Chapter 04

Highland spaces

That same morning, the bridegroom-to-be

was also made ready, but in a less gentle way.  It took like a half dozen men to drag him to the creek; he struggled and almost screamed as they stripped him naked, and threw him into the cold running waters.  But that wasn't the half of it.  Next came the soap - lots of it, and not exactly soft brushes.  "Hey, I'm downwind, doesn't bother me a bit."  Came one jibe, sent with a soapy cloth, which landed on the groom's one exposed kneecap. "That's on you to wash between your … ears."  A chorus of chuckles and guffaws ensued.  Back some ways, here and there, in the bushes, younger men and older boys - at the risk of a serious whopping - gathered to eavesdrop upon the adult's only entertainment.  

In this backwoods society, the term "adult" meant a man who’d proven himself to be reliable, courageous, hardworking.  In short, usually a man, fifty-something or older.  While wives were "adults," the connotation referred to physical maturity - as if women and children were more or less the same.  The women of Enoch were known to, more or less, sneer and scoff at the mere mention of their "country cousins."  It was, more or less, believed that rural women were half-starved, stupid, weak and craven - and would throw their sisters under the wagon, to get a few extra potatoes on their plates.  The city's scroll shops were full of stories and drawings of homely, overworked, and poorly dressed, drudges living in constant terror of whip-wielding fathers and, especially, husbands.  Meanwhile, the men and boys, just lounged about all day being waited upon; as if the fields plowed themselves, the homes and other structures built and maintained themselves, the perimeters guarded themselves, and the logs - oh, the logs :O - not only cut and split themselves, but also stacked themselves – and their piles of ashes had shoveled themselves into areas where remaining embers would safely go out.  

Part of Hul, a.k.a., Bear, wanted to back out, but what Sethite man, or any other man, hadn’t thought the same.  Hesitation only made sense, for unlike Cainites, even a higher-ranking Sethite could only have one wife; and not only that, no “side pieces.”  What man didn’t entertain the notion of “getting some,” but such wasn’t worth spending an eternity burning in sheol, and being eaten and shat out, over and over again, by giant serpents – or whatever other monstrosities, down there, in that pit of relentless and never-ending horrors.  However, man’s restrictions upon his fallen desires didn’t end with no sides; unlike Cainites, neither was there was an option for a man to divorce his wife.  Quite a risk for a man; such was the fate of one of Hul’s cousins – the man had neither sons nor daughters; the man’s wife attractive, and submissive enough, but an untimely breach birth had left the woman unable to fill her Husband’s house, with even a single living child.  Another man had only one child – a daughter.  Of course, there was a rumor about the later couple; that the wife was unwilling …  HAH!  That sort of nonsense wasn’t going to happen.  Hul wanted sons, and Barb was able; after all, she had a fine son, by … Pinhead…  Okay, that was unwarranted. 

“Where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched.” Mark 9:44 – and AGAIN 46 and 48

"Told ja, ya made it too big." 

Both women circled the widow, who, for the most part, swam in the robin's egg dress. "Hey they'll grow, don't worry about it."  The other sister retorted.  "Here," one of the sisters handed Barb a small flask, "taka sipa this, it 'el calm ya a bit."  She added that being a bit nervous...well, who wouldn’t be!  The widow took a small sip, and thanked the women for their kindness.  Her veil?  Wasn't really.  Among the only remaining bridal veils amongst the people, one had ended up as a tourniquet, some time ago - when a horn, or had it been it an antler.  As for one other?  Oh, probably down in the gulch – along with her set of… the one sister set her mind to the present.  Making do with what the women had - a recycled girl’s outer-garment, which didn’t quite match the dress - the bride was assisted by both sisters, for Barb couldn't really see where she going.

Pastor Jason, gave a brief sermon that focused on sharing the bounty for which The King of kings, in His mercy had provided for them.   They'd all get the long version, either this Sabbath, or the next.  Pastor wasn't sure; he always held back extra sermons, but then again, the LORD might give him a message, off the top.  Happened before, and probably would again.

The veil was stuffy, and it didn't help matters that she hadn't broken her fast, and the day previous, had eaten next to nothing.  Was the old story, whenever anxiety comes in the doorway, the appetite goes right out the window.  Feeling a bit lightheaded, she chided herself for taking that sip.

 

"...your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, in abundance and in poverty, to love, protect and cherish."

"I do." His voice, resolute.

"...Husband...in sickness and in health, in abundance, and in poverty, to love, honor, and obey."

Ugh, that O-word!  "I do."  Her voice was soft, but clear.  What else could she do!"

"I pronounce Hul (Bear’s real name) and Barbara, man and wife. You may kiss your bride."  

The veil came up, his arms around her, and her eyesight clouded by tufts of beard, which caressed most of her face, her mouth – her husband’s facial hair, which she had previously assumed was wavy, but evidently, after having been washed, and cleared of debris, was naturally … boink!   Felt nice 😊

Hul and his wife, Barb, were of course served first.  Before them, a bounty of delicious foods.  But first, a round of toasts.  Feeling just a bit woozy, she only took little sips.  She smiled, nervously. Was he nervous?  He didn’t appear so, only the usual hungry – she’d heard enough quips about Hul’s appetite.  Before she had eaten a third of the portion upon her plate, he’d already reached for seconds.  She’d already had an idea as to where this was going; she would need larger vessels.  The ones she had – that is, the few which survived the journey, weren’t going to quite get it.  His wine cup, despite the rounds of toasts, he’d only taken maybe half.  From what she’d known about Hul, he was more into fruit juice and, especially, coffee, and not much interested in fermented beverages – good sign, very good sign.  Dessert was fig cakes, of which his stubby fingers were reaching for a third.  Holy Hannah, she’d never get out of the kitchen.  Declining the offer of cake, she instead only wanted … oh thank You, Most High God, a second cup of plain black coffee.

There followed several more rounds of toasts. By the time the couple was ready to depart, amid cheering, and some off-color jibes, the bride was a combination of beaned up on the coffee and more than a tad snockered on the wine - and whatever the heck else Glorianna had mixed in - Glori being Glori.  Meanwhile, at the buffet table, Jorg approached Glori, who was emptying a large dish into a smaller.  "You naughty, naughty girl." He patted her on the hip.   He then added, "Got any more of that?"  She pointed to a jug.  "You don't think I made some extra??  She turned around, pressing herself up against him.

The entertainment wasn't quite over.  The bride held onto her Husband's arm, as he assisted her up from the heavy oak table.  One foot straight forward, now the other foot straight forward.  But her steps weren't quite happening that way. The crowd went wild, when Hul picked up his bride, hoisted her over his shoulder, and then took off running.  A nearby little girl burst in tears, and took off running to the back of the food shack - which had been recycled from the farther end of the women's and children's shelter; the remainder of it, would likely be disassembled, by the following day, or upon the late afternoon following.  "What's the matter, honey?" a grandmotherly woman rounded the corner and comforted the sobbing child. "Ba-big man gonna smash the nice lady."  Another torrent of tears let loose onto the older woman’s bosom. "Oh sweetie, that's just an expression." One which grownups ought not use around children, the woman pursed her lips.  Out of the corner of her eye, she spied Glori and Jorg, basically pawing one another while half staggering their way, elsewhere.  As with past celebrations, the present one, not yet being over, the two would shortly reappear; he’d then dart off to his friends, and she to hers.   That woman, hmmph…after two centuries, you’d think they’d… conduct themselves as a proper middle-aged couple ought.    

The morning after 

On the bride’s part, the wedding night had started with, “oh I don’t think so,” and - before the last vestiges of daylight had half a chance to darken along the horizon – had ended with, “oh my stars!”  It had been awhile. The following morning, still a bit groggy… and already, before she could collect her thoughts, Hul had turned to her; rubbing his mid-section.  Barb’s eyes shot open; Hul wanted her to do WHAT???

Breakfast?  Ugh!  She didn’t even want to look at food. What was with people, whose first waking though was food!  Didn’t make sense to her.  Nor had it made much sense to Tom; before the workday, they’d chat a bit over coffee, and maybe the last half of a raisin loaf, or whatever other leftover.  She backed up.  The two men, though from the same family, Hul and her late Husband were very different people.  Very different.  She had to keep that in mind.  This was not the old village; the summer of 967 was long past.  She mixed up some flour, honey and olive oil and poured the mix into a leaf-lined ironstone mold, then lowered it into the fire, which she had kindled before doing anything else.  The kindle part came after she’d gone behind a bush to toss the remains of last night’s dinner, and last night’s strong drink.  She then stole a few moments to wash and to spritz herself with rose water; a full relaxing soak in the creek, which she’d really desired, that would have to wait.

