2004 - Vol. 1, Issue 8

Drought parched the Northeast. As summer went on, first the crops, then the grass, and finally even the trees withered under the scorching heat. Watering made no difference, even before the streams and rivers dwindled to trickles. Blight followed, killing what crops the drought left. The tomatoes were first, followed by the potatoes, the cabbage, and the beets, and worst of all, the corn. By the end of August, not a single cash or food crop survived anywhere –– except in one small valley in Upstate New York.

Looking over the crop–disaster relief forms, Mark Davis noticed it first, because he was already marking the requests on a map, hoping to find some pattern. He found one. The tiny green area seemed to start in the Butternut Valley and radiate outward, diminishing slowly and disappearing completely only a few miles beyond the valley's lip.

Something was different in that valley. But what? Mark had worked for the US Department of Agriculture, Disaster Relief, Northeastern Sector, long enough to know that if anyone could escape something like this, it wouldn't be in that area. Not that he believed in luck, but if he did, he'd say these people didn't have any.

His first request to go study the region was denied. His second was processed only after agonizing months of waiting. Didn't they realize how quickly conditions could change?

Stepping off the plane at Link Field in Binghamton, Mark shivered. He hadn't thought of change -- neither the weather, nor his clothes. Though the weather in Washington had been quite balmy, here in New York it was snowing. Wishing he'd packed a warmer coat, Mark made his way down the set of slippery, archaic metal stairs and across the fifty feet or so of pavement to the terminal door. He was relieved to discover it was heated inside. After all, who knew what to expect in a place where it snowed –– and stuck –– in October?

He didn't have to wait long for the car he'd rented, at least. The woman seemed so glad to see him he wondered if anyone ever rented cars around here.

For most of the distance, he was able to travel on I88. There was so little traffic that he couldn't help wondering what politician had come up with the bright idea of building a four-lane highway out here. He pulled off the interstate at Sidney, where he'd had to make reservations for two nights. He was still fifteen miles from his destination, but this was (wouldn't you know it?) the closest hotel. After checking in, he decided to go see the rest of the area.

In DC the leaves had just started to turn, but here the trees were bare. The hills stretched on –– one after another –– in a bleak, lifeless continuum. No, not lifeless. There was a herd of deer standing in a field. He slowed down to get a better look at them. First one, than another, and finally all of them paused in their eating, looked up, and froze. Then, in one motion, they turned and bounded into the forest that seemed to press in on the edges of every human habitation.

A rusty pickup sped past him without using signals. No horn, either, he noticed. At home, the driver would've been leaning on the horn. He sped up again, only to slow once more for a school zone. Out here?

Then he was at the town that marked the center of the area he had come to see. It wasn't much. A few large, abandoned houses: empty hulks that hinted at a former greatness. Several smaller buildings that Mark would've classified as unfit for human habitation, yet had signs of it: a bicycle on a walkway, a rusty car that nonetheless had license plates.

The business section was so small he drove right past it at first and had to turn around. Again, not much to look at. A hardware store, a grocery, and (why was he surprised?) a video-rental place. He tried the hardware store first. Surely the folks there would keep abreast of the farming news.

They seemed unaware they'd been spared the worst of the drought. The woman in the video store suggested he try the grocery. The man in the grocery suggested he try the library. The librarian sent him to the post office. The postmaster suggested he ask the guy who ran the hardware.

Sighing, Mark sank down on a millstone set in cement in front of the post office. He stared at a Victorian hulk across the street too large to be anything but a hotel. When had a place this size needed a hotel? Maybe in railroad days. Except even that brief bout of good fortune seemed to have given this town a miss; he hadn't seen any railroad tracks.

Well, one thing he'd learned was that the place did have a bar. If there was any talking being done, that was no doubt where he could hear it. Until the bar opened, he'd spend the rest of his day researching at the library.

The bar, like so many of its brethren, was a large room with a pool table in the corner, theoretically well enough lit to allow you to play, but so hazed with smoke that you could barely see the pool table from the door. The noise level was so high he couldn't make out individual conversations, but as he paused in the door, conversation petered out and everyone turned to stare at him. Farmers, Mark suddenly realized, were a lot bigger than USDA execs.

"Howdy," Mark tried.

For a moment, there was absolute silence. Then one of them laughed. After that, everyone did. What was so funny? Mark just grinned and pretended he knew.

