Armageddon's Children - Terry Brooks [99]
He guided Logan to the center table and seated him between two very elderly women who looked at him as if he were something come out of the ether.
He smiled at them, and watched as the Preacher walked around the table and took the chair across from him.
“Give thanks for what we have, Sister Anne,” he said to the old woman on Logan’s right.
The meal was served and Logan got another surprise. The food was fresh, not prepackaged—vegetables and pasta, bread, and some sort of fruit. Tea was poured from pitchers, and he didn’t ask where they had gotten the water. He didn’t ask where any of it came from. It didn’t feel right to do so. He just ate and drank what he was given and answered what questions he could. Most were about what he had seen of the outside world. He kept his descriptions as positive as he could, staying away from demons and once-men, from the destruction that was taking place everywhere, and from his own knowledge that worse times lay ahead. These people didn’t need to hear about it tonight. They had already chosen what to do with the rest of their lives.
“How long have all these people been here?” he asked the Preacher at one point.
“Most have been here for close to twenty years. Some were born and raised here. Some came to be with relatives and friends. They’re the castoffs and leftovers of families splintered and scattered long since. All the young ones left long ago. The bombings chased most away. It was bad; there were a lot of missile silos and command centers in the mountains. They all went. But they took a lot of us who were standing out in the open with them. Then the water and soil turned bad. That was the end for most; everyone pretty much packed it in. We’re the only ones who stayed. Now almost no one comes this way anymore. You are the first in more than a year.”
Logan nodded. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”
The Preacher laughed softly. “Where else would we be? Inside the compounds? Not people like us. We’ve lived all our lives in the open, most of us in small towns like this one. We’re old, all of us. We don’t want to change what we know. We’ve only got a little time left under the best of circumstances, and we want it to feel as comfortable and familiar as possible. Living here gives us that.”
“It’s not so bad,” said the old woman on his left. “We’ve got what we need.”
“No one bothers us here,” said an old man across from her.
“No one,” the old woman agreed.
They finished their dinner, and the Preacher brought them all together in a circle of chairs. An old man with wild white hair and long, supple fingers brought out a guitar, and they began to sing songs they remembered from their childhood. Their faces brightened with the music and the memories it conjured.
Their voices were thin and ragged, but brought life to the songs. Logan didn’t sing; he only listened. There hadn’t been much singing in his childhood and none since he had gone with Michael. Listening now, he realized how much he had missed. Worse, he realized how much he had lost.
Then the Preacher said, “We will do a song now for Brother Logan, one that speaks to the nature of his life and work.” He looked at Logan. “Maybe you will carry something of the words and melody with you when you leave us. Maybe they will soothe you when you are in need of soothing. Maybe they will help you remember that there are those who still have faith in the Knights of the Word.”
He looked over at the guitar player. “Brother Jackson?”
The guitar player nodded and his fingers began to pick out the notes.
Amazing grace, how sweet the sound That saved a wretch like me I once was lost, but now am found Was blind but now I see.
‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear And grace my fears relieved How precious did that grace appear The hour I first