At least she’d adequate kitchen vessels; she’d been relieved to discover the modest cache of needed household items, sitting upon the pantry worktable. These, including a lovely vase, holding a dozen roses, were among the couple’s wedding gifts/donations.  Barb didn’t mind, whatsoever, that most the items – all nice and clean - shown years, if not decades, of use.  The rectangular ceramic serving platter had a chip on one of its rounded corners, and a repaired crack along another corner.  A nice big bowl with oak leaves glazed circling the top, had a small crack; but she was grateful none the less to have kitchenware. There were wooden spoons of various sizes, and among a few of the serving and eating, there was even a silver dinner knife.  She examined it closely, the craftsman’s initials were the same, as was the design.  She pondered, could be the one of the four she’d had to barter, not long after Tom had passed.  But it was hard to tell – and she’d so much on her plate, there was little time to really examine the obviously worn piece.  Among the mismatched wooden, and a few metal, cups and plates, was a small bread plate of gold. 

What a treat 😊.  She’d not grown up around fine things.  Her parents were, basically of sub-group, known as plain people.  While her father – like most Sethites - had provided his wife and children with a decent home, enough clothing that, and plenty of food, the only metal items in her father’s home, were those of absolute necessity.  He could have easily afforded, even more than one, iron axe-head – but would have none of that, instead he chipped and affixed stone ones; chipping and affixing again and again.  Her brother had tried to convince him otherwise, but nothing doing.  Until her brother had come of age, and had built his own house, he also had to grin and bear it – and chip, chip, chip.  Her mom?  She had no jewelry, not even a brooch; there had been a certain emerald bracelet she’d wanted, but that didn’t happen.  The irony had been, around the forth or fifth day after arriving; her mother had begun digging a garden, when she’d unearthed two or three gemstones; one of them, an emerald – the other two, probably related, but Barb had never paid much attention as to which gemstones belonged in which category.  The remaining piece of jewelry that meant anything to her, had been that little necklace – which she had placed around the old medicine woman’s neck, moments prior to her being laid to rest, upon the last ridge they had crossed. 

One foot in front of the other, move on.

The cache, of pantry-ware, was anonymous; this was their way of wedding and baby gift giving.  While the couple had been made ready for their wedding, several anonymous women had brought the gifts and had also made ready the chamber.  Not that she’d time to ponder over who gave what, even had she, the whole anonymity thing was for a Godly reason; so, she left it be, and placed a cloth, another gift, upon the heavy oaken table, which sat in the back yard, just a few cubits from the pantry.  She was grateful for almost stain-free length of cloth; the only nice covering she had possessed, presently lay, snagged among nettles, at the bottom of big-ugly gulch – not the only item among her few items – or the scant possessions of others - to have become lost or broken along the way.  But not all had been lost.  A gold bread plate, and silver spoon, and a bronze cup she placed at the table’s head.  And WOW!  that was some chair!  It about looked like something from one of those stories, which took place in the finer homes of Enoch – how she missed going to the scroll-seller, but the past lay hundreds of furlongs south.  She examined the chair. How on earth was Hul able to get so much done?   Wasn’t like they’d arrived last year.  He’d even etched an oak branch into the wood.  At the opposite end of the four-cubit (6 feet) table sat a smaller, plainer chair.  Along both sides, sat two benches running the length of the table. 

The scene stirred memories of dinners past; still Tom and she had they preferred sitting beside one another upon one of the long benches – little Tommy, sitting across, making faces when Tom and she “kissey face, eew,” the boy would exclaim, finishing his plate, anxious to run outside and play.  Memories, she’d do well to fold up, like a precious scarf, and place in her small cedar chest - alongside her few remaining treasures, which included that broken bowl, a bracelet and an almost matching ring – one of which, her father’s sister had given to her when Barb become of age, and the other, had been a purchase from the first coppers she’d earned; she couldn’t have been much older than thirteen, or maybe fourteen.

Placing the basket, and a few other items on the table, she realized she was still in her shift.  While this violation of one of many protocols, had been no big deal with Tom – in fact, she’d passed many a day, in the home, and even in the back yard garden, in just a shift.  But those carefree days were over.  She quickly passed into the chamber and put on the over-sized dress she’d worn the previous day – for it was tradition for a bride to wear the gown she’d been married in, for some time afterward.  She then passed back into the pantry and donned her apron.  The breakfast would soon be ready.  But she was not; having forgotten to put on her, remaining – and very trail-worn – pair of sandals.  Just as well, better to leave off her tired footwear.  Another pair would be nice, but their two sandal-makers were, backordered to the hilt making footwear for the men and young men, who felled the trees, cut the wood for their protective night-fires, guarded the perimeter from the beasts who would sooner or later – probably the former – would strive to reclaim their domains.

“Follow peace with all men, and holiness, without which no man shall see the Lord : Looking diligently lest any man fail of the grace of God ; lest any root of bitterness springing up trouble you, and thereby many be defiled;” Hebrews 12:15-16

“But and if thou marry, thou hast not sinned; and if a virgin marry, she hath not sinned. Nevertheless such shall have trouble in the flesh: but I spare you.” 1 Corinthians 7:28

While, under normal circumstances,

Sethite newlyweds did have a honeymoon period, but their present situation didn’t allow for such luxuries.  As if the two sabretooths hadn’t trouble enough – a male chasing a female, one who’d wanted no parts of him, she’d turned and fought him off, but in the process, had taken out a shed, and half a backyard garden.  An andy had also been spotted – and boy, he was a big one, but fortunately, the beast hadn’t crossed the boundary.  What other beasts were enroute to show the humans their place, by displacing them?   The village needed a real perimeter; one of standing logs, not just a mess of jaggers – which, sometimes worked, but too oftentimes not.  With all the other work upon men’s shoulders, the task seemed daunting, because while cutting trees for the perimeter – and they’d sure need a lot of them, they still had to cut for the evening fires.

From what she’d heard, from two or more of the other wives, it had been, since their arrival, an ongoing debate among the Council.  Some of the men had, understandably, considered a walled village too much like a loss of freedom, a rural Enoch, while others believed the project would be high-maintenance, from start and would never finish because the night mists would eventually render the barrier unstable – if not potentially dangerous.  One of the men, who back in the day, had done a few stints in Purveyors working road construction, suggested they mix a certain recipe of concrete; he had added, the ingredients were available…well, not too far from their settlement.  The had persuaded several of the anti-wallers.   After further debate, the men agreed with the motion. 

The perimeter surrounding the houses – which were spaced to allow the one luxury no Sethite man (or woman) cared to do without: Privacy.  Needful to say, Sethite’s so called, preoccupation with “privacy” was the favorite subject of either off-color jokes, or just plain evil surmising, amongst the citizens of Enoch – so many rumors were published, about daily.  Barb had read of a few; some were just plain ridiculous, others funny, while still others were downright wicked; the later publications were sold in the sorts of booths which no respectable woman, or man, cared so much as to walk past – let alone, go in and patronize.  The village security project would take about a year, maybe two, to complete.  Barb turned around from her work, and gazed at the babbling brook that ran across the edge of their back yard.  She could about guess, the little water way, along with about half the yard would end up on the outside.  And she was certain, everyone else was feeling a pinch to their freedom as well.  But in the end, there would be other freedoms – the old saying, when The Most High closes a door, He opens a window; there would be a lot less wood needed for the nightly fires.  Another freedom would be, fresher air; for sometimes – depending upon which way the breeze was going - the nightly mists sometimes made a smokey mess, which found its way into their clothing and bedding.

 

As far as Hul was concerned, the ever pressing workload was yet a relief to him.  His mind wasn’t ready to linger around his wife in the daylight, though he wanted to come at her.  The feeling was evidently mutual – the way she pressed up against him at breakfast, while she’d packed his lunch.  “Afternoon Delight,” a stanza from that borderline lewd ditty gave rehearsal in his mind.  But daytime was worktime.  It just wasn’t…appropriate to…linger within the chamber, while the sun was up.   Neither did he care to be the source of… of off-color snickers amongst his fellows.  While stripping the base of another tree of its bark, for felling at a later time; the men were joined by the subject of their banter – the remark about having “lost another button,” of course would not be aired within Mash’s hearing. 

