Our story so far: Alice Stickly, a hardbitten science writer for the New York Times, has fallen into an alternate reality on her way to cover a biotech conference in San Francisco. Desperate to get back to her highly competitive job, her ailing mother, and her fiance, she is searching for the mysterious Wizards' Collective, aided by her hostess Mercedes. They begin at The Garden of the Commons.
I
had arrived in the dark, but now as Mercedes and
I headed down her street, I could see more clearly
what kind of place I had come to. I felt oddly
dislocated, as if something were missing, and
finally I realized what it was--the comforting
hum of traffic and the familiar dull tang of their
fumes. I can't say the streets were silent--bicycles
whirred by us in a menacing fashion, pedestrians'
feet clomp clomped and their voices echoed. But
the little golf-cart-sized vehicles that darted
here and there made no sound at all, as if they
were designed to sneak up on you. The air was
obnoxiously clear. My New York lungs rejected
it, and I began to cough.
"Have one of my homemade horehound honey
drops," Mercedes said, handing me a candy.
It tasted vile but it did soothe my throat.
Dooryard gardens lined the streets, planted in
wine barrels, plastic tubs, and what appeared
to be old bathtubs transformed with mosaics. Images
of frogs predominated on our street, changing
to hummingbirds on the next block. There were
bright murals on almost every blank wall, so many
that it took me quite a while to realize there
was no actual advertising whatsoever. Even the
streets were painted with bright mandalas in intersections.
We rounded the corner, and entered a big garden
that took up most of a block. The north edge was
planted in redwood clumps, curving around the
sides to form a bowl that trapped sunlight. In
front of them were madrones and tanoaks and other
natives, fringed with wild lilac, elderberry,
huckleberries, filberts, raspberries, thimbleberries
and salal. Mercedes proudly identified the ones
I didn't know. Bordering the wild zone were some
large, graceful fruit trees, apples and plums
and cherries, and in front of them were semi-dwarf
pears and peaches. The fruit zone was delineated
by a double row of espaliered apples, with an
arbor above supporting grapevines and a glorious
blossoming of climbing roses, white and pink and
red. Little groupings of sculpted benches were
inset under the arbor, where people sat deep in
conversation or playing chess on a mosaic board
inset into a table. A cluster of geodesic greenhouses
stood nearby, and I could see people inside watering
and puttering.
That still left plenty of sunlight. In the brightest
corner, children were playing with a water pump
that splashed into a sand pit where toddlers made
mud pies. Their elders seemed to have kept their
fascination with that material, as around the
playground were benches made of the stuff and
adorned with mosaic tiles. Giant mud dinosaurs
reared above a small forest of tree ferns, and
children climbed the steps inset in their legs
and slid down their backs.
In another corner stood a small stand, made of
what appeared to be sculpted clay and straw, with
a mosaic surface, faucets that dispensed cold
or hot water, a row of mugs hanging on pegs, and
mason jars full of teabags. Beside it, a wooden
cabinet with glass doors, painted with the legend
"Community Book Exchange." It was filled
with paperbacks and magazines. On its back was
a large bulletin board, and I was interested in
the range of notices posted. "Community Garden
Day," "Come plant the Maize Maze!"
"Neighborhood Assembly Meeting," "Mosaic
Magic Workshop," "Summer Solstice Celebration,"
and "Cob Building Workshop," "Lost
Grey Cat!" "Spanish Conversation Potluck,"
"Belly Dance Cabaret," "Food Co-op
Workday."
In the center was a large plaza of flagstones
with thyme and chamomile growing between the cracks,
where vendors had set up small booths or displayed
wares on blankets. A sign said, "Free Market"
and I was happy to see that capitalism was still
alive and thriving here, until I noticed that
beneath it, in parentheses, the legend"Really,
Really Free Market." There were no prices
marked on any of the goods, and as we walked by,
a smiling young man offered us a basket of plums.
"Don't tell me," I said to Mercedes.
"By 'free market,' you can't mean..."
"Everything is free," she assured me.
"But Mercedes, that's...that's impossible!
People can't live like that! No society can survive.
It's...unrealistic. It's just wrong!"
"Welcome to Possible," she smiled at
me. ""Seriously, we do have shops and
stores that take our local currency, but once
a week, we hold a Really, Really Free Market.
Everyone brings something to share, something
they no longer need that's still nice, abundance
from the garden, artwork they want to give away,
whatever represents a surplus. Then we redistribute
it."
"Don't you people have to work for a living?"
