Chapter 4 Highlands

 

Chapter 04

Highland spaces

Settling in

Lamech, Jared’s great grandson, was the group’s most eligible bachelor. And he had every intention of keeping it that way. Though certainly of both age, and means, to take on a wife, he was, at present, not interested in being tied down.  Still young, there was plenty of time to have to deal with that sort of drama.  Of course, Lamech’s decision to remain unmarried, didn't sit too well with his father, Methuselah – Jared’s grandson.  The elder had asked his grandson, a time or two, if he was going red-pellet – to which Lamech, emphatically, said he didn’t follow losers.  During the journey, the elder had again broached the subject - reminding Lamech about the consequences of procrastination.  “You don’t want to end up like OldDusty.”  While the confirmed elder bachelor was indeed a contributing and beloved member of their community, he had never bothered to learn how to prepare food for himself, or keep up his raiment – an easy enough fix, for he had long learned to play upon the maternal instincts of his sister and several aunties.  His cloak from one family, his trousers from another; the robe he wore to worship, was probably about as old as creation itself.

Methuselah, Lamech’s father, had even suggested his son to take Barbara to wife. It wasn't like Lamech had anything against the woman. Well actually, if he had to take a wife, he would certainly take one free of scandal. As far as he was concerned, his widowed sister-in-law was a bit too wild. From what he understood – though Lamech, like most of his fellows, wasn’t curious about other men’s matters – Barb’s father had chosen a husband for her, and the next thing you know, the girl had disappeared - along with Tom, Lamech’s brother.

Lamech still could recall the details of that market afternoon.  He had simply been minding the business of his father’s stand, when a scuffle had erupted from a nearby coffee tabernacle - and the merchant’s rather high-pitched rebuke for the disturbance; the sudden departure of several patrons, the backing away of one or two potential customers from the ruckus, of which two irate fathers had created.  Both Methuselah and Amnon had emerged from the establishment, with the errant couple between them. The scene hadn’t been the first, that week, to muck up the owner’s tabernacle.   Several days prior, two or three Sons-of-Sheol had been chasing three or four Gold-Wingers; the five or six men had upended things, while having run, either alongside, or straight through his booth – scattering his regulars, who had been drinking coffee, passing round a pipe, and listening to some guy playing a gittern.  The same instrument, which some years back, Richard Junior had exchanged for a lyre. 

“BOY, Pack it up!” Lamech could still recall the bellow in his father’s bellow, “We’re going home.”  The journey back to the village had been a silent one, except for the bumps and jolts – and the muffled rebuke from father to his daughter; something about her actions having brought shame upon their community.   The elder’s comment had almost caused Lamech to chuckle – as if Barb had strongarmed Tom, his younger brother, into their living arrangement.  Lamech, instead, had managed to keep a straight face.  It didn’t take a whole lot to rile up the girl’s father.  Had his soon-to-be sister-in-law been able to sit any closer to her soon-to-be lawfully-wedded-husband – and further away from her father’s glare - she would have absorbed herself into Tom.  

He recalled the unmistakable sigh of relief that crossed his father, Methuselah’s face, upon conclusion of the wedding ceremony; it had been a grab-n-go - the women had not the time to prepare foodstuffs, but had simply scrambled for whatever they were able to throw together.   Amnon, though a commoner – who’s holdings were up-street from their community’s center - was a father, and as such, had every right to, instead, call out the younger man – who, though, sufficiently strong and quick, was no match for the battle-seasoned elder.  Lamech’s late brother, Tom, wouldn’t have lasted three moments.

“Aahhh, yer oudda yer…” From nearby, came Amnon’s familiar bark.  Both he and Richard Senior had a history, and were at it again, while placing oak plank atop of two stumps.  The table, though not quite level, would serve for the time being.  Was the f-bomb, preceding “gourd” necessary?  Lamech raised an eyebrow, but went about his business.   A passing grandmother had dropped her basket, while having attempted to shelter her grandchild’s tender ears.  She glared, but went her way.

Two makeshift table sat beneath a lattice – upon which, leafy vines had already wended their ways upward and across.  The area was currently serving as the temporary Council House.  Other tables either sat, or leaned, nearby, in whatever state of construction.   The men’s third or fourth meeting was now underway.  Relief marked the faces of most the members; for the meeting, prior to the last, had become rather heated.  Being in the new land, two or three had proposed, they build their houses closer together, than the approximate furlong and a half apart – then later, rebuild, expanding their holdings.  A fight had nearly ensued, when one had accused another of being “a milk toast, hearkening to the wife.” Finally, that drama resolved, their furlong and some holdings, had been apportioned to each of the Fathers – their locations, per their paternal line.  

Seth’s holdings were closer in proximity to the square, as were his firstborn sons and grandsons.  The further removed from the paternal trunk, the further out was a man’s holdings.  The village, when complete, would resemble the old settlement, mainly two crossroads.  Upon the square’s northwest side, the first permanent house was, for the most part already completed – The Lord God’s House.  Southeast, sat the future site of the yet to be constructed council house.  The common area, with its shady fruit-bearing trees, band stand, tables and play areas would take up the other two spaces. About six holdings – three on each side - would extend in the four directions; a total of around twenty-seven holdings.  From one end to the other, the settlement measured just over fifteen furlongs (almost two miles).

Each householder looked forward to clearing more trees, and building a permanent Council House - where they could meet, and discuss matters, free of interruptions.  From nearby, shrill giggling erupted from two or three young girls, who then, thankfully, had darted off elsewhere.  The background noise subsided, but only for a moment; a group of young boys, were playing a form of tiddly-winks, while rough-housing some, around a nearby stump.  One of the somewhat oversized, and misshapen game pieces flew above Chief Cainan’s cup, and crash landed right square upon his forehead.  The elder, now more than his usual irritated, stood up.  The boys immediately scattered, leaving behind the yellowish game pieces; pieces which one or more of the boys had found, then hammered and polished into misshapen, uneven disks.  With so much work ahead, for everybody over the age of six or seven, game boards with matching pieces were somewhere a way down the list.    

Homeless shelter

Barb overheard a passing voice.  Not too much in a hurry, to get me moved along, are we!  She could only but raise her eyebrows, at a passerby's comment - something about an extension to their place – for the family was large. With everyone settling into their new homes, she was the only one who remained in the shelter.  Her mother had been among the last of the women and children to leave the night enclosure.  Barb’s father had been slow in building his house.  The reason for the delay?  One word: sloth – a BIG one; the ten-some cubit (15 foot) creature had taken a swipe.  The near miss, however, had been close enough to knock, Amnon, her father off balance.  Better a sore and bloodied arm, than a missing one.   His son and a maternal cousin – one of the Richard Senior’s brood - had helped to finish building the couple’s home.  Barb didn’t particularly care for Richard Senior, her mother’s eldest brother – he was a real…like the rest of them, as far as she was concerned. Her mother, though firstborn, was a daughter – and expendable.  A long-ago situation – still, it was the point…Barb left off surmising.

