I’m from a middle class, Caucasian family and married into the same during the 1970’s. Most of the similarities between the two families end there. Perhaps the only other common thread my parents and my wife’s parents shared was they loved their children imperfectly. On that point, all parents are subject to the same flaw.
My parents and my in-laws handled money differently. Their responses to family stress and overall world view wasn’t the same. Their priorities in life weren’t even close. To say that my in-laws and I faced numerous obstacles in our relationship over the years would be a vast understatement.
Given that information, the reader can understand how surprised I was when I woke up one morning and discovered my in-laws had become my friends. Somehow the relationship had morphed from something forged by a marriage certificate into a deep, abiding love.
Like all genuine relationships, we still hit a rough patch every now and then. But those times are overwhelmed by the strength of a bond built over the years. My in-laws, Ken and Esther Bateman, are more often than not simply referred to by me just as Mom and Dad.
I dedicate Seeds of the Bitter Harvest to Ken and Esther because of the love they have shown me over the years. The seeds they have planted in me have been those of faithfulness and devotion, which have yielded a harvest in my grateful heart.
From a couple of thousand feet in the air the Port City glistens in the sun; the glass and steel buildings bounce the sun’s rays around the city. These temples of commerce demand much of their adherents, but reward the faithful with material goods in abundance. The cold, hard, unyielding nature of these buildings is also found in the hearts and minds of its residents. The bright gleaming exterior of the buildings hide places of decay within the city; much like the polished, high fashion life-style of their inhabitants is a thin veneer over empty, dark lives.
Families, friendships, co-workers, even national loyalties are all bartered for financial gain. Corporate policies and even an individual’s conscience cannot withstand the Sirens’ Call of an increased bottom-line. Those who attempt to resist are mocked, maligned, and brushed aside by those who have already succumbed to the enticement of increased wealth, social status, and power.
This is the only remaining city of what once was a small, prosperous nation. The rest of the land is now in the hands of a brutal Enemy. Many of those living in the Port City give little thought to those under the oppression of the Enemy, as long as their life style isn’t impacted.
To the west of the city lies the end of a rugged mountain range, which spills into the sea. The taller peaks of underwater mountains break the surface of the water to form jagged, uninhabited islands, which help form the part of the large natural harbor. The harbor bustles with activity, which is curious, given that much of the country which it once served lies in the hands of others. Vessels from almost every nation can be found within the harbor.
CHAPTER 1
The bright morning sunlight found its way into Andy’s sleeping bag; working through the cracks where the top of the bag and the bottom of the bag no longer met. The noise of the refugee camp also assaulted his ears, forcing him awake. Andy Whitman, the oldest child of Carl and Jackie Whitman, and sole surviving member of the family, was still in shock from the loss of his family, home, and fall of the Capital City to the Enemy. As with most mornings since arriving at the camp, he would have rather remained in this cocoon than face yet another day.
Having been a member of a prominent lineage, he had enjoyed all the material trappings and advantages such a social position brings. While his parents hadn’t spoiled him, he had never wanted for the basics, like food, clothing, and shelter. Now he stood in long lines just to take a shower or have a simple hot meal. He was like the rest of those in the camp, adjusting to a new world of shortages, want, crowding, and inconvenience. All of Andy’s earthly goods were to be found in the knapsack he and his mother had packed on that day when he and his friends made their escape from the Capital.
He, Jimmy Moore, and Cody Holts had made a daring, if not dangerous exodus from their homes, less than twenty-four hours before the Capital fell. Jimmy was Andy’s next door neighbor. They had grown-up together. Even though Jimmy was a shy nerd, skinny, and not at all like Andy, he made a great friend. Cody came from an athletic, outdoors loving family who lived a couple of blocks from Andy’s house. Cody, a year older than he, took the lead in everything the threesome did jointly.
Jimmy and Cody were already up and out exercising with guys from the military base a couple of miles away. Cody was trying to get the three of them to enlist together. Andy wanted no part of it. He knew his country’s military needed young men his age to join, but too much had happened. Andy felt lost, without purpose; he’d rather just sleep.
His bed was an army cot, about six foot long and less than three feet wide. A sleeping bag was on top of the cot. His knapsack, a small canvas bag for dirty clothes, and a single pair of hiking boots were underneath the cot. Andy was one of 25-30 men crammed in to a large tent.
With his stomach rumbling in protest at not being fed, he decided he should get up and get something to eat. In a quick series of smooth motions, he reached for his knapsack, pulled it up to the cot, threw back the top of the sleeping bag, sat up, and swung his feet to the ground.
It was while he was rummaging through his knapsack, looking for clean, but crumpled clothes to wear for the day that Andy found it; a small white envelope, about the size of a Thank You note. The envelope was sealed, and it must have been there since he and his mom packed the knapsack, but he hadn’t found it until now.
His name was neatly printed on the outside, and he recognized his mother’s printing. With the speed of a starving man grasping for his first morsels of bread, he tore the envelope open and took out a simple white note card. His heart stopped. It was indeed a note from his mom. A business card fell out of the note and spun softly to the hard-packed ground floor at Andy’s feet.
Just seeing that his mother’s elegant penmanship graced the inside of the note brought an endless flow of memories, and lead to a flood of tears. He quickly blinked his eyes trying to stop the flow, and with the back of one hand brushed the remaining tears away from his face. He was longing for things he couldn’t have; home, mom, dad, and his sisters.
Andy picked up the business card with one hand, and held his mother’s note with the other. Placing the business card on the cot next to him, he began to read his mother’s last communication to him.
Her note simply stated how much she and his dad loved him, wished him a safe journey to the Port City, and a long, happy life. Included in her message were instructions of what to do with the business card. Andy let out an involuntary sob as his fingertips ran gently over the last written communication from his mom.
The instructions were to find the man whose name appeared on the business card. His office was in the Port City. She mentioned that if the Port City was invaded, and Andy had to evacuate, he should contact this man’s main office in Zurich, Switzerland.
Andy picked up the business card. It belonged to a Mr. Chadwick Lange, of the KML International Holdings Group. It had been a year or two, maybe three, but he had been in this man’s office in the Port City. His mother had started to introduce him to the world of finance, and thought the contact with Mr. Lange would be helpful. It was about this time that his mother had started transferring large amounts of their investments to overseas accounts. She was trying to secure the family’s financial future, if the outcome of the war resulted in the loss of their homeland.
The card itself was of an extremely high grade of paper, trimmed in what looked like a very thin line of gold-leaf. KML appeared as a watermark background in the upper right-hand corner, with Mr. Lange’s business information embossed on the remainder of the card.
At the moment, Andy, like so many of the refugees, was destitute. Perhaps, Mr. Lange could help me. It can’t hurt me to contact him, he mused. It’s not like I’ve got too much to do.
He was broke and there didn’t seem to be any work in the Port City for those in the camp.