Chapter 07
This
is getting old (1325).
Lydia struggled to hide her disappointment. She folded the two reeds (12 cubits or 6
yards) length of her fine fabric, then placed it in the midst of a length of
parchment wrapping. She regretted having
asked what her customer was making; for the answer was becoming too common. Instead of a gown, or a cloak – or whatever
other practical use - 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 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, centuries 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
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, Annie’s husband 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 Annie, “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, and his two or
three henchmen; they were armed with three or four “feet.” The tallest must have stood – though most
didn’t walk fully erect – about four cubits and a span (12 or 13 feet). And stink??
These oversized mutations 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 the 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.
One of the vendors, a teller of fortunes, while carefully
packing her props – and the line of idols she had available for purchase – had
begun to notice a somewhat nervous tick upon Roco’s face, whenever he would briefly
glance, in the direction of one of the giants; one who walked fully erect. Somehow the merchant knew, perhaps not too
far down the road, things wouldn’t end well for Roco and company. Her divination skills were acute enough, but
not prophetic; she knew human nature, and sensed what her customers wanted to
hear. She was an atheist, but kept her
nonbelief in the spirit-world under wraps; bad for business, a detail which no
one needed to hear.
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 remaining years 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 somewhat ragged breath,
muttered to herself, about “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.
“There were giants in the earth
in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the
daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men
which were of old, men of renown.”
Genesis 6:4
Midlife
crises (1326).
Mash’s midlife, the phrase was catchy…like a sack of half
rotted potatoes. 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
guesstimated, 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 being 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 – too much like one’s attention span needing
to be over single digit (3/4 of an inch).
Oh, and who can forget excuse number three - the hymns are boring.
“Or, am I simply getting old?” Rachael peered into the
creek, asking her 5th century reflection.
Her hair showed undeniable streaks of gray. She pitched a stone into the water, then
grabbed and immersed, into a wooden bucket, the next article of raiment. An unmistakable screech came from the ridge, rudely
interrupting s hymn she was singing – one among several others which had…well
basically, kept her of sound mind. She turned and glared in the general
direction where the one of the lord-dragon’s female offspring was nested. It had been one of those things which
caused the death of Bron, her middle son.
Had not the elders, on several occasions, warned him and his companions
to not go up there? But no, his eyes had
been on that journal entry he had been penning.
He hadn’t seen the tiger, until it was too late. Going on three centuries, still it felt more
like a mere thirty years.
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 her husband, Mash. She’d heard enough of their conversations –
at times, they’d reminisce about the good old-perimeter days. 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 sons 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
had 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 chortled. While the woman’s hair showed only a hint of
gray, 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. As to which
one of the three outees had committed the murder, one could only speculate. 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. If that episode hadn’t been enough, recently,
a woman had been caught in bed with her lover; he had been, of course, outed – but
without ANY supplies, not even a dull flint.
She? She had been tied to a post,
and shot through with many arrows.
A week or so later.
“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.” Mash’s
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 is an ADULT, with a family of his own.” Adults – as if
she wasn’t. He then had 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 appeal to reason, “But Ra-Ruthie..,” was cut off with Mash’s “…IS
a grandmother.” He then queried, “Her
third?’ Rachael had 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 Uriah, or 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. “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!
Sound mind
Scripture
Romans,
even their women…
Separation
had been brought in, Chief Hul’s office was be official at
sunset; after which a dinner and 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, who had turned around for one last look, at her friend, whom she would
never see again – on this side – but Rachael’s final goodbye had been
interrupted by a swat to the back of her robe…for what…! holding up the column
for two seconds?
Also, among the departees was Barb’s son, Jared and his
family. Oh, the look on Tom, Jr.’s
face; while glad for his younger brother’s opportunity to see some of this
world, the disappointment was written on his face, 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 mother, 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 would 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.
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, tool-making/sharpening, and wresting with one another to
retrieve some stupid oval shaped ball.
The “menth’s” monthly had also evolved into a bi monthly
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 firmly upon the upper arm of his long known
quarrelsome wife – who had just let out a string of colorful-words. An old woman had approached, “Sir, you may
need this.” She handed him a long-handled
wooden 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 spewed
out another round of raunchy verbiage. More
than one person thumbed up at her husband’s response. Two little girls giggled. The one with a tiny
clay cup in hand, then continued to pour imaginary tea before setting it in
front of her dolly; while the other pretended the old clay saucer containing
several loaf-shaped yellowish pebbles were her favorite dainty, but that
particular fruit would not be ready to harvest for yet a while – let alone, mixed
into batter.
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,
Hul
administration
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. The one they already
had was sufficient to foul the air. Nor was it like they had an endless supply
of trees which were able to be harvested – without too much of a pain in the
…back. Unlike the trees back home, out
here, passing by one with a girth bordering on two reeds (6 yards) was business
as usual – in short, almost too thick 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 and his fellows had
journeyed to within the edge of that great forest; but they did not remain long.
One close call was enough, they had been
out of there. It was also generally
known that, if one continued west, southwest, the mountains upon which they
dwelt, gave way into the Hedge. How many furlongs? No one really knew.
The implements which came out of either foundry, weren’t
that great to begin with – neither could Hul see the point; after all, good flint
was plentiful enough. 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, on a pout fest
because his apricot cookies didn’t get delivered, along with the other items of
tribute.