The poultice Barb had prepared would keep the swelling down, her father would heal – perhaps in a few more days. 

At this moment, Barb was technically homeless. And also childless, for early that morning, her son's great grandparents had, again, taken the boy; there wasn’t much she could do, but hand over his satchel to his great, great grandmother.  No point in making a scene; all she could do was hug her son, tell him she loved him, and to mind his grampa and gramma.  Lessons.   Oh, that again!  What was the big hurry, her son hadn’t yet turned twelve.  Evidently, the supposedly neglected lessons were serving as a handy stand-in, since more than a few little birdies had been twittering along the trail, concerning the sling’s actual owner, and the object’s actual thief.   Barb consoled herself, at least for the time being, her son was better off in the custody of his grandfather – of being kept occupied with text and numbers - especially since, things weren’t over between Tommy and Nahash.

Barb couldn’t help but fear for the boy – that is, the older one, Nahash.  It was better, for all concerned, that chapter be ended; the page turned.    While Tommy’s appearance and mannerisms, resembled more like his father with every passing day, the lad’s scrappier side, however, came from, Amnon, his maternal grandfather.  Tommy had been all eyes and ears upon hearing how his grandfather and some other guy had squared off over…whatever.  She really had no idea, perhaps the altercation – like others – had been sired from basically nothing, besides trail monotony.  Why, a man his age, going on like he’s ninety-something, she shook her head.  But at the same time, she couldn’t help but feel pride; her daddy was a real “hulk.”    A melancholy smile washed over her lips, Tommy loved that continuing series, but Parts 9, 10, and, probably, by this time, 11 – though each only a copper and a half - were some 6,000 furlongs (about 750 miles) to the south.

She looked over the not quite matching panels of fabric which she had stitched together over the past day or two.  Several women, each with enough on their plates, had pulled resources – some growing wild.  Their over-and-above generosity kept Barb on focus.  Well, for the most part.  With her mother having left the shelter, had afforded Barb time, here and there, to put aside the garment – one which spelled the end of her sovereignty.  She pulled out the journal from beneath the skirt’s hem, one she was drawing to a finish – with each stitch…Her ears perked.  The voice of her son called to one of his cousins.  Well, the boy seemed happy enough, as if his living arrangements didn’t affect him one way or the other; Barb felt mixed emotions, but Tommy was happy, and that’s what mattered. There was much activity going on around her; she smelled potatoes and cabbage being slow cooked, cucumbers and peppers being sauteed in an onion sauce, bread baking, cobs boiling – the aroma caressed her nose, but her stomach wasn’t interested. 

The amount of work to be done, in getting established in this new land was overwhelming; she wanted to be out there – along with everyone else, getting things accomplished. But that wasn’t happening.  Today, especially, she was stuck inside; only earlier had she been permitted to leave the enclosure – but only long enough to bathe in the nearby stream, which bordered the common area, but flowed behind a grove of trees – which were to be left standing.  Long enough to feel embarrassment, when one of the other women nodded to another – it wasn’t like their frames hadn’t yet filled in much better.  Still, Barb didn’t need anyone’s facial expressions to tell her that she was flat as a griddle-cake.  Why this - she glanced at the needlessly voluminous bundle - couldn’t wait for at least a few more weeks?  Long enough for her to at the very least put on a half-stone (7 pounds) presentable.  If only her stomach would stop jumping like a south-plains bean.

Barb continued with the paragraph she had started somewhat earlier. Oh, to have uninterrupted time, and quiet space, where people weren’t gabbing and gawking.   “Hmmph!” Barb’s mother, Tamar, stood in the doorway. The broidered linen of her garment showed signs of wear – for new fabric was no longer available per caravan.  Tamar’s eyes narrowed upon seeing the journal being slid back under the fabric. “I can’t leave you alone for two minutes.” The thick rustle of her mother’s skirts matched the woman’s frame of mind.  “Can I.” she added.   Same drama about to unfold, upon this different stage, Barb knew the lines well enough to improvise.  It worked.  Her mother was over the moon about her grandbaby.  Sir Golden’s and Miss Mealey’s second son – titles Barb had dubbed upon her brother and sister-in-law.  Her mother then, pinched Barb’s cheeks, saying something along the lines of not wanting for Barb, to resemble a “third runner-up in a MissCainite pageant.”  A little rhyme - one probably going back to when Mother Eve’s daughters had been given in marriage – had wended into Barb’s head, “Something borrowed, something blue, something old…”  Tamar then remarked about the plate she had brought, when she had stopped in a few hours earlier. The plate undisturbed, Tamar once again chode with her daughter.  Barb modified the rhyme’s ending, “and nothing new.”  

“I called upon the LORD in distress: the LORD answered me and set me in a large place.” Psalm 118:05

Sovereignty’s end

The same morning, the bridegroom-to-be was made ready, but in a less genteel way, than his bride.  It took like a half dozen men to drag him to the creek; he struggled and almost screamed when they picked him up and threw him into the chilly 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, older boys - at the risk of a serious whopping - gathered to eavesdrop upon the adult’s-only entertainment.  

Amongst country people, "adult" meant a man, fifty or older, who had proven himself to be reliable, courageous, hardworking.  While, even the youngest wife an "adult," 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."  Among the city women, it was generally believed that rural women were half-starved, stupid, weak and craven - who would throw their sisters under the nearest commute-wagon, to get an extra potato upon their plates.  The city's scroll shops were full of stories and drawings of homely, overworked, and poorly dressed, drudges living, very isolated from their neighbors, and in constant terror of whip-wielding fathers, brothers, and, especially, husbands.   Meanwhile, the men and boys, simply lounged about all, day being waited upon by their wives and sisters; as if their fields plowed themselves, their dwellings and tool sheds built and maintained themselves, their perimeters guarded themselves, and the logs - oh, the logs - not only cut and split themselves, but also stacked themselves, and their piles of ashes had neatly shoveled themselves into areas where remaining embers would safely go out.  

