By Jim Tindall
During a gray dawn drive into town, Ike Moseseek scans the first of the amber orbed streetlights on the Plateau. He thinks of the stories of the world of many suns, of a sky of such yellow disks, of so many sources of warmth, of light. He wonders on the chemistry of these man-made lights. ‘What gas creates such a glow? Maybe it is just the glass?’
He drives through the farms and into Uptown, slowly descending to the mill. Ike does many things for Lyon Chapman Bat and Casket Company. His duty today is his gift, his most cherished work along the Big River. Of the finest caskets the company constructs, Ike is the artist who carves the lids. His favorite designs include birds in flight, but salmon and grizzly and cougar are also totems close to his heart. Today he is chiseling the finishing touches on three ravens in flight above a Ponderosa pine bough. Ike breathes in, smelling the sarsaparilla in his mind’s nose.
Ike has been pondering the flu and the havoc it has created in Warhaven. He knows a lot about herbal medicine and healing mineral waters. He is not a fan of vaccinations, believing their delivery to infants and children in such a quick schedule harms their immune systems, a curious paradox, and leaves the child a little empty. He thinks the pharmaceutical industry initiatives are somehow at the core of obesity, autism, and general lack of imagination and initiative. He acknowledges this is, in part, superstition fed by his contempt for big business’ heartlessness.
The Quaish, as part of their curative culture, use cyanobacteria, the black earth mat of the desert. This harvested blue-green algae has been used by his people since time immemorial. He now dwells on its possible effectiveness upon the flu. Yet when he broaches this topic with his colleagues, he senses immediately the glazing of the eyes, eyes that say, “Quack!”
Experience tells him he will face the scowl of skepticism from the medical profession, the condescension of medical school graduates who turn their backs on massage and chiropractic, who see traditional medicines as primitive shamanism. He knew all too well the glazed look of Doctor Know-it-all.
Ike would do some reading on the library’s Internet medical databases after work to give his wandering mind some direction in which to wonder more.
He mused, “We all want wellness for ourselves, health for family and society.”
At the mill, absenteeism was nearly as bad as at the elementary school. After studying his current carving in his shop, we walked over to the sawmill and supervised the green chain monitor for the shift. If you had a child in school, there was a very strong chance you’d get the flu. The work demanded concentration so there was no daydreaming. Everyone at Lyon Chapman Bat and Casket Company took quality control as one of those variables that was nonnegotiable.
Ike remembered the time one of the employees was speaking with Gus Chapman about some mechanical repair as, “Good enough for the time being.” Gus fired him on the spot. Henry, Gus’s son and LCBCC successor, towed the same hard line. This past spring at the annual employees’ banquet and dance, Hen Chapman has said in his opening remarks, “We are the best and we will remain the best because of you hard working individuals. There are mills closing left and right, and assets being sold to the highest bidder. It’s my hope — and plan — my grandchildren and your grandchildren will be at these same tables 50 years down the road. My crystal ball shows we all have job security. But — of course if you might decide to slack or settle for mediocrity — well, that’s another matter.”
Ike drove home that evening mulling over his carving, hoping he could return to it tomorrow. After some research at the library on its health databases, Ike concluded the subject of algae as an aid in the fight against flu was harebrained. He thought of the ravens, their flight, their intelligence. As with anything in nature, blue-green algae came with risks. At best it would be judged as a folk remedy. This was politics he faced; to be cast as a nutcase would deafen people to anything he would ever say again.
He was passing from the Plateau into the Craggies when the thought came to him, “Honor. Can a person hold strict honor when among others, or is every interaction a sacrifice of principles and ethics?”
“What was it,” he asked aloud, “’To thine own self…?’”
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