“Mamma,” Barb’s youngest daughter (not Doris, 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, lying in wait, beneath the silverplating, to eventually leak. If those baubles 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 barely 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. 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 youngest daughter was concerned, Enoch may have walked
with God, but had ended up as some cresty’s lunch. While Barb had previously asked her daughter
to explain, slowly, as to 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, she had 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 the young maiden, 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, she,
however knew better than to verbalize within her mother’s hearing – the taste
of lye soap lingers.
Scripture
about Moses being drug into needless meetings
Fouling
the nest
Along a ridge, north of Purveyor’s, a big ugly was
famished. She sat in her ratty nest,
protecting her two eggs from the early morning chill and nearby predators, who
were beginning their day. From her mouth
she threw a row of flame into the air, but the target, a winged fiery serpent
had taken a quick left. The spotted owl
she had been able to bring down, just prior to dawn, hadn’t been much of a
breakfast. Neither were owls even
halfway palatable. Big Ugly needed a real meal.
A nice young andrewsarcus (a swine-like creature) would be both filling
and nutritious. The dragon had two
choices: either grow weaker from want of calories – placing her unhatched baby
uglies at risk – or take flight and search for a meal – leaving her eggs as
sitting targets to any rodent or lizard, who was likely close by, waiting
behind bush or tree for her to choose the latter option.
Zig-zagging above her, a stoner was making his way toward
the valley, for the mostly vegetarian male dragon began keeping watch upon a
fine grove of cultivated grapes – but it would be some time before the fruits
were ready for him to partake. Several
wild berry bushes, deliciously past their season, were calling. Life was good. Aside of a vine-master’s spear, and, maybe, a
run in with another stoner – though with all the hemp and grapes, that seldom
happened - he had not a care in the world, no nest to build, no young to
provision; he simply hooked up, for not more than a few moments. He would be long gone, when the female’s eggs
began their exit from her screeching body.
Meanwhile, in the bushes, a pack-lizard and his female
waited somewhat patiently for the ugly to take flight. Both needed high value nutrients, if they
were going to secure a place amid the undergrowth and build their nest.
Finally! The big ugly flapped her leathery wings and took flight. The two lizards lit out from the bushes and
beelined for the great dragon’s nest.
Neither had noticed the swollen bat, until it was too late - for not
only the lizard couple, but the departed dragon, and her two unguarded
eggs. The now trim bat, though greatly
weakened, managed to take flight, leaving behind several days’ worth of
corruption. In search of a cave, where Grot could ditch his present host and
take possession of another, he continued down the ridge line for a bit, where a
wonderful aroma tickled his nostrils. He
flew over the broken and rotting carcass of a lord dragon, who had seized upon
prey, but didn’t discover until in mid-flight, grot had taken first bite.
Men
of renown (early 1400s)
Both dragons sighed moans of relief the moment Og laid aside
that nettle-studded whip. The giant
bellowed for a slave, rocking the wagon as he lit of it – the bed was laden
with various heavy objects. These included a wrought iron chair; its missing
back left leg jutted from beneath a dusty tarp.
Finding a half-competent welder these days…good luck! “Can you move any slower!” Og hissed at the
young man, who had been shoveling dragon dooey into a wooden tub. The shovel’s handle landed within a palm (3 inches)
of a nearby pile of …yuk. Nothing much
worse than lizard dung. The poor slave
would have spewed his lunch - had he been given any. But with the famine as it was, word was: even
Porky, the high-end jewelry merchant, had been to the block – and bought
a seamstress. Word also had been, this
dealer of precious gems had been greatly peeved at having to pay three entire
silver pieces, for the old woman - but it was either that, or continue to swim
in his raiment. Ugh, the young man, now
finished with the poop, quickly emptied a third bucket of slops into the
lizards’ feed-trough; he quickly backed off, lest he become part of the
meal. Such had been the last slave’s
fate; she hadn’t moved fast enough.
The giant, now standing in back of his wagon, was having it
out with Tri-Eye. The discussion ended
when Og’s fist landed smack dab in the middle one. A second before Tri-Eye’s carcass hit the
ground, the giant’s left hand let go of the severed arm of one of Og’s stable
boys. Was only a matter of time, the young man, now back to shoveling dragon
poop – since the slop was so corrupted, it gave both dragons the runs - looked
forward to collecting his wager winnings; a bowl of potato soup. Og, stepping over Tri-Eye’s stinking carcass,
yelled for some other slaves to off-load from the wagon, the object to which he
was currently pointing. Not quite in the middle on the wagon bed, sat an ornate
casket; one of the standard 5X2X2 cubit (90X36X36 inches – for, in those days,
the average height of a human male was 6’10”).
The box weighed more than the crew of four or five men were able to
handle – for within, lay not the container’s usual payload. The coffin’s previous occupant had been
quickly evicted, and presently lay among the charred remains of Deady’s Funeral
Parlor – along with the body of Joe Deady and another one of his, now departed,
clients.
Humans…Og pursed his lips.
He bellowed for another slave.
The coffin served a far better purpose than to merely house some dead human,
then to be placed within an ornate granite structure. Within the rectangular container, instead,
housed Deady’s fortune in gold coin, jewel studded plates, cups and some
jewelry – among the items were the fortunes of several neighboring merchants,
whose remains were either charred, or partially eaten. Unlike most other giants, Og was a
go-getter, but he wasn’t one to forego his lunch; a partially eaten leg lay in
the wagon-bed, not far from the chest.