Part of Hul, (Bear’s real name) wanted to back out, but what Sethite or Elamite man, or any other man, hadn’t thought the same. Hesitation was only natural, for unlike Cainites, even high-ranking Sethites could only have one wife; and not only that - but no “side pieces.”  What man didn’t entertain the notion of getting some “free love” but such wasn’t worth courting an eternal burning in sheol, while being eaten and shat out, over and over again, by giant serpents – or whatever other monstrosities, dwelt within that pit of never-ending horrors.  Men’s restrictions to playing out his fallen desires didn’t merely end with one wife and no sides; unlike Cainites, neither was there was an option for a man to divorce his wife.  Marriage was no small risk for a man; one of Hul’s cousins had a wife, and although she was attractive, and submissive enough, 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, he checked himself. 

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

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

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

Pastor Jason gave a brief sermon, before the ragged gathering, one that focused on sharing the bounty for which The King of kings, in His mercy had provided for them.  Pastor wasn't sure; but either way, 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.  His wife, Marcella, had to be only a week away, at most, from the birthing stool.  Appeared as if Roxanna, Richard Junior’s wife, wasn’t too far behind.  When wasn’t she in that condition!  The woman’s sandals lay atop of one another, parked alongside her swollen feet – and sending a chill upon Barb’s.

"...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.  No way out of this one.

"I pronounce Hul 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 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 bride, of course were 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 the same?  He didn’t appear so, only the usual hungry – she had heard more than a few quips about Hul’s appetite.  Before she had eaten a third of the portion upon her plate, he had already reached for seconds.  She 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 only had taken maybe half.  From what she knew about Hul, like most Sethite people – though there were exceptions, Larry was at it again, half in the bag.  Hul was more into fruit juice and, especially, coffee, and was not much interested in fermented beverages – good sign, very good sign.  Dessert was fig cakes, of which his fingers were reaching for a third.  Holy Hannah, she would 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.

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 temporary shelter; the remainder of it would likely be disassembled, by the following day, or the day after.  "What's the matter, honey?" Enoch’s widow rounded the corner and comforted the sobbing child. "Ba-big man gonna smash the nice lady."  Another torrent of tears let loose onto the woman’s bosom. "Oh sweetie, that's just an expression." One which grown-ups 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 man and his wife would soon reappear. He would then dart off to his friends, and she to hers.   That woman, hmmph…after two centuries, one would think she and her husband would conduct themselves as a proper couple, approaching middle-age, 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; before she could collect her thoughts, Hul had turned to her; rubbing his mid-section.  Barb’s eyes shot open.  Huh, he wanted her to do WHAT??

Breakfast?  Ugh!  She didn’t even want to look at food. What was it with people, whose first waking though was food!  Made no sense to her.  Nor had it made much sense to Tom; before the workday, they would 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.  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 – that was, after she had 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, was what she really desired, but that would have to wait.

Over the following days.

So much to do, while having to make do with a want for materials.  The flax field planted, but it wasn’t like the grasses would be ready for harvest by Tuesday.  In the meantime, they all needed textiles.  Gathering, here and there, wild flax…bruh!  Took an entire cartload to make a child’s shift – an exaggeration, but not by much.  Of course, here and there, grew wild cotton – which was even more a pain in the neck to gather, and work with; the buds were way more seeds than fibers.  She certainly could have used one of those automated knives she had seen during one of those last visits to Purveyors – though meeting the price would have taken her an entire year or two of scrimping and saving. The wild pears she had finished cutting into pieces were hard as rocks, and rather sour; she wrapped them in wet leave, and set them to gently steam – in hopes they would soften. The berries she had earlier happened upon, were unusually yummy - too bad there weren’t more.  She poured half of them, which would be enough for her husband and son, into a basket, and set it aside. 

While the pears steamed, she ran the other basket some half-way across the settlement to Headman Jared’s wife, who was spinning thread to make her husband a needed cloak to replace the one which lay four cubits beneath the ridge, wrapped around the remains of their late healer. Having returned, those confounded pears had hardly softened.  Upon the pantry counter where she was working, sat two containers which remained of her four piece canister set; the lid to the tea container had also become lost along the journey.  Like any other country wife, Barb made do, for she had found a somewhat flat stone, with several reddish crystals jutting from its one side, and from part of the top. It sealed well enough to keep out the evening mists – that is, if she kept the container less than half-full.

But all wasn’t hillbilly hard-scrabble.  She was glad for the modest cache of 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 had 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 gash.  Nevertheless, she was grateful 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 six she had to barter, not long after Tom had passed.  But it was hard to tell – and she had 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 had 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 well-structured 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 gemstone jewelry, except for a brooch; there had been a certain emerald bracelet she had wanted, but that didn’t happen.  The irony had been, around the fourth or fifth day after arriving; her mother had begun digging a garden, when she had unearthed two or three precious gemstones.  The remaining piece of jewelry which meant anything to Barb, had been that little necklace – which she had placed around the old medicine woman’s neck, moments prior to Headman Jared, having wrapped her in his good cloak.  The elder woman had been lain 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 women had brought the gifts and had also made ready the chamber.  Not that she had 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 beneath a latticed canopy, just a few cubits from the pantry.  She was grateful for the almost stain-free length of cloth; the good table covering she had possessed, presently lay, snagged among nettles, at the bottom of big-ugly gulch – not the only item among her few, as well as the scant possessions of others - to have become lost or broken along the way.  The gold bread plate, and silver spoon, and a bronze cup she placed at the table’s head.  And WOW!  that was some head seat!  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 had arrived last year.  He had even etched an outline of an oak branch into the wood – one which Bron was to add the details, at a later time.  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 would 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 had passed from girlhood to womanhood. The other had been a purchase from the first coppers she had earned, while still a young child - she hadn’t been not much older than thirteen, maybe fourteen.

Placing the basket, and a few other items on the table, she realized she was still in her shift.  She quickly passed into the chamber and put on the over-sized dress she had worn the previous.  She then passed back into the pantry and donned her apron.  The breakfast would soon be ready.  She was about to put on her sandals - it was hardly short a miracle they had lasted the journey.   Another pair would be helpful, but their three sandal-makers were, backordered to the hilt making footwear for the men and young men, who felled the trees, cut the wood for the night fires, and guarded the perimeter from the beasts who strove to take back 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

The honeymooners

While under normal circumstances, Sethite newlyweds did enjoy a honeymoon period, but their present situation didn’t allow for such luxuries.  And not only that:  Labor Day was coming up, but everyone was too busy, doing just that; for there was neither time, energy, nor resources to spare for crafting decorations, rehearsing skits, preparing festival foods and confectionaries.  As if the two sabretooths hadn’t troubled enough – a male chasing a female, one who had wanted no parts of him, she had 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.  The beast had stomped down quite a length of nettle-studded boundary, as if it was that fancy paper; the beautifully packaged reams, the stock which Barb – after having become a widow - could only look at; the vendor had wanted a full third of a silver for 200 pages. 

