Chapter 07
Lydia
struggled to hide her disappointment.
Year 1325
Folding the two reeds (12 cubits or 6 yards) length of her
fine fabric, she placed in the midst of its parchment wrapping. She regretted having asked what her customer
was making; for the answer was becoming rather common. Too common.
Instead of a gown, or a cloak, to have ready for the upcoming New Year’s
– after all,1326 wasn’t that far off - the lovely material was to grace the
interior of her customer’s carriage. Lydia
calculated in her head – even a compact interior being about 4X2X1.5 cubits
(6X3X4 feet) might be just enough, but that was stretching things. What a
waste. Never mind, come next season, certainly
the one after, the muted violet finery – carefully woven to grace a woman’s
body, not some glorified wagon – would be dusty, sun-faded, and probably torn
here and there. What is wrong was with people these days? Especially women. It was one thing for the younger gals to buy
into – more like slouch into – what was passing for “fashion.” Her customer wasn’t
a one or two-century whipper-snapper. While
she, like Lydia, evidently took care to preserve her figure, unlike Lydia, the
woman wore a skimp – so to advertise, as if she was but merchandise – to be
acquired, mishandled, then tossed aside.
Nothing new. Lydia had seen this
before; people having silvers for show, and then bellyaching over Annie’s price
of three or four of her’s and Jak’s apples.
Maybe her fellow vendor’s prices were a bit much, but oh the
goodies were…almost Sethite. There had
been nothing better than Sethite produce; their fruits twice the size, and
you’d better have a napkin prior to taking a slice. That such a people, over a century ago, had
devolved back into their primate origins, Lydia rolled her eyes, though the
notion still sold Toff’s books; if anything, at least the sales kept Cousin’s
Adah’s sister-wife’s widowed daughter, Naamah, in enough coin to maintain that
modest, but lovely enough, villa. Naamah’s
late husband had been a character; leaving a string of debt, and probably a few
kids to different mothers. While Lydia
hadn’t attended the funeral – nor had cared to; her cousin did mention a woman
and small child having shown up - and likely leaving with nothing but a none
too certain future. Lydia could only empathize with women in that situation,
for her son’s granddaughter was soon to have her baby, and the father – whoever
he is, had evidently caught a caravan, bound for, wherever.
A disturbance in front a nearby tent had caught the
attention of Lydia, and that of her fellow merchants. Just what they needed, another grog house – as
if the other two or three weren’t drawling in enough brokes. Any wonder HillCrest, and other such
anti-medicine mills, were making a killing – literally! Hah, what a name, in this flat country. There was another such place in the village
where Lydia had spent her early childhood – with the same, or similar
name. Lydia’s great granddaughter had
considered going to one of those places, but near the last minute, just
couldn’t go through with it. But the young
woman – so unlike many other young women – had a loving family, who’d help her
out, in the years to come, as she, an unwed mother, raised her baby. “Unwed
mother,” thinking in that outdated term, had caught Lydia unawares; the
“correct” description, in these enlightened times was “single mom,” or,
supposedly, better yet, the neutered “single parent.” Though frankly, neither modern term sat so
well, either with Lydia, nor her widowed granddaughter – who was raising both a
son and a daughter.
Meanwhile at the neighboring stand, Jak was emptying a crate
of apples – adding to the previous; spotting two or three, which didn’t look so
good, he set them among some others of similar condition, to be sold at a
discount – if not given away to one or more hungry orphans, who – seemingly on
the increase - wandered about, in hopes that someone would spare a copper or a
half-mottled tater. “Be back in a bit,”
he called to his wife, “going to see about a saw.” Rechecking his money pouch, he ambled to a stand
that sat near the corner. Though it being still somewhat early, business was going
on all over – for it was getting the time of year when the mists were
completely gone by mid-morning; while during the heavier seasons, more than a
few vendors and customers would have only begun to transact at this time of
day. Both vendors and customers, for the
most part, were anxious to have bought or sold their merchandise, so that by
mid-afternoon, the remainder of the day would be theirs to do other things – or
just relax and enjoy.
Would be.
The scroll seller, whose stand was located near the market’s
edge, was among the first to catch a certain awful stench – a heavy mix of sulfur
and body odor. While many a stinky animal, and more than several none-too
particular humans would pass along the throughfares, this smell was different. Unnatural. “Son of a lance,” the old guy muttered as he
reached for his best scroll-rolls and securing them into a chest. He gave a signal to his fellows, whose
nostrils had already received the warning; they too began securing their best
wares, before doing the same to their average ones.
