Estimated reading time — 27 minutes

SILENCE IS GOLDEN
REMEMBER THIS RHYME
SILENCE YOUR VOICE
WHEN IT’S YOUR TIME

At sixteen, you must decide.

Our doctors say it doesn’t hurt a bit. They use a local anesthetic for the procedure, and it takes less time than filling a tooth. Your throat is sore for about a week afterward. Then you’re fine.

No more words. Only actions that speak louder than they do.

About a quarter of our community has their vocal cords severed. The rest call them the Unvoiced.

On the whole, they’re said to be happier, healthier, and more satisfied with their lives than those who speak. They call us the Talkies because they claim that’s all we ever do (and, in many cases, they’re right). Mother speaks, but Father chose to be silenced when he was a young man.

When he needs to communicate, he signs. In the direst circumstances, he writes. This is hard for him because in his early twenties, he lost his right hand in a hay baler. It took him forever to learn to do everything with his left. You’d think that would decide me against silencing once and for all, but like most things in life, it’s not that simple. Through Father’s example, I learned to be careful and value what I did say all the more. “Idle hands and an idle voice lead to destruction,” he wrote on one frustrating day when I neglected my chores and decided to spend the afternoon goofing off and singing forbidden songs (off-key, of course).

As soon as I read the spidery scrawl on his slate, guilt flooded me. Not only because of the insinuation that I was being lazy (well, I was), but at knowing how much time he’d taken trying to convey this message. I vowed to be more diligent in my work and less wasteful with my words.

As for Mother? With her perfect pitch and diction, there was no way she would ever have given up her voice. She tried to teach me piano so I could accompany her, but I was hopeless. My clanking and clunking gave her a headache, she said, so I could give it up. I was glad to. Writing was my clearest path to self-expression. The best part was that I wouldn’t have to speak while doing it. My siblings and I read aloud as children, but as soon as we could read silently, we did.

Two of my four brothers and my sister say they want to be silenced. I haven’t decided yet, but my sixteenth birthday is only a week away. I keep having second thoughts about my second thoughts. Vocal amputation is permanent, and I’m only average at sign language. I use it every day, but I don’t have a gift for it, as Mother says and does. I wish I were more like her, great at everything she sets her mind to. I know she’d be successful even if she had no voice, but she’s made her decision. How on earth am I going to? Not to be able to speak for the rest of your life because of an accident or other condition is one thing, but to choose it voluntarily is beyond belief.

I tell Mother this. “That’s a big part of the reason why I couldn’t do it,” she explains. “No more talking. No more singing. Nothing. Sign language is a godsend, but sometimes I wonder if your father misses speech more than he lets on. And since he lost his dominant hand…” She sighs. “It’s hard for all of us, but please don’t think I’m trying to make deciding more difficult for you. What would – I know! Why don’t you pay a visit to Grandmother Anne?”

Goosebumps crawl up and down my arms.

“Don’t worry. I did when I was your age. I was afraid of her, of wasting her time and proving myself unworthy. She settled me right down. She knows and sees things that are beyond our understanding, so my anxieties were well-known to her. Not only did she found our community, but she was the first one of us to have her vocal cords amputated. The doctors almost didn’t proceed, but Anne was insistent, and she got her way.”

“Why?” I swallow hard. “What possessed her to think of such a thing, let alone do it?”

Mother draws me close. “You’ll have to ask her. I did.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

“That’s okay too, but she won’t bite. She cleared up a lot of my fear and confusion. If you like, I can go with you and see if she’s busy. Would that help?” I nod. “Good. How about we do so after lunch? Two o’clock?” I reluctantly agree. When I tell the rest of my family our plan, forks drop and eyes fixate on me like tractor headlights.

“Wow,” signs my sister. She’s practicing for being silenced, though she’s only ten. “Is she nice?”

“That doesn’t matter,” snaps my oldest brother. “What Grandmother Anne says is what matters.”

“You mean signs,” says my second-oldest brother.

I cringe. He’s always been a bit too clever for his own good, prone to correcting us on small details.
“I’m glad you’re going,” Father signs. “It’ll clarify a lot of things for you.” What those things are, I have no idea, but I trust Father and his wisdom like I trust the sun to rise in the east and set in the west. Since I’m seated to his left, he reaches for my hand. I take and squeeze it.

After lunch, I go upstairs to change and do my hair. It’s way too cold to wear my one good dress. However, I’m not going out in faded work clothes, so I put it on. When I emerge from my room, I see that Mother’s wearing her best dress too. Great minds think alike, I guess.

Although it takes quite a bit of time and effort to start our van, we do so and hop in. If it were any other season, we’d walk to Grandmother Anne’s, but it’s late winter. The heater blows icy air for a couple of blocks before nearly scorching us. It’s a relief when we pull into the driveway of the only house in town with a turret. Rumor has it that’s where her bedroom is, and she keeps watch over us like a queen over her kingdom. I don’t know what to think, but the time to act is now.

