Parable of the Talents - Octavia E Butler Page 0,142

better than I had been down in Robledo. She had learned that the people within the walls of her father’s compound were of one kind, and those outside were of another. She had learned that she had to protect herself from that other kind. One must never let them see weakness. Perhaps that was it. If so, she wouldn’t come back. She would get her things and leave the area as soon as she could. She would not stay where someone knew her dangerous secret.

All this happened on Friday. I didn’t see Len again until yesterday—Saturday. I met with a few of the men who had provided me with useful information before—in particular with those who had been to Portland. I bought them drinks and listened to what they had to say, then I left them and bought maps of northern California and Oregon. I bought dried fruit, beans, cornmeal, almonds, sunflower seeds, supplies for my first aid kit, and ammunition for my rifle and my handgun. I bought these things from the George’s even though their prices are higher than those of most stores in Eureka. I wouldn’t be going to Eureka again soon. I would go inland for a while toward Interstate 5. I might even travel along I-5 if it seemed wise once I’d gotten there and had a look at it. In some parts of California, I-5 has become frightening and dangerous—or at least it was back in ʼ27 when I walked it for a few miles. In any case, I-5 would take me right into Portland. If I circled back to the coast and walked up U.S. 101, I’d have a longer walk. And U.S. 101 looked lonelier. There were fewer towns, smaller towns.

“Big towns are good,” a man from Salem, Oregon, had told me. “You can be anonymous. Small towns can be mean and suspicious when strangers show up. If they just had a robbery or something, they might pull you in, put a collar on you, or lock you up or even shoot you. Big cities are bad news. They chew you up and spit you out in pieces. You’re nobody, and if you die in the gutter, nobody cares but the sanitation department. Maybe not even them.”

“You gotta think about there’s still a war on,” a man from Bakersfield, California, had said. “It could flare back up anytime, no matter how much they talk peace. Nobody knows what more war’s going to mean to people walking on the highway. More guns, I guess. More crazy guys, more guys who don’t know how to do anything but kill people.”

He was probably right. He had, as he put it, “been bummin’ around for more than 20 years,” and he was still around. That alone made his opinion worth something. He told me he had had no trouble going back and forth to Portland, even last year during the war, and that was good news. There were fewer people on the road than there had been back in the 2020s, but more than just before the war. I remember when I hoped that fewer travelers were a sign that things were getting better. I suppose things are getting better for some people.

Len came to me just as I finished my purchases at George’s. Without a word, she helped me carry my stuff back to Allie’s room, where, in continuing silence, she watched while I packed it. She couldn’t really help with that.

“Your pack ready?” I asked her.

She shook her head.

“Go get it ready.”

She caught my arm and waited until she had my full attention. “First tell me how you knew,” she said. “I’ve never had anyone spot me like that.”

I drew a long breath. “You’re what, 19?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve never spotted anyone?”

She shook her head again. “I had just about decided that there weren’t any others. I thought the ones who let themselves be discovered were collared or killed. I’ve been terrified that someone would notice. And then you did. I almost left without you.”

“I thought you might, but there didn’t seem to be anything I could say to you that wouldn’t upset you even more.”

“And you really are… You really…have it too?”

“I’m a sharer, yes.” I stared past her for a moment. “One of the best days of my life was when I realized that my daughter probably wasn’t. You can’t be 100 percent sure with babies, but I don’t believe that she was. And I had a friend who had four sharer kids. He