The Sovereign Individuals

Chapter 5: Growler

Growler stood in front of his favorite tree: an ancient Oak with long branches that appeared like huge limbs on a torso. The forest was in full bloom and Growler loved getting deep into it to climb on as many trees as possible. Up, up, he climbed. This tree was his usual spot for thinking things. On top of it he could see part of the forest he called home.

This was a special day for him. For all the community, really. It was the ninth anniversary of the publishing of his manifesto: "Towards a New Community". Like every year since then, there'd  be a celebration. He would say some inspiring words about their community, people would clap and a party would happen.

He was not looking forward to it. He had enough problems now, and he was not in the slightest mood for celebration. He had only been 21 when he published the manifesto, anyways. He wasn't even sure it deserved so much pomp and circumstance. He was ambivalent about its impact. It was mostly good he thought, but he was less sure now. 

He got off the branch and headed towards The Canopy, the center of social life at Mount Wilson.

Mount Wilson.

Yes, that was their name, not Pronghorn or any other of the new names that Fawn wanted to call it.

He walked through the large path that cut through the old growth forest. It was the main artery of the community. It was like the enormous Karl Marx Avenue in Berlin he had seen online when he was a child. Of course, here it was much less monumental but it served a similar purpose: to create order and structure. He had designed the main avenue to be as straight as possible, not cutting down any big trees of course, but making the unnaturalness of the straight line a symbol. It was their mark on the forest. They had reclaimed it; made it their home.

Most people called it the Avenue. It led directly to the Canopy and divided the main areas of Mount Wilson. On the right side, higher into the mountain, were the living quarters. Each member of the community built his or her own cabin. They were all small, but each had its own character. He knew of members, like Anna Oswald or Sean Doherty, who spent most of their time making it beautiful. Anna had recently built a wood-fired hot tub. Her next project was to build a sauna. Sean had made his house a tree house, perched on top of five birch trees. It was a sight to behold. And Growler loved that. It meant people were happy and wanted to live here for a long time. On the left side that sloped towards the river was the working area: gardens with produce, chicken coops, pig pens, an orchard. On the northern side there was a woodworking workshop, a shack for canning and preserving food, and a repurposed barn for experiments. Last he heard, a team was building a micro hydroelectric generator in order to get electricity from the river. It would certainly help as the solar panels were not enough to guarantee constant energy for everyone. But they made it work. Everyone did.

It was 9 am and Growler walked down the Avenue. There was chatter here and there as people started their day. Whenever they saw him, they smiled excitedly, knowing today was the anniversary of the manifesto. Growler smiled back and made small talk with a few acquaintances, but his mind was elsewhere.

He was going to meet with Fawn.

Behind a tall pine tree that bifurcated the Avenue, stood The Canopy: a three-story timber building. It served as the the center of communal life. Every important talk or meeting happened here.

The entire underground building of the Canopy was filled with cellars where preserved food and additional emergency gear, like batteries, tools, and first aid materials were stored. Guns, ammunition and other weapons were also stored here. The first level was mostly used for recreation; it had a big communal kitchen and dining room, and several living rooms. The second floor was where the day-to-day operations of Mount Wilson were run. It was the place were Growler spent most of his days.

He knocked the door of one the offices on the second floor and a burly, thirty-something guy opened. Soro. He was Fawn's right-hand man. He was wearing dark blue cargo pants with a blue shirt. A gun was visible on his waist, which was against the rules of the community. Guns were supposed to be stored in the cellar, unless people wanted to hunt or if they were to be used for protection against outsiders. Growler didn't want to go there, though. Soros was the least of his problems.