Actually,
A Natural Death is Chapter One of
Queen Bee -- but here is the next chapter just for fun...Comments would be nice.
Two
Clare yawned. She brushed the snow off her woolen cape and strode to the staircase of the Capital.
“Today is the day,” a bright-eyed boy sang out while holding his father’s hand.
“We’ll have a new President, one way or the other, by tonight, son.”
The boy backed up roughly into Clare, who shrugged and snapped, “Will you mind your boy” She walked up the steps to the capital.
The capital was infested with people – like bees in a hive - some happy, some mad, and some indifferent, but all buzzing.
This noise is unbearable, Clare thought, gazing at the lines in front of the political sweepstakes machines. Clare moved toward the shortest line she could find; only four people before her. She padded the coat beneath her wrap to make sure the deed to her property was still there. She could feel the lump of tattered paperwork, and let out a sigh of relief.
An elderly man looked at his political slip and angrily crumpled it in his hand, letting it drop to the floor. “Worthless, this cause is just plain worthless. Anyone could be our next President – a gay or drug-addict who happens to own a slice of land here or there — who the hell cares at this point?” He flailed his hands in the air. “America, as I knew it, has just been flushed down the toilet.” The old man walked heavily toward the Capital doors and flung them open yelling. “Anyone who thinks this is going to work needs to have his head examined!” He muttered to the woman walking in after him, “A sweepstakes machine choosing our President and Legislative Staff – that is true desperation.”
The woman shifted her screaming toddler to her other hip and rolled her eyes. “Nothing else has worked in my lifetime. I think it’s a pretty good idea.”
Clare smiled. She also thought it was a good idea and her only reservation was for those like herself, who really did not want to serve a post. This was a mandatory duty, and whoever was designated an office by sweepstakes ticket had to deal with the term.
It was finally Clare’s turn, and she handed over her deed. An elderly lady behind the desk looked the paperwork over and punched the lot and block of Clare’s farm into the “sweepstakes” machine. Out popped a ticket, and she handed it to Clare, who shoved it in her pocket along with the deed.
The elderly lady asked, “Well, ain’t you even gonna look?”
Clare smiled and replied, “Maybe later.”
Clare stepped into the snow and down the granite stairs towards her ancient pick-up truck. The flakes were heavy and covered her thick hair. The seat was frozen, and the threadbare upholstery snagged at her wet wrap. Starting the truck was difficult, and it groaned in the cold as Clare turned the heat on high. She kept the truck for long trips or farm provisions. Clare just could not bring herself to buy another fuel-dependant vehicle. Her new Amish model was being built to her specifications — it would take at least another month.
Slipping her hand into her pocket, she felt the damp slip of paper; Clare bit her lip.
Gingerly, she removed the ticket. She turned it over. Flipping off the heat, she fumbled for her reading glasses in her purse. Pens, wads of tissue, and even her checkbook were tossed from the bag until she produced her specs. They foggily confirmed what she had feared.
The recycled slip simply stated, “You are the One” with the Presidential Seal underneath her block and lot. There was a number to call as well, but she would handle that when she returned home. Clare’s hands were visibly shaking.
“Oh, God!” she exclaimed. Her soul quivered.
***
Many people own Friesian horses for English, Trail, Hunter, Driving, and Western Pleasure Events; Clare was a simple woman. She kept a small herd of Friesians for breeding and transportation purposes.
Clare remembered releasing her horses into an early blizzard one day in late October, just before the Sweepstakes. They acted like foals on a spring day — even Bree, her seventeen- year-old gelding, pranced about.
Black brandishing the icy white confetti made good fodder for her camera and her memory.
Just twenty-five years ago, the streets were filled with heavy steel from trucks, cars, and industry breathing noxious fumes into the atmosphere. Clare was nearly fifty when the second Revolution rocked America. This insurrection yanked her nation’s roots right out of the ground. It was the first time Clare had ever witnessed death among like folk.
Clare took her eighteen-year-old niece and fled to Ireland for a year. A tear ran down her nostril, and one down her throat. She pulled out a tissue and wiped the memories away.