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.  Andy, and several other beasts – including a tiger - had proved, to be less than effective in keeping out intruders.  Fortunately, the later was only passing through; she had been looking for her cub.  With all the other work upon men’s shoulders, the task seemed daunting, because while cutting trees for the perimeter – and they would sure need a lot of them, they still had to cut for the evening fires.

From what she had 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 Richard’s, 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 to build the wall. 

The perimeter surrounding the properties – which were spaced to allow the one luxury no Sethite man (or woman) cared to do without: Privacy.  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, it had been as if another would be churned before mid-morning gave way to early afternoon.  Barb had read a few; some were just plain ridiculous, others funny, while still others were downright wicked; the later publications were sold within certain tabernacles, of which no respectable woman, or man, avoided to even 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, some of the water way, 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; a lot less wood needed for the nightly fires, 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 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 had 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. 

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 lower neck.   Would have been one thing if they had resulted from battling a normal beast, but these scars weren’t the sort which men bragged to their fellows; these came about from the vile saliva of…basically, sheol.  Any wonder, he didn’t care to remove his raiment while it was daylight.  With a sharp talon the hellish mutant had ripped off his shirt.  Had been only through the Most High’s mercy, Hul had been granted other-worldly strength required to slay that infernal mutation.

Goldbricking, again

Just a little way 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 well.  Her thin tail flicked away several winged pests.  Something she had eaten, thankfully, not too much, but when the foul smell had reached her nostrils, evidently, too late - for what little she had ingested, 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 had 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…eggplant, having a perverse mind of its own, urged him forward.  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 of them, very disappointed, 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 had 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!"  Baphomet 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 foul spirit 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 had forgotten to let in his tongue - not exactly was he having a good day.  "Ancient of Days, Almighty, victorious," Oh stop, Baphomet groaned, holding his ears.  Oh great, he muttered, for 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 or more 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.

Ugh, and through 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, perhaps a stretch in one of the Destroyer's dungeons didn't sound so bad, after all.   And then, if that wasn’t enough, after the service - oh which, virtually all had faithfully attended ... well, except for a mom tending her young child – who had, evidently, 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.  Baphomet couldn’t get it around his pointy head, why much of the conversation centered upon the sermon, and how the one they had just heard related to previous ones.  More than a few of them even kept sermon journals - the pages uneven, lumpy and greenish.  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…whomever.  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! Their 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

Tall tales

It wasn’t like one had to make camp to get from near the settlement square to near one of the ends, but try to explain that one to a twelve-year old, one perfectly content to remain with his great, great grandparents – and several cousins who lived close by.  The only kids his age who lived near StepFather and Mother were two girls.  The other neighbor’s son was grown; he was courting one of Tommy’s female cousins – he had even had brought her flowers, and played her melodies, upon his rectangular hand harp.  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 had heard one of his aunts saying something about the couple’s fathers having made the arrangements.  

A more relevant issue had, however, bothered young Tommy – at Grammy’s and PopPop’s, there was always lots 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 had 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 (Hul) eats up all the food!”  The boy didn’t realize Aunt Peninnah had a tendency to exaggerate.

Grandmothers, having a sense of things, which other adults seem 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 stopped over.”  She added, “Your mother made pumpkin bread, but none of the loaves were 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 flour than fruits – unlike the tall, well loaded squares.  His grandmother then added, “she had put lots of raisins in them.” 

Lizard living large

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 had come close to getting his head crushed, when she had 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 would 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 would sit upon smaller, lower flat surfaces.  Between them, sat the bottom half of a hollowed-out gourd, half filled with water; the top 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 had 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.

The thunk of a log hitting a neighbor’s ground had almost made Barb jump – it had rolled off the wagon.  Another section raised, along with mixed feelings concerning the project.  “I’ll miss the view beyond the thicket, first thing in the morning.”  She recalled a recent conversation. The sentiment was often the first part.  “But at least I will be able to pee without fear 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 had 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 – their fruit trees would be matured, and the need for wild produce would be minimal. 

Having one’s own figs from one’s own trees, meant not being run off by the “Dutchess.”  She was even fatter and uglier than the mamma baboon, with whom some of the women had that previous run-in – and ended up, quickly, run off.  Dutchess was even more fearsome than her larger mate, the Duke, but since women gathered the figs, if he was in the area, he would growl, but would more or less ignore them.  Had men gathered the figs, the male baboon would have posed a sufficient threat. 

Spiritual warfare

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 sure, she understood – a boy, in order to grow into young manhood, has to separate from his mother.  Stil, it hurt.  Tommy was spellbound, while 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 similar accounts in the past – as with any other boy – there were details, which he had missed during past recountings; but such was to be expected, since boys under the age of around fifteen were still too young to go beyond the thicket. 

Came the part, the retelling of a previous account 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) – began 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 had planted some rose bushes, which were coming up rather nicely.  Before reaching her little sanctuary, she took a hurl.   Between the stump and a smaller outgrowth was lodged a small clay container, with a flat stone 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 had formerly enjoyed biting and sickening the city’s cubit-sized rodents – he had 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 cruddy 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 had intended. 

But the imp couldn’t release.  No, not just yet.  He needed to monitor the area where those two wild donkeys were considering upon which to raise their young – lest the young foal be eventually taken in and put to work – at least for a while.  Country people generally preferred female work animals, ones who had aged past the urge to run off and seek a mate.  That was another thing, one of many, which ticked off Grot, as well as the other foul spirits, how these bumpkins fussed over their animals, cared about their lives - singing to them while brushing dust and debris from their coats, serving them plenty of good food and fresh water in clean vessels.

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, even more toxic.  He looked forward to the morrow, or the day after, when there would be some mighty sick animals – better yet, DEAD ones.  Mmwhaha!  Though it hurt to laugh, Grot couldn’t stop himself.

“The oxen likewise and the young asses that ear the ground shall eat clean provender, which hath been winnowed with the shovel and with the fan.”    Isaiah 30:24

Lunch, not launch

A fluffy sway caught the turkey-lizard’s eye.  The mid-afternoon sun had brought to bloom several other bushes, which earlier in the day hadn't been ready.  While not as matured as the big fluffy pink ones floating within the gourd – which nearby, upon the table, that handy stick laid, on ready.  Was better to settle for the not-quite-ripe dainties, than to 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 the lizard’s 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. A breeze jostled the bushes – he caught the aroma from the one with the most 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 which had almost escaped his grasp - had been a real 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.  Both were enjoying their entree.   What a shock to discover, his presence was no longer welcome.  He skirted over to the bush, and began nipping at the blossoms – which were almost ready.  He had only able to enjoy 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 but to...aarrrgghhhh, move out, and ... oh no!! not that – seek and defend his own holdings. 