There was, however, another reason for Hul’s rather vigilant daytime restraint.  Marital intimacy was no problem in the evening chamber’s rush light – for the small flame hid most the scars that marred his chest and upper arm; his bushy beard mostly hid those upon his neck.   Would have been one thing if they’d come from battling a normal beast, but these scars weren’t the sort which men wore as a badge of courage; these came about from the vile saliva of…basically, sheol.  So of course, it was no wonder, he didn’t care to remove his raiment while it was daylight.  With a sharp talon the hellish mutant had ripped off his upper garment – and nearly had done the same to his lower.  Only – and ONLY - for the Most High’s mercy, in bestowing Hul the other-worldly strength to slay that hellish creature; it would have completely ripped off Hul’s trousers

Just a little ways downstream from the settlement,

a young female hippo, sniffed the air.  Her ears were attentive for any signs of danger. Having been recently driven off by her parents, she was faced with life as an adult - and so far, not doing so well.  She lowered her head into the cool running waters.  On top of being alone and having to remain alert for danger, she hadn't been feeling right.  Her thin tail flicked away some flies.  Something she'd eaten, thankfully, not too much, but when the foul smell had reached her nostrils, evidently, too late - for what little she'd ingested, had had its way with her stomach and digestive tract.  It was the third day, and though, still weak, she was starting to feel somewhat right - even though her hiney still hurt, from whatever toxin her body had expelled.  She raised her head from the waters, and looked around, then returned to hydrating and cleansing her insides.  While her instinct bade her to find some grains to eat; her stomach was yet quarrelsome; she’d eaten a bit earlier in the day, but the grasses didn’t stay down for long.

From behind a thick bush, Baphomet watched her.  Mm-mm-MMM, oh yeah, he wanted some of that; his mutated and exceedingly oversized you-know-what, having a perverse mind of its own, urged him forward - not that the foul devil had any desire to hold back.  Suddenly, the animal waddled across the shallow waters, to the other side, then ran into the woods.  The cause?   Baphomet's pointy ears were immediately alerted to the reason - for the sudden cancellation of his pr0n-party.  Several imps – having possessed the bodies of lizards – had tagged along, and had been chomping at the bit to witness the violence - delightfully anticipating the hippo’s suffering and death; each exceedingly disappointed, they stomped off, muttering, cursing, kicking rocks – and breaking toes.  The imps raged, cussing even worse.  

"HMM-HMM-MMM!"  Baphomet, turned 180.  There, behind him, Satan - in one of his silk business robes, tapped his glimmering wristwatch.  "Have you not already taken your break?"  (The fifteen-minute one, he'd used up two years ago - the next one, was another four years away.)  "Or," Satan continued, "need I call Apoloyn over here, to...supervise you?” Baphomet blanched. "NO!! Boss, PLEASE!! It won't happen again, I promise!"  The foul spirit, took off, returning to his assignment.  One, so terribly boring, and to make matters worse, those horrendous dullards were gathering for their mid-week hymn-sing.

Those goody-goodies weren’t even through the first one – though, as with most their Praise music, the verses usually numbered between ten or fifteen; already Baphomet's pointy teeth were beginning to gnash.  By hymn three or four, those dingy yellows were going about eight furlongs (1 mile) a minute.  Men and boys sat on one side; women, girls, and small children sat on the other - the women, of course, veiled.    How disgusting, the devil spat.  The next song began with, "God of everlasting glory, Filling earth and sky, Everywhere Your wonders open, To our searching eye:" Baphomet was getting a mega-migraine, but the hymn-sing had only begun, for more songs would follow the upcoming sermon.    His assignment, was to study their facial and body language, find a weak spot, and hone in.  Yeah, real easy, for the Boss to order someone else, to endure this ... this TORTURE!!!. "The Lord is King! And bow to Him we must...The Lord Jehovah ever more shall reign."  Baphomet banged his head on a nearby tree trunk, to quell the headache, but in his rage, he'd forgotten to let in his tongue - not exactly having a good day.  "Ancient of Days, Almighty, victorious," Oh stop, Baphomet groaned, holding his ears.  Great!  Yet another request came from the benches, can't these hicks think of something better to do, when they're not scratching soil, brushing nits from their animals...so pathetic.  Oh, you're #:>@*[÷^' kidding me!  He snarled.  None of the hymns, he could tolerate – not even a tiny bit, but the one, "Praise, my soul, the King of heaven, To His feet thy tribute bring;" which they were presently singing, had Baphomet doubled over; in agony, he was holding his ears – but to little avail.  To human ears, however, even to the those belonging the Sons of Cain, the melodious voices – sometimes, accompanied by one, maybe, two instruments – would come off soul-grabbing, inspiring.  The music – especially, the women’s voices – drove Baphomet completely bonkers.  He was full tilt gnashing his tail.

Uh, and all that was only the mid-week; they sang an entire slew of them on the Sabbath.  Baphomet couldn’t take it any longer; he crawled into the thicket, and vomited; a young pine, and even the thorns growing nearby, began to wither.  He found himself somewhat considering, that perhaps a stretch in one of the Destroyer's dungeons didn't sound so bad, after all.   And THENN if that wasn’t enough, after the service - oh which, virtually ALL had faithfully attended ... well, except for a mom tending her young – who had eaten something he shouldn’t have, and some old guy who had pulled his back; those hymn-howlers would fellowship - the men in one group, the women in another, while the boys ran and played, the girls sat together with their baby-dollies – GGHAAG!! - or stitching samplers.   Like the sermon wasn’t enough; Baphomet couldn’t get it around his pointy head, why much of the conversation centered upon the sermon, and how the one they’d just heard related to previous ones.  More than a few of them even kept sermon journals…the weirdos!  The sun had set, the fires were torched off at various points to keep back the night predators. The families - save for two or three men, and four or five older boys, who were taking first watch - departed to their huts.  

Boring, insanely boring.  Meanwhile, where the action is, The City of Enoch didn't sleep until into the third watch (1-ish am), - sometimes even later. Yeah, the city...where men got stumbling drunk, bet on weaponized poultry, chased pretty girls, or boys, and sponged off family or neighbors.  While here, in Boonie-burg, just one monotonous day and night, after another monotonous day and night; these task-addicted simpletons’ idea of big excitement was more like whenever a turkey-lizard and a rodent would square off.  Any man nearby would gather around, and wager small items, or chores – that is, if they weren’t chopping wood, repairing a wagon wheel, building a dwelling, plowing a field, sharpening tools, monitoring the perimeter… Always busy, they even sang while at it – UGH! The songs were centered around the usual - the Most High, marriage, family, friendship, work. 

* Hymns from "PRAISE! Our Songs and Hymns," Compiled by, John W. Peterson and Norman Johnson, Singspiration Music, 1979

"For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now”  Romans 8:22

It wasn’t like one had to make camp

to get from one end of the settlement to the other, but try to explain that one to a twelve-year old, one perfectly content to remain with his grandparents – and several cousins who lived close by.  The only kids his age who lived near StepFather and Mother were two…ugh! girls.  The other neighbor’s son was grown, but eww, he was courting one of Tommy’s female cousins – he’d even had brought her flowers, and played her melodies.  Tommy had seen the two sitting beneath a tree in the common area; they had been holding hands. Gross!  Why all the bother, for he’d heard one of his aunts saying something about the couple’s Fathers having made the arrangements.   A more current and pressing issue had, however, bothered young Tommy – at Grammy’s and PopPop’s, there was always lot of fruits, nuts, vegetables, breads, and cakes.  To make matters even more concerning to the boy, his mind had yet to get past…well, the past.  After his Father had been murdered, there were times when Tommy had left his widowed mother’s table, still somewhat hungry, and other times, having had just enough. More often than not, there were no sweetcakes.  Being a child, and having been raised to respect his elders, he’d assumed that anything a grown-up said, was to be taken at face value – that included having overheard one of the grownup women saying, “Of course she’s skinny; Bear eats up all the food!”  The boy didn’t realize the comment wasn’t factual – except his mother was thin – nor did the boy realize, Aunt Peninnah’s remark was but a snarky little dig, for she liked to stir up drama.

Grandmothers, having a sense of things, which other adults are clueless, had picked up on her grandson’s looking over the food-laden table.  The elder woman chose one of the cakes, and laid it upon his trench.  “These,” she pointed at a plate overflowing with fig nut squares, “your mother had sent along with me, yesterday, when I had stopped over.”  She added, “Your mother had made pumpkin bread, but none of the loaves were yet ready.”  Loaves, the plural word took a foothold in the boy’s mind – for he remembered only one loaf, two at most; and they had been small, and more often than not were more loaf than fruits in them – unlike the tall, well loaded squares.  His grandmother then added, “she had put lots of raisins in them.” 

