Chapter 5 Urban

 

Chapter 05

Urban spaces

Downtown Enoch

Naamah so wanted to tarry, oh, just a few moments – she only wanted to hear a song or two, from the three rather rag-tag musicians, who stood at a nearby corner.  One played a home-made lute; the second one, a tambourine of similar stock – perhaps the same tree; the third played some sort of mouth organ.  While Enoch’s world renowned orchestra had no trouble attracting listeners, who paid in silver, the three musicians (and oh, they were, in every sense of the word) would consider themselves fortunate to have earned enough coppers for their dinner – and, hopefully, a cheap room for the night; these days, the park was becoming less than a safe place to catch a few hours of rest.  And, as if to add further insult to the injury of the poor, more benches had been removed, and replaced with backless seats, with raised bars – ones that didn’t even serve as armrests.  Hadn’t always been so; per Naamah’s great grandmother, who had recalled having been “out doors” for a season – along with other poor people, Sethite, Cainite, or whatever other patri-line, who had been served with the choice of either food or rent; well, they had gathered in the park, and been gone come dawn.  Nobody cared to bother them.  But, back in those days, anyone, with even a semblance of a work ethic could, within a few days, find work, and at least basic food and housing, to see them and their children through. 

What happened?  Well, Naamah’s research was showing, the new-FANGled theory of evolution was certainly, a primary culprit.  This whole Cainite-better-than Sethite bull-stuff, was nothing but a ruse – the old elephant in the parlor, with … digestive issues.  Perhaps, the certain, anonymous publication would be read and passed along by at least several – but it was equally certain, the sheets would inevitably fall into hostile hands; and her painstaking work would be destroyed.  She had to be very careful, whenever an updated edition was ready to be handed over to the scroll-seller – totally non-monetized, on her part.  Certainly, she sure could have found use for a few coppers – especially, at the moment, for she wanted to thank the musicians, but ol’Toff had already about shoved her forward, out of hearing range of that soul-stirring melody.  Though the daughter of one Enoch’s most wealthy men, Naamah had not a copper upon her person; for her husband had given her no allowance over the previous several weeks. 

Tight arse, she grumbled to herself.  While college professor’s wore patches upon the elbow regions of their mantels for a reason – besides the “distressed” fashion statement - it certainly wasn’t like Professors were only paid a day-laborer’s wage.  For sure, one thing she knew, he had weaseled his way into her father, Lamech’s, good graces.  Her father was a business-minded man, but rough around the edges, and so was prone to be enthralled with academia – a mind-style for which he had not been “designed.”  Oh, that word; she took care with its usage – lest she be … understood.  HAH!  Her brother, Tubal-Cain – banging away in his foundry - had more brains than that entire college; his exact sentiments concerning evolution, he had expressed in … well, the sort of words, workmen, after a hard day, exchange with one another over tall cups of ale – putting off their burdens, before heading home to their wives and children.

To her right, a washer-woman – with young child in tow – had exited a scroll-shop; in the woman’s hand, was a purchase.  She had heard the woman say something to the child, to the effect that the story was about a brother and sister who find lost treasure, but the adventure would have to wait until the morrow.  Naamah wasn’t sure there existed in the heavens, the Most High God, but she prayed a silent request, anyway; if He was real, that He would keep the tired woman in at least enough coppers, that she could treat herself and her child to a scroll here and there.  Per her research, she had learned that Sethites sent up their prayers in the smoke of a burnt lamb; they would build an altar with unhewn stone – no metal could touch it.  Beforehand, the priest would cut the throat of the spotless creature, and – if she wasn’t mistaken – drain the creature’s blood into shallow bowls – of which, likely no metal could have been used to hollow them out; the blood then, would be sprinkled upon the people.  The thought was a headful.  But there had to be valid reason.  But to even broach the question – uh-uh, she didn’t want to end up, hauled out to the forum, on … whatever trumped up charges. 

She had also learned, Sethites, even the men, would put off their shoes before approaching the altar.  Ugh, the thought of going about the ground barefoot, disturbed her; after all, it was said that animals and Sethites go about unshod.  They had some strange customs concerning footwear – and, though she couldn’t yet articulate it, she had nevertheless, had a gut instinct, many of their customs were misunderstood – if not purposely twisted.  The footwear thing was the subject of many a pub – the sort of literature, she wouldn’t give over even a quarter of a copper.  She had seen a copy of that…ugh, “Fifty Shades of Green.”  oleToff had a copy in his library, among several others of similar ilk.  Mr. In-ta-lect-chew-wol…whatever; sometimes he just plum gave her the willies.

“Jarring nonsense,” Toff had spat.  He then, predictably, made some snarky remarky concerning baboons.  All she could do, was press her lips, and give him an eyeball-to-eyeball stare – a brief one.  There was always that first “count the cost” before taking a stand.  Sethite culture fascinated her, and it was her compelling goal to research and to dispel” the nasty lies.  But the scrolls were few, and they were costly to acquire.  The only access to coin was through, being extra “nice” to Toff…ugh, cringe.

From what basis, these lies were fabricated, was but a glaring misunderstanding of living amongst wild beasts.  Living in the wood, far removed from the city’s protective walls, made life uncertain.  Only made a child’s sense, that in the wilds, a bull trike – let alone, a full grown thunderer, would rather easily break through.  Was no great wonder why Sethite women tended to keep at home.  Out there, gadding about didn’t merely put you at risk of getting your purse lifted; out there, could get you dragged off into the bush and feasted upon, while yet alive.  As for the weaponry, Sethite men were able to make, they had no foundries, other than a glorified campfire, here or there - let alone the skill to fashion metal implements which didn’t come out half warped, only to dull, if not break, while on the job.  They used stone for their tools and weapons; spears and throwers; their shields were of leather covered wood - good luck with that, squaring off against big thunderer.  Sources – good ones – however, had noted, Sethites would only slay beasts out of necessity, for they believed that killing for sport would incur the wrath of their “bloody sky god.”  Something about a woman biting into a forbidden apple, or something – and then, having seduced her husband to also partake; soon following after, the increasing noise in the forest, of tooth and claw – the chastisement from God to man for his sin against the “Most High God.” 

Sethite men were noted for great strength – perhaps, a token of the Most High’s blessing.  This only made sense – because going about all day, hauling such heavy ordnance.  Then, their using similar lack of technology to fell massive trees – trees, many of which they would replace with seeds – and lest we forget, the plowing of fields.  If Sethites had any metal, a village’s haul might be a few knives; perhaps, enough to fill the basket, which old cook, on her day off, would take to market.  

Naamah kept her papers safely – well, hopefully, safe enough – tucked away; penning phrases, such as “Most High God,” “The LORD God, King of Armies” and other such…well, could land a person in dire trouble.  Great grandmother could attest to that; her last words, had certainly not been theories, but screams - as the flames had consumed the barricaded building…rendering her, and great grandfather, to skeletons in mother’s family closet.

