The Inheritance

                                                                The Inheritance

The harvesting engine lumbered across the field like some antediluvian behemoth, its articulated arms stripping the ripe grain from the stalks and feeding it into hoppers along the sides of its hull. Korin, a towheaded lad of seventeen, sat in the main cab of the engine, monitoring the harvesting process via gauges and indicators arranged in a semicircle around the control seat. This was the first time he had been allowed out on his own.

“Don’t scratch the paint.” His father had said that morning with a smirk; the engine was old, chipped, and weathered. It had been in his family for seven generations, though so many parts had been replaced over the years that it was a Theseian question as to whether it could even be considered the original.

As the engine hummed along the rows of grain, its segmented wheels leaving fresh imprints in the earth, Korin felt the vibrations of the machinery through the two joysticks. He enjoyed feeling the power of the engine, the smell of freshly stripped grain mixed with the ozone sting of the harvester’s electric generator. Through the dust-glazed canopy, he could see his father’s fields stretching out around him.

One day, he thought, these will be my fields to harvest. One day these will be my fields for my sons to harvest.

The thought filled him with pride and anticipation. Fantasies of manhood danced before his eyes, his hands moving as if he was an automaton controlling the engine rather than flesh-and-blood. A house rose before him; Sara stood at the door, cradling a child at her breast; the salmagundi engine stood over all, its bulk stretching serpentine back through the generations.

A metallic grinding interrupted his reverie. The engine lurched to halt as its generator spun down. Cursing, Korin disengaged the drive gears and opened the side hatch of the cab. He crawled over the wheel guard and slid down, his boots making a soft thump on the dirt. He walked around to the back of the chassis. The articulated arms jutted out akimbo from their housings along the side of the grain-processing unit. Korin clambered up the ladder at the back and tried the maintenance hatch. It was a dull gray color, different from the verdigris metal of its surrounding housing, and it had to be opened with some force. As he pushed it open his fingers traced the faint outlines of a form on the surface; a roughly triangular shape surmounted by a longer groove. He climbed into the hatch and peered about. The drive shafts from the primary engine seemed in order, as did the power feeds, fabricated from reclaimed wiring and insulated by thermal wrappings, from the power generator. Sullenly, he extricated himself and walked around to the driver cab.

I’ve failed. Father will make me wait another season before letting me manage the harvest again. The house collapsed before his eyes, Sara melted into smoke, the family engine crumbled into a mass of oxidation and ruin. He climbed into the cab. From behind the driver's seat he pulled the radiograph his father had stowed there. He unfurled the flexisteel antenna and clipped in the handle for the wind-up generator. I’m still a child… the thought gnawed through his stomach as he prepared to wind the dynamo to power the transmitter.

No.

He coiled the antenna, disengaged the hand crank, replaced the radiograph behind the seat, and climbed out of the cab. He returned to the maintenance hatch and clambered back in.

He pored over the power feeds, inspected the drive shafts, checked the heat sinks, the mufflers, the battery housings, the recyclers, and the feeder assembly. Finally, he discovered the breakdown; a piston drive for the starboard arms was slightly bent, having worn its way through its Formaplast rail-guard. He adjusted the piston, pulling the worried rail back into place and securing it with a bit of twisted wire. He returned to the cab and engaged the starter for the engine. A rumble, and clatter of steel on steel, and the engine resumed its plodding across the amber field.

The sun was beginning its westward descent as he piloted the harvester engine onto the worn concrete of the old high road, turning towards home. The road was pockmarked and cracked, and in many places the old concrete had been scavenged for building material. As Korin rolled down the road he passed a large pedestal. It was now no more than a blasted hunk of granite. Three rows of chisel marks were visible along the base of the stone. The pedestal cast a long shadow in the light of the setting sun, stretching out into infinity in tandem with the old, weathered road.