The young male turkey-lizard

relished the solid comfort in which he lived - where the only predator was the female biped. The other day, he'd come close to getting his head crushed, when she'd lunged at him, with swinging stick in hand.  As with the time or two before, always the same two or three sounds erupting from her mouth.  The biped male wasn't much of a threat, he'd leave early in the morning, then, sometimes, come back in the afternoon, to partake of the foods the female had put on the flat wood surface, of which was covered with some kind of fibers woven together. They'd sit upon smaller, lower flat surfaces.  Between them, sat the bottom half of a hollowed-out gourd, half filled with water; the top half filled with blossoms.  Bipeds were strange, they didn't eat any of the blossoms.  How crazy is that!

He watched the two.  The larger one was contentedly feeding upon the mass quantities, while the smaller one, more less picked at hers.  Both her feet remained in place; yesterday, one had travelled up his leg, and the two bipeds arose from the flat surface, and had gone inside the structure - leaving everything sit.  What a feast!  One which the creature was all ready to enjoy, at his leisure. But nope, he’d only managed to swallow one, for the two bipeds reappeared.  The creature looked at the floating blossoms, his mouth watered.  But, unlike yesterday, it didn't look like he was going to get any, for the two bipeds arose, their faces touched, only for about a second.  Then the bigger one departed, while the smaller cleared the flat surface.  Just as he was ready to make his move to partake the gourd of floating blossoms, the female came around from the structure's side.  In her hands, a basket of some sort of woven plant fibers.  She parked the basket upon the surface, then parked herself.  To add insult to the creature's injury, the female picked up one of the blossoms, and held it to her nose.  She breathed in, smiling; then put it back in the gourd. She then reached into the basket, and laid out some of its contents.

Barb didn’t mean to be ungrateful,

but aside of her preparing and setting out the food – and the other tasks - it was as if she might as well not even be there.  And yeah, she got it – a boy, in order to grow into young manhood, has to separate from his mother.  Stil, it hurt.  Tommy was spellbound, the generous amounts of food, lay before him, in a trench of tree-bark, but these delights forgotten, as his listened to blow-by-blow action of how, as a young man, StepFather and three or four other young men, had slayed a BigSnake – a creature with a girth of two, or even three, cubits (1 to 1.5 yards) and as long as a young redwood is tall.  While Tommy had heard the account before – as with any other boy – there were details, which he’d missed during past tellings; but such was to be expected, since boys under the age of around fifteen were still too young to go beyond the thicket. 

Okaay!  Here had come the part, where the young men – after having sliced the dead serpent’s maw, and releasing one of their companions, (who, to this day, still limped about his fields) – begun skinning the creature.  Barb requested pardon, put her napkin to her mouth; unnoticed, she arose from her seat, gave a quick curtsey and took an equally quick left, to her little sitting place – a stump, which nearby, she’d planted some rose bushes, which were coming up rather nicely.  Before reaching her little sanctuary, she took a hurl – yeech.   Between the stump and a smaller outgrowth was lodged a small clay container, with a flatstone serving as a lid; within was a liquid, which the old medicine woman had taught her how to mix.  A day or so earlier, Barb had gotten bitten by a raisin-sized skeeter, which had apparently picked up something, and passed it along to her – not that she didn’t have stomach issues, here and there, to begin with. 

Unknown to her, or the now-deceased skeeter, (she had smacked it good one) Grot had been in the area, relieving his vile self.  Out of sheer boredom, of being stuck in this nowheresville – far removed from Enoch’s gutters, where he’d formerly enjoyed biting and sickening the city’s cubit-sized rodents – he’d begun to indulge himself in the twisted little pastime of stopping himself up for a day or so, before releasing.  Grot took delight how the festering foulness had made both plants and animals even sicker, if not dead.  How that little fawn had just keeled over, and had that been a tear in its mother’s eyes?  What a treat.  The imp scratched its gruddy head – where in the H…?   Grot’s mouth stopped…his eventual final, and eternal destination.  His swollen body convulsed, knocking him over, that hurt, more than he’d intended.  But he couldn’t release.  Not just yet.  He needed to monitor the area where those two wild donkeys were considering to raise their young – lest one or both of the foals be eventually taken in and put to work.  That was another thing which ticked off Grot, as well as the other devils, these bumpkins fussed over their animals – brushing them, giving them fresh water, and plenty of food – and not just that, these essentials were placed in clean bowls.

And that stupid “All Creatures Great and Small” hymn – though just one of many other praises and songs – rankled him the most, for Grot took great pleasure watching animals suffer and die.  Though extremely bloated, Grot paused upon the carcass of a small creature.  Perfect!  He ingested the maggoty mess, which would make the expelling of the vileness just roiling within his distorted frame.  He looked forward to the morrow, or the day after, when there’d be some mighty sick animals – better yet, DEAD ones.  Mmwhaha!  Though it hurt to laugh, Grot couldn’t stop himself.    

A fluffy sway caught the turkey-lizard's eye;

the mid-afternoon sun had brought to bloom quite a few more, which hadn't been ready, earlier in the day.  While not as matured as the big fluffy pink ones floating, just ever so, within the gourd.  And nearby the basket, the stick laid, on ready.  Was better to settle for the not-quite-ripe danties, than deal with a she-biped, who gave off an air of what seemed like pent-up energy.  She arose and walked inside the structure.   Now was his chance. Just as he began padding his way toward the flat surface, she reappeared; her body language communicated, nervous frustration. While his brain wasn't designed to know why, but his instincts urged him to keep a distance. The breeze jostled the bush - the one with the almost-ripe blooms; those growing upon the other two or three, were not yet ready to be plucked, and savored.   He glanced over at the biped; her eyes were either on what her fingers held, or they were rather fixated in the direction, which the larger biped had taken. 

His lunch, of some bland-tasting itty-bitty serpent – one that had nearly gotten away - had been a letdown.  But that was only the half of it.  Across from the structure, going the other way, just a bit, his sire and his mother had recently caught something yummy; and both were enjoying the meal.  What a shock to discover, his presence was no longer welcome.  He skirted over to the bush, and began nipping at the buds – which needed another day’s worth of sunshine.  Well, he'd able to settle for two or three, when the desert-bar was suddenly closed.  His sire, had let out a mix between a growl and a hiss.  The junior lizard was left with no choice to...aarrrgghhhh, move out, and ... oh no!! not that - make his own way in life. 

That was the most ridiculous...

Barb fumed, but it wasn't like she had any power to reverse Council's decision.  The boys were no longer allowed to play a certain favorite game - of course, they'd simply renamed the antagonist.  But it wasn't the same, she was certain, for none of the boys could slime up, and run, yelling, "I'm the Gargoyle..."   That had only been the half of it.  Her son, and three other boys, had snuck off beyond the thicket - not wise – to play the real version.  The boys, however, had not been aware that none other than their Chief, and a few other men had been in the area.  Well, the boys, turned over to their respective fathers, her son had, of course, to his StepFather.  In short, although Hul had disagreed with Council’s ruling, still Hul had taken a switch to her little boy.  So needful to say, she was upset with her husband, and let him know, in no uncertain terms – even though, the fact remained, her son was at fault for not only going against the rules himself, but inciting other boys to do the same.   Still, it was just a game – one forbidden by old dudes wielding their weight; just miffed because they’re old, and the boys are young.  As if Barb wasn’t already upset enough about things, but the Gargoyle game incident was only part of it.

She'd lost her private laundry mat - to beavers, who'd built a dam, thus raising the waters to a level which mrNmrs wally had decided was a better place to start their family.  “Mat,” by the way, was a play on words.  Back in the old village, where she'd grown up, a man named, Matthew, had been no longer able to work as the other men.  An andy had taken out his foot and ankle.  Left with no way to make a livelihood, he’d created one.  And did quite well, for all concerned.  Back at the old village, the women loved using the movable carts, with the wooden rods going across the top; for just a few coppers – or whatever else bartered – laundry not quite dry didn't get all. Next day, you returned the cart.  Perhaps in time, these timesavers to usee in these parts, but with so much upon the men already, there was really no time to construct laundry carts – let alone, smelt the metal pieces; and especially, given the terrain, Matt’s design might not quite get it.  And besides, like the other craftsmen, Matthew was backordered; in this lumpy terrain, wagons and carts to haul wood and produce were ever needing repairs.