Approaching was Roco, a local crime boss, his two or three
henchmen they were armed with three or four giants. The tallest must have stood – though they
didn’t tend to walk fully erect – about four cubits and a span (12 or 13 feet). And stink??
The giants didn’t care to cover themselves; their filthy loincloths only
made their foulness an eye-watering worse.
How Roco and his unsavory crew
could tolerate the stench – for these racketeers were generally well groomed -
was a mystery, but one to be sleuthed for another time; the merchants down at
the other end had already been securing their best and better, sliding chests beneath
back tables or otherwise, out of sight.
Extorting merchants, however, was not on the crooks’ business
itinerary this day. Behind them, a
triceratops – whose rather malnourished body showed evidence of both recent and
past abuse – was pulling a caged wagon; inside were, maybe, a dozen captives to
be sold in the central court. Most of
the poor souls would likely end their last miserable fortnights in one of
LaGree’s north quarries. Word was, another
village had to abandon their territory due to fouled water – as if, relocating
was but a matter of packing and moving into some remarried auntie’s old place.
Lydia shook her head, letting out a breath, muttering to
herself, I’m getting too old for this. Her
funds were, if she was careful with them, sufficient enough to live out her
remaining two, maybe three, centuries. She
already had begun to look for a place in a quiet village.
Mash’s
midlife, the phrase was catchy -
yeah, like a sack of half rotted potatoes. No thanks. The year was 1326. So much had changed, but not for the better. While over the past three centuries, the
village had grown, but not as much as one would have guestimated, back in the
days of the original perimeter. Just ask
Pastor Jason, Jr.; his dwindling congregation comprised of mostly middle-aged
and old people. The typical rationales for
ditching worship included, exhaustion from working all week – that one was
almost funny, for the two grog houses had no want for customers, either by day
or late into 2nd watch (around 11 pm). To Rachael’s shame, one of her granddaughters
was hooked on the hooch; but taking other people’s decisions too personally
wasn’t helpful – neither was it like hers the only family with a child or
grandchild who’d rather linger about, than go to the daily trouble keeping up field
and house. Another “reason” oft repeated
was, Pastor Jr’s sermons were too long – yeah, if your attention span is more
like a single digit (3/4 of an inch).
Oh, and who can forget #3; the hymns are boring.
“Or, am I simply getting old?” Rachael peered into the
creek, asking her late 4th century reflection.
Her hair showed undeniable streaks of gray – and while her whole head
would eventually go all gray, those melodious songs of worship would remain
timeless. She tossed a stone into the
water, then grabbed and immersed, into a wooden bucket, the next article of
clothing.
Time. Chief Cainan
had passed back in 1235. Yikes, ‘am even
talking like an old person, she somewhat recoiled, then remembered, the Most
High God rules time. His widow had lived
on for another twenty or thirty years, but she too had passed in during the
second third of the 1200s. Chief Mahalaleel
had stepped into eternity just ten years prior to the turn of the 14th
century (1290). Next in line for the
Office, had been Enoch’s brother, Jephthah, but if Rachael had been hearing
correctly, Jephthah was finding the current position “too hampering.” No surprise, for the elder could be loaded
spear-thrower, when he wanted – like Mash.
She’d heard enough of their conversations – at times, they’d reminisce
about the good old-perimeter days. One
particular convo concerned that certain Return ceremony. Back in the day, it was two or three young
men – each with just a flint knife - sent out well beyond the perimeter;
nowadays, was five or six, all loaded up with stuff – including snack items –
to expend, for basically sport.
Mash’s shirt, now on the line, drying alongside her great
grandson’s breeches, she then reached into the wooden pot, in which her gown
had been soaking. Inspecting the bodice,
the berry stain was gone. It was this
same garment she’d worn to that pivotal Return – the one where the four or five
returnees had come back, holding high two pikes, upon each, the heads the old
duke and dutchess. Oh, the look on
Mash’s face – and neither had her son, Bron, been overly impressed with the
returnees’ valor. After the celebration
dinner, while she and the other women and girls were cleaning up, and making
ready to depart, Mash had walked over to her and murmured something about going
on watch – he hadn’t been the only man, that night, to relieve another’s post. Maybe before, or perhaps shortly after, Rachael
couldn’t help but to notice a change in her Husband; it seemed, more and more, he’d
that faraway look in his eyes, especially to the north or even to the northwest.
