The World as We Know It (31 page)

She stood there gazing back at me for a moment, speaking not a word. Then she dropped the basket, and toward each other we ran, faster than I had ever run before; faster than I had scrambled for my life from the alligator; faster than my legs had sprinted after Thomas when he had stolen my horse; faster than Nomad had galloped with the herd in the north; faster than my heart had beat when the storm had overtaken us on the Pacific coast; faster than my hands had struck the first wolf in the mountains. We
embraced with a passion of lovers long lost but finally reunited, a passion for which there is no greater metaphor. Our arms had never before held one another so tightly as they did in that most glorious, most redeeming moment of my life.

As we stood there in the road holding each other, rain began to fall. It was a gentle rain, like the one I had awoken to when I was saved in the northwest, the sun still beaming through the falling droplets as if the sky itself were crying with joy. Around our feet, her laundry blew in the wind, and we didn’t let go as the rain drenched us.

“I love you,” she muttered in my ear in the sweetest of voices.

“I love you,” I whispered back.

She cried, and I felt her warm tears mix with the cold rain on my shoulder.

“I waited for you,” she said.

“I knew you would.”

“You really can’t leave me again.”

“I won’t. Ever.”

Love had never felt so real as it did in that moment. We shared then, and still do, a love as strong as I imagine two people in this world can, and having been without it for so long, I truly knew that I could not live if it were permanently taken away. Without love, there was no life. Without love, there was no hope for our future. I knew then that we would be together forever—not just Maria and me, but the human race as a whole. We had suffered together, and through love, we would overcome all of our tribulations
and all of the terrible things people had done in the past to one another and to the world we called home.

I opened my eyes, and through the blur of my own tears, I saw Paul and Sarah standing in front of their old cabin, watching us with blissful smiles. Gradually, the rest of our family and friends began to arrive, and we celebrated our reunion until the sun went down, Maria never releasing her grasp on my hand. I had never slept as peacefully as I did that night with her at long last again in my arms, right where she belonged.

I settled back into life in Eden Valley, still not entirely set on an occupation, but I was OK with that. I’d had enough of postal work, and it was time to move on to something new—preferably something at home that time. Finding where we belong is all part of the journey, and we should not be distraught over an unknown end but celebrate all that we can learn along the way. I had made plenty of mistakes, and I still do. I had taken paths never before traveled, but with the rough terrain came lessons that I never would have learned had I always followed the roads paved by others.

Though I still sometimes inquired, it didn’t matter how the collapse happened. Nobody placed blame. We were all guilty, and recognizing that was the first step toward rebirth. Then we had to forgive ourselves, learn from our mistakes, and continue to learn as we inevitably made more. We had been graced with an opportunity to start over with a contemporary knowledge of what works and
what does not, and though humanity had been given this opportunity many times before, this time we had finally recognized the gift it was. As we rebuilt, we began to reprioritize. The care of people came first. Our construction and manufacturing methods focused on sustainability—a symbiotic relationship with the earth. We began to produce energy from renewable sources, and it wasn’t long after that Eden Valley had electricity, telephone services were functional, and we reconnected as a whole with the outside world. We could have moved back to our old house by then, but it no longer felt like home.

A new economy emerged across the world, dominated by providers of food, construction and fabrication, nutrition and medicine, energy production and distribution, education, and communications. There was no white collar or blue collar and no feud or animosity between classes. Equal respect was paid to every person in every field because all were recognized as equally vital to our prosperity.

More of us learned to play musical instruments, create beautiful art, and speak foreign languages because our schedules afforded us the time to learn and achieve the things we had always aspired to but never could before. The obligations and responsibilities of that old life had been too demanding. But life had been simplified. We exercised our minds learning, reading, writing, telling stories, and enriching ourselves through interaction with people and spiritual exploration, and we celebrated
frequently with festivals and feasts. There was so much to celebrate.

Once our basic necessities were satisfied, it was an easy life to adapt to. The functionality of the system was dependent on the participation of every person, but leisure was as much a part of it as work. There was time for parents to raise their own children and to provide them with the attention necessary for socially functional youth. Likewise, the elderly were provided for in recognition that their contributions had already been made. There was time for us to expand our minds and to think in abstract terms, unconstrained by deadlines and competition. There was time to enjoy and experience all that life on earth had to offer and all the natural beauty of our world—to focus on the things that were truly important.

