Turn of the Millenium: People of their Time

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

Chapter 01

Rural

Around 940 p.c. (post creation)

Phew, they stink, especially that one they call Bear – Ugh!   She narrowly glared at the back of the one pulling one end of a rough hemp rope; he didn’t smell so terrific either.  No wonder, these…these yahoos evidently hadn’t the common sense to understand midsections need to breathe; trousers only serve to hamper that ability to remain at least somewhat fresh between baths.  UGH, one of them had let out flatulence – his face held a wide grin of relief. Disgusting!  So unlike the clean robed men of her community – from the chief on down to his errand-boy. How on earth did their women cope?  Ugh, probably not much better than the benighted Enu women.  Bear had what looked like food particles embedded in his shaggy beard - though she didn’t care to lean in for a closer look. The men of Elam, Rachael’s lineage, kept their beards trimmed and free of crumbs, leaves, branches - not a mid-level math exam…not that these people could move past basic addition and subtraction!   She clung to this spirit of criticism, like a boat-wrecked sailor clings to a severed timber.  She had no intention, whatsoever, of giving these … these mooks the satisfaction of knowing she was scared, down to her remaining three wits, and was hard pressed in keeping those  from getting away.  The other end of the hemp rope was chafing her wrists – especially when that JERK..!  They called him Mash.

Collectively, their tribe might as well be the thunder-lizard to be appeased; they sure stank like dragons.  According to the legend – though Rachael believed the Enu was a real tribe, or had been; around this time of year, they would sacrifice a virgin, usually one from a higher-ranking family.  Though from what she had read, it was difficult to piece together the idea of Enu’s having any concept of lineage.  Her scrolls, her journals…another one of her remaining wits took off, leaving her only two.  She batted her eyelids.  No crying, not one tear.  Home.  She might have made it back, when she had taken that aim, but JERK had caught her foot, sending her upper back, and the rest of her slamming to the ground.  Hence the rope, and the swollen side of her face.    That window, now firmly closed, for it was more than risky enough for a full-grown man to be about this country alone.  Oh, the sheer indignity, of being so…so mishandled.  She managed to wipe her moist eyes upon her sleeve.  Her people, the Elamites, were few in number, and during the middle of the last century, had become Sethite vassals.  As if the tribute, in itself, wasn’t enough, ¾ of the “administration fee,” was in the belt pouches of three.  The remaining forth…she couldn’t help but to notice his broad shoulders and muscular arms…what in perdition is WRONG with you?  She snapped that thread, quick.

She caught another sweaty whiff, from shaggy-beard; Bear had what appeared to be a nasty scar running down the side of his face, and into that unwashed mass of … fur, then across his shoulder and down – wherever that headed, oh no, not the least interested in finding out.   She caught a glimpse of his angry glare – like she was at fault for … well, any of this.  The third man, whom they called Jorg, seemed reasonably civilized – unlike tug-meister.  Ouch! that one broke skin.  The fourth man, Cappy, was leading a donkey; upon the animal’s back were several satchels – one contained two or three lengths of heavy linen; another held unspun wool, and the smallest contained spices  and maybe a few gemstones.  Cappy, had also cast Rachael a less-than-friendly look.  So kindly excuse me for…breathing.  Wasn’t like she had anything to do with whatever situation he’d likely brought upon himself.   Something about their somewhat recent inaugurated chief keeping tabs on these four village RATS.    Per some recent news from the Source, a.k.a., Purveyor’s Market, evidently, their Chief Enos had stepped down, and his firstborn Cainan had taken the helm – and Cainan wasn’t one to put up with foolishness.  From what she’d been able to gather, the elder had more or less wanted to retire – to putter in his garden and play some ridiculous game, hitting a pocked marked ball with a curved stick; they called it golf.  Surely, must be nice to have spare time - when you’re raking in resources, off the backs of other people, and onto the back of a donkey - one that wasn’t theirs, either. B’tards! 

“EEEEE-HE”

All five individuals halted.  Any thoughts, other than the present, scattered.  All eyes and ears watched and listened for the rustling of branches, calls of birds taking flight, scamperings of animals.  All minds – that is, any at least partially sane…but considering these four, that was debatable – prayed to the Most High, they’d see neither lion, nor dire wolf, fleeing for its life.  Animals, especially lions and aurochs, making a quick exit, that was a sure sign cresty was nearby.  As if the native andys, and the migrating bird-lizards aren’t enough.  But THAT?  A cresty was a beast about the size of a draft horse, but dangerous enough to take on a thunder – and maybe even come away with…well, not too many gashes upon his neck and shoulders.   A moment passed. The pack animal lowered his head to munch upon a tuft of soft grass.  Red alert faded to orange.  Stopping to munch upon another, orange alert faded to yellow.   Since the dragon’s call had come from the direction where the creek fed into the river – and it being late morning, cresty had likely let it be known, he or she had wanted the area to himself.  Around this time of day, those oversized lizards would often seek a nice flat rock to lounge upon and sun themselves into the later afternoon – usually.  She could only thank the heavens, cresties were rather lazy creatures – otherwise, the sum of one person’s fingers and toes would about equal the human population.

“I don’t know!” the smelly one piped up, though there seemed to be a hint of nervousness in his voice.  Though, anyone in his right mind, should be on guard – dragons had a changeable streak about them.  Rachael kept an eye on the donkey, whenever the animal was within her vantage, for animals can sense danger sooner and quicker than men.  Moments passed.  A brief comment or two had passed between the men, concerning whatever self-scripted drama going in their lives.

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

Her eyes, waxed mega saucer at what she thought she’d heard “…have a little fun with the girl.”

“Know what.” came another comment from one of them. “Well, you know how they are.”

They.  That meant she was in serious trouble.

“Ya know, he’s right.” another grinned, then continued, “sounding far enough away, and being…”

“Yeah, not necessarily the same distance, eh.”

“Ever wonder how they do that?”

At a distance from the group, a sabretooth took off running away from where the creek led towards the river.

“Well guys,” Bear’s commented, “just in case, we’d better quit wondering, and git to gitting?” 

Something seemed off about the tone of the man’s voice; it was as if he was…amused.  These mooks were crazy, and Rachael wasn’t sure if which scared her more – cresty or these two-legged dragons. From behind her, came a rustle of thick underbrush – out from which, a young bear – hardly more than a cub - lumbered away, quickly, in another direction.  “EEEEEHE!”  The monster was directly behind her.  For such lazy animals, cresty could be quick, when his walnut-sized brain took a mind.  Before she could completely turn around, to face the inevitable – and face with honor, befitting a headman’s daughter - Rachael collapsed like a Copper-General lawn-chair.

