Chapter 12 - Lystra

Lystra sat upon the golden chair. She had an enormous headpiece with dangling crystals, embroidered cloth, and shiny gold sequins. A fur robe covered every inch of her below the neck, leaving only her hands exposed. Every finger had rings. No O tank adorned her.

The haulfolk at each corner stopped when she raised her hand. They lowered the sedan practically in front of where Brewer sat. Lystra’s head turned to the seated audience.

Her gaze settled on Brewer for a moment. Brewer froze, not able to draw breath. The gaze moved on, passing over the rest of the seats.

She stood and turned to face the masses. Only the wind stirred while she took a couple of steps toward the front. The chair was picked up and taken to the right.

She stood there, silent, head erect, arms across her stomach, holding the furs closed. Two women in fur-trimmed dresses with a neckline that went to their bellies approached her and took the headdress off. Long, wavy black hair spilled out. Time stretched in the quiet. Brewer couldn’t look away. She halfway turned back to the bleachers, then looked over her shoulder at the seated folks and winked. Brewer could swear she was looking at him.

With a sly smile on her face, she faced forward and dropped the furs.

The crowd went wild. The people in the stands oohed and aahed. Brewer gasped.

Lystra wore a gauzy, sheer, backless dress. She slowly twirled around, cloth billowing. The front came up to her neck in false modesty. Strategically placed jewelry covered the important parts. A multitude of chains draped down around her neck. Brewer didn’t understand why she wasn’t freezing.

A silly grin was on her face. She scanned the people sitting in the bleachers. All around Brewer, everyone was clapping really loudly, rapidly, with great vigor.

Completing the turn, she raised her arms straight up, and she traipsed to the edge of the platform. The crowd there catcalled and whistled, waving their hands while they yelled.

Lystra held her hands up in front of her, palms out over the throng. They only got louder.

She bent forward at the waist and made a big show of putting a finger to her lips. A man approached her from the left and handed her a black cylinder with a bulbous end. Bringing it to her mouth, she said, “Shhh!”

The command came out over the speakers. The volume of the crowd went down.

She straightened and spoke into the microphone. “Now, now, it’s time to quiet down.” Her voice sounded low and smoky. The roar faded.

“How is everyone tonight?”

Cheers erupted again. She waited for it to die down again.

“We love you, Lystra!” a lone voice cried out.

“And I love you, too! I love all of you. Thanks to you, we are accomplishing our mission. Our holy mission.”

A cheer went up.

“You know how well we’re doing. You’ve experienced it, enjoyed the fruits of your work. You can see it around you. Nothing can stop you, the ordinary, hard-working people that makes it all possible for those who live in comfort, for those who keep you in need. Tomorrow, we leave to go to the next place that calls for us.” She paced along the front, the fabric fluttering in the breeze and exposing her bare legs.

Another glance at the back. Brewer suppressed a shudder.

“But that’s not why I gathered you here. I didn’t bring you to listen to me tell you how great you are. You know how great you are. No, I brought you here so you could witness justice, justice denied to you because their privilege.”

The crowd yelled and cheered.

The sun was gone from the sky. Colors deepened, and the first stars peeked out from the curtain of night. Brewer wondered how things would proceed in the dark.

The front of the stage flickered to life. Bright, cold light hit Lystra. Brewer could see her form clearly through the material of her dress.

She stood right of center, by the posts. One hand had the microphone on her hip while the other was held out to the left. Her fingers motioned for something to be brought to her.

Brewer looked to the left. In the shadows was a figure with something on their shoulders. The crowd of haulfolk and captains parted to let them through. An eight-sided board held the man’s outstretched arms underneath it. The board looked like a table top with a hole for his head in the middle. It was smooth on top and the border had a dentil motif. Two different women, dressed in very short tight pants, tall boots, and billowy white shirts, held chains attached to the sides. They walked ahead of the man, pulling on the chains.

The prisoner’s bare feet rang against the boards of the stage. The shiny pants on him were ripped in places, and his iridescent shirt was missing patches and had red stains on it.

Brewer’s blood grew cold. He swallowed hard.