…
“Stupid grog,” one of the four or five women, whose turn it
was to clean up the morning after the return, had spat, as she wiped off one of
the tables with a rag, which should have been thrown in the recycle, around the
last Return. “And, somehow, it’s our fault things it doesn’t stay vertical, for
any longer than a moment,” one of the other women commented. While the other woman’s hair showed only a hint
of gray, here or there, she was old enough to remember when a jar of grog, opened
last season, was again brough out sometime during the next to, maybe, be
finished. Hers weren’t the only set of eyes to narrow, nor were hers the only
set of ears assaulted, by the sights and sounds coming from the nearby grog
house; the other dive had recently been opened near the east perimeter. Another
woman and one of the two girls were putting right a bench, which lay on its
side. “Wonderful!” she shook her head, spotting
the one end; it no longer appeared sturdy enough to hold even a child. By early afternoon, the women, and two or
three girls were finally done.
The broken bench; had been repaired, two or three years
prior – if you can call it that. One of
the tables wasn’t looking too sound either; hopefully one of the young men
would fix it, before it keeled over.
More than likely, however, the job would fall to one of the elders – as
if the old heads didn’t already have enough on their plates. Neither had it been long after the Return, a
funeral had taken place; a day or two afterward, two men and a woman had been
outed. A woman!
That was unprecedented. Not that women
never commit heinous crimes. Oh, who was
that? So many decades had passed. Rachael couldn’t recall, but she, like any
other person, over the age of ten or fifteen, is at least partially aware, that
the mind will block out things, which are unhealthy to it. A woman had been caught in bed with her
lover; he’d been, of course, outed – without ANY supplies, not even a dull
flint. She? She was tied to a post, and shot through with
many arrows.
As to which one of the three outees had committed the
murder, one could only speculate.
“Oh,
who was the idiot…” Barb snapped,
upon seeing the half-trampled row of green beans. Wasn’t turkey-lizard prints which mucked up
good crop, that grew – or tried to – in the commons. The woman reminisced, of back in the day when
people were neighborly, regarding the common fields with the care they gave to
their backyard gardens – was no exaggeration. While emptying a smaller basket into one
larger, Barb happened to catch sight of the corner of Mash’s and Rachael’s back
yard. Change…phooey! The
splintering was to happen after the potato harvest; she glanced over to where the
produce was growing. Though saddened
with the recent news, Barb hadn’t been surprised, for some years, it had only
been a matter of time. Evidently,
Rachael didn’t see it coming – more like, she didn’t care to read the
signposts.
Meanwhile, a few rows over, Rachael was keeping a berth from
that field, which would be ready in two, maybe three, weeks. Pulling out a hankie, she wiped the moisture
from her eyes, then blew her nose. “I
can’t do this anymore, you need to understand, Rachael. We’re done here.” His
terse statements rang in her head. Still chiding herself for having been such a
wilty-flower, pleading with him to reconsider. As if his I-Me’s weren’t enough, her pleas,
concerning the kids – and how the cousins would sorely miss one another – had
been met with…well, mockery. “Kids?”
he’d scoffed. “William and Bron are ADULTS, with families of their own.” Adults
– as if she wasn’t. He then added, “They
understand how things have been, and if not, well, I guess that’s just tough
beans- isn’t it!” Her tears then had
given the way towards anger, when – in not so many words – her daughter, Ruthie’s
opinion on the matter, evidently didn’t.
Rachael’s, “But Ra-Ruthie..,” was cut off with Mash’s “…IS a
grandmother.” He then queried, “Her
third?’ Rachael kept herself from
rolling her eyes, “No, her fifth.” She’d
so wanted to add, “you moron,” but that wouldn’t have been helpful. The coup-de-gra had been, “and if RUTHIE
doesn’t like it, guess she can kick rocks along the way.” He then added, “and YOU too!” Rachael pleas didn’t even get to their
youngest. The conversation was over, Mash had left their property, and didn’t
return until much later. “Why does Daddy
want to leave, why can’t we…” the little girl had started bawling. Rachael gathered her youngest into her arms,
“Ha,” she stifled a sniffle, “Honey, we’re going,” Rachael sniffled, then
continued,” we’re going to be okay.” She then added, “think of it as an
adventure, like the story…” There had
been a story-scroll which had, maybe a few years ago, had made the rounds. One of Peninnah’s daughters had penned it;
the same girl, who should know better on how things work in the real world –
the adventure featured two sisters who trek out into the wild, and – of all the
absurd things – bring down a dire. Adventure
my … eye!
