The Long Earth

officially America, and it was July 4, and that was that.
    Though to look at us, this first summer, you’d imagine we were Indians. We’re all living in lean-tos and tepees and benders and big square communal houses, and some folk are still using their trek tents. There are chickens and puppy dogs that people carried here on their backs, running around everywhere. We ain’t farming. Next year will be the first harvest. We have a rota clearing the fields – burn, slash, haul away the rocks, all brute labour, nothing but human muscle available to do it. For the future we’ve brought seeds, corn and beans and flax and cotton, enough to survive years of failed crops if necessary. Oh, we’ve already planted pumpkins and squash and beans in the cleared ground near the houses, in our ‘gardens’.
    But for now we’re hunter-gatherers! And it’s a rich country to hunt and gather in. In the winter we got bass from the river. In the forest we took things that look like rabbits and things that look like deer and some of those funny little horses, though we were all a bit squeamish about that, it was like eating a pony. Now in the summer we’re spending more time at the coast, where we’re fishing and collecting clams.
    You do feel like you’re out in the wild. Back home on the Datum I was living on top of centuries of other people’s efforts to
tame
everything. Here the forest has never been cleared, the swamps never drained, the river never dammed or leveed. It’s strange. And dangerous.
    I think my Dad thinks some of the people are dangerous too. We’re all learning more about each other, but slowly, you can’t always tell from the outside. Some folk have come out here, not to go somewhere, but to get away from something. An army veteran. A woman who my Mom thinks was abused, as a child. Another woman who lost a child. Well, that’s fine by me.
    But anyhow, we’re here. And if you go tracking in the woods or up river you can see the little plumes of smoke rising up from the houses, and hear the voices of the workers in the fields. You can feel the difference if you step even just a world or two to either side. A world with humans in, versus a world without. Honestly, it’s true, you can feel it in your head.
    We had a big argument about what to call our new community. The adults had a meet about it, and it turned into the usual word fest. Melissa was determined it should be called some long uplifting name like ‘New Independence’ or ‘Deliverance’ or maybe just ‘New Hope’, but my Dad laughed at that one and made a joke about
Star Wars
.
    I’m not sure if it was just my suggestion or Ben Doak’s, but we found something that stuck. Or at least that nobody hated enough to veto loudly. When it was agreed, Dad and a few others made up a sign, on the trail up from the coast.
    WELCOME TO REBOOT
FOUNDED 2026, A.D.
POP. 117
    ‘Now all we need is a zip code,’ said my Dad.
    And now here’s a bit from a year later than that, written by my Dad! Well, he has helped me out with this journal, including with the spelling, huh. Thanks, Dad! …
    My name is Jack Green. I guess if you’re reading this you’ll know I’m Helen’s father. I have special permission from Helen to add a few notes to this journal, which has become a rather precious thing itself. Just now Helen herself is otherwise engaged, but this is her birthday, and I wanted to be sure the day was marked properly.
    So, where do I begin?
    We have our houses built now, mostly. And fields we’re slowly clearing. Usually I have my head down, working. We all do. But every so often I take a walk around the town, and I see how we’re nibbling into the green.
    The sawmill is working. That was the first big communal project. I can hear it now, as I write – we try to keep it going day and night, with that distinctive two-stroke sound as it slowly processes forest into town. We have a pottery kiln, and a lime kiln, and a soap kettle, and of course our forge thanks to our Brit boy wonder Franklin. The geological survey maps were spot on. In some ways it’s incredible how fast we’ve been able to progress.
    But we were able to rely on help from outside. A family of Amish came our way, following a lead from the Reverend Herrin, our itinerant preacher. Odd folk they are, but friendly enough, and very competent at what they do. Such as when they helped us set up our pottery kiln, which is a boxy oven with a chimney stack. Our pots are rough as hell, but