Chapter 31
By the end of the week, every wall in Rosewood seemed to hold one of Rick’s drawings.
The clinic porch was covered first, then the schoolhouse, then even the wall beside the well.
Diagrams hung on nails and string, each one marked with notes in charcoal.
Arrows showed how the gears fit into the wheels, how pulleys pulled water, and how wind turned into motion.
The town had become a workshop. Children followed Rick around, carrying scraps of wood and wire.
The older ones fetched tools from the abandoned sheds.
Freddie organized the salvage piles by type, and Hale spent most mornings inspecting the new structures to make sure nothing would collapse.
Mary Anne had never seen so much movement at once.
Each morning began with the teams gathering in the square, Rick explaining the next step, Mary Anne checking supplies, and Emily dividing rations.
The air was filled with the sounds of saws and hammering.
It wasn’t progress, but it was purpose, and not everyone welcomed it.
Harlan’s sermons grew louder with every passing day.
His voice carried through the streets like a drumbeat, full of certainty and anger.
The congregation that had returned from the mountain clung to him more fiercely than ever, their numbers smaller but their devotion stronger.
They watched from the church steps as the pulley frames went up, whispering to one another, crossing themselves when Rick walked past. By midweek, tension hung thick in the square.
Mary Anne tried to ignore it, keeping to her tasks, but she could feel the divide widening.
For every person who joined the work teams, two stayed back, muttering prayers.
“They’re scared,” Rick said as they checked the pump frame.
“Of what?” she asked.
“Of losing control. Harlan gave them an answer. Now we’re giving them a choice.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It never is,” he said.
The next morning began like the others. The square buzzed with movement.
A group of children tested the pulley near the well while Freddie supervised.
The first bucket came up half full but smoothly.
The crowd clapped, small but genuine. For a moment, it felt like the start of something solid; then shouting broke out near the church.
A group of Harlan’s followers had come down the steps carrying one of Rick’s drawings, the one labeled Faith #1. They held it high, waving it like a flag. Behind them, Harlan stood in his robe, sleeves rolled to the elbow, eyes sharp as glass.
“False idols,” he said. “That’s what they are. Man’s pride drawn in lines and circles. Machines built in defiance of the Lord’s will.”
Rick stepped forward. “They’re tools, Father. They lift water, not prayers.”
“Exactly. They lift nothing that matters.”
Mary Anne moved between them. “Enough. No one is forcing anyone to build, but if you want to drink when the wells run dry, you’ll be glad someone did.”
Harlan’s eyes flicked to her. “There she stands. The high priestess of false creation. You’re turning them from faith. You’re teaching them that their hands can replace His.”
“Belief won’t pump water. Faith won’t grind grain. If you think the Lord wants us to starve, that’s your burden, not mine.”
“Blasphemy,” one of them yelled.
Another held the drawing higher.
Rick stepped closer to Mary Anne, his expression calm but firm. “We can talk about this,” he said to Harlan.
“There’s nothing to talk about. You’re building idols. And idols burn.”
Before anyone could stop them, one of the followers struck a match and touched it to the edge of the paper. The flame caught fast, bright orange against the sunlight. The drawing curled, blackening. Mary Anne took a step forward, but Rick’s hand caught her arm.
“Leave it,” he said quietly.
Harlan’s voice rang out. “You see? Paper burns. Pride burns. The Lord endures.”
“Thirst endures, too,” she said. “Faith won’t fill your canteens.”
For a moment, no one moved. Then Harlan turned his back and walked toward the church.
His followers followed him, the ashes of the drawing scattering across the dirt behind them.
When they were gone, Mary Anne looked at the others.
That night, the air felt different. Brittle and tense.
The smell of smoke still lingered near the square.
Inside the clinic, Rick sat at the table with a new sheet of paper, tracing the lines of another windmill design. His hands moved more slowly now, each motion deliberate.
Mary Anne joined him, with a lantern burning low between them. The light threw long shadows across the walls. “You’re starting over,” she said.
“Always,” he said.