“Stay behind me,” Mother says. “She may not be accepting visitors at the moment, but we’ll see.”

I follow Mother up the sidewalk onto a covered porch and up to a front door with a brass knocker.

Mother knocks three times.

A woman who looks to be in her mid-fifties answers. She’s wearing a housedress and an apron.

“Can I help you?”

“Is Grandmother Anne available?” I blurt out before Mother can ask. I then bite my lower lip hard.

“Names?”

“Valerie and June Tate.”

“I’m Nadine. Anne’s just woken up from her nap. I’ll see if she’ll receive guests. Follow me.”

We enter a parlor with two overstuffed couches and a collection of hurricane lamps. We have a few of those at home, along with flashlights, in case of a power outage. I sit on a couch and immediately sink down into it. Mother smiles and helps me up. We gingerly take our places in two antique-looking chairs. “I hope we don’t break these,” I murmur almost under my breath. Nadine puts a finger to her lips. Uh-oh. Silence must be golden here, like the old rhyme says. She leaves. After a few minutes, she returns and leads us to a spiral staircase.

“Before you go up to Grandmother Anne’s room, I need to tell you our house rules.”

Mother and I nod.

“Rule number one: be as polite and quiet as possible. Rule two: Grandmother Anne uses sign language, so if you can, do so. She’s extremely hard of hearing. Rule three: I’ve taken her to the toilet, but if she soils or wets herself anyway, please don’t embarrass her by pointing it out and/or holding your nose. Ring the little bell on the wall of her room instead. I can hear it no matter where I am in the house. Rule four: Keep things short and simple. Rule five…” She coughs and clears her throat. “My, the air in here is dry! I ought to go and turn on the humidifier. Uh…”

“Rule five,” prompts Mother.

“Grandmother Anne never lies. Whatever she says, no matter how outlandish, believe it. That’s how I’ve lasted so long in this household and this town. Any questions before we head up?”

“Is it true that she’s the first person in our community to be silenced?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Are you thinking of following in her footsteps, young lady?”

“Of course. I’m not sure, though. I’m hoping she can help me choose.”

“She did that when I was fifteen, too. Anything else?”

“Uh…Why did you keep your voice, and Grandmother Anne didn’t?”

“It makes it easier to communicate with everyone else, though I lack her particular gifts as a result.” Nadine frowns. “Oh, dear. I’ve said too much. Let’s head on up. Mind the steps. They’re awful steep.” Indeed they are. As I climb, I wonder what would happen if I fell. Would I tumble head over heels, then break my neck? What if I were pushed? Not that either thing would happen, but…When I reach the top, I imagine leaning over the banister and falling, falling, falling.

“This way.” Nadine walks down a short hallway toward a closed door. She opens it so quietly that I can barely hear it creak. “Come on inside, but don’t make too much noise.”

Mother and I obey. I find myself trembling. What if I accidentally break one of the rules?

“Anne,” Nadine signs, combining her finger-spelled name with the sign for “grandmother,” “you have visitors. Will you see them?” Silence, then: “Good. I’ll make sure they don’t stay too long.”

Nadine backs up so we can see our hostess. A white-haired crone, gaunt yet somehow lovely, crooks a bony finger and beckons us forward. Mother and I switch places so I’m ahead of her.

“Come,” signs Grandmother Anne. “I won’t hurt either one of you. I’m here to help.”

I take a few tentative steps toward her. “Hello. My name is Valerie Tate. This is my mother, June.”

“A good family.” The old woman’s smile stretches thin and taut across her face. “Welcome.” After a moment, she gestures toward a chair near the window. “Please take a seat, Valerie. It was good for both of you to come and visit me, but I need to talk to you alone. If you don’t mind, June…”

“Not at all.” From the look on Mother’s face, I can tell she minds very much but doesn’t say so. She turns around and lets Nadine lead her away. I’m suddenly frightened. I don’t want to be left with this woman in this turret room that smells of dust, age, and stale urine. I want to go home.

“Not yet,” signs Grandmother Anne.

I blink. How in the world did she – can she – No way. There’s no such thing as telepathy.

“Isn’t there?” Her smile fades. “In this world, anything can happen. Even speaking mind to mind.”

My hands are shaking so badly that I have to fold them in my lap. When I regain my composure, I ask the first rational question that comes to mind: “How old are you, Grandmother Anne?”

Slowly and deliberately, she makes the signs for “one hundred” and “twenty.”

My mouth falls open. “Impossible.”

“I was born on December 2, 1906. I’ve lived through the Great Depression, both World Wars, and had a fiancé who died in the first one. Poor Billy, stuck in France for a cause he believed in less and less as time went on. I’ve witnessed the arrival of electricity, from light bulbs all the way up through the gadgets other people use to waste their time. When I was a girl, our family didn’t even have indoor plumbing. We used an outhouse, and it stunk so bad in the summertime…”

She straightens up. “Now, then,” she continues, her hands showing not one trace of palsy or other marks of advanced age. “You’re here because you can’t decide whether or not to be silenced. Having your vocal cords severed changes your life, most times for the better, sometimes for the worse. You have to use and practice signing, but you’re fairly good at it.”