“And he said, Draw not nigh hither: put off thy shoes from off they feet, for the place whereon thou standest is holy ground.”  Exodus 3:5

Real music, outside

While Naamah sat alongside Toff, her husband, in some hoity-toity concert hall, sitting through music of the same – no heart to it, just going through the motions, schmoozing for silver.  Outside, on the street, the REAL musicians played.  FTS (“for the streets”) happened to be in the area – either coming from, or on the way, to a temp-job.  She had heard the band, and some others – who also played music with a soul – at various coffee-houses.  The trio, one with a horn, the other with a harp, and the third with a drum (the Keltic kind?).  The overture they were playing, led into one of her favorites – but that was almost pointless to categorize, since she loved many of their (OH YEAH!!) compositions.  The song, about to begin, was about a great warrior sky king, with sword in one hand, and his other held a buckler of platinum.  FTS couldn’t help herself: she began to sing the verse of the white bearded warrior slaying thousands of the hideous creatures.  She finished the verse; telling herself, that was enough of throwing caution in the direction of the fleeing demons.  From the crowd of passers-by, a bass voice took up that part of the ballad.  Whoever the man was, oh my goodness, what a voice.  He paused at the verse’s end.  Nuts to caution, ever hiding!  She took up the third, where the remaining horde fell to the great warrior’s feet, pleading for mercy.  The verse’s end, she stopped, not caring to push her luck.  That melodious bold voice, took up the forth; his voice grew clearer, louder as he sang of divine judgment.  The verse ended.  FTS sang of the demon’s still pleading, but their begging to no avail.

The two strangers were within view of one another, when the short barrel-chested hairy man, with arms like tree-trunks, took up the final verse; where the slimy horde are thrown into a pit of burning sulfur – so hot, the very rocks were molten.  Both were face to face, looking directly into one another’s eyes as they sang the epilogue – where the people, ever grateful to be alive and safe, lay all their gold and silver at the warrior’s feet; be our King, was within the ending line. 

The people.  Some had slowed up their passing by, to give the ballad a listen – while the country dialect was a bit lost on city people, a few individuals here and there had become no longer as lost as they had been several moments previous.  One such continued his walk, having just dabbed his eyes with a cloth, and stuffing it back in whatever fold he had kept it, he was oblivious to the bits of clear scaley-whatever, which had not been on the cloth when he had retrieved it.

“Which in other ages was not made known unto the sons of men, as it is now revealed unto his holy apostles and prophets by the Spirit;” Ephesians 3:5

Scales fall off the apostle Paul

Meanwhile, somewhere in the hood.

For the Streets” had somehow managed to get published a few short stories. Between looking for work, that might last a day or a week, then coming back to a tiny room, where the light wasn’t too good, and basically the general nagging that poverty does to people, to neighborhoods, sometimes FTS – her pen name - couldn’t help but be amazed for actually having been able to concentrate long enough to put out a few stories.   Wasn’t about just the daily grind of things; that in itself was enough; in addition, she was also keeping her ears open for the possibility of finding her son – but it wasn’t all that unusual for young children from impoverished circumstances to … end up unalived.  That very real possibility, she had to face, and, somehow, go on with life.  Yes, her stories were short, and under the genre, generally dismissed – especially by the upper classes – as being “copper-dreadfuls.”   But go into the side streets, and ask any scroll-seller whether any of the city’s pedantic loud mouths were purchasing – then hiding within the folds of their clothing, and looking both ways before leaving the shop…like that old song “things that make ya go hmm-hmm, yeah.”

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

 

Pre-flood spam

“Nuh-uh”, Tubal-Cain shook his head, he wanted no parts of SimonLaGree’s.  The parchment page which had been stuck to his shop door, now lay crumpled in the waste drum, atop other discarded papers – mostly of crumpled up plans, for things – which part way sketched, didn’t appear workable.  Other burnables were either old news pages, some advertisements and various take-out wrappings.  The barrel was nigh on needing emptied – his shop-boy would see to emptying it into the burn pile, when he returned from, either his great great grandfather’s funeral; or had it been the elder man’s wife who had passed – Tubal didn’t know.  Anyway, Tubal needed ore – and a lot of it.  While Remus’es could fill the order, his prices were significantly higher.  After some thinking about it, Tubal’s mind was made up – he would rather pay the extra cost.  The deciding factor was: Remus didn’t abuse his workers – both two and four-footed – and neither did Remus abuse the environment.  With quarrying, sometimes, you hit water.  While SimonLaCHEAPO, would let the acidic, smelly liquid go anywhere, trashing any plant or stream it came in contact; Remus went to the bother, and the cost, to channel the mix to wherever the toxic fluid would do the least damage. 

Simon’s had been Tubal’s go to, not so long ago.  That was until a certain article had appeared in the WadStreet Journal.  The write-up had come from the pen of an animal doctor, who had been at the site to treat one of the work animals; one, so large and strong, it could not be, as others had been, easily replaced – as if the creatures were nothing.  At first, Mr.LaGree had been about over the moon, and bragging to everyone, how he could afford the prominent doctor’s fees.  That all fell flat, real quick, for although the doctor didn’t see much of the place, he certainly had seen enough.  But he had spoken not a word, he had simply did what he was hired to do; clean up and medicate the great beast – and, oh boy, that was some risky business.

At the conclusion of several subsequent visits, the doctor had refused to take even one copper; he had told off ole “LaGrease,” in language one wouldn’t expect a college professor to even know, let alone use.  He then, straightaway, had gone to his writing desk.  When the article hit the paper, LaGree had thrown a hissy-fit, called a lawyer – and the slime-bucket won the suit.  The professor had to pay out dearly, but, evidently, he didn’t care – what was right, was right. Needful to say, was inside a few years, the good doctor’s study had been broken into.  A supposed robbery.  The thieves made off with a plaque, one of just bronze, and a few rare coins – but for what the thieves had come away with, really wasn’t worth the bother; the college being located in a spiffy neighborhood, the robbers would have been better off, doing their nasty business next door.  Some unpublished manuscripts had also gone missing – but that part didn’t hit the papers. 

TubalCain’s father, Lamech, didn’t much care for SimonLaGree, but they did belong to the same lodge.  Lamech had tried to get Tubal-Cain to become a member, but his youngest wasn’t interested in wearing a funny hat, nor an apron – the so-called utility garment was really unsuitable for Tubal-Cain’s work.  However, an old widow, who owned a local steak take-out, used her late husband’s old one, because she liked the neat pockets. 

Lamech, walked around the near complete “air chariot.” Scratching his head, he asked, why not just use a regular horseless.  While Tubal reverenced his Sire, frankly, the old man was so 900s, and needed to get with the times.  Once again, Tubal-Cain, explained to his father, how an air chariot would enable them to hunt down, and slay the feet-fungus, with less time, and a lot less risk to their warriors.  Lamech, however, remained a skeptic – since the idea of being up in the air, didn’t sit well with him.  “Rruh,” he sputtered, “if man was meant to fly, then he’d of evolved with wings!”  Lamech then added, “This technology’s too dern fast!”  Lamech then headed across the room, for the coffee pot. But at least TubalCain’s father was actually making some progress, for the elder had – after much convincing, on his son’s part - finally decided to put away the old wooden bow and stone-tipped arrows, in favor of the power-bow.

