Chapter 3: The Promised Land
By the time the Israelites reached Middleton, Noah and his circus were already there. Several of the tribes sheared off rather than stick to the assigned route along Highway 44. They headed northwest towards New Plymouth, convinced the promised land wasn’t where Moses said it would be. “Why should we believe you? You’re the one who got us lost in the first place.” While that may be true, whoever led them after Moses was no better at directions. Nobody knows where they ended up, because there’s no record of them ever arriving at New Plymouth. That’s about all I can say about the lost tribes. Anything else would be pure speculation.
As for Middleton, it wasn’t all milk and honey, as Joshua had described. But it was good enough after wandering around the desert for all those years. The first order of business was to bake some proper bread. “Where can I find the mill?” Moses asked. And that’s when he learned that the nearest mill was out in Boise, a nearly fourteen hour walk from where he stood. Not only that, you had to cross a bridge and pay a toll just to get there. Moses dug in his pockets, and all he could come up with was a couple of shekels and some pointy rocks he used to dig in the dirt. He was poor, after all. “To hell with all that, we’ll build our own mill.” And that’s what they did. Right in the heart of Middleton. No bridge, no toll.
But there were bigger problems. After The Flood, Middleton was left an island, without any way to leave other than boat or jet ski. Moses hadn’t realized it at first, because on his way in, he’d simply parted the waters like he always did, without a second thought. But he had better things to do than stand around parting the waters all day long, even though he was the only who could do it. Let somebody else figure out how.
As mentioned previously, Noah was already on the scene, and the locals had tapped him to take charge of the new flood control district. It was a natural fit. “We’re going to have to move the town,” said Noah.
“Move the town?” There’s one thing people can’t stand even more than being told what to do. It’s being told what to do when they don’t want to do what they’re being told to do. This was one of those circumstances. “We just got here!” Technically, not true, but cosmically, yes. They hadn’t been here that long.
“Is it my fault you built this town on a flood plain?” asked Noah. Everybody looked at each other and realized that no, it wasn’t Noah’s fault. Despite the grumbling, there wasn’t any better solution. So they moved the town, but not all at once. That would have been way too big a deal. They did it in stages, as leases expired, and as new people moved in from back east in Boise. Seems even the Boise folks thought the bridge tolls were too severe.
Years later, when the Californians arrived, they’d have to move again to avoid having to build a brand new wastewater treatment plant. We’ll come back to that.
The important thing to consider is that now that all the wicked people had been wiped out in The Flood, and now that all the slaves, including Edward G. Robinson, had escaped from the Pharaoh in Egypt, anybody who was anybody was now right here smack dab on the island of Middleton. No taskmasters, no bridge tolls, and hardly any rain whatsoever. Ah, the sweet taste of freedom, at last.
Now they were free to fight amongst themselves.