The giant was in a foul mood – not that he needed any
particular reason. The hoard didn’t make
up for what he thought he would acquire.
Nor did it make him feel any better that Bashan, another warlord – whose
suburban raid - had evidently yielded even less. Lamech’s treasure had to be buried somewhere;
certainly, the human didn’t take along - nor did his sons - before they,
evidently, had loaded their wagons with only necessities, and bugged out under
the cloak of darkness. Whatever! Og had every intention to find Lamech’s
wealth - that was, after doing away with the competition.
Tracking
course (1575)
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.”
What on earth had spooked him? Hul scratched his head. He then recalled Cappy saying something about
having been out this way, but a bit further east, and having seen a full-grown
male unicorn running from, evidently, something. His friend had elaborated how the beast’s
ears were perked, and that his head would turn slightly at about every other
noise coming from behind him. Though at
the time Hul didn’t pay his buddy much mind, for Cappy was sometimes known to
exaggerate a bit.
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 vanished, but only for a moment. “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, though careful not to
slip another cubit, where the incline waxed steep, and into a nettle grove. Yikes. A bit shaken, the elder grabbed the rope. Now pulled to safety, Hul momentarily sat
upon a nearby rock. “Drats!” he noticed the
claw which hung about his neck - one he had worn since early manhood - had
shattered, leaving only part of its upper half.
Oh well, he concluded, onward and upward, for the day was growing late, it
was time to find a site, make camp, then head on back.
Late afternoon of the following day, the party arrived home. Greeted with song and thanksgiving to the
Most High, the celebration would take place the following day, for obvious
reasons; the men, even the young men, were tired and dirty. Not hungry?
A quizzed expression washed over Mrs. Hul’s face. Barb then covered and set aside the plate she
had prepared - for their evening meal was yet an hour or two away. Of course, Hul was more tired than hungry, it
wasn’t like either one of them were spring fowl. Still, her husband looked a bit pale.
The table set, the food near ready, Barb entered the
sleeping chamber – and immediately noticed something was very, very wrong. That something confirmed, when she pulled
back the cover and felt the moist spot between the legs of his trousers.
Tommy
is Chief.
Aw maann, that skeeter would show up! Tommy grimaced, watching the insect partake one
of the dainties which had dwelt amid the leaves, where a side lattice met a
ceiling one. One shot to the bug’s wing
would have landed it right smack dab in front of… His sling remained in place. As a headman, he might have been able to take
the shot, but as Chief? There were
protocols. The oaken crown lay heavy
upon his head. While one or two of the
other men would have gladly accepted the perks, but unlike other tribes he had
known of – that was centuries ago – among Sethites, being Chief meant being
separate. That separation also applied –
especially – to a chief’s wife and maiden daughters. His youngest had turned sixteen, and was asking
her mother why she no longer allowed to play “bears verses buffalos” with the
other children.
He glanced in the direction of the pantry area, where his
mother, Barb, was among the other Councilmen’s wives. Though it wasn’t the elder woman’s turn to
serve table and clean up afterward, was just as well; evidently, his mother
wanted to keep busy. There for a while,
Tom had been greatly concerned for his twice-widowed mother. He returned his focus, upon matters at hand –
While the beasts of the forest had always contended with one another for territory,
it seemed – especially here of late – the four-footed property holders had been
growling at an increasing number of migrants to keep it moving. Tom wanted to scout, but since he been among
the previous team… Protocol again…phooey.
Gathering
storm
A short while later, they think they see a cloud of black
smoke in the distance, and decide to send out another team of scouts. A day prior to the scout’s expected return, Barb
noticed a faint, but awful stench in the air. She, at first, had ignored it. But the day after the following, with the six
or seven men not having yet returned – she hadn’t been the only one concerned,
that something just wasn’t right.
Next day, the scouts returned. The news was 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 had unwillingly
had a certain history imposed by Anak, upon her person. 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 had 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;
which also included: Cain’s Day, New Year’s, Hallows Eve, Dragon’s Day (though
those poor beasts weren’t treated much, if any, better than the slaves), Super
Bowel Sunday, and Kevin Cardboard’s Day.
Promotions…meh.
Albert bit his lip, for discontentment is a quick left toward sin. No, he didn’t want to go there. But he did want to remain at his old job,
taking core samples and jotting the results on his clipboard. The only noise out there was background
radiation and a random meteor shower, or exploding star. Here was shouting, cursing and whips cracking
– foul smells and dust. “Friend, I miss my janitor days.” Aaron spoke, then
added, “but our King knows best.” Both
agreed. Still, the both of them couldn’t
fathom, nor cared to, how humans could be so vicious to one another.
Strong take the weak, my ear. Aaron raised an eyebrow at the recent
bray-fest going on between two task-masters.
If either of the brutes only knew what strength actually was. He glanced at his co-guardian. Albert was among the most delicate of the
heavenly forces, but even he – gifted with far more brains than muscle – could overthrow
ten thousand of these mooks, with one hand.
Aaron pointed to their charge, an old woman – who looked more like 900-something
than her actual years of around 750. He
filled his co-worker in on the details of this assignment – one that likely be
of a short duration.