Marital issues

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 simply had 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 two or three of his fellows had been in the area. In quick-time, the boys, were 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. Barb was not pleased, and had let her husband know, in no uncertain terms – despite the fact, Tommy had been at fault for not only going against the rules himself, but inciting other boys to do likewise.   Still, it was just a game – one forbidden by old dudes, wielding their weight; and just plain miffed because they’re laden with responsibilities, while the boys are still young and free to play and imagine.  As if Barb wasn’t already upset enough about things, but the Gargoyle game incident was only part of it.

She had also lost her private laundry mat - to beavers, who had built a dam, thus raising the waters to a level which mrNmrs wallygator had decided was a better place to start their family.  “Mat,” was a play on words.  Back in the old village, Matthew, had no longer been 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 had created one.  And did quite well, for all concerned. The women reminisced using the movable carts, with the wooden rods going across the top. For a copper – or whatever else bartered – laundry, which was not quite dry, didn't end up all wrinkled. Next day, one simply returned the cart.  Perhaps in time, these timesavers would again be available, but with so much upon Matthew and the other, very backordered, craftsmen, there was really no time to construct them – let alone, smelt the metal pieces.  Neither did the lumpy terrain, help matters.

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 care for Sethites.  It wasn’t like her late husband couldn’t handle his own, it was the plain fact that not all men fight fair.   She had about blanched upon seeing SOS emblems upon the back of more than one cloak.  She had motioned to Tom that perhaps they both would do better elsewhere.  His response, that the Sheols were a club and not a gang, had put her mind to rest. Not long after having arrived, the obvious enough physical differences between the lines of Seth and the lines of Cain, didn't appear make any difference.  All were there to simply enjoy the music, and pass along the passing 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. While they could pose a danger - if there were no cannabis leaves to munch on.  Not a chance around here; one 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 had been 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 had grown up in the great houses, had worn trousers, shirts and cloaks woven from 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 having to grow up, since they had become expectant 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 had seldom, picked it back up.  To this day, she couldn’t quite say the same – though, while she had carried and nursed Tommy, no way!  After their son had been weaned, surely, Tom had seen her duck out some mornings for a quick toke, but he had 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 life out here, posed a constant reminder to keep after things.  Next up, was thread to spin – they needed shifts; raiment, weaving it, mending it, washing it – it never ended.  After their mid-day meal, she would join with the other women to weed in one of the common fields; the next day, they would focus on one of the others. 

That was basically women’s schedule – morning, the house and yard, afternoon either gathering wild foodstuffs or seeing to the fields.  She looked both left and right, the area was clear.  She headed to her little place, where her rose bushes grew beside the stump, where she would sometimes take a seat for a few moments.  A small branch, near the stump’s bottom, was detachable; inside she kept a few odds and ends.  She pulled out a small leather pouch; it had three sections; in the one, a kindle-kit, and in the other, a small corn cob pipe, the third held the dried leaves.   Just a hit or two was all she needed, or wanted.  This unpredictable land was certainly no place to smoke oneself, even semi-stupid. 

No two ways about it

Hul could no longer hide himself in evening rushlights.  And come daylight, use work as an excuse, for he had cut so much wood, the men were running out of stacking room, making two or them of crabby.  But the perimeter, was a side-issue.  He and Barb’s Marriage, the main one – one which he had made promises to not just his wife, but to Almighty God.  

“Barbara.” He called into the partition, where she did her weaving and mending. Appearing from the little space adjoining their chamber, she dropped a quick curtsey.  “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… sort of 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, saggy, teets.  Regardless, this wasn’t the time to theorize upon demon physiology – not that he had any interest in discoursing the subject.  Nope, just slay ‘em, send their vile spirits into sheol’s fiery muck, then burn their fetid carcasses – they’re not even a-fit meal for the lizards and rodents. As for snakes?  That was 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 had crafted that himself.  The bed itself was basically an oaken platform, covered with the skins of various beasts.  It was sad, these creatures’ lives had to be…frankly, sacrificed to benefit human lives; these 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 had, 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 span (about three inches). Barb’s shift fell among the other garments.

Meanwhile, outside.

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 taken out a chunk of his flesh from his upper leg.  This was war!   Given that his weapon had taken a dump, had created a temporary cease fire – that was until he ran home, and grabbed his old sling – for his new was cut, but had to soak in liquid for a few days longer to make it pliable.  The boy pondered, unlike back home, these turkey lizards were more like their pack-lizard cousins; it was no wonder mothers kept their children even closer, and fathers didn’t hesitate to use a switch when their boys crossed the perimeter.  Youch, that one still smarted a bit – though, evidently, not enough, for earlier, he and Joel had been on a recent expedition.

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.  He knew what that meant.   He turned and headed for the work-shed, surely therein remained scraps, for StepFather had recently tanned a dragon’s colorful hide.   And if not, the boy pondered, he could assemble the things he needed to make a smaller bow and some arrows.  Tommy was already looking forward to teaching his little brother how to use, and to make his own weapons.  

Enter the dragon. (1004)

Big ugly stirred her nest, irritating the comfort of her two hatchlings – one a male, the other a female.  The latter harbored no desire to peck at her somewhat smaller sibling, for both were well provisioned.  The mamma dragon looked around the area close to her nest, from a corner of her vantage, a young snake had latched onto, and began dragging a baby groundhog.  The ugly’s instinct, being of a more conservative nature than that of her ugly peers, no flame shot from her mouth to disable the prey; for the snake was not paying attention to its environment.  Her little ones devoured parts of both the skinny predator and fat prey; the rest they would partake over the next day or so – at their tender age, they ate sparse portions, but ate often.  Mamma was hungry too, but unlike most her peers, she would not squander her hatchling’s food; they would need it, afternoon break was following the sun’s hazy orb toward the horizon, and flight school would again be in session; class would continue until dusk. 