Highland wide open spaces

New old paths

Lamech, son of Methuselah, was glad he had listened to his father, concerning the power-bow, he had wanted so badly; for it wouldn’t have done well out here – too much maintenance.  Lamech hadn’t the coin, and that ONE time he had attempted to sweet-talk his father…  Nope, that didn’t happen either.  Good thing, really, because getting a power-bow wet, and then, if not completely dried and polished, leaves it less than reliable – especially during high mists.  Like any charging beast is going to give you a moment.  That had been a close one. Not that either of the two men had any business having gone so far out; it had been on a lark, to climb a nearby hill, where grew some especially tall trees – perhaps tall enough to see over the next ridge’s low point.  Neither Lamech, nor his buddy, had been absolutely sure, but it looked like, before them, in the distance were several other ridges.  Probably.

It had been his buddy who, at the time, had told him about the maintenance-free stainless-steel ones having been available for purchase, but if any had been for sale, but someone else had gotten to the stand, before Lamech even had a chance to look at one.  Certainly, they would have cost … to the moon.  In reality, the modern wonder was, really, more for sport than for roughing it out here. Lamech picked himself up out of the shallow waters, into which, he had slipped.  While several of his stone-tipped arrows had gotten away into the semi-rapids, he had been able to recover some of them.  Anyway, neither he, nor his buddy – who gotten a chuckle – had time to go diving around for the others.  Being so far out in the thicket, the sun would be around - if not below - the horizon, before they would, well, not quite reach the village.  Being even a few furlongs on the far side of the thicket, come nightfall?  Not such a good idea, for either men or their domesticated animals – of which were few.  Back at the old settlement, animals were more accustomed to humans, but not so, out here. Sometimes Lamech, couldn’t help but to wonder, did animals have some sort of language, had they somehow, over time, have been able pass along wisdoms to their kin, if not, even to their competitors – especially warnings to not allow men to get too comfortable.

The perimeter well within sight, no place like home.

It wasn’t like Lamech was the only man, or woman, to wonder how Grandfather Adam and Grandmother Eve had been able to trek east, through the great forest – where the trees were so tall, their branches so thick, that during high noon, it had seemed more like getting toward evening.  It had also been said, the acorns, chestnuts, and the walnuts, especially were a good half a span (about 5 inches) in diameter – one of them falling from a branch, could take out even a bear.  No two ways about it, the Most High God’s mercy nothing short of fact; otherwise, there would have been no way, the First Couple would have, not only arrived, in one piece, to where they had started the old settlement, but with their sanity intact.  While Lamech had been old enough to remember the First Man and First Lady, the details of their long-ago eviction process hadn’t been a topic, either had cared to reminisce.  One story Mother Eve did relate: on the way out from that paradise, the manner in which one of their former companions, a skunk, had expressed his contempt toward the couple.

“Phew!”  The stink upon Lamech’s shirt had come from above – probably from that young stoner; the two men had seen the previous day, while passing by a patch of wild cannabis growing some distance from them. Smelled almost as nasty as skunk spray.  Entering the creek, he removed the garment from his person and immersed himself.  Nearby, upon a small gravelly island, grew several aloe plants – of course, there were more along the banks, but he was in the creek, and between the readily available plants and their gravel base, the smell should come out, at least most of it.  

He donned his trousers – which were still more wet than merely damp.  It was getting toward mid-morning; he wasn’t about to wait around in just a loin-cloth - he didn’t want to make himself a wash-lattice spectacle.  Here, in this land, still new to them, the women didn’t have a particular laundry day - that was a luxury, of which the women had found it necessary to leave behind.   Going six days, and washing on the seventh, meant having enough clean raiment, and other textiles.  Being out here had to be tough on the womenfolk. Lamech thought of his kid sister, who had recently torn her better frock upon a bramble bush.  Maybe that’s how life for the Enu had begun to unravel, he paused while reaching for his still wet shirt; he draped it over his shoulder.  According to the legend; toward the south, there in the lowlands, grew a great jungle, in which the Enu people – having been driven from their lands by another tribe – had attempted to pass; only to end up passing beyond the pale of common decency.

A cautionary tale, indeed.  Lamech recalled, having read part of a journal from one of the explorers, that Enu ran about mostly, if not entirely, naked.  Their shame, exposed to one another, daily, hourly, it was no wonder the stronger took out their reproach upon their weaker vessels.  While Lamech didn’t want for raiment – two or three changes were just fine with him, what he did miss were scrolls, both old and new; the ones his people had managed to bring, were not many.  Did the Enu, once write upon parchment?  It was a question, until the present, Lamech hadn’t given any thought.  “Let’s see…” he reflected aloud to himself, while going over, in his mind, what he had read about them – as well as various other backward groups.  He could only conclude, probably not.  Still, intellectual pride among his people, was still pride – could happen to us, if we don’t watch our step.

Up in the boondocks, (1004)

Baphomet was having a major sulk-fest. The sun would soon be upon the horizon, and by this time, some of Enoch’s residents were getting ready for the party of parties.  Such an event did not, however, make the society’s page, for the party wasn’t the sort attended by the city’s more respectable classes – well, not publicly.  Was the sort of party Baphomet enjoyed being in the midst of.  But that wasn’t happening, for he was a good six-thousand furlongs (750ish miles) north of all the fun.  He spat in disgust, for the only kink in these parts, was…ugh Grot.  The little imp, was, at present, not so little.  Not long after having arrived here, in this devil-forsaken place, Grot had developed an exceedingly sick fetish.  Knowing which plants bound up, and which ones let loose, Grot could barely move about, without moaning in pain.  What a sickie, Baphomet shook his head; he knew what would come next, probably shortly after nightfall; for Grot had just ingested a loosening tuber.  Oh well, the bright spot was: there would be quite a bit of greenery dead by morning.  

Like the other reprobate angels - but even more so on Baphomet’s part – he hated every fern, every leaf, stem and trunk of the Most High’s flora.   Well, that is, except for the thorns and brambles – those were tolerable.   He stomped upon a bush of wild roses, but that wasn’t enough; cursing them, he pounded and scraped the crushed petals into the ground.  He then cursed louder and worse, for the destruction of the buds had released an aroma, one that clung to his person, one he especially hated; a scent so beloved by the women, who gathered such flowers to grace their lord’s table, and to make perfumes.  Silly females, he spat again. 

