Dark Times. Happy Medicine.

Nearly transparent flesh loosely draped over sinewy tendons, bulging veins and arthritic knuckles deftly saw a small branch laden with the fuzzy-pink blooms of the Mimosa tree Althea rooted from a cutting some twenty years before. Well after she’d gone bonkers. Some called it paranoid.

Flowers blast off in their array of tricks maintaining pollinators’ addiction to their lustful scheme. Bumbles clumsily boop into sex organs, joyfully drunk on the blobs of pollen clinging to their legs.

Dark times call for happy medicine.

A neighbor passing by a window sees a stooped old woman snipping flowers toddling about her garden. Like she does nearly every day.

Watching hummingbirds dive-bomb one another in their territorial dog fights at the feeder through the kitchen sink window, those same skilled hands pick the daisy-like flowers of Chamomile from furry stems. Sugarhill Gang’s “Apache” plays on the radio station’s oldies hour. When she was young, they played Buddy Holly.

Althea wiggles and shakes to the upbeat tunes from a more playful era. The vegetable peeler rips woody bark from a Mimosa branch flinging each strip into the garbage can.

“Good news in the mail today.” A haystack of pale green ribbons gather on the butcher block counter with one more pass of the peeler as she thinks out loud. “I think I’ll have plenty for a pitcher of iced tea later. That will be a better dose. Don’t you think so?”

Thud-thud thud Gunther’s tail responds with uninterested enthusiasm.

Two teapots whistle in harmony. Althea opens the lids and drops in a wire mesh ball loosely packed with Mimosa bark and Chamomile. She carries one pot safely by the handle leaving the other to steep. She tucks a folded piece of paper into her back pocket and heads to the brightly lit downstairs. The daylight basement is nearly a full wall of windows opening onto a tranquil lake view framed with Althea’s carefully crafted food forest.

Sunlight streams warm the floors where more tails are set in motion spurring a dog hair and dander dance in the golden beams. She sets the pot and paper onto a short-legged, chipped, and pocked table surrounded by a thrift store’s bounty of comfortable chairs and a loveseat draped in a mound of blankets.

She lights a cone of sandalwood incense pausing for a moment to appreciate the white and gray smoke ribbons’ upward tumble.

Althea opens the door to a windowless storage room. The distinct smell of sewage hits her nostrils.

Damnit. It shouldn’t be this bad.

“Ca’KAW! Ca’KAW!” The frail woman with too many dogs calls like a crow into the darkness. She flicks on bars of fluorescent lights.

A path between rows and towers of totes leads to a door, into a cold-storage pantry with organized rows of home-canned goods, bags of shelf stable foods and sealed buckets of flour, sugar and salt. She continues through one more door and into the water system closet beyond.

An on-demand hot water heater, water filter and hard water treatment system exist unthought of down here, until something goes wrong.

Althea grabs hold of a 4-inch pvc pipe bisecting the back wall of cinder block foundation and lifts, pulling it up from a base pipe. She’s then able to pull it back down and rests the 8-ft length of white plastic-piping in the corner.

She stoops down to the floor, running her fingers along the base of the wall, takes a breath, and lifts with her legs. As she stands up, a dark opening is revealed behind a faux concrete portion. An opening large enough for a person bent over to get through.

Her head pops into the opening of the hole, “Good news today! Come. Come on out! Have some tea while I tell you all about it.”

Inside the small opening is an equally small room dug into the hillside beyond the bounds of the basement. There is a single bunk bed and space for a 5 gallon bucket for toilet needs. Despite the tight-fitting lid, the stench makes its way outward. Its odorous tendrils snaking beyond the hiding place threaten to reveal skeletons.

Seven sets of eyes blink at her. One middle aged woman and six adolescent boys, none older than 14. “It’s a beautiful day! Come. Bring your bliss and have some relaxation time. Dump your shitter down the toilet on the way.”

Passengers are required to carry a vessel to eat/drink from, a sleeping bag and have appropriate clothing for the season of their journey. The eating vessel is called a bliss, their sleeping bag is called a wrap.