 

                                                         ***

 

The glow-orbs of Valefall were just beginning to ignite their stored luminescence gathered during the day as the harvesting engine rumbled into its alcove in the barn. Korin connected the feeders and activated the gravity assisted pneumatic pumps that siphoned the kernels of grain into the subterranean silos. He was closing and locking the barn door when his father emerged from the house. Arlo was a big man with a salt and pepper beard that matched his silvering hair. He approached his son, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Big man on the farm, back home after a hard day’s work.” His voice boomed against the sheet metal siding of the engine barn. Korin smiled, somewhat sheepishly.

“Hey dad. It went well.”

“Any trouble?” His father asked as they walked towards the small stucco house that adjoined the barn.

“Had a small problem with one of the drive pistons,” Korin’s voice swelled with pride, “but I was able to fix it myself.”

“Well now!” Arlo said, beaming, “looks like you don’t need me anymore!” His laugh rang out into the twilight air. “Let’s get inside. Mother’s got dinner ready. Bet you’re hungry.”

Mirim laid out the dinner as the twins gallivanted across the room, upsetting a tray of wheat rolls onto the floor.

“Boys!” She called as she bent to gather the spilled food. “Sit down, sit down! Dad and Korin are coming in.” Aren and Lyn, the six year old twins, pulled their chairs from the table and sat down, but not without some additional shoving before Miriam's razor-glare quieted them. Korin and his father entered the kitchen. The smell of fresh bread, boiled potatoes and braised poultry filled Korin’s nostrils, his stomach growled as if on queue. Arlo wrapped his arm around his wife’s waist and planted a kiss on her cheek.

“It looks delicious, Miri.” Mirim smiled warmly as they sat down to the meal.

“So tell me about your first day out alone, Korin.” She said as she passed the steaming plate of chicken.

“It was great!” He took a leg, passing the plate to his father. “I harvested almost ten hectares.” He spread the rich honey-butter onto a slice of the warm wheat bread. “I had one small problem, but I was able to fix it myself.” Miriam smiled at him as she spooned potatoes onto Lyn’s plate.

“That’s wonderful, sounds like you’ll be taking over full time soon.” Arlo took of sip of his milk, then said with a smirk,

“He takes after his father; he’s a natural farmer.”

“Dad, when can I go!” Yelled Aren, his elbow sinking into his potatoes as he reached over his plate for another piece of chicken.

“When you’re a bit older, Ary” Mirim replied as she removed his arm from the now thoroughly mashed tubers.

“Did you see the notice today?” Arlo said, in a change of subject.

“Didn’t cross the square today,” Mirim replied, “what was it?” Arlo put his fork down, leaning back in his chair; this was a habit that chagrined Mirim but that was so ingrained in Arlo that she had not been able to curtail it in the eighteen years they had been married.

“It said that Valefall has been selected to host the remembrance ceremony.” Korin and Mirim both looked up from their meal. “The delegation will announce the choosing on ninth day.”

There was a pause, the air seemed to grow imperceptibly thicker.

“It’s been a long time since Valefall has hosted the remembrance.” Mirim said.

“It has been,” Arlo nodded, “Darling, these potatoes are wonderful!” The air seemed clear again. Mirim smiled, reached over and squeezed her husband’s hand.

“Oh thank you, dear. It’s the goat cheese that does it.” Korin pushed his chair back and stood up.

“I’m going to go out. Dinner was good, mom.”

“And just where are you going?” Asked his father, a knowing tone in his voice.

“Sara, isn’t it?” His mother said. Korin felt his ears turning red. He stumbled over his words.

“No... Yes… I mean, yeah.” His father’s uproarious laughter followed him out of the kitchen.

