THE BRIDGE TO SOMEWHERE

The schoolbus we were huddled into sat 14, not that the seats were in any semblance of repair. There were twenty-two of us, not counting the driver or the two rifle-toting Guardians standing guard. More precisely, 'sitting-guard', as they got seats. Ones with padding and plastic on them. Us being marthas, we instinctively gave the remaining seats to those of us who weren't doing so well. Not that it made much difference. This road was out in the bush somewhere, miles and hours from where we'd been loaded.

Some had openly worried when we were freed from our pen at the prison. When immediately loaded on to this bus, some worried we were being taken to where no one would find the bodies. Others were relieved, 'Thank you Jesus, they are taking us out to be shot. Thank you for your mercy.'

Me, my religio-skepticism was only bouyed by Gilead. Gilead's boundless hypocrisy should have beat any religious or spiritual instinct from anyone - women especially. Religious marthas were the worst, praying to the very patriarchal God which was the problem, as far as I could see. I'd only once barked to a martha who I'd been paired with, when she said a little prayer over the snacks she was about to serve the Commander's kiddies.

I would have said grace with her, if the snack had had arsenic in them.

Wow, another bump, knocked that lame-martha, the semi-conscious one right off the seat. One of the Guardians barked, "get her back up! Now!" I joined with 2 others in the tight space to try to lift her. There just was no way to get leverage in those cramped conditions.

Then as the bus continued, we could see bright floodlights through the dark forest ahead.

One of the Guardians stood, hanging on to a handstrap dangling from the ceiling. As he swung jerkily back and forth he bellowed, "Okay, we're going to do this by the numbers. Don't try anything, do what you're told. We WILL fire on you." He looked down on that martha straddling two seats, herself unconscious with pain. He pointed to me and to the woman beside me - "You and you. You're responsible for her. We've been told 22, and 22 is what we're delivering."

He then looked me in the eye with a menace I was quite used to - "if she doesn't make it, it'll mean we only do 19. Have. You. Got. That?" he asked, speaking each word separately. He didn't need to repeat himself.

Once inside the area lit by the floodlights, it was evident that there was a bridge at the end of this road. For some reason, they weren't going to drive us across. Now that we'd been unloaded from the bus, it was clear we were going to have to walk - which for me and my partner, was complicated by the dead-weight of the nearly unconscious woman we were propping up.

I heard one of our Guardians in the dark ahead, addressing a man in authority. It's amazing how that sort of thing is always self-evident - who is who, and who is high and who is low - just by the quickly developing context and the tone of their voices.

The Guardian had said, "I have 22 for you, Commander Blaine." The order from the commander was to take us, assemble us on the bridge - not quite halfway. That was the first that even I feared that we were going to be lined, up, shot, and dumped in the fast flowing river below. Not that you could see it, but you could hear it.

More Guardians appeared out of nowhere and we were shoved forward. Roughly. My partner and I nearly dropped our companion - which we dared not do. When we got on to the bridge, the roughness stopped. Everything stopped, and the cold from the river below started to be felt. Nothing was happening, no Guardians approaching with weapons - so far, so good. Whatever this was, we were still alive.

Then from the the other side of the bridge, cars and trucks approached, but stayed on their side. You could make out the rear of a larger, more modern schoolbus - backing up towards their end of the bridge. Then a security vehicle pulled up beside it, and three men got out.

By all that was holy, one of them looked like a Commander. A Commander of Gilead, in handcuffs. Being escorted by obvious security people, people who were neither Guardians nor Angels. I think I spied a woman in Red Serge, with a yellow stripe down each leg! What the hell?

Lord above - those must be Canadians! It was all I could do to remember that I was propping up a semi-conscious colleague, I almost made a run for it.

Before I could decide what to do, one of the Guardians with us yelled out, "okay, whores, get going." At that we were shoved forward, him yelling, "keep to the right or we open fire!"

Hurrying Marthas were passing the three of us, as there was a panicked flight to freedom only yards away. As it was, the two of us paused to make sure we'd secured our semi-conscious charge adequately…. which was when I saw the paint on the bridge deck - 'Canada/USA'.

Looking up the men who'd come from the north were standing, not 5 feet away. Right on that line. By the Lord above, one of them - the one in handcuffs - was Commander Fred Waterford! I'm not making that up! What on earth had he been doing in Canada? And if in Canada, why on earth was he returning to Gilead?

No time to think. We secured our injured, semi-conscious colleague and limped north. We heard an equally officious man on that side barking orders, "I want them on the bus and out of here!"

They'd saved a seat at the front for us, onto which we gently laid our charge. We were pulled from her, as what looked like a medical team were seeing to her. A medical team. That was a sight all by itself. For some reason, the two of us backed off, sensing something we'd feared sensing for years.

Freedom. Freedom was bewildering like that. Equally bewildering was looking up and seeing a tall, Black lady smiling calmly at me. She said, "Your friend is in good hands now. Here, come with me, I have a seat for you."

I just stood there like an idiot. I asked, "Who are you? What is this?"