Geoff stopped halfway to Lystra. The chains grew taut. He tried to lean backward. The man who had been Captain to Brewer came up behind him and shoved the large collar piece. Geoff took several booming steps but managed to stay upright. The crowd laughed at this.

The two women pulled hard on the chains, and Geoff came to where they stood, by the posts. A couple of haulfolk came from behind, lifted the board, and placed it on the verticals. Geoff stood on the tips of his feet. The women with the chains moved away to the length allowed.

Lystra stood a little off, watching the procession, both hands on her hips. A few arm lengths away, she pointed at Geoff. “Behold, the true ravager of Gaia, oppressor of the good, honest people everywhere, across all of Gaia.”

Hatred filled the air. The crowd stomped their feet and yelled obscenities. Fists rose into the air and were shaken. Even the people in the stands did the same. Brewer tried to hide behind Ken. Lystra held up an hand. The crowd quieted.

“What should we do with him?” The masses surged toward the stage. Inchoate yells of rage assaulted Brewer’s ears. Brewer’s heart raced. He panted.

The hand went up again. The noise diminished. Grumbles could still be heard. Lystra moved close to Geoff. She let the hand with the microphone dangle. “Any last words, traitor?”

Geoff spit blood. It landed on the octagon. “That’s really funny, coming from you, considering where you came from. Do your lusting fans know that?”

Lystra’s free hand waved his words off. “Of course they do. I don’t hide it. They follow me because I am honest with them. I tell it like it is.”

“Really? I don’t know. I thought it might have something to do with the way you dress. Tell me, did your daddy not love you enough?”

Her face contorted with rage. She brought the microphone up and snarled. “The betrayer of mankind stands before you. Raper of Gaia through the ages. A descendant of those that could have fixed things but didn’t because there was not enough profit in it. And now, they keep you enslaved, working for them for all time.”

Rage was a thick fog, all around. The hot thunder of the voices beat against Brewer. He suffocated under the weight. He couldn’t look away.

“You don’t frighten me.” Geoff’s voice cut through the din. He glinted in the light. A smile grew on his lips.

Lystra smiled back. Her eyes shone. Brewer’s blood turned to ice from the spectacle.

She waved at the Captain. He joined her. Whatever they said was lost to the cacophony. The Captain nodded and drew his pistol. Lystra took a couple of steps back.

The Captain turned to face Geoff. The gun was aimed low. With practiced ease, the Captain pressed the button on the handle. Geoff’s legs just above the knee charred, became ash and dropped to two piles.

Instant silence reigned. Geoff’s eyes went wide as saucers. He opened his mouth wide.

The screaming started. The crowd went wild. Brewer clutched his stomach with one hand and put his other over his mouth. Even with all the noise, he could still hear the screaming.

Geoff danced, twitching and writhing, held up by his neck. There was no blood, just the smell Brewer recognized from before. He couldn’t even blink.

Slowly, the intensity of the screaming wavered. The voice grew hoarse and ragged. The crowd’s enthusiasm drew down. Geoff’s eyes darted about, and his head shook. In the relative quiet, Brewer could hear him simpering. “Please, please...”

Lystra took a couple of steps toward him, a hand on a pendant that hung between her breasts. The microphone was by her mouth.

“Poor, poor privileged man. I will give you something that you would never give to others. I give you release.”

She lifted the pendant. A loud snick reached Brewer’s ears. The body stopped moving and hung limply from the arms.

Lystra turned to the crowd in front of the stage and bowed. Just then, one of the posts, charred and weakened by the Captain’s weapon, collapsed. Brewer started at the sound of the octagon hitting the floor. The head rolled almost to the stands.

Cries for Lystra started. A whole contingent chanted her name. She stood in front of them, arms raised in a V to accept their adulation.

Brewer could not envision a worse evening. Not just the cold made him shiver. The crowd before them started to disperse. Lystra sauntered toward the still seated folks. She ended up almost directly in front of Brewer, blowing kisses to the stands. The people stood up and clapped hard for her. Brewer followed suit, not quite clapping as hard as the others.

“Thank you so much for the privilege of being close to your presence!” Ken spoke up from next to Brewer.

Lystra squinted an eye and raised the eyebrow over the other. She inspected Ken. “Who are you?” The Captain came over and stood next to her.

