Chapter 02

Realm of spirits

Never ceased to amaze Aaron.

That water was some kind of powerful; ONE bucketful cleaned half the fourth story south wing.  He and his two co-janitors would soon be done.  This particular mansion of glory was bigger than many - about 50,000 cubits (some 75,000 square feet *) but smaller than some.  Aaron pulled out a hankie from a fold in his robe and wiped his brow – thinking about, when mankind saved by the Redeemer – and the Redeemer, alone - would get to heaven, how they'll probably be completely astounded how things - like walls, floors, and hankies don't get dirty.   The holy angels would, from time to time, cut up and make faces at one another – imitating redeemed humans’ first site of Paradise (for they could not yet enter Heaven).  Aaron set his bucket down, as with his two teammates.  It was time for break. -

Around the time, the three angels had started the job, Enoch had begun his afternoon walk - the early middle-aged gent of 365 years had no idea, his forty furlong (five mile) micro-hike would end around furlong thirty-something.  Finishing up, on the fifth floor - which only consisted of six or seven rooms - Aaron couldn't help but to feel a bit sad, about the events which led up to the eviction.  Yet the sadness was but for a few seconds; there was neither time, nor purpose.  

A trumpet sounded. 

Aaron, and the two other angels, had to get across the City to their respective mansions.  Coming through the door, into his mere 20,000 cubits (30,000 square feet), three story abode, he recalled, not so long ago, beginning to harbor a shade of envy; after all, his job focused upon worksites, which were larger, grander, and closer in proximity to the Palace.    Well, that sort of nonsense, had gone right out the window, the moment he had realized the reason for all the overtime.  Being one to take orders, and follow through, he felt no need to ask questions. Even with the mandatory overtime: and sure, he missed his normal off-duty pastimes - fencing tournaments, algebraic scrabble; he had even missed on several hymn sing socials. 

The trumpet sounded again.  He ran up the staircase, hung the first right, beelined for his wardrobe, jumped into a Court Robe.  Just as he was ready to dash out, he realized he still had on his work shoes.  Hmm, could use a polish; he made a mental note to see to that later on.  It was then, he realized it had not been long ago - his work shoes almost never needed a polish.  Now it was like, every two or three earth-days.    Of course, the King's decrees are 110% righteous, 110% of the time - THAT our bucket toting hero never doubted. Not for a second.  He realized the need for the evictions - it went way deeper than random flecks of dust accumulating upon work shoes.  If the King allowed the previous tenants to waltz back in, before long, the entire Kingdom's citizens would be neck deep in the sneezy stuff.

Aaron also realized, he had gone the wrong way.  Where were those back stairs anyway?  Before him were two corridors; choosing the one, he made a mental note to walk about, and learn the layout of his mansion a bit more - actually, the splendid place, the heavy silk draperies, the mahogany furnishings, the solid gold and bejeweled fixtures... in about every room, weren't his.  Everything belonged to the King; His Son, Jesus Christ, was the King's sole heir.  Anyway, halfway down the back stairs - he didn't know there was more than two or three staircases. Aaron, like any other holy angel, was busy about the Kingdom.  So, taking the wrong corridor, here or there, because one's mind is fixated upon what the King, or what the King's Son had said, or some new hymn...getting turned around in one's assigned maze of corridors, was bound to happen.  On the ground floor, Aaron dashed down another corridor, rushed into one of the rooms, grabbed a modest package - it was a present for his King.  A door to the outside was further down the corridor, and he was already running late.  Aaron jumped out a nearby window, and hit the lawn running toward the Palace.

 

* Googled to Answers in Genesis website, a cubit runs from a man's elbow, to the tip of his fingers.   That would be about 1/2 a yard for the average man.

"And all the days of Enoch were three hundred sixty and five years; And Enoch walked with God: and he was not; for God took him."  Genesis 5:23-24

Aaron, the janitor angel, clocked out his card.

Actually, his overtime card, and returned to his mansion.  To be more precise, the glorious mansions - regardless of square cubits - all belonged to the Most High God; He was not only their King, but also, in a form, their landlord. There were rules.  Rules like, not leaving your calculus parchments laying here and there - even though he never worked equations on the ground floor, but restricted this beloved hobby to the upper two stories.  Any parchment occupying the first floor, did so, in either a gold or silver frame - and, here and there, those of gopher wood; these were proclamations from their King.   Writing out and beautifully illustrating the copies was yet another job-class - with a staff of thousands Aaron knew the exact number.  Math was his favorite hobby.

Had been a tough day, not on account of cubits - with members of three teams, the 800-ish room mansion was about ready for its new, and permanent, tenant; the team would likely finish up before second, or third break.  The hard part was, the evicted angel was none other than Azel - who had held a prominent position among the scribes.  Scribes, by the way, were a few tiers above rank and file copyists - who were a few tiers above file clerks.  Until recently, Azel had been ... just ever so, in every way.   Not anymore.  Shortly before Azel chose to go over the wall, there was, like, already ... a seediness about him.

And yet, the odd thing - but not so odd, come to think of it - the angels who “left their first estate” were, across the board, from all classes.  From army generals, leading hymn writers, artisans, instrumentalists...janitors.   This whole rebellion thing, was ... polluting the air.  Sometimes, Aaron could smell it - for the stink couldn't be coming from all the way from the city of Enoch…could it?  Then again, humans were rather dirty; it was known that even Redeemed ones, were known to wipe their hands on their garments, or upon a towel used by a dozen others.  That is, if they even bothered to wash their hands, before sitting at table.  

The city of Enoch was a mess, because the citizens were so wasteful; cutting down the Most High God's beautiful trees, to make new furnishing, while there was nothing at all wrong with the tables and chairs they had constructed a year or so previous.  And to make things worse, the wealthy were known - repeatedly - to trash last year's, instead of making them available for the city's increasing poor.  Wasn’t always so, the angel recalled, back when Methuselah was a boy, the citizens of Enoch had been at least reasonably considerate of their neighbors, their environment.  But that was before a certain fallen angel, now known as “Greed” and his equally contemptable partner,“Fashion”had  ditched the Heavenly city for what??  the smells of Enoch’s streets.

Meanwhile, several earth-days previous, their King had given a banquet, in honor of a guild of cloak weavers.  A certain high-ranking angel, was miffed, because his number had come up, and he - like any other - had to take his turn serving at table.  After the banquet's conclusion, the angels departed to their mansions, or to the mansion of a friend, for more socializing.  Aaron had been invited to so-n-so's, for a leisurely, fun filled evening of multi-dimensional scrabble.  While the evening had been enjoyable, Aaron had some things he wanted to do, before retiring.  So, he had departed somewhat early.  On the way out, while in the cloakroom, as he reached for his mantle, he had overheard a disturbing conversation.  Granted, the eventual re-occupation of the now vacant mansions by human males and females, wasn't exactly breaking news.  How this would even be possible, was Top Secret - something about “The Redeemer” – whomever that was.  Anyway, two or three angels were just down the corridor a little ways; one of them was grumbling about how they should get first dibs on Mansion So-n-Such – not some clay pee-pot, who didn't have enough sense to wash his "grubby paws" after using the outhouse.  Whatever... Aaron shook his head.  Not wanting to be seen, he slipped out, through a short hallway, leading to another room, and still another two or three, which finally led to a side door.  While

Aaron was nobody's snitch, neither was he anyone's liar.

Walking back to his mansion, a lightbulb switched on in his head.  When the Redeemer came, and the King's Heaven was pollution-free, and His mansions stood ready, Aaron, and legions and legions of holy angels - of all classes - would certainly have their work cut out for them.  He chucked to himself, at the very thought: humans living in mansions, of dirty feet and dusty raiment.   

But the King's decisions are perfect.  Always.

“And hast not shut me up into the hand of the enemy: thou hast set my feet in a large room.” Psalms 31:8

That was a mask.

Some things a person just can’t unsee – though one may want to. For barely the time, it takes an eye to blink – more like, a young boy, not watching where he’s going, to dart out of nowhere.  Lylia was left, having to see things, for what they were.  That look of … distain… No, more than that; more like simmering rage.  Toward what!  Some dorky nine year-old – or was her neighbor’s kid, now ten?  Whatever!    Lylia had to admit, she would have been upset upon seeing half a FruityRollUp - that’s what her aunt called them – smeared across the front of her garment, but come on, Lylia continued bolstering herself.  That’s why you don’t wear your best raiment to a picnic.  Hindsight being acute, she also had to admit to the very real possibility, that perhaps the boy may have been commandeered, by the LORD God, to deliver a message.  A message she hadn’t - and part of her still – wanted to receive; but there it was.  In bold enough language, Azel was NOT the man of her dreams.  And to think, after having received that vital bit of intel, not a day too soon, for she’d been on the verge of taking up his offer to take her away from this two-donkey village.   She could now see, quite clearly, what sort of father, dreamboat would have been to their future little boys. Hindsight, clear as Enoch crystal – she’d seen a few pieces, displayed at market, and sold for … well more silver than her parents, or most anyone else in the village could spare.   

She grimaced at the stain upon her sleeve, a dragon fly – armed with a bellyful of purplish fruit - had decided to unload.  Did those pests specifically target people, when they were wearing something halfway nice? Walking back from a visit with a cousin, who lived near where the perimeter made a U-shape, Lylia decided to make the short cut; it was growing short in the day, and she had things to do – namely treat the stain before it set in permanently, if it hadn’t already.  It wasn’t like she’d a score of different outfits, and two score of sandals and handbags to go with.  Her wardrobe, like that of the other women and girls, in her village, was between four and six.  She stepped carefully, making her way beyond the perimeter.  Among the obvious reason, of expelling mists making uneven the ground, she also didn’t want to mar her good sandals by stepping in animal poop.   Turkey lizard dooey was even worse than bobcat.  Why she didn’t think to change into her old pair…oh well, too late now. 

She began humming a melody, one she’d heard during the recent gathering.  Or had that been during a previous one.  It was hard to tell.  Her people sang so many different songs – one could about go moons, and not hear the same one twice.  Their music had been yet another clue, something wasn’t right about Azel; it was his facial expression, when he had made an overly critical… No, he made a just plain asinine statement concerning the “tinny sound” from one of the young men’s instruments.  Hhmmph, okay buster, you go make a wooden box, cut a hole in it, stretch five lengths of string – each with a specific thickness; and then, learn to play it – this is, around the instrument’s imperfections; imperfections, which can vary - depending on the time of day. A rustle in the bushes not far ahead, brought her mind back to where it needed to be.  Paying attention to her present surroundings – here, where she’d no business being, in the first place.  To her relief, she heard the familiar voice of one of the young boys; he and two others then darted across the path.  Making her way, she thought she heard one of them say something about making a “NO GIRLS ALLOWED” sign for their club house.  She cracked a smile.  If the boy’s mothers knew their little boys were out here… their fathers, probably did, since they as youngsters, had run the same lumpy, rocky ground. 

A groundhog waddled across the path ahead.  Little monsters, better they stay out here, than in her flower beds.  She was relieved, for the opposite perimeter would soon be in view.  She then noticed the lower portion of her garment; it was dotted with stickies – like others of the variety, they didn’t come off simply by soaking then shaking.  Nope. One by one, the little buggers had to be removed – and carefully, if you didn’t want the things to come apart, leaving little sticky messes.  “Ugh, why did I bother coming this way?”  As if her late afternoon couldn't wax much worse, not far enough ahead, and coming in her direction was, none other than Azel.  Quite tall, and very handsome... yeah, talk about, all talk, and no action.  But more than male boasting!  Way more than that.  Something about him definitely wasn't adding up.  And frankly, if she wanted problems, anytime she cared to, she could pull out her algebra scroll.   While most maidens’ education consisted of the usual home management skills – and knowing literally hundreds of songs by heart – Lylia’s late father had believed that girls’ numerical skills needn’t be limited to just managing household inventory.  She, instead, cut short her short cut, and headed for the nearby path – long worn from boys’ sandals- which led to the perimeter’s bottom U.