“First name?” Albert never heard of such a thing, a daughter
addressing her mother as…”Who? Lucy?”
“If they don’t want to end up separated.” Aaron spoke
matter-of-factly. Then continued, “Watch this.”
Lucy (a.k.a, Barb) glowered as another old woman emptied her
bucket of ore into a nearby wagon. “But
for the restraining grace of the Most High God, this is not going to end well.”
Albert wasn’t quite following, with so much brutality going on. Not far from the old woman, another slave was
currently getting beat for … not moving fast enough. While yet another slave had just within a
half index escaped the jaws of a dragon who had snapped one of his bounds and
was striving to break the others and head for the forest. Aaron pointed to a slightly puffy area upon
the old woman’s faded, dusty raiment. “She’s
carrying.”
“Carrying?”
“Barbara has a shiv, wrapped within that old rag.” Aaron then
cocked his head toward the other slave, who had sometime earlier, made a rude
gesture.
Albert was flummoxed. It wasn’t like he was totally outer
space, Barbara, didn’t come off as the vengeful type. He had been on this assignment long enough to
notice their charge, despite all the nastiness around them, she had a kindly
disposition toward the others. The woman,
like the others slaves, was obviously underfed, ill-clothed, and otherwise in
no shape to be worked like a chained dragon, and yet she was not one to take
advantage of the weaker, more vulnerable ones toiling about her. How did this come to be? A daughter of Seth, raised from infancy to
believe in the Most High God, to joyfully sing His praises, to have heard Enoch
preach, to have read his sermons. He
didn’t voice the question, for the answer was evident: corruption is a vile
disease, that spreads.
Dusk came, the slaves were crowded into filthy sheds. Even rodents and lizards generally avoided those
rickety shacks; competing, and possibly losing, against woodland tooth and claw
for provision was preferable to … stench.
“I can’t remember the song.” Barb wept softly., while
massaging a swelling in her calf. Nor
was the hymn the only one she could only recall fragments. “Well, maybe that’s a blessing.” her daughter
replied, emphasizing the last word with scorn.
Talk about sweet and bitter from the same spring, the younger left the
remark unspoken. Whatever was going on
between her mother and the other woman, she feared it was only a matter of
time, before the latter was caught unawares, with a shiv lodged in her throat.
But the Most High had other plans.
“No, leave that alone.” Barb’s nemises wiped grime upon her child’s
face, for the girl, barely seventeen, had attracted the eye of the local pimp. It was only a matter of time, before the
child would be put into the brothel – where she’d be used up, then cast out – that
is, if she lived long enough to reach menarche.
Barb couldn’t go through with her plans.
She just couldn’t - as much as she despised the old snitch, her enemy
was also a mother, and soon to lose her child.
The next day, the usual toil.
The small boy, overly burdened, could barely tote the bucket
of ground stone. Uphill from the lad, an
unhitched ore wagon began to roll; the youngster – whose senses dulled from
hunger, thirst, and general abuse – didn’t see the runaway vehicle, until it
was too late – almost. In a flash of a
second, someone shoved him from the oncoming disaster.
Isabel lay broken and bleeding upon the path. Her spine broken, she could feel about
nothing. Three or four taskmasters, one
or two cursing, profusely – because the wagon tumbled, and further setting them
behind quota – each grabbed an arm, or a leg, and threw the still conscious body
down a nearby ravine. The woman’s last
thought before hitting the brambly bottom was: “What glorious birds.” Her eyes did a double take, for they were not
birds, but winged men. She slipped into
unconsciousness.
Little did Isabel know, the several times removed great
grandson of Cain would only live to early middle age; but he would live long
enough to meet an old hermit, who served the Most High; and then would continue
his way, bringing others.
Another terrible day spent, the slaves were marched back to
their sheds. Barb was especially
exhausted, for she had been working overtime.
With the help of the nightly mists, some rotting boards near the ground,
in the back of the shed, had begun to loosen from their rusted nails. While the others slept, she used one or more
shivs (for Barb had stashed a couple) to help the board along; she then covered
the area with dirty straw. Outside the
small opening, lay a board and a limb – both of which she had managed to sharpen
the ends to a decent point. Also, under
cover of the brush, a satchel lay stock with a few necessities, which Barb had
somehow been able to acquire. While she
wanted to continue, sharpening the board, she had to get some sleep. She could only conclude, it was lack of rest
– whatever that was – certainly wasn’t helping the sore red spot, which had,
over the past few days, had begun to give her trouble; like she didn’t already
have enough of that.
She crawled back to her spot. She gazed proudly upon her sleeping daughter,
a little boy – evidently an orphan, for the kid’s village had, also, been
raided - whom she had befriended, lay beside her.
Two or three nights later, the guard outside – the same one
who had been previously warned about his drinking – was again, imbibing from
that nasty cup – the same one, which Barb had somehow managed to slip in some
powder. (The guard would have been
immediately, beat up some, then let go, but the op was experiencing staffing
issues). Barb could only hope, enough
had wafted into the vessel. It was now
or never. “Remember,” Barb whispered
into her daughter’s ear, “grab the satchel, the board and the stick.” The girl was woods-wise enough to know, that
without some kind of weapon, they surely wouldn’t make it – but dealing with
beasts out there was better than here, where being worked to a slow death was
about a given. Having already said their
farewells, her daughter, and the little boy made their way toward the narrow
opening.
