Story: Turn of the Millenium: People of their time

Turn of the Millenium: People of their time

Prologue

“OOWULL”, the jab to Adam’s back startled him. He stepped up his pace, nudging Eve, his wife, likewise.  “Keep moving.” The holy angel’s loud voice was without malice, but he was a full head higher than Adam’s, and not one with whom to trifle.  The man and woman had been walking for … awhile; they had only been permitted to pause long enough to grab and eat an apple here, or a peach there, and cup a handful of water, from this or that stream.  They were not allowed to carry anything within the folds of their coats – not even so much as a sunflower seed. 

The hazy sun was nearing the horizon.  Too near.  Up ahead, loomed The Hedge, a forest of massive trees - mostly redwoods - which bordered the Garden of Eden; a beautiful landscape about the size of modern day New Jersey.  Though still late afternoon, As the evicted couple grew nearer, the forest’s interior appeared more like dusk. 

The couple approached Eden’s border, crossing into the forest, their eviction was final.  Cherubims were on hand to make sure the two didn’t get the notion to reenter under cover of darkness.  If this team of holy angels wasn’t enough to urge the couple onward and eastward, the flaming sword turning every way, posed further incentive to keep moving. 

Before them lay, what appeared to be a sort of path, one only wide enough for the two to journey side by side. Yellowish stones, about two palms (6 inches) in height and one palm in width, dotted along its borders.  The forest was dark, and very quiet.  Too quiet.  The couple was accustomed to the twitters of birds, the calls of beasts, the rustlings of greenery, the drones of insects.

“THUNK!”

The couple about jumped out of their skins.  An acorn, having fallen from a high branch, was about the size of a tangerine – and a near miss.  Point taken, to remain on the path, stepping cautiously, for the slightly raised ground, they trod upon, was softer in some areas than in others.   

Having become too dark to go any further, the couple stopped for the night.  Hardly a few moments later, Adam and Eve lay close, and fast asleep.  From behind the couple, and just off to the side, two young hyenas padded their way through the forest; both looked at the sleeping couple and huffed, the larger of the two animals tilted her muzzle slightly upward – as if to express displeasure at having caught an unpleasant odor.  They looked at one another, shook their heads.  She huffed again.  The four-footed couple trotted off.  Above the sleeping bipeds, two moths fluttered on by. 

When dawn came, here and there streams of daylight mixed with the mists which had upwelled during the night, and making the path even more spongy.  The couple awoke; both were wet, and thirsty.  Lying ahead of them, a swath of mist-logged contoured leaves covered the ground.  Both knelt and thanked the Most High God for His gift of mercy.  They carefully, so as to not spill the precious liquid, slaked their thirst.  In addressing their need to hydrate, and to simply be with one another, neither had heard the flapping wings of two geese flying just above the tree tops.  Nor had they heard the drone of two dragon flies, which had landed upon a nearby bough – and then had continued their way also.  The leaves upon the path now nearly spent, Adam happened to turn his head.

“What in the world?”

At a distance behind them, their footprints, from the night before, were no longer visible, but instead the slightly downgrade path, and areas on either side, was covered by young shoots. A few of the stones had yet to be masked amid the sprouting greenery, others were displaced, and lay upon their sides. 

As they approached a modest clearing, a slight but luscious aroma awoke their stomachs into fits of rumbling.  They hadn’t eaten since the previous day, shortly before exiting the garden of Eden – or had they entered into the forest the day prior?  Neither was sure.  Ahead, and off to the side, a grove of fruit bearing trees grew near the path; their boughs laden with ripe bounty.   Several of the branches extended barely a reed (about 8 feet) from their reach; the upper ones crossing partly over the trail.  The closest trunk, grew just over two reeds (maybe 20 feet) outside the path.  Adam paused, thinking.  Just as he was about to turn sideways, and head for the nearest tree, Eve held up crossed hands, shaking her head.  Her eyes like saucers.  As famished as they both were…Nope!  Neither had forgotten the last time, one, then the other, had…stepped off.

Adam looked around.  His eyes lit up.  The stones.  He pulled one from its place.  It was significantly heavier than it appeared.  Perfect.  He smiled, then backed up, and took an aim.  A shower of fruits hit the ground, several landed within the path’s borders.  As the couple knelt, bowed their heads and gave thanks to their Most High God, another couple – two starlings – jetted off to build their nest, elsewhere.  Adam and his wife, ate of the fruits.  Adam then, took another stone, sending another shower.  The couple ate their fill. 

Several of the fruits remained.  Eve looked around.  With no pockets, there was no way either of the two could transport any of them.  Until the present, the very idea of carrying provisions, from one place to another, had never been an issue.  She then turned, and noticed the end of a vine growing within reach of the path.  She grabbed it and began to pull, but only so much – and nowhere near enough – was she able to obtain.  The other end held firm.  Adam took the length, and with a yank, the vine let go of its root system.  While Adam yanked other such vines, Eve cobbled together a satchel.  Adam then took another stone to one of overhead branches. 

They gathered up the fruit, put it in the bag, and continued their way.

Awhile later, the couple obtained walnuts in a similar manner – this time, using the stones to crack open the shells.  Eating their fill, Eve then bagged most of the unshelled which remained within their reach.  They continued their journey.

“This can’t be!” Eve gasped at what lay beside them.  Two sets of tracks, embedded a short distance, alongside the path, before veering off.  “No!” she looked at her husband.  He appeared to be as dumbfounded as his wife.  “How?” Eve blurted, “their gestation period is…” she left off the statement, “It hasn’t been that long,” she began counting upon her fingers.  No this couldn’t be. “Has it…??” she looked to her husband, her eyes pleading for an answer. 

Adam recognized the tracks.  They were…his eyes widened, of second generation – if not the third.  The answer to his wife’s question, was one he could not provide.  (An answer which, some 6,000 years hence, still left men of great learning, mystified).

 

“Unto Adam also and to his wife did the LORD God make coats of skins, and clothed them.” Genesis 3:21

“So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life.”  Genesis 3:24

Chapter 1 Rural

 

Turn of the Millenium: People of their Time

“The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done; and there is no new thing under the sun.”  Ecclesiastes 1:9

Chapter 01

Rural

Year 940-post creation

Phew, they stink, especially that one they call Bear.  She narrowly glared at the back of another man pulling one end of a rough hemp rope.  When was the last time any of them had used soap?  One had let out a vapor – his face held a wide grin of relief. The men of Elam, Rachael’s lineage, kept their beards trimmed and free of crumbs, leaves, branches - not a mid-level math exam…not that these people cared to move past basic addition and subtraction!   She clung to the spirit of hyper-criticism, like a boat-wrecked sailor clings to a severed timber.  She had no intention, whatsoever, of giving these…these trousered mooks the satisfaction of knowing she was scared, down to her remaining three wits – and was hard pressed in keeping those from getting away.  The other end of the hemp rope was chafing her wrists – especially when that JERK..!  They called him Mash.

Collectively, their tribe might as well be the thunder-lizard to be appeased; they stank like dragons.  According to the stories, it was around this time of year, the Enu would sacrifice a virgin, usually one from a higher-ranking family.  Though from what she had read, it was difficult to piece together the idea of that mangey bunch having any concept of lineage.  Her scrolls, her journals…another one of her remaining wits took off, leaving her only two.  She batted her eyelids.  No crying, not one tear.  Home.  She might have made it back, when she had taken that aim, but JERK had caught her foot, sending her slamming to the ground.  Hence the rope, and the swollen side of her face.  That window was now firmly closed, for it was more than risky enough for even a full-grown man to be about this country alone.  She managed to wipe her moist eyes upon her sleeve.  Her people, the Elamites, were few in number, and during the middle of the last century, had become Sethite vassals. …

They passed an outcrop of jade and turquoise which marked their progress: about half way – which meant the group had crossed into Sethite boundaries.  The ground began taking an upward grade. Had to be same area, her half-brother and his two companions had encountered the boar.  Nearby stood a tree, which appeared to have on its lower trunk, claw marks.  She stepped aside to lean in for a closer look, but a sharp “COME ON!” broke skin, ending the side excursion.   There were other signs for which to look, and listen.

The third man, whom they called Jorg, seemed reasonably civil – unlike tug-meister.  The fourth man, Cappy, was leading a donkey.  Upon the animal’s back were several satchels – one contained two or three lengths of heavy linen; the largest held unspun wool, and the smaller contained spices.  Hmmph!  And not a one, to the best of her knowledge, contained any gold or silver coins – of which they had been offered.  What sort of people turn down currency??  As to which of the parcels contained her late mother’s lyre, she knew not.  The animal wasn’t theirs, either. B’tards! 

“EEEEE-HE”

All five individuals halted.  Any thoughts, other than the present, scattered.  All eyes and ears watched and listened for the rustling of branches, calls of birds taking flight, scampering of animals.  Cresty wasn’t far off.  A cresty was a beast about the size of a draft horse, but dangerous enough to take on a thunder – and maybe even come away with…well, not too many gashes upon his neck and shoulders.   A moment passed. The pack animal lowered his head to munch upon a tuft of soft grass.  Red alert faded to orange.  Stopping to munch upon another, orange alert faded to yellow.   Since the dragon’s call had come from the direction where the creek fed into the river – and it being late morning, cresty had likely let it be known, he had wanted the area to himself.  Around this time of day, those oversized lizards would often seek a nice flat rock to lounge upon and sun themselves into the later afternoon – usually.  She, and anyone else, could only thank the heavens, cresties were rather lazy creatures – otherwise, the sum of one person’s fingers and toes would about equal the human population.

“I don’t know!” one piped up, though there seemed to be a hint of nervousness in his voice.  Dragons, especially those, had a changeable streak.  Rachael kept an eye on the donkey, for animals can sense danger sooner and quicker than men – these men, however, seemed to regard the area as, more or less, a touring trail.  She squelched the memory of a recent visit to Purveyor’s Park - now wasn’t the time. Moments passed.  A hand signal, and a stifled chuckle, had passed between two of the men, concerning whatever self-scripted drama going in their lives.

Frightened down to her last two wits, how on earth could they be just striding along, with the possibility of that thing changing its mind, and instead, deciding to draw close, and closer.  Cresty posed more of a danger than an andy.  A ruse, false bravado…had to be, it just has to...She batted her eyes, but the water began to drip, threatening to run rivulets.  One of those aforementioned wits had already sprouted wings, and was ready to take off.  Upon reaching a small clearing, the sun’s hazy position told her, it was coming on early afternoon. The still lingering moistness, was normal for this time of year.  She had already slipped, and didn’t want to go there again – not a good time to sprain an ankle.  She could only hope, that thing had already broken its fast earlier in the day, or even the previous evening - unlike other large predators, who were always looking for food; cresties only sought a meal every two or three days – the rest of the time, they either slept, fought, mated, and in general, did the dragon’s version of hanging out on a Purveyors’ street corner. 

Her eyes, shot full-tilt open at what she thought she had heard “…have a little fun with the girl.”  She trembled, there wasn’t much she could do to defend herself.  Then, of all things, to her relief, a dire wolf took a zig-zag in direction running away from where the creek led towards the river.  “Well guys,” Bear’s commented, “maybe, we’d better quit dawdling,” he hesitated, then added, “and git?”  Something seemed off about the tone of the man’s voice; it was as if he was…amused.  Out here?  This was serious.  What’s wrong with these people!  Even girls knew, in the wild, speech was better kept to a low whisper.  From behind her, came a rustle of thick underbrush – out from which, a young bear – hardly more than a cub - lumbered away, quickly, in another direction.  “EEEEEHE!”  The monster was directly behind her.  Before she could completely turn around, to face the inevitable – and face with honor, befitting a headman’s daughter - Rachael folded like a Copper-General chaise lounge.

“Great going, Bear!”  Mash let out an irritated sigh, at his buddy’s stunt.  He then muttered something about being more trouble than they’re worth.  Looking down at their travel guest; he unlatched from his gear-belt a wooden oval container. Unceremoniously, he upended the wide-mouthed bottle.

Gawkers

“Well, wud ja lookit what sammy sabre jus’ drug in.” an older woman cackled to one of her fellows – somebody named…Penny?  Whatever the younger woman’s her name was, she cocked her head, and whispered something about “her, from Lydia’s.” The older woman’s nod jostled a mass of auburn hair, bunched into a sagging bun, which was but a shake or two from falling about her shoulders.  As with the other women, she wore an apron over her half-sleeved pleated dress.  They all looked like parcels, sent from, basically, the same drapery house.  Rachael strove to not make faces at their so last century raiment. The woman’s chore-tattered hem exposed a pair of dusty, calloused feet; looking around, it appeared generally the same among the other women.  Running around without foot-coverings, not even her people’s servants…Rachael glanced at the rugged lot – though careful to not stare, lest she draw attention.  Not that she was in any position to boast, her finer-woven raiment was studded with leaves, and those stickies.  Her head-covering was covered alright - twigs, bird-dooey, and whatever else; her hair resembled more like a big-ugly’s nest.   A strap on one of her sandals had broken several furlongs back, so it went flap-flap-flap whenever she took more than a few steps. 

Apart from the crowd, but not far off, she caught a glimpse of a mother, standing at the base of a tall fruit tree. (One which had gone extinct around the time Nimrod’s workforce had left off from building.)  The woman looked up and called to somebody named Barbara?   Though with everything going on, Rachael wasn’t sure if she had heard correctly.  Still, what an unusual name, for it meant stranger.  Why on earth would parents name their son…?  A pair of unshod feet, followed by two boney ankles, dangled from a branch, about a reed and three quarters, (about 15 feet) then hit the ground. Though Rachael’s vantage had been mostly blocked by the usual goings on about any village, half a moment later, the activity subsided enough to reveal one of Barbara’s long braids – its end secured by a pink ribbon.  The child, wearing a simple mid-calf length frock, appeared to be in her late teens, maybe early twenties 

There was something familiar about the girl’s mother, who was fussing over the girl’s sap spotted bodice.  Was she…?  Even from Rachael’s vantage, the woman’s eyes…that had to be her.  An almost century-old early childhood memory – of shouts, screams, burning homes collapsing into embers, blood spurting from more than several fallen warriors.  All around her, while she could not, dared not, do anything, but remain hidden within that cleft of white granite - a red streak ran the full length upon one of the stones.  The girl’s mother, wiped a blotch from her daughter’s face.  “…going to give me gray hairs.”  The woman’s facial expression, that was her alright, she had been one of the two young women, bound and led away.  Or had there been three?  Rachael’s attention was then, jarred, the better end to the present, by an older boy who had almost knocked her over while catching up with his fellows.

The woman, who had made the “sammy” comment, appeared to be the head hen.  Her retinue of two or three other women pointed and whispered.   Loud chirps and the ruffling of feathers had momentarily overshadowed ongoing conversations; from out of a nearby tree, a bird took flight, in search of another place to build a nest. “Think they’ll lace the cup?”  One asked, then added, “Like last time?”  The head hen smirked, “I hope not.”  She then leaned in and whispered something.  The other woman pursed her lips.

Last time? 

