“I would never be so presumptuous,” the passionate speaker said with feigned humility. “I am merely a vessel speaking for our citizens, because they can’t. They have no voice. Our politicians have long seen to that. The Laevis Creed has seen to that.”
“You’re speaking against the Creed as well?”
“Yes. I am. If the Creed doesn’t work for every citizen, then it isn’t working. The time for regression is over. Our ancestors once thought that our future was beyond this very earth, out into the far reaches of space, and we’ve given all of that away. Why? Peace, sure. But who lives in peace? Clearly not these rioters who’ve been branded terrorists. And why are they rioting? Because they can’t put food on their tables. Tell that to our governor.”
“You must admit these proclamations are beyond ambitious,” the host rebuffed. “They might even be viewed as treasonous.”
“So be it.”
“Okay, Castor. Let’s play this out. With all this unrest in the greenlands, and with men like you screaming out for reformation, what are the other states and their ruling families supposed to think? I’ll tell you what they’re thinking, Castor. ‘He’s coming for us next.’ And their prides be damned.”
“Yes,” Castor said. “Exactly. May their prides be damned.”
The sound of footsteps booming from above jerked Samuel’s attention away from the radio. Charles rounded the corner and sauntered down the stairs. He was holding some sort of large package wrapped in brown paper.
“Happy birthday.” He shook the package. “It’s for you.”
The radio buzzed on as Samuel took hold of the package. It was nearly the size of his torso. “How’d you know?”
“The sheriff said something about it. It is your birthday, right? Sixteen?”
Samuel nodded, the package feeling less heavy than it looked. Charles gave him a solid pat on the back before combing his hair back with his fingers. He spoke with more excitement than Samuel could muster.
“Don’t just stand there. Open it!”
Samuel tore the corners of the package, carefully folding out the ends so he didn’t rip the paper. Something about ripping paper needlessly seemed wrong to him. He reached inside and felt the softness of fabric. He pulled out the items with one solid tug. It was an entire outfit: black slacks, a peacoat with multiple buttons, a gray button-up shirt with a pressed collar, and what appeared to be some sort of polka-dotted black-and-white miniature tie. He pulled the peacoat up and held it wide. It was made of thick wool and lined with multiple layers of fabric that would probably trap in body heat better than his winter coat. He’d never touched something so expensive before.
“Put it on,” Charles said as he motioned for Samuel to stand up.
He put the rest of the clothes on top of the miniature glass table and slipped on the coat. It was the perfect length, but when he buttoned it up, it felt a bit loose on him.
Charles watched him intently.
“It’s a little baggy, but if you leave it unbuttoned, no one will be able to tell. I’ll get the tailor to fix it right up. I figured we’re close to the same size. I mean, except that I’m like way taller and cooler.”
Samuel rubbed his thumb across the smooth wool. For the longest time, he imagined a life like this. And here he was, in the mayor’s estate, wearing fine clothes reserved for the wealthy. It was a fantasy.
“It’s really nice. Thank you.”
“Don’t worry about it!”
“Are you sure I can wear this? Will I look out of place?”
“You’ll be with me.” Charles cleared his throat and leaned a bit closer, lowering his voice. “And, uhmm, thanks. For yesterday. I’m glad you were there. That demon really has it out for me.”
“But why—”
“Wait.”
The raised voice coming from the radio had caught Charles’s attention. His brows furrowed as he listened to the new argument for equal land redistribution and the establishment of a systematic food system.
“Ridiculous! And who exactly is gonna pay for that?”
Charles shut off the radio. Samuel shifted his shoulders, feeling the peacoat rub across his thighs.
“Why are you upset?”
Charles plopped into an open chair by the table, plopping his boots down on the end of the table. “It’s nothing. It’s that guy. Julius Castor. He’s some greenie do-gooder trying to start a class war.”
Charles reached into his pocket and pulled out a smoking pipe. He packed the bowl with tobacco before lighting it. He inhaled, blowing a ring of smoke. He scooped up a newspaper and began reading. “‘Named after Isaiah Laevis, the renowned diplomat who managed to broker negotiations between the warring politicians and the religious leaders of their prospective anti-establishment rebellions, the Laevis Creed outlined the terms of cohabitation between the new state governments, the religious elites, and their citizens after the blackout. The former politicians agreed to cease any and all combat, govern their reassigned lands without territorial skirmishes, destroy exceptional technology, seal away access to the unspeakable sciences, and to share some of their treasures and lands with the elites and their families. In exchange, the religious elites conceded to disband their populist movements, encourage their followers to lay down their arms, terminate their old faith ideals, and merge into one singular religion for the betterment and safety of mankind: the roots. This agreement has kept peace on our lands for several centuries.’” Charles cleared his throat. “‘Julius Castor threatens to eradicate centuries of tradition and structure for his fantastical vision of an egalitarian society where no one works but everyone eats.’”
Charles tossed the newspaper by the radio. “The whitelands politicians are in a frenzy. That’s why my dad left in such a hurry. He went to a private assembly in Kairus. All the mayors are meeting up to strategize ways to be prepared for riots and foreign invasion.”
“That sounds complicated.”
Charles let out an exacerbated sigh. “It’s the whitelands, Sam. Things don’t change here. Not without a fight.”
Charles bit down on the pipe, freeing his hands. “Here. Hand me that bowtie. I’ll show you how to do it.”
The ground covering the town square was void of snow, replaced instead by patches of rough grass and stiff dirt. Streamers and banners hung from the various shops, one of which had written in large script “Whitelands Strong.” White and gray balloons were tied to every post, the two colors that composed the whitelands flag. Citizens meandered down the shops and wooden booths, laughing as they conversed with their families and friends. Large lines formed around the spots where games were being played.
One of the most popular stations, located directly outside of the blacksmith’s shop, appeared to be some sort of wood-chopping competition. Piles of pine trunks were lined up in a single row, an axe reclining on each trunk. Samuel listened to the burly blacksmith’s directions on the rules of the game. Each round was limited to a group of six competitors. Once cued, the participants would pick up an axe and start chopping. The first person to split his or her trunk down the middle into two separate pieces would win the round and would later get a chance to compete in a final contest to see who was the strongest axe wielder in Haid. There were several women competing in the game, and by the looks of their biceps, Samuel had no doubt they would beat him in a test of strength.