Xenophobia

There are many things I know.

Spring, for example, always brings rain. For sixteen years I've watched drops soak the grass from this window; even this chair has stood by the window as long as I can remember.

I know the grass and the chair and the window. My fingers have felt this same whitewashed sill day after day, month after month- until I thought I'd scream if I saw the view from it once more. Now it reassures me for a moment, before I remember that I won't here much longer.

"I'm sorry to tell you folks this, but money doesn't last forever."

Spring-smell rises from the wet ground, and I smile. How could I have not realized the sweetness of that scent? I know so much, but didn't realize the most important things until now. Until it was too late.

On a normal spring day, there'd be boys dashing around outside, getting as wet and muddy as possible. Cousin David would probably be at their head, his boots missing and shirt unbuttoned; poor Aunt Kitty has more trouble with him than Mama got from Luke and Carpenter put together.

Disjointed tapping sounds on the floorboards behind me: my mother demonstrating her uncanny knack for turning up just as you think of her. I turn, saying more out of politeness than inclination, "Hello, Mama."

Without speaking, she makes her way to the window. Her white, drawn face amplifies my own feelings. Anything that can rattle Mama is a force to be reckoned with. Standing, I take her hand and help her to the chair; again, a courtesy, as she's quite capable of doing it without aid. We sit in silence for a while, before she quietly speaks.

"You'll get your wish now, Torie."

I am dirt, no, worse, lower than dirt. I am one of the little white worms that ruin the orchard fruit. I am scum, because this is all my fault. Somehow, some cosmic force heard my silly words and took them to heart.

"Don't you understand? I want to leave and never see this place again!"

"What will happen to us?" The words sound distant, and I realize with a start that they are mine.

She strokes my hand with her thumb, her face turned toward the window, and replies, "I don't know."

The tremor that has been rocking my stomach for three days past begins again. And that's the worst of it, what Mama just said: no-one knows. We all know the stories, the ones we've heard from childhood. The Towns are covered always with smoke, to never see the sun. Nothing grows in them- or, if it does, it is quickly uprooted. Women are nothing there, treated like chattel and used by men. People kill each other for bits of metal and paper.

These are things everyone thinks they know. But really, we know nothing.

"Surely," I say hesitantly, "you must know something about the Towns." It only makes sense. After all, since Grandfather died, Mama is the only one who's left Covington Wood; it's a story I've begged her to tell over and over.

But she shakes her head. "No," she says, adjusting her shawl, "I don't. There was a loud and strange noise, and a man with an odd way of speaking. He mentioned a vehicle, so there must be carriages. That is all I know, Torie, as I've been telling you for years." Her voice has taken on a familiar tone of exasperation, and I know not to press further.

We sit together in silence, watching and hearing the rain as it falls on our world. The world which will not be ours tomorrow.

There are many things I know, but I know nothing.