The woman nods, “it’s alright boys. Let’s get some air.”

The woman is an experienced handler Althea has met once before. She doesn’t know the handler’s name. Handlers are the people who endure all the hardships of passengers to guide and calm them. Early on, eager children would call out from a hiding place, or parents too easily coaxed from concealment with false promises of safety and hope for a future.

She doesn’t learn anything about any of her passengers. It’s better that way. Typically, the stay is between one and three nights making anonymity an easier pill to swallow. This group has been stranded in this hole for two weeks, pushing the limits of Althea’s nerves.

“Oh the warmth of the sun! This is the happiest feeling in all of life.” the handler sighs as she takes a comfortable chair at the well-used table.

Althea fills her bliss with the steaming Mimosa and Chamomile tea gesturing to the honey.

The boys emerge in ones and twos. The small one lays spread out in the sunshine on the floor rubbing canine bellies.

Two older boys who appeared to be taking their seniority seriously, placed their bliss on the table eager for news. They remained standing. They've been in those beds for two weeks. These young bodies demand a stretch.

“Well, we know why more groups have been getting apprehended lately. Sip your tea. I picked it this morning. It’s made from the Happy Tree. It will help calm your nerves and lift your mood. Heaven knows we all could use a little of that medicine.

This letter that came today says they've begun deploying heat sensors on toll road, interstate and traffic light cameras. Checks at rural choke points continue.”

The tea-drinkers take a sip processing this latest complication.

“Today, you will do your final day tasks. Take a shower using the no-fragrance soap provided. Change into your all-black clothing. Wash what you have on using no fragrance. Wear the unscented deodorant. You should be understanding the point. Don’t smell like anything. Understood?”

A round of affirmation, grunts and a yes ma'am.

“You may write a letter to your people. I will not see these. Do not tell anyone about who you are with, where you are or give any hints about anything whatsoever. Do not even talk about the weather. You may report about your health and tell your people what you need at the end. Tell them you have left station number 42. Place your completed envelopes in this envelope when you are done. Is this understood?”

Another round of ‘yes’ from the travelers.

“We will leave after dark. You will do exactly as I say without question. You should be used to this by now. Also! Wash the bedding and sanitize your hiding space. You are welcome to enjoy these downstairs areas at your comfort. I’ll be back this afternoon to collect the envelope.”

Back upstairs, Althea pours the other pot of Happy Tree tea into a well-used frosted plastic pitcher. She dumps in an unmeasured glob of honey from an unlabeled mason jar to dissolve in the warmth of the liquid. Then, she fills it with ice from the refrigerator door and closes the red plastic lid securely before placing it on a shelf.

Lunch today will be one of her specialties. Smoked catfish tuna sandwiches. There is no tuna in these, it’s just a name folks recognize. Althea makes the bread, catches and smokes the fish, she even makes her own mayo from her cheerful flock of egg-layers.

Althea loads a tray with sandwiches, the pitcher of tea, and a quart of homemade applesauce. Downstairs she’s pleased the sewage odor is nearly dissipated and three of her guests are dressed all in black. Leaving the tray, she takes the manila envelope with her.

As with all people of a certain age, Althea knows precisely what time her mailman runs. Without looking at any of the letter-sized envelopes, she sets them in the mailbox and flips up the little red flag. 

Only packages are occasionally monitored for illicit activities. Criminals and governments alike had all moved on to exclusively utilizing digital communications and surveillance, leaving postal services and radio frequencies overwhelmingly unmonitored.

After a nap, Althea sets about preparing what could be everyone’s last meal. Her 33rd final supper. Using her largest salad bowl, she assembles a fresh mix of greens, veggies and herbs including mimosa flowers and tops it with sliced hard boiled eggs. A smaller bowl heaped with slightly sweetened berries and two loaves of warm crispy garlic bread are stacked onto the carrying tray.