Bits and pieces of a dark tale – Rachael had heard, whispered here and there, during her childhood, and later - began lining up in Rachael’s memory.  A long-ago account, of one of their warriors, having taken a vow before going to battle.   It was well known, Seth’s descendants lived in fear of offending some perpetually angry warrior god, one who lived, in a stronghold, somewhere, far up in the sky.  Anyone, not living in a cave, had either heard, or had heard secondhand, Enoch, son of Jared, going on, concerning that overbearing deity – one who demanded copious tributes of blood; so much, that it had spattered his garments and reddened his long white beard.  It was known well enough, that even their chief and headmen would tremble as they removed their sandals before approaching his altar, where unspotted lambs were laid upon the wood, the animals’ throats slit, their bodies burnt.  Rachael was less than certain, but from a somewhat distant hilltop – completely barren of any tree, or even a bush - she caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a corner of an assemblage of common stones.   I’m imagining things, she told herself.

Altars…what’s the point!  Either way, so unlike the beautiful altar in Purveyor’s central court; its five sided stones, each with exquisite carvings.  Upon its flat surface, fresh cut flowers and edible produce gave off a lovely aroma.  That was, before the generous medley was put to flame – but then all around, the moist smoke would always linger, making people cough.  But none the less, the open-air structure which housed the perfectly even sided edifice, such a work of art.  Her eyes narrowed in the direction of the hilltop, then toward the sky, in the direction where that bloody god ruled over his…his SLAVES; keeping them ever fearful, and backward.  Making them use ugly rocks, when nice ones were reasonably close at hand.  Gods…whatever!   

A slight aroma of lilacs caught her nostrils. Her head, following the scent, turned just a bit to a nearby bush; within a few days, it would fully blossom, sending in every direction, that wonderous perfume.  Her eyes shot fully open.  It was this time of year, when that warrior…

Rachael bolted. 

A graying woman ran after her, calling for help.  It took not only Mash, but either a brother or a cousin to restrain her. “Oowwlll!” Mash wiped his bloodied, tooth-etched hand upon his shirt.  He was clearly irritated as it was, but when the young woman shoved the elder – then called her a female canine, that was more than enough.  Mash showed the girl his backhand.

“Poor kid.” from a distance, the group’s eldest man, murmured, shaking his head at the activity playing out before him.  He and Elam, his younger brother, had been on the outs - again.  “Am I any better than Father’s firstborn!”  He let out a sigh, as he took a seat upon the last bale of soft grasses, which he had, a moment ago, unloaded from a cart.  It was a moot statement, one for which he long knew the answer.  Having turned 800 a decade previous, Seth was beginning to feel his age.  “Thank you, Missy.” he took a draught from a ladle of cool water.  The young woman, one of his great, great, granddaughters, gave the elder a quick curtsey, then darted off, with the implement still in her grasp.  Little did her youngest realize, he was a moment away from receiving a good swat, in recompense for a word he had brayed to his companions, hardly a moment earlier.   Seth stood up, and walked into the crowd.  Saying not a word, yet the elder’s message was clear.  The people departed back to whatever tasks awaited their finishing

A short while later.

“But ma-ahm,” Rachael awoke, her head pounding. She thought she heard a young girl pleading for two or three coppers to buy a story scroll, from a traveling vendor, who was expected to stop at the edge of their village, on his way either to or from town.  Shopping…she recalled, not so long ago, two of their women had entered Lydia’s tabernacle, both had been going on like glorified magpies – the stout one, whom the other woman had called Glor… something, had come to the counter where Rachael had been ready to make a purchase.  Having wanted the lovely scarf, and matching necklace – however, having noticed one making a mock curtsey, Rachael had thought it best to not court trouble. She had exited the shop, and instead had taken her business elsewhere. 

“I said NO!” 

The rebuke, coming from outside the enclosure, jarred Rachael’s ears.  Her senses being enough of muddle under normal circumstances, she, especially now, had to remain focused.  The sound immediately following, was that of a young girl stomping away, but the scene halted on a copper, with the next statement: the mother’s – or perhaps grandmother’s, irritated but calm response, “Young lady, shall I have a word with your father?”

Rachael drifted off; for how long, she knew not.  There was too much human activity to hear nature’s clocks – calls from specific birds and other noises coming from both field and the forest’s edge.  She smelled food being prepared.  Food, she hadn’t a bit of that since yesterday…or had it been the day prior?  She couldn’t recall.   When she was …home.  She batted her eyes.  These people would eat well; of course they would; the gray-haired woman - typical of older Sethite women - had a noticeable wagon wheel around her middle.  Hah!  But the scoff fell flat - like one of those inflatables, which several of the cart vendors used upon Purveyor’s macadamed streets.  Why bother giving food or drink to someone … The warrior’s name was, Jepht somebody; who had followed up with that post-war vow – one those people had started, in the first place.  He had lain his own daughter upon the altar.  

She began to sob.  NO! Stop that, she rebuked herself.  Now THINK!   She looked about the enclosure.  Several moments later, her eyes lit up.  Upon a stand in the darkened space, lay what appeared to be an unfinished embroidery project – the length of cloth was laying atop of what appeared to be a small rectangular sewing basket.  Why hadn’t she noticed that before?  She wanted to reprimand herself, but that could wait.  She attempted to reach for it; after several tries, she had managed to obtain and position a thread cutter between her hands.  Carefully, so as not to drop it – or nick herself, too much, she was able to get the rounded mini-blade to slice into the cord.  Ouch.  It had almost slipped from her.  Back in place, she worked the cutter almost through the leather bind.  Okay, just a bit more...

“I’ll take that, MISSY!”  The woman grabbed the blade with one hand, in the process, scratching Rachael’s palm; and with her other hand, smacked Rachael a good one.  The woman then stomped off, muttering something about youngins wasting time and coppers on stupid stories.  Stories?  Rachael could only conclude the drudge had several pegs loose.  Such was, after all, known to happen to older women, rendered prematurely aged, and unattractive from too much work, apparently no servants, and a scarcity of metal implements.  Enu’s north cousins?  She smirked.  The jibe to Sethite’s borderline inability to work metal - compared to her people’s moderate foundry success; better yet, her people simply purchased their metal goods.  Again, she drifted off, being unable to get around, exhausted, hungry; she had only been given a cup of water – one probably laced with something. 

How much time had passed, she didn’t know.  Neither did she know whether she had been asleep or awake, or in between.  But throughout the day she had heard music.  Stirring, though she didn’t want to admit it.  How such a backward people were able to assemble - and just ever so - stanza after stanza.  Other songs, however, were plain jarring, heavy on horns, pipes, drums, and those clanging bells.  She’d had somewhat of a headache to begin with, and a neighbor’s youngster currently practicing upon a bagpipe, wasn’t helping matters. She had heard their music at the marketplace, where their men, (occasionally a woman in their rag-tag company) when low on coin, would sing and, upon rather cobbled together instruments, would bang, clang and buzz the more popular tunes.  But those songs, compared to the ones she was currently within ear-shot – big difference. 

That was a wedding song.  Which meant people would be preoccupied in making foods, crafting gifts, and otherwise setting up.  With everything going on at once, perhaps a chance for her to make a run for it.  She focused to hear the lyrics, for songs had interchangeable verses; valuable intel could be obtained.  Their marriages – if that is what one wanted to call them – were more about family alliances, than what a marriage should be: a man and a woman who liked each other and wanted to start a family of their own.  She strained her ear, but the incoming line of potentially relevant details, had been cut short by the voices of two passing women going on about some typical family drama   Who cares! Rachael grimaced; but had she stopped listening, she would have missed some, perhaps, useful information, concerning what could be less-than stable alliances. 

There was more, but the details had been drowned out from animal calls erupting from the throats of several boys running past.  Noisy lot.  Unlike her people, who preferred to spend their leisure time, reading and studying, instead of running about, upending things.  Another adult voice had offered potentially valuable intel; Rachael thought she had heard an elder comment about some mess someone had nearly kicked off.   Rachael felt safe enough to conclude, there may be two, if not three, families in attendance, who may be at odds.  Perhaps a fight would break out - typical of these hill people, she smirked.

That would be the moment for Rachael to make hers, to the forest.

“So the LORD scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city.” Genesis 11:8

“And it shall come to pass, while my glory passeth by, that I will put thee in a cleft of the rock, and will cover thee with my hand while I pass by:” Exodus 33:22

“Thou shalt not plant thee a grove of any trees near unto the altar of the LORD thy God, which thou shalt make thee.”  Deuteronomy 16:21

“And there shalt thou build an altar unto the LORD thy God, an altar of stones: thou shalt not lift up any iron tool upon them.  Thou shalt build the altar of the LORD thy God of whole stones: and thou shalt offer burnt offerings thereon unto the LORD thy God:” Deuteronomy 27:5-6

“But unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect.  And Cain was very wroth, and his countenance fell.” Genesis 4:5

“And Jephthah vowed a vow unto the LORD, and said, If thou shalt without fail deliver the children of Ammon into mine hands, Then it shall be, that whatsoever cometh forth of the doors of my house to meet me, when I return in peace from the children of Ammon, shall surely be the LORD’s, and I will offer it up for a burnt offering.” Judges 11:30-31

Family way

This was no kid’s stuff.  Wasn’t like her daughter – she and her husband’s first-born, had swiped a few peaches from off the neighbor’s tree.  Hmmph, Glorianna surmised the long past episode, it surely had been that SueEllen who had put her little girl up to it. Somehow that incident had not reached her husband, Jorg’s ears – and subsequently, nor had he reached for his paddle.  But withholding…THIS from her husband…No, that was bold-faced lying.  Glori had to tell her husband their daughter was … in a family way.  Glori had already left off chiding herself, as to how she hadn’t seen the signs – the looks, which the two youngsters had exchanged, while at their chores.  The young man had been working for Jorg.  The job having been completed, he had gone back to his village. 

Oh brother, the situation was not good – relations between the two patri-families were not that great.  And it looked like, matters were to tumble downhill -fast.  The couple’s boy?  While not knowing the specifics, he knew something was up; he got himself out of there.

“I’m gonna take that gittern of his, and RAM IT through his one ear, and OUT the other.” Jorg raged, “He’s a DEAD man!  Do you hear me!”  The latter wasn’t a question, “DEAD!”

In one arm, Glorianna’s daughter leaned, sobbing, while Glori’s other hand took hold of one of her husband’s clenched fists.  “Jorg, Jorg,” she pleaded, “Please, before you decide anything, please go talk to the Pastor.”  She continued, “Please, that’s all I ask.”  The enraged sovereign muttered a few choice words, concerning the … THIEF, he then left his holdings.  Mother and daughter, both sobbing upon each other’s shoulder, sank to the floor.

A short while later

“NO!  Roxanna’s too young.” Glorianna had countered her husband’s decision. 

“NO?”

She backed up a step, from her husband’s narrow-eyed reaction to his wife’s outburst. “Bu-but, can we not raise the child as our own.”  She pleaded.

Jorg’s eyes softened – for he was not blind to the disappointment which had washed over his wife’s face, around this time, over the past several months.  His wife longed for a baby, but so far…  It wasn’t like the two of them hadn’t been trying. 

“Glori, our grandbaby, has a mother – and a father.”

Elsewhere in Paeton Place

“Trouble in the flesh, I tell you, trouble in the flesh.”  The woman chided someone whom Rachael could not see; nor could she hear the response over the clinking of a flint-tipped pastry fork within a glazed bowl.  Flint… Rachael scoffed.  The old battleaxe continued, “IS there not one of your cousins?”  The response was muffled by the sound of two or three rambunctious children asking for something to eat.  Then, on a copper, the old bat waxed all cooey and gushy toward the little ones.  Hmmph! Rachael huffed.  Even baboon mothers are all lovey-dovey toward their babies.  From outside, she heard two boys, who were evidently racing toward somewhere; the winner would get to play the cresty and the loser, the bird lizard.  Or was it the other way around?  Either way, the boys’ “EEEEEE” was almost enough to run her blood cold – as if she wasn’t already chilled enough.  After that “bath,” where several of their women had unceremoniously stripped her of her clothing, and literally dumped her into a wooden tub of not even tepid water.  Word was, they usually just bathed in the creek – like BABOONS.  Keep the spirit up, Rachael; get to the forest, and, maybe, live.  But for how long, with only someone else’s shift upon her back – one two sizes too big – and no shoes upon her feet.  Her things?  They could be anywhere.

“GOIK, GOIK.” bird lizard challenged cresty.  The two boys quickly moved off elsewhere, after one had knocked over something..

They were out there too.  Though neither creature ascended into trees - but bobcats and snakes did.

Both had to be about Egbert’s, her half-brother’s age.  Tears trickled down her cheeks, she’d never see him again.  By tomorrow she would be ashes and bone chunks, after that horrible god of theirs - with his metal issues – would have had his fill, her remains would be allowed to cool, only to be safely dumped into a field, or into the midden.  PAY ATTENTION!  The voice inside her head was that of her former school master.  And, maybe, live. The inaudible voice was her own.

“GIT yer MITTS oudda there!” Rachael about jumped upon hearing the snap of a wooden implement striking someone’s knuckles. “Oowwlll!  But, Mamma, I’m faamished.”  The full-grown man’s voice whined a bit.

Mash’s voice.

Now things were beginning to make some sense.  She would be the sacrifice to their bloody god, so he and the unfortunate parcel could start their…hah…marriage.  Who cares!  I’ll either be fertilizer, or rubbish.    She started to sob.  Stop.

“Mamma, what’s the problem?”

Rachael’s mind, perhaps in an all-out effort to remain calm and sane – to remain alive - strained to hear the dialog. Perhaps, her break could come earlier; while they were at table stuffing their faces.  Perhaps, enough light would let into the enclosure, and she could look around; for on the other side of the stand, sat a basket.  One she might, be able to grasp, if she could nudge it toward her, using the top of her foot – then bring it closer, using both.  What was in there?  A cloak, another cutter, a knife?  Maybe, her mother’s lyre – the thieves – perhaps, a few gemstones.  Wait!  She realized, the Depot isn’t too far off, about ten furlongs (just over a mile)?  Catch the caravan, get into town; surely someone has need for a copyist – a good job that pays, even enough to hire a servant to do the cooking, cleaning, and the other menial stuff.    She felt light-headed. Her muddled thoughts wandered in the direction of a song a group of children were currently singing; she strained to hear the melody.  Was it not the same one she and her cousins would sing?  She continued to listen.  Yes, the song described twelve plants – two of them were for healing, while the other ten were poisonous.

“The problem??” the woman’s voice lowered, as if in an effort to keep her temper.  She then repeated, “The PROBLEM is:” she hesitated, as if to make sure, she had her son’s full, undivided attention. “I don’t want no little Eegggberrrts or Wa-whiilllhelms running around here.  THAT’S the problem!” 

“But and if thou marry, thou hast not sinned; and if a virgin marry, she hath not sinned.  Nevertheless such shall have trouble in the flesh; but I spare you.” I Corinthians 7:28

SCRIPTURE about the evil report from the ten

Wild space cadets

The Final was being moved up.  No big surprise, but still… The testing was supposed to be later in the season.  One of the cadets had a sketchy idea – and it had something to do with Sir Jorg.  Here of late, the man had been hard-lining he and the other guys, like nobody’s business.  Went beyond the numerous laps, and being called “Maggot,” along with various other terms of endearment – a few denoting women’s anatomy. The cadet was more than his usual sore – those extra push-ups; for what!  Reporting a moment late…what th’ sheol!  He was determined to pass - and then, man to man, he was going to pop Jorg, right square in his snout. 