Anyway, down at the creek, while washing and hanging laundry, along with the other women, tela-wash was ON.  From behind a sheet, came the following, "...it was HER boy, who'd stirred up mine, into that mess."  For a moment, Barb thought, a nose-popping was about to ensue.  Over walks the old matriarch, "and, dear, I must apologize...will take some time for my grandson to unlearn..."  Barb fumed.  Meanwhile, the other woman, sounded a bit startled, upon having been overheard by her elder, so - and wisely - pedaled back a bit, "...must have had a lot in your basket, considering, the boy's prior home environment."   Oh, that was it, fort pitt. (an outpost, a goodly distance from the city of Enoch)  Barb stepped to the sheet's other side.  "Yeah," she paused, "in an ENVIRONMENT!! where people don't get railed and scoffed at."  Leaving her things, Barb departed; she'd have to finish up later - which threw a hand axe into her work-plans but better she rearrange her schedule, than the woman's nose.

It wasn't 967 anymore,

the summer of love was long over. "Down in Montroae, down in Montroae...," she remembered the concert - had been the first one Tom had taken her to; their honeymoon.   The song was from a band, called the Animules.  She remembered being a bit nervous, at first, after all there were Cainites who didn’t, at all, like Sethites.  But they'd hardly been inside the gate, when the obvious enough physical differences between the two lines, didn't make any difference.  All were there to simply enjoy the music, and pass along the joint to whomever stood or sat beside.  

Why can't people just accept one another?

She watched the stoner, as he lazily glided across the sky, flying rather low.  Not a bird ceased its chirping, nor had taken flight.  And yes, it was true, they could pose a danger - if there were no cannabis leaves to munch on.  Not a chance around here; didn't have to go too far into the thicket to find it growing, about everywhere.  The people had also cultivated the wild plant, for its textile value.  That was another thing about the concert goers; they didn't look down on you, because your clothes were woven from hemp; there, about everyone - even the ones who'd grown up in the great houses, had worn hemp.  Whether or not, that was still the case, she didn’t know – things had started turning weird a few years back.  By that time, however, Tom and she had been about out of the loop, for the couple had come face to face with … well, having to grow up, since they were to become parents.

Reflecting back, Tom had quit smoking the stuff, and to the best of her knowledge – though she wasn’t one to horn in on other people – he’d seldom, picked it back up.  To this day, she couldn’t quite say the same – though, while pregnant, no way!  Surely, Tom had seen her duck out some mornings for a quick toke, but he’d never said anything – for neither was he one to horn in on other people.  She finished clearing and putting away the breakfast things.  Hul had already departed to join the barricade-brigade.  Her workplans for the morning was to, first, weed the garden – though, there were only but a few; a few, because she kept after things.  Next up, was thread to spin – both Hul and she needed shifts; raiment, weaving it, mending it, washing it – it never ended.  After their mid-day meal, she’d join with the other women to weed in one of the common fields; the next day, they’d focus on one of the others.  That was basically women’s schedule – morning, the hut and yard, afternoon either gathering wild foodstuffs or seeing to the fields.  Still, she’d steal a few moments before starting her day.  She looked left and right, area was clear.  She headed to her little place, where her rose bushes grew beside the stump, where’d she’d sometimes take a seat for a few moments.  A dead branch, appearing to have not been cut from near the stump’s bottom, was in fact detachable; inside she kept a few odds and ends – nothing really significant   She pulled out a small leather pouch; it had two sections; in the one, a kindle-kit, and in the other, a small corn cob, and some stuff to put within.   Small, that was all she needed, for Barb was the sort of person who was conservative with things – never mind, out here was certainly no place to smoke oneself, even semi-stupid. 

"Husbands, love your wives,

and be not bitter against them." (Colossians 3:19)  Tough call.  Any wonder, over the years, some of his kinsmen had opted for Enoch, and the supposed freedom to switch up, or duck out; for the city had many brothels from which to choose.  Hul had never chosen to visit the city, nor to the one local brothel, which had operated next to the market's grog seller.  Though he'd been tempted, more than several times - but that sort of folly, The Most High drew a hard line. A romp with one or both women, was probably a real blast, but then there's consequences. He was sure, the two harlots knew all kinds of changeable ways to keep themselves in coppers.  The one harlot was not quite alabaster and not quite olive, it was evident enough, she'd either no father - or one worth a hoot.  Nope, natural urges what they were, he hadn't cared to be a part of that – to perhaps, without knowing, sire a child whose life would come to nought, and like many, many others, end forever in the fires of Sheol.

The grog booth had been trouble and pricey enough; especially, after some guy had attempted to get weird schmoozy with Hul – and after having paid in full for the damages, when his fist sent the schmoozy through a thatch-work wall, knocking down half the structure, still the merchant wouldn't let Hul back in.  Hindsight, he chocked it down to the Holy Spirit’s restraining grace.  He liked the grog, but was far better off without it – for the most part – for the mix had side-effects.  While Pastor Jason, expounded upon the evils of sloth and selfishness, in the mixed congregation, his detailing of another – but related, and very important, issue – was tabled, and unpacked only at men’s gatherings. 

While Hul did not consider himself to be any sort of medical giant – he, as any other rational adult, knew that grog caused chamber dysfunction, if not earlier in life, then certainly later.  Nope, he sure didn’t want any of that – and he was doubly sure, neither did his wife.  Frankly, he believed marital intimacy issues sired sloth in husbands, especially; and wagon-loads of resentment in wives, and, by rushlight, indifference – though women, supposedly, were more reserved and did not think of such things.  Supposedly, was the keyword.  His wife was anything but.  Hul switched his focus, daylight was burning, and there was much work to be done.  Business before pleasure.

Places like that, were but one reason - among some others, that it had been time for the LORD God's people to be ye separate, and cut trail.  But being ye mountains and valleys separate - from the lands where humans had multiplied, and so, were better able to, for the most part, take dominion - meant learning and relearning things.  Things like, keeping a clear, sober eye upon the beasts, who'd come forth from the thicket – spying upon the biped females, who kept foodstuffs in their pantries, or in baskets - waiting to be processed - upon backyard work tables.  At least a few times daily, wives and daughters would be seen running off some (house cat sized) young rodent or a turkey lizard.  "Welfare office is closed, now git!" 

But the young animals - either sponging off the bipeds, or the more ambitious creatures working the thicket for their daily food - did provide the busy bipeds a needed benefit.  If you saw a few of them suddenly dart off, be spear-ready and / or take cover beneath trees or thick bushes, because that meant some sort of danger - either from the forest, or from the sky.  The last time, the tinny-gongs had been sounded, and the people had run for cover, the threat had been a thunder-lizard - who, evidently, then decided to go elsewhere to seek his food, and enjoy his meal, away from the ear-splitting noises from young bipeds, as they ran and played. The time before, a big-ugly had swooped to the ground, and made off with a young antelope; big uglies usually kept to the ridges, but not always.   Needful to say, that following morning, the welfare office was open to welcome its sharp-beaked, cubit-sized, three-toed clients.

But such were day beasts to contend with.  The night ones?  A whole different matter.  Each night, the fires were lit - from the wood, the men and boys had cut and gathered - teams of men, young men and older boys, armed with spears or arrows, did their sentry shift.  And the women and girls breathed sighs of relief, upon the return of their husbands, brothers and sons.

“For the lips of a strange woman drop as an honeycomb, and her mouth is smoother than oil; But her end is bitter as wormwood, sharp as a twoedged sword.  Her feet go down to death; her steps take hold on hell.  Lest thou shouldest ponder the path of life, her ways are movable, that thou canst not know them.” Proverbs 5:3-7

“I am the LORD : that is my name : and my glory will I not give to another, neither my praise to graven images.”  Isaiah 42:8

Some women were gathering berries,

which grew some ways beyond the thicket.   Several young men, armed with bows and arrows, had accompanied them.  On the way back, the group paused at a certain area, where the ground was raised just a little; which upon it, a rough-hewn beam - about a quarter cubit (4-ish inches) in thickness - of not quite four cubits, stuck out of the ground; another beam, of almost the same measurements, was bound across the standing one, about a cubit from the top.    The group then headed to the village, leaving wildflowers upon the mound.  This was how Sethites marked the graves of their departed; not even the Sethites knew why.  Why they didn't just simply park a large stone, middle-sized, and a smaller one? In, and around Enoch, the wealthier Cainites would mark theirs with exquisitely carved stone buildings - about three or four cubits square.