At first, which had only been a few moons ago, she had about been looney-tunies over Azel.  In fact, she almost let him have his way.  Okay, she had to admit to herself, at the time, she would have - after all, he was so sought after, and he’d chosen her?? Anyway, it hadn’t been too long before that pivotal picnic, they’d been walking alone, a bit too close to the perimeter.  Lylia had pointed to a mamma zebra and her colt grazing in the distance.  Azel had then suddenly blanched. The fear in his eyes, had startled her to the core.  Then he ran off, as if he'd seen an andrewsarcus – a boar-like, and fiercely territorial, creature, which stood a good two cubits in height, and about as long and wide.  What the hey, she’d thought, what if BigAndy was lurking about – which did happen from time to time.  She then had about jumped, upon feeling something brushing against her leg.  To her relief, it was one of Jesse’s lambs, who’d wandered from its fold; Lylia then picked up the fluffy tan-fleeced cutie and returned it to the old shepherd.

Lylia hadn’t a clue, when she had pointed to two zebras, who were contentedly feeding upon soft grasses, as to why the both had suddenly hoofed it on out of there.  A round-up had been in progress.  Per the grace of the Most High God, human eyes and ears were spared the sight of what fallen angels really looked like; human ears, spared the pleadings, the curses and screams as a number of them in chains were being force marched to a crater in the distance; around its mouth emanated a horrifying red-orange glow.  Lylia did, however, catch a whiff of what smelled like rotten eggs.  She looked down at her sandals to see what sort of yuk she had stepped upon.

“And the angels which kept not their first estate, but left their own habitation, he hath reserved in everlasting chains under darkness unto the judgment of the great day.” Jude 1:6

Not long afterward, guess who’d waltzed into the village, as if nothing had happened.  Azel had come to call.  Of course, he emitted a lot of charm, but not even a half apology, for having put her in possible danger.   Not that, even a well-rehearsed apology would have mattered. The mask slipped off once, and once was enough.  As a matter of just plain good breeding, she was polite toward Azel - saying "um-hm" and "uh-huh" as he brayed on - thinking all the while, of wanting to bang her head upon the nearest redwood or oak.  Oh brother... 

Currently, she was barely a furlong, from the bottom U; another few moments.  A few moments too long.

Azel leaned in, and whispered...  Aylia couldn’t believe her ears, his assumptions.

"I don’t think so.”  Her response was calm and ladylike – her mother would have been proud.  His "normally" blue eyes, instantaneously turned jet black.  Uh-o, what did I get myself into...was her last thought, before everything turned ... bright.

 

Wha, what's going on, where am I?  A gentle flapping of wings in her ears.  "Child, fear not." one of the two holy angels spoke.  What seemed like a second later, she saw...my goodness, it was her mom’s father, and not far from him was...was that uncle Elroy? and is that cousin Sheila (who had been gathering bulbs, and didn't see the gator). Right before the angels left their charge in Paradise - which would later be aka, Abraham's bosom - she heard one of the angels say something about, after getting off shift and meeting up with ... to go smash "Adam??"  Lylia turned, teary eyed, and pleaded to the mighty angels, "Pah, pa, please, don't hurt Grampa!"  

"My dear," the other angel reassured, while trying not to bust out laughing.  "Atoms, they're..." The first angel nodded his head, rolled his eyes - but in a good-natured way; in short, saying to his teammate, forget it, not even men are able to comprehend 4^th degree sub-particle sportsmanship.  While in flight back to the Palace of their Lord God, the King of all creation, the two angels conversed their amazement toward humans - transactional creatures, through and through, even the best of them.  Talk about a piece a clay, in the potter's hand; there Lylia was, herself, eternally safe and sound, home free - unlike many who ... ugh!  And yet she, still frightened half out of her wits, had interceded for her grandfather.   They both had a hardy laugh, the girl confusing Adam with atoms - but at the same time, both angels realized how the fall was already adversely affecting human's mental capabilities. Profound retardation amongst the humans, was setting in.  

"Sad, really."  

"Yes, indeed, because of compounding sin, the humans will, increasingly, grow...less intelligent."  And, though redeemed by the LORD God, will never be capable of enjoying a real game of atom-smash (not the mere arena variety).  He’d couldn’t help but notice, how among the humans, 600 was becoming the new – the fallen – 800.  Neither did he, nor his teammate care to articulate the inevitable: the girl, like the others, would glance southward, to the “great gulf fixed,” and to the horrors of what occurred on the other side – terrors which would never cease, but only ramp up, over endless eternity.  Enough of sadness.  Their shift over.  It was time to head to a distant region of space - far enough away from the great windows of the heavenly palace - and play ball.  Wahoo :) :) :)

“And beside all this, between us and you there is a great gulf fixed: so that they which would pass from hence to you cannot; neither can they pass to us, that would come from thence.” Luke 16:26

“And it shall be said in that day, Lo, this is our God; we have waited for him, and he will save us: this is the LORD; we have waited for him, we will be glad and rejoice in his salvation.” Isaiah 25:9”

The holy angels, on their way to clock-out, were singing one of a hundred or so of their favorite hymns, entitled, “The Most High God, King of Holy Armies. They passed by, ignoring, both Azel and his partner in sin – for the two devils would be rounded up in due time.  Being ignored by such underlings, was enough to put Azel out of sorts; but that was only barely half of it. The holy angels, all of them, were always so calm and confident.  Hearing their joyful voices, was way more than enough to launch Azel into a loud hissy fit – one, which cHad, Azel's partner in sin, didn’t care to see, or – especially – hear.  (cHad was more than a bit on edge, for he’d narrowly dodged the net.) It was damning enough to sweet-talk young females who cared not for the things of The Most High God.  Both rebels had left more than a few of Cain’s daughters with bellyfulls, and uncertain economic futures. Humans were such idiots.

Neither reprobate, however, cared to give, even a brief thought, concerning their VERY certain futures. The two snorted up some more powder, then went their separate ways.  Azel continued east; he was a rock down there, and needed some relief.  Ahead of him, he heard grunting behind a rustling bush.  Wasn't quite his preference, but hey, "it" would do.   The andrewsarcus sow was chomping on some roots she'd unearthed; such were rich in nutrients for her tiny one (no bigger than a plum) within her womb.  She trumpeted louder grunts, to announce the terrific find to her mate - who was off a ways, patrolling their perimeter.  With the pollution-induced migrations, he was pulling overtime, and needed concentrated calories.   The sow, finding even a better patch, grunted louder - as if to say, "Husband, your supper is ready."

Azel was directly behind her.  She had no idea.

Now THAT was fun.

Azel replayed the entire scene, in his twisted mind, the U boundary’s high points were a day and a half behind him. Especially the part where the sow, in its grapefruit-sized brain, thought it was going to get away.  Nope.  Ha-ha-ha.  "Settle?"  Not really. As far as he was concerned, there wasn't much difference between a human female, and a sow.  But the "settle" comment? That little tidbit had already gotten back to him.  Uhm-hum, that part was fun too.  That certain lesser demon had been all mouth.  Azel played back that scene too.  He'd every intention to summon "Mouth" again, oh yeah, for some more fun and games. 

Leaves rustled, not too far ahead of him.  The scent was one not usual in the area.  Bird-lizards (velociraptors) usually kept to the north – as with most other large dragon creatures - but there were exceptions.  Another flutter of leaves, came from another direction.  That meant there were atleast two, and perhaps another sibling was on its way.  "GOIK-G-GA-GOIK, GOIK."    Azel would laugh every time, he’d seen men - the strongest, bravest of them - would about soil themselves, upon hearing that sound.  That meant, in lizard-language, "round 'em up, and tear 'em up."  He recalled to himself, how back in Enos's time, bird-lizards didn't eat men - but they sure made meals out of people's bean gardens – gave Azel a minor thrill to see distraught housewives go on a moan-fest, as they surveyed the damage, their precious time and much effort, scattered among the torn greenery.  But even back then, in the three and four hundreds, the dolts were learning to just let them have the whole plot...  But not all of them had caught on, Azel had recalled how the old medicine woman had lost a cousin - who'd made the mistake of taking a broom to one of the creatures; a most pleasurable sight, for the young wife had bled out before anyone could get her to a healer.   Oh, double fun, for the wife had taken along with her, to the grave, her unborn child.

Azel cuffed one of the lizards in the jaw; both took off, whimpering, in the direction by which they had come.  Azel bellowed.  Such fun!   Here, he could do whatever the $@>^ he pleased - unlike, the first estate, from where he (and the other rebels) had originated.  Here, his number would not come up, where he'd have to wait table, serving ...pua, file clerks and janitors, when the King of Hosts decreed this or that banquet, for some group of menials' honor...nuts and bolts to that!  "NO more!" he spat, “I'll be Go to H...”"  Azel's yap went shut.  He trembled.  Because exactly THERE, awaited his irreversible, eternal future.  He refocused his thoughts...to fun thoughts – namely, what he was going to do to Mouth.

A day or so later, the canopy began to thin.  The trees became shorter, and spaced; these gave way to bushes. Before him was a clearing.  He didn't care much for meadows; too much like light.  Too much like…   In the not too distance, stood more woodland.  A few miles.  He concluded, that he'd be fine.  He'd get through without coming face to face, with a particular creature.  He didn't understand why.  But that certain animal, though without any strength, without fang, or claw, put Azel in such a state of fright - most especially the ones with no spots upon their coats.  The sort of terror that gave him the runs, sometimes for days.

 

"Pipi, Pipi?" a young boy's voice called, from a short distance.  "Where are you?"  The boy climbed a hill, muttering something about, it being a good thing that he wasn't Father, “…because Father would tan your hide,” the boy thought out loud. “PIPI!!"

"Bbbaaa." 

The spotless little white lamb stood but a few yards from Azel.  The reprobate angel was rendered speechless, his innards became all a flux. He then, somehow, took off in an alternate direction, along the bordering forest.  Needless to say, his britches became a mess, along with the outsides and insides of his fancy-schmancy serpent-skin boots.  Did any of the others experience such fear?  He’d asked himself a time or two, but no way had he’d ever intended to give the slightest hint of feeling vulnerable – ever!

"There you are."  The little boy ran toward the lamb, hugged him, picked him up, and headed back to the fold.  All along, going on about some cousins who were coming to visit, and that they were having apple fritters for supper.

"Oh-ver th' riv-ver 'n tha-ru-hew th' woods.”

The fallen angel paused, in his word search. “To th' city-a Enoch I go, ho-ho-ho."  Azel hiked on, already impressed by his clever ditty.  "To paar-tak-a-th' raa-avs that flow...duh-hoon'ch cha know, o-o."  In his mind's eye, he was already on stage, before thousands upon thousands of adoring fans.  And afterward, climbing into his (pseudo) golden carriage, while dismissively waving off the flurries of unautographed parchments, and heading off to a party, where only the BigNames received invitations.   Okay, for verse three...a moment or so later, he'd managed to pull together part of a line...well, it would almost do; rock fans were such idiots anyway.  

Azel had always wanted fame.  While third level scribe supervisor was nothing to sneeze about, the position wasn't good enough to suit him - which is why he grabbed onto Lucifer's tail.  His area of responsibility had been among several of the hymn-writing units.  "Hymns... BBLUUCKK!"  He shouted at the sky, which overlooked the city, which was yet several furlongs off (about a mile).  He then let out a throaty giggle.   But he didn't see the chuck hole.  Had his swagger been a few inches forward, or backward, he wouldn't have landed on his tail.  He cursed, arose, dusted himself off, and uh-o...  His digestive tract still wasn't right.  And it was showing. His trousers were beginning to hang loose; he preferred a tight fit, to show off his... Meh, soon enough, he'd be passing through Allendale, one of the better neighborhoods.

A few hours later, after crushing the neck of a servant, who was guarding a line of drying clothes, he grabbed a few garments, jumped behind a hedge, donned a shirt and pair of trousers, ripped up the rest, and cast them aside.  He made his way, down market street, through an alleyway, across another street in the neighborhood of Mechanicsville, took another alley, which took him to a side street in a ... well, less prosperous neighborhood called Nu-Market. Above him, a wooden sign - swaying just a little in the almost non-existent breeze - hung on for dear life to a single hook; the other broken, due to a brawl, that happened ... well, some years ago.   It read "Crystal Lounge."  Inside, a baggy-eyed, long-in-the-tooth prostitute was wiping off the bar, with a not-exactly-clean rag.  Standing before the bar, were two or three of the local drunks.