“Thank you.” I smile and take the deepest breath I can. “Why did you give up your voice?”

After a moment, Grandmother Anne replies, “It’s a sacrifice. If you can’t talk, you learn to listen.”

“Listen to what?”

The old woman closes her eyes, opens them, stares into the far distance, and answers:

“Our teachers and guides. The void-dwellers. They who live between the stars.”

The same goosebumps that hit me when Mother first proposed this visit come back, so hard that the hairs on my arms stand up. I might as well be outside without my winter coat.

“Let me tell you a story. In 1921, when I was fifteen, I was a cheerful and lighthearted girl, full of laughter and boy talk with my friends. ‘Hold your tongue,’ my mother said, ‘or the devil will hold it for you.’ Did I pay any attention? No. Mother had me clench a bar of soap in my mouth while she slowly counted to twenty. I’ll never forget the taste or the burn. Still, that didn’t stop me from spreading the latest rumors around the schoolyard. Then the dream came.”

“What dream?”

Grandmother Anne raises a hand. Then: “An empty field in the middle of the night, a million stars all around, and the sounds: chitters, clicks, and whispers that I couldn’t hear with my ears, but in my bones. Somehow there was rhythm to them, as there is to speech. I tried to understand but couldn’t. When I awoke, I found myself paralyzed, thinking about never speaking again. I was so scared I couldn’t move, but it made a horrible sort of sense to me. If I couldn’t talk, I could listen to whatever was making the sounds in the dream. I knew I’d have it again and again, and it wouldn’t stop until I could comprehend its message.”

“Did you tell your parents about this?”

“Of course. They were concerned but not alarmed. Not until I told them what I wanted to do.”

“What did they say?”

“‘Are you mad, Anne? Have you lost your mind? Why would you want your vocal cords severed?’ I told them it would be my punishment for the sin of gossip. Mother understood this, though she didn’t agree with its severity. Father forbade it outright. I kept having the nightmare, over and over, and begged them to reconsider. I said I’d complete the process myself if they kept refusing. They were naturally horrified. So were the town doctors, but I persisted and won the day.”

“The doctors silenced you against their Hippocratic oath?”

“It was either that or commit me to an asylum, which they didn’t want to do, despite my desire. They broke their oath, but when I founded this town, I found physicians who were willing to do what was necessary so we ‘Unvoiced’ could understand our saviors.”

“Saviors? From what?”

“Death and destruction. I established this place in 1956, when nuclear war was a very real threat. In several nightmares, the void-dwellers told me how to construct a bunker for when push came to shove. It never did, but I built it anyway. Better to be overprepared than unprepared.”

“What else do they tell you?”

“They inform me of plentiful times and warn me of lean times. I always know when our farmers will prosper and when they’ll struggle. They call me a living almanac. They’re suspicious of how and when I get my information, but I always tell them to trust in providence. It’s never failed us.”

“Do all the Unvoiced have these dreams?”

“Yes. We also learn to speak using only our minds. Another boon from our benefactors.”

I pose a risky question. “Like your longevity?”

Grandmother Anne’s rictus smile reappears. “Clever girl.”

From somewhere below us, I hear a grandfather clock strike three.

“It’s time for you to go, Miss Valerie, but I leave you with one more thing. Everyone, whether voiced or Unvoiced, has the same dream I had at the beginning when they’re about to turn sixteen. You won’t get what the void-dwellers are saying, but I’m saying you’ll be able to.”

“If I choose to be silenced.”

“I made the trade-off. If you do, you’ll be blessed beyond measure, though some will think you’re nuts. We Unvoiced are a people unto ourselves, though we try to help our speaking friends and neighbors however we can. Think long and hard. I’m sure you’ll make the right decision for you.”

I try to swallow, but my mouth has gone dry. “Thank you, Grandmother Anne.”

“You’re welcome.” She rings the bell on the far wall for Nadine to come and show us out.

The same apprehension seizes me when I go back down the spiral staircase. In fact, it’s doubled. I cling to the banister like it’s the only thing between life and death, which it is, in a way. If I let go, I might plummet. I’m sure of it. I’m also sure Grandmother Anne hasn’t been downstairs in years. Maybe decades. If you’re 120, stairs are a dim memory, though I only suppose so.

“How was your meeting?” Mother asks once I find her in the sitting room.

I think of saying “fine,” then decide against it. “Grandmother Anne gave me a lot to think about.”

Mother’s expression is unreadable. “I’ll bet she did. Come on, then. Let’s go home.”

At dinner, my siblings talk and sign over each other, wondering how everything went:

“How was Grandmother Anne?”

“Is her house as big as it looks from the outside? I swear it’s enormous.”

“What does she look like?”

“At school, I heard that her hair is so white it’s transparent, and she looks bald – ”

“Oh, blah blah blah. Was she nice?”

“Did she say anything strange?”