"Hi," said the man who'd laughed first. "How's it hangin,' Texas?"

Oh. Maybe they didn't talk like country people in the movies did. "Um, okay, I guess."

"Stud." he jerked his thumb at his chest. "And this here's Tiny," a man who actually was, "Rochester 'n' Dave." Rochester, who must've been pushing ninety, mumbled something without looking up from his beer, and Dave, a huge man in his thirties, leaned around Rochester to wave at Mark.

"Didn't nobody tell you it weren't a formal occasion?" Dave asked. "Prom night's not for months, and anyhow, you're a sight too old, don't you think? Anymore, they got chaperons keeping non-students out."

Mark looked down at his suit and tie. The only ones in the room, to be sure. "Guess I took a wrong turn," he said. "You mean this isn't the Butternut Hilton?"

It seemed to be the right thing to say. At least, it produced another round of laughter. And a drink, on Stud.

Over the course of the evening, he got to talk to several people, though when they learned he was with the USDA, they all had questions. When was the government going to raise crop subsidies? When was the small farmer going to get the support he needed? Could they have their cows back? Did the government realize that this wasn't good sheep territory? Sheep, every last man asserted, tore out so much grass the topsoil just blew away.

He fielded the questions as best he could. Subsidies weren't his department. He'd try to put a word in the right ear about cows and sheep, but there was still a dairy surplus.

His own questions –– why they weren't as drought stricken as the rest of the northeast, what they did that was different –– were just as hard for them to answer as theirs had been for him. They asserted that they weren't better off, couldn't he see that? There'd be a lot more going on "the welfare" this year because of crop failures.

Mark showed them his maps. He showed them his figures. He showed them his charts. The men, except Rochester, who stayed on his stool with his beer mug, gathered around to study them, shaking their heads.

"You must've made a mistake, Texas," Stud said.

"Don't hardly seem right," Dave agreed.

Tiny stared at the charts for a long time before saying, "Don't hardly seem right to me either. Can't think as we do anything anyone else don't do. I mean, it's not like we've got magic or anything."

"You're wrong," mumbled Rochester, finally looking up from his beer. "Texas, you go back to Washington and do your work. Come back in the spring. Last weekend in April. . . . Can't hardly follow crop growth in the winter anyway."

Everyone nodded as if this was the most sage bit of advice ever imparted. "Last weekend in April. . . . Of course."

"Why? What's so special about that?" Mark demanded.

"Come back and see, Texas. But I doubt our rich Uncle Sam is going to take that in any report."

The next two days turned up nothing further, and Mark left for D.C. As soon as he got home, he set in motion his plans to return to the Butternut Valley the last weekend in April.

April in Upstate New York turned out to be almost indistinguishable from October in Upstate New York. To him, at least. But the locals were walking about without coats, calling to each other about how wonderful the weather was these days.

The tiny village that was the center of his circle was unchanged. He swore the same bicycles blocked the same paths.

When he got to the main street, he did see a change. For one thing, he had trouble parking. For another, the street was lined with people. More people than he would have thought lived there.

Since they were obviously waiting for something, he joined the crowd.

They didn't have long to wait. From around the corner of the old hotel came the strains of a penny whistle, the clash of a tambourine, and the tinkle of a hundred bells.

Then they came. Dancers in white. Leaping, twirling, waving white kerchiefs in their hands. On their sleeves fluttered ribbons in a dozen colors; on their shins, the bells that rang with every step, with every jump.

The people of the tiny village applauded. They called out to the dancers by name.

Looking around the crowd, Mark saw a familiar face. "Hey, Tiny. What's up?"

The little man grinned and made his way through the crowd. "Texas! You made it for the Morris Dancers!"

"Morris Dancers?"

Tiny nodded, and watched the men in the street. The dancers were holding sticks now, occasionally smacking them against the sticks others held, making conversation difficult.

"Never seen it before?" Tiny yelled.

"No," Mark said. He'd heard of it, somewhere, though. "Isn't it like something to chase evil spirits away?"

Tiny nodded. "The winter spirits. The bells and sticks chase them away, and bring back Spring."

"Spring would still come, Tiny," Mark said.

"Maybe, Texas." Tiny shrugged. "But you wanted to know our secret." Then he looked up and winked. "Think the government will go for it?"