From below, the ugly’s ears caught the distinct yip of a young wolf pup; the creature’s attention had been caught by the stirring of something beneath a patch of nettles.  So much so, the young mammal ignored his mother’s bark.  The ugly had no appetite for dealing with jaggers.  She waited, for the mother’s bark was growing louder, and it was only a matter of time before the young wolf would back away from the briars, lest the youngster experience a wolf’s version of a serious dusting.  Mothers know.  A moment or so later, big ugly had the pup by the neck.  She arose higher, and as she began to do a victory-soar, she about stopped in mid-air.  The wolf fell, spinning around headlong.  Her hatchlings were not in what remained of the nest she had soundly constructed, but instead their bruised remains lay somewhere amid the downward trail of leafy and brambly remnants.

Big ugly trembled.  Somehow the dragon knew, within the foggy recesses of her mind – going back to that of her great, great grandmothers - this spoilage was neither the work of another ugly (for trashing a nest meant expending effort) nor had the devastation been committed by any other garden-variety raider.   Her work, her holdings, all had come to nought.  The winged beast could only comply with her natural instincts, she let out piercing wails which reverberated up and down range and valley.  A stoner, perched somewhere within hearing range, looked up, and around.  His small brain, though dulled from years of nipping at cannabis, knew what the female’s screeching meant.  Danger, Danger.   He took off.

Meanwhile, in a neighboring valley, Bron’s ears perked.  Was that, what he thought he heard?  If so, yikes. He strained to listen, but his sister’s giggling – over a page which a friend had passed to her earlier that day.  “SHUT IT!” he snapped at Ruthie.  Instead, his sister began singing the innocuous ditty aloud.  Her brother responded with a harsh shove.  Ruthie’s backside hit the ground.  Within a second, she was up, and running.  “MMOM!”

Rex upon the ridge.

About a half dozen women were gathering berries, which grew some ways beyond the thicket.   Several young men, armed with bows and arrows, had accompanied the picking party.  On their way back, just outside the village perimeter – they passed alongside a cleared area where the ground was raised just a bit.  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.   This edifice had been recently put up.  Nearby, were several other graves.  This was how Sethites marked the resting places of their departed; not even the eldest, or wisest, quite knew the reason.  Why didn’t they, like most country people, 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 – ones about the size of a sleeping chamber, but some bigger.

One of the young women, murmured to her older sister, how quickly “weeds around these parts take root.”  She had, just two days previous, taken her turn among the whackers – who, twice monthly, under the protection of young men, would go out with hand shovels and sickles, pull up and toss away the undesired flora.  Her sister’s friend, daughter of the man who had mixed the cement, had commented that her daddy was working on an “upgraded recipe.”  One that would keep back the nettles, but not harm the clover, violets, or the pretty-n-pinks - a flower, which, maybe, survived a century after the flood – two, at most.  The group then headed to the village, leaving an array of wild flowers upon the mounds. 

One thing for certain, 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 wooden crosses.  The latest departee had been a young man, closer to thirty, than forty.   Three or four moons previous, during a moonless night, a beast had lunged forth, grabbed the young man by his arm and was dragging him deeper into the black glade.  No one cared to ponder what could have been, had it not been for the quick action of another sentry. 

The young man’s grave had a marker.  Not so for their departed medicine woman, who had died upon the ridge.  It wasn’t that Barb harbored any resentment that the young man had been given a real funeral, and not just a brief sermon, and two or three short hymns, before being lowered into a quickly dug and unmarked four cubits.  Circumstances in that area compelled the people to not tarry any longer than necessary.  Another set of circumstances called for secrecy.  Anyone, over the age of twenty or thirty, knew, it was only a matter of time - maybe centuries worth, but nonetheless - before ungodly men’s lust for gemstones would override the uglies’ terror.  The Sethite people didn’t go to all the bother, the privations, of leaving behind their long-established homes, their effects, their access to market – and to modern conveniences - to go trekking several thousand furlongs, up and down several ranges, ever on guard from perils – both on the ground, and in the sky - to build and maintain a settlement, from complete scratch, only for the outside world to discover, and horn in upon their civilization.

A distant shriek reached her ears, as if female dragons weren’t intimidating enough, a lord-dragon had been spotted along the south ridge - probably a son of the one they had seen a couple years back.  She then recalled Rachael having mentioned in passing, that her middle son, Bron, had thought he had seen one soaring in the distance, shortly after their departure from Mid-Way; but he had held his peace, for he hadn’t been certain.  Unlike, back in the days when their great, great, great grandfathers were young men, lords were rare; however, anytime one of those showed up, it would only be matter of time before the village would be treated to more of big-ugly’s screeching. Being no fan of uglies, still during all…that, Barb couldn’t help but feel sorry for the she-dragon.  But all would quiet down; soon enough, the ugly would be sitting pretty - upon her eggs, while her lord was off hunting provision.

Provision…that’s today. 

Barb did a walking face-palm.  Her nephew’s naming ceremony, and she didn’t have anything ready – namely because, old habits had found their way north; she had whittled away half the morning penning a story.  A short while later, while cobbling together an unleavened fruit bread, a hint of resentment crossed her mind.  Had the child been born a girl, the almost dozen-some tea cakes, she had made the other day would have served fine.  Meanwhile, Hul and Tommy entered the back yard, Hul stifled a laugh, for his wife looked like the Pullsbury Dough Girl.  Why she was in such a hurry? He, soon enough, spotted the answer, which lay within the two or three pages, which sat in front of her place at the table.  Not that he was overly surprised; and why should his companion not enjoy some free time, while she was able!  That would change once the babies came.  She turned from the mixing bowl, wiped her hands, then gave her husband a quick curtsey.  He took his seat; she uncovered a plate and brought it to them.  It didn’t take either man or boy long to empty the plate, or the cups.  Tommy asked to be excused; permission granted, barely a reed outside the enclosure, the lad sprouted a pair of long leathery wings and was off to meet another lord dragon. 

Later that afternoon

Of course… Barb rolled her eyes, her mother’s unspoken admonition, concerning time management, read loud and clear.  Hul was also late, but no consequence, he took a seat among his fellows, and waited to be served.  About half the village, if not more, was gathered in the common area.  Her sister-in-law was mercifully spared the women’s tray-sling op, nevertheless she appeared tired.  Barb cast her brother, Sir Golden, the proud father, a distinct glare.  It wasn’t him up half the night, while still expecting to be waited upon. Back at the pantry-unit, while refilling a tray, Barb popped a stuffed olive into her mouth, and cached two others into her apron; behind her, a somewhat post middle-aged auntie snicked to another - one, maybe a century younger, saying something about newlyweds.  Barb shook her head, Hul and she were already into their fourth year as Husband and Wife, but she concluded, when you get into your fifth century, time takes its own direction. One of the other women, who was scooping fruit salad into a bowl, glanced at Barb’s waist then whispered into her friend’s ear – who then took the bowl.  On her way out, the auntie met up with Barb’s mother, and whispered something.