"GET OUT!" Azel pointed toward the raggedy door.  The barmaid and the drunks, scowled and murmured, but left - quickly!

Even that bowl of half-stale chips

looked halfway appetizing, but Azel wasn't taking any chances; his lower torso still wasn't quite right.  He poured himself a modest cup of grog - it wasn't that great, but he'd tasted worse; and anyway, he didn't want to push his luck, by having another.  He waited, tapping his talons upon the pine surface; where the H... the word made him tremble. Oh no, not again!  He trotted out the back door.  Oooch, that hurt.  And of course, whatever was on the out-house roll wasn't Sharmon.  Back inside, he flung the cup against the wall - as if the liquid, now pooling on the floor, was at fault for having caused any of Azel's problems.  The little bar - like others, in similar neighborhoods - some decades back, had once been a half decent place, where working-poor men and women would gather for a drink, a bite of food, a bit of song, and maybe ... before heading to their respective shabby apartments.  

Where are those two idiots, Azel grumbled, tapping his talons. 

A few moments later, but as far as Azel was concerned, half an eternity, and full reason to rage - like he needed any reason to go on a snarl-fest.  "It's about time you two lame-brains showed up!" Azel growled - irritated, because they had wasted over fifteen minutes of his precious time.  That was hardly an exaggeration, because time was running out - for all of them; they knew it, and certainly didn't care to think about ... the inevitable.  Azel, being one - like the others - to "grab all the gusto, in this one life," grinned.  Yeah, was worth the wait, come to think of it, for the two had brought along a certain little party favor – Mouth.   Fool and Bull both let out a giggle, as Mouth hit the floor - hard.  Azel, looking down at the sprawled, trembling figure, snarled, while undoing his belt, "Get over here, IMP!!"

Being a conference party, the three reprobate angels discussed whatever business they had upon their wicked agendas.  One item of primary importance:  A certain Cainite, an eminent animal healer – a full tenured professor at Enoch U - had found a parchment; one certainly proof enough, to disprove the theory of evolution.  Word was:  he had confided to one of his colleagues, and they - engaging their sound minds - were on the verge of ... of forming an assembly, or had already. That man, and the others, had to be eliminated - along with their wives and children.    That one item, was immediately, and with no debate, was checked YES.  Trouble was: getting past the Holy angels guarding them. The lesser items were just normal demon business, namely:  who else to brutalize, or murder - for...really no reason - who's on the schmooze-list...for the next couple of days - maybe; and where's the next party, and who's invited - and who's not.

"Look what you did!"  Azel growled, staring down, at a small droplet upon the toe of his boot.  Reaching down, he grabbed Mouth by the neck, and clubbed him one upside his head, sending him toppling toward Fool.

"Yer up."

Fool and Bull were ready - and impatient.

The three demons, concluded their business, and left.  The barrel of grog was mostly empty, and the sack of potato chips, which had sat upon a shelf, was empty, and in shreds.  The bowl lay in shards.  Crumbs, sticky spills lay everywhere - amid a broken table and chairs.  Whomever owned the bar, would definitely be seeing a loss upon his balance sheet – and likely hadn’t sufficient coin to keep his insurance current.  Mouth crawled out, and found a nearby abandoned building, where he could lick his wounds - of which were many.

Sethite settlement

Sinus infection, my eye!

The old medicine woman finished updating the last of several three-holed parchments; she then unlatched the wooden prongs, and placed them back upon the wheel – young Bron, Mash’s 2^nd son, likely had not a clue, what a timesaver he’d created; the young man simply enjoyed close intricate work.  Mash had insisted upon compensating her, when he and Rachael’s daughter, Ruthie, had taken ill.  The wheel was, for goodness sakes, at least thrice payment enough – and besides, the girl was up and about within hardly more than two days.  Full bill of health, the old grinned, for hardly an hour ago, the old physician heard the familiar, “Young lady, shall I have a talk with your father?”

No quite so, for Glorianna, Jorg’s wife.  Though, thankfully, recovering, the potions and the salves could only do so much to diminish the scars upon the woman’s face and upper torso.  While the old healer, had also succumbed, her illness had been, hardly more than upset stomach and fatigue – little did the highly skilled physician know, however, the malady’s other-worldly properties would have upon her person.   She looked about her modest hut, breathing in, the melodious aroma of drying herbs.  Being a spinster, she kept her needs at a minimum - after all, her neighbors had their own family’s trenchers to fill.  She beamed at the thick, warm, voluminous, barely pre-worn shawl, which a neighbor had insisted was payment for medical services rendered.  Why the child had barely more than a few scratches.  She, nevertheless, graciously accepted the lovely gift.  

It never ceased to amaze the old woman, how the wives somehow, collectively knew, nearly every item upon the men's council minutes.  In short, the plans were to be changed; they'd even sooner be cutting trail.  Too soon; but another hundred years could pass, and would still be the same - too blasted soon! Those mountains were treacherous’ surely anyone, with a mere 20-20 vision – even with that – should be able to notice, in among too many places, the incline was steep.  As for what lay upon the other side of the ridges and valleys?  While Seth and several other men had explored up there, things were different five centuries ago.  Nowadays, probably full of andys and worse.  There were stories of serpents, big enough to overpower and eat full-grown men. 

The lady was approaching her 700th year.  As a young woman, she'd walk miles into the forest, any beast she'd encounter, would usually just go about its business - as if she wasn't there.  Granted, that mamma tiger, she'd happened upon, some centuries back, wasn’t exactly offering tea and strawberry cakes.  Had been only the Most High's grace which had kept her from having been torn to shreds. But aside of mammas being mammas, animals had, over the following centuries, become less tolerant of humans – anyone, with half a brain…It sure seemed attacks upon people were accelerating. 

Accelerating like sin.

She parted the curtains which hung upon her lattice; the sun was beginning to call it a day, she needed the extra light.  She rolled through the parchments to make sure she’d filed them correctly; she then went out and sat on her porch, taking in the scenery.   The trees, her garden, the common area, neighbor's huts, the fields, the two brooks... The corn and would soon be ready for harvest.  After that...  She glanced over an area of the north ridge; above the treetops, a big-ugly cruised, the dragon’s head lowered, for she was in search of either a nice fat ground-hog, or a young tender fawn, or perhaps a juicy snake – something good and filling, for her junior miss was likely anxious to leave the nest; and mamma-ugly likely thought, the sooner the better.   It was any wonder, rambling men preferred to slake their wanderlust in the wide open, and uncharted, spaces to the east and to the south.   Those lands, of course, like most other places, had their share of dangerous beasts; one such, was an especially ferocious ground bird – one taller than men; but at least these flightless birds could be surrounded and pierced through with spears.  Not so, with big-uglies; men could only run for shelter.  At what campfire was it not pondered, at least once or twice – that the Most High had put the uglies upon the ranges, to guard them.

 

A few hours later, the old healer, threw back her blanket, and carefully - so as not to sprain anything - arose from her bed.  Andy wasn't letting up.  All last night, and most of all yesterday, he continued stomping, grunting and trumpeting.  It wasn't that the old woman was hard-hearted - after all, had she lost a spouse, she'd be wailing and howling too - but good lands, not so loud to be keeping the entire village awake.  "Please ... SHUT. UP!"  the old woman's terse response was neither helpful to the boar-like creature - but way bigger, stronger, and meaner – nor to the rest of the village...and maybe the two or three villages nearby.  Heavenly days, that critter was loud!

The small pot sitting in the embers would be more than cool enough to retrieve without a hot-mitt; she poured its almost cool - but still somewhat warm - coffee into a clay mug.  The small fire, she had kindled, before retiring, had kept the enclosure warm and mostly free of night-mist, but only a few embers remained, and so the chill and mists had begun to creep inside, and settle onto things - namely her sandals.   Most her neighbors had no need for an indoor hearth-ette; nor did pay any mind over damp sandals, but old brings cold.  While the early morning mists were beginning to abate, somewhat – or was it her imagination?  Sunrise was about 2/3rds a watch (an hour) away.  

"WRAAH-OOOLL, RUH, Ruh-ruh-ruh, WWRAH...ruuh..."  

"Oh, STOP!"  From lack of sleep, the woman was frustrated.    She reached into her chest for a pair of foot-warmers. Too early in the day to cut or sew cloth, study the Word, or write a parchment without lighting a lamp.  While she had plenty of oil and wicks, the old virgin preferred to keep things that way.  With no one about, she took this opportunity to indulge in her little "scandal." She reached for her corncob pipe, filled it with a sizable pinch of tobacco, and fired in the hole.  Oh yes, contrary to her pickmesha neighbor, spinsterhood most certainly had its perks – no husband to be constantly picking up after, to be on his constant beck and call, and no receiving swats to one’s southside for not moving fast enough.

"WRAAH, RUH..." Oh well, andy had been quiet, for a minute there, the old woman pursed her lips.  

Birds were beginning their morning chorus, as the village began to stir.  The old woman picked up her sewing basket and sat out on her porch; she wanted to finish a hem, before taking her pail for water.  Her lips turned downward, at the yardage in her hands, for it was to be, her trail-blazing outer garment.  While the old woman’s eye-sight was no longer top-notch, it was more than good enough to have caught her neighbor’s facial expression – she didn’t want to leave either.  She stepped back inside her abode, to make sure the parchments were back on the wheel, and in the proper order, for she had worked past dusk.  Seth’s card was among several she had updated; he was either 870, or soon to be; his vision was more like that of a man in his 300s – 400s tops.   Praise the Most High God!  

She returned to her wicker seat – another thing to be missed, for they would all need to travel light.  A young boy, who also looked as if he'd not slept well, crossed nearby and begin running toward his older brother and a cousin.  Both the older boys were loudly conversing.  "...he MAD now."  There was a noticeable curiosity in the youngster's face; he strained to get a listen.  "later find himself another..."  The young man, who had ended his statement with a brazen phrase, suddenly blanched.   Only a few cubits in front of him, were two older women conversing, about being kept awake most the night.  Problem was: one of those approaching women happened to be brassy-mouth’s mother.  The deflated look upon the young man’s face - for sure, he was hoping his mom hadn't overheard his language, and, way worse, be fed a mouthful of lye soap.

 

The boys’ adventure.

Two boys guided their craft toward the creek’s other side, so as to meet up with the larger stream.  As every boy, in the village – and in other villages – know, it’s better to exercise advance planning.   Joel, the younger boy was anxious to get further along, for if his mother was to happen by, she’d certainly call him ashore.  They were just about ready to enter into the other stream, when from behind him, he heard, “Honey, stay on this side.”  Bummer, just when we were about…the younger wrinkled his face; then to his surprise, the other boy just kept on navigating, as if he’d not heard his mother’s call.   Frankly, the younger was amazed, for if he’d ignored his mother’s call, she would tell Father.

“TOMMY!”  Barb called again, but to no avail; as she could only watch his head disappear behind the foliage, she shook hers.  Her wiry eleven-year old, with a mind of his own, was paying her no mind.  What could she do when he got home!  Spank him with her mixing spoon?    As the young widow made her way toward the house, a woman coming in the opposite direction, nudged the woman walking beside her.  Barb, with a headful of her own matters, either didn’t catch the phrase concerning her parenting skills, or she simply ignored the comment. 

As the raft carried its two passengers downstream, one of the bindings, holding fast one of the outer corners, began to loosen; neither boy had noticed, for they were both engaged in an important Council Meeting.  “Nuh-uh, I was Chief last time.” Tommy countered, for being Chief meant having to be diplomatic, and not be able to do fun stuff like arm-wrestle; instead, having to sit in meetings, and not be able to knock some jerk’s block off.  Tommy had recently overheard his great, great, great, great grandfather, Chief Cainan say something, to one of Tommy’s great, great, great uncles, about a meeting where “those two clowns...”  “How’s come they don’ tell stories?” Joel asked his friend, of which Tommy couldn’t quite get his head around, especially, that one.  “Speakin’ a stories, I jus’ got one.”  Joel’s eyes lit up, for his father was saving both coppers and silvers to have an off-road wagon constructed - in short, visits to the scroll-seller weren’t happening. 