"Of course. Everybody works--everybody wants
to make their contribution to the community, and
be appreciated and respected for it. It's a basic
human drive, you know--maybe even more basic than
sex. We spend a lot of time growing food, and
building things and fixing things, and taking
care of the sick and the old people, and teaching
the children. I welcome visitors, like you, and
take care of them, and I cook for parties and
gatherings and our neighborhood restaurant. But
probably my most important work is making tinctures
and herbal medicines from the plants we grow.
I'm a trained herbalist. We don't have all the
jobs you have in your reality that don't really
produce anything people actually want or need,
that just service the big machine of your economy.
And without them, it's amazing how much free time
we have."
"But what about lazy people?"
"Sometimes people don't do a whole lot, and
don't seem to have much energy. We look on that
as a sign of sickness--usually something is wrong
with them and they need more rest. But if someone
truly doesn't work, or do their fair share of
the harder jobs, people don't think well of them.
But that isn't much of a problem."
"But who takes out the garbage?" I asked.
Mercedes laughed. "What garbage? We don't
produce any. Everything we make can either be
reused, recycled, composted, mulched, or fed to
the chickens or the worms. But enough of the economics
lecture. Let's go see the Oracle."
"Oracle?"
"To find out about the Wizards."
It was clear that the market was a social occasion.
Our progress was slow as Mercedes was stopped
every ten feet or so by someone who greeted her
and had a lot to say. It was a very multicultural
crowd--people of every shade and every conceivable
fashion statement all mingling happily together.
The plaza was dotted with small stages. In one,
a young poet was pacing back and forth, chanting
a hip hop spoken word piece. In another, a flamenco
guitarist strummed. Toward the back was a larger,
elevated main stage where a dance troupe was rehearsing
for a performance later that evening, Mercedes
told me.
"There's something going on here just about
twenty-four hours a day," she said. "We
have late night concerts, and then the young people
have even later night concerts after the old folks
go to bed. The trees absorb a lot of the sound,
so it doesn't disturb the neighborhood."
Tucked among the redwoods was a small amphitheater enclosed with straw bales, for all-night drum circles. According to Mercedes, the straw absorbed the sound. Each year in the spring, they mulched the old bales and rebuilt the structure in a neighborhood festival. Nearby stood the community altar, a massive structure built of the sculpted mud Mercedes called "cob"" It was covered with dripping candle wax and flowers, and full of niches and shelves and boxes, where statues stood of every sacred image from the Virgin of Guadalupe to Kali.
Behind it was a small enclosure, screened by hanging
vines of jasmine, honeysuckle, and passionflower.
A small sign informed us that "The Oracle
Is In."
"Who is the Oracle?" I asked.
"Whoever dreams about being the oracle the
night before becomes the Oracle Du Jour,"
Mercedes said. "Some will read your cards,
some look into a crystal ball, some just seem
to know things. But anyone who has a problem,
or just needs someone to listen, can come and
get advice."
"I don't suppose you have a qualified psychiatrist
in this reality," I sighed. "Or a place
I can refill my Prozac prescription if I'm stuck
here forever?"
"We have healers and doctors for those who
are truly mentally imbalanced. But we know that
most of the depression people suffer in your reality
comes from the fact that--how do I say this politely--your
reality is really toxic and rotten. Here everyone
has abundance, community, and real security, and
there just isn't so much to be depressed about."
Mercedes pushed aside the vines, and we entered.
A small, white-haired, very dark woman sat perched
on a giant, cupped hand made of cob sculpted into
a throne.
"What's that?" I whispered to Mercedes.
"It's the Hidden Hand of the Market,"
she whispered back.
"What can I do for you two lovely women?"
the Oracle asked.
"We need to find the Wizards' Collective,"
Mercedes said. "Alice here has Slipped into
our world from the Bad Reality, but she needs
to get back. Her mother is ill."
"Ah, not easy," the Oracle said. "But
could be the Wizards can help." She closed
her eyes, leaned back in her seat, and seemed
to contemplate some inner vision.
"I see children," she said at last.
"I see pools of water. Cattails. A swamp.
I'm sinking, sinking..." With a start, she
pulled herself up. "Whoo, nearly went too
deep!"
"Children and a swamp," Mercedes said
thoughtfully. "Could it be the Children's
House in the Wetlands Block?"
"The Wizards do like to pop up now and then
and tell fairy tales to the young ones,"
the Oracle said.
"Thank you so much," Mercedes said.
She pulled a small vial out of her pocket, and
gave it to the Oracle. "Feverfew tincture,
for your migraines."
"Thank you!"
We ducked through the vines again, and blinked
in the sunlight.
"The Wetlands block, that's quite far from
here," Mercedes said. "We'd better get
on our way."
To Be Continued
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