One such, Barb, was presently dabbing a bit a perfume along her neck; she then climbed into an evening robe.  Hul, her lord, would soon be returning from the settlement’s east side – where he and several other men had been lowering the logs into the ground; slowly, but surely, the enclosure, despite some recent set-backs, was coming along.  Exhausting, sweaty work.  What a bunch of SIMPS, these Sethite men – working like chained wagon-lizards, while their women fussed over setting tables, with food arranged just ever so.  And themselves, and their children, as well, so all would be ever so, before “Daddy” arrived.  Baphomet let out a string of curses, at the very idea.  And each night, not so long after supper, the young children would obediently go to bed when their parents said so, while their older brothers would gather with their friends to play home-carved board games or exchange stories and song; the older sisters, remaining closer to home, might socialize a bit with a neighbor or two.  But not long after it grew dark, the older girls would come and remain well within the confines of their father’s property. 

The Father being the undisputed head of the house, made Baphomet’s mission, well…hardly short of pure torture, only made even worse, for the wife and children were all in.   Oh, here and there, would be some rebellion, but it never lasted, among these…these hicks.  Baphomet stomped away, in frustration, from Hul’s property; a frustration, mixed with fear, for, while he had not the details – nor was he sure, whether or not Satan himself had much in the way of details…not that Baphomet would dare ask.  All he knew was: he was told to stir up trouble between the man and his wife.  Oh, for a while, it was looking good.  But evidently, the root of bitterness didn’t take hold.  Nor would it, for anytime soon.  Some things just can’t be unseen; for Barb was sitting upon her husband’s lap, feeding him grapes.  Her giggling was but another cudgel to his scaley, pointed ears.  That was only the half of it.  A moment later, what was taking place, had Baphomet so hopping mad, the devil feared his head would explode.

Baphomet needed some real excitement, or at least a diversion.  His craving was, possibly, answered, upon hearing a marital disagreement brewing from the House of Mash, located several properties over.  “House,” that made him laugh; they were huts – and huts only large enough…puah, to provide sleeping quarters and storage of their paltry things.  Even the First Families, maybe, had four changes of raiment, and so, the quality of weave and materials were not much better, if any, than those of the commoners.  FF’s! That acronym was funny too; as far as the demon was concerned, they were all nothing but rubes – each and every one of them. 

Mash’s wife, Rachael, was teaching her daughter how to mix a filling, just the way her Father liked.  Well, Rachael hoped so, for one of the ingredients was in short supply – those horrid turkey lizards.  Earlier in the day, she had spotted one of them in her garden.  Already fed UP! she had grabbed a stick and had gone after the little pest – who, evidently, saw it coming.  The creature lunged forward and had taken a bite to her wrist.  The injury had put a dent into her workplans, and still irritated, the last thing she needed to hear, was a certain muted phrase, per a conversation going on at table, at which Mash and his nephew were seated.  

Their guest was soon to be married, and was a bit nervous, concerning the arrangement; one finalized by the couple’s respective fathers.  The comment had been along the lines of, what man isn’t nervous; Mash had earlier spoken, in the context of transitioning from bachelorhood’s easy days to the husband’s ones, of overflowing responsibility.  That part was understandable, especially since the upcoming marriage was arranged.  Neither did the man had anything against the girl; he had thought her attractive enough, and had said something about her beautiful voice.  The man’s unease was his perception that the young woman was kind of stuck up.  It was Mash’s rather off-color response, to that particular thread, which had put Rachael in a bit of a snarl.

The sun, now having reached below the horizon, the younger man departed; at this point, Baphomet became all pointed and crusty ears.  Rachael calmly approached the table, and before her husband, she just as calmly laid before him, a small bar of soap.  Then spoke.  “Husband, could you have not been just a tad more… CRASS!!!”  The reprobate angel’s eyes were served a treat, upon seeing Mash’s raise a hand.   Oh yeah, the devil was ready to see some action – the kind he had seen in the city.  One in particular, he recalled fondly – the scene had erupted to a point, where neighbors had come running to intervene.

Baphomet was so ready.  It was hardly more than a moment later, when both Hu and Heff showed up, to watch.  “It figures,” Baphomet’s reptilian eyes narrowed upon seeing the two good for nothing imps, “Neither of you idiots had bothered to bring ME any popcorn!”  But even if having had a caravan-cart of the stuff, wouldn’t have made the unfolding drama any more entertaining.  The show was not only brief, its conclusion a let-down.  Mash had repented, lowering his hand.  Meanwhile, the couple’s daughter, having already gone to her raised pallet for the evening, had been rather upset; she didn’t like it when Father and Mother had words.   But the young girl’s mind had shortly been put to rest, upon hearing conversation drifting from her parent’s chamber.  Within a moment, the maiden was fast asleep.

The fallen angel stuck around, hoping for a flare-up; instead had heard the conversation.  He couldn’t take it any longer, he ran into the forest where, for most of the night, he bellowed and raged. 

“For kings, and for all that are in authority; that we may lead a quiet and peaceable life in all godliness and honesty. For this is good and acceptable in the sight of God our Saviour;”  I Timothy 2:2-3

Late, again (1005)

NO, this can’t be happening. Barb recounted the tick marks she had faithfully etched upon a shard.  Being normally on time, by a day or two, today was day five.  It was only a matter of time; it wasn’t like she was ignorant of her body’s cycle.  She had only herself to blame, for not being careful, during that few days mid-cycle window.  Counting a third time, the same number #LATE came up.  Oh, this is just peachy, she muttered, putting the shard back where she had retrieved it.  She again reached for the piece.  Per the etchings, today was Tuesday.  No!  Today was Monday, because, the sabbath (Saturday) was the day before yesterday.  Somewhere a day not marked, she thought back to the week before last – and then left off, since there was no point.   

Hul would be all thrilled.  Of course.  But her husband wouldn’t be the one scrambling, over the following months to get as much done as possible, while dealing with backaches and nausea – and later, not able to find a reasonably comfortable position or getting a few hours of undisturbed sleep.  When she had carried Tommy…oh brother😐!  Would be nice to be able to simply purchase the things she would need for the baby.  But the nearest shop…forget it!   Some 6,000 furlongs south.  What really took the cake was, the semi-precious, and even precious, ores up here – plenty!   Just extend your flax field a bit.  Having more than sufficient wealth to exchange wasn’t the issue; had they been able to lift the land, down to, a mere a cubit, and transport it back to where they had come, they would all be – perhaps not Cain-line wealthy, but certainly well-to-do.  She chortled, at the silly thought. 

While reaching upon a shelf for a basket, the vessel brushed against a small bowl containing several gold nuggets she had unearthed while planting a fruit-bearing sapling.   Surveying both the shelf and the counter area, the bowl of nuggets and two or three other items were beginning to cumber up her work space.  She chuckled again.  Between the couple’s respective workspaces, they had enough gold to pound into either a plate, or some other container – but who has time for that?  She inserted her finger into a nearby vase; the cuttings from a neighbor’s flower garden only needed but a swallow of water added.  The tender plants would soon have enough roots to be planted.