“Children, please.” Mother frowns. “Whatever Grandmother Anne told Valerie is for her alone. You’ll have your turn to visit when you’re fifteen.”

“But that’s five years away,” signs my little sister, pouting. “I can’t wait that long.”

“You’ll have to.”

I decide to tell everyone the basics. “Grandmother Anne was very nice, very wise, and very old.”

“How old?”

I smile and shrug. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

“Try me,” says my second-oldest brother.

“Quiet,” Father interjects, his gestures sharp. “Let Valerie be. She has much to ponder.”

No one dares to raise the question, the elephant in the room, the weight in the stillness among us. We kids finish eating and washing the dishes, then settle back down at the kitchen table to do our schoolwork. I find myself utterly distracted and utterly tired. I yearn to go to bed, but I have an English essay due tomorrow. Not to mention – what kind of dreams will I have tonight? Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise that I haven’t completed my thousand-word piece on “Macbeth.”

A vision of the Three Witches in the beginning suddenly pops in my head:

“Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble,” they sign, grinning all the while.

All of their vocal cords have been amputated.

“I’m heading upstairs.” I stand up from my seat in a hurry. “I’ll finish this tomorrow.”

“Are you sure? How far along are you?” asks Mother.

“Far enough along to know that I’ll be done in an hour or two. I’ll get up extra early. I promise.”

“All right. Sleep well.” Mother and Father hug me.

The thing is, as soon as my head hits the pillow, I find myself wide awake.

I stare into the darkness, bedcovers pulled up to my chin, and I shake as if I have chills.

My parents are wrong. Grandmother Anne didn’t clear up my confusion. I’m more perplexed than ever and terrified to go to sleep. I don’t want to have the same kind of dreams she did. I want to be a normal girl in a normal town doing normal things, like talking and even gossiping. I hate being faced with this terrible burden. If I give up my voice, will I benefit? Will I be able to communicate telepathically and even live to 120? If Grandmother Anne never lies, can I live with the truth?

Dawn comes far too soon.

I get up at 4:30 AM, having given up on sleep, and head downstairs to finish my essay.

Its central theme is Macbeth’s fall to pride, greed, and the scope of his own ambition.

I can barely pay attention in class, and my head keeps drooping toward the desk. Several of my teachers ask if I’m okay. I tell them I’m fine. The looks in their eyes tell me they know better. A few of them have even been silenced. What do they know that they’re not telling?

Over the next several days, I find my attention wandering even further, aided by the lack of rest. I try progressive relaxation, a mask, even valerian root, my namesake, to make me drowsy. None of it works. It’s as if my body’s internal clock has flipped itself, and I can’t turn it back. The more I stay awake at night, the worse things get until my parents sit me down.

“Valerie. You’re not well. Are you sleeping all right?”

“No. I can’t. I don’t want to. I’m afraid I’ll have Grandmother Anne’s nightmares.”

“No one has the exact same dreams, except for the first one. The empty field and the stars.”

“Even that’s too scary for me.”

Father signs toward Mother. “Honey, I need to talk to Val for a minute.”

Mother nods and heads back toward the living room. Father and I stay in the kitchen.

“I had the same problems you did. What finally persuaded me to get some shuteye, and to be silenced, was the sure knowledge that Grandmother Anne never leads anyone astray. I went to visit her after I had the dream about the field, not before. You went at the wrong time, but there’s nothing to be done now except this.”

He presses his fingers, in a V-shape, to my forehead, then makes weird sounds with his throat.

Clicking sounds. Chittering. Swallowing and whispering open-mouthed in a language I don’t know.

He exhales, his breath smelling of sweet tobacco and the middle stages of tooth rot.

“If you sacrifice your voice,” signs Father, “eventually, the void-dwellers can talk through you.”

So that’s why one’s vocal cords need to be severed, says a voice in my mind I barely recognize as my own. One can’t take a regular vow of silence. The void-dwellers need empty space to speak.

“Because they live in empty space,” I murmur. “Their sounds travel via…no medium?”

Father smiles. “We are the medium. We Unvoiced.”

At last I know. I understand and can decide. I close my eyes, open them, and wink at Father.

He and I will soon be kindred spirits linked by more than blood and similar personalities.

As for Mother and the rest of my family? Let them talk. They need not be shackled with silence.

At the doctor’s office, my voice is firm and steady as I tell them what I want to do.

Their instruments probe my throat, pull, tug, and sever. It doesn’t hurt a bit.

My throat is sore for about a week afterward. Then I’m fine.

No more words. Only signs. Only sounds. Only thoughts. I practice all three of them every day.

Oddly enough, the first dream comes after I’m silenced.

It is as Grandmother Anne described, except in my vision, the field is full of people. Everyone in our little town has gathered there to gaze up at the starless sky and listen. We all clap our hands to our ears and strain, strain to hear, but no sound comes. Several of us sink to our knees. “Please,” we beg. “Tell us what to do. Send us a sign. We haven’t listened before, but save us…”

Nothing answers but the empty sky. I wake in a feverish sweat.