The brisk wind of impending winter blew against her skin. Clare strode into it…
Clare L. Fern had returned to a remote farm in America when she reached age of fifty — well before the prices of farms rose to unbelievable heights.
The Revolution had ended within a year; and the ecologically minded Green presided. Her niece Karen lost her life fighting for that right. “Damn it, she should have stayed where she was told, and not listened to that idiot boyfriend of hers. Kids!” Clare pounded on her dining room table. The pain cracked through her fist, and heart.
Clare worked for the Green, spending that year safely in Ireland with Karen until she ran off with that fool of a young man back to America.
Neither faction wanted to use toxic weapons that would ruin the land, so the lines were drawn and fighting took place in America via noxious measures that harmed the human body, underground vigilantism, terrorism, and hand-to-hand combat; American against American. The Green fortified itself and finally emerged. Talks between the Greens and the Blues ended like the child’s rhyme, “sticks and stones will break your bones. . . ” and then the war continued.
It was vulgar and animalistic and the point each side had allowed themselves to reach was repulsive. She could not believe Karen would buy into that sort of mind-set.
Ireland had already accepted the ideals of a green government, as many had in Europe, and were friendly to the Green cause. They were willing to do their part to help, and save their economies at the same time. They believed, as Clare did, that America’s financial system needed to get back on its feet fast, or the rest of the world’s economy would continue to fail and they’d all wind up down the toilet.
Clare made good use of her dual-citizenship. She stayed with family after Karen left, deciphered Kondratieff's political wave theory, and often read Langstroth’s the Hive and the Honey-Bee. Not many had ever heard of Kondratieff or Langstroth, but they where her literary champions.
Kondratieff’s ideas seemed simple, like life’s cycle, and it was only a matter of time before America’s winter’s low became spring’s high. L.L. Langstroth, the "Father of American Beekeeping," provided practical advice on bee management which Clare weaved into her private political aura. When all was done, and the Revolution was over, she returned to America — back to her horses, beekeeping, and her new ideas.
People considered her plain and unappealing, a hefty, idealistic woman who didn’t really care what other people thought about her politically or otherwise. She held to her own thoughts, flair, and will – and felt they respected her for this.
Citizens were watching their “America” die slowly, much like Narnia’s eternal winter, until they could take it no more –- the birth of the political-sweepstakes machine was born. The Blue “government capitalists” lost, and that meant reform.
A long-awaited restructuring of their failing nation was beginning, and Clare was alive to watch.
People were sick of the government promising change, greener pastures, cleaner air, ecologically friendly power, and less interference with an individual’s choice of life. The time for change would be now -- not later. She smiled to herself. We need to get back to our roots — politically and otherwise.
For several months Clare created her isolated farm from the rich soil in her region. America’s spring had come; all things would be new. Clare’s animals, and a few close acquaintances, kept her company during this birthing process.
Now, that might all change. It had been a month already, and she wandered off toward the stable to hook her favorite horse to the brand new buggy she’d obtained yesterday from the Amish Carriages, Inc., just down the road from her farm. She wanted to ride into town, and receive her orders in the same simplified style she intended on running the country.
“Morning, friend!” a deep voice bellowed out of the blustery weather.
Through frozen eyelashes she barely made out her Amish comrade pulling up the hill in his buggy. The horses sniffed each other, and settled down. Clare smiled. “Morning, Joshua.” She had to shout into the wind. They passed each other as they often had; Joshua returning up the hill to his farm in his traditional Amish buggy, but instead of her ancient pick-up truck, now Clare ventured down the hill with Bree, her horse and best friend, short for Breehy-hinny-brinny-hoohy-hah, named after one in Lewis’s Narnia series, in her modernized Amish Carriage. She could not think of a better way to begin a new political era.
Of course there were still cars, trucks and trains in America along with industry and a friendlier form of entrepreneurship. Ecology, economy, and enterprise were the three political tasks this new government needed to undertake.
For instance, before becoming President, Clare joined a group that lobbied for the research and development that made it possible to manipulate animal manure in such a way that it could be developed into a clean fuel for operating any vehicle.
People had been trying this for decades, with little progress, and it finally succeeded! Keeping water sources clean, farmers in business, and gave America another option to the solar and wind power that had been rapidly replacing energy for the past ten years.