She said, "My name is Rita, and this is Canada."

LIEUTENANT STANS

When we thought that Guardians were not around we risked whispers to the woman in the next hot-box. It was completely immaterial what we talked about, if she could whisper back, she was still alive.

The boxes we were in - at least for me and the women on either side - they were about 4 feet by three feet, by three feet tall. The only way to exist inside was the fetal position. Me, I'd lost track of the number of hours since the last time I was out - maybe it was days. It was impossible to turn, to spare raw spots from developing into open sores.

We were fed through holes. We were also hosed down while inside, while Guards called us filthy whores.

The woman beside me? Her name was Beth. Her companion, Sienna, was in the box on the other side of Beth. We'd never had the pleasure of seeing each other outside of the boxes, much less the pen which hosted the lot of us. It was hard to tell how many - the whimpering, the cries, the groans of pain…

If that woman had been the 'Beth' that I'd heard about, she from New Gilead, then I was in the presence of one of the movers and shakers in the martha network. Yet her being here did not bode well. I briefly felt concern that me knowing even that little bit about Beth, that I would be a danger to her - if I cracked.

Everyone cracks.

But then I considered, what could I say that they don't already know? Sometimes they go on and on with the 'treatment', knowing you have nothing more to give.

Like Lieutenant Stans. He's a guy who enjoys his work.

Then 'the word' was passed from box to box. 'The word'?" Not exactly Elvis, but none other than June Osborne was in the building. The name and the news was quietly passed from box to box matter of factly. Everyone knew what it meant.

It was hard to pin-point 'when', meaning 'when' Beth was taken from her box. I'd either been asleep or passed out, I could never tell which of those either. I may also have been in a delirium, Beth had once told me what she'd observed. It was the first time I disbelieved her. I've never been like that!

Beth's box remained empty for the longest time. I tried to raise Sienna in her box, the one on the other side of Beth. Hearing no answer didn't mean anything, I didn't pssst particularly loud.

REGRETS?

Had I had regrets? Not really. I dreamed the weirdest dreams, even in this cramped box. In that dream my Commander and his Wife were still alive, and in the dream the handmaid had been there by her own volition. Even in the dream, though, there was a voice quite cross with me, that I would white-wash Gilead like that.

I dreamed that Lieutenant Stans, that he was actually as nice as he presented. That he wasn't a gaslighter, someone who'd calmly fill the air with soothing words, then he'd punch you in the stomach. I dreamed that Lieutenant Stans, that he had served me - a martha - a luscious meal and he had cleaned up after.

My entry-point into Martha-dom, Che Guevara style? Do I have regrets that I'd said 'yes'? I was accompanying my mistress to the birthing centre, where her handmaid had been. Me, the neighbour martha, she gave me a key. All I had to do was wait for an orderly inside the centre to say a word, and I was to pass it to him. When I'd asked the martha, my friend, what the key was for, she said, "don't ask".

Then I got another assignment. It was to accompany someone at night across our neighbourhood's back gardens. Another martha would arrive with her - it turned out to be a handmaid with a baby. My part of it? To accompany the handmaid across the neighbourhood, and pass her off to another martha on the other side.

That's all I knew about that. Until.

Until it became known that that handmaid had refused exit. Had refused to get on the truck. Had passed her baby - her baby - to another handmaid who actually did get out. People had risked their lives for that first handmaid, including me. Yet when the 'Save Baby Nichole' stuff started, even that shook up us marthas.

The earthquake? What the Canadians called 'Angel's Flight'. The fist of Gilead came down hard, and probably half the marthas in service ended up either in the Colonies or in boxes in the pens at the prison.

My nightmare? Sleeping nightmare, I mean? In that box? That my Commander had had to make his own breakfast, and that he never cleaned up behind himself.

Do I have any regrets? I turned a corner accepting that key, and sneaking it into the birthing centre. I can blame others for the pressure sores I developed. That one action and subsequent ones had consequences. No use crying about them now.

DISORIENTING KINDNESSES

But there I was, sitting on a more modern schoolbus, the second of the night - I even had my own seat - a seat that had actual padding on it. A warm blanket around me. I saw the medical personnel fighting to save my charge laid out at the front. I watched as the lead EMT stood and threw a surgical glove onto the floor in anger, shouting, "we lost her, we lost her. There's no reason why we lost her! Shit, fuck!"

The EMT descended into tears as she was consoled by that 'Rita' person.

It had been years since I'd seen a mere-martha mourned over like that, with someone cursing herself for 'losing her'. Where I'd just come from, they'd just push you from the roof, and that would be that.

As it was, Rita came down the aisle of the bus. She said, "your friend, I am very sorry." Even the offer of condolences almost sent me into a panic. I mean, the woman had not been a friend, just someone on a bus! I told her not to be, that that woman would be happy knowing she had died in Canada.

Rita asked me what my name was. I told her.

"My name's Lily. I'm pleased to meet you, Rita." I decided right there, right then - the fight with Gilead had begun with a key, but was not over. Not nearly.