Plant the seed

Quite before the Storm

      The soil was dark and heavy with the smell of rain. Mara pressed her hands into it as though it might give her strength, the cool mud sinking under her nails. Rows of beans climbed makeshift poles behind her, the stalks trembling in the afternoon wind. She glanced up to see her children chasing each other through the tall grass at the edge of the field, their laughter rolling across the earth like birdsong.
       Life on the commune was supposed to be simple. Hard work, yes—but honest work. Trade your eggs for your neighbor's milk, lend your hammer when their roof leaked, keep the fire burning for whoever knocked on your door. It was the life Mara had fought for after leaving the city years ago.
     Yet simplicity was never pure anymore. Not since Cross had been elected.
The radio hummed from the porch of the main hall, its battered speaker sputtering with the day's broadcast. A warm baritone, steady as a father's lullaby, threaded across the fields.
"One Voice. One Nation. Loyalty is Freedom."
       The words floated over the crops, over the houses, over the children playing tag. Some of the farmers echoed it quietly, almost without noticing. A woman stacking baskets near the well murmured it like a prayer. Mara watched her lips move, her brow smoothed into contentment, and felt a cold prickle at the back of her neck.
       They didn't even know they were repeating it.
Her daughter, Naomi, ran to her side, cheeks flushed and hair tangled with grass. "Mama, can we go to the river? Jonah says there's minnows!"
Mara brushed mud from her palms and crouched low. "Later. Stay close today." She forced a smile, though her stomach tightened. She'd heard a rumor just that morning—something about new soldiers stationed at the city base, and a sweep through the outlying farms. Nobody wanted to say the word raids yet. But everyone knew.
        From the hall porch, Old Grant raised the volume on the radio. Cross himself was speaking now.
"My people, my beloved people, you are the strength of this nation. While others envy our prosperity, you work, you sacrifice, you endure. Together, we will rise higher than the world has ever known. And to do this, we must stay united. No whispers. No traitors. Only one voice—your voice, my voice, our voice."
The crowd near the well applauded. Some even cheered.
      Mara stood slowly, wiping her hands against her apron. She tried to school her expression into neutrality, but she could feel the disgust on her face. His cadence, the way he lingered on "my beloved people," how he wrapped his greed in affection—it was the same tone her uncle used when he told her she was his favorite while hiding his cruelty behind a smile.
Cross was no different. He wanted them to believe his love was safety.
        "Mara," said her neighbor, Clara, sidling close with a basket on her hip. "Doesn't he sound strong? Like someone finally knows what we need?"
    Mara looked at her. Clara's eyes were hopeful, almost childlike, as though she were waiting to be told what to believe. Mara swallowed her first response—he sounds like poison wrapped in honey—and instead muttered, "Strong, maybe. But strong doesn't mean good."
      Clara's smile faltered. She adjusted her basket and walked away without replying. Mara exhaled slowly, already regretting the words. She could feel the invisible ears of the commune, the way everyone listened for slips of disloyalty now.
Naomi tugged at her hand. "Mama? Why are they clapping? He didn't say anything funny."
Mara squeezed her daughter's fingers. "Because sometimes people clap when they're afraid not to."
     The child frowned, uncomprehending, but nodded anyway. Mara watched her children run back into the grass, their laughter mingling with the radio's voice, and felt a chill crawl up her spine.
The slogans were seeping in. The city was only a few miles away. And no matter how much she pressed her hands into the dirt, no matter how deeply she rooted herself here, the storm was already on its way.