Shortly
after the harvest
had been brought in, Chief Hul’s office was be official at
sunset; after which a dinner and some song – the good old ones. He’d been acting
chief the moment Chief Jephthah, along with his wife and family had passed beyond
the perimeter. Following, had been Headman
Boco and his wife, Ruthie, and family, which included Mash and Rachael. Barb’s last glimpse had been of her friend, Rachael,
turning around for one last look, at loved ones she’d never see again – on this
side - then getting a swat from Mash for what…! holding up the column for two
seconds? For Barb the reality of never
seeing her friend again, on this side, had been only the half of it. Among the departees was their son, Jared and
his family. Oh, the look on Tom, Jr.’s
face; while glad for Jared, his younger brother, Tom was disappointed, for the
call of the wildlands had been, for some time, entrenched in his being; but the
straw he’d drawn had been the short one, so Tom was to remain, and eventually
take the scepter – and the drama that came with it. Though a selfish prayer, he nevertheless
prayed to the Most High, that his (step) father, Hul, would live, and live
strong, for the next two millennia’s.
Barb had wept for days afterward. It was one thing for grown sons and daughters
to depart, to make lives in other places; every mom, since Eve, knew that
possibility. But Rachael was her friend,
whom she sorely missed. She sorted
through her jars, and selected two or three; the mixture would take the traces
of red and puffiness from her eyes. “Change, PHOOEY!” Barb garnered up her
resolve to not, in any way, detract from her lord husband’s inauguration ceremony,
as Chief of the remaining community. And it wasn’t like, she was the only person
who’d likely never again, on this side, set eyes upon a loved one. She had seen
mist in Hul’s eyes a time or two – he and Mash had been friends since boyhood. She
had seen mist in Hul’s eyes a time or two – he and Mash had been friends since
boyhood. At least, some change was for the better –
the redone signpost outside the worship house lattice, that clearly, and in
caps, read, “OLD PATHS Tabernacle.” The other change, for the better, was
“evolving” – with a smirk, Barb used that word in its original meaning. As like the, supposed, “pond scum” suffering
loss, in its strivings to grow wings and fins, Hul and the other leading men had
to, for the good of their community, had to also suffer – through wresting
themselves from their comfort zones of wood chopping, perimeter guarding, structure
building/maintaining, tool-making/sharpening.
The ”menth’s monthly” had evolved into about a weekly
occurrence. Barb missed Rachael
terribly, she batted back tears pooling in her eyes, as she assembled breads
and fruits in a basket – which she would carry to the meeting, for no self-respecting
man or boy cared to be seen totting a basket. It had been the pointless beheadings of the
Duke and Duchess, which served the men as a wake-up call. Men were getting too soft and, unless they
returned to the old paths, every man, woman and child, would eventually -
perhaps, not too eventually - end up the worse.
One of the two grog-houses had been “shut.” – after Rummy#1 took a few
stabs at Rummy#2, slaying the later. As
for the former, he didn’t make it to Council to be tried, and outed. Was it at the hands of an avenging brother or
friend? Or was it a certain jealous
husband? Who knew, for there had been no
witnesses.
Either way, it looked as if, the old woman who ran the
remaining grog-house, found herself having to find another means in which to
put food upon her table; she couldn’t run it herself, for her partner – her
daughter – had been wrested out of the ramshackle little place, by the old widow’s
son-in-law. Oh, how the people outside,
just going about their afternoon business, had cheered; barely a moment after
the man had emerged from the dive, with his hand upon the upper arm of his long
known quarrelsome wife - who’d just let a string of colorful-words. An old woman had approached, “Sir, you may
need this.” She handed him a long-handled
metal cooking spoon, then ambled off to wherever she’d been heading – as if
nothing unusual had happened. The
quarrelsome woman, however, wasn’t through yet, she let out another string of
raunchy verbiage. More than one person
thumbed up at her husband’s response.
Two little girls giggled.