“Great going, Bear!”  Mash shook his head, mildly irritated with his buddy’s latest stunt. He let out a breath, muttering something about women being more trouble than they’re worth.  Looking down at their prone travel guest; he unlatched from his gear-belt a wooden oval container. Unceremoniously, he upended the wide-mouthed bottle.

 

“Well, wud ja lookit what sammy

sabre jus’ drug in.” an older woman cackled to one of her fellows – somebody named, Penny?  Whatever her name was, the younger woman cocked her head, whispering something about “her, from Lydia’s.” The older woman’s nod – jostled a mass of auburn hair, bunched into a sagging bun, which was but a nod or two from falling about her formidable shoulders.  Similar to many, if not most, the other women, she wore a full apron over her half-sleeved pleated dress.  They all looked like parcels.  Rachael strove to not make faces at their so last century raiment. The garment’s work tattered hem came to just above the stout woman’s ankles, exposing a pair of dusty, calloused feet. The woman wore no sandals; looking around, it appeared generally the same among the other women.  Running around without foot-coverings, not even her people’s servants…Rachael glanced around, incredulous, at the rugged lot – careful to not stare.  Not that Rachael was in any position to boast, on account of her better raiment, her smoother hands, and the designer sandals upon her feet.  She was a mess; her head-covering was covered alright - with leaves, twigs, bird-dooey; her hair resembled more like a big-ugly’s nest.  Her dress was rent in places, from having passed too close to one briar bush too many, and, all along the way, had become sequined with twigs, sap droplets, and those annoying fuzzy things.  A strap on one of her sandals had broken several furlongs back, so it went flap-flap-flap whenever she took more than a few steps. 

Apart from the crowd, but not far off, she caught a glimpse of a mother, standing at the base of a mulberry tree; the woman, looking up, called to somebody named Barbara?   Though with everything going on, Rachael wasn’t sure if she’d heard correctly.  Still, what an unusual name, for it meant stranger; why would parents name their son…?  A pair of bare feet, followed by two boney ankles, dangled from a branch, about two reeds and a half (some 22 feet) then hit the ground. Though Rachael’s vantage had been mostly blocked by the usual goings on, about any village, but half a moment later, the activity subsided enough to reveal one of Barbara’s long braids – its end secured by a pink ribbon. There was something familiar about the girl’s mother, who was fussing over the girl’s sap spotted bodice.  Was she …?  Even from Rachael’s vantage, the woman’s eyes; that was her; an almost century-old early childhood memory – of shouts, screams, burning homes collapsing into embers, blood spurting from Uncle Enroy’s nose and mouth. All around her while she could nothing, but remain hidden within that rock cleft.  The girl’s mother, now wiping a blotch from her daughter’s face, had been among the two or of three young women, bound and led away.  Rachael’s attention was then, mercifully, brought to the present, by an older boy who had almost knocked her over while catching up with his fellows.

The woman, who had made the “sammy” comment, appeared to be the head hen; around the sturdy woman her retinue pointed and whispered.  Rachael thought she heard one of them, murmur “wouldn’t want to be in her shoes,” and another responding with something about her daughter “being spared…that…”  Bits and pieces of a dark tale - she’d heard whispered here and there, during her childhood, and later - began lining up in Rachael’s memory.  A long-ago account, of one of their warriors, having taken a vow before going to battle.   It was well known, Seth’s descendants lived in fear of offending a perpetually angry warrior god, one who lived, in a stronghold, somewhere, way up in the sky.  Anyone, not living in a cave, had either heard, or heard about, Enoch’s thunderings, concerning that gruff deity with an overly long, thick, battle-stained beard – one who demanded copious tributes of blood, so much, that it stained his garments.  It was said, that even their chief and headmen would tremble as they removed their sandals before approaching his altar, where unspotted lambs were laid upon the wood, the animals’ throats slit, their bodies burnt.  From a somewhat distant hilltop – completely barren of any tree, or even a bush - she caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a corner of an altar of unhewn stone.   

So unlike the beautiful altar in Purveyor’s central court; it’s five sided stones, each with exquisite carvings, each perfectly even, and polished just everso.  Upon its flat surface, fresh cut flowers and vegetables gave off a lovely aroma; that was, before the generous medley was put to flame – but then all around, the moist smoke would always linger, making you cough.  But none the less, the altar, and the open-air structure which housed it, was such a work of art – unlike that clunkety thing; her eyes narrowed in the direction of the hilltop, then toward the sky, in the direction where that bloody god kept his … his SLAVES fearful and backward. 

A slight aroma of lilacs caught her nostrils. Her head, following the scent, turned just a bit to a nearby bush; within a few days, it would fully blossom, sending in every direction, that wonderous perfume.  This time of year…her eyes shot fully open – wasn’t it this time of year, when that warrior…

Rachael bolted. 

A graying woman ran after her, calling for help.  It took not only Mash, but his brother and also a cousin to restrain her. “Oowwlll!” Mash wiped his bloodied, tooth-etched hand upon his shirt; irritated, doubly so, upon hearing his cousin’s snicker, Mash showed Rachael his backhand.  She hit the ground.

 

“But ma-ahm,” Rachael awoke, her head pounding. She thought she heard a young girl pleading for two or three coppers to buy a story scroll, from a traveling vendor, on his way either to or from town – one which was expected to stop at the edge of their village.  As with Elams, Seths also received traveling merchants – that is between shopping trips to PurveyorsPoint.  Not so long ago, during one such outing, two of their women had entered Lydia’s shop, both had been going on like glorified magpies – the stout one, whom the other woman had called “Glor-something,” had come to the counter where Rachael had been ready to make a purchase; though having wanted the lovely scarf, and matching necklace – however, having noticed the one making a mock curtsey – Rachael had thought it best to not add trouble to her bill. Rachael had exited the shop, and instead had taken her business to a competitor – who, by the way, charged higher prices.  But no matter, Rachael had left, her face holding a hint of a victory smirk.

“I said NO!” 