Another set of young eyes opened. The dusty faced seventeen year-old, hugged
her sleeping mother, and quickly, silently was outside the opening, and fleeing
along with the other two. Go with the
Most High, Barb’s voice was barely a whisper. Maybe a half watch later (about an hour and a
half) Barb’s nemesis awoke. Immediately,
panic arose upon the woman’s saggy face.
“She’s headed to a safe place,” Barb spoke, adding, “Most
High willing.”
Her enemy was taken aback.
“But why?” The woman was no
dummy, she knew Sethite women weren’t to trifle with – they knew how to make
weapons from the most unlikely things. Staring at the somewhat moonlight opening, and
then glancing at Barb’s skinny frame, she continued, “Wha-why didn’t you go
with them?” Barb responded by lifting
the hem of her ragged garment to just above her knee, and turning her leg. “I’m a goner.” Barb spoke, her tone quiet, and matter of
fact. She knew what the trouble
was: a blood clot – one which in normal
circumstances, with proper food, rest and care, would be no problem. Here, however, was a different
prognosis.
Morning came its usual, too blasted soon – bringing along
the clinking of a chain being loosened, followed by the somewhat heavy shed
door banging open. A whip-wielding task
master bellowed for them to get on their feet – interspersed with a variety of
curses, obscenities, and general put-downs.
It was enough for Barb to stand, let alone shuffle to that filthy caged
wagon, which would commute them to the quarry. Not far from the beast fueled
slave bus, a man screamed for mercy, as a studded whip tore the flesh upon his
naked back. His wailings, pleadings were
only answered by another strike, and another.
The party was way over; he wouldn’t last into mid-morning.
Little did Barb know, the clot wasn’t merely the result of
routine overwork and general abuse. It
was a chastening, divinely aimed to prevent a wicked plan from manifesting into
action - the murder of a fellow slave.
Neither did Barb know, thousands of years in the future, she would,
recognize, among the wedding guests seated closer to the head table, here and
there, a member of her family, some of her neighbors. The hall massive, would provide more than
plenty of space. Unlike other weddings,
everyone’s focus, however, would be more upon the Groom, and less upon people. Seated across from her would be someone she
had not known during her lifetime. The
name card would read: Lot.
“Doth a fountain send forth at the same place sweet
water and bitter?” James 3:11
“And if the righteous scarcely be saved, where shall
the sinner and the ungodly appear?” 1 Peter 04:18
Scripture about angels’ strength.
Things
get ugly
An old man struggled to empty a bucket of ore into a wagon, one onto
which one of his ankles was tethered; surrounding him were several more
containers. “HEY, YOU, get a move on!”
barked one of the overseers, who had been assigned to the unit – to replace another,
who had recently been let go. Ever on
the look, for any reason to crack the whip, he smirked, watching the hapless
slaves go about their toil. Another
bucket emptied into the wagon-bed – well, almost. The bucket slipped from the slave’s arthritic
hands, and rolled sending a portion of its payload to the ground. The overseer was livid – for he’d received a marginal
on his latest quota review; one more write-up could put him in a real fix. It wasn’t
his fault, for the vein had thinned, and so the operation lost time in digging
for another. The poor slave scrambled to put the fallen pieces into one of the
buckets. Oh, the terror in the slave’s eyes, as his cursing overseer approached,
casually, almost lovingly, running his fingers through several knotted cords of
studded leather. “Heh, heh,” grinning, he
raised his whip-wielding arm. “Thing’s gonna get real ugly.”-
Stoney’s replacement had no idea, how ugly.
The whip fell to the ground. A
searing pain took hold of the task-master’s wrist; his feet kicked in the air. The distance between he and the whip grew as
the big ugly ascended. Below him, the
toil ceased, for the slaves – and maybe two or three of the overseers – were
clapping hands, whistling and cheering. He
continued to struggle, but all it served him was a lost shoe, and one leg of
his trousers tearing to shreds, as the dragon flew barely above some
tree-tops. The big ugly ascended higher;
dead ahead, was a ratty mass of branches, vines, brambles and leaves, where two
hatchlings excitedly flapped their yet undeveloped wings, smelling the blood dripping
from the man’s leg. A fresh warm living meal was on its way.
Scripture: brick without straw.
Magma
central
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. 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. 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, a quick stomp to Tommy’s head and
upper torso, had ended that chapter. Stoney’s
firing had been about having thunked the wrong slave – the crew’s healer.
Hadn’t been his fault; the slaves
were a bunch of dolts, who’d needed a good beating to motivate them. 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 yet another new arrival.
Scripture: great gulf fixed
Year
1651
Meanwhile, some 24,000 furlongs (3,000 miles) above where that
magma stream led into a molten 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 the two draft 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’s)
funeral, who was laid to rest beside his mother, Doris; she had passed on, some
decades previous. 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 to the village, for he wanted to buy a news-scroll
– through he wasn’t sure why, or even the point - Jorg passed the cemetery; therein,
was a second, and 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 thing?” Two men and a woman, against that horde, they
had been outnumbered – but such is the way of low-lives. The scene replaying, he began to sniffle. Enough, he straightened himself, and continued
on his way. A moment after leaving the newsstand, he caught
a glimpse of one of his great, great, granddaughters half stagger from the grog
house - along with whatever slacker she had moved into her place, upon whatever
coin she had been able to earn, through either taking in laundry, delivering quick-food,
or whatever other low-pay stint. The
woman’s hand now raised, one of her fingers made a well-known gesture; it was only
a matter of time, jasper would be outdoors – and within a matter of days, replaced
with yet another…worthless.