When I tell my parents, they tell me not to worry, but their eyes are full of barely-concealed dread. Especially Mother’s. I dreamed of the Talkies as well as the Unvoiced, after all.

* * *

“I’m sorry to inform you,” says Grandmother Anne’s maid and nurse Nadine, “that hard times are coming soon. My friend and employer says and has dreamt so. Plan ahead. Plan with care.”

As usual, she’s the first one to take the podium at our Town Hall meeting when it’s question time.

“What do you mean?” sneers Andrew Overstreet, our mayor and a Talkie more worthy of the nickname than anyone else in town. “Our spring planting has gone real well. Lots of rain, but no flooding. Lots of sun, but no drought. What are these dreams that good old Grandmother Anne has had? What are her latest visions of doom?” He brays a laugh, baring square yellow teeth.

Never mind that up to this point, she’s predicted naught but good for the coming year. Never mind that last year, she foretold a bumper crop that came through in spades. Never mind that Grandmother Anne has led our hamlet through thick and thin for more than fifty years. All that matters now is whatever garbage Mayor Overstreet spews on the spur of the moment.

“She’s a witch, I tell you. One of the Devil’s own.”

Yawn. We’ve heard that one before.

“What I want to know is why you all keep listening to her. Does she have you saps under a spell?”

“Calm down, Mr. Mayor,” says Nadine.

“No. I want an answer. She pays your wages, but why do you pay so much attention to her?”

“That’s my job.” Snickers from the crowd. “As for her dreams, she’s foreseen fields of burnt crops and starving livestock in your barns. You canned and preserved last year, right? Stored whatever you could? Anne says to check your cellars and pantries. Live frugally and follow her instructions.”

“Which are what? ‘Plant in the middle of the night and harvest at night?’” Laughter. “I say we keep on going as we have been. Stay the course, and come October, we’ll reap what we sow.”

“You certainly will, but if you don’t do as Anne says, you’ll have precious little to reap.”

No one speaks for a minute. Then Mayor Overstreet’s oily crony, Fred Dingle, pipes up.

“Our good mayor is right.” Oh, brother. When would he not be, according to Fred? “We shouldn’t dwell on the bad that might happen, but on the good that is happening. Focus on planting and filling your irrigation ditches.” Sound advice, as much as I despise the messenger. “What are a few bad dreams compared to the reality of green shoots growing in our bean and cornfields?”

“Hear, hear,” someone calls out.

Suddenly, Father stands. He clears his throat without a sound – his Adam’s apple bobbles – and he strides to the podium, gesturing for Mother to follow. She does, aiming to act as his interpreter.

“Hold on,” he signs. “If Miss Nadine is concerned for our near future, I think we should at least hear what she has to say. What are these instructions that Grandmother Anne has for us?”

Nadine smiles. “Plant at night, by the light of a full moon, and harvest at night too.”

Absolutely no one laughs.

“Ridiculous!” the Mayor bellows. “I can’t fathom that you believe in this hogwash too, Mr. Tate.”

Father glowers at him. “Perhaps I, and we who have been silenced, know something you don’t.”

Angry and apprehensive grumbles from the rest of the crowd. I don’t want us to get into a fight.

“Order. Order,” Fred Dingle says, banging his gavel. “Everyone take a deep breath. If no one else has any new business, I motion to adjourn.” One of Mayor Overstreet’s other lackeys seconds it. “All in favor, say aye.” Most of us do. “Motion carries. Our town hall meeting is hereby adjourned.”

As we leave the community hall, I pull Father aside and ask him what he meant by his remarks.

He sighs. “Grandmother Anne isn’t the only one who’s been having nightmares about summer.”

“I haven’t. Am I not strong enough yet?” Father squeezes my hand and nods. “When will I be?”

“Patience. It took me decades to learn and to listen to the void-dwellers. Best to take it slow.”
“But what if we’re in danger right now?”

“We’re not. As long as we pay attention as best we can, we’ll survive.”

And survive we do, planting by the light of each full moon, until summer and the drought come.

* * *

Sizzling heat. Scrawny, thirsty livestock. Brown fields, October-brown, as far as the eye can see.

If you’re a Talkie, that is.

Families like mine, with Unvoiced members, count our blessings and thank Grandmother Anne.

We have enough in storage to last us at least two months if all else runs out.

Our closest neighbors, the Kellers, aren’t so fortunate.

None of them have been silenced, so they lack the forecasts Father and I dream about. They didn’t follow Grandmother Anne’s directions either. They planted their crops the usual way, and now they have almost nothing to sustain them. They’ve reached out to us for help.

“It’s not fair,” groans Mrs. Keller as she holds her newest baby to her breast. “My garden’s dead. Groceries are getting more and more expensive, and they’re running out of formula at the store. We’re not desperate yet, but we’re close. I don’t know what to do. I’m drying up, Junie.”

