaweed surround her. Right now, she’s grinding a lump of dried clay to a fine powder.
“This is our chemistry department. They work on fertilizer blends, so quite a few of our employees are in the test field out back. We’re also getting very close to lightfast ink.”
April nods as if this makes a lick of sense. My gait stiffens as we follow Amy to the area where a dozen people are operating tools that survived the Quake. I let the strange words tumble by me: table saw, power drill, angle grinder, nail gun.
Until now, I hadn’t realized how ambitious the island is.
They’re not satisfied with survival, but instead are looking to some future where life resembles the riches of the past. I should be impressed—and yet I can’t help thinking, isn’t this how the world ended?
Progress at the expense of all else? Do we need all these inventions?
Or are these just more of the Grand Astrologue’s opinions rattling around inside me?
He had to find some way to justify keeping us in that tiny compound, tending goats.
We were avoiding the evils of the modern world.
He picked and chose from a wide variety of religious beliefs and cultural traditions, trying to convince us that everyone from Buddha to Jesus agreed that things had gone too far.
Fossil fuels, big pharma, the Canadian government.
Every one of them accelerated us into catastrophe as they chased nothing but progress, progress, progress.
It was our job to simplify things and take humanity back to its roots.
Men tending goats in the pasture. Women spinning wool at home.
The memories make me shiver. Yet I can’t chase his voice out, because maybe—in a small way—the science agrees with him.
All the wars and plagues that buckled humanity wouldn’t have gotten their hooks in without the help of global warming.
Mum told me that our Quake was one of many humanitarian crises before everything fell apart.
There was always some far-flung place suffering in the news—waves of refugees forced off the vanishing coastline of Bangladesh.
Global markets flying into chaos as blackouts worsened in China and Shanghai flooded.
Hurricanes battered the American Southeast until Mickey Mouse himself had to flee Florida.
Whole Pacific islands were swallowed by the sea.
Even with our earthquakes and tsunamis, we got lucky out here because of the steep cliffs of our beaches.
I’m being paranoid. A couple mitre saws hooked up to solar cells is not the same as a billion people fighting over oil—but where is the line? The world ended in increments, too.
A large hand lands on my shoulder. Sid hovers over me, his expression gloomy. “I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“We shouldn’t have encouraged this. And I know you’re uncomfortable.”
“I’m fine.” I whisper back, determined to do a better impression of pretending that’s true. “It’s just… a lot. A lot of noise. A lot of people.”
“I can’t believe she invited Bradley Patterson. He doesn’t have a thing to do with the Guild. He just wants to slide into as many photos as possible leading up the election.”
“But isn’t that what you’re trying to do?”
Sid falls quiet, which shouldn’t be noticeable in the general din of confusion inside the shop.
The old man is currently trying to grab one of the power drills and Amy’s typically tinkling laughter goes several notes shriller as she tries to redirect him.
Not far away, Tom Sullivan has a file out and is scribbling away.
Personally, I’m grateful. April and I are easily the best-behaved Wildlings here.
But Sid is so upset, it sours any sense of accomplishment I might have enjoyed.
This whole day was meant to help Sid’s campaign and now he’s worried that Bradley Patterson is stealing his thunder.
That Bradley Patterson is stealing his Amy?
“The difference,” says Sid slowly, “is that Bradley Patterson doesn’t care about anything. The only reason he’s running for office is because he’s got a shitload of money and his mother expects him to. Because apparently, they don’t have enough control over the island already.”
“Oh.”
“And Amy wants to align with him. I’m not saying it’s a terrible idea. He’s running more ads in the paper than any other candidate. But there could be consequences down the line.”
“Like what?”