But one thing for sure, the small community - who were barely getting by - did know full well: it was only through the mercy of The Most High God, there weren't more of such markers.  The departed?   A young man, closer to thirty, than forty.  That night, a few moons back, a beast had lunged forth. Having half the young man's neck in its maw, as the beast was dragging its prey into the dark woods, it was slain by another sentry.

Another section of logs raised,

along with mixed feelings expressed.  “I’ll miss the view beyond the thicket, first thing in the morning.”  The sentiment was often the first part.  “But at least I will be able to pee without the threat of possibly getting jumped.  Such was often the second part, especially from the older people, who had to get up during the night for the same.  Still, when completed, the downside would be no longer being able to simply walk through one’s backyard to get to the outer fields and eventual orchards – eventual, for they’d only been settled for just inside half a year.  For the present, fruits were gathered wherever found, usually near or beyond the thicket; but the upside was, by the following year or two – when the barricade was complete – they’d be able to enjoy plenty of cultivated fruit; the wild fruits were okay, but…  Having one’s own fig trees, growing closer to home would mean not being run off by “The Dutchess.”  She was even fatter and uglier than the mamma baboon, with whom some of the women had a run-in – and ended up, quickly, run off.  Dutchess was even more fearsome than her mate, the Duke, but since women gathered the figs, if he was in the area, he’d growl, but would more or less ignore them.  Had men gathered the figs, the male baboon would have posed a threat.  So, as for figs and other produce, the people made do – they had their territory; for the animals also belonged to The Most High God, and they had theirs.

“The young lions roar after their prey, and seek their meat from God.”  Psalm 104:21

The following Sabbath,

Pastor Jason’s sermon was entitled “The Ungodly, Enemies of Freedom.”  Glori, as with most of Pastor’s sermons listened, but this one, she’d trouble squaring with.  She looked at her nails, chipped and broken.  Back there – home – she was able to keep them filed, and sometimes even polished; but here? what was the point!  Back there, she’d had time to relax; oh, she missed the labor-savers and the novels sold in the shops.  Here, there were no pre-mix packages; here, everything from her pantry, she not only had to mix from scratch, but – she and her daughters – had to go into the fields, get it, AND grind it.  Here, there were no novels; and to write one?  Even if, in this daily grind, there was a story, the very paper and ink – like the breads – had to be made from scratch.  She flung back a loose tress, then pushed it back under her head-covering.  Any wonder there were strands of gray. 

How was THIS freedom?  And now there was a dern wall fixing to go up.

“…only for a season.”   The end phrase of that passage – one, she knew not which chapter nor verse, but still…- brought her back to reality.  She’d lost two of her children to the City of Enoch’s “promise” of freedom.  As for the shops, oh they’d been nice, but even so, the cost was more than the coppers she’d been able to earn.  It had bothered her – but not enough to boycott the purchases, for any meaningful length of time – those labor-savers weren’t saving the sweatshop workers any labor.

“One freedom,” Pastor emphasized the word, then continued, “we’d left behind, was having all the answers.” The Pastor wrinkled his face – which caused a few of the children to giggle, and at least one adult tried not to.  “As with some of you, I am acquainted to what’s being pushed, in the city – and being pushed out, into the country.”

Urban spaces

Zillah had been looking forward

to an afternoon of shopping and lunch with two of her friends from the country club.  But feet fungus was keeping her indoors - and most likely her friends as well.  Both her husband, Lamech, and son, Tubal-Cain-Cain, had ridden out on those petroleum-powered three-wheeled chariot thingies. Several of other men had ridden in a four-wheeler - one that looked, sort of like a wagon, sans the horses.  The feet had, evidently, moved in upon a neighbor's pasture, and ate, more like half ate, several horses - one a thoroughbred - and three or four cows.  It wasn't like their neighbors owned bu-ku furlongs or thousands of livestock.  Lamech, despite his bellowing about this, that and the other, was a good neighbor.  Zillah hoped the scourge was stamped out.  From what intel she was able to receive - though, being restricted to the house, kept her out of the loop - the feet stood around three, even four, cubits in height (9 to 12 feet); their ages, maybe between twelve to thirty years.  They were not only filthy and vicious, but wasteful – biting off half the head off one animal, ripping out the insides of another, chewing the back legs of yet another, leaving the remains to decay - while going off in search of more "good-times."

Oh well, Zillah decided, she’d read that codex she’d purchased in town, a week or so previous.  She went to look for the volume, she wasn't sure where she'd placed the package.  In her upstairs sitting room, her downstairs parlor, or the little nook down the hall?  Well either way, she’d locate it; the servants had enough to deal with, she prided herself on doing various personal things on her own.  Ah, there it is.  She smiled at the lovely drawing on the front cover; it showed a rather buxom deep olive-skinned woman hoeing a field.  The novel’s main character, for a farm-woman, was rather delicately dressed, her blouse a bit low cut.  But sizzle sells.  No biggee.  The back cover showed no description, but did show a sketch of the author - an alabaster woman, who looked like any other wife and mom.  The book's title, "Fifty Shades of Green."

Would there, within, be descriptions on what Sethites grew in their fields, and how they were able to produce foods that didn't wilt or sprout spots, halfway through the season?   Any details, on how they were able to grow flax and cotton, that didn't end up, half choaked out by weeds – try as one wills to keep them at bay?   She settled back, and turned to the first page.   While she had looked forward to a swim after a round of tennis – and then, top of the afternoon at the clubhouse dessert bar, where she could enjoy a luscious tart (without one of those “concerned looks” coming from…you-know-who 😐 )  Zillah would social with her lady friends some other day.

Zillah was at once drawn into the story.  And she knew, she'd be able to finish the volume before her, and Adah's, husband returned.  After wiping out the fungus, the men would likely go up to her stepson, Jabal's ranch, and knock back a few long-long-necks – the kind that came in a bottle, not the ones which roamed the back-country.    The first two or three pages, described the fields, and the forest in the background; and the work.  Yep, lots of that, for Zillah had spent her earlier years on a farm – one which her father had sold to a developer.  He’d received a goodly sum – certainly enough to afford his family the things they needed, without the rigorous labor, while, all along, not knowing the end result.  The farm in the story, of course, was free from the usual problems – the dry season, when the mists were but a huff, the locusts, and those dern turkey lizards; from which she still had a quite visible scar on the back of her lower calf, and another – though not quite as bad, just above her right foot.

The following few pages were set in their worship house.  Men sitting in the front, the veiled women and children relegated to the back.  The deacons, all male, of course, overlooking the little flock, and rather maliciously looking forward to conking anyone - man, woman or child - for nodding off, even a second or two, during the long sermon. Predictably, it's focus was upon men's accomplishments, and women's natural disobedience.  That religion business was a bit much.  Eve!  Come on, that's just an old fable, to keep people - women especially – on edge. Around page ten or so, the story got back to things she was interested in.  The woman was now in her herb garden – upon the next page was even a beautiful illustration.  Who did the artwork, she wondered; the front cover’s inside page had a name, one Zillah may have heard in passing, though she wasn’t sure.  The woman’s bell-shaped skirt was spread upon the ground where she was kneeling. The flowers were pink, all lovely - unlike Zillah's roses; try as she did, they were passable, but not much more.  

A few pages later, has the character’s overbearing – to say the least – husband unload yet another unreasonable diatribe. The none-too-gentle, gentleman farmer was, of course, thickly bearded and certainly in need of not only a shave, but also an offload of a few pounds.  Already Zillah hoped, the wife, already being described in a state of unease, would soon tell the old baboon to ... beg the heck off.    Of course the couple didn’t live in a real house, it was one of those latticed huts, in which Sethites were known to occupy.  "Where is my..." he pointed to an opened satchel.  "Wa-well, I don't know," she began to blubber.  "You don't know?"  He steps into another loosely defined, room.  "Come in here, the story’s antagonist barked."  The protagonist begins to weep.  He grabs her, roughly pulling her inside.  Orders her to take off her clothes.  The space had various...instruments.

"Okkaaayy, I'm SO done with this!"  Hardly into the second chapter, she slammed shut the volume.  With it in hand, she left the room, walked down the hall to the back of the mansion.  Opened a door to a closet, opened the lid to the latrine, dropped in the volume, pulled the lever, washed her hands in the basin, dried them with the fresh cloth which hung nearby, and left the necessary chamber.  The scene had caused one of the servants, to pout a bit, for she, being into that sort of genre, had heard about the story; and had planned to borrow the codex, after her mistress had read it and had placed upon the shelf, among the numerous other volumes.  