He flinched, it was as if Sir Jorg had read his mind; the man’s countenance seemed to respond with a “Try me, you little MAGGOT!”

His buddy appeared to have backed away an index or two (about ¾ of an inch).  Not that he could blame the guy.  Yesterday, while targeting – that was right after having run the best end of a zillion furlongs – his companion had missed a shot.  A long-distance one, but, evidently, didn’t matter – a wasp’s sting was no excuse.  His fellow cadet, Douglas, had received a backhand in the face, for his efforts.  Jorg called him “Lady Douglas.”  Harsh.

“Alright, listen up.  Tomorrow, another BOY,” Jorg emphasized the latter, “will be joining your team.”

It went unsaid to either they, or their instructor, the specific set of unfamiliar challenges, this Final would pose – not that any Final was expected to written upon a scroll, unfurled and followed from right to left.

“And may I remind you, LADIES… it’s perilous out there.”  Jorg hesitated, for a brief moment, then continued.  “No margin for any roughhousing.”  He paused again.  “Do I make myself clear!”  The latter, a statement, not a question.  He then added, with a wink, “There will be time enough for that, when you’ve returned.”  He then added, “in one piece, Most High God, willing.”

A short while later, Bear had just gotten off perimeter duty.  He was hungry.  Among his fellows, he had about worn out his dinner card.  Wait, his mind lit up.  He hadn’t stopped in to see Jorg, his buddy, for…well, almost a week.  The hazy orb above, was making its way toward the horizon.  The man quickened his pace. 

As Jorg’s wife, Glorianna, made ready a second helping, both her husband and their … dinner guest – as if, she didn’t already have enough on her plate.  Her little girl, Roxanna, was having supper at a friend’s house - probably the last time she would see…it was all Glori could do to keep herself together.   The two men were discussing the upcoming, and untimely, Final.  “That’s going to be brutal.”  Bear guffawed.   Glori’s lips pressed.  Wasn’t her business.  The conversation continued.  “Will serve as a lesson to others, and recompense, for taking … liberties.” 

Being occupied with her own affairs, it took Glori a moment to realize who this cadet was – her unborn grandbaby’s father.  He was also two or three years away from the age when most young men would undergo the Final.  No longer able to forbear, she turned from the counter.  “You think it funny??” She glared at the two; the third at table, her son, turned his head, the lad, wanted no parts – period!  “Well, it’s not.”  She was on a roll, “That’s my grandbaby’s …”

“WOMAN, IS there NOT a distaff, needing wound?” Jorg, irritated with the intrusion, pulled rank.

“Whell…” Glori left the plates and cups, and went elsewhere to compose herself.

Garden party

“Not to put too fine a point,” heads turned. “an eleven month calendar.”  Eyes widened, jaws dropped.  “Puh, more like ten,” another chortled.  One of the tea guests, almost dropped her cup.  “HAH,” Sarai, their hostess, bellowed, “bet Sir Jorg has his sharpened.”  Several titters ensued.  The eldest woman in attendance, the village healer, was not amused.  Deftly, but subtly, she drew the napkin from her lap and dabbed away the scowl which had attempted to cross her lips.  As with any incomplete calendar, likewise with gossip - not that the missing details were anyone’s business, outside the family.  What had the healer upset was the fact – one that any girl, over the age of twenty, would at least be partially aware – thirty-four was simply too young - period.  The healer’s ears perked at a statement one of the other women made, concerning the girl’s mother.   The old healer, now composed, spoke.  “Glorianna has every good reason to be worried, there could be problems.”   She left off other details: namely, the girl was already having trouble keeping things down - just like her mother had.  The difference: Glorianna had been in her early forties - a good age to begin motherhood.  Wagging tongues ceased, all eyes were upon the old woman, who had delivered them into the world – and, sadly, more than a few mothers and children, had departed into the next.

“Wwhhell,” one of the other ladies interjected, “THIS, is where lineage-mixing ends up.”  She then added, “None of it in MY family!”  The others politely allowed Athaliah’s exaggerated statement to pass.  “Give it time!” Sarai murmured, then she arose to meet another woman who was entering the yard.  “And I was so looking forward to a work-free afternoon,” one of the women sighed - the wedding would be a private affair, in the house of either the bride’s parents, or the groom’s people.  “Drats!” an auntie murmured, for the similar reason; she continued, “I love weddings.”  She then went on about an upcoming shopping trip, where she planned to restock her bag of gifts.  “Mamma?” a little girl queried, “Will there be a baby-shower?”  Her mother shook her head.  “But whhhyyy?” the child frowned.  “I’ll explain when you’re older.” the girl’s mother whispered, then admonished the child to be quiet while grown-ups were talking.  

Sarai reached for a crumpet, but changed her mind for the plate would soon need a refill.  Where is that girl, the hostess pursed her lips.   “I tell you,” Sarai, began unfurling a table scarf, “I will be lucky to get seven coppers for…for THIS!”  Question marks settled upon the faces of two or three women, who were at a loss to what the delicate embroidery represented.  “Mark my words,” Sarai added, “I’m taking it out of her…her board.”  The new arrival then motioned Sarai, to step away from the group.  She whispered, “Seven coppers?  Sarai’s lips tightened into a mix between a scowl and a frown.  The woman continued, “Sister,” she pointed to the designs, “more like a gold piece.”  Sarai’s sister then flipped the length over to show both sides were identical.  “Who would exchange a gold piece for…this?” Sarai scoffed. 

“Enoch U, ring any bells?”

The two sisters rejoined the other ladies.  One of the guests was going on about a recently woven dress, and the missed opportunity to put on. “Oh, you’ll be sporting those lovely panels soon enough,” Sarai assured her, then added, “just two and a half weeks, and she will no longer be my problem.” 

Athaliah wasn’t finished, she cocked her head, drawing attention to yet another arrival.  “A bit underdressed?”  She and a woman sitting nearby, snickered and stared at the woman’s ill-fitting castoff garment.  In her hand, she carried an oaken bucket laden with fruit.  Their eyes and ears perked at the drama about to unfold; the borderline overaged maiden was late, and would surely rue the time she had, evidently, spent dawdling.  “That’s her,” a little girl pointed, and whispered to her cousin, “the princess.”  The other child wasn’t quite following; the first girl clarified, “The one in the story, where the Duke brings her a heeled slipper to try on.”  Both girls, now giddy with anticipating the gentleman’s arrival, were then hushed by their respective mothers or grandmothers.

“Where were you?” Sarai spoke with a low growl.

Rachael blanched, knowing she was in trouble – again.

While she toiled away, between cutting the fruits with one of those flint knives, serving refills, gathering up and washing crockery, the social continued.  Bits and pieces of conversation drifted her way.  “Well, from I understand, he has quite the singing voice.”  Another interjected, “Who seduced whom?”  A chorus of titters ensued.  A few more bits and pieces, had been enough to connect the dots.  The young father-to-be was one of her cousins!

Oh brother!  Rachael’s work-weary eyes shot wide open. That explained why she hadn’t seen Sarai’s son.  She had been hearing battle music, but during the previous evening, the instruments were not merely individual, but orchestrated.  He and his companions were preparing for war.  Why couldn’t he keep it in his robe!   Did he not know he had committed high theft?  She trembled, for her cousin, who, if not already, would be putting aside his gittern – and taking up a spear.  He didn’t stand a chance, against these …

She looked around the pantry area.  The old baboon was a walking abacus.  Anything out of order, she would notice.  But Rachael’s situation left her no choice, but to … to steal.  Parked in a corner was a bowl, containing several dates and, nearby, a loaf end.  She slipped the foods and an old cutting blade – sheathing it in a rag she pulled from the waste bin – into the work satchel she had tied about her waist.   She had previously found her sandals, and had managed to, at least temporarily, repair the strap.  Thirty-three furlongs to the edge of her village, at high moon, a night’s journey – if she didn’t end up in the belly of something amidst the trees.  It was a glaring matter of tonight, or never; there was no two ways about it, she had to warn her people.

“But on the seventh day is the sabbath of the LORD thy God; in it thou shalt not do any work, thou, nor thy son, nor thy daughter, thy manservant, nor thy maidservant, nor thy cattle, nor thy stranger that is whin thy gates:” Exodus 20:10

“But Abram said unto Sarai, Behold, thy maid is in thy hand; do to her as it pleaseth thee.  And when Sarai dealt hardly with her, she fled from her face.”  Genesis 16:6

The dark glade

Not far into the woods – some five or six furlongs - she had encountered a dire wolf, but apparently – and thankfully – she wasn’t his type.  The hazy orb emitted enough light to reveal what the animal was after.  Soon enough, there would be two or three young pups running about this area.  Twenty-eight-some remaining.  So far, so good; the night birds upon the branches, and small creatures rambling in the bushes continued their all-clear calls to their fellows.  Another two furlongs, twenty-six and change to go.  Then the night noises began to change in pitch and frequency. She began to feel that prickly sensation in the back of her head and neck.  This wasn’t good.  To speed up would be futile – especially with the mists beginning to moisten the leafy ground. 

“Ja-ja, ge-ge.”  The noise emitted from behind some underbrush not too far ahead, then another such call – coming more to her left side.  Pack lizards were small - but unlike their plumper cousins, who lived easy upon cultivated bounty – were quick and vicious; they had to be, in a forest which concealed other – and larger - predators. The third one had been the first to lunge, and, in recompense, received a good jab with the business end of her pointed stick – one which she had prepared in between lugging baskets of laundry to the creek.   It took off.  The second one lay motionless, blood oozed from its torso.  Another showed up, she managed to get another jab but missed.  Another one turned tail, but was replaced by three others.  Her arm felt like an anvil, and stung like a shower of molten fragments.  These creatures weren’t the typical lotus-eaters – the bane of every housewife. One bit her in the calf, as she plunged the stick into its gaping yap.  Another jumped upon her lower back, knocking her off balance.  The stick flew out of her hand.  She fell to the ground, and curled into a ball.   

A father’s intuition

Over here! one man signaled to his companions, he then grumbled an unspoken, I knew it.  A torn remnant from his son’s outer shirt fluttered upon a bush, not far within the tree-line.  Three sets of young footprints lead straight into the forest.  His boy, and the son of one of the three other men, had been acting strangely, here of late – as if they were planning something.  But THIS??   Oh yeah, that boy wouldn’t be sitting for a full week, after he got through with him. A dreadful thought, immediately followed: that is, if he, and two other boys, are still alive.  The other father was thinking likewise.  The men continued searching and listening to the night sounds – before them, beside and coming from behind them.  Tracking through the glade – especially, at night – was only done out of necessity.

All ears perked at a rustling to their left.  Just a tree rodent, who was munching around, then took off elsewhere to round his late-night dining.  All was well – so far.  More footprints, this far into the glade. They were a good three and a half furlongs from their village.  That boy of his really done this time; the man parked his temper – now wasn’t the time. The father of one of the young men - who had passed into full-manhood during the previous evening’s Return Ceremony - held up his hand, giving a signal.  The party halted, motionless, they listened to some rustling up ahead.  From out of nowhere, a bobcat lunged, knocking one of the men to the ground.  Before taking the fall, however, he had managed to spear the beast.  It lay up against a bush, writhing in pain - blood pouring from its shoulder.  The lodged spear swinging this way, and that.  The injured man, bleeding from his forearm, grabbed hold of his spear and yanked it free of the creature’s ribcage. Its growls faded to whimpers. He then finished off the creature – putting to silence the tinkling dinner-bell.  Still, enough of the signal had gotten out. 

The party continued.  Around them, nightbirds continued their activities.  So far, no diners within vantage. Another remnant, a broken sling – it belonged to the other boy.  His father put in his pouch.  A twig snapped, followed by others.  The men made ready.  A branch turned, from behind it, a young head appeared, followed by two others. Daddy, Daddy the boys whispered in unison to their respective fathers.  We routed ‘em! one of the boys signaled, raising his spear – upon the projectile and down the haft, was a goodly portion of drying blood and flesh.  A fourth person, an adult maiden, was among the boys – scratched and bleeding, her raiment was a wreck. 

The two parties joined up, and headed back.  From behind them, came the sound of three hyenas, partaking of the slain bobcat – a fight, for the premium portions, was breaking out among them. The men, boys and the girl quickened their pace, as best as who were injured, were able.  The men knew their healer would be busy for the remainder of the night, and into the following day.

Mean mamma

Sarai was beside herself.  Her plans for her son were ON!  She about danced around her pantry while preparing lunch for her sister, and that cute-as-a-button little niece of hers.  “He won’t want her anymore.” Sarai, grinning, placed a tray of open-faced sandwiches before her guests.  “Our healer says the scratches will fade, but the gashes on her shoulder, the one on her back and…” she hesitated, then, with a smirk, continued, “And the one along the side of her forehead, and running down right alongside her cheek...”  The woman then made a mock frown, then popped a tea cookie into her mouth. “Will leave scars.” Sarai then reached for another sandwich, chewing it, triumphantly.  She then added, “Quite noticeable.” 

Meanwhile, her sister had barely touched her food.  The woman’s dry lips tightened; she took a sip of her beverage, and swallowed her thoughts long enough to change the subject.  But to small avail.  Neither did she care to state the ongoing obvious.  Lamech’s maiden sister was interested in someone else – the maiden’s father, Methuselah, had recently began negotiations, with the man’s father.  Sarai’s sister, however, hoped the wedding wouldn’t take place too soon, for her gift-bag was running low, and she would need currency to replenish; her husband was a bit of a tight-wad – but there are ways around that.  She grinned, then reached for a fruit slice.

Sarai wasn’t done yet. 

Oh brother, her sister sighed, if Sarai didn’t keep her…well, nasty comments within the boundaries of her late husband’s holdings…Earlier in the day, she had been running that dragon’s beak of hers to one of the neighbors.  By now…

“Sarai…PLEASE!!”

“Oh what!”  Sarai let out a bellow, then continued.  “The problem would have been a done deal,” the woman grimaced, “Would have, if those boys hadn’t...”  Sarai reached for another dainty.

“Sarai,” her sister stood to her feet, “I must be getting along.”  As the woman and little girl left the property, making their way toward home, she heard some dreadfully off-key singing, coming from the common area, outside the council house.  Lawrence, a neighbor, had been put into the seat again - figures.   Of all days, the woman didn’t need to be reminded, the stocks would, come sunset, be vacant, washed down, - the surrounding area cleaned up of rinds and other…ugh - and all made ready for the next transgressor.  Two or three children, upon seeing a grown-up’s approach, scattered, dropping their payloads of rotted ordnance.  As the woman and her daughter neared the common area, the somewhat off-color ditty stopped in mid verse.  She was relieved, for the verse was not one for children.  Larry was out like a light.   Mother and daughter continued, passing two men who were both spearing the rinds, and shaking them off into a wheel barrow.   A sudsy bucket sat upon a nearby stump, a rag peeked from the container; alongside sat a bristle-brush.   From across the path, a young boy, let out a cry, from his mother having taken a hickory branch to the back of his robe.  “Young man, that was NOT nice.” The strike had dislodged two or three rinds, from a fold within the boy’s raiment.  