Tom recounted the tale of “Zinbad and His Merry Crew.”  They’d built a craft, even bigger than the riverboat that sometimes, stops at Purveyors, before making its way back towards the City of Enoch.  In the story, Zinbad and crew explore a big river that runs through south jungle lands – where the trees aren’t so big and tall, but where their limbs and branches are so close together, men have to cut through; some places so thick, you need metal sickles.  The river, wide and deep is the domain of crocks, some who are more than three reeds (27 feet) in length, and two cubits (6 feet) in girth.  They slay a big one, but sustain damage to their craft.  So, they land to make repairs; while they’re working, they’re attacked by ape-men – some believe, the too far-gone descendants of the Enu.  After the valent men kill about a dozen of those vile smelly creatures, the other dozen or two, turn tail and run - like the COWARDS they are.  Both boys, with fists in air, did victory jumps.  Meanwhile, to neither the boys’ knowledge, a length of rope – which one of them had recovered from the midden – holding together a corner, was down to its last few threads.  Another length, which likely had been recovered from the same place, hadn’t been in much better shape, and also was about midway.

Tommy continued recounting the story. The men’s craft fixed, they head downriver, where the jungle finally begins to thin out, thus allowing for some orange and pear trees to grow.  The men stop to partake, for they hadn’t had real fruit for some time – the men were tired of bananas and coconuts.  Unbeknownst to them however, they should have left the apples alone.  Instead, the crew had picked a bunch of them, mashing and straining them into bottles, to partake later on.   Two or three days later, the men are fast asleep, as their boat leaves the bay; they awake, surrounded by water, and though groggy, they begin paddling toward the tiny strip of land to their northwest.  But alas, their troubles are not yet over; for one Levithan’s sons – almost sinks the boat.  But Zinbad saves the day, for he spears Levithan’s eldest son, right in the belly.   They then row, like nobody’s business, to get away from there, before the slain’s sire, the Ruler of the World’s Edge shows up – because not even Zinbad could slay the fire-breathing old patriarch.

And alas, after several more victory jumps, here and there throughout the story, the two boys suddenly found themselves in a jam; two of the logs had, at some point, began slipping from their almost non-existent bounds.  Then, a loose rope caught unto a rock; the jerk dislodged the rest. Into the turbulent waters the boys found themselves.  Both managed to make it to safety, but they’d quite a trek back home, for they’d spent so long in storyland, they’d forgotten afternoons only last for a certain amount of time.  With each furlong, Joel, was growing concerned, for he’d surely be late for supper; but at the same time, oh he wanted to linger a bit in places, for there were animals he’d heard about, but had never actually seen going about their business.  On the opposite shore, two spikey-backs (stegosauruses) were drinking where a spring brought fresh cool water into the stream. The youngster, however, was aware these, and most other, creatures would likely not appreciate being gawked at by humans.  Even at his tender age, Joel suspected the possibility that animals had some idea, it was humans, who had brought fights, injury and death – he recalled, more than once, Pastor Jason saying that sin brought death to all creatures; the boy’s mind was mature enough to conclude, without sin, there would be no death – and so, the animals would have lived forever.  No wonder animals bite, and even kill, people.

Neither did the two boys have an inkling as to the great danger into which they had placed themselves; as both paused a moment to watch two alligators - and the reptilian couple’s little one – swim on by; the two marveled at the gator couple’s great size.  Neither boy saw the cougar patiently hunched, upon a nearby rock formation; she waited for the right moment to spring; but alas for her, she’d have to find her meal elsewhere, for one of the Holy angels would not allow her access. The two boys also passed a small clearing – one large enough however, for Joel to notice the faint and fuzzy shadows of both tree and shrub were waxing long.  The sun was nearing the horizon; that meant he’d missed supper - mom and dad’s strictest rule…no wait, his parents’ next to strictest rule.  Not only would he get a whooping for being beyond the perimeter, he was also more than late for supper.  He was in big trouble, and he knew it.   His friend, Tommy, however, didn’t seem to have a care in the world; of course not, he’d only to worry about his mom’s wooden spoon. 

But alas, Tommy would certainly have a care, either the next day, or the one following. 

When the search party had located the boys walking upstream, a few furlongs from the village, it was already getting past dusk.   Not a good time or place for men – let alone boys, especially come nightfall.  Leading the team was Headman Jared, Tommy’s great, great grandfather, and he didn’t seem too pleased at the dangerous situation his grandson had created, for both himself and the other boy.  Cappy, Joel’s father, seeing his boy in one piece, had to stop himself from running to the boy and hugging him. The parents and neighbors sighed relief upon seeing the boys returning with the men.  Families departed to their respective houses.    It was then, Peninnah, Joel’s mother, approached Barb and said, “You should have named your son Dennis.”  A puzzled look covered Barb’s face.  “Excuse me?” Dennis?  How was that even a word?  It was as if queen gossip had read Barb’s query.  “Dennis, because, your son is a MENACE!”  Barb wanted to slap her one, but instead retorted, “No he’s nnoot.”  Wisely so, for Peninnah – number two in the women’s pecking order – would have - the following day, or whenever the men were elsewhere - been the bristle mop, and Barb the floor. 

Stories for children, and stories for grownups.

Late afternoon the following day, Barb was reclining sideways upon the Head chair, a pillow buffered the one armrest, her lower legs slung over the other; one foot rested upon the table’s corner.   In her hands was an illustrated scroll – the story, concerned a troop of thespians on the way to their next gig; the text, though second rate, the drawings, were a hand-drawn excellent, and so, more than filled in the blanks – no machine could even approach.   Reading a caption where the main character’s best buddy jumps out a second-floor window, in only his mantle, he lands into a hay trough.  “Oh no!” She laughed.  Then the tavern-owner’s horse, lets out a whinny – thus signaling the woman’s jealous lover.  “GO! Get OUT of there!” Barb started kicking her legs – her skirt shimmied up, exposing a kneecap, and some upper leg. An elder man cleared his throat. 

That part wasn’t in the scroll. 

This real-time character, along with his equally self-righteous sister, stood not far from her, hands folded.  Oh shoot!  Her jaw dropped a bit; her feet hit the rushes, she quickly arose and took a place alongside one of the benches running along the table’s other side.  Headman Jared’s face still held a glower – oh well, nothing new.   Collecting herself, she waxed hostess, offering her guests cups of juice and a plate of nuts and berries – resources which she didn’t exactly have an abundance, but guests were guests.  Politely, declining the offer, for a moment, they both somewhat shook their heads at the sparse, and somewhat disorderly surroundings.   Upon the table sat a small stack of folded laundry, besides that, several quills in a trench, along with a small ink bottle, nearby, a codex; Except for two or three muffins, half a grape cluster, an orange and a few walnuts, no other food sat upon the table - at the time of day, when parents expect their children to be home, cleaned up, and ready to partake supper.  One of Tommy’s rather threadbare shirts and a sewing basket was parked nearby the other chair. “I’m here to see Tommy.”

Great!  Now what, she thought, for her son hadn’t yet come home – but he’d be along in a little while.  “Uhm…,” it just chapped her hindquarters, how being around the old buzzard would make her stutter.  “Tommy’s at…uh, uhm… JOEL’s.”  Barb hoped he was there, for she didn’t like having to admit to anyone, including herself, she didn’t always know of her son’s whereabouts.

“Hhmm, right.”

The old buzzard wasn’t exactly diplomatic, when calling someone’s bluff.  “I will be along tomorrow, or the day after.”  His few words spoke volumes.  Her patience, was close to membrane thin, her seat took its place upon the head chair – which really wasn’t her place; though in her nineties, the young woman had a history of flipping off protocols.  She did, however, surprise herself when her forearm pumped a rude hand gesture at the retreating patriarch.

“I saw that!” His tight words, though low in volume, reached her ears.

 

Tommy being Tommy.

Once again, the youngster was, where boys would get a smack if caught lingering; nor would the game he was playing sit well with parents and other elders.  For Tommy was Captain Morghan, the river pirate who raided towns which ran south east of Enoch.  Our hero was playing alone, for his two or three would-be crew-members knew better – at least for the present - than to cross the perimeter; that, in itself earned many a boy a thorough dusting from his father.  A close second was: the community midden was no play area; not only was it dirty, but could be dangerous enough for a solitary young man to linger about, let alone a boy.

“HHAARRRR, Maties!” Tommy called out to his imaginary crew, “There be the lost TREASURE of Emerald Cove” – a legendary bay inlet, that supposedly was a distance south west of them, a paradise which bordered the great redwoods of the HedgeLands.  Triumphantly, the youngster held up several half-rusted bands of iron, which, at one time held together barrel sides and chests.  Har, indeed!  There was a full copper, maybe even two; for sure, enough to buy the next installment of The Adventures of Zinbad and his Merry Crew – the one where he and his men battle King Crab.  From what the boy had heard, in this edition, Levithan and sons were elsewhere – probably strongarming tribute off MobyDirk, InkyEightLegs or even from GreatShark, so the giant crab decides to make a name for himself, by terrorizing the villages along the shore.

The fierce creature arises from the waters of a brook that ran near the midden’s edge.  With club in hand, Tommy was ready to take on the pincered potentate.  The rodent, about a fourth shekel in weight, (30-ish pounds) bare his long sharp yellow teeth.  The weapon thundered down, upon the creature’s skull.  “Take THAT, you KNAVE, and be GONE from our village!”  The rodent fell over, face down in the water. Tommy was about to do a victory leap, but a rustling from behind him, bade the youngster to put a good furlong – at least – between he and the midden.  For the slain rodent was young and surely had a momma and a poppa, and probably a big brother. His satchel remained where he’d left it, atop a pile of old rags, which were too greasy and threadbare to be washed and reused - for retrieving two coppers worth of scrap metal wasn’t worth facing even one adult rodent.  Upon reaching the perimeter, the coast was clear, for this section of their village border was currently being patrolled by two or three young men; who, more or less, winked at such comings and goings - unlike elders who were known to grab little border crossers by the collar, and take them directly to their fathers, or grandfathers.  

…

Later on, at home, Tommy still wasn’t over his earlier bout of pirate fever – brought about by one or two of the story-scrolls his mother had bought for him.  And haarrr, what better prop was the old toolshed; the one his mother, told him, and his friends, who came over to play, a thousand times to not enter – for it was no longer safe to go in and out.  One of the walls was but a mist or two from folding over; a sizable gap between its half rotted panel and the roof – which wasn’t in much better shape – had grown another index (half inch), within the past few days.  Shortly before Tom senior’s passing, he had built a replacement, and had moved his tools to their new home.  For a few months, the old structure had served as a club-house for Tommy and his friends, but between the passage of the months, the mists, and a groundhog – then a rodent, who’d evicted the former - had changed that.

Tommy stood, flailing a wooden sword, upon what-still remained of the shed roof lattice.  He and his imaginary crew; imaginary, for his two best buddies had both been grounded by their respective fathers, for the usual – having been caught crossing the perimeter.  Tommy scowled, loudly, at a rival band of imaginary pirates, who dared sailing upon his waters.  He was proud of the skull-and-crossbones flag he’d painted onto a square of a stiff old rag his mom was about to toss into the midden basket; the banner, attached to an almost straight stick, was firmly planted into the roof’s soft portion.  The area he stood upon was…well, sort of firm, so he didn’t know why his mother would get all bothered.  Ah, but Mom wasn’t home; she was down by the creek, washing blankets in the deeper, swifter waters, along with some the other moms; he had plenty of time to sink the rival’s ship, then he and his men, would sail away before any great fish sniffed out a ready snack – and, maybe even band together to sink his vessel. 

Plenty of time, so Tommy thought.

“We must hi and away, maties!” he announced to his crew.  “Ho-ho-ho, and a bottle of PEAR juice!”  He jumped up and down, anticipating the imaginary celebration – imaginary, because these particular pears weren’t yet in season, and it would be a few weeks before he could, once again, enjoy that favorite beverage.   (A most delicious type of pear, which went extinct around the time Abram, son of Terah, was yet a boy.)  Alas, with all the jumping and carrying on, the ship’s thatched deck began to sink, as the entire craft began to keel over.  Tommy, being Tommy, laughed on his way down, landing on his feet.  His mother, having come back for something, wasn’t at all amused to see Tommy standing in front of the totally dilapidated structure, upon a piece leaning up against an unstable another, still wielding that sword, shouting at his imaginary foes.