Zillah felt like she was on vacation,

at her favorite place - her son, Tubal-Cain-Cain's mansion; the house was, of course, not as large as his father, Lamech's, but as far as Tubal-Cain was concerned, he was just fine sleeping in the foundry bunk house.  The mansion was his father's idea; after all, a man first needed a house in place before taking a wife.  While Zillah was glad her son now slept in a clean room, and put on clean work raiment, she believed her husband was rushing their son.   Lamech, from what she'd been able to gather - per a stack of legal parchments upon Adah's, Lamech's elder wife, desk - had about already chosen Tubal-Cain's bride.  In all fairness, her sister wife was smart - and more than qualified to open up a law firm, in her own right.  But that wasn't happening.

"BrownieClownies!"  Tubal-Cain's eyes lit up at the bone china serving platter, laden with decorated cakes.  Zillah had made them herself - for here, she could access the kitchen, if she chose.  Her mother's recipe.  They were delicious, but one would never see a plate of the little clown figures among the other items, served at country club or evolution society buffets.  Items most of which, were bland, and not really that filling.  

Thin is in.  Har-de-har! Just a mask, put over the reality, again, facing them.  Crops hadn't been doing so well - not that they ever did anywhere near terrific.  And now that many of the Sethites had, supposedly, devolved back to their primate roots, the caravans seldom brought back needed foodstuffs.  Zillah rolled her eyeballs at the thought of humans returning to a four-footed state.  She thought of her daughter, Naamah, being over served with earfuls of that.  Zillah pursed her lips, frowning.  Her pretty little girl was, probably, at this time - for it was evening - relieving the appetite of the college president; that lecherous old fart had groped her during the wedding ceremony.  The look on her dear child's face, as they - the couple in the middle, and the parents on each side - sat at the head table. 

Between the famine and the feet,

even the wealthy were seeing tube steak served upon their fine china.  While impress-parties were vegetarian, little tubes had begun showing up in various casseroles.  The working classes were used to beef, ground and mixed with grains, veggies and herbs, then put into molds or membranes, the upper classes - especially the women - were resistant.  Both Naamah’s mother and stepmother, wanted no parts of it, but of course her father, Lamech, had so much wealth, his wives were spared having to see it defile their lovely dishes - let alone have to ingest the horrible stuff.  Well, at least for the present.

Jabal's cattle had been raided again - as with other cattlemen - but not by sandal, or boot clad, rustlers; at least with cattle rustlers, the cattle did end up on some poorer family’s table.  Not so, with the feet; these monstrosities were truly perdition's children; they'd take a few bites out of this one, then grab hold of another steer, doing about the same, if not worse – there’d been evidence of … ew.  Needful to say, almost all Cainite social classes were, more or less, experiencing food insecurity.

Seated in the dining room, at opposite ends of a somewhat long polished oak table, the college president and his young wife, Naamah, were being served their dinner; lately they'd not been hosting any parties - for obvious reasons. Neither had the couple been invited to any dinner parties, because their acquaintances had similar reasons, Lately, invitations were to cocktail and card parties.   Nobody wanted to admit, there was a skinny elephant in the dining room.

Naamah had already eaten what few grains and vegetables had been upon her plate.  Only the sausage remained. The thing grossed her out.  Meanwhile, her Husband had already eaten one, and had started on the second. Naamah would have been more than happy to trade him her sausage, for the few grains which still sat upon his plate.  Growing up, at home, she and her brothers had swapped food all the time; neither mother, stepmother or even father had objected. But she'd learned real soon that sort of comradery didn't sit well at her husband's table.   She'd received more than a few dissertations from the ole windbag about … oh good glory, stuff that really didn’t matter.   

…

What th’ sam…  The stench was apparent enough several furlongs before the three brothers, and the men with them, had arrived upon the scene. Here and there, lay the remains of, perhaps, a dozen head of Jabal's steers - but it was hard to tell, considering... What stank even worse, than the decaying cattle - cattle parts, that is - compelled Jubal to spew lunch.  Any other time, Jubal's two brothers would have jibed him, bigtime - for Jabal and Tubal-Cain were accustomed to manual labor, and the sort of rough neck life of both cattle trail and foundry.  Jubal, however, was a designer of delicate musical instruments and a concert promoter.

In the midst of the carnage lay, face down and bent over a tree stump, the carcass of one of the "feet."  Despite the rather obvious cause of the young giant's death, Tubal-Cain scratched his head, trying to make sense of what had happened.  How does...?  "Didn't pass the initiation."  One of Tubal-Cain's brothers addressed the question mark, written on their younger brother's face.  This mark of Tubal-Cain-Cain faded only a little, but not much.  His older brothers dropped the matter - need to know basis, and their short, but very muscular kid brother - who spent most his time, banging metal in his foundry - didn't need to know about ... bluchh! 

What all the men knew, and knew well was, they had quite a job ahead - pounding signs, at a goodly berth of the area.  Signs which read: “TOXIC, NO GRAZING ZONE!”  A dead giant’s carcass was so vile, even vultures, and sometimes even flies avoided feeding thereupon, or remaining in the area.   After posting the area, the men continued their way, upon the three wheelers, to seek out and exterminate the remaining feet fungus; so far, they'd ridded the land of a dozen or so, but were certain there were others - either traveling alone, or in the process of subjecting themselves to... the giants' pecking order.

Well, there was an advantage

to not having sandals upon her feet - for Naamah's footwear had been taken and locked up, immediately after she had been returned to her husband's home.  She having had her fill, had previously headed home to Mother, but someone coppered her out, before she was even halfway there.    Anyway, bare feet didn't raise noise; the few, and much overworked, servants might be looking for a favor - not that she could much blame any of the half-scared staff - and so, would likely not think twice to copper her out.

To Naamah's delight, numb-nutz was out somewhere - probably schmoozing up potential readership.  With the famine, and all, parents were more concerned about putting food on the table, purchases of brand new leatherbound volumes were relegated to the sideboard. She entered his hallowed library; here, of course, her presence was less than welcome - oh, except for the one ... wait, two times, he had called her in to ... well, not to discuss literature - that is, any decent literature.  "Mr&Mrs Smith?"  Uh, no way, she'd politely declined that ... that, piece of pr0n, thinly disguised as a "sociological treatise on wifey duties."  An overreaction to a couple pages, she'd heard about?  Uhm, no!  One such scene was enough - one, especially, rather graphic, from what she'd been told.

The stack of parchments sat on his large ornate desk; she took care to not misplace any, as she searched the place she'd left off reading, the last time, she'd the chance.  The pages were a final draft toward his third...or was it the esteemed professor knowidall's fourth publication?  Well, shazam, yet another paragraph which read, one very similar to none other than the late Char Darvin's, "Origins:  Via Selection and Preservation of the Favored Race of Man!"

As a maiden, she'd read one of Toff’s previous publications, for mother had a copy in her bookshelf, the one in her upstairs sitting room. Naamah, though nowhere near an “expert,” couldn’t help but to notice, Toff’s publications were a bit heavy on the filler.  Father had also read, well some of Toff’s works, but Father had, more or less, had dismissed them, because, he'd said, there was really no way to know of human origins.  Not that Father cared all that much: his concern had always been centered around getting the crops to grow, the herds to multiply, and keeping both pest and predator at bay.

"We Cainites - unlike the other - are quite a unique and markedly superior breed, for, per ..."  Several reference notations followed, in mid-sentence; as if they couldn't bear to patiently wait at the page's bottom.  Notations that, as mother had said, perhaps, could be pulled from about any box of LukkyCharms or FruityCircles - the sort of breakfast food, which her brother, Tubal-Cain, would pour into a large bowl, and then head to his foundry; hardly any wonder Tubal-Cain had, not too long ago, gone to the dentist to have another tooth yanked.  She continued reading the text.  "Per, [bla, bla, bla, bluuck...] the first man of our race is believed to have been an unusually intelligent chimpanzee, who, for some reason..."  Uurrchh, right there, in mid-sentence, a flurry of, perhaps dubious, notations, screaming for immediate worship.  "... had mated with a gorilla, this, not only giving rise to the excellence of our race - despite the gorilla..." 

But wait, wasn't it just a few years ago, Toff was saying, a chimpanzee with a bonobo?  Oh what next?  A chimpanzee with a kangaroo?  Naamah giggled at the absurdity.