Maria and I often spent our evenings doing just that, sitting on a nearby bluff and watching the sunset over a sprawling green valley. We would bring a bottle of wine made from our own vineyards and gaze as the colors of the sky changed and faded into the night. On occasion, Paul and Sarah would accompany us.

“The
Farmers’ Almanac
predicts a good year,” said Paul one evening.

“It can’t be any tougher than the last,” replied Maria.

“He means for the crops,” I said.

“I know what he means.”

She took my hand and held it tightly.

“It’s so beautiful out here,” she said. “I didn’t used to think I could live in a place like this.”

“Me neither,” Sarah laughed. “Now look at us. Is this what it means to lose everything?”

“Not everything,” Paul replied, still gazing into the orange glow to the west. I took another sip of wine as the light dimmed, and we were all quiet for a while. Far below, a family of deer grazed in an open field, and above them, a skein of geese sailed northward, calling to one another as they passed us by.

“If we’re going to stay out here, we’ll need more wine,” said Sarah, breaking the silence. “Maria, come with me.”

My wife reluctantly released my hand, and the two of them left Paul and me on the bluff.

“It’s still the same, mostly,” he said after some time.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The world, I mean. The sun still rises and sets. Rain still falls. The trees still grow and abscise with the changing seasons. I like deciduous trees for that. They grow until the winter gets too cold, and then they shed their leaves. They stick around for rough times, dormant but alive and present. Come spring, they begin to grow again, from right where they left off.”

“It’s a rough life,” I replied. “Isn’t it?”

“I think it can be. But they can bear it. And aren’t you glad they do?”

He opened his hand toward the vast forest in the distance that provided us with fresh air, food, and shelter, asking nothing in return.

“I am glad they do. It’s like Heaven up here.”

“Some call it that. Some call it nirvana—paradise even. Others just call it ‘the way the world should be.’”

“How do you think it happened?” I asked.

“It was a long time coming, I think. We knew what was wrong, but sometimes people need a push to make a change. The two most defining characteristics of human nature are in constant conflict: our quest for love and our obsession with power. The question is, which will be allowed to prevail?”

“I like to think we’ve answered that question.”

“It’s answered every day in everything we do. There’s no single moment when one conquers the other, but an endless battle that rages on day after day. We learn something from every trial, and we can only hope those lessons lead us in the right direction.”

“Sometimes I’m ashamed of the things I do,” I said. “The more I consider my life, the more I realize how often I make choices that aren’t representative of who I am. It’s excruciatingly difficult for most of us to live according to our own beliefs—to practice what we preach, so to speak. So we become hypocrites.”

“You’re not alone there, my friend. The important thing is that you recognize your faults and use them to better yourself. Every generation is accused of unflattering things by the one before it. I remember when they called us lazy and apathetic.” Paul laughed. “Civilizations evolve and collapse, for better or for worse. Cultures and styles do the same. We tend to
forget as much as we learn, but human nature doesn’t change.”

“We never knew what we had.”

“That’s the way it goes,” he replied. “Until you have to earn something—
really
earn it—you don’t truly understand its value, even if it was right in front of you the whole time.”

“I heard all sorts of theories while I was away. Mostly, they said the collapse was caused by a lack of faith. Presumably, they meant faith in the economy, the government, faith even in each other. But perhaps it was a lack of faith in something even greater. Sometimes the moments when all seems lost are precisely when the greatest faith is found. It’s these moments that define who we are and where we go once we’ve dug our way through to the other side.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“How ironic that we always associated such a collapse with the end of the world. It turned out to be the beginning.”

Paul smiled, still watching the sun fall behind the hills as the indigo-colored sky crept over our heads.

“It’s time to forget what we’ve left behind and reach forward to what lies ahead.”

A native of St. Louis, Missouri, Curtis Krusie graduated from the University of Missouri with a BS in human environment sciences, with an emphasis in personal financial planning and a minor in architectural studies and environmental design. An avid photographer, music fanatic, and great admirer of architecture, he is also an advocate for green energy and design, as well as natural, holistic health. He and his wife, Bryn, enjoy traveling the world and running full and half marathons together.

A firm believer in the healing and redeeming power of faith, love, and hope, Krusie was inspired to write his debut novel,
The World as We Know It
.