“Boy, you’re going to give me gray hairs!”  There wasn’t much else Barb could do, besides smack him with her wooden cook spoon; she’d broken her last one – for what!  hardly even gave the boy a sting, or even a second thought.  The wood and the thatch – now laying everywhere - should have, months ago, been disassembled and cleared away, now definitely, the mess needed to go, needed to be added to night-fire kindling.  That meant having to ask for help, for it was a bit much for her and Tommy, on their own, to pick up and haul away – upon their somewhat questionable cart.  Oh, the both could do it, but such would take, probably several days – time which Barb needed for other tasks.  A job, which would take two men and her boy, half a day – if that. 

Meh, sometimes, strong and independent didn’t quite work out.

“And Terah lived seventy years and gebat Abram, Nahor, and Haran.” Genesis 11:26

The boys’ next adventure

“But don’t you haf to go to college, to go on espedition?” Joel queried.  “No,” Tommy shook his head, then told his friend of one of Cousin Bron’s unauthorized previous trips afield; but he omitted the part concerning the certain awards ceremony, given at the hand of Uncle Mash.   On the way just short of the perimeter, both boys ducked behind a wagon, upon seeing Tom’s maternal grandfather turning to come their way – he wasn’t one with whom to trifle.   The coast clear, they were both headed into the outer thicket.   On the way to the mountain, which seemed to inch further away, with each approaching footstep, one of the boys spotted a rather large brownish green egg, which lay upon the ground, pillowed in a clump of dried grasses.    An idea hatched into the mind of the other boy.

“Hey, we can take this back, and observe it hatch.”  Joel patted his satchel, then added, “That ‘el work better, since I forgot my field journal.”  The youngster, having heard a story, a short while ago, about an animal doctor, who taught young men at Enoch-U, had been inspired to start his own science journal.    Tommy then took off his cloak, both boys filled it quick with soft grasses; put the egg therein. With their terrific find, suspended between them, they wasted no time in departing toward home – lest the mom, and maybe even the pop, be upon them.   Almost to the perimeter, little did either of the two boys know of the crack which began to form along the egg’s side.  Being later in the afternoon, when busy mothers were either enjoying a precious few moments of daytime shut-eye, or visiting a neighbor, neither Joel’s mother, nor his sister, were home.    He grabbed an old squarish wooden trench, which was propped up against a stump near their family garden.  Therein, they placed the egg, and began their observations.   Our budding scientist, began a page of his journal, describing their find, its size, color, and the general environment where they’d found it.  He put aside the journal.  Both boys waited, and waited.  But science, being slow and patient, is a practice not generally conducive to rambunctious boys.  The two begin horsing around, bumping the egg; neither did they notice two other cracks had begun to form.  More roughhousing, the two began arm wrestling; the one boy’s forearm slipped, jolting the egg – rendering it a few digits airborne, then hitting the trench’s side.    The egg broke into several pieces.  The horrid sight, and the STENCH of that thing.  Both took off running.   

A mushy rotting dragon corpse, lay in chunks, partly within, and partly without the trench; a nasty sludgy and liquid-like substance, ran and pooled all over one of Peninnah’s favored oil-cloths.

A short while later.

Barb, Tommy’s mother, was partaking her mid-afternoon downtime.  The beans she’d snapped, the roots she’d pulled, all cleaned and cut were gently steaming within moist leafy blankets, upon the embers of a slow cookfire.  Her son’s better trousers, now mended, sat on the table, waiting to be put in her son’s chest, which sat beside his raised bed.   Still a bit overheated, her outer garment lay slooped over the back of the Head chair.  Her boy, having arrived home a short while ago, had brought along with him, a greenish gray face; she’d asked if he’d been into those sweet-berries, which grew in spots just on the perimeter’s other side – where he wasn’t supposed to go.  Boys… He said that he’d not.  Barb looked him over, placed her palm upon his forehead.  To her relief, no fever. She recommended that he lay down for a bit – for which he didn’t fuss.  She’d mixed a potion, poured some of it into a small cup, and bade him to drink.  She concluded, if he wasn’t better after he awoke from his nap, she’d remove his shirt and look over his chest, back and shoulders. That’s how it began…she put the previous outbreak from her mind, worrying - while the evidence scant to non-existent - was not helpful.  Wiping the workday residue off the front of her shift, some of it smudged.  Oh well, she resolved to put on a clean one, later 

She brought him a cup of water, but instead, set it upon the little table by his bed; her boy was sound asleep – good sign.  She did, however, reconsider whether or not she’d been wise to spend her last coppers at the scroll seller’s booth.  Oh well, live and learn; she retrieved one of the scrolls, she’d purchased for herself and Tommy, and headed to the roomy head chair.  She set the scroll before her, then veered off to check on the embers – they needed a sprinkle of water, so they’d not grow too hot, and ruin their supper.  A small loaf of raisin bread, with a few walnuts would round out the meal.  Her resources running a bit low, oh well, returning to her seat, she concluded she’d figure out something - later. 

The story was a good one.  The band of third-rate musicians had to find a gig; trouble was, due to the one having messed with the mistress of a local crime-boss, they had to leave town, and hole up for awhile in one of the outer villages.  And as if things couldn’t get any worse for the group, on the way, they were being chased by several of the Mz – a feral troop of women, who lived in the woods, within filthy, ramshackle hovels.   Ew!  Even WORSE than the one, she, as a child had passed by, while with her mother, as they made their way…somewhere; she couldn’t recall, for she’d been, maybe six or seven.  The Mz were not only vicious, but ugly, with their greasy orange spiked hair. Their chiefess was especially vile; for she’d recently slain her little one – for, really, no other reason than her baby had been born hanging a pencil. “Get THEM!!” her legs slung over the armrest, her feet began kicking, she called out to the band, which had consisted of five men, now currently four – if they were unable to rescue their lutist, he’d be slain, after those savages each had their way.  Events, however, did wax worse, but not in the story. 

“YOUR son…” Peninnah stood, one hand upon a generous hip, the other directly pointing at Barb.  What now!  Barb did a face-palm.

…

“Had been only the Most High’s holy angels,” Peninnah huffed, then continued, “which kept me from throttling THAT woman.”  Peninnah, continued bending the ear of a woman sitting beside her, upon the pew bench, as others filed in and taking their seats; she was still upset about the table cover – it was ruined, neither stain nor stench would come out of it.  Another ear leaned in.  After all, who needed to waste good coin upon 2^nd rate stories, when they had characters, in real life, living among them. “Careless little chit,” the second chimed in, “running about her tasks, in just a shift.”  A third chimed in, “Whel, at least she wasn’t wearing her late husband’s trousers.”  She then began to detail how last Tuesday, she’d been on her way to stop in at an aunt so-so’s when she’d happened to notice the trousered woman… An astonished woman sitting nearby, clutched her silver necklace.  Finally, an older woman, somewhat irritated with the bash-fest, put a stop to it; she raised a finger to her lips, for the service was soon to begin.  Peninnah’s fellow gossip, tapped her on the shoulder and cocked her head in the direction of the front lattice. Both hens smirked a bit, as they watched the rather threadbare young widow lead her somewhat raggamuffin young son to take their place amongst the congregation.

 

“Wha, where’d I leave it?”

Young Tommy scratched his head, thinking over the half dozen other places he’d been during the afternoon.  It wasn’t on the table at home, because he knew he’d grabbed his satchel, after helping his mom weed their garden; nor had he left it by the brook, to where he’d carried a basket of raiment for his mother to be washed and hung on the nearby clothesline.  Nor had he left it in the common area, where he’d shot that dragon-fly; man, that was a BIGGIN – it had landed with a thud, that is, after careening into a tree branch.  The boy hadn’t noticed, however, the grimace of an older woman, who’d wiped away a misty shower of bug-goo which had sprayed the hem of her headcover.  Nor, shortly after, had he noticed the local pick-a-pouch, had been at his wicked craft.  Oh well, the boy concluded, he’d another back at the house – nothing like the one he’d just made, and had lost, somewhere.

“Hey, kid.” An older boy, of about thirteen or fourteen, called while leaning up against a wagon of cook-wood – one which his father had bade him to unload.  “Ja loose som’em?”  He sneered, nudging one of his two cousins – both who’d likely had left their own chores, undone.   “HEY, give that back!” Tommy approached, running.“ The older boy, Stoney, bellowed a scoff, while raising the sling, dangling it in the air. “Why don’ cha MAKE me!” Full of his taller, better clad self, he continued mocking.  Focused upon the other boy’s laugher, while the hapless younger boy strove to reach his sling, Stoney didn’t see the fist, but his jaw felt it.  Nor did he see, in time, the second blow to his better-fed middle.  Stoney’s head bumped against the wagon’s side as he doubled over.  Tommy took off, like a top-rate chariot runner, lest the other two go at him.  Boy, I’m in trouble now.  While Tommy, like any other boy, had his share dealing with bullies, Tommy had no idea that Stoney wasn’t just the garden variety.

Neither did Tommy realize, he wasn’t the only boy who faced trouble.  Stoney, still rubbing his sore jaw – which had begun to swell a bit – had noticed the rent in his shirt.  The shirt, which his mother, had told him to change out of, upon their return from a mid-afternoon potluck, which had been held in honor of a young couple, who’d recently become the parents of their firstborn - a healthy boy.  Experience had taught Stoney, the penalty of ignoring his mother’s bidding – the oldest phrase among mankind, “Wait until your father gets home.”   The back of his trousers had yet to fully recover from their last dusting.  Stoney had to come up with a plan; he thought a bit, while beginning to unload the wagon – though more devising than unloading.  He then realized, wait, the sling is new and the stupid kid hadn’t thought to put his mark upon its base.  He congratulated himself for, instead of launching into panic mode, he had paused a moment; long enough to reach into his cage of unclean and hateful birds, for one of the little uglies had just hatched a perfect plan – one that would spare Stoney’s tail feathers a serious ruffling.

“And he cried mightily with a strong voice, saying, Babylon the great is fallen, is fallen, and is become the habitation of devils, and the hold of every foul spirit, and a cage of every unclean and hateful bird.” Revelation 18:02

 

Poor Barb had another guest come to call.

And not just one, but TWO.  So, it behooved her to provide a larger plate of food, and drink to go with – both of which she could hardly spare, for the later must needs be juice and coffee; she was about out of beans, so the next few mornings she’d have to settle for tea.   Stoney’s parents had called to inquire Tommy of the matter.  Stoney’s father just rolled his eyes, upon learning Tommy was elsewhere; neither did he miss the rather chagrined expression wash over the widow’s face, of her not knowing her boy’s present whereabouts.   Not having missed noticing the rather shabby, unkempt surroundings, he concluded it was no wonder the lad would attempt to steal from another boy.   Before the two guests departed, the man turned around and spoke.  “Mark my words, Mrs. Thomas, this matter is not over.”  The couple headed home.  “What a shame.” The man’s wife, who’d gotten a glimpse of the wanting state of Barb’s pantry – and that faint, but noticeable, smell of burnt hemp leaves – she shook her head, “I never thought Tommy would…would steal.”   The woman, having once been a child, knew that children were prone to swipe honey rolls, cooling upon pantry sills, but this?  No, this was way different; the lad needed a father - and that woman needed a husband; one who’d straighten out her too casual ways.

 

As if the poor widow’s day couldn’t wax any worse!

Her eyes puffy, Barb hadn’t been sleeping well.  Especially, after that dream.  Hadn’t been the first time, she’d dreamt of her late Husband, nor would it, be the last.  She’d thought, she was finally getting over the worst of it.  Most times, she’d awaken, have a good cry, and then go about life as is.  But this one?  It had been so wonderful, so real.  Just a typical late afternoon, Tom had come home, after cutting logs with some of the other men.  Why the plump loaves, bursting with dates and walnuts were blue, that part she’d known not – nor did she care to overthink, for such bordered upon dream-divination; that which fallen angels were sure to lay snares.  No thanks!!   Strange though, somewhere in the dream, father and son had gone off to do something; arriving back home, they’d brought a guest to the family table.  A large bear, around its neck hung a bird-lizard’s claw.  Later in the dream, Barb could about smell the scent of Tom’s shirt as they’d retired for the evening.  She’d awoke, alone.  From the sounds around her, it was sometime during third watch.