“I also will choose their delusions, and will bring their fears upon them; because when I called, none did answer; when I spake, they did not hear : but they did evil before mine eyes, and chose that in which I delighted not.”  Isaiah 66:4

Another flax-field, and one

of barley, trampled under feet – and sure did a two-step on Tubal-Cain-Cain’s flying-machine blue-print.  What he needed was uninterrupted time to look over the papers, but that wasn’t happening.  Instead, he was smelting metal for more ground vehicles and fire-tubes; while each product was coming out better and better, still, what he really wanted to work on, was his flying machine.  He did, however manage to build a small one, and it had actually flown – for about two moments, then had exploded.  Something about the fuel line, or the fuel itself.  Again, he rolled up the plans, put them back in the leather tube.  He called for a servant to brew him a pot of coffee.  Seemed like, for every band of feet, he and his men had hunted down and made rid of, other sets of six-toed footprints would make their reeking appearance.

Those things neither wore clothing, nor ate bread; they just ran around killing and eating, when not even hungry – the partially consumed bodies of cattle and wild beasts proved that, time and time again.  It was as if these monsters destroyed both plant and animal, purely for fun – with no mindset of how their ongoing abuse of both wild and domesticated animals would affect their future meals.  Tubal-Cain looked out a window, into the distance, where another forest had been cleared, another mine being dug.  As a metal-maker, Tubal-Cain was quite aware of the pollution which resulted – and those … those mutants only added to the foul air and streams – and subtracted from his time, in trying to figure out ways to make useful things, without making such a mess upon the land.  If the beasts are unable to provide for their young, certainly men, even work-minded men, will sooner or later have similar problems.  And, at the same time, too many men wanted fuel-driven two and four wheelers – not so much to clear fields, to save time in getting to their worksites, or even take their families to visit their kinsmen; there was a growing market for vehicles to … play in.  Growing, alright … like an ugly wart.  More fields, which could serve to produce food, were instead being ruined by … slackers – guys who, on their daddy’s silvers, used up, producing nothing but … messes.

As if things weren’t already out of sorts, his orders were backed up; the other day, Tubal-Cain had to fire one of his workers – the reason being, another no-show.  What was with people?  It wasn’t like sustainable jobs could be found just any old where – and you could bet your last copper, Doeg was probably hanging out on somewhere in Nu-Market bending any ear - which had the misfortune of wandering into hearing range - how bosses are all the same tyrannical greedy m’furs. Seemed as if the doegs, were breeding almost as fast as the feet.  Tubal-Cain had been in the city several days ago; after having spoken with a customer, he’d stopped into a tavern for a burger and a brew.  The owner wanted five coppers for the burger, and another two for the pint.  Okay, the price increase was a bit sudden, but the loudest bellyaching came from … surprise, surprise, another doeg, who was either too drunk, too dense, or just didn’t care that the owner had to pay for things like beef – which was in short supply, and bread – also the same, and coppers for both his cook and his barmaid.  Good thing the tavern owner owned the building; rents were becoming insane.

So, I missed the b-day party

weekend at Jabal’s ranch, not to mention, sister-in-law’s apricot pie, for … for this.  Jubal was spitting spearheads.  The concert crowd was jumping and roaring at the scene which took place - but it wasn’t any of the fans who had worked their tails off, getting the instruments ready for the band.  No wonder orders had begun to pour in, here of late.  And sure, the silver coins were nice.  But so was having been able been to see his family.  To think, he’d assumed the zithers, the ten-strings, the viols had been lost or stolen – or even carelessly left, at someone’s laced grog party.  Getting drugged up, and forgetting things, it’s a rock-n-roller thing.  But bands smashing their instruments?  The very same ones, he and his apprentice had busted their tails…?  What’s this world coming to?  Even the music was changing, for the worse – more beat, less melody.  Was he waxing old-fogey?  Jubal asked himself, recalling the summer of 967, the summer “down in Montroray.”  THAT was a concert!  Hundreds and hundreds of people, sitting on the grass, or dancing upon it – filling bowls, and passing it around; sharing their food and drink, everyone having a good time.  No fussing, no trouble – not even from the two lions, who’d evidently jumped the gate, and wandered in.  Everyone just gave the two beasts space, as they wandered through the greenish fog, then half staggered their way back towards the forest.  Needful to say, that patch of woodlands had been cleared, somewhere around 987 or so.

There was no two ways about it,

Hul could no longer hide himself in evening rushlights.  And come daylight, use work as an excuse, for he’d cut so much wood, he was running out of stacking room, and some of the other men were getting a bit crabby.  But the perimeter, was a side-issue.  He and Barb’s Marriage, the main one – one which he’d promised to Almighty God.   

“Barbara.” He called into the partition, where she did her weaving and mending. She appeared, instead, from the little space adjoining their chamber.  “Hul, what may i get for you?”

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“Okay.”  Hmm, what did I do now, was just a thought, but her hand moving to her mouth, may have translated this involuntary body language into unspoken words.  She being the usual, in the middle of something, oh well, her precious work plans would have to be tabled.  She made her way to the table, and took a seat upon the bench. 

Well, that was a surprise.  He placed his right hand upon hers, and it would be some time before the sun would set. 

“Barbara, do you know what a gargoyle is?

She thought for a second, wondering where this was coming from.  “I guess it’s a… some sort a he-harpy? But I don’t really know.”

Hmm, he thought, she could be onto something – she was a smart one, unlike most her sex; he checked himself for the prideful thought – after all, who was he to criticize the Most High’s decisions.  The two mutations did have some rather similar physical characteristics.  Though harpies were not female, but males with small, but saggy, tits.  Regardless, this wasn’t the time to theorize upon demon physiology – not that he’d any interest in discoursing the subject.  Nope, just slayl ‘em, send their vile spirits into sheol’s fiery muck, then burn their fetid carcasses – they’re not even a semi-fit meal for the lizards and rodents. As for snakes?  That’s debatable.

Hul arose from his seat; his hand still upon hers, his other hand motioned toward the chamber. 

She stood alongside their raised bed – oh, a raised bed was nice.  One with a heavy oaken headboard, with his family crest etched in the middle; he’d done that himself.  The bed itself was basically an oaken platform, covered with the skins of various beasts.  While sad, it was, these creatures had to have given up their lives; most of them would have done better to have, instead, taken off in another direction, and left Hul alone.   One of the skins had been a dire wolf’s cover, another had covered an andy, while another had once belonged to a sabre tooth.  And another had once enrobed a musk ox.  Poor animals, but at the same time, she couldn’t help but to be … stirred.  Sewn together were the skins of other beasts; these joined through her needle. 

Hul let go her hands, then removed his buckskin shirt, which fell to the floor, landing partially atop her outer garment.  Her eyes shot full open, her finger tips moved to cover her mouth, her feet backed up a step.  “Oh my God!” the half-whispered phrase came out her mouth before she could stop it.  But it was only the Grace of the God, who’s Holy Name, she’d, a second ago, carelessly had uttered – the LORD’s grace had kept her head from turning away, her eyes from averting the quite awful…oh, snap, just plain UGLY sight before her. 

A mix of deep scars and red blotches, covered the right side of Hul’s chest and upper arm.  Hul had also unloosed his belt; both belt and trousers lay upon the floor.  Sheol’s blemish extended to down his leg a bit – missing his … by, maybe, a sixth of a cubit (about three inches).

Barb’s shift fell among the other garments.

…

Was only a matter of time.  Tommy’s slingshot broke.  The stone veered off, and if Tommy didn’t, or did, know any better, the turkey lizard, bent forward, shook its hindquarters, then turned, looked the boy in the eye, opened wide its long toothy beak, stuck out its tongue, then ran off.  It may have, or hadn’t, been the same one, which a few weeks ago, had jumped onto the boy’s shoulder, and had taken out a chunk of his flesh.  This was war!  Well, more like a temporary cease fire – that was until he ran home, grabbed his old one – for his new was cut, but had to soak in liquid for a few days longer to make it pliable.  On the way, he made a mental note to begin yet another, so he’d always have a spare on hand, as well as back at base – the partition where he slept. 

He was almost to the hut when his ear alerted, that the cease-fire would have to continue for… how long, Corporal Tommy didn’t know; however, he somehow knew, the meeting-in-progress between General Hul and his secretary (Mom) was a private one.  The boy then took off in another direction.   He hoped he’d soon have a brother.  Tommy made another mental note; he’d have to get busy and make an extra bow, some arrows and a sling – at least enough until his brother learned how to make his own weapons.