A New Order of Things

The end of the world was less than a day away, but Gwen’s thoughts were elsewhere. Standing beside a minivan filled with books, she held one in her hand she had not expected to find. Tom must have slipped it in with the others that morning before he left. He should have hidden it better.

She stared, gritting her teeth at the small, thin volume, its black cover blank other than the title and a silhouette of the book’s famous author.

The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli.

Despite its short length, Tom had been reading it for several weeks. He announced this at the last meeting.

“It’s great,” he said. “Listen to this guy: ‘There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more  perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of a new order of things’ — talk about a motto for our whole enterprise.”

Motto or not, she had been firm about leaving it off their list of books to rescue. Up north, they had an opportunity to start things over. The world of The Prince was one she thought they were leaving behind. Goodness should not be secondary to power. Violence should not be used as a tool. Lies should not be an option even for the most benevolent ruler. She had told Tom with no uncertainty that it had to stay behind.

And yet, here it was.

Although it had been Tom who first suggested that she make a list of classic volumes to bring on their little community’s mass exodus, she had taken close ownership of the work. She carefully considered every volume. The task kept her busy, but it was finally reaching an end. Their caravan would be leaving soon. Friends and other disciples would be taking the lead, with her and Tom bringing up the rear, along with “The Books.”

This is what he had taken to calling the paperback-filled wine boxes stacked along the hallway of their apartment. For her, they were treasures to be sifted and reduced, always under the shadow of a deepening regret, into the final van load. For Tom, despite his initial enthusiasm, they had become a nuisance, and she could tell. Although she tried to blame the growing dismissiveness in his voice on stress, the excitement that had accompanied them months earlier — after they first stumbled upon the signs of what was coming, what Tom had called in an early lecture, “the Fire, the Flood, the Fear” — seemed to have exhausted itself.

She adjusted a stack of children’s books and then closed the van door. From a box balanced precariously between the front seats, Machiavelli’s dark profile stared at her.

A loud honk from the road made her jump. As if in response, the box shifted suddenly, spilling its paperback contents across the floor. Someone had dropped Tom off across the street. She waved to him as she opened the door again to pick up the spilled books and box.

“All packed?”

Gwen reached for The Prince. As her hand touched it, she hesitated for a moment, glancing up at Tom. He had not noticed.

“Nearly done,” she said.

She stacked the remaining books, moving the thin, black one to the bottom, and returned the pile to the box. Before she closed the door, she said, careful to register his response, “Did you have any other must-reads you wanted me to grab? I think there’s space. Or did you already add what you wanted?”

Tom shook his head without hesitation. “Whatever you’ve chosen is good with me, G. You’ve got ‘The Books.’ I’ve got the rest.”

“What a relief,” Gwen murmured, forcing a smile.

He laughed but didn’t say anything more as he stepped into the narrow gap of their front hallway, a silhouette between the stacks of emptied boxes, where the fading light of day could no longer penetrate.

Jeff King is a writer who lives in Canada with his family. His writing has appeared in JAKE, Johnny America, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, and elsewhere.