Project Purple

2 - The Goatwench

When the fourteen colonists stepped onto that ritzy stage of the Royal Pacifica Casino back in May, what a send-off they received; the enormous ballroom, with its red, white, and blue colonial bunting complimented a female troupe of leggy, flag-draped dancers, who whirled around the bemused colonists. And a gray-bearded Uncle Sam in a shiny tophat clopped up and down the floor of the ballroom on stilts, dressed in colonial colors, beaming and waving to his audience. From the orchestra pit blasted John Phillips Souza. It was a loud affair.

The goatwench beamed at receiving such lavish attention. She wished she could see the audience; it sounded like thousands of people, all roaring their appreciation of the undertaking about to commence. They clapped, whistled, and stomped on the floor in their excitement, and the thunder echoed off the huge walls of the auditorium.

Her name was Henrietta Dobie, and she had yet to learn that her role in the fledgling colony would be to tend to their few animals and milk the goats.

Standing next to the goatwench, a slim young man with an angelic face shouted, "Last night, Penn and Teller, tonight the colonials!" His name was Alison, and he would soon be known as Badger, which was some kind of licensed pauper-if one really lived in the year1613.

"Must be a real international crowd," she gushed, waving into the immense darkness of the ballroom from their brightly lit stage, "Wish we could see them."

The stagelights were blinding, assuring anonymity, the goatwench assumed, for all but the spectacle of the lone colonists.

Why? There must be some elusive purpose to their sightlessness, but no such answers came to her in those early weeks.

Sudenly, new spotlights illuminated the dark right side of the stage, and at a long desk sat what appeared to be a panel of four people, an odd assortment of mixed nationalities; one elderly, one a teenager. They sat solemnly, lending the stage an air of mysterious officialdom. The audience hushed at the on-stage developments, and then the elderly man spoke a piece, with the other three speaking in turns.

The four-some were not fluent English speakers, yet their words were intelligible and articulate. And they talked about the value of teamwork, how teamwork created things like 'higher motivation', 'commitment', and 'innovation'.

The goatwench again peered out into the dark ballroom, which had now turned into The United Nations: The English of the panel got dutifully interpreted into what sounded like dozens of foreign languages, all echoing off the high ballroom walls and ceiling.

The goatwench had heard the speeches before at the interviews and during the training: how teamwork reproduces the family structure, that sense of belonging, which boosts the support that these new, multicultural colonists-peppered with an African-American, a Native-American, and an Asian-American-would provide for each other, resulting in more level-headed decision making and enthusiasm for the project...

Important words, yes, but the goatwench could only take the official rhetoric for so long. It was time for action and she was itching to get at it!

'How long do we have to stand here and play U.N. with these insipid speeches? After all, we have a colony to build!'

"Submitted for edification," a new voice said in the dark.

The stage spotlight was now on their team leader, a man named Manny Barbieri, and the audience gave him gracious applause.

"Our Purple Pilgrims will commune in the wild to relive the lives of their American forefathers," cooed the plump and vocal New Zealander.