“They think this is blasphemy.”
“They think anything they don’t understand is blasphemy.”
“You could stop drawing,” she said.
He looked at her. “You could stop saving people, but we both know neither of us will.”
Emily came in quietly, her hands stained with dried blood. She carried a small bundle of cloth and set it on the counter. “Two men fought outside the well,” she said. “One broke a tooth. The other dislocated a shoulder.”
Mary Anne rubbed her temples. “How bad?”
“They’ll live, but they were fighting over whether to help you or burn the rest.”
Rick exhaled slowly. “So, this is how it starts.”
“They’re scared,” she said.
Mary Anne looked up. “Of what?”
“Of being wrong. He’s scared, too. Harlan. He’s afraid you’ll prove him wrong.”
“He’s not afraid of me.”
“Yes, he is,” Emily said. “He’s afraid you’ll make them believe in something that doesn’t need him.”
Rick folded his arms. “She’s right.”
Mary Anne looked at him. “Fear spreads faster than faith.”
“Faster than fire.”
Emily tied the cloth bundle. “At least fire dies when it runs out of air. Fear doesn’t.”
Mary Anne leaned against the table. “We can’t fight belief.”
“Then don’t,” Rick said. “Build anyway.”
Emily glanced between them. “He’ll come again. You know that.”
Mary Anne nodded. “Then we’ll be ready.”
Emily left to tend the injured men. The door closed behind her, leaving the two of them in the dim light. Rick stared at the fresh sheet of paper. His pencil moved slowly, redrawing the same windmill Harlan’s followers had destroyed. The lines were cleaner this time, the angles sharper.
“You really think this will change anything?”
“It already has,” he said. “They’re talking. They’re choosing sides. That means they care.”
“I’d rather they cared without fighting,” she said.
“That’s not how people work.”
“You sound like you’ve seen this before.”
“I have,” he said. “Everywhere I went, people found something to believe in. Guns, gods, gold… It doesn’t matter. The only thing that lasts is what they can build with their hands.”
“Then keep drawing.”
“You’ll stay?”
“I started this,” she said. “I’ll finish it.”
When the lantern burned low, Mary Anne went outside. The square was quiet, but she could still see the blackened patch of dirt where the drawing had burned. The ashes had scattered on the wind, mixing with dust. She crouched and ran her fingers through it.
The night air was cool, the stars faint behind a thin haze. The silence felt uneasy, but not empty. She could hear the low hum of voices from the houses nearby, the faint rhythm of hammers still working in the distance.
Rick came to stand beside her. “You should sleep.”
“In a while,” she said.
“They won’t stop at paper next time.”
“I know.”
Rick nodded slowly. “You always see the end of the road before anyone else.”
“That’s not vision,” she said. “It’s fear.”
“Then maybe fear’s useful, too.”
They stood together for a long moment, the night wind brushing past. When they went back inside, the clinic felt smaller but warmer.
The table was covered with sketches again.
Some were incomplete; others were already pinned to the wall.
Mary Anne sat on the edge of the cot, watching the lantern light ripple across the papers.
Rick picked up another scrap and began to draw, his movements slow and methodical.
She thought about Emily’s words. Fear, not faith, drove Harlan, and fear was a kind of sickness that spread without warning.
Rick’s pencil moved across the paper, the sound steady.
The fire had burned one design, but the lines returned, stronger.
She reached for a piece of charcoal and began labeling the parts as he spoke, her handwriting neat.
Together they worked until the candle burned down to a stub.
Mary Anne looked at the drawings spread across the table. “You know what this means,” she said quietly.
He nodded. “It means we keep building.”
“Then we’ll need more paper.”
“I’ll find some.”
When the candle finally went out, the night pressed close again, but the silence this time wasn’t surrender.
It was the sound of something beginning again.
Mary Anne glanced at Rick. His pencil had stopped, but the last line still gleamed faintly in the starlight through the window.
Emily’s words echoed in her mind. Mary Anne knew she was right.
Fear, not faith, fueled Harlan, and fear spread faster than disease.