Characters exiting from the story in 1325 are:
Chief Jephthah & wife, Mash & Rachael, their son
in law Boco and daughter Ruthie, Jared & wife – and some of the kids,
The
inauguration ceremony behind them
Chief Hul, had planned to spend a relaxing afternoon rebuilding
his tool shed - for a ground hog had decided to burrow in; the thing was
leaning like a drunkard’s …junk. Here we
go again - he looked at the several men, seated at opposite ends of the council
table - dragged into another meeting - over a matter they could resolve
themselves. And to think, this all
started over two of the men – presently glaring at each other, wanting so badly
to have another go at each other. Over
what! A stupid shovel! Hul hadn’t been too wild about that second foundry,
in the first place. Number one, though
it was some ways outside the perimeter, still it was close enough to foul the
air. Right up against, Number one, stood
- like a Hedge redwood - Number two: it wasn’t like they’d an endless supply which
were able to be harvested. Unlike the
trees back home, out here, passing by one with a girth a full reed (3 yards)
was business as usual – in short, too big to cut. Out
here, Hul had seen, more than a few with a girth that rivaled those growing along,
and within the Hedge. Back in the day,
he’d been to the edge of that great forest; it was believed, if one continued
west, southwest, the mountains upon which they dwelt, eventually gave way into
the Hedge.
Puts things out of balance.
No way around it. The implements
which came out of there, weren’t that great; he couldn’t see the point, not
when flint was readily available. But at the same time, he couldn’t, nor would,
fault the young men’s endeavors.
However, metallurgy, was a science, and out here, there was neither
time, nor resources to develop metal instruments of above mediocre quality. Hul could have, at the get go, have veto’d
its entirety, but he was their Chief, not some upstart warlord.
Scripture about Moses being drug into needless meetings
“Mamma,” Barb’s daughter (not the eldest, she married
Lamech, and they headed out, back in 1060) the young girl somewhat scowled at
the wooden spoons, her mother had handed her to put alongside the rather drab
serving bowls and plates - “over at Suzi’s, they have silver spoons.” Barb raised an eyebrow, and shook her head, for
she was not impressed with the idea of glitzy cutlery, with the inevitable tiny
rust bubbles, laying in wait, beneath the silverplating, to eventually leak. If they lasted two seasons, would only be on
account of more show and less use. “Our
table is fine, Dear.” Barb thankfully looked
over the bounty; after more than 300 years, she still hadn’t forgotten what was
like to have not quite enough food to sate Tommy’s hungry belly - she still
called him Tommy, everyone else called him either Tom, or Junior.
“But Mamma, Daddy’s Chief, and Suzy’s daddy’s just a…”
“Don’t go there, that’s pride!” Barb then stopped herself
from continuing the thread. After more
than three centuries, she also hadn’t forgotten, she’d no room to talk. She then reconsidered, and continued, “and our
pride doesn’t sit well, at all, with The Most High…” The brief, but unmistakable look of distain,
crossed her daughter’s face. Barb let it
go – for now. Mother and daughter had
been over this topic before. As far as
her young daughter was concerned, Enoch may have walked with God, but had ended
up as some cresty’s lunch. While Barb
had asked her daughter to explain why the old preacher’s robe, and satchel lay
just ever so, over his sandals; his walking stick, lay aside, unbroken. The girl had no answer, but still, no time
for the concerns of The Most High God – whom she believed wanted to keep people
living in a primitive state. Most
infuriating to her, was attending the sacrifice of an unspotted lamb – not for
the poor little lamb’s sake, but having to put off one’s shoes. Holy Ground…my rear end!
Upcoming
events in the year 1575
What on earth spooked him?
Hul and some other men had been out beyond the east perimeter, when they’d
noticed a great beast, running from what?
Like what on earth would mess with a full grown male unicorn? They’d watched the magnificent animal gallop
out of sight. Come to think of it, prior
to the last, some of the other men had been out this way, they’d seen a bull
mammoth looking behind him, a time or two more often than usual.
A few weeks later: beyond
the north east perimeter, Hul and another old head were teaching tracking
skills to three or four older boys who were on the verge of becoming young
men. “What happened here?” The elder
spoke to the youth, who was studying the prints of a right forepaw. The youth was careful to not mar the evidence. The lion’s two, or three, day-old tracks had
led to this point, but on the way, seeming to have turned a bit, as if the
animal had been checking to make sure he wasn’t being pursued. By what?
