The Crest

It’s smoky on the Crest, the fog comes in like whitecaps, thick and sultry, and creates that unshakeable cocktail called smog. Notwithstanding, on some days, a person can see a hint of viridescent out in the hills, and on rarer days, a wisp of blue in the sky.

In the enclave, those tired euphemisms about smoke, ash, and char disappeared, replaced by more inspirational passages. On some nights, a young man might sit beside his paramour to recite Shakespeare once again. “The moon shines bright. On such a night as this. When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees and they did make no noise.” Ahh Mr. Shakespeare, you’ve done it again.

In Old Portland City, the gangs were back hustling on the street and the daily incantations of the homeless graced the sidewalks like daffodils in the springtime. Down on Hawthorne Boulevard, a young couple re-opened a bar called the Void. The newlyweds came from the battle-torn ramparts of the Crest. They needed healing; they required time, and breathing room.

The bar was still intact, and today there was a vibrancy in the air. People gathered outside to watch as the pair repainted the old psychedelic mural of a tree on the side of the Void building. They used dazzling colors. Underneath, they brushed the words:

The trees have souls.

Los arboles tienen alma.

Elsewhere, from abandoned towns and cities on the North America continent, migrants followed safe passage corridors to the north. These channels, protected by peacekeepers, provided safety, water, food, and above all, hope. Hope...that uniquely human belief that circumstances will get better. As the migrants walked northward, they set their sites on the promised land, a place called the Alberta Complex.

Even more distant in a place called Astoria, Oregon, a man boarded a sailing vessel bound for the ports of Europe: Le Havre, Rotterdam, Felixstow, and Hamburg. They called the vessel La Reprise, The Recovery. The passengers crowded the port, trying to get to a storybook place called home. Home, hearth, refuge, family, what did those things mean after the Shift? What would they find when they reached their final destinations?

As the man waited on the deck of the ship, he whistled a joyful Beethoven tune and reminisced about his motherland, das Deutschland.

Slowly, the vessel crept away from the crumbling waterfront and past the breakwater. Out in the ocean, the lumbering ship pitched and swayed while the ocean spray scattered across the deck. Then, the Captain unfurled the foresails and the vessel immediately righted and picked up speed. There was an element of excitement in the air, the wind gusted against the passenger’s face. It felt good.

The officer of the watch yelled, “On the right tack, Captain.”

“Aye, set a course, Lieutenant. We’re underway,” the captain yelled back.

The passenger bound for Germany smiled and gazed at a speck of green in the obscure foothills of the North American mainland. Perhaps, his efforts on the continent were not in vain after all.

The End