Digging into the ground was for farming, and for wells, but anything else?  No, the children of Seth saw no need to marring of the earth for baubles – an abuse close enough to, assaulting one’s grandmother.  Her nose wrinkled at the early childhood recollection – the astonishment upon grownups’ faces, the muted conversation among the aunties.  Her mother’s “I will tell you when you’re older.”  Even then, while not much older than the little boy who lived across the way, Barb had known the outed man had done something very, VERY bad to have been shown the gate (outed from the community).  Nobody had seemed to have known for sure, nor had much cared, how the low-life had met his end - but it sure hadn’t resulted from andy’s crushing jaws, nor from bird lizard’s quick talons. 

The evil having been lawfully put from their presence, life back home had eventually returned to normal.  Back home… She left off the phrase.  Mineral theft had been only one reason, among others, why “home” was no longer back there.   Here, the only thieves were young boys, making off with random pastries – or attempting to.  For a moment, Barb’s normal smile turned downward – on Tommy’s part, that bit of purloined pastry been more about hunger, and less a dare amongst boys. 

At some distance to her side, muffled clunking sounds reached her ears. She glanced toward the forest, Tommy was among the men and older boys; in another day or so, would come the reeeekk and the thud of a felled tree; after which, several days of clunking and thunking of large logs being reduced to transportable lengths, and brought in on wagons, where they would be split into manageable sizes.  Outer branches to facilitate heating water, for cooking, while thicker logs would burn until morning, to keep out intruders – both four-footed and tail-dragging two-footers.

Barb looked up from the basket of foodstuffs she had finished assembling.  Were they not the intruders?  That question, again, had been clarified during one of Pastor’s recent sermons.  “Take dominion…” Andy was ever striving to reclaim his territory – that which he had lost, evidently, when those giant plant eaters had moved in, and had taken out his leafy comforts.  The tusked pachyderm-type creature wasn’t alone – a sire to more than a few.  Word was, his sow was carrying.   

Additions.  Barb counted the napkins, which she had sorted earlier – putting aside the better ones.  The six or seven, which had seen better days, she placed atop the produce.  Numbers.  Last count had been near the same as when they had arrived.  That had been the other part of Pastor Jason’s sermon.  “Husbands and wives,” he had concluded the topic, with a rhetorical question concerning day’s end leisure, “perhaps, a bit less scrolling is in order?”   Saying, without saying, the comment had been more directed toward the latter – a volley of “AMENs” had shot up from the former.

Her mind circled back around to the length of paper drying in the sun.  So far, it seemed the mix was working; the medium was appearing more white than green – though already, there were splotches.  She planned to make more; the next batch, would call for an extra quarter log (about 1/3 of a cup) of one ingredient.  Perhaps somewhat less – better a few splotches, than cracks.  Decent paper was a tradable resource, one she preferred to keep for her own use – but the little one growing within her was making other plans. 

Back home, the phrase reasserted itself, a single gold nugget could purchase a ream of the finest paper, and a few other things.  And here…?  Her mind crunched numbers, while looking over the rack where the splotchy reed-some (9 feet) length lay drying.  Though the sheet contained neither buckles nor bubbles, back home, the paper merchant might have taken it off her hands for two coppers – maybe. 

A tinny rattling of a gong went off, and had been immediately followed up by another.  A third one joined in.  Every man, woman, and child knew the drill.  Take cover.  A large bird of prey had been spotted cruising above the tree line, and was, apparently, heading toward their settlement.  Peeking out the chamber’s entrance, the one end of the drying rack remained in her vantage.  She felt reasonably confident her husband and son – as well as the other men and boys - had also found refuge, and would remain.  Either way, there was no sense for her to do otherwise than remain in place.  

A past memory surfaced, one of a long ago visit to Purveyors.  Father had pulled out several silver coins, and exchanged them for an exquisitely painted vase, which Mother had wanted.  Lennix…was that the merchant’s name?  Barb did, however, remember the small vase had been part of the “Barclay” collection.  Mother still had it, and the lovely work of art had somehow survived, relatively unmarred throughout the half-year some journey up and down ridges and across valleys. 

Remnants.  Mother’s vase, Rachael’s best gown – though showing signs of wear, Glorianna’s white gold hairpiece, Marcella’s tea service.  Materials obtained through the flow of civilization’s pipeline – gold and silver.  Here, so beyond the pale, precious gems were simply nice to look at, but not tradable for things which any given person couldn’t make for his or herself.  What was that new old saying, Barb asked herself that rhetorical question.  “You can’t eat gold, nor fell trees with silver.”  From somewhere outside, the rustle of shrubbery and muffled grunts meant only one thing:  the winged beast was but moments away from ubering back to her nest.  Back in civilization, flying predators were a danger, but not like here.

Of all times, Barb sighed.  She had to pee.  Careful to make as little noise as possible, her feet touched the rushes.  Reaching for the chamber pot she took care of business, then placed it in back of the chamber – instead of its usual place near the entrance; lest the winged beast get a whiff, and, instead, opt to feed her brood a convenience meal – one which had neither hoof nor toothy snout. 

As she turned, something had caught onto the side back of her skirt; her ears detected a different sound.  She grimaced at the cause.  A vine growing inward upon the lattice – the same one she had meant to snip.    The rend in the faded weave was overdue, the garment had already been but a few washings away from being recycled into basket liners, napkins and washrags.  It wasn’t like Barb lacked clothing, but that wasn’t the point, over the years, memories had woven into the fabric.  The berry stain upon the lower bodice had taken hold, during a visit to a neighboring village.  While she and her late cousin, Lylia, hadn’t always been on the same page, Barb had liked the rather over dainty woman.  Lylia was smart.  She could work complex mathematical equations – without having to run through a quarter ream of paper. She recalled her cousin saying something about calculus being among the works granted from the Most High God to restrain men, “and women,” from wandering into savagery.

And here we are, struggling to get by, completely on our own, and far removed from the shops, the art gallery, the theatre – cut off from civilization.  The rend posed yet another reminder.  Like the Enu? 

Sitting upon the marital bed, she then curled into a ball, and wept.

(Another thread

Pastor Jason had been peeved at those guys!  Barb could still, after all these decades, recall the details – for pulling that stunt, her father had spent an entire day sitting in the stocks.  Oh, that sermon!  Why, Pastor hadn’t been even halfway through it, and it was as if she had felt Sheol’s foul flames nipping at her feet.  She had been not much older than eleven, and having had nothing to do with erecting the poles, nor pounding upon the tips the severed heads of about a dozen intruders – who had decided to quarry for a vein of whatever precious gem, one, or more of them, had happened upon – into territory in which they had no business.  The would-be mining operation – within Sethite boundaries- at the time, had been the last of Barb’s concerns. 