And what was a lion doing up here in the first place? Unlike his mountain-dwelling cousins, they
preferred the grasslands of the lower valley, that ran due east of them. “He sure put a hurtin’ to that bush,
Grandfather!” The youth leaned in for a
closer look at the torn leaves and stems.
“He’d been running.” He paused, then continued, “back there a ways, and
needed to recoup strength from those leaves.”
A sudden rustle of branches to their east alerted the elder. “What the sam…?” Hul turned around, “LOOK OUT!!!” He gave the
youth a hard shove, who – hardly within a cubit of an apparently spooked
triceratops – the youth had tumbled to safety.
The beast disappeared into the glade.
Hul had also disappeared. “Dag
nabbit!” The other men and youths clamored down the steep hill to where the
elder was picking himself up while patting his things. “Ah’m alright.” He
dusted his banged-up self, while looking to a lower, rockier part of the steep
incline – that was close. “Broke’ my dag
bern...shoot!” The claw which hung about
his neck had shattered, leaving only part of its upper half. Together, they
ascended. Anyhow, it was time to head
on back.
Back home, Barb is getting the evening meal prepared, and
Hul says he’s going to lay down for a bit.
He doesn’t wake up.
Tommy is chief.
A short while later, they think they see a cloud of black
smoke in the distance, and decide to send out scouts. A day prior to the scout’s expected return, Barb
notices a faint, but awful stench in the air. She, at first, ignores it. But the day after the following, with the
scouts not having returned – she isn’t the only one concerned, that something
just isn’t right.
Next day, the scouts return.
The news is bad.
The village meeting had been a brief one, for they’d need to
get shuteye, and get packing the next day, and move out the following. “Are you sure that was Anak?” a man asked one
of the scouts. “Oh yeah, that was him
alright!” He then added, “cheats at
craps the same way.” The scout’s wife,
the formerly quarrelsome woman, blanched – for as a young girl, she’d a certain
history imposed by Anak, upon her person, and, after all these centuries, that
history still would come around to squat in her mental space. Her husband, put his arm around her; she
leaned in.
As the second group of villagers – who remained for an extra
day, because they had elderly among them – had made ready to move out, the
gongs go off. A battle. The people fight valiantly. Some are able to escape into the forest –
though with hardly more than the clothing upon their backs. Other survivors, however, ended up in
fetters, and shambled off to a quarry, which lay in the foothills to the east –
to end their last months (if that long) toiling six days; not all seven, only
because the whip-wielding overseers refused to work without having a day off.
At the mountain quarry, a big ugly snatches up one of the overseers; he
struggles and screams; all look on, for in the distance, the ugly slows it
flight, and descends low over its nest where its baby uglies await to fight one
another over the incoming meal. More
than a few cheers erupted from the dusty, lash-marked slaves working the
pit. Meanwhile, Stoney, having been too
close for comfort to the abduction - by the very identifiable flying object - had
to go change his trousers.
Anak
(Stoney) was just plain madder
than … heck, but there was nothing
he could do to remedy his situation, for which “there was no remedy.” Not now, and certainly not ever. His plans for riches and fame didn’t… well,
pan out. The only thing he’d ended up
with, was a few coppers. The gems he
brought from the mountains, didn’t last as long as he’d anticipated, but then
again, he couldn’t resist the sporting places and the general bling. He’d started out with a Prominade address – the
penthouse had been, really, above his means from the start; the first thing to
lapse was Billard Club dues – from there, a nice enough place in the better
section of Mechanicsville, but losing on a second, or third card game, and yet another
job, had landed him even further behind on things. His next address was…well, one of the better
flop houses. It was there he’d become
connected with some guy who worked ran errands for a quarry boss. There was an op going on, somewhere in the
north mountains. Long story short, he
was back on the payroll, as a guide.
Once there, however, the useful idiot had served his purpose; nor did it
help that he’d a long-time habit of meddling into other people’s business. Anyway, he ended up as an assistant to a slave
overseer; wasn’t exactly the caliber of job he felt he deserved, but word gets
around in both city and shanty-town of who NOT to hire, so working a
bottom-feeder job is better than having no coin at all.