At the table downstairs, Althea instructs everyone to take a moment of silence, “Pray in your way, if that’s your jam.”

In the darkness with contended stomachs, the collective leaves the cramped security of Althea’s clever cave in their bid to make it undetected to Station 9, their final stop before emerging safely on Canada’s side.

At water’s edge Althea instructs the group to right the overturned canoes, and don a life jacket. The canoes and oars are black, lifejackets, too. Althea takes the front of the lead canoe and they shove off into the shadowiness of the lake.

Following the shoreline, they silently glide past the overgrown hulks of dark and dilapidated once glorious lake houses. Their docks ominously jutting outwards. Boards creak and chains clink whispers in the low wake as the convoy continues.

Two hours of wordless paddling bring them to a muddy ramp cloaked in the shadow of fully leafed out trees. They remove life jackets and overturn the canoes. In a loud whisper, “Do whatever bathrooming you need to do right now. We cannot stop again for at least four hours.” She walks away from the water, thankful for the evening’s moonlight.

The United States refugees emerge into a clearing where Althea waits leaning against a minivan wearing a floral print blouse, her pack of dogs somehow already barking inside. She slides open a door. There are no seats inside. This is a modified handicap van. She pulls out the ramp revealing a trap door into a cavity in the false floor.

“Pay attention. Your group is bigger than most. The Handler will ride up front with me. You boys will have to snuggle up real close. You hear? They use heat sensors to spot stowaways. Any wayward arm or extended foot might kill us all. The dogs are your cover.”

As they turn left onto a paved road headed north, Althea tunes the radio to the rebellion’s AM station for a local update.

“A new proclamation is expected tomorrow. Residents too old, infirm or otherwise unable to participate in national peacekeeping efforts have been deemed unessential. For your safety, people in these categories are advised to refrain from all public activities.”

“Well, hell. If they don’t get me for smuggling, they’ll get me for breathing. This may be my last run.” Althea laments to the somber handler on her right.

The pair with a pack of dogs snoozing on the back floor drive on into the dark listening to grim updates of young people forced to wage wars on their neighbors. She clicks off the broadcast as they pull into the only checkpoint on their route.

The pack in the rear howl, bark and whine as Althea lowers the window for the armed boy in a man’s uniform. “Good evening, officer. Dogs, QUIET! Lovely weather.”

“Papers. What are you two doing out at such an hour?”

“I’ve been helping with a sick… Shut UP! Hank! Hang on… oh for fuck’s sake! Will you stop already! The man is trying to talk! Papers are in the glove box.”

The young soldier nods to the glove box. The Handler helpfully locates Althea's documents, handing over her own in turn, dogs continuing their vocal chaos.

As he’s verifying the women’s legal status, Althea sees another young man in uniform walking with a stick in hand, mirror affixed to the end peering under the van. Checking for explosives, or anything out of the ordinary.

Returning the documents, the overly serious manchild dismisses Althea, “You should just shoot em.”

The drive is desolate. There is no other traffic, and no street lights. The only truck stops left are the government’s inhospitable fuel ration stations. Althea turns right off of the highway onto a darker country road. Then, another right into a grassy clearing where she stops.

She opens the door releasing the over-zealous hounds to go about their business, and then goes through the process of unlocking the secret compartment. Each passenger is given a bottle of water, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. They’ll break here for fifteen minutes.

Althea is lounging by the back hatch, enjoying her sandwich when she’s suddenly cast in bright spotlights from above. A swarm of drones encircles her and the van from 25 feet above, silently hovering.

“Boys! Scatter! Don’t stop until you’re in a river!”

Individual drones peel off in every direction in pursuit. The dogs defensively surround their keeper. An electric vehicle with flashing red lights silently pulls into the scene.

Althea’s hands are already in the air as the uniformed man, not much older than the kids at the checkpoint, struts past the dogs without a notice. In a clean motion, his sidearm clears the holster.

POP.

He casually returns to his vehicle, leaving a pile that was once Althea in the grass. Dogs whimpering.