Mother looks crestfallen.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but how and why have you prospered when the rest of us are barely hanging on? Don’t tell me it’s because you’ve planted by the light of a full moon. Your irrigation ditches are full, and ours are dry as a bone. So are those of so many others. Why the difference?”

Mother watches Mrs. Keller’s baby struggle to nurse. We have milk in the house, but it’s not fit for infants, either the liquid or powdered variety. The rest of us are long past the age of formula.

“Go visit Grandmother Anne right away,” Mother says at last. “Don’t laugh or scoff. Do it.”

“That witch?” Clearly, Mayor Overstreet has gotten to her. “She didn’t help us before. Why would she now? Can she bring the rain we so urgently need? I don’t think even she can control the weather. Beggars can’t be choosers, but I’m loath to put my trust in her.”

“We do.”

“All right. Have it your way. Maybe she has some herbal remedies to help me produce milk.” Mrs. Keller sighs. “In the meantime, can I come over and clean? To pay you for your assistance?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Mother carefully avoids the word ‘yet.’ “You have a lot to deal with.”

“You bet. This one’s hungry morning, noon, and night.” Mrs. Keller tries to grin, but her smile is forced. “Thank you for what you can spare and afford to give us. Someday we’ll return the favor.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Again, Mother doesn’t say ‘yet,’ although she could. “We’re here for you.”

However, that night I dream about Mrs. Keller going to Grandmother Anne’s house and begging. She kneels, stretches out her newborn child, and says, “Please don’t let my baby Trevor starve.”

Grandmother Anne lays a withered hand on Trevor’s forehead. “As surely as I live, he will not.” Then she calls for Nadine to bring a large bottle of liquefied fenugreek. “Here. Drink this. It’ll help. Don’t take too much all at once. Just a small sip three times a day. Understand?” Mrs. Keller nods. “Don’t fret about payment either. This is an emergency. One of many. Soon I don’t think I’ll – ”

“What?”

“Soon I don’t think I’ll be able to keep the worst at bay, even with their help.”

“Whose help?”

Grandmother Anne smiles. “You wouldn’t understand. Go home in peace now, Marilyn.”

I fall into a deep slumber afterward, my dreams the color of the sky at midnight.

As the season and its conditions wear on, more families find themselves on the brink of ruin. Our grocery store is almost out of food, and we don’t have the infrastructure to pay for more. Besides, the nearest city is hundreds of miles away. We can’t afford the transport to and from there, let alone the supplies we need.

Being a farming community, we’ve always striven to be self-sufficient, but now we can barely feed ourselves. Finally, the night comes, the night of which I’ve dreamed time and again. The night of the full field. The night of the listeners and the beggars, longing. Praying for rain. I’m out there too, straining every part of my body to try and get in tune with the void-dwellers who live between the stars. It is to them I direct my most fervent wish:

“I am Unvoiced. Let me hear you. You can speak through me.”

I’m instantly seized by vibration. It’s as if I’m a tuning fork. Two words ring out in my fevered brain:

Rain soon. Rain soon. Rain soon. Rain soon. Rain soon.

I sign to Father, my gestures frantic. He repeats it, and Mother translates for the rest of our family.

By the time the rain does come, our town is clinging by the barest of threads. The Talkies thank God, and a few of them thank the Devil, but only those such as Father and I know our helpers.

Mrs. Keller’s baby keeps hanging on, aided by the liquid fenugreek she keeps drinking every day.

As for me? I’ve stopped going to school to help the rest of us at home. I clean and cook whatever is still available. Our garden hasn’t died – in fact, it’s thrived – but we have to be careful what we eat. Just like last year, we can and preserve. Who knows how long our supplies will hold out?

With precise, ironclad rationing, we last until harvest time. Thankfully, we have a good yield. The Kellers’ crops have mostly failed, as have those of the other Talkie-only households.

That’s why Mayor Overstreet summons us to an emergency town hall meeting on Halloween.

“Good citizens,” he begins, “I’ve called you here to address the most severe circumstances we’ve had in years. Our crops lie scorched in unharvested fields. Our irrigation canals are nothing but dry ditches. Our livestock are hungry, and so are we. Our grocery store is almost bare. At this rate, we’re not going to survive the winter. I’ve petitioned the governor to declare a state of emergency for our town, but he has ignored us. He has turned his back upon his starving constituents.”

“Not all of us are starving,” a man yells. “Some of us are living high on the hog.”

“That’s right. The fields of a lucky few have produced quite a bounty, but the many lie awake at night with empty bellies. Life isn’t fair, some might say, but we’re beyond questions of fairness. We’re beyond asking ‘Why me?’. Too many of us have been affected. I say we do what’s best for the whole town and avoid pointing fingers. We have to stick together. Share and share alike.”

“Are you kidding?” One of the Unvoiced women stands and signs, “I’ve worked hard to bring in a good crop. I’ve followed the instructions of someone wiser than me. Now you say I have to give it up? To feed mouths that have done nothing but shame and blame us all summer long?”