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

Rachael drifted off; for how long, she knew not.  There was too much human activity to hear nature’s clocks – in the forms of bird calls other noises coming from both field and the forest’s edge.  She smelled food being prepared.  Food, she hadn’t a bit of that since yesterday…or had it been the day prior?  She couldn’t recall.   When she was …home.  She batted her eyes.  These people would eat well; of course they would, the gray-haired woman - typical of the older women she’d seen - had a noticeable wagon wheel around her middle.  Hah!  But the scoff fell flat, like one of those inflatables which several of the cart vendors used upon Purveyor’s smooth streets.  Why bother giving food or drink to someone … The warrior’s name was, Jepht somebody; who’d, followed up, after making that post-war vow – oh, probably, one they’d started, in the first place.  He had lain his own daughter upon the altar.  She began to sob.  NO! Stop that, she told herself.  Now THINK!   She looked about the enclosure, her eyes then lit up, upon a stand in that darkened space, lay what appeared to be an unfinished embroidery project – the length of cloth was laying atop of what appeared to be a small rectangular sewing basket.  Why hadn’t she noticed that before?  She wanted to reprimand herself, but self-rebukes could wait.  Carefully, she attempted to reach for it; after several tries, she had managed to obtain and position a thread cutter between her hands.  Carefully, so as not to drop it – or nick herself, too much, she was able to get the rounded mini-blade to slice into the cord.  Ouch.  It had almost slipped from her.  Back in place, okay, just a bit more...

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

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

That was a wedding song.  That meant people would be preoccupied in making things ready – and with everything going on at once, perhaps a chance for her to make a run for it.  She focused to hear the lyrics, for songs had interchangeable verses; valuable intel could be obtained.  Their marriages – if that’s what one wanted to call them – were more about family alliances, than what a marriage should be: a man and a woman who liked each other and wanted to start a family of their own.  She strained her ear, but the incoming line of potentially relevant details, had been cut short by the voices of two passing women going on about so-n-so having “dodged a spear.”   Who cares! Rachael grimaced; but had she stopped listening, she would have missed some, perhaps, useful information, concerning what could be less-than stable alliances.  There was more, but the details had been drowned out by growlings erupting from the throats of several boys running past.  Noisy lot – unlike her people, who preferred to spend their leisure time, reading and studying, instead of running about, upending things.  Another adult voice had offered potentially valuable intel; Rachael thought she’d heard an elder comment about some mess someone had nearly kicked off.   Rachael felt safe enough to conclude, there may be two, if not three, families in attendance, who may be at odds.  Perhaps a fight would break out, and that would be the moment for Rachael to make hers, to the forest.

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

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

“And there shalt thou build an altar unto the LORD thy God, an altar of stones; thou shalt not lift up any iron tool upon them.  Thou shalt build the altar of the LORD thy God of whole stones: and thou shalt offer burnt offerings thereon unto the LORD thy God:” Deuteronomy 27:05-06

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

A day or so later

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

“GOIK, GOIK.” The other boy’s voice retaliated, in their game of Cresties verses the Bird Lizards.

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

The two boys were both about Egbert’s, her half-brother’s age.  Tears trickled down her cheeks, she’d never see him again; by tomorrow she’d be ashes and bone chunks – after that horrible god of theirs – with his metal issues - had his fill, her remains would be allowed to cool, only to be safely dumped into a field, or into the midden.  PAY ATTENTION!  The voice inside her head, after all these decades, that still memorable rebuke from her former school master - followed by titters and snickers from her fellow students.  And live. The inaudible voice was her own.

“GIT yer MITTS oudda there!” Rachael about jumped upon hearing the snap of a wooden implement striking someone’s knuckles. Her first thought was the still familiar crack of the schoolmaster’s measuring stick having struck hers, on more than a few occasions.  “Oowwlll!  But, Mamma, I’m faamished.”  The full-grown man’s voice whined a bit.

Mash’s voice.

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

“Mamma, what’s the problem?”

Rachael’s mind, perhaps in an all-out effort to remain calm and sane – to remain alive - strained to hear the dialog. Perhaps, her break could come earlier; while they were at table stuffing their faces.  Perhaps, enough light would let into the enclosure, and she could look around; for on the other side of the stand, sat a basket.  One she might, if she moved the front of her right foot carefully, be able to move the basket sufficiently close, before wrapping her feet and lower ankles around it.  What was in there?  A cloak, another cutter, a knife?  Maybe, her money pouch – the thieves – perhaps, a few gemstones.  Wait!  She realized, the Depot isn’t too far off, what!  about ten furlongs?  Catch the caravan, get into town; surely someone has need for a copyist – a good job that pays, even enough to hire a servant to do the cooking, cleaning, and the other menial stuff.    Her thoughts were interrupted by the old BAT in the pantry.

“The problem??” the woman exclaimed sharply, then repeated, “The PROBLEM is:” she hesitated, as if to make sure, she had her son’s full, undivided attention. “I don’t want no little Eegggberrrts or Wa-whiilllhelms running around here.  THAT’S the problem!”  She then muttered something along the lines of, “high-falutin’ names…who th’… do they think they are?”

The problem?  Wasn’t cresties, or bird-lizards, who roamed the outer fields and forests.

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

Several weeks later.

The sun had just sunk below the horizon.  Somewhere, a neighbor, who had been strumming melodies upon his viol, had begun playing a particular song – one fairly well known among the tribes and sub-tribes who lived in the region.  Another neighbor had evidently reached for a tabor (hand drum).  At around the second or third stanza, Bear – who was feeling, rather glum – was heading to his, rather ramshackle home; the place, though, suited him just fine.  He missed his buddy – everything had been just dandy; that was, until … until she had to come along – the little THIEF!!!  That’s what they did, that’s about all they were good for – separating friends.  He paused, turned around and glanced in the direction of Mash’s house.  Things were sure different now. Had been but an evening or two previous, that Bear had briefly stopped in.  There his friend had sat at table – one graced with an embroidered cloth of heavy cotton. Not only that: his buddy, was currently wiping his hands with what appeared to be a matching napkin. Mash was also wearing a fresh robe - and it wasn’t even worship night!

The song in progress, caught his attention – it was one of those, though the same could be said for, well literally, hundreds of others.  But this one, given the circumstances, over the past few weeks, his ears could not but help listening, and listening well, to the ballad – namely, the two voices singing the ballad.  The man’s, a tenor; the woman’s a soprano; oh, she had a lovely voice, no two ways around that one; regardless of his attitude toward the overly curvaceous she-bandit.  Bear didn’t much think about women, but when he did, his preference was toward slender ones.  While the song wasn’t an exact re-telling of a certain recent event, it was close enough.  The ballad, an old one – probably going as far back to retired Chief Enos’es administration, concerned an intertribal war; in it, the dissenting faction is defeated, and one of the rebel headmen has a beautiful young daughter.  Throughout Bear’s life, he had seen more than one father bat moisture from his eyelids, as the song continues; the chief’s crown weighing heavy, for he is able to do absolutely nothing, as his niece is being led away.  Sethite and Elamite, two separate tribes – more a matter of semantics.  Who didn’t have grandparent, cousin, or in-law...?  The ballad continued, the short version, maybe ten stanzas; the full?  Who’s counting.  The song was…stirring.  Other voices joined in.  But the two, Mash and Rachael, who’d started the song, by around stanza #...whatever, were no longer at table, but evidently within their chamber, making music of their own. 

