Chapter 2

THE EVENING AT THE EDGE of the shimmering lake is deathly quiet. As the man stares at the water, he sees deer bending to drink, as if nothing had happened. Maybe there are no deer. Maybe merely willows at water’s edge. A tiny dwelling huddles nearby. Partly an underground burrow, like that of a groundhog, at the far edge of the village, the hut is lost to the eye against the autumn hues. The footpath to the village curves away toward the east, away from the fiery sunset. The silence is deep and relentless. Had he not lost faith, it may have granted solace across the vast lake, a hint of destiny beyond his shrunken self. But his convictions had long ago been annihilated. The sun, a scorching blister, seems motionless just before it dives into the lake. He rises, stretching painfully to summon the hideous toll. His anxious mind tries to unravel what he once thought certain.

He calls to his wife, Freya, who has also survived. She emerges from the darkness of the hogan, a tall woman, wild steely hair pointing every which-way, her ruby cloak stretched across broad shoulders, a leather belt drawn tight to her waist. She moves toward him, moccasins soundless in the sand.

“Where are the others, Ethelred?”

This is how things were at Ashtephale (once called Ashtabula) in the wake of the attack, the bloodshed and looting, the torching of our village, the abductions, the retreat of the Nanticokes in their giant-oared warships across Eerie Lake. Ethelred, in a fugue state, gazed at the remains of our village, naught but smoldering ashes in the distance beyond Freya. He was speechless, his hands shuddering as he backed away from her.

My older brother, Silas, and I descended upon the scene from the artesian spring at the rocky copse that saved our lives. Later we collected what remained of our belongings and marched south to higher ground. This was before the arrival of the Argolians, but after babies died of poisons and pregnant women bore the agony of many miscarriages. And after the days and nights when the western horizon glowed, and thunderous blasts resounded from the Perry Megalith. And after a handful of children, who had huddled with me and Silas in that rocky shelter, became our most compelling purpose for building some kind of future.

On bright October days like this, it is my habit to stroll the potholed streets of Andeferas (once called Andover) nestled on the shores of Pymatuning, a long lake at the edge of this abandoned place, our reason for landing here: the abundant drinkable water, the fishing, the security of vistas to the horizon. On Wednesdays and Fridays, with the key from my pocket, I open the little brick library just west of the weedy public square. Despite its decrepit condition, the library shelves a trove of books people once cherished and an archive of times long gone. Others of our clan browse the open shelves, the books sometimes falling unbound with pages that crumble in your fingers. My duty is to handwrite copies of the most treasured volumes, page by page, to prevent further wear and tear on the originals. Me, a young woman with a steady hand, what my elders describe as lovely penmanship for a left-handed person.

Silas insists I’m wasting my time hunched over crumbling books like a medieval nun. He thinks I should be with the children all day long, happy as I am being childlike, though I’ve just passed my nineteenth birthday. All well and good, “But shouldn’t somebody here be trying to preserve our heritage?”

“Probably, but not you, Hestia. It should be an older person with less imagination and sparkle.”

Our mother and father are dead. We grew up in Ashtephale on the shores of Eerie Lake before the fatal raid. Our mother burned to death when the village was sacked. Our father, taken prisoner, was last seen in shackles on warships heading north toward what used to be Canada. Our world had unraveled in a heartbeat. As if some malevolent deity had pulled a loose thread and the whole garment had come undone.

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