Not far down the garbage strewn street, an argument between two
or three men - or maybe a woman or two - began simmering over the usual discord;
these days, one couldn’t always tell the difference. Jorg kept a wary eye; could be a ruse, he
kept his dagger on ready. The formerly
neat and pleasant village now behind him, yet his weapon remained unsheathed. Nearby
the supposed altercation, several ragged young children had run into an alley,
lest they be spotted by two or three older, and equally ragged, older children.
This was getting ridiculous, Jorg coughed into a rag; he glanced at the soiled
fabric remnant - over the last year it had been getting worse. Jorg let out a somewhat ragged breath. He would soon be home – thank you, Most High
God - where he could sit on his porch, watch the squirrels and the birds, while
he relaxed over his paper, and a cup of tea, before retiring for the
evening.
From a distance ahead, 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; upon it sat a gantry which supported an immense chest, one
with rounded corners; at the top, what looked like would be some sort of long
house.
“The righteous perisheth, and no
man layeth it to heart: and merciful men are taken away, none considering that
the righteous is taken away from the evil to come.” Isaiah 57:1
Not
so Gentle Ben (early 1655)
The bear was ferocious; over the last decade or so, he had mauled
several – one he had dragged into the forest.
Perhaps Ben had moved on, for it was said, the great beast’s territory
was extensive. Rachael had debated whether
or not to go into that clearing – where years ago, someone’s carelessness had
touched off a brush fire. Nevertheless,
she needed foodstuffs - but she didn’t need people knowing her business. The area now provided several types of wild
berries – that was, for anyone willing to expend the effort. Rachael’s
great granddaughter, evidently, wasn’t interested; not that Rachael could blame
the young woman – who had just awoken when her grandmother had called. It was midday. Rachael wasn’t surprised. Just disappointed. For the girl had started out well, that was
before she had taken up with the wrong crowd – which, unfortunately, was most
the village. It just boggled Rachael’s
mind, their houses and field hadn’t been consumed by the surrounding wilderness
– between the stabbings, intentional miscarriages, and sloth.
“Go back over there!” The broom head slammed at the table’s
edge, but the long-tailed target stuck out its tongue then scampered off. She muttered something about a midden for a
backyard. From next door, her ears were
but a moment away from being treated to yet another quarrel between the woman
and … sir butthead. The guy was
totally worthless – but neither was the woman anyone’s prize. Sometimes the woman’s young daughter would
come over, because the four year-old knew the old woman was kind. Usually dirty, if not bruised, Rachael would give
the little girl a bath, wash and or mend her raggedy clothes, and give her, whatever
the old widow had on-hand, to eat. Rachael
had about long decided, though risky, it was better to simply go into the field
– even beyond the perimeter – every couple of days. Storing foodstuffs, wasn’t worth the effort;
her home had been ransacked more than a few times. Most of her late husband’s effects, along
with most her - once somewhat extensive – wardrobe, and even many of her pantry
items, were gone.
“And you also.” She batted a fly, then took up her basket. Passing through her yard, a wet thunk of
something being added to the pile next door, had evidently alarmed a turkey
lizard, who had been feeding there. She
almost felt sorry for the fleeing dragon, unlike its great, great,
great…grandsires – who enjoyed blossomy bounties – these days, planting and
caring for rose and peony bushes was generally considered, too much like work. “Sure
had a lovely garden.” Rachael thought of
Barb, her long ago friend, as she passed near the border of another neighbor’s
property – one sprouting more brambles than greenery. She wondered how the original settlement was
doing – a question she had been increasingly asking herself. Her mind continued travelling back, arriving at
the mid-1000s. Her grandson, Noah, the
lad who wanted to play with his boat, was…she paused. He was into his 600th year. That
meant Doris, her firstborn daughter was…
A sudden movement from the corner of her eye, jolted her out
of her wanderings and into the present. At
not too much of a distance, a bear approached – almost casually, as if he was
taking his time, anticipating an easy meal.
She slowly backed up, careful to not make eye contact. She took another step backward, but her body
jolted somewhat, for her foot was half on, and half off a rock. He let out a roar, then stepped up his pace,
just a bit – as if to let her know, she was done. She froze; the only movement was the stream
from her eyes – the droplets bordering the moist ground between her feet. As if out of nowhere, from out of her mouth,
came a melodious hymn – one, like most others, hadn’t seen sung for the better
end of two or three centuries. By stanza
four, her hands and face had gently raised skyward, the bear had already relaxed
upon his fours, and had let out soft, almost purring sounds. Basking for a short while in the melody, he
then turned and went his way.
Meanwhile, the scene was not lost on one or more of her
fellow villagers. For years, the old
woman had merely been the butt of random scoffing, she had come and gone, basically
ignored. It didn’t take long, however,
for the incident to reach her grandson’s ears.
While he didn’t believe in spell-casting – or anything else outside of
the visible world - others did, and feared the world of spirits. He now had his revenge. And to sweeten the cauldron – laughing at his
own pun – with hagitha outed, he would waste no time in taking possession of
his grandfather’s holdings.