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

The rodent scampered to a neighboring pantry.  Still hungry for a free meal, the cubit sized (a half yard) creature sniffed as he approached a planked board, held up by two cross beams.  Nothing, except maybe a crumb or two, but hardly worth the bother.  What was this?  The creature’s mind queried.  There had always been a reasonable selection of bread crusts, fruit rinds and juicy cores, upon which to casually dine.  What changed?  For this dwelling had been among the rodent’s go-tos, but the last several visits had yielded, maybe a crumb here or there.   He scampered off, not bothering to mark the territory, to warn any other of his kind – or even against the turkey lizards, for the two animals would strive against one another for resources.  Neither contender would find much of anything in this…this food desert.  The rodent, while still young, was becoming experienced enough to notice, that whenever a female biped came to dwell within the territory of a male’s, the free buffets were no longer to be found upon or beneath table or within waste container.

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

Around 950, the sacrifice

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

He was confident that young William would be okay come the evening, when the sun’s hazy orb was about to set on the horizon.  While the boy was too young to understand why an innocent young lamb had to be bound and lain upon a bed of hay overlaying a layer of kindling and wood, atop an edifice of unhewn stone, the youngster was mature enough to know that even grownups had to do things they didn’t always want to do – because the Most High God said so.  The youngster’s snore reached Mash’s ears, while he passed on his way to his shed in order to retrieve something.  However, he wasn’t quite as confident, concerning his wife.  During the previous year, while on their way up the hill, Rachael, holding in one arm the lamb, her other had reached around William – who insisted on walking, “Ima BIG boy!” – and snatched him up, as if she was one of those ground-birds, who dwelt in the south plains, where men did not.  She had taken off running downhill.  Between himself and gathered witnesses, the escape was stopped in its unshod tracks, before it could get much underway, Mash recollected it had only been through the Most High God’s presence, which kept his hand from striking the side of his wife’s face.

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

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

About 5 years later (955)

“CAN IT!!” Chief Cainan barked, following up with a pound of his gavel.  The motion had been seconded, and if those two clowns sitting in the back didn’t like it, they could kick rocks!  The old chief paused a moment, his great great-grandson, Headman Methuselah, had a point – perhaps Council needed to appoint a sergeant of arms. The elder debated to himself.  The meeting then proceeded without…well, too much interruption.  That was, until ms.mosquito showed up; while her presence had gone either unnoticed or ignored, the two comedians in the back, however, couldn’t help themselves.  They silently motioned a wager to one another.  Not just some random chore or bushel of apples, but a bottle of the new wine – wasn’t like the delightful beverage was always available.  Meanwhile, the pest, with a third-of-a-cubit (6-inch) wingspan, wasn’t there to intrude upon men’s spaces; she instead occupied herself searching for and partaking of dainties which dwelt within and atop the leafy ceiling lattice.  Neither did the mosquito see the sharpened melon seed, but the entire room saw the insect land, with a wet thud, upon the head table – sending out a gooey mist that settled roundabout the surface.  The old chief just shook his head and continued listening to the discussion in progress.  He happened to look up, and from the back, he saw one of the two passing a bottle to the other; one was running his mouth about… whatever. Hundred-somethings…that’s what they do.  All was well enough.

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

Mash suppressed a grin.  A mixed expression.  Was a cubit’s worth of acquired stature in the community, and the title of Sir, worth the exchange of personal freedom?   The freedom to come and go; to not be hampered with work; five full days weekly, and part of the sixth - and responsibility a full seven.  The freedom to spend – i.e., lay waste to whatever coin he had, on chariot races, wrestling matches, a few rounds of poker.  Those days, however, were over; though he still missed going to the bawdy shows – where the girls, wearing snug low-cut bodices, would lift up their skirts, and kick out their legs in rapid succession.   Questions of which he was more than positive, every landowner, from the get-go, had asked himself; probably from the time Grandfather Adam, when the specific time came, had apportioned property to each of his sons – Cain, of course, had left his holding; the reason, for which everyone knew about, but cared not to discuss.  All Mash knew was, the vanities he had formerly occupied himself, he was either more than done, or needed to put aside.  Nevertheless he did want to go white water rafting, but the place was several day’s journey; so, Bear, Cappy and two or three others would be gone for over a week, if not the better end of two.  The adventure, like any other, posed dangers; situations of which he’d no longer any business in which to involve himself – after all, it wasn’t about just him anymore.  Tough pill.

----------

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

Came the answer to his question, in the form of young William running to greet him, “Daddy, Daddy…!”

Year 998, post creation.

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

Evidently, she wasn’t alone in preferring stainless steel over regular iron.  At a nearby stand, two men were browsing over an array of builders’ products: axes, mauls, mallets, etchers, sanders.  From Lydia’s vantage, she saw the younger man’s eyes light up, upon spotting the MiracleKnife; the advertisement read, in bold “NEVER NEEDS SHARPENING.”  While Lydia didn’t consider herself to be any authority on construction related implements, she’d heard the knife did stay sharp, for longer than regular metal - most certainly, A LOT longer than flint – which was still widely used among rural peoples   She’d also read, in one of Adah’s more recent letters, that both her son, Jubal, and her stepson, Tubal-Cain, had together developed the technique, and were moving beyond mere latches, hooks, holders and knives.  Evidently, from the conversation drifting from the neighboring booth, the two early shoppers were father and son.  The elder shook his head; as the two men walked past Lydia’s stall.  As Lydia began unpacking an array of embroidery hoops, sectioned containers – a few of which she’d purchased from CopperGenerals - to hold floss and other notions, she overheard the elder said something to the younger, along the lines, flint you can always find on your own.  The younger, though a full-grown man, wore an expression of disappointment upon his face; it wasn’t like the knife had a price tag, totalling half of Lenox’s holdings - a wealthy merchant who sold fine crockery.  Oh, the Barclay collection, with that golden broad band, but there was no way – why even the teacup and saucer cost … too much.