Bear cave

Meanwhile, a few holdings over, Bear was replacing torn feathers from the haft of a lance.   From outside, a set of footfalls approached, then the equally familiar rap upon the lattice panel, which ran alongside his cluttered table.  Mash took a seat, resting his arms upon the surface.  A scowl momentarily washed over his face, he lifted his right forearm, then wiped the residue onto the side of his trousers.   A small animal ran alongside the counter of what was supposed to be the pantry, and came away with an insect – one which had been focused upon a banquet of days old crumbs.  Bear was oblivious.  Mash hadn’t eaten, but considering the typical surroundings, he wasn’t hoping for any offers of refreshment – not that any was typically offered.

“What’s up?” Bear continued working upon the lance.

“Nothing much.”  Mash didn’t want to let on.  Still, his ears were ringing.  His mother’s offer of a gold coin; one she had, evidently, found while cleaning, or something – or so, until recently, he had assumed.  One to take into town and satisfy a certain need.  That mommy would know of such things, her words had shocked him.  At the same time, however, she was right, he did have needs.  But taking mommy’s money?  That was a no go – for any reason.  There were grown sons who continued sponging off their mother’s provisions, but he wasn’t one of them.  Town had more than a few of those types. Purveyors…  His eyes lit up, recalling a previous transaction – one, which for some reason, he had forgotten.  To his delight, he did have sufficient coin.  He needed a diversion – from the past week or so, which had seemed to play out like a hastily written third-rate drama.  Three or four of the young men went out, but only two or three had returned. 

“There’s a chariot race.”  He swatted yet another insect; the pavilion was full of them - any wonder.  “Ya gone?”

“Dunno yet.”

Mash then briefed a rundown about several of the drivers, and the extra seating had, finally, been erected, plus an expanded concession area.   Last time, the two – and another guy – had been to the races, they had wanted to get something to eat, but had waited too long into the second half; by that time, the few stands hadn’t much left to sell – Cainites…

“Welp,” Mash then arose, “Got things to deal with.” Mash spit on his hand, and wiped the remainder of sticky residue from the back of his wrist. “Later-gater.”  In departing, he took care to avoid a certain - mushy floorboard.

He walked past the healer’s house.  He had stopped by, a day earlier, but the old woman had stood at the front lattice, with besom in one hand, the other, holding out the underside of her palm to his face - and that distinct scowl, etched amid the wrinkles upon her lower face.  Jorg’s property stood ahead and to his right, but for the time being, was a no-stop.  Glorianna’s table was empty of foods, and would remain so, until the day following the next – when the couple returned from Elam’s settlement.  Even so, Mash had no intentions on placing any additional burdens upon his friend’s wife; the woman would certainly need space to grieve the imposed distance between she and her daughter – who now lived with her husband’s people.  Hardly a watch’s worth of a distance, by wagon.  However, with everyday tasks, might as well be a long journey. 

Even so, Mash was resolute in staying away, for a while, especially since Jorg having inadvertently mentioned something about a disagreement between he and Glorianna.  But it was the law – “and the wife will just have to get over it.”   Bear was right, they’re more trouble than they’re worth.  His stomach began to growl.  Mash then remembered the almost half loaf he had in his pantry.  He quickened his pace, for he had been busy, and hadn’t yet eaten that day.  He entered his typically orderly abode.  Typically, in order - but not today.  It took him, but a moment, to notice, amid the crumbs and upended effects, he hadn’t secured the food hamper – which explained, while he had been out, at least one uninvited guest had called.  He scratched his beard, how is it, Mommy can leave her always well stocked kitchen, for the entire day, come back, and nothing is disturbed. 

Between muttering a few off-page words, here and there, he cleaned up the mess, wiped everything down, took a besom to the raised planked floor; taking care to sweep the residue out from the pantry, and not simply into the gaps, where small critters would feast, and make more work in the long run - namely, come next season, having to replace the boards.  All done, he washed his hands and face.  His stomach nagged again.  He turned, and headed for his garden.  Some, not many, but enough, weeds had taken root.  He pulled out two or three carrots – they were barely passable, having been in the ground too long.  The potatoes, however, weren’t any better, for the same reason.  Bringing the produce to his table, he took a seat, reached for the racing bulletin - and then, “rrripp.”  The elbow of his robe had given way. It was enough to do the things he needed done, but – on top of men’s typical responsibilities - keeping after house, garden – and raiment… 

This was getting old.

Mark from a beast

Mash glanced up from his bowl, now empty.  He glanced around at his orderly surroundings.  Everything complete, except…Still hungry, he arose, and peered into a clay vessel.  Nuts!  Only a few remained.  The apples and a few pears he had gathered, from trees which grew in the common area, were gone.  Having pulled a sentry double, and then an unexpected something else had demanded his time.  What remained of the lettuce, which grew in his garden, had waxed tough and bitter, and should have been harvested days earlier.  Looking out over his backyard, several bloomless stems caught his vision. From the corner of his eye, a turkey lizard, ducked under a hedge – with a blossom in its beak,

Little monsters…he checked himself. The cubit and a span sized creatures were not mutants; they were animals, just going about their business. Besides, they kept down the snakes – while somehow managing to keep back their glade-dwelling cousins.  Snakes…bruh, what use… He again checked himself.  Snakes, kept down the rodents.  He glanced toward his pantry area.  All was in order.  Lifting his elbow, he glanced at the sleeve, and had second thoughts of having turned down his mother’s offer to mend it.  Mamma had enough on her plate.  The stitches were holding…for now.  Within a week, keeping after pantry and garden would no longer be his problem - nor would the time-grabbing washing and mending of raiment. 

The scar, which ran alongside the girl’s forehead, and extended near her cheek, had changed his desire to claim her as his wife.   Marks were also likely etched upon her arms and legs – if not other places.  He didn’t know, though he had seen her from a distance as she went about her tasks.  Her garment’s sleeves extended to her wrists; its hem covered her feet.  Aside of the usual head covering, she wore a scarf around her neck – evidently, even during high noon.  Surely, the girl had to have been aware a family of pack lizards had staked their territory in that part of the forest.  Who didn’t know better than to not venture in there alone?  Bear, having led a group of several young men, to do a recon, said they hadn’t spotted any remaining – at least for the time being. 

A war?  He chuckled at the girl’s misunderstanding, but then checked himself.  How was she to know, the difference between Return songs and those calling to battle?   Women and girls only attended the function long enough to serve the food, and then return the following morning to gather the eating and drinking vessels, wipe down the tables, and clean up the area. Another thought entered his mind.  Did momma not tell her?  The question gave way to another – one that startled him.  Mom having kept close tabs on EVERYTHING – he still hadn’t forgotten the time he had borrowed one of her, kitchen slicers, and had neglected to first ask; his backside had been sore for days.  Did mamma not miss whatever items the girl had pouched; did mamma not notice the sandals gone from whatever place she had stashed them?   NO!  He recoiled, mamma would NEVER enable, in such an underhanded manner, the girl’s escape into the glade.

One thing was clear: Rachael had fled in order to warn her people; she had to have known, the probable outcome; of not making it out the other side, to where the one end of her village bordered Gnarly Nightmare - a stretch of land, her people had long since left off from cultivating.  To defend her people…how much more so, their future sons and daughters. 

Mamma didn’t want her in the family?  Too bad!  Mamma would have to get over it.

Mamma dragon

Hardly a sixth of a furlong (110 feet) into the glade, the canopy was already thick, blocking out the late afternoon light.  Where was that boy?   Moments earlier, while visiting at the common area, she had seen him playing near the tree line; she had called, but he had, evidently, engaged his selective hearing.  He couldn’t be far off, for she had wasted no time in dashing across the green.  Glorianna chirped a shill call – that would get the boy’s attention.  A rustle ahead, followed by snapping twigs, her seven year old appeared.  His countenance deflated, for his plan, to slay the pack dragon, which he had spotted while playing near the glade’s edge – and give those older boys the what-for - was now completely foiled.  He knew he was in big trouble.   

She lunged forward, with one hand, she grabbed up the boy.  His pointed stick, fell to the side.  With her other hand, she latched onto it, for this was no area to be without a weapon.    Not having anticipated a search and rescue, the only other line of defense was a small blade within its sheath upon her belt.  She took off running toward the forest’s edge.  From behind her, she thought she had heard a “ja-gee,” but wasn’t about to investigate.  Having reached the safety of the clearing, she set her boy on his feet, handed him his spear, sank to her knees, and hugged the child – perhaps a bit too tight.  Her eyes, now watering like the brook – during the high-mists – glanced skyward.  “Thank you.”  On a copper, she then grasped her son around his mid torso, and swatted him a good one.  The proud warrior, still holding his spear, struggled to not cry out. 

The episode - and her reprimand - now behind them, she led her young warrior to a nearby stump, upon which she took a seat, while her son danced about, making practice aims.  His attention was then drawn away from his maneuvers; another boy, wielding a stick in a similar manner, came running over.  Permission to take leave granted, he took off with his brother-in-arms.  Glorianna sat, taking in the pleasant – and safe – surroundings.  Again, looking skyward, she mouthed another, Thank You, Most High God.   The shade from a nearby tree had inched across one shoulder, and part of her lap.  Wanting to feel the sun’s warmth, and be under its light, she moved to the trunk’s opposite side. 

“You okay?”

Her friend, Peninnah, took a seat alongside, but spoke not a word.

“He never before paid any mind to” Glori extended her index finger; she hesitated, then continued, “that was, until…”  Peninnah, placed an arm around her friend’s shoulder.  She then stood to her feet, “I said NO trees,” Peninnah called out to her little girl – around the child’s elbow, was a sizable bandage.  Peninnah rejoined her friend, “If girls are easier to raise, it’s only by a margin.”

Both women relished the spare moments, before calling their children and heading home to start the evening meal. They watched the activity around them, much of it from the common area.  At one of the tables, two elderly women were joined by another – who was about a century younger.  Around another table an extended family was gathering to celebrate whatever milestone.  As more of them arrived – typically, more than expected – four of the young men picked up a neighboring table and joined the two.  Whatever was in one of the several baskets, smelled inviting.  Moments later, someone from outside the family, stopped over, just for a quick chat.  The dusty old gentleman was offered both a seat, and refreshment.  

Glori and Peninnah just shook their heads, grinning.  Both knew that was going to happen.

Bits and pieces of the lively conversation drifted toward the two women, who were still taking in their free moments. “These are divine,” one of the celebrants held up a small loaf.  “What are they called?” came another voice. “Hot packets.”  The voice then added, “Stepmother’s recipe.”

I’m surprised Bear hasn’t happened along yet.”  The two tittered at the remark.  “Oh, speaking of that race,” Peninnah, bringing up a certain topic – one having nothing to do with which charioteer had come in either first, or second, place - took a swat at a (raisin sized) gnat, then continued, “I’m sorry for busting off my beak about that, earlier.”  She continued, “I didn’t know your son-in-law was involved.”  The bug didn’t take the hint, and ended up squashed in Glori’s hand. “Don’t be,” she then continued, “when ya bark at the big dogs...”  The two arose, bumping together their hips and shoulders - a ladies’ high-five.   “He’ll live.” Glori half stifled a chortle, then added, “and so will that other guy, with him.”  A bird flew past the two friends.  “Hey little birdie, tweet, tweet, tweet.”  The two chuckled.  Glori tugged at her bosom, sliding a folded parchment back in place.  

Making ready to depart to their respective houses, they called their children from their games, to head home.  “Speaking of outsiders,” Glori raised her eyebrows, cocking her head in the direction of one of the joined tables. “Miss Dainty Drapes.” Peninnah completed her friend’s statement, concerning the somewhat overdressed Elamite, who was chatting with a similarly dressed Elamite matron.  The festivities behind them, one said to the other, “Laying all jokes aside, that girl is gonna need a few lessons on how things roll around here.”  Another high-five, followed by mirth.

A few weeks later

The sun had just sunk below the horizon.  Somewhere, a neighbor, who had been strumming melodies upon a viol, had begun playing a particular song – one fairly well known among the tribes and sub-tribes who lived in the region.  At around the second or third stanza, Bear - who was feeling, rather glum – headed to his, rather ramshackle home; the place suited him just fine.  He missed his buddy – everything had been just dandy; that was, until … until she had to come along – the THIEF!!!  That’s what they did, that’s about all they were good for – separating friends.  He paused, turned around and glanced in the direction of Mash’s house.  Things were different now. He had to admit to himself, that woman put on a fine table, he reminded himself - per a recent look upon the wife of one of his cousins - not to wear upon his welcome.  There his companion had sat at table – one graced with an embroidered cloth of heavy cotton. Not only that, Mash was also wearing a fresh robe - and midweek worship hadn’t been until the following evening!

The song in progress was joined by the light tapping of someone’s tabor. Bear really didn’t want to hear it, but could not help but to listen.  His friend’s voice was a tenor; that overly curvaceous she-bandit’s, a middle soprano - she had a beautiful voice, no two ways around that one.  The stanza stirred a memory from about a year or two previous; at the time, Bear hadn’t paid much attention to his friend’s “her voice” comment. While Bear didn’t much think about women, his preference was toward slender ones.  And certainly, not some almost century-old maiden – red banner, as far as he was concerned. 

Bear entered his abode.  One of the lattices, not quite erect leaned against another – and let in a goodly patch of night sky.  He’d have to fix that, for the mists, coming up from the ground, had long began munching away at a bottom corner – a part of which had already separated, and lay against the moist ground.  Munching.  The noises were then followed by the crash of a ceramic bowl.  A young rodent jumped off the table, and took off into the night.  More than a few insects flew around on the inside of his chamber curtains, for the airy fabric had rends from both mishandling, and from lack of washings.   The state of things didn’t bother the man in the least; hardly a moment had passed, he was asleep.

The rodent scampered to a neighboring pantry.  Still hungry for a free meal, the cubit sized (a half yard) creature sniffed as he approached a planked board, held up by two cross beams.  Nothing, except maybe a crumb or two, but hardly worth the bother.  What was this?  The creature’s mind queried.  There had always been at least a bread crust, a few pulpy seeds, a juicy core here or there upon which to casually dine.  What changed?  For this dwelling had been among the rodent’s stops, but the last several visits had yielded, basically, the best end of nothing.   He scampered off, not bothering to mark the territory, for this quiet, relatively competition-free area had become a food desert.  The young rodent, was becoming experienced enough to notice, that whenever a female biped came to dwell within the territory of a male’s, the free buffets were no longer to be found upon or beneath table. 

“Marriage is honourable in all, and the bed undefiled: but whoremongers and adulterers God will judge.” Hebrews 13:4

Change up

Roxanna didn’t like the dress.  Though the fabric came from Lydia’s, it was stiff.  Not only that, being well into her second trimester, her condition was becoming obvious.  It wasn’t so much the bump in her middle; the fabric’s panels were generous.  The bodice, however, proclaimed a different story.  One she had heard whispered, as she went about her daily tasks.  Letting them loose, hurt; binding them up, drew looks - followed by sidelong glances, and whispers.  Didn’t take an abacus to do the math.