After serving Tommy his breakfast, and half-heartedly going about some chores.  Tommy, was his normal antsy, and wanted to go play - while she’d planned for the both of them to weed in the common, it wasn’t happening. Not this morning, for Barb could barely hold herself together; and her boy didn’t need to see his mother in such a state.  Hadn’t been too long ago, she’d get up in the middle of the night, and find her son curled up, fast asleep, upon the head chair – in hopes his father would return, and gently nudge the boy to sit elsewhere.    Distraught, she took up some mending, for awhile, but ended up laying that aside; she puttered around, attempting to straighten up a bit, here and there.  Their garden, having already been weeded, from the both of them, the day before last; that job took but only a few moments.  Against her better judgment, she succumbed; reaching for the bowl, and filling it with dried leaves; dipping a straw into the cook fire - she’d kindled to have ready in time to prepare she and her boy’s mid-meal - she took a few puffs, then laid the bowl back in its tray, and placed them behind a jar which sat upon the pantry shelf. 

Feeling somewhat better, she reached for her harp, and began strumming a few light-hearted ditties – not exactly the sort one would play upon the Lord’s Day.  But generally harmless enough for children’s ears, for Barb wasn’t one who cared much for anything unsuitable for youngsters; it was the principle of the thing. One, a short ballad, featured the daughter of an overly stern, and tightfisted merchant, who’d betrothed her to one of his colleagues; instead, the girl had run off with an actor – a kind man, and generous with what little coin he’d been able to earn.   A man like Tom senior…time to switch genres.  Another tune was one of Tommy’s favorites, when he had been a few years younger; she sang a few verses, then left off, for the light hearted melody, about a gray fox, was leaving her a bit melancholy - Tommy was no longer her little boy; soon he’d become a young man. She strummed another melody, then played one she’d written herself; it featured, a certain and overly staunch, village leader.  That was fun.  She began to again sing, “Old Buzzard.”

Oh crap! 

In mid tune, her mouth dropped, standing before her was the Old Buzzard, himself, along with his grand-niece – because it wasn’t customary for a solitary man to visit an unmarried, unchaperoned woman.  She laid aside the harp, and received a parchment summons – one of which, he could have easily sent another to deliver.  Hhmmph!  But aside of all that, to receive a summons, wasn’t a message one generally looked forward.  Without another word, both uncle and niece turned and walked off.  HAH! She wagged her tongue, he even looked like that sketch she’d made in her journal, about a year or so before Tom, - great grandson of Headman Jared - had been slain.

But a smirky wag of a tongue could not erase the contents which lay before her.  “No, NO! They can’t do this!”  Barb started to weep.  “They…they just can’t!”

 

Talk about kangaroos!

Neither had Barb been the only one at the hearing, who’d caught the scent of kangarooey-dooey.  Anak senior, also had been ruminating some doubts as to whether or not his son had been honest before Council – especially, due to a completely unrelated incident two or three days ago; over something so minor, had his boy simply told him the truth, there’d of been no consequence, other than being told to “Do better next time.”  Pride.  That…The truth meant His boy had been socked a good one, by a smaller kid – the young lad, who had only wanted his sling, one which his own son had pouch-picked the youngster.   Nope!  Anak Senior wasn’t touching that cage, and subsequently letting loose a chorus of hatchlings to go twittering throughout the village.   Aside of whether or not Tommy committed attempted theft, his mother wasn’t fit to raise the boy on her own.  No woman was.   If she wanted her son back, she’d do well to get off the widow’s weeds, and get herself a husband.   He briefly glanced over at one of the elder men seated therein – a widower, who’d a boy about Tommy’s age.

The next witness was clearly irritated with the whole charade, for she’d received the summons hardly a moment moments after putting on a loaf to steam – one which, by this time, threatened to become soggy.  The question had nothing to do with slings, and everything to do with …kids.  “Of course, the lad made off with one of my peach tarts – he’s a ten year old!” 

Tommy’s turn to give account, he’d respectfully stated.  “Yes Sir, I did attempt to recover the sling which Anak had upon his person.”  HAH!  Good word usage, the gleam in his mother’s eyes met directly at Old Buzzard’s, beady pupils; the message clearly received - one spoken from the boy, whose mother had allegedly neglected her son’s lessons.  Really??  Barb’s mouth held a triumphant smirk.

Unfortunately for Barb, the Council held the upper hand.  The decision made, Chief Cainan lowered the gavel.

What ensued was unprecedented.  In the blink of an eye, the little widow had flung a cupful of water in the headman’s face – that was, after calling him…of all things, an “ogre.”  As if to get in the final dig, glaring at his great granddaughter in law’s face, now distraught – if not in shock, for having uttered that borderline obscene word - he calmly pulled out a rag, and dabbed the moisture. “You will bring Tommy, MY grandson, to my house, this evening.”

 

Later that evening, Methuselah and Lamech, his son, were playing a board game while sitting at the former’s table.  “Your great grandfather goes too far at times.” he moved his piece, taking one of Lamech’s off the board.  Lamech thought carefully, not so much about capturing his father’s duke, but saying what he wanted, while keeping things matter of fact.  Neither did Lamech care to say anything that would upset his mother – who was laying down, for while weeding the previous day, the side of her foot had slipped into a fresh parting of the soil, brought about from the escaping mists.   The healer had been by; his mother would have to stay off of it most the time, for the next several days or so.  All Lamech knew was, his father and mother had lost a son; he a brother, his nephew, Tommy, had lost his father, but his wagon-wreck of a sister-in-law had lost her husband.  “Thief? - when a dragon sees a dentist!” Lamech took his father’s duke; the king was two rows back, so getting him would take a bit. “I don’t think so either.” Methuselah studied the board, then added, “And I think Grandfather sees right through the set up.”  Methuselah moved off the board, both Lamech’s lawyer and his priest.  “But regardless, the fact remains.” Methuselah, took a sip from his cup, “my daughter-in-law, your sister-in-law, is still overwrought, and not in in any condition to....” Lamech studied the board, “Speaking of a set up!”  He was down four or five pieces; Methuselah’s forces were moving in fast; for a moment, Lamech considered moving his duke behind the dutchess, that would buy time - but no, better to lose the round, than cave into making that sort of purchase. 

Joel was so beside himself.

He had wanted to tell his father, Cappy, about the serpent he’d slain.  And it wasn’t some piddly two index (1.5 inches) he’d taken his hand axe and bashed at the base of its neck; the creature was like four indexes.  But alas, he kept the tale in his field notes, for telling father would lead to a certain question.  One he didn’t care to answer, for telling a lie wasn’t worth being outed, forever, in Sheol; and telling the truth of his whereabouts, at the time, would mean getting his trousers dusted.  Joel had told a page of his journal, that he wouldn’t have even bothered the snake, but it had the tail end of a small rodent, and the poor creature – about a span (9 inches – not including its tail) was …screaming.   Having rescued the poor guy, he’d brought him home, and fixed up a safe place.  Isn’t that what the animal doctor would do?  Doc had written several scrolls for children; Joel’s mother, Peninnah, had bought two of them – one a codex - from the scroll-vendor. The boy had previously gone over both, then shut the little book, rolled the scroll back into its case, then put both into his chest, which sat at the foot of his sleeping place.  It was time to make his rounds; his first patient was, of course, the rodent.  Oh good, he looked to his left, then to his right. The coast was clear – his mother’s pantry was unoccupied, for the moment.  While the boy still had a piece of rice cake, from breakfast, his patient would need some fruit; lucky for the boy, readily available, alongside a basket was a pear – and one a bit overripe.  But wait, he told himself, his patient needed a bowl of juice. 

That posed a problem.  His two bark ones were in use, and the melon rind he’d been using was no longer serviceable.  The boy looked around.  His eyes lit up.  Upon an upper shelf sat a decent-sized bowl, he’d never seen his mom use and nearby was the stepping stool.  Into his animal doctor pouch, he carefully placed the soft pear, the bowl, and a few grapes, which he’d pulled off from a cluster which sat in another basket.  Joel wasn’t really allowed to linger in his mother’s pantry, and he didn’t want to call for his sister – who was out front, playing house with her friend – because she would ask questions. Girls, and their stupid dollies, he wrinkled his face.  Us boys have important things.  Running to his first patient, he wanted to go “DING-DING-DING,” like the bell upon the Purveyor’s ambulance cart, but he knew the young rodent needed lots of quiet, because his injury was more than physical; his patient had undergone mental trauma.  Who wouldn’t!  Snakes, yeech; having seen another while on his rounds, he hoped two bird lizards would happen upon it, and eat it, from each end - and slow too. 

A few days later, Joel was happily penning a most favorable outcome, of his – only days ago – most critical patient.  The rodent had evidently recovered, for he’d discharged himself from the hospital and was headed back home.  He probably missed his momma and poppa – but Joel was about sure, the creature did not exactly miss his sister.  An ear-splitting scream came from the family’s back yard.  His sister!!  The boy, grabbed his axe, and tore across the yard.  She screamed again, but to his relief, neither bear, nor bird lizard, had posed her any danger.  Joel’s former patient was darting here and there beneath the family table. Joel then called to the creature, who evidently had undergone semi-trauma, from sister’s shrill outcries and her stomping feet upon the table surface; the panicked rodent simply wanted the quickest way out of there, and so had jumped into Joel’s cupped hands.

A few more days later, the boy was going through his black bag – the same one, he knew better than to place upon the table; a while back, he’d learned that pitch doesn’t come out of oil-cloths too readily, and had ended up, not only with a sound swat.  Worse than that, he had to scrub out the stain, which had taken quite some time.  Women’s work – bluuck!  In the bottom of the pouch was the bowl – half of it lay on one end, the other half lay near the middle.  Hhmm, he thought, he could fix it, then park it back upon the shelf.  Good, he sighed relief, his father working elsewhere, Joel had question-free access to the glue pot.  Dipping a stick into the substance, he carefully glued the two pieces together, then sat it elsewhere to fully dry, before taking the risk of returning it to where he knew he wasn’t supposed to be.  The fix-it, hadn’t been the best, but would have to suffice.  He’d an idea.  If he placed it just an index or two further back from its original location, all would be well.  So, the boy had thought, but the shelf was a bit high – that entailed climbing upon the counter, for the step stool was elsewhere .  The little painted bowl was now back in place; all was well.  Was well.  That is, until he heard his mother’s footsteps.  In the rush to get down from the counter, and safely away from the pantry, he knocked over a jar.  It rolled, broke, sending coffee beans flying everywhere. 

Uh-o!

 

The elder woman finished mending.

Deborah, wife of Headman Jared, tutted over the condition of her great, great grandson’s raiment.  Two pairs of trousers – one pair about ready for the rag pile, and the other, not too far behind; one of his three shirts was, passable, and one was a canvas of deeply embedded stains.  Tommy second pair of shoes, were passable, but wouldn’t be for long.  His cloak, she sniffed, wondering what on earth the boy had been into.  The robe was in fair condition, but not much better. Sad, this sort of thing had to happen; it wasn’t right to separate mother and child, but, obviously, the poor woman wasn’t able to properly care for her child.  Though, “unfit mother” was a bit extreme, as far as Deborah was concerned.  Unfit parents spend their days reading comic scrolls, tooting cannabis, strumming ditties, neglecting their children’s lessons, and allow their children come and go - taking their meals, whenever.

Wasn’t really the young widow’s fault.  Tom, the boy’s father, Deborah’s great grandson, hadn’t been much for routine, and so hadn’t been one to expect his wife to have everything just ever so.  The several times she’d visited, their home was usually in somewhat of a disarray; the boy’s parents, instead, preferred to strum melodies, read adventure stories and allow their son to spend entire afternoons scribing his own. Barb had even made both Tom and Tommy costumes to act out the stories.  The three passed many a day drawing pictures, taking walks, going swimming.  Wholesome pastimes, but too much leisure, and not enough getting things done. 