Lydia, still watched the two men – the younger still looking back at the stall they’d passed; it really wasn’t a question of inadequate coin.  Sethites had a way of making their coins go furlongs (about 1/8 of a mile) while not being cheap about things. The Elams, though, were more liberal with their coins – how that worked was anyone’s question, being the latter were under tribute to the former.  Among both the neighboring tribes - especially the former, fathers held rule, over his sons – even after the sons had built their own houses.  Lydia had seen the younger man numerous times, always browsing over the latest tools; if Lydia heard correctly, his name was Lamech, son of Methuselah.  As a dealer in better textiles, Lydia, could attest to their spending practices – especially nowadays.  While over the years, it seemed, less of the Sethite women were among the shoppers – though it didn’t take an Economics Degree over at Enoch University to figure that one – still, the amount of coin she received from the hands of Sethite husbands, fathers, and brothers was about the same.   As far as Lydia was concerned, that spoke well enough concerning their character; these customers’ only downside was: the men’s big strong working hands and forearms were often dusty; usually, the same hands which didn’t trouble themselves to properly robe before coming to market – but instead would show up in deerskin shirts and trousers.  Though Lydia didn’t care for the attire, she was less judgy than several of the other merchants who had even posted announcements. “No Robe, No Service.”

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

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

Over on the corner, a vendor was selling loaves packed with a variety of dried fruits.  How the country folks, especially the women, didn’t all end up as whales!  Work, that was why.  Sadly though, among too many of her people, work was something to avoid, if possible!   Several years back, Lydia had called it quits with a live-in companion; tired of the lame excuses, (and likewise, the eggplant) she’d finally wised up, and shown him the door.  Not that living single was any picnic, but better lonely, than dealing with someone, who’d preferred the grog and the card games, over actually doing the work involved to stay at least on par with things – things like, perhaps, starting and maintaining a business…oh, how about just holding down a push-broom job, for more than a fortnight?  But she’d little time for bitterness; sloths were everywhere, and they seemed to be on the increase.  Having been born, raised, married, and divorced, in or around Purveyors, the shop owner had, over the last three-some centuries, had conducted business with all sorts of people.   She could about spot who would waste her time, perhaps mishandle or steal her merchandise.  Potential employees, who’d show in the mornings ready for work, and which ones, who’d show late, if at all.   Was becoming a problem, for she was closer to four hundred than three hundred; while yet in good shape, the morning unloading and the afternoon reloading, was starting to draw upon her back.  That accident - three or four years ago, when something had apparently startled one of her two horses - at times, still nagged at her lumbar region.

Wasn’t just the chest, she had begun unpacking, that could stand an upgrade.  Purveyor’s Plaza had, over the years, taken on a rather shabby appearance; not only were cracks in the streets and walkways, where tuffs of weeds and crabgrass made them worse, but various habits of unsavory people louting about, not cleaning up after themselves, had created a rodent problem.   The four-legged ones were bad enough – they bit people; it was the two-legged ones who were dangerous.  Lydia had, been about right where she was standing, that day the stabbing had taken place.  Sure, here and there, murders happened.  But this one?  Right out in broad daylight!  Tom.  That was his name – Lydia remembered, because he’d been a customer, who’d from time to time, would stop in – sometimes, with his wife and young son, and leave with whatever length of fabric, or notion, he’d been able to afford for her.  It had been, a week or so, before or after, he’d bought his wife that pair of stainless-steel scissors, from the vendor who sold the “Miracle Knives,” when the three skank-buckets had caught him unawares.  Lydia hadn’t seen the details, but the back of her shop sure did.  A table leg had given way, when one of the thieves had careened onto its surface, sending bolts of fabric willy nilly.  The potter, in the next row, had also quite a mess.   As for market security?  Har-de-har-har, those dufuses tended to focus their patrolling within the grog booth, or the conveniently located brothel. 

“On second thought,” a neighboring vendor handed Lydia a few coppers, “on your way back, would you stop and pick me up a copy…?”  Lydia held up her hand, “Nope, my treat.”  She then added, “I won’t be long.”  She quickly made her way, down the row, around the corner, to the place where she could dispense with the coffee - which was on the verge of causing her back teeth to float.  After rinsing her hands in a bowl, and turning a crank which released a length of fresh towel, she fished out a copper from a pocket and dropped it into the slave-attendant’s tip-vase.  In the morning, she would drop two, but for as many times as she had to pee, it wasn’t like she was stiffing anyone.

“BAH!” An elder grimaced, then added his two-coppers to the young man browsing at his side, “I don’t trust words written by some machine.”  Lydia agreed with the younger, but up to a point; for news-pages and announcements, the automated print meant more copies available.  Nothing like rushing for a copy of Vendor’s Weekly, and they’re sold out.  Histories and stories, on the other hand, there was just something about hand-written words and illustrations, that no machine could properly translate.  She purchased two or three different news-bulletins, and went her way.  While passing a row of food-court tables, a familiar length of fabric, one from two seasons ago, caught the corner of her eye.  She turned slightly, and smiled.  A mother and daughter, she’d seen them before, always well draped – like most country women - though what was with all the pleats?  Nothing new, but the excess of folds only added bulk.  Lydia brushed away an insect which had landed upon the bodice of her short-sleeved dress – one sufficiently modest, but without looking like somebody’s parcel. 

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

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

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

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

The man’s name was Herriot, but the locals called him Doc, and that suited him just fine – he knew who he was.  He treated animals for whatever was ailing them.  He was also backlogged.  If people took better care of their animals, muttered to himself, wondering whenever he’d get some reasonably uninterrupted time to work on a certain something else – in the form of a scroll he’d found; some of the portions were missing, and this mystery; was again leaving him a bit irritated.  Up ahead some, was the shop where he’d found the scroll.  Maybe, just maybe…”THA-WHOCK!”  A few paces ahead, an over-burdened donkey let out a moan.  Doc’s eyes narrowed.  He approached the unfortunate animal’s owner.  “IS there not a cause?”  The taller, younger man, turned around.  Doc caught a whiff, for the punk-arse, evidently, didn’t take care of himself – let alone have any “regard for the life of his beast.”  The bully, doing what bullies do, scoffed, then glowered.  “IS it any of your…” he let out a blasphemy, “business?”  Within a second, like a three-copper chair, the reviler folded to the ground, moaning and holding his stomach.  Without missing a beat, Doc placed the container of fruit on the ground, for the tired, underfed animal.   Continuing his way, he walked past the bully, who was still moaning and massaging his belly region.