“An adoring fan. I’m Ken, the brewmaster.”

Lystra’s head turned to Brewer. She was drenched in sweat despite the cold, the gauzy cloth now see-through and plastered to the curves of her body. “You’re new. Who are you?”

Brewer swallowed. “I’m Brewer.”

“Are you the one responsible for the better beer?”

Brewer mutely nodded.

The tip of Lystra’s tongue parted her lips, moistening the corner of her mouth. She licked her upper lip. Her eyes raked over him.

“The brewery belongs to you now. You’re in charge.”

* * *

Brewer tore through the papers on the desk. His bowtie hung unknotted from his neck, the jacket with tails tossed on a chair. Father Everett watched him just outside the circle of light. Calming tones came from the priest.

“You’re going to do fine. It’s going to be alright.”

Brewer planted his hands on the desktop and leaned toward the Father. “You don’t understand, Father. She is terrible! She killed someone in front of us and enjoyed it.” He returned to rifling through the mound of paperwork, glancing at one after the other.

“Do you know what they did to him?”

Brewer forced himself to stop and straighten. A deep breath and then another.

“They had people there, waiting for him just off the stage. They took him to the prison.” Brewer shuddered. “I tried to get Ken back. Said I needed him. They just laughed at me. They told me if Lystra sends you to the prison, you’re not coming back.”

“Oh no.”

“I can’t go back there. I can’t.” He bent down and pulled a drawer open. His fingers walked through the papers there.

“Just calm down and let me help. What are you looking for?”

“His ledger. One of the other people that sat by us said that it had irregularities. Probably the real reason he got hauled off.”

“Do you know what it looks like?”

“Not really. It might have been packed away. Everything else is.” All around the large tent were crates and bins, some stacked two or three high.

“How can he have so much crap?” said Brewer.

“Well, probably through the irregularities you mentioned.”

Brewer nodded and continued searching. The sound of rustling papers filled the night.

“I think I found it.” Father Everett stood by a small circular table near the back, holding a leather bound book.

“Oh thank Gaia.”

Brewer bound to him. Everett had it open and was reading it. His finger followed something on the page.

“Did you find something already?” Brewer craned over the edge of the upside down book.

Father Everett closed the book. “This is going to take a while to sort through. How about you worry about making the best beer possible and I’ll take care of this?” He gave Brewer a smile.

“Can you? It’s a lot to ask.”

“We’re moving tomorrow. There won’t be much for me to do until we set up again. Unlike you. You’re going to be very busy managing everything. It’s a good thing you can talk to the haulfolk. That’s handy.”

Brewer’s jaw fell open. “I don’t know anything about moving a brewery. Or distilling. I just helped Ken. Oh dear Gaia, I really need Ken, or I’ll end up in the camp again.” Brewer put fists to his temples.

Father Everett slowly shook his head. He put an hand on Brewer’s shoulder. “My son, trust the people who have done it before. Trust the haulfolk. Trust yourself. People follow you. It’s going to be okay.”

Brewer put his hands down. “You’re right. You have to be right.”

“Good.” The hand was removed. “I am going now. You still have some packing to finish. I suggest you get it done fast. It’s been a long, stressful day, and tomorrow is going to be another long, stressful day. Possibly the first in a long series of stressful days for a while, depending where we go. Good night, Brewer. May your footprint decrease.”

“Thank you. May the O2 flow.”

With that, Father Everett turned and walked out through the tent flap and into the night with the ledger in hand.

Brewer looked around. There were crates in the shadows, lurking reminders of what he had inherited.

The encroaching chill worked on the sweat he had. He looked for his jacket and got it back on. Loosening the top button of his shirt, he got to work.

* * *

Sunrise found Brewer up and making the rounds. Fear makes for a restless bedfellow. There was no end of details to take care of. He flitted from crew to crew, between all the tents as they were struck. Promotions were made, jobs were reassigned and though there were grumbles, everyone did their tasks. The big equipment got loaded onto carts pulled by creatures that Brewer thought were some kind of cow. Later, he learned they were called oxen.

Most of the rest was carried by the haulfolk in large packs on their backs.

