!Peace Dividend
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by Anna @ October 2022
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Chapter 1: The dacha
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When they got to the dacha Agnes set the two mech-
anical clocks from the sundial before it got too
late. Eleanor unloaded the cistern water filter and
the samovar. She checked the dacha's rain and
springwater prefiltration tank. Nothing dead in
there, no bad smells. She rinsed and filled the
prefiltration tank.
They unloaded stuff from the beaten, rusty cargo
cycles: rocket stove, pressure and slowcooker,
skillet and cutlery, solar water heater panel,
towels, bedding, clothing. Tools to garden, mend,
tinker. Carbon monoxide detector, water pump, fan,
lamp, radio, 100-watt muscle-power generator.
Agnes cut small branches from the coppices. Eleanor
started charcoal burning in the samovar to heat tea
water and the stove to sautee things. She heated
dinner to a simmer in the cooker and let the stove
burn out. They ate by lamplight, sipped tea, filled
hot water bottles for bed. They'd clean the chimney
in the morning before lighting the dacha's masonry
stove.
Eleanor blew on her tea. What's the most powerful
thing? she asked.
I dunno, Agnes said. Sun. A big fire? Drought. Mama
played me I guess seventy-year-old tapes of her
grandpa, my great-grandpa, telling her fairy stor-
ies and her dad, my grandpa preaching. Those.
Why?
They, well why not? They stay with me. I remember
them. Making sense. Holding fast to God. Telling,
teaching, makig stories.
I was thinking wind.
Oh God yes. If we could just never oppose it, al-
ways let it carry us.
Yeah.
They sipped tea. They could hear the wind. Agnes
drew hot water from the samovar to wash dishes.
What's your favorite technology? she asked.
Eleanor thought. Dainty handkerchiefs, she said.
They're so light, so soft, so permanent. They rinse
out and dry fast. They're beautiful. You?
Pens, Agnes said. You can put any kind of ink in
them and use them almost forever.
Eleanor enjoyed her books. Agnes repaired dresses,
socks, felt boots. They dug potatoes, lit fires,
took walks. There was a good radio show on Fridays
they sat and listened to. They split wood and fixed
things on the dacha. Each had a lazy day or two.
I'm tired of potatoes, Eleanor said.
Yes, but it's good to know we can always come here.
The cottage was so eternal, though the dogs who
roamed the village changed and the children who
lived there year-round grew up and aspired to move
to better countries.
They packed the portable generator, drained water,
packed kitchen, bedding, and tools for their return
to the monotown where they worked in the cement
plant, where Eleanor recited her poetry in the
House of culture and Agnes swam in the pool every
Monday. The train arrived at the station on time.
They would be home in nine hours.
Dan was there when they got home, sitting on his
bench where he always sits. The eighth floor people
were complaining about noise from the sixth floor.
Something weird was going on with the plumbing.
Agnes took her bike and went alone to the edge of
the old quarry. She sat by it and thought about the
droughts and fires, heat waves and cold waves, and
how people still fight about the same things.
She slipped out of her dress and into the frigid
water. She gently swam out, warming her muscles as
they protested. The cold, the water were nice, a
luxury.
On her way home the cold had cleared her head,
washed her thoughts away. She parked her bike,
walked up the steps, took out the big knife, and
chopped a cabbage.