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

“And Adah bare Jabal: he was the father of such as dwell in tents, and of such as have cattle.  And his brother’s name was Jubal: he was the father of all such as handle the harp and organ.”  Genesis 04:20-21

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

“And David said, “What have I now done?  Is there not a cause?”  1 Samuel 17:29

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

“What in the world?”

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

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

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

The third man, one of Bear’s cousins, called to the younger of his two sons – who, with spears on ready, were monitoring around the thicket.  The two young men, were not men - for both were under the age of fifty-something, and had a way to go, things to accomplish, before either would be counted as men.  As with later societies, Sethites also had their own set of pronouns, and took them very seriously.  The youth was near twenty, and could already balance a spear, a good one, in about no time.  While one of the other men took watch, the youth helped his father gather some fire wood, for both the evening, and at the same time, the group were going to burn whatever refuse would be consumed in the flame – come next morning, dig a hole and bury the rest.  Wasn’t the first mess, the men had come across, but would hopefully be the last, or next to last. 

Last on the slate, and before departing from this portion of land, to monitor another, came the part which Lamech didn’t relish - not one. iddy. bit!  The poles.   The men and young men had erected three of them, and affixed an intruder’s head upon each.  It was one thing for intruders to barge in upon their land, and make off with fruits and veggies.  That was just an annoyance.  But slave traders, strip-miners?  NO!  Not on Sethite lands – nor upon the lands of their Elamite vassals.  Warnings had been clearly posted.  The sentries, and their young men, headed away, continuing their rounds, leaving the three headless revelers lying in a heap.  The only thing the Sethites had done to the slain prostitute was, to wrap her barely clad body into a blanket – one of their own - and lower her into a grave.  As for the last remaining reveler, he represented another warning.  Left alone by the ochre-painted men, he’d barely sustained a scratch – just a hard smack upside the head.  His real injury-to-happen was:  he could not get free from his bounds.  He surveyed the ground, hoping to find a sharper stone, than the dull one of which he’d been issued.  Trouble for him was two-fold: city people, especially, through neglect of time-tested skills, had already lost much of their ability to quickly make stone implements / edges – that sort of thing was looked upon by the “more advanced” urbanites as … well, backward.  Even if by some miracle, he had been able to loose his hands and his feet, by that time it would likely be coming toward evening.  While the area was, relatively free from bird-lizards and cresties, however, there were coyotes AND dire wolves – both beasts, enough of a challenge.  A sufficient danger, even for border-seasoned Sethite Men.

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

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

 

What went on in Council, stayed therein.

Somehow, prior to any significant decision made, this or that detail could leak out – in the form of not expanding this or that field, or preparing one which had been laying fallow.  Another form was, one of the other men had gone to market and traded an heirloom for several practical, mobile items – items which he and his family didn’t seem to need, at the moment.  Could have only been through a miracle, Purveyor’s vendors didn’t already have the details fleshed out; for it was a long known by-phrase, “merchandise costs coin, but the news is free.  Even the men themselves weren’t all keen on the decision; but ignoring the obvious, and taking no action…?  There were two options: but skirting west, before heading north, certainly wasn’t; while the Western terrain was smoother than trekking it directly into the North mountains – where, from here BigUglies could be seen flying about the ridge.  Upon the gentler western hills, however, grew trees, so massive; it was said, they were a full three reeds (18 cubits or 27 feet) in diameter.  That was just on the forest’s edge; heaven only knew how thick the ones further within grew.  And tall?  The trees’ height was merely the other half; all sorts of dangerous beasts lived thereupon, climbing and jumping from branch onto another – and quickly, silently.  Upon the ground, trod lizards the thickness of those trees?  And not only that, in order to sustain those trees, the night mists had to be quite intense, even well into the afternoon; the ground?  Muckety muck, and yuk to your ankles – to say the least.  The region certainly served as a wide, WIDE hedge, around the vastly more impenetrable, The Sword Bearing Cherubim, who guarded the Garden of Eden.   

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

The decision to pull up roots wasn’t just a matter of the displaced beasts, coming their way, wrecking their crops, as they were fleeing ravished territories in search of new and clean territories - where healthy trees and bushes offered both shelter and provision; nor was it simply a matter of Purveyor’s – which in his father’s time was still a reasonably pleasant place in which to conduct trades – the whole area was slouching toward grunge central.  One of the new booths did something called body art - where pigments of questionable origins were needled under the skin.   Another was selling potions – anti medicine, intended to cause women to miscarry their babies.  For sure, “There goes the neighborhood!”  Lamech had heard that phrase repeated by more than two or three of the more prosperous merchants – who owned houses in the better sections of Enoch; businessmen who’d seen, over and over, exactly what happens to decent neighborhoods, when certain enterprises post their placards.  Even the grog booth, though always having had its share of rowdies and louts; still, it didn’t seem so long ago, the place was where working men, both Sethite and Cainite would come in for a cup, have a chat, shoot some darts, then go their way – without, well, too much trouble.  Nowadays, a man therein had to, basically, guard his pouch every second – so much for stopping in, to relax for a bit. Elams, however, had rarely frequented the grog house; they were more into dusty old scrolls – which explained the natural order of things; namely: why the sons of Seth were the rulers, and the sons of Elam were the ruled.  Six-stanza’d poetry – with whatever certain number of syllables - gimmee a break!  Bear cleared his throat, and hocked out a big green mackie.

Whatever had brought the big man down – and only up long enough to expel things - for nearly an entire week, was about gone out of him.   And good riddance!  From what Bear had heard from a neighbor, the sickness had likely originated from a certain what-passes-for-a settlement, now supposedly, located just a tad east of Purveyors.  While these maladies weren’t exactly new, with this past one, he’d never been so sick in his almost 150-years.  Bear was grateful to the Most High to have been spared; his other neighbor had lost a son, and his maiden sister.  While their healer had a theory, as to how and why the disease had come about, she had simply stated that when people foul their environment, all people in the region – whether they live clean, or otherwise, will suffer; their healer wasn’t one to simply point fingers at any particular tribe – be they landed or nomadic.  Women, hah!  While Bear respected their healer’s competence, still, she was like the rest of them - prone to making statements of which none of them had any business. 

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

Mash wasn’t happy, and hadn’t been.