 

                                                                  ***

 

Korin exited the house through the side door, it opened on a narrow alleyway formed by the walls of the adjoining barn. It was nearing mid-autumn; the rumor of a chill hung in the gloaming. Overhead the moons rose, Caius and Selena. According to some stories the moons had once been lovers, locked together as one in the marital embrace until their malignant child, daughter Earth, had forced them forever apart. He crossed the square, passing under the radiance of the glow-orbs that stood sentry around the notice board in the center of the square. He looked up at the board and read the note posted there:

 

VALEFALL WILL PLAY HOST TO 

THE ANNUAL REMEMBRANCE CEREMONY

THE CHOOSING TO BE ANNOUNCED: NINTH DAY OF GIRSTMONT

~memento patres nostros~

He turned from the notice board and walked in the direction of the community pavilion. A few others were out that evening; old man Feris sat on his stoop, a steady stream of pipe smoke curling out from under his whiskers gave him the comical aspect of a some sort of mustachioed drake; Lena quietly plucked away at a lute, fingering out a familiar melody; an air of serenity lay over the whole of the quiet town. Korin crossed over the short greenway and stepped into the pavilion. It was old, its current whitewashed coat was chipping, revealing weathered layers of paint underneath, like a snake shedding its skin. He sat down on the bench that ran the inner perimeter of the pavilion, leaning back in the manner of his father. He took in a breath of the crisp night air. He turned at the sound of footsteps approaching. It was Sara.

“Korin,” her voice sung like crystal in his ears. Her brown hair was pulled back in a short ponytail, her eyes sparkled in the twilight like twin sapphires.

“Sara!” Korin said as he jumped up from the bench. He felt as if every muscle in his body was attempting to rebel against his control and throw him into a clumsy pile on the ground. Sara edged closer to him, her fingers tapping absentmindedly on her skirt.

“So, I heard you’re running the harvest for your family?” Korin felt a swell of pride in his chest, he pushed himself to stand taller.

“I am, yes,” he crossed his arms over his chest, “I ran the engine today -- I fixed it when it broke down too.” They began walking down the path from the pavilion to the lake. “I should be finished with the eastern fields by sixth day next week.” The gravel crunched softly under their feet; a quiet rhythm that punctuated the stillness of the night. The glow-orbs of the lakeside houses reflected off of the still surface of the water. A squirrel ran across their path, a large acorn stowed away in his cheeks. They stopped at a large stump of an ancient oak tree. ‘The old oak’ it was called  by the youth of Valefall. More than once Korin’s father had trenchantly referred to it as the ‘canoodling stump.’ Sara sat down on the edge of the stump, Korin stood for a beat longer before joining her. Without a word, Sara entwined her fingers with his. They sat for a time, not a word passing, silently enjoying each other’s presence. Korin looked up at the twin moons, they seemed almost like the eyes of some far off deity, staring down in an unending guard upon the earth. The fields were cloaked in darkness, the house that rose before his mind’s eye was an island of warmth and light, where he could feel his feet on the firm ground of his accomplishment, where he could lay in the security of Sara’s arms, while in the barn the dew of the morning would collect on the harvesting engine, waiting to be banished with the coming day’s work. Sara leaned her head gently on Korin’s shoulder -- her hair smelled of flowers; he wasn’t sure which kind.

“The choosing is going to be on ninth day.” She said.

“I saw the notice on the board.”

“I wonder who will be chosen.” Sara sat up, looking at Korin, he could just make out the outline of her face, two inches from his own.

“It’s a good thing to remember.” Her voice was just above a whisper. Korin gently stroked her cheek with his hand, he felt an entire lepidopterarium’s worth of butterflies had been set loose in his intestines. “Korin, can you ask me a question?”

“I can, Sara.”

“Then ask me.”

“Can I give you a kiss?”

“Yes, you can.”

 

                                                         ***

 

The sun rose above the rim of the world. The rosy light of dawn stretching out its fingers to caress the long path of the old road. It was cool that morning, Korin could feel the kiss of the misty morning on his cheeks as he drove the harvesting engine out of the barn. Those kisses paled, however, in comparison to the ones he had received from Sara the night before.

As the engine moved along the old road, Korin Opened the window hatches, taking in the morning and all its glory. On the road in front of him a large truck appeared. It was a six-wheeled vehicle, trundling along on segmented and cleated metal, giving a rather bumpy ride to the occupants. As the truck passed the harvesting engine the driver, a man clad in an official’s uniform, nodded to Korin; he returned the gesture. On the side of the truck was emblazoned the insignia of the Greater Commonwealth; a tree encircled by eight stars that represented the eight original poleis that had rose from the Great Conflagration. The truck continued down the old road towards Havenfall; the engine continued towards the plump fields of corn.