There she had been, at the mourner's bench, pleading - right alongside the two or, was it three, of the returned sentries - pleading for the Most High God's mercy; not to be cast, and left - forever - in that horrible place - where hot slimy worms, with big gunky fangs, craw and bite.  So scared, out of her wits, the last thing on her mind, had been to smirk at Mash's obvious trembling - he merely had been another hapless beggar, also on bended knee, beside her.  Her convicting sin?  That one she couldn’t recall, just some typical kid-stuff, but sin is sin.

Barb never cared for Mash.  Maybe if his wife had stood up for herself, from the get-go...but Rachael was Rachael, and it wasn't Barb's business to horn in.  Still, it bothered her how the elders would just look the other way.  Several days ago, during the later portion of the community's pot-luck.   Barb, had been on her way back from using the outhouse, and had not been in on the details – neither had she heard her friend’s retort but she heard the term “Buster.”  Oopps, that wasn’t good.  .

Barb didn't, and probably never would, understand it.  Why would Mash have any cause to strike Rachael?  She was so pretty.  No, Rachael was drop-dead gorgeous. always neat, her garments just ever so - and gentle in her ways; unlike Barb, who had simply run a quick brush through her hair, tie it up, throw on what she had worked in the day before, and go about her business.  While Barb kept things neat enough and in sufficient order, Rachael was super vigilant, about everything - even her apron; a fresh one, every day; if she had gotten so much as a spot, she would, quick time change into another.  Same with Rachael's daughter; the maiden wasn't even allowed to get dirty.  Barb, remembering her childhood - booger-bear, hide-and-seek, lord-of-the-hill, and getting grimy in the process - felt sorry for the girl.

As with about everybody else in her village, Barb had enjoyed her childhood.  After her chores, climbing trees, playing tag, bat ball – the real kind; games, boys her age had enjoyed.  Of course, somewhere between the ages of fifteen and twenty, her male cousins had begun excluding her.  She had taken the hint, but had been rather slow in taking up the pursuits of her female cousins – all they wanted to do, was stitch on their samplers, or make clothes for themselves and their bride-to-be and their baby dolls.  Ugh, boring.  Barb instead, had found solace in the copper-dreadfuls, which she had been able to purchase from the coppers she had earned from whatever odd little gigs the neighbors would offer – be it beating mats, helping a busy mom with a large family’s laundry, or a bit of general tidying up for an elderly person.

She touched her belly; the child inside would never get to visit a scroll-booth.  What kind of childhood is that!    

Hardly a few moments later, Mash and Rachael were arm and arm, among several others, joyously singing songs and swaying to the melody.   WOW!  Rachael’s voice was mesmerizing – any wonder, there were verses where everyone else, including Mash, would leave off, just to hear her sing, and then rejoin, as if her brief solo, stirred their voices, while their hands raised toward the Most High.   Around the singers, several flutes, a tabor, a rebec, two lyres, one or more tambourines, and a harp – later, the man with the setar joined in; one of the ladies, playing a tambourine, had stepped out to take a break.  In short, the fancy concert hall in Enoch, had nothing on them. 

Between songs, here and there, various birds, and other creatures, were also holding their nightly recitals.  The hour began growing late.  With morning coming early, here and there, couples began departing; one of the wives remarked about wanting to get home, lest she turn into a pumpkin.   

Rewriting the script

Pastor just had to, again, pick the topic he was currently preaching – it’s theme, contained the phrase, “Be fruitful and multiply.”  Understandably, he had started with a prayer, thank the Most High God for allowing the pointed logs to fall outward.  In no uncertain terms, everyone was most grateful for that.  He then, talked about the need to keep their trust in the Most High, for He knew what was best for his people.  Here is where some murmuring could be heard – from several individuals who wanted the barrier, despite the ongoing setbacks.  However, the Council’s vote resulted in around two out of three, in favor to just leave off the project – and cut up the logs for the night fires.  Pastor continued, “and replenish the earth, and subdue it: and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.”

It was the last phrase of the Scripture that got to Barb, and evidently, a few others.  While Sethites lacked degrees from Enoch’s fine college, even the children knew the definition of “subdue,“ and that taking “dominion” was CERTAINLY no walk in Hereshe Park – a rather extensive amusement park, just outside of Purveyors.  Barb had a little prayer of her own – well, actually for her unborn baby.  “Please, LORD God, let this child be a boy.”  While she didn’t so much as whisper the next half, she sure thought the following, because this isn’t any sort of place for a little girl.  She blinked back tears.

Thinking back, and to where she was now, there was one copper-dreadful, that if she could do a do-over, she would have never plunked down the two coppers.  Its title was “The Savage Jungle.”  The setting was, in the southlands, where, supposedly, a tribe of one of Cain’s descendants who neither smelted metal nor farmed fields.  It was, basically, a melodrama – domineering men, who had supposedly ran around mostly naked and had tattooed their alabaster bodies with woad.  At the turn of each season, a maiden was taken far into the jungle, and left as an offering to thunder-lizard.  The girl’s grieving mother, of course, gets a sound backhand from the child’s father. It was one of those guy-gets-gal tropes, where a brave explorer – and the only one of his party to survive – rescues the fair maiden, who returns with him to civilization, becomes his wife, and the couple – from exceedingly different backgrounds - live happily ever after.

She had not taken it too seriously, and neither had anyone else.  It eventually had been written into a play – one which, her late husband Tom had a part.  The two-act play, though not a comedy, had turned into one – at least for several moments - when the guy, who played the front portion of the attacking thunder-lizard, had let loose a noisy one; the audience ended up in stitches when the back half of the lizard, played by Tom, yelped, “DUDE, what th…!”  Hadn’t been serious then, but living far outside of civilization’s perimeter for going on five years, as far as Barb was concerned, “The Savage Jungle” was no longer just some third-rate story, about a lost tribe, which not every Enoch-U professor was certain, had existed.   Unlike the fictional story, the one unfolding before her, she feared could come true.  This time: the cast’s lines were courteous sentences, not harsh grunts – even while dealing with failing props.  More like, lack thereof. 

Her metal pastry fork – that is, the remaining three circular bars left of it – had completely given up the ghost, by separating from the handle.  Like any other housewife, she had wooden ones, but they didn’t work the same.  Mixing batter took twice as long – as if women had oodles of disposable time.  While had read of the Enu having been chased from their lands, she couldn’t help but to wonder if Enu wives had found themselves having to make do, as the things they used wore out and couldn’t be replaced.  Why, the adjustable clothes pins – with their stainless-steel fulcrums – formerly taken for granted, had become rare enough; the remaining had become currency amongst the wives.  She recalled the evening before they had begun their exodus, from their home in the foothills, having not bothered to retrieve the three or four remaining upon her clothesline.  “It’s just stuff?”  She recalled someone saying.  Really!  She couldn’t help but to wonder if not having “just stuff” was edging them to a certain point not too far from the east perimeter, where an incline led down a steep hill – a descent into savagery.

Speaking of…Barb lifted an eyebrow.

