PAWLING — from “The Last Drop” a novella
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Triadic Philosophy will defeat the corporate oil-military-complex juggernaut. Triadic Philosophy appeals to our innate sense of what works, that is to say, of the aesthetic and ethical foundations of human evolution. Triadic Philosophy will accept life as a puzzle, not as something we can bang into shape.
From The Notebook.
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Pawling was a long stretch from Alford, halfway to Manhattan. Manhattan was a four day trip from Bennington. Dusty was tired. She felt weak. She prayed that she was not sick. She remembered Pawling as the time she felt magic in her life. Preparing for Frederick.
Pawling had not all been wonderful. She had had a vicious breakup with someone. She was assaulted by other faculty members for holding to the letter of the law when a sensitive plagiarism case emerged. But, all told, her time at the school set her on her own way. No longer would she be the child of great wealth and stellar connections. She would just be Dusty, accepted as who she was, as who she had decided be. She remembered being deathly ill at the school. It was an evening in early spring. Instead of going to bed she got herself soaked in a storm, walking down hill to the railroad station. Shivering and wet, she defied the very illness that was ravaging her. And she felt the sickness leave. Later in her rooms all was well. It made an indelible impression, She could not avoid death. But she could ward it off. There was more power in her than met the eye.
Pawling normality had been magic. No phoniness. No honoring the dishonorable. Pawling was good. Bennington had opened her eyes a bit. The Berkshire Eagle made a writer of her. But Pawling was it. She breathed easier. She saw herself better.
Clovis was her best friend there. Clovis was gay and looking to marry someone. It was perfect. They wandered the woods in back of the school all the way to the old governor’s house. They talked about everything and nothing. It was like being kids. Or so she imagined. Clovis went on to the New York Times. He died during Hurricane Walter shortly before the Times itself died.
Pawling’s school minister was killed in a head on collision on Route 22 south of Wingdale. Dusty concluded there was no percentage in being of the cloth. In fact, maybe the best way of life was to avoid doing any harm. That was obvious. But the key might be dismantling a world built around lethal instruments made of metal, run by oil, dominating design.
Pawling was crucial for Dusty. The first movements to shake the foundations of the oil economy were starting. Dusty was telling her students about Herodotus’ fascination with war, women and the Pythian prophetess at Delphi. Then Frederick came to speak. He shook her to her foundation. Leadbelly said bottle up and go. And go she did, on the wings of a romance that lasted until a week ago.
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Dusty was dead tired from her all-night walk. She caught a break south of Amenia. A sledge on wheels. The contraption was powered by two young men pedaling for all they were worth. When they offered her a ride, she cast “It” aside and practically fell into the empty seat in front. The young men were headed for Pawling.
Their vehicle easily handled the long rise on Route 22. From the top, they coasted past Wingdale and eased into the to the school soon after.
“So what is The School now?” Dusty called over her shoulder.
“Still a school,” came the reply. “But now it’s free. And we’re organizing.”
“Organizing what?” Dusty said.
“How to live all over again.”
Dusty nodded.
¶
Dusty and Frederick lived together in Des Moines before the collapse. It was then a city of three million and growing, filled with climate change refugees from the coasts.
Des Moines was the future. People lived in communal structures. They worked where they lived. Schools sprang up around interests. Streets were playgrounds and places to sit. Incomes declined but that was alright. Before there were houses, cars and debt Now people were waking up. Local businesses thrived. Town meetings. Constitutions. Everything was new and exciting.
Frederick was ecstatic. He and Dusty roamed the country, always in demand, sharing ideas for a great transition away from binary thinking to a triadic mode. Solutions came with time. Compromise and community came first.
There was resistance among keepers of tradition. But for a magic few years, things tilted toward hope.
Frederick and Dusty were no better prepared for the end than those who followed the optimistic notions they sought to spread. The very end they used to threaten others became a club that knocked them senseless.
There was nothing that did not require oil. Now it was going. Going. Gone. AWOL. Unavailable. Zilch. Nada.
Polity became anarchy and the Couple of the Age moved to a cabin north of Bennington with Morris the dog.
¶
Memories of Frederick back then surfaced as Dusty coasted along. Behind her were two robust fellows whose names she did not know. They were the first signs of optimism she had seen since Frederick gave up hope.
¶
The School was almost unchanged. Three stories high — the top floor was lost in a fire long ago. The same drive formed a semicircle down to Route 22. Instead of students, Dusty found people of all ages, all acting as though they had found long-lost friends.
Her escorts were Will and School. They were still a bit bushed from their hard push up the hill. Looking around, Dusty saw no one she knew.
¶
She walked to the old chapel behind the main school building and sat in a back pew. The place was empty. She tried to create a time line in her mind. Birth. New York. Alford. Westover. Bennington. Pittsfield. Pawling. Dusty. Frederick. Williamstown. All over. Des Moines. Bennington.
Alford was the first time since Pawling Dusty said her real name to anyone.
She wondered about her brother Jack. Two years younger. Now? The man in Alford worked for Jack, he said. Had Jack somehow taken over? Little Jack? Boy operator.
¶
Luxury. A bed. Dusty stretched luxuriantly. No sheets but a down cover. She slept dreamlessly and woke up refreshed.
The day before was non-stop meetings. There were more than 100 persons here, mostly young, but a cross-section. All exuded a low-key sense that they were on to something.
All Dusty could think of was Frederick. Why did he kill himself? The world might survive after all. And on the basis of principles he had helped develop.
¶
In the darkness of dawn, Dusty saw the unmistakeable reflection of police car lights on the ceiling. She looked out the window and there it was. An actual vehicle. And getting out on the passenger side? The Man.
She lost no time. She pulled on her jeans and moved rapidly out of the room, down a long corridor and out the north door. She ran into the woods she remembered from long ago. In minutes, she was staring at the old governor’s house, piecing together the intelligence just delivered.
Her family was after her, with what intent she did not know. The last drop had been used up, but in extremis fuel was available, if only to the very few. Part of her suspected that the last leg of her trip was portended by this obvious pursuit.
She could either evade it or not. Either way, she had woken up as Abigail Harkness. And here she was.
¶
They would come for her. Dusty, Abigail, for the first time in years, engaged in a conscious thought process that served her well during the active Frederick years.
The sign was the Man who had shot at her and missed and eventually suggested that he was part of a family operation. His appearance here was indication of … of what?
She let the thought rise and considered that she could tolerate this mystery and at the same time be flexible in relation to it.
She considered he could be meant to help her.
She thought of the wider reality, the actual state of the nation, something she had not considered since the Last Drop became reality.
There might be some out, some way forward. Continuity. She smiled.
She allowed the words truth and beauty to flow through her. She breathed slowly.
The expression that rose up was Openness.
The action that ensued was walking from the woods to the road that went by the governor’s house.
She saw headlights.
In one minute she was seated in the back of the police car, face to face with the Man.
Ω
Stephen C. Rose has written a number of books (Fiction/Non-fiction). You can tweet him here.
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