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

Meanwhile, a few seats over from Mash, Bear was less than thrilled with the news that Pastor Jason’s turn was on, to take his sentry-shift.  While the Pastor could, if he chose, to easily get a pass on that.  But nope, Pastor wasn’t one to shirk men’s obligations.  Bear, and the others on the team, could only hope they’d not happen upon any trespassers, for with Pastor in their company, it would be just doing what they had to do; slay the intruders, if any, and leave their bodies to the beasts.  While, yes, there would be the standing of poles, and affixing heads - to warn slavers and other crooks, there’d be no hammering scalps to wood.  Just wasn’t the same…meh ☹ No, it wasn’t the same; and neither was the not too previous fact, he, Mash and Cappy, had been caught baiting several of the vassals; Chief Cainan had called the three on the carpet, promising the three, they were seriously flirting with doing time weeding within the commons – along with the women and girls.  Oh, that had been a clear “No Sir!” affirmed from the three bowed heads.

How the scalp incident had leaked out, when the rule among the patrollers was the old: what goes on out there, stays out there.  Mash had only to blame himself for taking the scalp in the first place – what had he been thinking, he chided himself.  It wasn’t like he’d shown half the village, still somehow, word got out – likely, someone overheard, and told someone else, who told….  Mash had to hand it over, and it ended up in the Chief’s hands, and - with a look of distain and, especially, disappointment upon the elder’s face – had cast the trophy into, of all places, a bramble fire.  Oh well!  In subsequent times, he’d continue to do the less-than approved, but done, practice of affixing any scalps he’d taken, but leave them on the pole.  Just as well, for Mash still had a certain scalp, tucked away, among his tools – and not just some run-of-the-mill slaver’s gopher or third-rate bandit; it had belonged to a well-known crime boss.  Early in his marriage to Rachael, he’d slain the kingpin, taken his scalp, and had brought it back.  While Rachael had been out – either gathering foodstuffs, visiting, or both – thinking to impress her, he’d hung it from the upper lattice above the headboard of their marriage bed.  The scalp certainly did impress her – horrified at the mass of hair and not quite dried blood, she’d run from the chamber.

It wasn’t just boys, whose games

the grownups were known to take issue.  Three young maidens sat under a tree playing “Old Ogres.”  Anywhere near grown ups’ ears, however, the home-made card game carried a different title.  To call, or refer to, someone as an “ogre” was about one of the nastiest things one could say to, or about, another man.  The fifty-one cards– but that depended on circumstances - were made from select tree-bark, and were about 1/3 X 1/6 of a cubit (3 X 5 inches).  Upon each card was a painted sketch of an individual engaged in some sort of work– a wood-cutter, medicine woman, a pastor, chief, headman, scribe, sentry, table-maker, merchant, warrior, sandal maker, launderess, weaver...  The girls’ art work was, for the most part, quite skilled – oh, the dignity, portrayed of even the stable boy and the poor old char-woman.  Very telling; the ways of Most High was more than Sabbath and mid-week head knowledge.  These were paired with another card; the odd card was the ogre.  Oftentimes while playing, the conversation would turn to what sort of husband each girl hoped to one day marry – that, of course, was likely to change.  During a previous game, one of the girls had been, going on about one day marrying a furniture maker – but that round happened a day or so, before her sandal had broken, beyond any repair, one that would hold for more than a few days.  Her other pair??  Being from a large family, there was, at the time, no “other” pair.

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

“And to Seth, to him also there was born a son; and he called his name Enos: then began men to call upon the name of the LORD.” Genesis 4:26

Glorianna could only shake her head.

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

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

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

 

“Its fangs were THAT big!”

Bron, Mash and Rachael’s younger son, was describing the creature to his paternal grandfather, stretched out his index and middle finger from his thumb.  He was all excited, for soon, he, along with three or four other young men were to go afield – to study an advanced course, under the guidance of one of their seasoned trackers.   And not just upon any borderland to their south, east or west; but North, up the mountain – hopefully, they’d get up to the ridge.  He hoped he’d get the rare opportunity to see one of those big-uglies up close, but not too close, for those flying dragons, were not only big, but dangerously quick.  It was said, when devils rode upon their backs, the flying reptiles would let out fire from their mouths.  This time, was with permission – unlike a previous, when he and a buddy had trekked out.  Unfortunately, when they’d gotten back, they’d excitedly had told one too many – inevitably word had gotten back to his father.  Bron, of course, hadn’t sat much for a few days following.  His buddy?? Probably had also experienced similar seating issues.

Bron’s paternal grandmother, upon hearing the upcoming trek out into the wilderness, had been quite concerned, but such was the way for young men.   The blanch that washed over her daughter-in-law’s face, wasn’t lost upon the aging woman; the woman grimaced, for had Rachael her way, both Bron and William would be sitting in starched robes, composing six-line poetry.  And neither was it lost upon the old woman’s face, her daughter-in-law’s waistline – one as flat as a maiden’s.   These young women, with their newfangled family planning ideas, bah!  The old woman scowl wasn’t lost upon Rachael – and neither were those less than subtle comparisons between her and another daughter-in-law; one about Rachael’s age, who was soon to give birth to a sixth grand-child. Four of those children being sons, and the other two daughters - the births of the former, made such a big deal over, while the latter, was simply a matter of a pot of tea, and a few cakes served.  Rachael had seen it play out, over the years, having either attended more than a few post-birth socials. 

Three or four young boys sped by, one of them nearly colliding into Rachael – the lad kept going, as if she hadn’t been there.  Among them was a youngster, who’d never know his maternal great grandparents – for they’d been slain in a long-ago war; the lad’s grandmother had arrived to this same village, in circumstances not too much different than Rachael.  She glanced over to a tree, where beneath sat her daughter, Ruthie and two of her girl-cousins; the girls were playing some kind of game; one that would be interrupted when called to serve or clean up something – otherwise they, while monitored, went ignored, and the girls seemingly oblivious to that long played out fact. Huh, would you look at that, Rachael grimaced; the same boy who’d come within a span of knocking her over, was still not watching where he was going; he’d nearly done the same to a man walking in the boy’s direction; oh, but of course, the boy stopped in his tracks, and bowed his head…just chapped Rachael’s hindquarters about every time.