“What’s your secret, then, huh?” asks a farmer in a broad hat. “Listening to old wives’ tales?”

“It’s her fault.” A hush falls. One of our oldest residents, besides Grandmother Anne, has spoken. “She cursed us in the spring. Y’all may not believe in curses, but I do. She hates us because we can talk and she can’t. She went crazy as a young girl and chose to give up her voice. Well, I didn’t! Hear me loud and clear. Grandmother Anne is a liar and a sorceress. Do you know what the Bible says about people like her? ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live.’ I say we obey such counsel.”

“You mean kill her?” continues the farmer. “That’s against the law, isn’t it?”

“Before long, none of us are going to live long enough to prosecute anyone for murder.”

The crowd stirs to life. Resentment swells into rage, anger into fury, blame into condemnation. We argue back and forth, yelling or signing for all we’re worth. No one comes out ahead. No one is loud enough, whether Unvoiced or not, to stand as the voice of reason. Fred Dingle bangs his gavel to beat the band, adding “Order! Order!” to the various shouts, but no one is listening.

As for Mayor Overstreet? He has an odd half-smile and folded hands, but he stays quiet. I’m reminded of something Father said about some of the evils of the outside world. There are these organizations called fraternities and sororities, and they hold wild parties with lots of drinking and drugs. Mayor Overstreet looks half-drunk, as if he were attending such a party himself but not fully partying. He’s watching us like we amuse him, a bunch of clowns, and he’s our ringmaster.

I hate him. I want to wipe that stupid smirk right off his face, but how? He has us over a barrel.

“What’s to be done?” he asks us, spreading his arms wide. “I’ve done all I can. Now it’s your turn.”

The angry farmer roars, “I say we hang the witch, and the Unvoiced along with her.”

The Talkies chant: “Hang the witch! Hang the Unvoiced! Hang the witch! Hang the Unvoiced!”

“Take their land!” someone else shrieks, and the crowd adds this to its rallying cry.

Our family stands up and tries to leave the community hall, but so many others block our way. We don’t have time to be polite. We push and shove our way toward the doors. Once we’re out, we don’t know which way to turn. The streets are mostly empty, but for how much longer?

“We have to go home.” My oldest brother’s face is ghostly pale. “To defend our farm.”

Father nods. “We have arms and ammunition,” he signs with jagged emphasis.

“Please,” begs Mother. “Violence isn’t the answer. If the mob comes for us, we won’t shoot.”

“Why not? They’ll seize our property and take our food for themselves otherwise,” Brother snarls.

My sister finally speaks, and it’s startling to hear her voice. “What about Grandmother Anne?”

She’s right. Someone needs to warn her. She and Nadine weren’t at the meeting. I sign: “I’ll go.”

Before anyone can dissuade me, I dash down Main Street toward her turreted house. Once I get there, I knock on the door so loud and fast that I startle myself.

Nadine answers: “Valerie Tate? What in the sam hill are you doing here? Trick-or-treat?”

“No. There’s an angry mob coming for Grandmother Anne. Mayor Overstreet won’t stop them.”

Nadine heaves a bone-deep sigh. “So that’s why she’s so worried. She’s told me as much.”

“What? You mean she knows?!”

“Her psychic gift. Go home. Your family needs you. I’ll guard Anne with my shotgun and my life.”

“But what if – ”

“Go. Home.” She pauses. “It’s the Talkies versus the Unvoiced now, and you’re on the losing side.”

The chilling phrase ONE IN FOUR comes to my mind, emblazoned on a sign with a big red X.

“Nadine, they’re going to kill her!”
“They’ll kill you too if they find you. Run for the forest outskirts. Anne will tell you where to go.”

“Huh?”

“Run, you stupid girl! Save your life and the lives of those you love. Otherwise, you’re dead meat.”

I flee off the porch, down the steps, and down the sidewalk. Enraged voices are headed this way. Against every fiber of my being, I turn back toward the town hall and my family, but they find me just in time. I tell them Nadine says to head for the woods, but the sun is fixing to set soon.

“Where are we going to go?” asks my sister, still speaking.

“We’ll take the deer hunters’ path until we can’t follow it anymore,” says Father.

I follow my parents quickly and blindly, not stopping to take in any of my surroundings except for their two bodies in front of me. I dimly feel the presence of my siblings at my side, but I don’t turn to look at them. We make our way into the forest, find the trail, scramble through yards of trees and brush, and ignore the scratches and bruises forming on our arms. Periodically, I yell, “Go left!” or “Go right!” because in my mind’s eye, I’ve seen Grandmother Anne raise her left or right hand. She’s giving me directions although her own life is in danger. How long until the mob ends it?

“You can’t fret about that now.” In my ears, I hear her voice, impossibly aged and without sound.

When we come to our destination, Mother, Father, and I literally trip over it: a metal hatch.

This must lead to the bunker Grandmother Anne built back in the fifties in case of nuclear war.

On the hatch lid, a nine-digit keypad. None of us have any idea what the combination is.