The sun had set, the grain had been stored away. Korin entered the house, whistling a tune; his family was seated at the dinner table. Steam rose from the roast, the potatoes were sheened with a glaze of butter, the bread was fresh and warm.

He stopped when he noticed the look on his mother’s face.

“Good day,” he ventured, pulling himself up to the table. “Eleven and a half hectares today.” He spooned a generous portion of the mixed bean salad onto his plate. “The provisioning shouldn’t even be noticeable this season.”

“Korin,” Arlo’s voiced carried an unmistakable undertone of import, “An official was here today. You have been chosen.” Korin set his knife and fork down. Every man, upon his sixteenth year, was eligible for the choosing -- he never thought that he, of the hundreds of names in the census, would be chosen.

His father handed him the summons; it was simple, hand-lettered and without device:

 

   The office of the Protectorate -- to the citizen of the town of Valefall: Korin, son of Arlo, whose lineage is traceable: A Summons.

 

          In this, the 234th year of The Ceremony of Remembrance, you shall represent the lineage; the fathers from before; Ascendant, whose memory shall never be laid to rest.

 

         Korin, citizen of Valefall; who is a man of age; son of Arlo;whose lineage is traceable, has been chosen by the Protectorate to carry out this sacred duty.

 

THAT NONE MAY FORGET

THAT WE MAY NEVER FORGET

~memento patres nostros~

 

Korin folded the letter and held it in front of him j. He sat silent. Arlo placed a hand on his shoulder; a sense of centering seemed to flow from the gesture.

“With the preparations, father, how will I work the fields?”

“You won’t.” His father’s hand slid from his shoulder. “I will work the fields.” Arlo rose from his chair, crossed to the cabinet, took down a bottle of whisky, distilled from the grains of his own fields. He poured two drams, placed one in Korin’s hand. “You are a man, my son. A man has a duty to his family; yes, but he also has a duty to his community.” Arlo nosed his glass, took a sip. “Your lineage is traceable -- from father to son to father to son to father… to son.” Korin took a sip, the whisky burned his tongue, an amalgam of flavors interacted with his taste buds, wood and earth; grain and spice; the aromas of the fields, the sweat of the brow.

“And there will be another season.”    

“Another season of the fields, Korin, another year of the harvest.” Arlo sat back down next to his son.

“This is your duty,” Miriam said to her eldest.

“Uncle Willem was chosen?”

“Yes. The two hundred and seventeenth.” Arlo took another sip; his voice was quieter than its usual bombast. “He was in his twenty-fourth year then. He had to leave the harvest too.”

“That none may forget.” Korin intoned. The other four members of the family answered back in unison: 

“That we may never forget.”

 

                                                         ***

 

The truck sat adjacent to the city hall, the morning dew patterned over its surface like precious stones on a wedding gown. As Korin walked past the truck he noticed that the chassis was aged; rust and older coats of paint peeking through the chipping grey-blue top coat.  He mounted the concrete stairs and entered the Office of Governance. The door was fashioned from sheets of faded plywood, cracked and warped from years of swelling and shrinkage with change of seasons. The office was dank, the whitewashed walls faded to a sickly pistachio. The blistered paint peeling like sunburnt skin. A man in a simple grey uniform sat at a metal desk strewn with papers and forms. He was bent over a notebook, writing with a fountain pen. The nib scratched a rhythm like a cat pawing to be let in. The page was smudged, the heel of the man’s hand was purple with sloughed off ink.

“Korin,” the man said, without looking up. The scritch-scratch of the pen continued.

“Yes?”

“You can sit down.” Korin lowered himself onto a folding metal chair. The chair squeaked as he put his weight on it. “I’ve got my documents if you need them.” He put the teal folder he’d brought from home on the desk.