The boys arrived to their destination, a mulberry tree which stood between two properties.  But alas, they’d only caught the last moment of the big fight; a scratched up and bitten enough granddaddy rodent - one who probably weighed almost two thirds a talent (about 90 pounds) - proudly stood his domain; he screeched in triumph at two retreating ground hogs.  The old rodent, however, didn’t crow for long, since experience had long taught him, that although bipeds were not as strong or as quick as four-footed creatures, bipeds, especially the males, would throw sharp projectiles; it was better to cruise the eateries after the bipeds had retired for the evening.  He scampered off to a hole beneath an abandoned tool shed – one which was about to fall in upon itself.   The old rodent wasn’t about to give up this spot, for here dwelt no adult male biped – though soon, he’d have to find other living arrangements, for the juvenile male biped had very nearly pierced him with an arrow.    Peering out from the battlements of his subterranean castle, the long-tailed baron, surveyed his holdings for any would-be intruders.  Not far from his vantage, an enrobed pair of lower legs entered a small structure nearby, then exited with a long-stick attached to a pointed, flint-tipped end.  The female began digging a hole, nearby awaited a young shrub – its roots wrapped in a moist rag, beside it stood a clay container with a spout coming from its top.  Females – two or four-footed … 😐 Nothing further to see here, the old baron settled in for his afternoon nap.

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

What!  It’s been hardly a year. (999)

Barb yanked at a tenacious clump of weeds; finally, they broke free, she threw them into the wheelbarrow.  She glanced up and down the field; it was hard keeping down the unwelcome foliage - and in general, keeping up with things.  Her son Tommy, helped a good deal, never grumbled, but the boy was barely eleven.  All work and no play?  Uh-uh!  Little boys need time to run and imagine.  But they also need to study their lessons – which, okay, she’d let slide…well, more than just a bit.  Yep, another reason she wasn’t about to be awarded mom-of-the-year, anytime soon :/  What she was being awarded was…not exactly covert pushback for remaining in her widow’s garment – as if she was expected to just forget Tom, her late husband.  Well, she couldn’t, and she wouldn’t!  Not until she was ready, and that could be awhile.  Until then, she could only try to make things happen, on her own…well, as much as possible.  There were limitations; such as plowing her late husband’s field, cutting firewood, and general repairs.  Things that took coppers – or whatever produce in exchange; both of which she was typically in short supply.   Her latest effort to stay on top of things, had fallen through.  Several days ago, she’d lost most of her beautiful tulips – to whatever misplaced critter, who’d apparently happened upon the free meal, on his way to secure new territory, somewhere far removed from Enoch metro’s dirty air and sour water.  She had grown quite a patch of the lovely flowers, and had anticipated trading them, for a pair of sandals.  Tommy was outgrowing the ones upon his feet – the same feet were outgrowing this side of the settlement.  While there wasn’t a whole lot Barb could do to keep her son from crossing the boundary.  Boys…  Nevertheless, the wilds were no place to be running about in less-than-reliable foot coverings.

Wasn’t like she was the only widow in the community.  Chief Cainan’s sister was also a widow, and had been for some years.  Nobody was sidelong glancing at her to put off the widow’s garment.  But, then again, she was in her early 500s, and had grown sons to help her with things.  And had she only daughters, old women – and rightfully so - got a pass on things which young women did not.  But still, it’s barely been over a year, since Tom’s passing, and already folks wanting to pawn her off to…UGH!  Mahalaleal’s brother’s grandson.  Come on already, that man was old enough to be carbon-dated - 375-something, and still a bachelor?  Had to be a reason; one she wasn’t interested in finding out; she was sure, the disinterest was mutual, and that was fine with her.  The other potential “suitor?”   Uhm…NO!!  Jared’s brother’s son, a widower, and also old enough to be her great grandaddy. 

At the same time, however, Barb understood the concern in her community – one that was shrinking.  Being only ninety-something, She was old enough to have witnessed, sons – and even daughters - leaving the settlement for “a better life” at either Purveyors, or even the City of Enoch.   Not that she wanted to wax judgy, for it wasn’t that long ago, the city life had appealed, to both Tom and herself as freeing, and fun.  Back in the late 960s, she and her late husband, run off to several concerts – one, a three-day gig at Max-somebody’s farm.  “When I came upon a child of God, he was walking…”   The memory began playing in her mind, while watching Tommy wheel the wobbly barrow to the thicket… the jimmy-fix job he’d done on the stupid thing wasn’t working out too well – but T for trying.  Could have only been the Grace of the Most High, who had seen the, then, childless couple safely home; on the way back from that concert; the caravan had nearly taken a hit from a triceratops – who, from the way the animal had been running willy-nilly, might have been at the same gathering.  But that wasn’t even half of it.  The caravan, on its way to another location, had let the couple off, some eighty furlongs (about 10 miles) from their village.  Whatever had been in those jugs being passed around, the couple’s reaction time to dangers in the woods was…eh, at least somewhat compromised.  Tom and she had enjoyed a wonderful marriage; they both liked the same things - especially the modern music.  Whenever responsibility’s fetters loosened, just a bit – which didn’t happen often, but when it did, off they went, like a pair of turbo spears.  Like the time CrateFullLaDead played at Purveyors; after which, they had stopped in at someone’s after gig – they’d only intended to stay a few minutes, but in a cup of whatever, both had lost track of time and ended up missing the caravan back, and so had stayed over.

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

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

The young dragonfly flitted around the enclosure.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

Anak’s smirk waxed to a glare.

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

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

The sun was below the horizon.

Dusk was coming on.  Most everyone had already eaten a light supper – since with agricultural people, their main meal was just a bit after the sun had reached its highest – the women and girls were finishing up with putting away the vessels, some onto shelves, and covering others, securing them into wicker or wooden containers – for these contained leftovers, which would be upon the following morning’s breakfast table.  While the older children got in some serious playtime, before it grew too dark - to be near, let alone, the other side of the thicket, was not a good idea, come nightfall.  The younger children’s games were quieter; they played either in the common area, or in their yards.  Young men either paled around with one another, or visited a maiden – who, of course, was ever under the watchful eyes of parents, older siblings, relatives, even neighbors. Over on one end of the village, a gentleman caller had brought his sweetheart some roses, and a basket of muffins – about the only time, one would see a man carrying a food-laden wicker - his mother had made; he also had brought along his flute.  As the night-fires kindled, he began playing a soft melody; soon, a neighbor – sitting outside his hut – joined in, with a stringed instrument.  Over there, a way, a woman’s soft voice took up the song, then a young voice joined in.  In the middle of a song or so later, another instrument, another voice.  A typical evening, before the people turned in.  They knew, by heart, hundreds and hundreds of hymns and songs – most sung in the old tongue.  After all, a thousand years, of new ideas - or recycled ones that didn’t work out so well - changes language, but the children of Seth were known to trod the old paths.  Somehow, this nightly concert always came together. 

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

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