The leftovers were divided up among the rest of the people. It went into their knapsacks. Brewer carried a pack full of the yeast mothers. He told people that he wanted to take care of them himself since they hadn’t been dried and ready to transport.

The baggage train had already started when the brewery joined. The soldiers had left first thing in the morning. A small contingent under the command of a different Captain stayed with the wagons, presumably to guard them. A scowl graced his face as he surveyed the ants scurrying around him.

“Let’s go, you lazy pieces of garbage!” he yelled at no one in particular. A small, four-wheeled vehicle with a man sitting on it roared away toward the distant force.

Brewer hoisted his load and looked back at his group. A large number of eyes were trained on him. Inflating his chest, he raised his hand and turned around. “Let’s go!” He dropped his arm and started walking.

Behind him came the sounds of clopping hooves, creaking wood and clanging metal. Brief doubt assailed him about him leading them to who knew where on the eve of winter. Best not to think about it. Images of what he witnessed rose in his mind, reminders of the price of failure.

Instead, he focused on the excitement he felt as the column went west. How far west and closer to the mountain remained to be seen. He strained to catch a glimpse of the distant peaks. There was nothing to be seen today; it was too hazy.

He settled in to walk.

As the morning wore on, the pack’s straps dug in. The coat he wore no longer seemed to cushion them. His coat was open, to let the cooling air in. His attention drifted to Sara and he wondered what she was doing.

“Brewer--or do you prefer Master Brewer?” Father Everett had come up next to him without him realizing.

“You will never, ever call me that again. Master. Huh. What are you doing here? You should be driving the wagon.” Brewer huffed under the load and pace.

“Nonsense. The other driver is perfectly capable. I think she’s better at it than me. No, I know Reba is better at it than me.”

Brewer nodded. She and five other females were one of the last minute details he had to take care of. He didn’t want them performing their old duties any longer, so he needed to come up with something brewery related so they wouldn’t be taken away. They were very happy to hear that, though one of them, Reba in fact, had said she wouldn’t have minded him in particular so much.

Brewer took pains to announce their promotion in front of the assembled workers. A couple of men started to object, but the head of the haulfolk, Adam, nodded approval which silenced any further complaints.

“What brings you to the front of our little band, Father?”

“I’ve been going through the entries. Ken owed a lot of people. He owed them a lot.”

Brewer nodded, saving his breath.

“There’s something else too. I haven’t found what happened, but a lot of resources were being moved around and gone missing.” Father Everett looked around and leaned in. “We’re... you’re going to have to be very careful. Something stinks like unrecycled garbage.”

Brewer pressed his lips together. A cloud must have moved across the sun. Father Everett straightened and walked next to him.

“You know,” said the Father,”you could put that pack in the wagon and ride with us.”

Brewer grimaced. “I know. I have to show we all share the same burden.”

“Uh-huh. Well, when you get some sense in you, come back.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

Father clapped him on the shoulder and stopped moving. The hikers flowed past him. Brewer glanced over his shoulder to see him wrestle himself onto the moving wagon.

Reba saw Brewer looking in their direction. She raised her hand in greeting. He waved back before turning back, shifting his pack, and hurrying to get back up front.

* * *

The first day ended with them setting up camp within sight of the main body. The army proper had their camp halfway at the western horizon. The Captain in charge of their migration halted them when the tents came into view.

There was a group behind them, toward the eastern horizon. They halted when supply train stopped. Brewer wondered who they were.

While they worked to get their dinner going and tents pitched, a detail approached them.

“Lystra wants a barrel of beer to be sent up with the food.”

Brewer looked around. Small fires were started here and there. People gathered around them in the dusk. The other guild’s representatives approached, trading goods for necessities and comforts. He realized that he had a commodity in high demand.

“Of course, sir. Everett, would you be so kind as to take a barrel of Delicious Mistake #13 to the army camp?”

“Right away.”

Everett rounded up some haulfolk. Soon, they traced the path the quartermasters used, back to the soldiers’ camp, their shapes lost to the descending night.

Sitting at the fire, Brewer greeted the heads of the other groups. He filled their mugs and helped cook the food they brought.

They ate and told stories of the Before Times when things were different and the world moved too fast.