Clare thought about the sweepstakes, as Bree picked up his pace. She had won. Out of all the Green landowners in America she had won by the draw of a master computer program. Was it actually a true win?
What would it mean for her life, her farm, her core? The agreement between the Green and the Blue was that there would be a sweepstakes held by computerized methods for President and his or her cabinet. It would be compiled of all landowners in America that were American citizens.
But how had she won?
Clare and her cabinet would preside for the ensuing eight years. After which the Blue Landowners would be added to the computerized compilation and a winner’s name would be generated, granting the “winner” a four year Presidency that would become the regular period in office for a President.
At this point, the President’s cabinet and the rest of Legislative Officers would be chosen by a computer drawing, compiled of Green and Blue as well for four years at a time.
Clare loved the idea. No more grand political campaigns would waste vast fortunes of money, and it’d halt the great waste of tall-tale literature printed on paper.
Every landowner would have a fair shot — reasonable. It was not quite Democracy, but in these times desperate measures were needed. She was obliged to take the post and she intended to — with a few alterations, of course.
Even though the sweepstakes was perfectly random and supposedly fair, presiding as the new leader of America would not come easy, and she would make sure her say was heard.
Clare always suspected she was born to lead, and to leave her fingerprints on history somewhere, and that God must be leading her toward it — pulling her strings when needed and providing opportunities here and there. Clare didn’t like God much, but believed in Him.
“First thing,” Clare said, “is to make the White House a museum.” She had always wanted to do that. Clare had many other ideas, but this was one of her pet projects.
The White House stood for luxury and waste. All school systems would be “encouraged” to bring and pay for their children to view the White House as a historical museum, and all proceeds would go to other countries in need.
Clare’s political stand would be to stop digging America further into poverty, and to allow her rebirth by rebuilding from the soil up with fresh and new ideas.
“This will take time and money,” she said. Of course, her advisers, their thoughts and opinions, would be considered. What resistance might she encounter?
Give and take. She toyed with the words.
Bree’s hooves tread an unbroken thump in the trodden snow.
There would need to be a hiatus placed on giving vast amounts of American funds to other countries for a number of years, after which the matter would be reconsidered. However, the White House Museum proceeds, along with private religious, philanthropist, and non-religious groups would be encouraged to continue helping other countries during this time span via tax breaks and other incentives.
“People from around the world need to see that we are not a wasteful administration, and that we desire transformation, and we are worth investing in,” Clare whispered.
Bree whinnied, signaling they were in front of the Post Office. The Post Office was always the first destination in their many predictable visits into town.
Clare pulled into a buggy space, and tied Bree to the hitching post. Bree lapped up heated water in the trough.
“I’ll just be a moment,” Clare said, stroking Bree’s snow-covered mane. The elderly Friesian seemed content, and Clare walked up the stairs to receive her certified orders.
***
A thick dossier sat in front of Clare on her wide-planked dining room table. A log fire was crackling in the background, as she sat down with a steaming mug of tea. So many thoughts raced through her mind.
America was experiencing the first stage of Kondratieff’s waves: Spring, which is expansion and growth. “A social shift in possessions, growth, and modernization is likely to create mayhem in the world,” she whispered.
America was at its foundation and had nowhere else to look but up; like crocuses in the snow, bathing in the sunlight.
Clare smiled. She loved crocuses. She missed her garden, her beehives, and her lambs.
Many people feared the “poverty” of a simpler life, but she embraced it wholly. “This is just what we need — look at all the green developments that are being marketed in America. Other countries were thinking about, and actually starting to invest their funds in America. Ireland and other small factions of Europe were among the “watchers.”
“Due to these new, yet practical, ideas the world will take notice of us once again,” She proclaimed, pacing the worn floors of her converted barn. “Just look at my buggy for example.” Her fireplace popped in response. Her Amish friend Joshua disapproved of the new Englisher’s version of the Amish family’s traditional mode of transportation.
Clare had purchased hers from one of the new buggy businesses growing within the farmlands of America.
She acquired a streamlined version with shiny black paint, much like a luxury automobile yet safe for the environment and it had all the latest eco-friendly safety devices such as solar/battery-powered lights and a slow-moving vehicle triangle with license plates.