One of the young men, across the aisle had turned and said something to the fellow seated beside him.  The forty-something young man’s name was Boco – but his friends called him Tooth – for around his neck hung, upon a leather thong, one eye-tooth and a partial of the other, from a beast he had slain, Hhmph, he could have at least done a better job washing off the ochre from his face and arms – this is worship service, after all. 

And you’re spot on attention – the convicting thought refocused Barb’s concentration.

Meanwhile, seated in the back, and somewhat apart from the other women and their children, Isabel heard the preaching – this present sermon, especially, with a heavy heart.  Wedded for almost two centuries, the only child she had been able to give her husband, had been an early miscarriage.  While she and her husband had nieces and nephews, still it wasn’t the same.  She blew into a hankie, and continued listening.

“And God blessed them, and God said unto them, Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over every living thing that moveth upon the earth.”  Genesis 1:28  

Later that day

While most everyone else was visiting, or being visited, Barb sought needed solitude at her little refuge – the tree stump, where the rose bushes now had some company; Barb had recently planted, two or three lilac bushes.  Neither bush had any blossoms, for it still was the down season; a few weeks, when many plants went into a rest period.  The afternoon sun was waning toward evening; she reached for her cloak.  Mountain air, hmmph!.  Back home, she stopped herself; here was home, and grumbling wouldn’t keep away the chill.  She had no reason to kvetch anyway, Tommy had a warm blanket, and so did Hul and she.  She had also made an extra – as with some spare clothing - for one never knows when someone will be in need; such as the neighbor who had a hut-fire.  No one had been hurt, but the family of five had lost everything.  Maybe tomorrow, she would have enough yarn ready to begin knitting a new blanket.

She arose from her spot, dashed inside the hut and brought out her sewing basket.  Although working on the Sabbath was frowned upon… nuts to that!  She had things to do.  Parking the basket behind the stump, she reached for a little pouch containing her cutting stones; one or more could stand a sharpening.  She once had a pair of metal scissors, but they – along with her potato-peeler – were lying at the bottom of that gulch; by now, probably half-rusted from the morning mists.  Those scissors had been the best; well worth the silver and two coppers.  “We’re reduced to…this,” she spoke to the flint she held in her palm.  The sun inched toward the horizon.  She glanced out into the thicket.

“The Savage Jungle,” was, supposedly, but an old merchant’s tale.  In the unabridged story, a country-dwelling Cainite tribe, just minding their own business, had run into difficulty with a neighboring tribe; the smaller, less powerful group had to flee, quickly, for the southland jungles.  It was said, the would-be conquerors had hardly set within a few furlongs of that jungle, when they turned around and got out of there, lest they be consumed.  Although Barb had no proof, she believed the legend; and unlike any of the stories derived from it – which were for but entertainment value only; even then, though she hooted, along with everyone else, at the ugly painted, bungling spear-chucking bullies - and laughed when old-thunder had let one rip – and had cheered to the rafters, when the brave, handsome explorer had rescued the maiden.  Afterward, she had found herself feeling quite sorry for the women and children of the fictional story, but the Enu - known as the Lost Sons of Cain – were real, or at least had been; whether or not, they still existed in that jungle, was but speculation.   The south jungle, from what she had read and had heard, sounded even worse than the North Hedge, where the girth of even young redwoods were wider than merchants’ houses, and the leafy ground lumpy with roots, to trip any unfortunate man – or beast.  It was said, oaks grew almost as massive – and you didn’t want to find yourself – too late - beneath any falling acorn.

A flapping sound caught her attention.  She watched the colorful creature fly toward the west, then realized she had lost track of time.  Worship service would soon be underway, and between making herself ready, and finding Tommy – who was probably all dusty and dirty; she hoped her boy was with Hul – but then again, nix that thought, for they would probably both be the same.  Either way, the family would be late; like a lot of things, it fell upon the wife to see that her family was ready for worship service, whether they were or were not.  Frankly, she wanted to play hooky, and just relax a bit, but changed her mind; for neglecting the company of believers was but a step closer - to borrow a Cainite phrase – devolving into savagery.

“And God blessed the seventh day, and sanctified it: because that in it he had rested from all his work which God Created and made.” Genesis 2:3

“Not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together, as in the manner of some is; but exhorting one another: and so much the more, as ye see the day approaching.”  Hebrews 10:25

Take a pill, kid!

That last kick, hurt.  In the tree stump, she had a little something, which would quiet the child within her.  But, uh-uh, no way!  Ever since that five-day late, she hadn’t touched any of that stuff. Barb was, maybe, two or three weeks from the birthing stool.  From the wham of that kick, she felt almost confident, that didn’t come from a girl.  For that, she was thankful, though tired.  Would be nice to just rest, but so much work to do.  Work, work, and more work.  If there hadn’t been more than enough work in the old place – she was training herself to not refer to the old village as “home,” because that life was over.  That life was almost easy-peasy, compared to …here.  Here, was certainly no place for a little girl; she would only work her little nails to …puah, about non-existent.  Barb glanced at her hands, somewhat ruefully shaking her head; by the time any of her nails even considered reaching past the end of a finger, it would either chip or break.  She heard that Glori had ended up throwing out her last bottle of nail-color, for the seal had broken, and the contents had become gunky.  Poor lady, for as hard as Glori had worked, she somehow had managed to have beautiful nails.  Not so, anymore, for hers were a chipped and broken mess, just like those of the other women.

The following Wednesday afternoon, Pastor’s wife, Marcella, had invited some of the ladies over for tea.  At which, Barb, though she had a pleasant time – had experienced one of those “before and after” moments.  Of which she had made a mental note to tell it to her diary – which, another before-and-after – had before been kept on nice sheets from Purveyors.  Now after, her diary – when she had any time for it – was written upon lumpy greenish uneven sheets, she had managed to make herself.  Needful to say, her old diary was scattered among the things she and others had lost to the gulch.  The tea?  She had attended such, before.  Before, the lady’s tea service had been a complete set – from what she had gathered, the honey container, one of the cups, and two other missing pieces were…well, probably with Barb’s old diary.  Before, the women had worn their best dresses; now, the only “best dresses” were those the least faded.  Before, the ladies had worn nice sandals.  Now, some were barefoot.  Including Barb, for she had one good pair, but with her feet and ankles so swollen, she could not fit into them, nor into her old ones.

The function, to Barb – and perhaps to a few of the other ladies – was, in a way, rather sad.  It was as if, each of the ladies were grasping at civilization’s last strands.  Yet Barb questioned herself – a question she, more than a few times, had asked herself:  Was she overthinking?  Either way, she tabled her thoughts, of which later she could DearDiary.  New word in Purveyors had been, “therapeutic.”  Sure, it was but a sales pitch – dressed as medical science - to get women to buy parchments.  Be that as it may, Barb had pitched more than a few coppers in that direction – and as far as she was concerned – call DearDiarying, what ye will, she felt furlongs more comfortable confiding on paper, than to people. People had their own problems, and surely didn’t need any of hers.