What had changed?  She asked herself time and again.  Part of it, she could only reason, had been the Final.  Seeing that theropod, one the height of two men, with teeth a span’s length – and some…  That would rearrange anyone’s mindset.  She hoped the child growing within her, was a girl – and so be spared...  Richard, of course, hoped for a boy…right, to grow up, walk into a Final?  Whatever had remained of Douglass, his companions had buried…out there – buried quickly.  Daddy had sure been broke up about it; she recalled Mamma patting his hand, while he just sat there at table, more or less, staring into space, barely touching his food.

No, there was more to this.  People don’t just switch up, on a copper.  “Rich and Roxy” carved into a tree, back home…  Her eyes began to water – a watercolor canvas left outside, during the high mists.  It wasn’t the onion, of which she had just sliced; the knife was metal.  Where do they get the coin for this kind of stuff?  She rolled her eyes, easy fix.  She began peeling the skins from the radishes. 

How did I get myself in this mess! 

Sacrifice (950)

The young white lamb’s head lay pillowed up against Rachael’s hip.  She was sitting on the ground cross legged upon an old blanket.  In front her, sat a pile of green beans, she was snapping and tossing into a pot.  At her other side, she and Mash’s first-born, William, fidgeted a bit; he did not want to take his nap.  The four-year old had been chasing a groundhog, which had taken up residence beneath a nearby stump’s gnarled roots – one which, Mash, her husband, had planned to uproot and remove, but an unforeseen matter had grabbed his time.  The stump would have to wait until the day following the morrow, for it was growing late in the day.   Mash, having returned from doing whatever needed done, could only shake his head, for he did not want to steal his wife’s joy; she adored the little cutie, who followed her about her daily tasks.

He was confident that young William would be okay come the evening, when the sun’s hazy orb was about to set on the horizon.  While the boy was too young to understand why an innocent young lamb had to be bound and lain upon a bed of hay overlaying a layer of kindling and wood, atop an edifice of unhewn grayish stone, the youngster was mature enough to know that even grownups had to do things they didn’t always want to do – because the Most High God said so.  The youngster’s snore reached Mash’s ears, while he passed on his way to his shed.  However, he wasn’t quite as confident, concerning his wife.  During the previous year, while on their way up the hill, Rachael, holding in one arm the lamb, her other arm had reached around William – who insisted on walking, “Ima BIG boy!”  She had snatched him up, as if she was one of those ground-birds, who dwelt in the south plains, where men did not.  She then had taken off running downhill.  The rescue op, of course had been halted in its unshod tracks, somewhere between himself and gathered witnesses; one of them, his mother – she hadn’t been pleased.   

The following evening was not one which Mash was looking forward.  Slicing an innocent creature’s throat and watching its life flow into a vessel, while his son would likely hide his face in the skirts of his sobbing mother.  But he had to do, because The Most High says so.

“And Abel, he also brought of the firstlings of his flock and of the fat thereof.  And the LORD had respect unto Abel and to his offering:” Genesis 4:4

“And if thou wilt make me an altar of stone, thou shalt not build it of hewn stone: for if thou lift up thy tool upon it, thou hast polluted it.  Neither shalt thou go up by steps unto mine altar, that thy nakedness be not discovered thereon.” Exodus 20:25-26

About 5 years later (955)

“CAN IT!!” Chief Cainan barked, then followed up with a pound from his gavel.  The motion had been seconded, and if those two clowns sitting in the back didn’t like it, they could kick rocks!  The old chief paused a moment, his great great-grandson, Headman Methuselah, had a point – perhaps Council needed to appoint a sergeant of arms. The elder debated to himself.  The meeting then proceeded without…well, too much interruption.  That was, until ms.mosquito showed up.  While her presence had gone either unnoticed or ignored, the two comedians in the back, however, couldn’t help themselves.  They silently motioned a wager to one another.  Not just some random chore or bushel of apples, but a bottle of the new wine – it wasn’t like the delightful beverage was always available.  One, a man could drink a half cab’s worth (almost a quart) without the noisome side-effects.

Meanwhile, the winged pest, with a third-of-a-cubit (6-inch) span, wasn’t there to intrude upon men’s spaces; she instead occupied herself searching for and partaking of dainties which dwelt within and atop the leafy ceiling lattice.  Neither did the mosquito see the sharpened melon seed, (fired from a hollowed out tube) but the entire room saw the insect land, with a wet thud, upon the head table – sending out a gooey mist that settled roundabout the surface.  The old chief just shook his head and continued listening to the discussion in progress.  He happened to look up, and from the back, he saw one of the two passing a bottle to the other; one was running his mouth about… whatever.  Hundred-somethings…that’s what they do.  All was well enough.

Had been well enough.  That was until he reached for his cup.  Just as he finished taking a sip of the new wine within, he happened to notice part of a wing floating upon the aromatic crimson surface.  The elder picked it out, and would have let the incident go.  Would have - but the two clowns were at it again, this time recruiting a third.  That was it.  The elder’s patience exhausted, he did indeed let it go.  The clay cup, armed with a payload of new vintage, sailed past Mash, who was sitting near the front.  It would have struck one of the two intended targets, but Cappy had leaned and turned his head just slightly.  The container hit the back well, and exploded into misty shards, which fell into a wet pile.  A mess, which two or three of the “ladies auxiliary” would clean up sometime during the following day – when it was nice and sticky.  Bear, the other buffoon, dusted a shard off his shoulder while shaking several others from his half-matted hair.

Mash suppressed a grin.  A mixed expression.  Was a cubit’s worth of acquired stature in the community, and the title of Sir, worth the exchange of personal freedom?   The freedom to come and go; to not be hampered with work; five full days weekly, and part of the sixth - and responsibility a full seven.  The freedom to lay waste to whatever coin he had earned, upon chariot races, wrestling matches, a few rounds of poker.  Those days, however, were over; though he still missed going to the bawdy shows – where the girls, wearing snug low-cut bodices, would lift up the hems of their skirts, and kick out their legs in rapid succession.   Questions of which he was more than positive, every landowner, from the get-go, had asked himself; probably from the time Grandfather Adam, when the specific time came, had apportioned property to each of his sons – Cain, of course, had left his holdings; the reason, for which everyone knew about, but cared not to discuss.  

All Mash knew was, the vanities he had formerly occupied himself, he was either more than done, or needed to put aside.  Nevertheless, he did want to go white-water rafting, but the place was several day’s journey; so, Bear and two or three others would be gone for over a week, if not the better end of two.  The adventure, like any other, posed dangers; situations of which he no longer any business in which to needlessly involve himself – after all, it wasn’t about just him anymore.  Tough pill.  For a half a moment, he recalled the pellets their healer had given him – nasty, but whatever therein, the malady had gone a day or two afterward.

Not even three weeks later, somewhere between the perimeter and the wood-cutting, various details about the expedition had reached Mash’s ears.  While one part of him wanted to hear more, the other wanted to brood over missing out - especially the part where that flailing dragon, who had apparently leaned just a bit too forward for a drink, and, instead had slipped and fallen headlong into the current – after a rather lengthy struggle, had lost to the falls.  A big dragon, not some dinky one.  “Shoot,” he muttered, walking toward his property – where other responsibilities awaited:  namely, some panicky beast which had brought down half his shed, scattering implements – some of which needed repaired or replaced, on top of the usual, householders needing to attend.  Was it worth it?  He pondered the exchange of his freedom, for what! 

Not an hour or so later, came the answer to his question.  William running to greet him, “Daddy, Daddy…!”

Model chariot

“Oh no honey,” Rachael caught sight of the model chariot’s grass-stained wheels, “not on the table.”  Placing it upon the counter, she then spooned a scoop of warm cabbage stew into a bowl, and set it on a plate which contained some fruit, and a slice of orange loaf to round out her boy’s lunch.  “You did a good job.”  She was impressed, there were quite a few wooden pieces, and they fit together just ever so.  “Daddy cut the pieces.”  William beamed, and then continued, “and then Daddy showed me which part” he took a bite of the fruit then continued “went where.”  The boy took a spoonful of the stew, and then went on about the chariot race, to which his father – along with several other fathers and sons – had attended a week before the previous.  It had been an overnight trip, for the race had ended later in the afternoon.  While Rachael had missed her husband and her son, the three days had been a pleasant stay-cation.  She had read, embroidered, relaxed, and had simply enjoyed the uninterrupted time.  

She sat her plate of the same before her and took a bite.  Her boy’s eyes were fixated upon the chariot, and he began to fidget.  He then went on about BinHur, his favorite driver and how he expertly handled six, SIX horses.  William then flexed a fledgling muscle in his upper arm, and almost knocking over his cup in the process, as he went on describing the driver’s big muscles. The boy, now more or less, playing with his food, was going on about how the driver had once been a skinny kid, but then had started lifting weights.

“And lifting his soup spoon,” she interjected.

Taking the hint, he ceased fidgeting and took a bite.  That only lasted, maybe, three seconds.  He turned his ear toward the side-yard, which bordered the neighbor’s holdings.  A young boy’s footfalls drew William’s attention.  Rachael cleared her throat.  Her son took another bite, then another.  At seven, the boy knew that particular sound meant he had to clean his plate before being excused.  A chunk of loaf was the last of it.  Permission being granted, he reached for the model chariot.  However, between get-set and go, his mother reminded him not to play in the fallow field.  A lion had been seen in the forest bordering the field.  In the midst sat a redwood trunk; due to its girth, the men had decided it wasn’t worth the bother to remove it. Rachael watched her son, and the other boy, take off in another direction.  She kept an eye on the two, lest one or the other go behind another neighbor’s property, and enter the field.  Whomever said boys are easier to raise than girls must live in a walled villa – or was completely out to lunch.

But the youngster was determined, for the was oval stump – where a second tree, having strove for the space, and had created a raised knot - reminded him of the arena, plus the newly added grandstands on the one end.  The two boys decided to pass the second house, and go behind the third.  Therein, the old healer dwelled, but at this time of day, she would either be gathering herb or on her rounds.  But not today.  Her knowing expression stopped them in their tracks.

As she began clearing the lunch things, she heard Mash’s approach.  She quick dashed into the chamber, freshened herself up, and dabbed on a bit of perfume.  She then raced into the pantry and made his plate, and greeted her lord husband with a curtsey.  “Can only stay for a moment, the upper 40…”  he spoke between bites. 

Mash hurried back, for he had lingered longer than he had intended.  “Ah man,” he grinned.

Purveyors Plaza (998)

The textile merchant poured herself a cup.  It would be awhile yet before the mists lifted.  Lydia grimaced, soon enough, will be that time of year, when the mists were known to linger, even into the afternoon.  The sun’s hazy orb was well over the horizon, but the air was yet too moist to unpack the other chest.  Many her neighbors were already set up, or almost there; but fruits, produce, kitchen and farm tools are more resistant to moisture, than are curtain and robe fabrics – if rendered damp, would quickly become soiled through customer’s handling.  Lydia glanced at the metal bands holding together the still unpacked cedar chest; she had forgotten to purchase another bottle of “RustWarrior.”  Good stuff, though not cheap; unlike that runny whatever sold over at the Copper General.  Not that Lydia thought herself too high and mighty to shop there; for various odds and ends she used for home and business, had come from Coppers – including the bench she sat upon, one which also folded out into a handy stepping stool.  She sipped her beverage, while staring at the closed chest.  Not too far from her stand, a vendor was selling chests banded with stainless steel.  She had looked at those state-of-the-art technological wonders; but the price tag hindered her from making the upgrade.  Having yet some time to kill, she reached for her leather bag and pulled out her stationery pouch.  Nice, she grimaced, she hadn’t completely closed the bag’s front section, the paper was a bit damp; oh well, she would write Cousin Adah later on.   

Neither was she alone in preferring stainless steel over regular iron.  At a nearby stand, two men were browsing over an array of builders’ products: axes, mauls, mallets, etchers, sanders.  From Lydia’s vantage, she saw the younger man’s eyes light up, upon spotting the MiracleKnife; the advertisement read, in bold “NEVER NEEDS SHARPENING.”  While Lydia didn’t consider herself to be any authority on construction related implements, she had heard the knife did stay sharp, for longer than regular metal - most certainly, A LOT longer than flint – which was still widely used among rural peoples   She had also read, in one of Adah’s more recent letters, that both her son, Jubal, and her stepson, Tubal-Cain, had together developed the technique, and were moving beyond mere latches, hooks, holders and knives. 

Evidently, from the conversation drifting from the neighboring booth, the two early shoppers were father and son.  The elder shook his head; as the two men walked past Lydia’s stall.  As Lydia began unpacking an array of embroidery hoops, sectioned containers – a few of which she had purchased from Copper Generals - to hold floss and other notions, she overheard the elder said something to the younger, along the lines, flint you can always find on your own.  The younger, though a full-grown man, wore an expression of disappointment upon his face; it wasn’t like the knife had a price tag, totaling half of Lenox’s holdings - a wealthy merchant who sold fine crockery.  Oh, the Barclay collection, with that golden broad band, but there was no way; why even the teacup and saucer costs too much – let alone the salad, dinner and dessert plate which completed one place setting.  Not long ago, she had added up the cost of four place settings – holy balolley!

Lydia still watched the two men – the younger still looking back at the stall they had passed; it really wasn’t a question of inadequate coin.  Sethites had a way of making their coins go furlongs (about 1/8 of a mile) while not being cheap about things. The Elams, though, were more liberal with their coins – how that worked was anyone’s guess, being the latter were under tribute to the former.  Among both the neighboring tribes - especially the former, fathers held rule, over his sons – even after the sons had built their own houses.  Lydia had seen the younger man numerous times, always browsing over the latest tools.  If Lydia heard correctly, his name was Lamech, son of Methuselah.  The well-robed elder was quite handsome; the younger would likely be as well – had he bothered to properly robe. Instead, he had upon him a half-sleeved shirt and trousers, made from the skin of an andrewsarchus.   

What was it with kids, these days?  She could only shake her head, as another trousered rural made his way down the thoroughfare. Probably a cousin, for Lamech and he exchanged a brief greeting.  The latter’s unhemmed sleeves were cut shorter, and were from the skin of a giant sloth.  Both beasts were every bit as dangerous as some dragons, these highlanders – who didn’t hesitate in slaying theropods – chose not to make use of their colorful skins.  Why not?  She shook her head, at the very idea of wasting, not only useful, but attractive material.  Instead, they stuck to drab shades of browns, tans and grays.  Though not a fan of the rough cut, if not dusty, attire, she was less judgy than several of the other merchants who had even posted announcements in front of their stalls. “No Robe, No Service.” 

Footnote about one or more of the Roman emperors who had a real problem with guys in pants

Coming down the aisle was a young man pushing a wheelbarrow; in it, lay a cluster of grapes.  He called “three for a copper;” As Lydia pulled a copper from a fold, she pulled out a small bowl, and a cutting knife, for the (modern day plum sized) fruit would be a juicy and delicious breakfast.  A tart vendor was approaching from the other direction, and though tempted to pull out another copper, Lydia was proud of her slim waistline – and wanted to keep things that way.  That second coin stayed put.