From quarry to northbound quarry, he’d
only made things worse for himself, and instead of the former assistance from
that band of demons, they too were having fun piling on his troubles. Well, Stoney ended up losing his overseer job. Over what!
That scrawny she-dog. She wasn’t
moving quick enough, so he’d thought a sound thunk up alongside her head was in
order. And besides that, he needed to
settle a score, from centuries past. The
crone’s son, Tommy. The kid had been about
five years younger, and almost a head shorter than Stoney; the other young men
and a few boys had busted out laughing when upon hearing about Tommy having thrown
that one-two punch. And to make more
recent matters worse, during the conquest Ta-ta-ttoommmee grabbed a rock, and had
slain one of the giants. When the
giant’s dom had seen the fallen fate of his current sub, well, a quick stomp to
Tommy’s head and upper torso, had ended that chapter. Anyway, Stoney’s firing had been about having
thunked the wrong slave – the crew’s healer. Bleeding out her ear, she was useless; a
moment later, one of the giants, grabbed her by the arm, and threw her by the
wayside, as if she was an old mophead.
Hadn’t been his fault; the slaves
were a bunch of dolts, who’d needed a good beating to motivate them. How was he have supposed to know, Number …
what ever! had been considered an asset.
The beech sure didn’t look like one.
After the captive men had been robbed of their manhood – Stoney’s ONLY
pleasure …considering his present – and eternal – situation, was to replay that
scene. Sweet. And even sweeter was, those same men were
bound, and could do absolutely nothing – while their wives, daughters and sons
– had been passed around. Oh, the
women’s, and especially the children’s screams, their futile attempts to fight
off the two-legged maggots - sweet music to Stoney’s ears.
Had been.
There he stood. Marooned upon a tiny island of brimstone – in
the midst of a magma stream - looking across the “great gulf fixed.” The
mound had held for a while, but it began giving way. The last thing he saw, across that ultimate
divide, was Tommy – who while sharing a bounty of succulent fruit among his
fellow redeemed, was waving a cheery welcome to several new arrivals.
YEAR 1651
Meanwhile, some 24,000 furlongs (3,000 miles) above where that
magma stream led into a river, Old Jorg unhitched his two oxen from the wagon –
now empty of grains he’d harvested for Noah’s household, and had delivered. While thebothboth animals enjoyed soft sweet
grasses and the cool water that gurgled from a spring, which flowed a short
distance into a nearby brook, the elder ambled on over to a wide stump. That kid (Ham) was amazing, Jorg ran his hand
along the almost even surface of what remained of what was once a massive
gopher tree. It was only…Jorg began
counting upon his somewhat arthritic fingers, not quite four score ago, when
trees of this size had been left alone. He
turned his head and upper torso, and glanced over the circle – almost three
reeds (25ish feet) in diameter. Fumbling in his pouch, he drew out what
remained of a broccoli crown.
Remained. He, and
maybe three or four others, outside of Noah’s family, who believed Noah’s
preaching. Jorg’s mind recalled a recent sermon, entitled, “There’s Room for
the Repentant.” – one which Noah had preached at his father’s (Lamech) funeral. An
earlier sermon, given just a few years back, Noah had entitled, “Famine in the
Land: But Not of Grain.” That one, Noah
had preached during Marcella’s funeral – the longtime widow had been laid to
rest, alongside the grave of her late husband, Pastor Jason; the old preacher had
passed on, sometime around 1530 - not long prior to Noah’s first sermon. Jorg shook his head, for Jason had still been
hale – but thieves don’t fight man to man.
They fight dirty.
On his way back to his house, Jorg passed the cemetery;
therein, was a second, still somewhat fresh, grave. Its cross-wood marker, read: “Glorianna, Wife
of Jorg.” That old bag! the widower grimaced,
shaking his head. “Glori, why didn’t ya jus’ let ‘em have that UGLY ars’d
thing?” He began to sniffle. Enough, he straightened himself, and continued
on his way. Passing on the edge of the,
once pleasant village, he caught a glimpse of his great, great, great
granddaughter, along with another young woman, entering a certain building –
the sign above the door read, “Pinnacle Women’s Health.” An odd name for a “business” located rather
close to the marshy area, which separated the original and later parts of the
settlement. There really wasn’t anything
he could either say or do, to convince the young woman to turn away from
that…that mill – she’d previously gone there to purchase their anti-surgery twice
– or is it now thrice. Neither was Jorg in any condition to care for
an infant. He coughed into a rag – over
the last year or so, it was getting worse.