“Very good.” scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch-dip-scritch.  A beat; the pen was replaced on its stand, the notebook set aside, and the man looked up. “So...” he said, opening the folder and skimming it as he spoke. His voice carried the lilt of a northern accent, rather common among those in service of the Protectorate.  “Your lineage is known, documented, verified...” He closed the folder, retrieved his pen, dipped, made a mark on a form to his left. “Paperwork,” he smirked, “alright! That’s done.” His chair involuntarily whined against the floor as he stood and extended his hand. “ Good morning, Korin.” The man’s palm was damp with moisture as Korin shook it, his hand came away with a mottling of ink. “I'm Sam, liaison officer to oversee the Ceremony of Remembrance.” He gestured to the adjacent room. “Breakfast?”

 

The breakfast consisted of powdered eggs, frozen sausage, a canned biscuit and black coffee. Sam made small talk over the meal. He was in his late twenties or early thirties, Korin couldn’t pinpoint exactly, and his already receding hairline made it harder to tell.

“I think I need to cut back on this stuff!” chuckled Sam as he poured a third cup of coffee. He blew the steam from the black liquid, took a sip. “Little hot still.” He put the mug down and crossed the room to a nondescript foot locker. He unlocked the latch and popped the lid. “Everything you’re going to need--” He lifted out a large binder and placed it on the table in front of Korin, “is in here.” The binder was faded black-to-grey, the edges worn through and worried. Sam took a small cassette player from the locker and placed it next to the binder. “You know the anthem?”

“I do, but I haven’t heard it since the last broadcast.” replied Korin.

“That’s good. You’ll be hearing it a lot.” Sam pressed the play button. Korin opened the binder to the first page and began reading. The music warbled from the tinny speakers of the cassette player and seemed slightly too slow. “Ah, damn.” Sam said as he rapped his knuckles on the table. “They keep saying they’ll get me a fresh tape, this one doesn’t have much life left in it. '' Sam pulled a chair up opposite Korin at the table and seated himself. A change passed over the genial countenance of the officer, an overcast rose upon his high forehead. 

“Your name is Korin.”

 “Yes--” Korin began to answer, confused, but Sam continued in the same stern voice, his words running over Korin’s.

“Your lineage is known. Your name is known. Who is your father?”

“My father is Arlo, of Valefall, he--”

 “Who is your father?” Sam seemed to be speaking to the wall behind Korin.

“My father is Arlo, he is--” Sam cut him off again.

“Korin, whose lineage is known, who is your father? Who is your mother?”

“My father,” Korin said, recognition sinking into his stomach like a hot stone, “My father is the blade the cleaved the land, the fire that consumed the sky; the boot that crushed the throat; the troops that raped the girl; my mother is a lie that birthed death.” As if without hearing Sam continued.

“Name the multitudes.”

“Thirty million consumed in the first days -- an untold multitude before the end.”

“Who was your forebear?” Korin’s throat was dry, the tape still whined out the tinny anthem; the cymbals crashed, the trumpets croaked.

“Frerst, Gunner in the sixth army, Hero of the Battle of New Haven.”

“Who was your forebear?” Sam repeated the words, almost in time with the repeated leitmotif of the anthem.

“The Hero of The Battle of  New Haven.” Korin repeated in turn.

“Who was your forebear?”

“The  Scourge of New Haven.” 

“What do you bear?” Sam’s voice increased in intensity, his hands balled into fists on the cool surface of the table.

“I bear the name.” Korin replied, barely above a whisper. As if on queue the final notes of the anthem rang out. The tape stopped with a metallic click. Sam stood up from the table, he picked up the tape recorder and turned away from Korin.

“Do you understand your duty?” 

“My duty is to atone for the sins of my father.” Korin said, reciting the customary line to Sam’s back.

“Your duty is to lead your people in remembrance...” Sam turned back to Korin, “to lead them in remembering their true nature.”

“But why?”

“What do you mean?” Sam’s voice carried a note of confusion.