Over on the corner, a vendor was selling loaves packed with a variety of dried fruits.  They looked yummy, but the old saying, a moment on the lips, forever on the hips.  How the country folks, especially the women, didn’t all end up as whales!  Work.  Among too many of her people, work was something to avoid, if possible!   Several years back, Lydia had called it quits with a live-in companion; tired of the lame excuses, (and likewise, the eggplant) she had finally wised up, and shown him the door.  Not that living single was any picnic, but better lonely, than dealing with someone, who’d preferred the grog and the card games, over actually doing the work involved to stay at least on par with things – things like, perhaps, starting and maintaining a business.  Oh, how about just holding down a push-broom job, for more than a fortnight?  Sluggards were everywhere, and they seemed to be on the increase.  Having been born, raised, married, and divorced, in or around Purveyors, the shop owner had, over the last three-some centuries, had conducted business with all sorts of people.   She could about spot who would waste her time, perhaps mishandle or steal her merchandise. 

She needed to hire someone, for mornings and later afternoons, but honest help wasn’t found just any old place.  The young men of Seth and Elam weren’t seeking work; they had enough to keep them occupied, back on the hills - where they cleared trees, planted orchards, plowed their fields, tended their animals.  She wasn’t getting any younger, closer to four hundred than three hundred – though still in good shape, the morning unloading and the afternoon reloading, was drawing upon her back.

The mists sufficiently diminished, she began unpacking a chest which held her premium fabrics.  She looked over the container, it could stand an upgrade, but neither did the box stand alone in that condition.  Purveyor’s Plaza had, over the years, taken on a rather shabby appearance.  Not only were there cracks in the streets and walkways, where tuffs of weeds and crabgrass made the rends worse, the semi-kempt state of the property – as with other markets in similar condition – was drawing unsavory people, who louted about, while not bothering to clean up after themselves.   Her lip tightened upon hearing the soft thud of a fruit rind being dropped in the street.  Any wonder there was a rodent problem.   The four-legged ones were bad enough.  They bit people.  One had screeched at her, the other day when she had emptied some trash into one of the waste bins; someone before her had evidently neglected to close the attached lid.

Worse, were the two-legged ones; they were especially dangerous.  Lydia had, been about right where she was standing, that day the stabbing had taken place.  Sure, here and there, murders happened.  But this one?  Right out in broad daylight!!  Tom.  That was his name – Lydia remembered, because he had been a customer, who, from time to time, would stop in – sometimes, with his wife and young son, and leave with whatever length of fabric, or notion, he had been able to afford for her.  It had been, a week or so, before or after, he had bought his wife that pair of stainless-steel scissors, from the vendor who sold the “Miracle Knives,” when the three skank-buckets had caught him unawares.  Lydia hadn’t seen the details, but the back of her shop sure did.  A table leg had given way, when one of the thieves had careened onto its surface, sending bolts of fabric willy nilly, and knocking down most the tent.  The potter, in the next row, had also quite a mess.   As for market security?  Har-de-har-har, those dufuses tended to focus their patrolling within the grog booth, or the conveniently located brothel. 

A dusty looking character approached her stand, had it not been for Lydia knowing her customers – even rather infrequent ones - she might have been tempted to discourage his handling of her merchandise.  He was not alone.  His other hand somewhat gripped around the smallish woman’s upper arm.  Poor thing, her raiment, though crisp and neat, was woefully behind the times; she had to be overheated, under those layers.  Her eyes somewhat darted about as if to take in all some of the activity around her.  Obviously, she didn’t get out all that much.  Her eyes lit up at some fabric, located just a few cubits from where her husband was browsing.  Her arm now free, the woman inched toward a length of cheery pink muslin to get a closer look.    “Ma’am,’ the woman’s husband addressed Lydia, while pointing to a broidered length of pale green cotton.  “I’ll take this.” Lydia paused, for a brief moment, surely, he knew not its cost!  To her somewhat of a surprise, the man didn’t flinch when she named the price.  He simply drew out the eight or nine silvers.  The exchange complete, the woman laid the parcel in her basket.   

“On second thought,” a neighboring vendor was about to hand Lydia two coppers, “on your way back, would you stop and pick me up a copy…?”  Lydia held up her hand, “Nope, my treat.”  She then added, “I won’t be long.”  She quickly made her way, down the row, around the corner, to the place where she could dispense with the coffee - which was on the verge of causing her back teeth to float.  That, combined with the giddiness still in her; that length of rather high-end, but outdated, fabric had sat among her inventory for … too long; she had, lately, been contemplating lowering its price.  Still, the fabric had been the man’s choice, not his wife’s.  Lydia was glad to have her own coin.  After rinsing her hands in a bowl, and turning a crank which released a length of fresh towel, she fished out a copper from a pocket and dropped it into the slave-attendant’s tip-vase.  The standard was a half-copper, but Lydia believed slavery was wrong – in any of its forms. 

Across the way, an elder grimaced, then added his two-coppers-worth to the young man browsing at his side, “I don’t trust words written by some automation.”  A third man interjected, “Every dabbler in town will get the notion, she can write books.”  An old woman passing by, shot him an unmistakable glare.  Lydia was thankful for the technology.  Nothing like rushing for a copy of Vendor’s Weekly, and they’re sold out.  Histories and stories, on the other hand, there was just something about hand-written words and illustrations, that no machine could properly translate.  Lydia purchased two or three different news-bulletins, and went her way.  While passing a row of food-court tables, a familiar length of fabric, one from two seasons ago, caught the corner of her eye.  A mother and daughter, she had seen them before, always neatly draped – like most country women - though what was with all the pleats?  The excess of folds only added bulk.  Lydia brushed away an insect which threatened to mar the bodice of her half-sleeved dress – one modest enough, but without the baggage. 

The twenty-something girl, ignored the wicker boat of fruit sitting before her, for her attention was focused upon the comings and goings from the neighboring newsstand – the merchant, of course, also sold the latest magazines; one of the new ones was called “Twenty-Seven.”  Upon its cover, of maybe thirty pages, was an automated image of a young woman, with short wavy hair, who was seated upon a fence; she wore an almost sleeveless blouse and pair of matching baggy trousers - ones with embroidered trim just below the calf.  Though, the raised heeled shoes upon the young lady’s feet…a bit racy, in Lydia’s opinion.  One in which, evidently, Lydia wasn’t alone.  Seated at the mother’s other side was, obviously, her husband – who at present was conversing with a man who sat atop a neighboring table.  Lydia shook her head, at the ill-mannered large man, known as Bear – he was not only stuffing his face, but wiping his hands upon his trousers, while drizzling crumbs all around.   Before passing out of range, she though she heard the mother’s voice murmur something along the lines of “finish your lunch,” then added “and don’t upset your father.” 

The market was now in full swing, shoppers and carters, though still cough-wary, were already jostling past one another; it would be yet awhile before people had gotten past that last outbreak.  The man selling the Miracle Knives still wore a face-mask; not that anyone should blame him – he had lost a son and a granddaughter.  Nobody really knew where or how the sickness had arisen, but the old healer-lady’s report had briefed on its probable origins, the symptoms, and treatment recipes.  Oh, there was a back-story in itself!  Lydia had gotten the dope on that - the Sethite woman had been called to their Men’s Council to answer questions.  Wasn’t happening.  She had, instead, taken a seat in their common area outside the council house; while the men, inside, had read over the page, and any of the men with questions had to come outside and ask.  A copy of the document still remained posted to FaceBoard, and would likely occupy that space for some time – as with the memorial pages of merchants and patrons.  One of the merchants, in particular, had been a competitor – but the two women had been more like partners; if one didn’t have this or that fabric, in this or that color, the other probably did. 

A customer made a purchase.  As he went his way, three young men, who appeared to be Enoch University students, had slowed their pace.  One of the young men was looking over some of Lydia’s scarves; most likely, for either a sister or perhaps a sweetheart.   One of the young men was wearing a face-mask; the two were engaged in a rather lively conversation.  “Think about it, at what point does a forepaw, become a hand?”  The third fellow’s eyes widened just a bit at his friend’s statement – for a certain event at the college had left him more cautious, and less naïve.   “Think about what happened to Professor Herriot.”  The scarf-shopper turned around, “Intellectual freedom, yeah right!”   Origins aside, the three were in total agreement on two current items: the suspension was completely unwarranted, and Professor Toff was one with whom, voicing a differing view of the evidence – or so-called – could land a fellow in a real spot. 

Several rows over, a rather short and balding, past middle age fellow, was carrying maybe a half bushel of pears.  Two or three young boys darted by; each were armed with either sling shot or pea-shooter, and a pouch full of dried seeds or cores. Dragonflies were always in season. “Eee-YES!” one of the boys shouted; its wingspan had been about a cubit and a span (almost two feet).  Past tense.  The insect’s wings folded, it bounced off a passing cart. Veering to the side, it hit the ground about a span (a few inches) from the balding man’s foot.  Hardly giving the bug-goo notice, which had landed upon his free hand, he wiped the residue upon his dusty professor’s mantle.   He gave a hearty thumbs up to the youth – who couldn’t have been much older than seven or eight.  “Here, catch!”  he then threw one of the pears to the boy.  “Thanks Mister!” the youngster took a bite, rubbed his belly, then took off in search of more game. 

The man’s name was Herriot, but the locals called him Doc, and that suited him just fine – he knew who he was.  He treated animals for whatever was ailing them.  He was also backlogged, since there were people who took less than proper care of their animals.   Up ahead some, was the scroll shop.  Maybe, just maybe… “THA-WHOCK!”  A few paces ahead, an over-burdened donkey let out a moan.  Doc’s eyes narrowed.  He approached the unfortunate animal’s owner; in the punk’s hand was a board with holes.  “IS there not a cause?”  The taller, younger man, turned around.  Doc caught a whiff, the character, evidently, didn’t take care of himself – let alone have any “regard for the life of his beast.”  The bully scoffed, then glowered.  “IS it any of your…” he let out a blasphemy, “business?”  Within a second, like a three-copper chair, the scoundrel folded to the ground, moaning and holding his stomach.  Without missing a beat, Doc placed the container of fruit on the ground, for the tired, underfed animal.   Continuing his way, he walked past the deflated reviler, who was still moaning and massaging his belly region.

“Serves ya right,” a passerby scowled, then gave Old Doc a thumbs-up.  He rejoined the conversation with two of his fellows.  All seven or eight in the group wore similar overshirts – on back were various patches; the main one, common to all in the group read, “Sons of Sheol.”  Two of the younger men - about mid-hundreds, had been entertaining the thought of going on really fast runs. “Tubal just made another petroleum-powered two-wheeler.” The elder (one of Methusael’s brothers) was probably closer to 500 than 400; he was President of the outlaw club.  Swatting a grape-sized gnat, shook his head at this newer member – one who had only become fully patched, maybe twenty years ago.  “He calls it a motorized cycle.” One of the other younger members remarked, then added - with somewhat more than a mere hint of trepidation – “Maybe, the club could stand…an upgrade.”   The suggestion was met with a motion alright – the sergeant-of-arm’s backhand up along the side of the younger man’s ear.  “BAH!”  The club’s president spat, the topic had previously reared its addled head, and the old heads didn’t want to hear it.  While he admired his great nephew, Tubal-Cain, for his inventions, new didn’t always mean better.  “Kids, whadda they know!” Another elder scoffed at the very idea of sitting upon a motorized machine – one that might sputter, or just plain take a dump - verses standing tall, in a chariot, powered by a team of sturdy, reliable horses.  Besides, he pondered further, where would ya have on-ready yer broad-sword?   From a side-satchel?? 

“And they came unto the brook of Eshcol, and cut down from thence a branch with one cluster of grapes, and they bare it between two upon a staff; and they brought of the pomegranates, and of the figs.” Numbers 13:23

“A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast: but the tender mercies of the wicked are cruel.”  Proverbs 12:10

“What in the world?”

Lamech, son of Methuselah picked up, what appeared to be some sort of beverage container.  It was clear, and soft to the touch; pasted on it, was a label that read “Segrums 7.”  At its bottom, there remained, maybe, half a sip.  He opened the lid, took a sniff, and with a scowl, stuck out his tongue – at its remains, as well as the other discarded materials strewn around him, and around the feet of the two other men with him.  The three were pulling their sentry stint.  Bear, Lamech’s uncle, who had just tossed away another such container, was scratching his head, wondering why these city people didn’t put their hooch in either clay or glass; after all, wouldn’t this new-fangled material react with the liquid?  Maybe mess with one’s internals, turning men peevish – as if the hooch itself didn’t put enough of a sag to the drinker’s ...midsection.  And not just that.  Getting soused out here?  No place to throw a wild party – not that any place was suitable for that sort of thing.  Among the litter, he picked up a white squarish container, which felt spongy.  Inside, was part of a sandwich.  Why hadn’t some animal seized upon the leftovers?  Bear pulled up the bread; seeing what lay between the slices, he threw it down then headed to a nearby brook to scrub his hands and splash his face – as if to also wash out his nostrils.  That raised more than a few chuckles - Bear wasn’t exactly known for being a clean-freak.

Bear recalled smelling that sort of greasy yuk the last time, or two, he’d been to Purveyor’s Point – a market village, more like civilization’s last western outpost to where caravans arrived, once, maybe twice, weekly, from the City of Enoch – which Cain had founded, upon the eastern plains.  The sons of Cain were willing to make the days-long journey to trade various work-saving and luxury items for fruits and vegetables, both fresh and preserved in clay; the sort, in their dryer climate – and among other reasons, they were not able to produce, either in quantity, or most especially, quality.  So, the sons of Cain, had come up with their own solutions to their self-made food-insecurity issues.  At one of the Cainite-owned booths, something called steak was grilled; the flesh of captured aurochs whose stones had been removed.  That’s just…demonic!   His people didn’t mutilate the LORD God’s creatures - and sure didn’t cook and eat them either.  Bear, the second born son of Enoch - the man whom the Most High had taken with Him; Bear had given attention to his late father’s, and now, to Pastor Jason’s sermons.  So, it made enough sense to him why Cain’s sons were in the situation, where they ended up having to slaughter animals – for food.  But cutting animals’ stones???  Nope, neither Bear, nor his brethren, could get their heads around that one. 

Among the refuse, was also a flat cardboard box; its topside painted with a cartoon of a fat guy, draped in white raiment, spinning a circle of dough; inside, lay two or three slices of what looked like waxy…substance, covering lumps of cooked animal flesh.  Nearby, lay not much of a sequined garment – which none of the men cared to further examine; beside that, a raised slipper minus the exaggerated heel.  Lamech glanced at the shoe; recalling something their healer had said concerning this type of impractical footwear: “a gold printed invitation to back trouble.”  Here and there, also lay small clear parcels, which had contained either powder or some kind of pellets.  While their medicine woman had, in goodly supply, both powders and pellets; those kind however, were for things like cuts, infections, sprains, and the usual which happens to people who work all day.  Food insecurity among the Cainites?  Lamech pondered, more like unredeemed time.  He didn’t mean to be judgy, but the evidence sure pointed in that direction. 