“Your bread turned out just fine.”  Rachael debated cutting another small piece, but decided two had been enough; the decades of marriage and motherhood had waxed her a full stone (15 pounds) – not that she had been overly slender while a maiden.  Instead, she reached for an orange slice, bit into it, sending a juicy seed into the cleavage of her bosom.  Rachael’s youngest son, Uriah, spotting one of his playmates, patted his mother for her permission to be excused.  She assented, but bade the three-year old to remain close - and out of the dragons’ range.  Another flew nearby, its leafy wing knocked over an auntie’s basket – mamma dragon was on the scene, with a wooden spoon in hand.  Snippets of the men’s conversation reached Rachael’s ears.  Concern washed over her face.  Placing a hand upon her bodice – which had waxed a bit snug - Rachael leaned forward, “I wish they would stop talking about that thing.” 

“What thing? Barb’s mind had been elsewhere for most the day – namely, upon the story she had wanted to finish.

“The lord.”

“Oh, that!”  It took Barb a moment.  She then realized, several of the young men, including Rachael’s son, Bron, were nowhere to be seen.   While the young men could be occupying any number of places, if they were enroute toward a certain direction, that unapproved adventure wouldn’t end well, for any of them - especially for Bron.  Oh brother, she could only hope that when Tommy came of age, he would exercise better sense.  But with the drawings tacked up in her son’s sleeping space, Barb couldn’t be so sure – but at least for now, her boy being shy of sixteen, could only embark on such ventures, equipped with pen, parchment and a wagon-load of imagination.

“Well, I figured those would be gone!” an auntie lowered an empty vessel into sudsy water.  “I didn’t get a one either.” A woman, filling a pitcher nearby, then added, “and they took Cousin Glori nearly all morning.”  From outside, at a nearby table came the familiar unlatching of a setar case, followed by the tunings of a harp and some other musical instrument.  Soon the cleaning up would be accomplished, and the women would enjoy a bit of relaxation and song. Finally, Barb’s mother was seated among her friends.  About time, Barb rolled her eyes – that lizard bite to the back of her mom’s ankle hadn’t quite healed.  She refilled a pitcher and combined some remaining deserts onto a plate and set it upon a recently cleared table – one around which several of the older men were gathered.

Going about her business, Barb happened to notice a young child, who had been playing nearby a grove – one mainly of oak, but some maple.  The child was no longer there, but had evidently wandered therein.  She took off, for it was a given people kept an eye out for each other’s young.  With so much going on in her own backyard, she didn’t know the little girl’s name; only that, the maiden was one of Richard Senior’s granddaughters.  The grove had been left standing, for within stood a bluish outcrop of three stones; the one in the center was more of a rectangle.  It stood almost straight, about four cubits.  The robust girl’s legs dangled from the sides; she sang a rhyme – one about a mamma’s newborn babe.  The child had no idea… Barb’s gaze fell upon the larger of the roundish stones – its top rather flat, lay facing north.  Surely her back had not been the only one to have felt its coldness.  Such things were not discussed.  Extending her arms, she bid the little girl to come down.  The two exited the thicket, rejoining the others.

Ugh, they were at it again, going on about the lord, Barb shook her head.  “...bellowing and the screeching, couldn’t hear myself think.” Richard Senior muttered to one of his sons.  The elder – like anyone else, who had crossed the ridges, had lost things.  After workday end, he had been busy rewriting texts.  He didn’t want his sons and grandsons to grow up unlettered.  As for the girls… Barb shot the old flatulence a pointed glare.  Then turned her attention to the paper unfurled before her.  It needed rewritten, but her ink jar had broken – probably when within the thicket, she had almost tripped upon a small stone, which lay alongside the three.  There was some, but not much, left in the quill.  Thinking how to rephrase, she happened to glance in the direction of the trees. Richard the Younger and his wife, Roxanna, were emerging from within. The tall slender man went his way, joining the men.  Roxanna, was about Barb’s stature, she picked up her youngest, who had run toward her.  Carefully, Barb inserted some text, as tiny as legibly possible.

“Scrolling again, I see.” Tamar, her mother spoke between pursed lips.  Four years, and still, only one grandbaby from the girl …her gaze met the thicket, peering beyond the trees.  There was something to that, she grinned inwardly, touching her middle.  The elder held her peace from any further commentary.   “Have you seen your father?”  Barely looking up from the text, “Over there, with TwoDicks,” Barb pointed the quill.  “Barbara!” Tamar, huffed, but went her way, with basket in hand.

Bits of the conversation drifted above the second or third song being strummed.  A few voices had joined in a song – one written to relax young children, and maybe a few of the older ones.   Lord Tommy, was sitting beneath a tree, his head was nodding; a nearby stoner was propped up against a wagon wheel – the youngster was already asleep.  Barb, having put both page and pen into a satchel which hung about her waist, combined two nearly empty trenches into one, and grabbed an empty cup from a nearby table before making her way back toward the communal pantry.  From there, she emerged with a battered metal tray.  The afternoon was waxing into evening, here and there, families had begun to depart; morning came early, work awaited.  “

You’d think that ugly’d a toned it down some.”  Several guffaws ensued.  “HAH!  They like it!” her father then added, “…in their nature.”  More guffaws, and high-fives.  “ThaWACK!”  The metal tray, one of their few, slammed upon a nearby table, sending a cup flying over its surface and crashing into shards upon a neighboring bench.  The plate didn’t make it that far, it’s two halves lay face down upon the table; one spoon face down in the grass, the other?  Landed somewhere.  The music sputtered.  Tommy stirred, for a moment.  A baby, jolted from sleep, began to cry.  Mrs. Amnon arose and stepped away from the table nearest the pantry, around which she and her fellows were gathered. 

“Barbara, what in sheol is wrong with you!”

Among the table of women, Athaliah gasped, placing her fingertips to her mouth, she slowly turned her head to her left, then to her right, while pulling out a small fan.  Marcella, the Pastor’s wife, politely ignored the woman’s carefully scripted charade.  