Arms race

Tommy counted upon his fingers, and then repeated, but stopped at either the seventh or eight digit.  The youngster was a mix of amazed and confounded.  A man had to be rich to be able to buy a stainless-steel power-bow; even a plain metal one – which were several gold-pieces less.  Tommy knew that Methuselah, his paternal grandfather, had gold.  But seventeen or eighteen pieces?  It was hard to imagine, anyone having that much gold. But he also knew, even if Grandfather had way more than that, he wouldn’t spend any of them on “that vanity.”  One thing the boy did know was: if the Agagites even had three silver pieces between them, that was stretching things a bit; for Grandfather told him, rummies don’t put away their coins, they waste them, and then grumble.. 

He broke a piece from what remained of the corn loaf his maternal grandmother had set before him; this time, he didn’t dip it into the fruit sauce, for he was getting full; he’d already eaten, at Great, Great Grampa Jared’s and his Great, Great Grandma Deborah’s, not so much earlier.  Leaning back and turning some, he took another gaze at his mother’s father’s shield, which hung from a tree branch – more like, what had remained of it.  The leather-bound, wooden, hand-held shield was shot – literally!  Even the conical flint-piece, which jutted from the center, was no longer the menacing point, just a shattered base.  He then turned toward his right.  “Grandfather, you gonna git a powerbow?”  His mother, who had just arisen to refill a partially empty tray, raised a finger to her lips – a silent reminder to not interrupt when grownups are talking.  The elder paused in his conversation with a neighbor who’d stopped in.  “No Tommy.”  The boy’s eyes widened from concern.  His grandfather, having read the lad’s face, continued. “I’m making a thicker shield.”  Sent worry packing.  “That’s good.”  Without missing a beat, he turned to Barb, his mother, “Mamma, cin I get excused?”  For a brief moment, her lips tightened, then relaxed.  “Yes, Tommy, you may be excused.”  He was out of there in a shot; for he’d seen Joel and a cousin heading toward, probably, that mulberry tree, on this side of the common area.  Barb avoided her mother’s raised eyebrows, as well as having to make any more than necessary eye contact with old fossil-face.  “Fossil,” was slang for a jagged, dusty, gray rock.  Her mother didn’t care for slang – or mispronounced words, like “cin” and “ima.”

The two men conversed over a game board, while the two women began clearing the table and washing vessels.  Was only a matter of time, before that familiar rap upon the table, from father’s cup, assaulted Barb’s ears - it wasn’t like her parent’s table was the size of a bat-ball field.  Quick time, her mother – in the middle of rinsing a vessel, dried her hands, took hold of the pitcher, and refilled her husband’s cup, then topped off his guest’s.  Barb’s lips drew tight, and remained as such for more than a moment.  She quickly wiped off a corner of the table, picked up the near empty trench, and replaced it with a smaller trench of brittle-bread and berries – then quickly dipped back to the pantry.  Fortunately, she didn’t have to tarry long at tasks, which had already been done; the neighbor, being on his way elsewhere, had made his departure. 

Barb emerged from the pantry, her father called her over to table, motioning her to take a seat upon the long bench; he grimaced a bit, for he’d moved his shoulder the wrong way.  He then made a cautionary statement, along the lines of the neighbor having been seen walking another lady to her father’s door. “Oh father,” Barb’s hand touched her upper chest, “just breaks my pitter-patter heart.”  From her parent’s sleeping chamber came the familiar soft creak of her parents’ raiment chest being opened - and her mother’s familiar, “Don’t give your father smartmouth.”  A moment later, after the rustling of fabric being put away, came the soft thud of the chest being shut.

From the matron’s vantage, she caught a glimpse of her husband’s battered shield; it swayed, just slightly in the almost non-existent breeze – triggered by the embedded through, half-rusted metal shaft.  What little the woman knew about ordnance – aside of applying oils to wood, leather and stone, she was grateful that maggoty horde hadn’t the foresight to spend the few extra coppers on RustWarrior; otherwise, the iron spear would have likely penetrated another half-index.  Before exiting the chamber, she wiped away a cobweb which extended from a shield to the flint battle-axe, both which hung upon the lattice; these, still useable, were from that certain battle which had occurred several years over a century and half ago.  The shield, not native to her husband’s people, was a war trophy – one, among others, taken from her people.  The battle gunk long removed, from both the ordnance and from her nailbeds. She glanced at her fingernails, they were getting a bit long.

The familiar clattering of implements reached her ears; her husband was in his workspace plaining lengths of boards affixed together in a rounded rectangle; a bitter solution of animal urine emanated from a tub nearby the enclosure – an edge of leather peeked from the container.  She hated war; the needless deaths of men, who partook in battle – and animals, who’d nothing to do with it.

“CRAP!” Before the elder matron could respond or correct her daughter’s unsavory exclamation, came the reason: Barb quickly departed, she had to go find Tommy, for his lesson was today, not tomorrow; he’d be late.

“Then thou shalt bring her home to thine house; and she shall shave her head, and pare her nails;” Deuteronomy 21:12

"Another day in paradise.”

One cousin commented to another, while loading a cart of foodstuffs and other things, they wouldn't need right away, but would eventually.   Their chit-chat momentarily interrupted as several boys had run past; one, with an old matted fur wrapped around his head, running behind them - and catching up - was the andy.  Well, "andy" decided to take a short cut, but unfortunately, ran into a nearby clothes line, scattering some of the items to the ground.  "You little brute!!"  A young girl, fed up, for she had spent the entire morning washing and hanging laundry; she took off running after andy.  In her hand, she wielded a stick. it took the maiden about a half moment to realize the boy could not only outrun her, but he was relishing disposable time by turning around and making rude faces.  “I’ll get you!” she shouted at his retreating back.  “Little fiend,” she sniffled, while proceeding to rewash the pieces the boy had displaced.  The sickness had run through the girl’s family – and getting things cleaned up had taken days, for both she and her sister; while her mother was over it, the woman was yet somewhat woozy.

Three men were loading a cart, while recollecting past events which had taken place in their village – and events, not so previous.  One such event, sparked by the passing by of a certain young widow, who was totting a basket of maize.  One chuckled, making some comment about not having to worry about bird lizards.  Another man, didn’t quite follow.  The first then followed up with, “Crazy ‘el scare ‘em off!”  The third man, wearing a curved foot-claw attached to a thong around his neck, scratched his beard, but didn’t say a word; in his experience, he seen mamma bears in action – they’ll square with anything, to save their cub.  As for the Council’s decision – of which, he’d been asked a related question, but had no say in the matter – knew something wasn’t adding up, but neither could he prove, one way or the other; besides, the matter wasn’t any of his business.  Still, the man didn’t just fall off the melon cart; kids whose parents are “unfit,” tend to not play well with the other kids.   That boy was pure team. Whinnying sounds came from a short distance away, from where the men were finishing up.  Three or four boys were running, each wearing a bundle of soft grasses tied to back of their trousers; one of those wild south plains stallions was Tommy.

The wagon loaded, neither of the men had much to say, concerning the proverbial "elephant in the bower."  There really wasn’t much left to say – except, for goodbyes-for-now.  Among the other adults, these greetings were making the rounds.   In-laws, distant cousins - in short, friends - might not see one another for a while.  More than a few mothers spent as much time as possible with their married daughters – who’d previously married outside their patri-family.   A few families, here and there, had decided, they're either staying put, or relocating to another village – most decided, however, better to face the unknown frontier than the too well-known pollution and sickness - not to mention, cringy creatures. 

Wasn't like this bug-out had been decided at last Thursday's council - or even their previous session.  Lamech, son of Methuselah, had initially decided he was staying on - that was, until he’d seen the troglodyte.  Actually, he'd smelled it, a good mile or so away.    Nope, whatever the hang THAT was, it sure wasn't an animal – speculation was, a trog was the progeny of a giant and an exceedingly unwilling female orangutan.   Was one thing to hear, as children, cautionary tales, of what becomes of little boys and girls, who tell lies, steal honey cakes, and talk back to their elders.  But to see one of those things?    No thanks.   It had been hunched over, but still, about eight cubits tall - maybe ten.  Neither Lamech, nor his buddy had chosen to stick around long enough to take measurements.  In the ... the mutant's vile maw, a bird-lizard struggled - and screamed, as if it was human. 

Nope!  Time to CSMO - collect stuff, and move out. 

An old rodent, peeking out from his battlement, instinctively knew the same – for with the bipeds gone, there’d no longer be the relatively ez-eats found here and there; the greenery, left untended, would almost immediately begin to nudge against and then, about suddenly, overtake both field and structure.  Soon, too soon, the beasts of the forest would begin returning to reclaim the territories of which their great, great, great, great grandsires had formerly held.  His beady eyes peered toward the thicket; the very idea, however vague, of having to compete for resources didn’t suit him.  He settled in for a nap.

Enoch and surrounding communities

Adah kicked off her pumps,

while draping her silk outer robe over the back of a nearby velvet two-seater. She crossed over to her dressing table and ran a brush through her hair.  Another gray strand, which was understandable, considering...   As if the normal business of running her husband Lamech's vast estate wasn't a full day in itself, now with the upcoming Society of Machinists' Conference less than a week away...was it too much to expect Zillah, her husband's second wife, to handle at least some of the arrangements.  Her maid, quietly going about her duties, stepped into the hallway from one of the rooms of Adah's apartments.  A moment later, the maid re-appeared.  "My Lady, I've laid out your mauve dinner-gown - or shall i choose another?"

"No, Cyndi, what you've selected is fine."  Adah arose from her seat, crossed the hall, entering a room, where her eveningwear was kept.  In the first room, where she had been, a second maid, had entered through the room's other entrance, picked up the outer robe, then came back for the pumps.  As Adah was being helped into a rather voluminous under-gown - some of the servants believed their mistress to be a bit old fashioned; why such an attractive lady insisted on keeping under wraps...?  What was this!  The 800s?    Adah's secretary entered.  The look in the woman's face said it all; the few hours, for which Adah's time was free... Nope.   Why on earth, Lamech didn't handle this...ugh, silly thought.  Whatever... 

The Lady, now seated in the lounge outside the dining room, was hungry.  Beside her, upon a nearby sideboard, sat a delicious tray of strawberries and nuts, but it wouldn't do for her to get up, and grab one of the appetizer plates and spear a few pieces with one of the small forks.  She sipped the beverage, which a servant carrying a small tray had brought her.  The servant then crossed over to where Zillah, Lamech's second wife was seated.  The servant then crossed back over to the sideboard and spooned a few pieces of fruit and nuts, serving Adah first, then returned to the board to serve Zillah.  

Adah having been busy with paper-work, had barely eaten a thing all day - what else was new!  She looked down at the little plate; four or five berries, and two walnut halves, and one iddy-biddy cracker.  The soup, salad and entree, would of course, be delicious; but the portions rather skimpy.  As for dessert, that would consist of either a tiny cup of pudding or jello.  While, Adah didn't care much for her younger, prettier competition, at the same time, she couldn't help but feel a bit of sympathy toward the buxom girl.   Those decades ago, there she had been, thinking that marrying money would mean plenty of food - it wasn't that the girl came from an impoverished family, it just was that farming – even for farmers who knew what they were doing, was ... well, hit or miss; especially lately, with the famine going on.

Jabal and Tubal-Cain then entered; neither did wait to be served.  Instead, both men bellied on up to the sideboard, filled their small plates - taking most the remaining contents from the tray, took seats, and began to eat, while talking shop: barely acknowledging, their mother, or stepmother.  Young men, and food - no surprise :/  Both then headed for the kitchen, where the food would shortly be served in the dining room.  Neither wanted to wait... places to go, things to do.   The older son was headed to a concert; the other, back to his shop.  

"Ladies," a servant called, "dinner is served."

From outside, the certain sound of a certain carriage was pulling up the drive.   Both women were speechless.  Their Husband wasn't due back until the following afternoon.  Unbeknownst to either of Lamech's wives, one son had jumped out a kitchen window, taking off the back way; the other son from a side door.  Uh-uh, neither wanted to be around, because it was going to hit the fan.  Another servant scurried to the china cupboard to quickly make ready the table’s head - hopefully food would calm him down; but probably not.