The third man, one of Bear’s cousins, called to the younger of his two sons – who, with spears on ready, were monitoring around the thicket.  The two young men, were not men - for both were under the age of fifty-something, and had a way to go, things to accomplish, before either would be counted as men.  As with later societies, Sethites also had their own set of pronouns - and took them very seriously.  The youth was in his early twenties, and had a knack for balancing a spear, just ever so.  While one of the other men took watch, a son helped his father gather some fire wood, for the group were going to burn whatever refuse would be consumed in the flame – come next morning, dig a hole and bury the rest. 

Last on the slate, and before departing from this portion of land, to monitor another, came the part which Lamech didn’t relish. The poles.   The men and young men had erected three of them, and affixed an intruder’s head upon each.  It was one thing for intruders to barge in upon their land, and make off with fruits and veggies.  That was just an annoyance.  But slave traders, strip-miners?  NO!  Not on Sethite lands – nor upon the lands of their Elamite vassals.  Warnings had been clearly posted.  The sentries, and their young men, headed away, continuing their rounds, leaving the three headless revelers lying in a heap.  The only thing the Sethites had done to the slain prostitute was, to wrap her barely clad body into a blanket – one of their own - and lower her into a grave.  As for the last remaining reveler, he represented another warning. 

Left alone by the ochre-painted men, with barely a scratch upon his person – just a hard smack upside the head.  His real injury was forthcoming:  he could not get free from his bounds.  He surveyed the ground, hoping to find a sharper stone, than the dull one of which he’d been issued.  Trouble for him was two-fold: city people, especially, through neglect of time-tested skills, had already lost much of their ability to quickly make stone implements / edges – that sort of thing was looked upon by the “more advanced” urbanites as … well, backward.  Even if by some miracle, he had been able to get loose his hands and his feet, by that time it would likely be coming toward evening.  While the area was, relatively free from bird-lizards and cresties – at least, for the time being.  However, there were coyotes AND dire wolves – both beasts, enough of a challenge.  A sufficient danger, even for border-seasoned Sethite Men.

“When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.”  Genesis 4:12

“See then that ye walk circumspectly, not as fools, but as wise, Redeeming the time, because the days are evil.”  Ephesians 5:15-16

Council meeting

Somehow, prior to any significant decision made, this or that detail could leak out – in the form of so and no choosing to not expand this or that field, or preparing one which had been laying fallow.  Another man had gone to market and traded an heirloom. Could have only been through a miracle, Purveyor’s vendors didn’t already have the details fleshed out; for it was a long known by-phrase, “merchandise costs coin, but the news is free.  Even the men themselves weren’t all keen on the decision; but ignoring the obvious, and taking no action…?  There were two options: but skirting west, before heading north, certainly wasn’t. 

Upon those gentler western hills grew trees, so massive; it was said, they were a full five reeds (30 cubits or 45 feet) in diameter.  That was just on the forest’s edge; heaven only knew how thick the ones further within grew.  And tall?  The trees’ height, where a limb could fall at any time, was merely one peril; all sorts of dangerous beasts lived thereupon, climbing and jumping from branch onto another – and quickly, silently.  Upon the ground, trod lizards the thickness of those trees?  And not only that, in order to sustain those trees, the night mists had to be quite intense, even well into the afternoon; the ground?  Muckety muck, and yuk to your ankles – to say the least.  The region certainly served as a wide border, around the vastly more impenetrable, The Sword Bearing Cherubim, who guarded the Garden of Eden.   

More than a few times, was the topic discussed amid the evening fires, how on earth their fore-parents had be able to survive the journey.  Some concluded, back then, at least some of the hedge trees weren’t as thick, nor were the beasts as ferocious. Others speculated the Most High provided their exiled parents with a narrow path, upon which they were able to travel in relative safety.  Grandfather Seth and his son, Enos, however, wasn’t certain – for the trees may have been quite massive from Day Three. The elders had also said, neither Father Adam, nor Mother Eve had cared to reminisce. Either way, the men were strong and brave, but not foolhardy; they knew their limits, and those of their families.   

To the North Mountains, up and over, they would go. 

The decision to pull up roots wasn’t just a matter of displaced beasts, here and there, coming their way, wrecking their crops, as they were fleeing ravished territories in search of new and clean territories - where healthy trees and bushes offered both shelter and provision.  Nor was it simply a matter of Purveyor’s – which in his father’s time was still a reasonably pleasant place in which to conduct trades – the whole area was slouching toward grunge central.  One of the new booths did something called body art - where pigments of questionable origins were needled under the skin.   But even worse, another establishment was selling potions – anti-medicine, intended to cause women to miscarry their babies.  “There goes the neighborhood!”  Lamech had heard that phrase repeated by more than two or three of the more prosperous merchants – who owned houses in the better sections of Enoch; businessmen who’d seen, over and over, exactly what happens to decent neighborhoods, when certain enterprises post their placards. 

Even the grog booth, though always having had its share of rowdies and louts; still, it didn’t seem so long ago, the place was where working men, both Sethite and Cainite would come in for a cup, have a chat, shoot some darts, then go their way – without, well, too much trouble.  Nowadays, a man therein had to, literally, guard his pouch every second – so much for stopping in, to relax for a bit. Elams, however, had rarely frequented the grog house; they were more into dusty old scrolls – which explained the natural order of things; namely: why the sons of Seth were the rulers, and the sons of Elam were the ruled.  Six-stanza’d poetry – with whatever certain number of syllables - gimmee a break!  Bear cleared his throat, and hocked out a big green mackie.

Whatever toxin had brought the big fellow down – and only up long enough to expel things - for nearly an entire week; the malady was about gone out of him.   And good riddance!  From what Bear had heard from a neighbor, the sickness had likely originated from a certain what-passes-for-a settlement, now supposedly, located just a tad east of Purveyors.  While these illnesses weren’t exactly new, with this past one, Bear had never been so sick in his almost 150-years.  He was grateful to the Most High to have been spared; his other neighbor had lost a son, and his maiden sister.  While their healer had a theory, as to how and why the disease had come about, she had simply stated that when people foul their environment, all people in the region – whether they live clean, or otherwise, will suffer.  Their healer wasn’t one to state the obvious, where and how the sickness had originated.  Women, hah!  While Bear respected their healer’s competence, still, she was just like the rest of them - prone to half-baked opinions, while expecting men to take them seriously. 

“Now no man at the table knew for what intent he spake this unto him.  For some of them thought, because Judas had the bag, that Jesus had said unto him, Buy those things that we have need of against the feast; or, that he should give something to the poor.” Mark 13:28-29

“So he drove out the man; and he placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life.”  Genesis 3:24

“And the earth brought forth grass, and herb yielding seed after his kind, and the tree yielding fruit, whose seed was in itself, after his kind: and God saw that it was good.  And the evening and the morning were the third day.” Genesis 1:12-13

Penalty box

Mash had been somewhat irritable, more or less, throughout the last two lunar cycles.  He had been grounded, and so, was not allowed to participate in border patrol for yet another cycle.  While affixing heads on posts served as a warning to trespassers – bringing back “souvenirs” only served pride, and went against protocol.  Pride: the Lillith of All Sins, Against the Most High God.  Again, was Pastor Jason’s topic, only retitled.  Mash sure didn’t like what the Preacher was saying – especially the part about the horrors of Sheol.  While Mash knew, and needed no validation from the other men that he, indeed was a tough guy.  But he also knew, doubly, that just a few moments in those eternal stinking, flames, would render him wailing, high-pitched – like a…a girl, throughout all eternity.

Meanwhile, a few seats over, Bear got wind of the upcoming news.  Pastor Jason’s turn was on, to take his sentry-shift.  While their Pastor, if he chose, could easily get a pass on that.  But Pastor wasn’t one to shirk men’s obligations.  Bear, and the others on the team, could only hope they would not happen upon any trespassers. With Pastor in their company, it would be just doing what they had to do; slay the intruders, if any, and leave their bodies to the beasts.  While there would be the standing of poles, and affixing heads - to warn slavers and other lowlifes, there would be no hammering scalps to wood.  Just wasn’t the same…meh 😐  Bear and his companions had to keep upon their better behavior.   Not so long ago, they had been caught baiting several of the vassals. Chief Cainan had called the three on the rushes; they were seriously flirting with doing a day, or two, weeding within the commons – along with the women and girls.  Swallowed adam’s apples, and serious apologies emitted from the three bowed heads.

How the scalp incident had leaked out, when the rule among the patrollers was the old: what goes on out there, stays out there.  Mash had only to blame himself for taking the scalp in the first place – what had he been thinking, he chided himself.  It wasn’t like he had shown half the village, still somehow, word had gotten out – likely, someone overheard, and told someone else, who told… Mash had to hand it over, and it ended up in the Chief’s hands, and - with a look of distain and, especially, disappointment upon the elder’s face – had cast the trophy into, of all places, a routine bramble fire. 

Just as well, for Mash still had a certain scalp, tucked away, among his effects – and not just some run-of-the-mill slaver’s gopher or third-rate bandit’s.  The scalp had belonged to a well-known crime boss.  Early in his marriage to Rachael, he’d slain the kingpin, taken his scalp, and had brought it back.  While she had been out – either gathering foodstuffs, visiting, or both – thinking to impress her, he had affixed it from the upper lattice above the headboard of their marriage bed.  The scalp certainly did impress her – horrified at the mass of hair and dried blood, she had run from the chamber.

Every village has one.

Glorianna could only shake her head. There was really no point in asking Rol – again, to replenish the woodpile, for she would be needing to heat a goodly amount of water later in the day, and – again – the supply was running low.  It wasn’t like she couldn’t handle an axe, it was just…well, she had enough on her plate; everyone in the family had chores for which each was responsible.   But it was the age-old story of, every village having one; one who has getting out of work down to a science.  Of course, with just one word to her husband, Jorg, would certainly get their son motivated.  But Glorianna was proud, and didn’t want her husband to ever think she was a dainty – like Rraaachael. 

Okay, that was uncalled for, Glori replied to her conscience, but still, what a ninny – sometimes, to this day, Glori couldn’t help but bait the woman; just having a little fun; oh, the hints of fear which, after some five decades, still washed across Rachael’s pupils.  Several times, back then, Glori and her friends had thrown dutchess dainty drapes right into the creek – once or twice, sans the drapes. Nowadays, of course, baiting the woman was no longer okay, for Rachael was a mother – her oldest, William was fifty-something, Bron was around thirty, and Ruthie was around her early or mid-twenties.  

Glori reached for another smallish log, for she also needed kindling.  From out of the corner of her vision, she caught a glimpse of Rol, he was in fellowship with Anak, another work-shy youth.  She pursed her lips.  There was something … not right about that young man – she couldn’t put her finger on it.  What was that fancy word for someone expecting recognition, for work only boasted, but not done?  Megalo…something.   “Ah-ah-ah” she cautioned her youngest, who had begun stacking, “Gloves!”  After splitting several more, she called her little helper, to grab two oranges from the pantry.  She took a seat upon a nearby stump.  Her boy dug into his orange, but halfway through, he was growing fidgety.  He glanced at the axe; his mother shook her head.  “When you’re older.”  She then pointed to his unfinished fruit.  As she wiped her son’s face, she caught a glimpse of her older son, Rol and Anak; the two had joined up with some other fellows – all of them, except for Anak, were around Rol’s age.  What sort of foolishness…?

A few moments later, Jorg rounded the corner and headed straight for the pantry, for he wanted a little something to tie him over until supper, – his wife always had stuff.  He wondered if there were any of those raspberry rice cakes left; he hoped there were two, because his son, who was helping him, especially, liked those ones too – if only one remained, then Jorg would put the boy’s name on it.  But Glori wasn’t near the pantry.  Meh, probably had stopped in, for a quick visit with Peninnah, his buddy, Cappy’s wife.  Hearing the crack and muffled thump of a small round being halved, alerted his wife’s whereabouts.  Jorg scratched his head.  Took him half a moment; he would soon be having another talk with Rol.

Word games

The four or five boys, and Anak, had crossed through a neighbor’s holdings, and were headed toward a fallow field.  “Aah, that’s nothin’” Anak scoffed, at one of the younger boys, who had let loose a slang verb; another followed up with a related action word – both described husbands and wives making babies.  They reached the far end, which jutted up against the encroaching tree line.  The boys looked around, there were no sentries in the area; for the time being, they were out of grown-ups hearing range. “Baby mutant!” another spouted. “Buggery FREAK!” came another term, that would get a child’s south end dusted.  Anak was not impressed. The boys then pitched a volley of words, describing excrement.  Again, Anak, let it be known, he was not bested.   A pack lizard darted out from the underbrush and grabbed onto the wing of an insect.  Anak whipped a stone at the creature, but missed.  “Monster!” he blurted, letting out a throaty laugh. 

Little whelps, so easily impressed, he smirked.  Anak wasn’t finished yet.  “OGRE-MONSTER!”  Eyes widened, upon hearing a double.  One of the boys departed, and headed back across the field.  “Run home to mommy, you little…”  Anak mocked the thin, scruffy boy – who had decided to run away from where he had no business.  Grinning, Anak let loose several other bad words and phrases.  Two of the other boys, then backed up – rather suddenly - and headed in a similar direction.  The remaining boy’s eyes grew big; he took off, but Anak was too beside himself to notice.  He launched another blasphemy.  Despite no audience remaining, Anak was yet in his glory. 

A rustle of a young tree, growing in the fallow, caused Anak to turn around.  His face fell.  Anak Senior was not impressed.

Pick a card

Three young maidens sat under a tree playing “Old Ogres.”  Anywhere near grown ups’ ears, however, the home-made card game carried a different title.  To call, or refer to, someone as an “ogre” was about one of the nastiest things one could say to, or about, another man.  The fifty-one cards – though, that depended on circumstances - were made from select tree-bark, and were about 1/3 X 1/6 of a cubit (3 X 5 inches).  Upon each card was a painted sketch of an individual engaged in some sort of work – a wood-cutter, medicine woman, a pastor, chief, headman, scribe, sentry, table-maker, merchant, warrior, sandal maker, launderess, weaver...  The girls’ art work was, for the most part, quite skilled – oh, the dignity, portrayed of even the stable boy and the poor old char-woman. 

Very telling; the ways of Most High was more than Sabbath and mid-week head knowledge.  These were paired with another card; the odd card was the ogre.  Oftentimes while playing, the conversation would turn to what sort of husband each girl hoped to one day marry – that, of course, was subject to change.  During a previous game, one of the girls had been, going on about one day marrying a furniture maker; but that round happened a day or so, before her sandal had broken, beyond any repair – or one that would hold for more than a few days.  Her other pair??  Being from a large family, there was, at the time, no “other” pair.

The girls’ choices of potential husbands were varied, such was to be expected, living in a community where work was respected; the worst thing a man could be was - and every village has one - a sloth.  The pictures themselves, were known to change somewhat, from game to game, because, the barks would eventually break.  Last year, some girls, while seated under the same tree, had an unwelcome visitor:  a bear cub; the girls had dropped everything, and took off like big-uglies. The current game folded, when one of the girls, Ruthie, heard the voice of her mother, Rachael, to come help with the meal and to get freshened up, in time for her father’s return from his work.  The other two girls, took the cue, knowing their mothers would shortly, if not momentarily, call them home.  