This small new line of buggies have provided many different jobs for horse breeders, horse tack manufacturers and suppliers, and even a small army of children who wanted the occupation of street cleaner and made sure the troughs were filled with fresh water and the roads remained clean of animal waste for a modest wage.
Back to the dossier, and the impending economic changes Clare knew would descend upon their new country. She flipped through her well worn version of Professor Nikolai Dmitriyevich Kondratiev’s book The Major Economic Cycles (1925), purchased while she lived in Ireland. L.L. Langstroth’s Hive and the Honey-Bee was always nearby on the table. His simple ideas about bees, when applied to the American populous, might just dig it out of its grave.
She obtained a newer four-volume set of The Works of Nikolai D. Kondratiev when she returned to America, and they were sitting, spotless, on her dusty bookshelf. Clare studied his books and life, and agreed with his economics for the most part. “Well, poor Nikolai got thrown in prison for his ideas – I don’t intend to. They will have to listen to me – at least for the next eight years.”
Clare tore open the dossier carefully and pulled out two inches of official papers. It included who would be in Clare’s Cabinet – or Executive Branch, which included the President, the Vice-President, and “the Cabinet,” an advisory body made up of the new heads of the original fifteen Executive Departments in America: Department of Agriculture, Department of Commerce, Department of Defense, Department of Education, Department of Energy, Department of Health and Human Services, Department of Homeland Security, Department of Housing and Urban Development, Department of the Interior, Department of Justice, Department of Labor, Department of State, Department of Transportation, Department of the Treasury and the Department of Veterans Affairs. Clare was giving much thought to merging several of the original fifteen heads to create a new, tighter cabinet. Catherine, Clare’s sister said seven was a Godly number; Clare thought it was a lucky number. It was far easier to deal with seven cabinet heads than fifteen — cheaper too!
The positions have not changed, but what they stand for surely would, Clare thought.
There was a complete profile of each person designated to head each executive department. So which eight should she axe, Clare thought. While Clare was eager to read, she was also very tired. She needed rest and a clear cranium before getting into each of these Executive’s “heads” to see what she was actually dealing with.
She shouldn’t be working this hard.
This would take time. Clare might even require help in background checks to maintaining a clear head — for that job she could only think of her sister Catherine Cook, a retired FBI/CIA agent, who lived nearby; if she were willing to even discuss it with her, Clare thought with a frown.
Clare already had ideas with regard to how things would be run at her farmstead which would now be the new “white house.”
They would need to build onto her existing dwelling an extension large enough to contain the space they would need to get the President’s Executive Office up and running, and of course, some sort of profane bomb shelter beneath – they would require it of her, as President.
The thought nauseated Clare; however, she knew it would not be an option. Compromise – give and take. Modus Vivendi, she had read somewhere. . .
Clare’s cat jumped onto her lap, a grey alley cat named Louie. It oddly reminded her of her sister, Catherine. Catherine had resigned from the FBI and the CIA recently and was happily raising bees with her son and his new wife and family.
They lived a self-sustaining lifestyle. They were happy. Catherine had experienced a husband, a child, and an extended family. I have had not, she thought, and maybe that’s why I can be a little rough around the edges. Louie agreed with a yawn. Clare glared at her reflection in the antique mirror beyond the tattered velvet seat at the head of the table. There she saw an old, fat woman with a grimace. “No wonder children run from me,” she laughed.
It was a lie of course. Catherine’s little grandchildren loved to visit Clare’s farm and it was approaching springtime so they would be there for the lambing. Maybe she was not so rough around the edges after all — but she was still fat, ugly and old with that long braided white hair she refused to dye. She was still a hippie at heart. Clare smiled with hope.
Then her brow knit. She still had that apprehension in her soul that would not leave.
Catherine lost a daughter during the Second Revolution, and she felt it was Clare’s fault.
Karen loved Clare, came to Ireland with her, and fought alongside her for “their” new America. She was Green to the core. Karen didn’t want to play the “no parent” game, so she chose Clare as her mother figure. Neither sister had spoken a word about Karen since her death – now they might have to...