“My father, Arlo, has never harmed a man in his life -- I have never harmed a soul.” 

“This is bigger than your father, or you.”

“Why?” Korin said, standing up from the table. “You never experienced any of the conflagration, I never participated in the butchery… I’ve never had your blood on my hands.” 

“Don’t you understand?” Sam said, planting his fist on the table top. “This is our place, you and I.” 

“But I didn’t ask for this.”

“Neither did I.” Sam replied. “Now, let’s continue.”

                                        

   ***

 

It was early, but already people were beginning to line the sidewalks on the thoroughfare, the sun was just peeking over the rooftops of Valefall. Officials of the Protectorate darted back and forth, making final preparations for the ceremony. Along the main street banners had been hung from shopfronts and lamp posts. In front of the government office a dias had been erected of cinder blocks and plywood planks. Large  speakers flanked the carpet-covered platform, cables coiled around like mating snakes before terminating in a large control box underneath.

Arlo leaned against the barrier, Miriam at his side. Aren and Lyn fidgeted and yawned. They had arrived early to ensure a spot near the front, and the boys had grumbled as Miriam had hustled them out of the womb of their blankets and pillows. The crowd was restive, whispers passing from mouth to ear to mouth to ear. Sam mounted the stage and adjusted the bullet microphone. Static crackled through the loudspeakers, a piercing feedback whine momentarily cut across, setting teeth on edge. Sam sheepishly tapped the mic, a muffled knocking repeated in a slight delay. The crowd was thickening now, their breath misting in the cool morn. Arlo craned his head over the crowd.

“It won’t be long now.” Miriam said, she absentmindedly tousled Aren’s hair.

“Not long.” Arlo repeated. A low rumble slowly rose in the distance. An official, a girthy man in an ill-fitting jacket, climbed the podium with a grunt.

“Ascendant,” His voice reverberated off the buildings; the rumbling grew. “Ascendant, look upon your glorious leader!” Around the street corner the faded truck rolled into view. From tinny speakers played Under star and over sea, Land of my Fathers and Mothers. The regalia fluttered feebly from the flagpoles that lined the street, lethargic in the quiet breeze of the morning. The truck’s engine barked in protest as it rounded the street corner. Standing up in the bed of the truck, one gloved hand balanced on the rusted roll bar, stood Korin. The crowd opened as the vehicle rolled to a stop in front of the dais. The last bars of the old anthem faded as Korin, moving rather stiffly in the moth-eaten uniform, clambered down from the bed and onto the platform. Silence settled over the crowd as he approached the podium, the medals upon his breast jingling quietly.

“Ascendant” he spoke, too far from the microphone for his voice to carry. He leaned in closer, the cool metal brushed his lips briefly. “Ascendant!” his voice boomed with a weight he’d never thought it could have. “Look upon what we have wrought! Look upon our fields, look upon our towers, look upon our children!” There was a shift in the crowd, tension building like an over-tuned guitar string. “Look upon the works of your hands, feel the blood that beats in your hearts! Look upon the fire in the air, on the ghost-shadows of widows and orphans!” He involuntarily raised his balled fist over his head. “Look upon the sundering of the moon!” The crowd was murmuring now, expectant. “Look upon me!” His voice cracked. “And know your shame!” The string snapped, the dam burst, the tension was released. With one voice the crowd roared:

“That none may forget! That we may never forget! That none may forget! That we may never forget! That none may forget! That we may never forget! That none may forget! That we may never forget!”

Arlo, Miriam, Lyn, Aren; their faces twisted in rage, their voices raucous with the chant. Korin looked over the milling mob, his eyes met Sara’s. Her fists beat the air, her eyes blazed with hatred, and behind her, over the charred fields, over the innumerable mountains of corpses, obscured by the smoke and flames, rose the engine. Its bloodstained wheels ground bones into the mud, the bullets rained like an angry swarm of hornets from the guns mounted on articulated arms, and emblazoned on its armored hull, shining as if self-illuminated, the gold pyramid surmounted with a sword; the emblem of the Ascendant.