Cat
lady - late 1655
“What in the world?” Rachael thunked her basket unto a
nearby rock. The entire row was
droopy. That never happened before! The only time she needed to add water, was
for seedlings, when planted during the afternoon – just a quick mist to see
them through until the late evening when the ground would spurt mists to soften
the soil, bathe the roots and shower leaf and fruit. But the mists had, over the past week or so,
become slight; even less so than during the down season when plants rested for
a few weeks. It wasn’t like she didn’t
already have enough on her plate. Earlier
that morning, she had received a wake-up call.
The warm spring wasn’t. The barely
tepid shower gave her a chill; and not only that, the water level no longer
covered her shoulders.
Having kindled a small fire, she warmed herself, while
pondering whether or not to clear away a mess of gritty stones which had,
somehow, tumbled into her rose bushes. Two
of them weren’t going to make it. Perhaps a beast had crawled up that way to sun
his or herself, but that was rather doubtful – since Tabby had been monitoring
that portion of her holdings From Rachael’s vantage, she caught a glimpse of the
old sabretooth, and so decided to avoid the area. The beast had been testy here of late,
probably the arthritis flaring up – making her doubly vigilant. Part of Rachael’s herb garden was in
ruins. During a previous flare, an
andrewsarcus had been looking to settle, his assumptions had changed real
quick.
Over the years, an alliance, though at times uneasy, had
developed between the two aged females. Be
that as it was, had it not been for the beast’s presence, Rachael wouldn’t have
lasted two days out here, furlongs from the “settlement.” A community which had, over time, slouched into
a rural ghetto -where fathers absented themselves from their sons, mothers
moved in lovers – only to shortly after show these low-life’s the sagging
lattice. Sagging, a lot of that going on, considering the mass quantities of
grog consumed. While her late husband would partake now and again, he had not cared
for its side effects. Nearing her 800th year, she still missed their
marital...conversations.
She spread a threadbare covering over the rickety table, she
had years ago managed to cobble together. Looking over the fabric, it would
likely rend after the next washing – and the washing or two after that, go the
way of her one other, which now served as a shelf-scarf, covers for two or
three of her baskets, several drying cloths, and the rest had become wash rags.
She surveyed the crystalline ceiling and
walls of her abode – which was, technically, a cave, but more like a depression. Still, the enclosure allowed space for a bed,
a cobbled-together chest, and the not quite level table just inside the
entrance. She reached for her sewing
basket to finish mending a shoulder seam of her “best” dress – one of three she
owned. How the formerly lovely garment
had been overlooked – unlike most of her things – after her grandson had moved
in that … trollop. The same grandson,
whose promise to his grandfather had lasted only but awhile.
While her husband had been alive, neither spouse couldn’t
help but notice the waxing worse. Sometimes, looking back, she couldn’t help
but conclude her husband had died, not from the injury, but from horrendous
music – for lack of better terms. Melody
had long taken flight, and rhythm had devolved into a disjointed mess. If the
drums hadn’t been jarring enough – as if other instruments had never existed -
the throat-singing, and the general growling, had taken the maggoty loaf. Aside of the general disrespect she had
endured every day, after Mash’s passing, for no better reason than “that old
hag is still around,” it was enough to see their things either disappear or end
up damaged. Things had come to a head, the afternoon
Rachael had discovered Mash’s lyre wasn’t in its usual place, but laying in a
corner, in two shattered pieces. That had
been more than enough; she had shown sir Anak 2.0 - and his current
floozy - the front lattice. Always one
in every settlement, but especially over the last century, anaks were breeding
like…diseased rabbits.
Two fallen angels, cursed a black streak upon seeing a team
of three or four Holy angels guarding a cave’s entrance. The fallen ones stomped off, cursing all the
more. Inside, the old woman was taking an
afternoon nap upon a grassy mat, one covered with tattered bed-raiment. Aaron 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 events which
had happened in her past, and confounding, frightful things which didn’t. Aaron and his team had the full-time duty of
guarding her. More like, guarding her
from herself; if not wandering off, the old widow had, a time or three, stood
her fields, against tusk and claw, with but a rake, or broom.
Unlike many other forests and fields, no giants had come and
defile this region – men had done a bang-up job of that 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, was
no great wonder that people scoffed at their grandfathers – even pushed aged widows
from their homes, and regarded children as simply being in the way of the
grog-house, 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, he 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.
Rachael’s name was in the next column – appearing only two or three
names before “Methuselah.”
That would be yet awhile.
Promotions…phooey! Aaron missed his janitor days.
There was yet one more name after Methuselah; that of a
little boy. Mash’s name wasn’t on the
list. His was among those - of friends
and neighbors, several of the quarry slaves, and one of the overseers – somewhere
in the middle of Page 3.
Hearing a familiar sound from outside, Aaron rallied 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 had 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 dangled, as the she-dragon stomped away.