Urban spaces

Plans trampled under “feet”

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 – as with her friends.  Both her husband, Lamech, and her son, Tubal-Cain, had ridden out upon one 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 prized 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 eight, even ten, cubits in height (12 to 15 feet); their ages, maybe between twenty to fifty 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 would read that codex she had purchased in town, a week or so previous.  She went to look for the volume, she wasn't sure where she had set the package.  It was either in her upstairs sitting room, her downstairs parlor, or perhaps in the little nook down the hall.   Either place, she would find it; the servants had enough to deal with, she prided herself on doing various 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, a farm-woman, was a bit delicately dressed for the business of maintaining either garden or field; her blouse a bit low cut.  But sizzle sells.  Upon the back cover was a sketch of this latest best-selling 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, which 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.  Perhaps, this time, she would actually be able to read some of it 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 come in a bottle, not the ones that roam the back-country.    The first two or three pages, described the fields, and the forest in the background; and the work.   Lots of that, for Zillah had spent her earlier years on a farm – one which her father had sold to a developer.  He had 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 name written upon the back cover was one Zillah may have heard in passing, though she wasn’t sure.  The character’s bell-shaped skirt was spread upon the ground where she was kneeling. The flowers, unlike Zillah’s, were all lovely, and not chewed up by various pests.

A few pages later, has the character’s overbearing 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 at least two stone (30 pounds).  Already Zillah hoped, the wife, already being described in a state of unease, would within a few pages, tell the old baboon to ... beg 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.  Holding it with just her thumb and a forefinger, 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, soaped and washed her hands in the basin, dried them with the fresh cloth which hung nearby, then left the necessary chamber.  The scene had caused a servant, who was working nearby, to pout, 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.  

Famine and “feet”

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 within high end casseroles.   Meanwhile, the working classes had become accustomed to beef, ground and mixed with grains, veggies and herbs, then put into molds or membranes.  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 smell any of that being prepared in their kitchens.  Lamech enjoyed the stuff.  The men’s club served an entrée, called, “T-Bone” on Wednesdays, and on Saturdays, “Prime Rib. 

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 meat did end up on some poor family’s table.  Not so, with the feet; these monstrosities were truly perdition's children; they would take a few bites out of this one, then grab hold of another steer, doing about the same, if not worse – there had been evidence of …Almost all Cainite social classes were, more or less, experiencing food insecurity.

Meanwhile, in Allendale, a prosperous suburb of Enoch:  Seated in the dining room, at opposite ends of a somewhat long polished oak table, Enoch University’s President Toff and his young wife, Naamah, were being served their dinner. Lately, however, they had not been hosting dinner parties. Neither had the couple been invited to any, because their acquaintances had similar reasons, for only hosting cocktail and card socials.  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 repulsed her.   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 nor even father had objected. But she had learned soon enough that sort of comradery did not sit well at her husband's table.   She received more than a few dissertations from the ole windbag about … oh good glory, stuff that really didn’t matter.   

Meanwhile, back at the ranch.

What th’ sam…  The stench was thick 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, - for Jabal and Tubal-Cain were accustomed to manual labor, and the sort of rough neck life upon the cattle drive and within the foundry.  Jubal was a designer of delicate musical instruments and a promoter of concerts.

In the midst of the carnage lay, face down and bent over a tree stump, the carcass of one of the lower ranking "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 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 ... that which was contrary to nature! 

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 nasty, even vultures – unless they were desperate - wanted no parts.   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 had ridded the land of a dozen or so, but were certain there were others - either traveling alone, or in the process of subjecting one another to... the giants' pecking order.  Jabal shook his head in disgust – yet another site, upon which he and his men would, sometime after several months, would return and torch the vile remains.  As if he and his men didn’t already have enough upon their plates.

Bare feet

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.  Long having her fill, she had headed home to Mother, but someone coppered her out, before she was even halfway to her father’s house.    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, parents were understandably more concerned with putting food upon their tables; 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 ... or had it been twice, he had called her in to ... well, not to discuss literature - that is, any decent literature.  "Mr&Mrs Smith?"  She had politely declined that ... that, piece of pr0n, thinly disguised as a "sociological treatise on wifely duties."  An overreaction? Absolutely not!  Near the story’s beginning, one scene was more than enough – she had closed the volume, and had no desire to reopen it.

The stack of parchments sat on his large ornate desk; she took care to not misplace any, as she searched the place she had left off reading, the previous time, she had the chance.  The pages were a final draft toward his third...or was it the esteemed president 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 had 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 he had, more or less, dismissed them, saying 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 any box of LukkyChimes or FruityCircles - the sort of breakfast food, which her brother, Tubal-Cain, would pour into a large bowl, before heading to his foundry. Hardly any wonder her brother had, not too long ago, gone to the dentist to have another tooth pulled.  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, likely 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

Pressed for time

Another flax-field, and one of barley, trampled under feet – sure did a two-step on Tubal-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 having to deal with those … those mutants only added to fouling both air and stream – 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 experience similar problems.  And, at the same time, too many men wanted fuel-driven two and four wheelers – not to save time in getting to their worksites, clearing fields, or even taking their families to visit 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 – on their daddy’s silvers, used up, while producing nothing but … pollution.

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 one could bet his last copper, Doeg was probably hanging out on somewhere in Nu-Market bending any ear - one which had the misfortune of wandering into hearing range - how bosses are all the same tyrannical greedies. Seemed as if the doegs, were breeding as fast as the feet.  Tubal-Cain had been in the city several days ago; after having spoken with a customer, he had 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 beef and bread – and compensate both his cook and barmaid.  Good thing the tavern owner owned the building; rents were becoming insane.

More spoilage

Jubal had missed the square-dance weekend at Jabal’s ranch.  Not a tragedy; country music wasn’t his favorite.  But at least the banjos he had carefully crafted were still available to musicians who wanted them.  He did, however miss out on having a slice of his, sister-in-law’s apricot pie, because of … this.  Jubal was still spitting projectiles. The concert crowd had jumping and roaring at the scene which taken place - but it wasn’t any of the fans who had worked their tails off, getting the instruments ready for the bands.  Any wonder orders for new instruments had been pouring in – at a rate, which he and his workers had been fallen behind in fulfilling.   The silver coins were overflowing their containers.  But there was a price. 

He even missed visiting the old man, Lamech, his father.  The backlog was such, that one of his workers had cut short his honeymoon; another had postponed a camping trip with his son who had turned fifteen.   To think, he had assumed the zithers, the ten-strings, the viols had been lost to a certain ring of thieves – 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 apprentices 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 Montoray.  THAT was a concert!  Hundreds and hundreds of people, either 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 had evidently jumped the gate, and had padded in.  Everyone just gave the two beasts space, as they wandered through the greenish fog, then half staggered their way back towards the forest.  The same patch of woodlands which had been cleared, somewhere around 987 or so – to build another ticky-tack-ville.