I see the old woman again, and she’s making numerical signs: one, three, four, two, seven.

“Let me try,” I cry and input the code. It works. After four failed tries, the hatch gives way. As the last light of Halloween fades, down we climb with just the clothes on our backs, no flashlights and nothing else to guide us but the faint red glow of the sun above. Father, the last of us to descend, slams the hatch lid down and climbs by instinct. Or perhaps Anne is helping him one last time. The ringing of metal echoes through the air and makes me want to clap my hands over my ears.

Finally, we’re safe below. We find working light bulbs and supplies that look recently refreshed.
Nadine must’ve done it. Presumably, no one else knows about the hatch. If she doesn’t show –

A sudden burst of agony throbs in my right temple, then my left, then my right, then my left again.

I instantly know what has happened:

“The mob came. They threw Grandmother Anne and Nadine down the stairs. They’re both gone.”

I start to sob. My parents hug and huddle with me. My siblings look for food and firearms. They find both along with ammunition. We don’t think we’ve been followed, but after all that we’ve been through, we can’t afford to be too careful or to leave any strangers alive. The bunker comes with three bunk beds, enough to fit six, just enough for us. For now, we’ve been saved.

None of us suspect that salvation comes with several more nightmares for Father and me:

A scaffolding in the town square, built for four people at a time. The Talkies demanding blood. “A necessary reckoning,” the old man who called Grandmother Anne a sorceress says, “and a noose for every silenced witch and warlock. If you can’t talk, you can’t live. If you’re old enough to have followed Satan’s bride, you’re old enough to die.” Mayor Overstreet smirks, saying nothing.

Witnessing all, the ravenous vultures. The mostly-Talkie mob has another plan, though:

“No sense in letting all this rich meat go to waste.”

We don’t mention what we’ve seen. We don’t want to frighten the rest of our family. Besides, we tell ourselves that dreams aren’t real. Neither the good, nor the bad, nor the revelatory.

The sudden shrill cries of a newborn baby, high above us, are real enough.

“It’s Mrs. Keller. She’s carrying Trevor on her back,” I announce in the middle of one long night.

“She’s found the hatch?” asks my oldest brother. “Good Lord. She’ll lead the Talkies right to us!”

“I don’t think so. She’s been in psychic touch with Grandmother Anne somehow, ever since she went and begged Anne to help her. She’s come alone. Come on, Father, Brother. We have to help.”

“No, we don’t. We have to keep ourselves safe, no matter what the cost.”

I shake my head. “If we ignore them, we’re just like the mob, and there is no good in us.”

Father nods and climbs the ladder leading to the hatch. He opens it with all his strength. He then climbs down after Mrs. Keller, whose son is squalling with fear and a dirty diaper we can smell. Luckily, there are diapers and cans of formula in the bunker, solidly furnished for growing families.

When Mrs. Keller reaches the bottom, she hugs each of us in turn. “Thank you so much.”

“What’s happening up above?” asks my sister. “Why aren’t you with the rest of the Talkies?”

“They were going to hang me for being in league with Grandmother Anne. The herbal remedy.”

“So sad. Just so sad,” Mother says, but she doesn’t cry. “We have to leave them to their fate.”

“What about your husband, your daughter, and the rest of the – Unvoiced?”

Mother shakes her head. “Nothing we can do to help them without endangering ourselves.”

My second-oldest brother asks, red-faced, “Why didn’t Anne lead them all here to the hatch?”

“Not enough room. Besides, my Valerie was the only one brave enough to leave us and go warn Grandmother Anne on Halloween. Val risked her life, so Anne risked her secret knowledge.”

“We’ve been chosen,” my sister says. “Chosen by the void-dwellers. Haven’t we, Mother?”

“Maybe so and maybe not, but don’t go bragging. Talk of being chosen inevitably leads to asking why some of us were and some weren’t. Us versus them. Let’s have none of that down here.”

We ponder this in the silence, the air heavy around us and the fluorescent bulbs buzzing.

* * *

By our count, it’s been thirty days since Halloween.

No one has found us yet.

We dare not come out of the hatch. Our nightmares have increased and worsened. The mob has enacted its grand plan, and the Talkies of our community are no longer starving. They’re well-fed.

We live on the supplies we have been granted, day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute.

Father keeps praying for the void-dwellers to come down from between the stars and save us.

My prayers are different: Unvoice every Talkie. Sever their vocal cords. Make them understand.

That’s the only way we’re going to survive.

On peaceful nights, I dream of Grandmother Anne, who has become a void-dweller herself. She tells me not to fear, that soon, soon, we can climb out of the hatch and rejoin the world. Until then we wait, and until then, we protect each other. We help each other however we can.

Are we cowards for not coming up to save our comrades? Perhaps, but what can we do? We don’t have enough to feed and clothe more than the eight of us, and even that’s a stretch. As for our guns, they’ll run out of bullets sooner or later. We have to save them for a dire emergency.

Our story ends here, but, void willing, our lives will not.

Credit: Tenet