Rachael awoke, to a pair of, evidently, travel-worn camels staring
at her. While camels appeared docile
enough, the males, especially, were known to bit and kick. Carefully, cautiously, she arose, her bones
creaked. Not yet limber, she ambled outside
the enclosure. Both animals followed to where a shallow brook jutted from a
crevice and ran along the outside wall, then disappeared into another crevice. Both
animals drank from the cool stream and breakfasted upon the fruits, 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. From the manner in which the two were
conducting themselves, they appeared to be as if they were courting. Weren’t they a bit young for that? Rachael had asked herself the same question,
concerning her last visitors – a young andy and his female; the pair had 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 had no idea, but somehow, she knew, they
knew, they had quite a journey ahead.
“And the voice of harpers, and
musicians, and of pipers, and trumpeters, shall be heard no more at all in
thee; and no craftsman, of whatsoever craft he be, shall be found any more in
thee; and the sound of a millstone shall be heard no more at all in thee;”
Revelation 18:22
“Of every clean beast, thou
shalt take to thee by sevens, the male and his female: and of beasts that are
not clean by two, the male and his female.” Genesis 7:2
Climate
change, 2/16/1656
The once splendid mansion was in ruins. Squatters had moved in, and over the years
had trashed the place. In what had been the ball-room and the adjacent banqueting
room - where in former times, Enoch had hosted elegant socials for his clients
and their wives – was now a mess of broken furniture, liquor bottles, food
cartons, drug paraphernalia, broken musical instruments, torn clothing, vomit,
and general waste. Near one corner, above
one of the walls – like many others throughout the mansion – where someone had
evidently thrown a punch, and had missed, Adah’s office was visible. Long rifted through for anything of value, a
page from some long-ago legal draft, peeked from the edge of a battered stand,
fluttered for a bit, then drifted onto the floor then through the hole, the
page had landed nearby two squatters, who were engaged in a cringy act. Not that they were the only couple - or
whatever combination thereof - who were occupied in whatever state of weirdness.
A ragged, half-naked young child darted from one of the side
rooms and grabbed the nearest food container. He darted back to the hidey-hole,
opened the box and wasted no time in reaching for whatever had been left. The child knew the drill: eat fast, and be
ready to fight other equally ragged and malnourished children - who were
likewise on the hunt for moldering scraps.
A drunk stirred, and made his way past an open door which barely
hung upon a single hinge. Bobbing and
weaving, he leaned up against an upended statue, which once had overlooked Zillah’s
flower beds – these now a jumble of weeds and refuse. The drunk hiked up his robe to expel a nasty mix
of cheap booze and half-spoiled food. Rearranging
himself, he happened to glance to where the forest was reclaiming its long-ago
holdings. What was with the dark gray
splotches in the sky? He rubbed his eyes,
shook his head, then rubbed them again. They
were bigger and more numerous than yesterday?
Were they not? A gust of wind threatened
to pull off his mantle. His ponderings were
then halted by the arrival of someone totting a bottle – and not just any hooch. The label read HammerTime. Serious schmoozing was in order.
Inside, two men and a woman had finished snorting up some
powder. One of them, spotting a better
source, had arose; on his way, he was almost knocked off balance, as if the
very ground had shifted. He snickered at
the very idea – he, like about everyone else, had heard the story about some
old codger hollering from a large boat, where the nearest sea was many, MANY furlongs
distant. His twisted mirth, as if on a
copper, turned to a scowl. He shoved
aside a child who had partially crossed his path. The youngster picked himself up; the lad was
still hungry, for the box had contained only several crusts - which two older boys
had wrested from him before he could get a third bite. In desperation, he sought his mother. She, however, was in the middle of negotiating
for a swig of whatever was left of the almost empty HammerTime bottle, and so
didn’t want to be bothered. The swing of
her backhand sent the five year-old careening onto the edge of an upturned
table. The youngster lay
motionless.
Early the following morning, the clouds had thickened. The wind tugged and tore what remained of two
or three lace panels, which partially hung upon a rod – which was a gust or
three from slipping its metal bindings, and clattering to the filth coated
marble floor. In the corner, where the
parchment had fallen from the second floor, the page’s ink was smeared in
places. Several drops of water had
already fallen through broken roof-slates. Approaching mid-morning, the rain and wind had
picked up, significantly. Not a one of them had taken notice. The party hadn’t folded until around the
usual time – into the fourth watch (around 4 am). The guests were out like
lights – neither had they felt the tremors, nor heard the distant booms. Little did the partiers know, they were not in
a good place – not at all. The nearby
creek – long choaked with human generated debris – had backed up and, at any
moment, was ready to spill.
“And it came to pass at the seventh time, that he
said, Behold, there ariseth a little cloud out of the sea, like a man’s
hand. And he said, Go up, say unto Ahab,
Prepare thy chariot, and get thee down, that the rain stop thee not.” 1 Kings
18:44
“In the six hundredth year of Noah’s life, in the
second month, the seventeenth day of the month, the same day were all the fountains
of the great deep broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened.” Genesis
7:11
Epilogue
– 2030 A.D.
Archeological find.
The healer’s grave site uncovered, somewhere in the mountains of Turkey. A special write up in the New York Times,
which advertised a (DEI engineered) best seller, entitled, “When Persons Born
with the XX Chromosome Were Chieftains – A Comprehensive Study on the Further Dismantling
of the Patriarchy.” The 400-some page (filler
infused) soft cover volume sold for about $95.00; the hard cover first edition
– but out of print - had sold for around $210.
THE END
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 wicked flee when no man pursueth; but the righteous are bold as a
lion.” Proverbs 28”1