The heavy oaken front door banged open.  "NAAMAH!"  The girl's father bellowed.  

“And Lamech took unto him two wives: the name of the one was Adah, and the name of the other Zillah. 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.  And Zillah, she also bare Tubal-cain, and instructer of every artificer in brass and iron: and the sister of Tubal-cain was Naamah.” Genesis 04:19-22

Oh, Naamah so wanted to join

the throng down by the stage. They were dancing and singing along in unison.  From her place, within VIP confines, oh yeah, "the kids are alright" - a line from the start-up band, "The Whu."   But here, away from the real action, still, she was glad to at least be here, at a real concert - not one of those yawn-central "Slim Whitmahn" or worse, "Pari Comoh" gigs; sort of stuff her parents would get all gussied up, and go to, dragging her along.   Whitmahn was mother’s favorite; Franc Sannatra was stepmother’s.   So square!    And anyway, she could not risk drawing any attention to herself; for if Father found out, both she, and her step-brother, Jubal, would be grass; their Father, the lawn-mower.  

Down near the stage, several pipes were being passed around.  She'd asked Jubal if she could try some; but he said no - she couldn't blame him.  He was already perched on a thin limb, by simply having brought her here.

"Ah wheell survive..."  Aw maahn, their music was the absolute best - the kids said, "smokin."  At home, she had to guard against forgetting herself, and blurting out slang - lest Father seize the opportunity to bust in on Jubal, concerning his career choice.  Father had wanted him to become a broker, or an attorney.  Hands in the air, her trousered overall'd form swayed to the melody, "Down by the water, the marsh king's daughter..." The young maiden caught the attention of several men, and a few jealous girlfriends in the neighboring VIP partitions. The trousered maiden's slender form had also caught the attention of a certain older, and very prominent man - and he didn't blend in so well, amongst the happy rock-n-rollers.

"Uh-o," Jubal gulped.  "Naamah! we're toast."

"Poor dear had tried to hide it,"

a raspy voice whispered from the corridor; the old servant's conversation was interspersed with splishes and sploshes from the mop she was using.  While Naamah, wasn't one to eavesdrop upon people's conversations, but given her present situation... "...our taters didn't pan out so good either." the other servant replied, then added something about some plant which "kept down the numbers," that is, without making you "too sick."  Naamah couldn't believe her ears.  The old woman's grandson-in-law wasn't some drunkard/the sort that run off and leave girls with belly-fulls.  He worked, and yet, they were so poor, he and his wife, and their seven - no wait, eight - kids, had to eat steak for supper. Ew!  But either that, or go hungry.

She was hungry too.  Namely, for her mother's voice, and for news.  Turning to her journal had crossed her mind, but there wasn't, really, anything to write about - except that it was coming up on a week.  Mother was, evidently, in the same situation; but her chambers were on the other side of the house.  Atleast mother had a balcony where she could sit outside, and watch goings on - and if Naamah wasn't mistaken, mother had also been permitted to receive several visitors.   Probably mostly clients, for father made the decisions, and mother was stuck with the paperwork.  In the distance, the clanging of metal had ceased; but that made sense, since the sun was overhead.  Tubal-Cain might, shortly be riding up the path; then again, he might have had his lunch packed, and so, eat at his foundry.

From the mansion's front side, Naamah heard a carriage coming up the drive.  Another one of Father's clients, most likely.  The horses' particular neighings, however, alerted her; she'd been hearing guarded threads - whispered from one servant to another.  Was it true?  Several days ago, she'd heard her parents’ voices, then a door being shut, followed by her Father's jackboots thundering down the hall, to the staircase, located next to his conference rooms - which were just down a ways from the large ballroom.  

Yesterday, a delivery carriage had arrived to the mansion's back; the sign had read, "Joayn's Fabrics."   Two of the seamstresses were currently sitting on the servant's patio; from beneath the canvas overhang, her ear caught something about "borders."  From what little she could hear - since Tubal-Cain was back out hammering something - the two seamstresses weren't talking about the scroll store in town; though both enjoyed the latest novels - and would go on about a recent authoress...Janelle Pladah, if Naamah wasn't mistaken.  Neither was the topic focused upon the baccci plants which kept out, well, at least some of the animals, from feasting and rutting upon crop fields and within vineyards.  Nasty stuff, but its vigil did keep away both deer and hare; as for the lizards, some of them probably chewed the stuff, like some of the men.  Father rolled into leaves and smoked it, but only in the andron part of the house - else mother and stepmother would fuss; bacci gave off an oily residue, making clothing and coverings smell, took several washings.

 

"And Adah bare Jabal: he was the father of such as dwell in tents, and of such as have cattle."  Genesis 4:20

Lamech, the literature wiz,

Zillah stifled the chuckle - yet still couldn't believe her ears, at her Husband's latest rant.  And why couldn't he give the kid a break - allow their daughter, Naamah, to simply enjoy her maidenhood, while it lasted.  The arrangements all set; the wedding was to take place, within a few weeks.  So much "trust the science" claptrap, from that blow hard Professor Toff – he’d certainly been schmoozing his way in, ever since Naamah’s recent debutant party – anyway, it certainly did not take a science degree to understand, one basic fact:  her daughter was only 37, a bit young to be wifed – that is, as far as Zillah was concerned; though being from the country, she’d see girls marry as young as thirty-two. 

Once again, the big baboon was making light of the young girl's efforts - which, frankly, were quite admirable - to "cope" with things as they are, and for which she had no say.  If things weren’t depressing enough for the girl, her favorite scroll-shop had to shut its doors, for a period of 60 days - long enough, for the already struggling merchant to end up going under...taking along anyone in his employ.  Why the sudden censorship of sky-stories?  They'd been around for...well, centuries, and, aside of their readers being called ... "fundies?"  ... well, something like that.  But other than that, until recently, people might snicker, but nobody was going around rubbernecking in upon other people's choice of parchments.  

So, long story short, Naamah, and her friends, were quite upset to learn the shop had closed.  While there were plenty of other scroll-sellers, this one had been especially popular with young people.  Anyway, during dinner, in response to Naamah's rather glum expression, while picking at her food, her Father muttered something about her being better off not reading "such twaddle."  But instead, should be reading more "suitable literature for girls soon to be married," such as "Mr.nMrs. Smith."

Here's the part, where Zillah had nearly spit out her wine, while trying not to bust out laughing.  Lamech had no idea, whatsoever, what he was talking about - not like that was the first time, he’d gone on about matters, of which, he knew nothing.  Evidently, Lamech had just assumed, because ... well, because the scroll - and other such like - had made the rounds among the First Wives’ Club – of which Adah had been president, though not really by choice, but that’s another story "Clinical tone...?" my left middle toenail!  That thing was pure P-R-0-N, pr0n!  

Yet the city's so called, Moral Media League, mostly run by the same snooty-tooties – who insisted upon having bookshops inspected, and books or scrolls of what more or less consisted of children’s fairy tales, be shredded - were the same bunch to purchase Mr.nMrs.Smith genre.  Zillah could only roll her eyes.

"The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork."  Psalm 19:1

Meanwhile, in downtown Enoch,

a young woman wondered the streets. She was in a daze, and hadn't brushed her hair, nor washed her face in days.  Just one thin soled sandaled foot trudged before the other.  Her fourish year old child was missing.  Happened about a fortnight previous.  She'd been at the market, her child standing, right alongside her.  As she dug into a fold in her ragged outer robe - while the impatient merchant glared, and said something about single moms, she'd found no coppers, and reached for another fold upon her person.  That's when she'd noticed her child gone.  The wrinkled orange, an overripe banana, and two half mushy taters, were no longer important; she left them.  The slimeball merchant, of course, kept the two or three coppers, and put the sorry merchandise back in the bins.  

Unbeknownst to the half-starved unwed mother - whose folks had, evidently, told her, she "belongs to the streets," the child had been whisked off to the concert arena.  Unbeknownst to, virtually all the musicians, the fans, the vendors, the advertisers, the ticket-sellers, the maintenance crews, the child was backstage, in a room, where a party had been about ready to kick off, as soon as the concert was done.  This party wasn't even open to any the band members... well, wait, except for two or three, and one of the vendors.  Needful to say, had anyone - outside the elite circle - had any knowledge of the "kick off" ceremony, the townspeople would have likely armed themselves with torches and pitchforks.  

The child had been rendered unalive.  Azel had given the victory toast.   That certain group of seven or eight individuals, who had been meeting in a shabby building somewhere in the warehouse district - to study/exchange parchments, sing praises to the Most High God, King of men and angels – had finally been located, shut in, and the building torched.   Not a one survived.    Both unholy angels, and their human toadies, had been high as ... mars, upon the red liquid.  Needless to say, it hadn’t taken long before, clothing was tussled.  All the while, Mouth was running about – not at all happy stuck wearing that frilly "maid's" outfit; if one could even call the get-up, "clothing."  It had consisted of a midriff blouse – with a plunging neckline, a too-tight corset - which started below the chest, and ended slightly above the waistline, a tiny lace apron, a thong – one so skimpy, there was really no point, black silk stockings, and spiked heels, of nearly half a span (about 4 inches).     The party had ended shortly before dawn.  Three or four prostitutes - which had been called in – had never returned to their respective stables.  Later in the afternoon, a maintenance crewmember - looking for a bottle of ammonia - had found them.  Hadn’t been a pleasant sight.

"For-the-streets," took a double-take,

while passing the merchant's table, laden with raggedy scrolls. The merchant wanted two...TWO, coppers, some even three.  Holy hominids!  It was like, everything was all about an all-day-every-day grasp, for every last quarter-copper. Nevertheless, his ridiculous prices didn't scare off either the washerwoman, or what appeared to be a struggling student, from the local college - whose purchase was probably at the expense of what would have been the young man's supper.  Two or three of the titles had caught her eye - especially, the science fiction/fantasy one.  

She liked the genre - this one being part of a series, where bird men fly above a gleaming city, way up in the sky; a city, where there were no swine-bucket landlords, where they didn't have to worry about getting mugged.  A city where people didn't lower trousers, or raise robes and squat their business in the street.  The series, however, was one which the city authorities were closely monitoring.  Word was, number six, or was it seven, of the saga was to have come out, but the author had ... disappeared.  Seriously, what was the big deal?  Was just a fantasy.   She would have had the two or three coppers, to purchase the borderline-forbidden scroll, but they'd gone the way of several others - all of them, exchanged for the second-hand sandals upon her feet; they were quality, and so, would last awhile.  Next up, was making the rent; adding any stories to her work-where-she-could-find-it daily existence, meant having to write her own.  

A neighboring merchant was in the beginning stages of closing her produce stand.  Evidently, the morning and early afternoon had been prosperous, for what she had left over, wasn't much - some of which, barely salable.  A reasonably well-dressed matron departed, with several apples, a head of lettuce and some radishes in her basket; having caught the whiff of coca, followed her nose to a neighboring stand.   Meanwhile, the vegetable merchant was presently turning on the charm while chatting up a squad leader, of one of the city's guard units.  He was apparently interested, for the middle-aged man had stopped, two or three times previous, to engage in small talk with the "post-wall" woman.  (The drill was: if a gal wasn't a wifed before her 200th year, she could about forget it - either that, or end up settling for some 500-ish relic.)  The woman, batting her long lashes, leaned forward, just enough, to sport the top of her generous cleavage.     Wasn’t just coffee fixing to brew.

"GED DAH AWAY FROM HERE, RUNT!"  The woman suddenly barked, then shoved away a little beggar boy, about the same age as...the young woman's lower lip began to quiver.  The beggar, upon having spotted a few molding taters, had approached the produce counter.  Meanwhile, the young single mom, tending the neighboring stall, had not a single copper on her, and so could do nothing to relieve the child’s obvious hunger; the lad walked off, sniffling. The poor kid wasn't the only one to walk away, not looking back.  The squad leader had rather suddenly recalled having to be someplace else...well, something along that line.

“What mean ye that ye beat my people to pieces, and grind the faces of the poor? saith the Lord GOD of hosts.” Isaiah 3:15