Family gathering

“Its fangs were THAT big.” Mash and Rachael’s younger son, Bron, described the creature to a neighbor.  He was chomping at the bit, for soon, he, along with three or four other young men were to go afield – to study an advanced course, under the guidance of one of their seasoned trackers.   And not just upon any borderland to their south, east or west; but North, up the mountain – hopefully, they’d get up to the ridge.  He hoped he’d get the rare opportunity to see one of those big-uglies up close, but not too close, for those flying dragons, were not only big, but dangerously quick.  It was said, when devils rode upon their backs, the flying reptiles would let out fire from their mouths.  This time, was with permission – unlike a previous, when he and a buddy had trekked out.  Unfortunately, when they had returned from that previous adventure, they’d excitedly shared the details with one too many – inevitably, word had gotten back to his father.  Bron, of course, hadn’t sat much for a day or so following.  His buddy??  Probably had also experienced similar seating issues.

Bron’s paternal grandmother, upon hearing the upcoming trek out into the wilderness, had been rather concerned, but such was the way for young men.   The blanch that washed over her daughter-in-law’s face, wasn’t lost upon Sarai; the woman grimaced, for had Rachael her way, both Bron and William would be sitting in starched robes, composing six-line poetry.  And neither was it lost upon Sarai’s face, her daughter-in-law’s waistline – one as flat as a maiden’s.   These young women, with their newfangled family planning ideas, bah!  The woman’s scowl wasn’t lost upon Rachael – and neither were those less than subtle comparisons between her and the woman’s niece; who was soon to give birth to a fifth-child.  Three were boys. 

Three or four young boys sped by, one of them nearly colliding into Rachael – the lad kept going, as if she hadn’t been there.  Among them was a youngster, who had never known his maternal great grandparents – for they had been slain in a long-ago war; the lad’s grandmother had arrived to this same village, in circumstances not too much different than Rachael’s.  She glanced over to a tree, where beneath sat her daughter, Ruthie and two of her girl-cousins; the girls were playing some kind of game; one that would be interrupted when called to serve or clean up something – otherwise, while monitored, went ignored; the girls seemingly oblivious to that long played out fact.

The boys arrived to their destination, a mulberry tree which stood between two properties.  But alas, they had only caught the last moment of the big fight; a scratched up and bitten enough granddaddy rodent - one who probably weighed almost two thirds a talent (about 90 pounds) - proudly stood his domain; he screeched in triumph at two retreating ground hogs.  The old rodent, however, didn’t crow for long, since experience had long taught him, that although bipeds were not as strong or as quick as four-footed creatures, bipeds, especially the males, would throw sharp projectiles; it was better to cruise the eateries after the bipeds had retired for the evening.  He scampered off to a hole beneath an abandoned tool shed – one which was about to fall in upon itself.   The old rodent wasn’t about to give up this spot, for here dwelt no adult male biped – though soon, he would have to seek other living arrangements, for the juvenile male biped had very nearly pierced him with an arrow.   Peering out from the battlements of his subterranean castle, the long-tailed baron, surveyed his holdings for any would-be intruders. 

Not far from his vantage, an enrobed pair of lower legs entered a small structure nearby, then exited with a long-stick attached to a flat flint-tipped end, which came to a point.  The female began digging a hole, nearby awaited a young shrub – its roots wrapped in a moist rag, beside it stood a clay container with a spout coming from its top.  Females – two or four-footed … 😐 Nothing further to see here, the old baron settled in for his afternoon nap.

Milcah, Abraham’s sister-in-law, bore eight sons.  Genesis 22:20-23; Hannah, Samuel’s mother bore three additional sons and two daughters. 1 Samuel 2:21

Making ends meet (999)

What!  It’s been hardly a year.  Barb yanked at a tenacious clump of weeds; finally, they broke free, she threw them into the wheelbarrow.  She glanced up and down the field; it was hard keeping down the unwelcome foliage - and in general, keeping up with things.  Her son Tommy, helped a good deal, never grumbled, but the boy was barely eleven.  All work and no play?  Little boys need time to run and imagine.  But they also need to study their lessons – which, she had let slide.  Chalk up another reason she wasn’t about to be awarded mom-of-the-year, anytime soon.  What she was being awarded was…not exactly covert pushback for remaining in her widow’s garment – as if she was expected to just forget Tom, her late husband. 

Well, she couldn’t, and she wouldn’t!  Not until she was ready, and that could be awhile.  Until then, she could only try to make things happen, on her own…well, as much as possible.  There were limitations; such as plowing her late husband’s field, reducing larger chunks into cooking wood, and making general repairs.  Things that took coppers – or whatever produce in exchange; both of which she was typically in short supply.   Her latest effort to stay on top of things, had fallen through.  Several days ago, she had lost most of her beautiful tulips – to whatever misplaced critter, who had apparently happened upon the free meal, on his way to secure new territory, somewhere far removed from Enoch’s smokey air and souring water.  She had grown quite a patch of the lovely flowers, and had anticipated trading them, for a pair of sandals.  Tommy was outgrowing the ones upon his feet – the same feet were outgrowing this side of their village’s perimeter.  While there wasn’t a whole lot Barb could do to keep her son from crossing the boundary.  Boys…  Nevertheless, the wilds were no place to be running about in less-than-sturdy foot coverings.

It wasn’t like she was the only widow in the community.  Chief Cainan’s sister was also a widow, and had been for some years.  Nobody was sidelong glancing at her to put off the widow’s garment.  But, then again, she was in her early 500s, she had grown sons and grandsons to help her with things.  Had she only daughters, old women – and rightfully so - received a pass on things which young women do not.  But still, it had barely been over a year, since Tom’s passing, and already folks wanting to pawn her off to…UGH!  Mahalaleal’s brother’s grandson.  That man was old enough to be carbon-dated - 375-something, and still a bachelor?  Had to be a reason; one she wasn’t interested in finding out; she was sure, the disinterest was mutual - which was fine with her. 

At the same time, however, Barb understood the concern in her community – one that was shrinking.  Being only ninety-something, she was old enough to have witnessed, sons – and even a daughter, here and there - leaving the settlement for a better life in town.   Not that she wanted to wax judgy, for it hadn’t been that long ago, the city life had appealed, to both Tom and herself as freeing, and fun.  Back in the late 960s, she and her late husband, had run off to several concerts – one, a three-day gig at Max-somebody’s farm.  “When I came upon a child of God, he was walking…”   The memory began playing in her mind, while watching Tommy wheel the wobbly barrow to the thicket… the jimmy-fix job he had done on the stupid thing wasn’t working out too well – but T for trying. 

Could have only been the Grace of the Most High, who had seen the, then, childless couple safely home; on the way back from that concert.  The caravan had nearly taken a hit from a triceratops – who, from the way the animal had been running willy-nilly, might have been at the same gathering.  But that wasn’t even half of it.  The caravan, on its way to another location, had let the couple off just shy of maybe six furlongs (3/4 of a mile) from their village.  Whatever had been in those jugs being passed around, the couple’s reaction time to dangers in the woods had been at least somewhat compromised.  Tom and she had enjoyed a wonderful marriage; they both liked the same things - especially the modern music.  Whenever responsibility’s fetters loosened, just a bit – which didn’t happen often, but when it did, off they went, like a pair of turbo spears.  Like the time CrateFullLaDead played at Purveyors; after which, they had stopped in at someone’s after gig – they had only intended to stay a few minutes, but in a cup of…whatever, both had lost track of time and ended up missing the caravan back, and so had stayed over.

Barb would marry Tom all over again, if that was only possible.     

·         Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, “Woodstock” 1969, written by Joni Mitchell

Assembly of the faithful.

The young dragonfly flitted around the enclosure. Its body about a digit (3/4 inch) both in size and girth; a wingspan about half a cubit (9 inches).  The insect flew above, and among, irritating the congregation, interrupting their attention from the pastor's sermon.   It buzzed by the pulpit, landing on Pastor’s balding head, then lit down the aisle where it landed on the edge of a pew, as if to bait the young man seated nearby – with a sandal in hand, on ready. Before the shoe had a chance to come down, the insect had taken flight – leaving a tha-WAK, and a cloud of dust, in its wake. Heads turned.  It then flew over to the other side of the sanctuary and landed atop an older woman's head-covering. Waving an arm to send it on its way, to kindly go bother someone else, a barb somewhere upon the creature's body had momentary gotten stuck in the airy fabric, causing part of it to slip from the woman’s head. The insect was momentarily stunned. One moment, long enough. A lad’s hand shot up, the dragon fly's baiting game was over.

"Good catch!"  Barb softly giggled - ignoring the two or three sidelong glances.  She reached for a rag to wipe off the fly goo from Tommy's hand - but too late, the boy had already wiped the remains on the knee of his robe.  Oh well, his mom sluffed it off, there's always the creek, the wringer, and the line.  He would need another shortly; it was already drawing snug around his shoulders. Tommy's sleeves had begun to fray, and there was a stain near the collar – though not too noticeable, his mother noticed.  Neither could Barb ignore, how the other children's clothing was in better condition.  Tommy's "good" cloak?  His only cloak. While the boy couldn't have cared less about the state of his clothing, his mother did - and neither did she care for the judgy glances among several of the other moms.

Barb touched the little emerald necklace - one of the little luxuries her late husband had bought her at Katie's Jewelry Klatch.  She had already traded the matching bracelet - for practical things, like help with last season's plowing, and it was looking like, the necklace was soon to be heading the same way.  She had been holding her own, more or less, but it sure seemed lately like, anytime she had found herself making at least some headway, something would happen.  First, the wheelbarrow had finally taken a dump - which hadn't such a big deal to replace; an afternoon of taking in laundry had about squared that.   But taking in other people's laundry, takes time away from other things - as well as taking a toll on her hands and back.  That snakebite had nearly taken out Tommy; the medicine, wasn't just the typical furlong-into-the-thicket deal.  The medicine woman needed to be compensated - through the old woman had said not to worry about it.   Was but the Grace of the Most High God, which allowed her the means in which to pay the healer.

Pastor, suppressing a grin toward the boy’s good catch, cleared his throat and continued with his sermon.  He had entitled it, The Menace of Modern Music.  Though Barb didn’t want to admit it; the elder knew more about the genre, than she had expected of him.  Nor could she help but bristle at several of his remarks; what made it worse was the fact, he wasn’t merely talking out his … left nostril.  Neither was he shy; without being one bit crass, he called the entire industry on its … horse patties.  Okay, it was a scheme to empty pockets of coppers – which oftentimes, were better served in the household.  Oh, but the concerts had been such fun.  And now, she was left to pay the drummer – no dint upon her late husband’s memory.  Wasn’t like he had planned to step into eternity, leaving a near empty coin cup upon their sideboard.  But the comment Pastor had made about singers and instrumentalists leaving their proper place, upending the social order, well that one, was a bit extreme…wasn’t it?  Okay, the bands weren’t sinless, but come on, rockers weren’t demon possessed…were they?  As for upended social order, she didn’t exactly know, within the scrolls, where that passage was, concerning servants on horseback, while their masters walking beside. 

Barb had to sort out things.  During a recent visit to market, she had taken Tommy to the scroll-seller.  After leaving the vendor’s tabernacle, Tommy was anxious to start on one of the stories.  Just as well, she had concluded; the caravan hadn’t been due to arrive, for yet awhile; there would be time to pop into the South Street Coffee Tabernacle.  She had not stopped in to any such place, since Tom’s passing.  With her son along, why not; for a cup and a bit of catching up, with the old throng.  And that’s when the house of glossy half-copper cards, had fallen through, rather suddenly.  First of all, Gail and Lucy – whom she had thought were casual friends of hers – didn’t seem to have the time for even a brief chit-chat.  But that wasn’t even the foundation of it.  Tom’s best buddy, from the little theatre, was also there – and to Barb’s astonishment, the man had made a pass.  Without finishing her cup, Barb laid down her copper, and, to the doorway, had escorted her son – her boy had wanted to stay long enough to finish the first chapter.  “Tommy,” her voice was soft, but resolute, “we are going - NOW!”

Meanwhile, on the other side of the aisle, Anak, a.k.a., Stoney – being about sixteen, maybe seventeen, was of the age to sit with the men.  He had caught onto something.  There was no bug in his hand, but certainly one had lodged its corrupt way into the youth’s nether region.  He smirked at the thin and somewhat raggedy boy, who was still of the age where he had to sit with the women and girls.  The cope didn’t help; neither did the “Ya godda cup yer hand, like this.” from one of the other boys, who was demonstrating to his brother.  The conversation was halted by a cuff in the head, from either the boys’ father, or their grandfather.

Anak’s smirk waxed to a glare.

“I have seen servants upon horses, and princes walking as servants upon the earth.” Ecclesiastes 10:7

“And with all deceivableness of unrighteousness in them that perish; because they received not the love of the truth, that they might be saved.” 2 Thessalonians 2:10

Early to bed

Dusk was coming on.  Most everyone had already eaten a light supper – since with agricultural people, their main meal was just a bit after the sun had reached its highest – the women and girls were finishing up with putting away the vessels, some onto shelves, and covering others, securing them into wicker or wooden containers – for these contained leftovers, which would be upon the following morning’s breakfast table.  At somewhat of a distance, a female rodent signed, for she was pregnant; her mate was…somewhere.  While the older children got in some serious playtime, before it grew too dark - to be near the thicket, let alone, on its outer side, was not a good idea, come nightfall.  The younger children’s games were quieter; they played either in the common area, but usually within their father’s holdings.  Young men either palled around with one another, or visited a maiden – who, of course, was ever under the watchful eyes of parents, older siblings, relatives, even neighbors. Over on one end of the village, a gentleman caller had brought his sweetheart some roses, and a basket of muffins of which his mother had baked – about the only time, one would see a man carrying a food-laden wicker.  He also had brought along his 6-string harp (resembling one found somewhere in Germany, from the late iron age). 

As the night-fires kindled, he began playing a soft melody; soon, a neighbor – sitting outside his hut – joined in, with a rebec (fiddle).  Over there, a way, a woman’s soft voice took up the song, then a young voice joined in.  In the middle of a song or so later, another instrument, another voice.  A typical evening, before the people turned in.  They knew, by heart, hundreds and hundreds of hymns and songs – most sung in the old tongue.  After all, a thousand years, of new ideas - or recycled ones that didn’t work out so well - changes language, but the children of Seth were known to trod the old paths.  Somehow, these nightly concerts came together. 

Shortly into second watch (9:30 pm), the instruments had begun to quiet, and were put back into their cases; the voices having sung, one of a hundred concluding-songs; for morning came quickly to a people, who worked six days. There was produce to gather, trees to prune or plant; gardens to weed, fields to plow, grasses to bundle - then unbundle to lay in the sun, their outer shells to weave into mats; their inner stems to dry and twist into thread - tools and weapons to make or repair, foods to cook down and preserve; clay to gather and make into jars; clothing to wash and mend; sheep to be sheered; farm animals to be fed and cared for – all the while, keeping tabs on their children; keeping eyes and ears focused, for dangerous beasts prowling the thicket - and cruising across the sky.

“Thus saith the LORD, Stand ye in the way, and see, and ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest for your souls.  But they said, We will not walk therein.” Jeremiah 6:16