From a distance behind him, a large gopher tree had let out
a loud “RRREEEKKKKK” before shaking the ground. Not far from the noise, upon a hill,
stood a large clearing; enough of a framework had already been constructed to
hold the bottom and partial sides of, basically, what would become an immense
chest.
Year 1655
Infidelity and Churl, two fallen angels, cursed a black
streak upon seeing a team of three or four Holy angels guarding the cave’s entrance. Inside, an old woman lay sleeping upon a
grassy mat, covered with tattered bed-raiment; covering her somewhat emaciated
frame were about what remained of the widow’s once lovely wardrobe – also now
reduced to tatters. Infidelity had a score
to settle with the widow; besides typical hatredAaron was head of the team
assigned to guard her; these holy angels had their work cut out, because,
outside of running off demons who enjoyed tormenting the woman with distorted dreams
of things which had happened in her past, and confounding things which never
had – Aaron and his team had the full-time duty of guarding her, from herself; if
not wandering off, the old widow had, a time or three, stood her fields, against
tusk and claw, with a rake, or a broom.
Unlike many other forests and fields, no giants had come and
defile this region – for men had done a bang-up job of it by themselves. It was the same scenario – everywhere. Over the past two or three centuries, men and
women gave less time and attention to the things of the Most High God, and so,
no great wonder as to why people had scoffed at their elders – even pushing widows
from their homes, and regarding children as more like being in the way – toward
the grog-house, the arena, and various cringier places.
Aaron pulled out a slip of parchment containing a list of
names, which he had copied from the Book of Life – within one of the LORD’s
main reception halls, that marvelous tome sat upon a podium of pure gold. While
copying those names, had left spaces of individuals whose names had been
blotted out. At the top of the slip, he’d written Page 4, Middle of Column 2. Therein, were the names of some of the old
woman’s family, who were now safe in Paradise; the old woman’s name, “Rachael,”
was in the next column – appearing only two or three names before “Methuselah.”
Aaron, hearing a familiar sound from outside, joined his
team in running off a raggedy, but dangerous enough, female thunder lizard who
was just about to ravage through what remained of the poor woman’s cantaloupes;
they’d all witnessed the tired woman, working tirelessly to grow and gather
what little the resident beasts of the field, the birds of the air, would leave
her. Embedded in the creature’s body was a length of chain; two of the rusted
links dangling.
Rachael awoke, to a pair of young, and evidently hungry,
sabretooth’s circling around her. Still
not quite cognizant – while her soul righteous, her mind was about gone - she
shook her head, slightly, at “the male and his female,” weren’t they a bit
young? Carefully, cautiously, she arose, her bones
creaked. Not yet limber, she limped
toward the back of the cave; both animals followed to where a brook jutted from
a crevice and ran along the wall, and disappeared into another crevice. Both
animals drank from the cool stream and breakfasted upon the oranges, of which
the old woman, on the previous afternoon, had placed to chill in the water. Sitting upon a rock, Rachael dug a chipped
fingernail into the rind of one of the oranges, and took a bite. Her last visitors had been two young bears –
who had also been making goo-goo eyes at one another, while enjoying a bounty of
sweet apples.
She shook her head wondering, where were they headed? She’d no idea, but somehow knew, they knew
they had quite a journey ahead.
Blotted out from the Book of Life
Characters who exited from the story in 1325 are:
Chief Jephthah & wife, Mash & Rachael, their son
in law Boco and daughter Ruthie, Jared & wife – and some of the kids,
THE END
Various, at some point in story
Get a scripture about how the wicked throw one another under the bus
The barrel chested man’s name is Ben, a day laborer, and fts confides in
him, her real name – Shirl. Her research
had uncovered a long forgotten genealogy of a man who was either the forth or
fifth son of a man called Adam. Ben had
said his great, great grandparents had moved to Enoch, from a town called
Purveyors, but who they descended from, he knew not.
On the way to some coffee shop, they are followed by Ray, a beggar. Shirl tells Ben, it’s okay, Ray is cool. Ray tells the couple they’re being hunted;
Ray hands Shirl three coppers, and tells them both, they’d do well to leave
town for awhile.
“The wicked flee when no man pursueth; but the righteous are bold as a
lion.” Proverbs 28”1