The lemon cakes?  Oh, those lovelies hadn’t changed.  With her stomach acting up again, rendered the slices being too large.  Instead, Barb had chosen a smaller treat.  She also had been the first to leave.  Since, she lived but a short distance from the Pastor and Marcella, walking home wasn’t an issue.  One of the older women, who had sprained her ankle, was walking with a cane, had stood up; with a good-natured jibe, she spoke.  “I’ll see you home, lest that young andy be about, looking for a honey.”  Barb took the jibe as it was intended – and also the older woman’s offer.  Barb was tuckered, and just wanted to get home, and lay down for a just a bit, before starting supper.

The afternoon tea concluded, the women departed.  Rachael stayed on to help Marcella clean up.  Rachael not being one to impinge upon another woman’s precious time – for they all had so much work in their lives, but Rachael had, for some while, a pressing concern – one which had become VERY pressing; one, she somehow knew, was a matter of now or never.  A concern which, throughout the ages – and into the distant future – most would go about their lives, hardly giving a thought.  “I don’t want to end up forever skewered, by vile creatures” Racheal began to sob.  Marcella put aside the tray, to which she had been giving a quick repolishing.  “Well, honey, nobody wants to go there.”  Marcella motioned her remaining guest to take a seat – the cups and the remaining cakes could wait.  Her lovely tea service, with most the pieces still present, could all turn to dust as far as Marcella was concerned, for before her, sat a person who was, for real, concerned about her eternal soul.

“Then he is gracious unto him, and saith, Deliver him from going down to the pit: I have found a ransom.  His flesh shall be fresher than a child’s: he shall return to the days of his youth: He shall pray unto God, and he will be favourable unto him: and he shall see his face with joy: for he will render unto man his righteousness.” Job 33:24-26

Several days later

“I’m hungry…” Mash announced, on his way out from his work area, toward the table – where, as many times previous, he would take his seat upon that ornate chair, where he would wait – sometimes less than patiently – to be served food and drink.  Upon seeing the scroll opened, however, he swallowed the remainder of his request and waved his hand, signaling a “never mind, not important.”  He then turned around and headed back to whatever he had going on in the shed.  Any other time, he would have not thought twice about interrupting his wife, in whatever task she was in the midst.  But this time, was of utmost importance – one that came ahead of an overgrown boy wanting food - for his wife was reading his family’s copy of the HolyWrit. 

Just then, his daughter Ruthie rounded the corner; in her hand was a sizable basket of plums.  He signaled her over. She set the basket down.  “Is my script that bad?”  The young woman paused, for she didn’t want to lie – to anyone, let alone her father.  “Uhm,” the girl hesitated – having heard the preachings, as to where all liars end up… where icky things craw into your nose, ears, and other places.  Holding out one palm, his other hand scratched his beard. He had his answer, yet the times his children had read from it, they smoothed it upon the table’s surface.  “If your mother holds it much closer, she’ll inhale it up her nose.”  Ruthie, not having to answer, breathed a sigh of relief, “Father, Mamma reads that way, because the words get blurry if she doesn’t”

His daughter’s response answered several questions.  Giving her leave, she went her way.  In the midst of hammering together boards for a table – one which his 2^nd born son, Bron, already had the draft-work of a previous epic, upon grass-paper and was looking forward to transferring the story onto the table’s sides – Mash pondered over the answers. 

“Dead things are formed from under the waters, and the inhabitants thereof.  Hell is naked before him, and destruction hath no covering.” Job 26:5-6

New arrival

“But Father, this is, women’s work!”  Tommy backed away, from the pantry work table with a look of disgust upon his young face.

“Yeah!” Hul handed Tommy a bowl filled with various tubers, dried apples and a few other things, stored from last harvest.  “And your Mother is flagged out.” Hul pointed to an area upon the dining table, adding, “she needs to rest.”   Hul then, crossed from the pantry into the sleeping chamber; his wife was out like a light.  “Well, dig in, it’s just us guys tonight.”  Hul then remembered he had forgotten to place wiping cloths beside the three trenches.  It went unspoken to both the man and the boy, without the watchful, narrowing eyes of a woman, hands could be wiped on clothing, or the table cloth, or just licked. 

A few days later, Barb just wanted to cry at the state of her pantry and table – the cloth was a finger-wiped mess.  But frankly, she was too tired, and too bloated to care.  Doing what she could, just keeping up, she tried to do some catch up, but that was cut short, by the warm trickle, then a flow, of liquid running down her legs.  The midwife called, both Hul and Tommy hotfooted elsewhere – especially, Hul.  For he had heard the piercing screams of other women, did not want to hear those of his wife’s.  But he had heard the loudest, for the last of them had been during third watch (early am).  So had half, if not most, the village.  Tommy, staying with Enoch’s widow, his great grandmother, had apparently slept right through it – for he had been playing all day with his cousins.  Hul past much of the time sitting beneath a tree in the common area, wanting to get far away, but at the same time...

Was that a baby’s cry that reached his ear?  He was up.  At the door, he was greeted by, not the midwife, but her bouncer – Glorianna, who directed him to wait at the long table.  A moment later, the midwife carried the bundle to him, but he didn’t immediately acknowledge the infant, for his concern was Barb.  The midwife, gently, respectfully, barred the man’s entrance into his chamber.  “She’s fine, just messy right now, so you can’t see her just yet.”  She then unbundled the child, holding up the naked baby.  “You’ve a healthy son.”  Giving the boy’s father just enough, but no more, time to examine for himself. She then bundled the infant, for the night air was chill.

For the next two or three days, Hul was basically homeless – more by choice than anything.  With women coming and going…nah, better to sleep in either the common area or maybe crash for a bit in the council house – but the later, was usually occupied by young men.  Hul was really in no frame of mind to hear, or smell, farting contests throughout the night. He took his place beneath one of the trees in the common area.

He had memories of Purveyors too.  One of the shopkeepers, had a certain set a quarterly dreadfuls, entitled, “PUA,” short for “Pick Up Artist” written and illustrated by some guy, called Hugh…or something like that.  No, Hugh wasn’t a nancy – well, at least not outwardly, but who knows, who cares.  His take was, well that, but the man was like the proverbial sun-dial – absolutely right, once daily.  Marriage did soften a man.  That was a fact.  Hul enjoyed good meals, served in clean bowls and trenchers, upon a clean oil-cloth; he enjoyed wearing clean clothing, sleeping on a bed of recently aired skins and covers washed and rinsed with fresh smelling herbs.  He, however, sure did miss…but that couldn’t be for yet awhile.  How long?  A few months?  He didn’t know, but from what he’d heard…Better to wait; his wife was probably torn up some, and needed to heal.   

Realm of spirits

Third, or forth, break

Meanwhile, in one of the breakrooms, within the heavenly castle, two angels were playing a round of multi-dimensional algebraic scrabble.   The one had bungled a move; that wasn’t usual.  “Something has been bothering you, may I ask?”  His partner – in the LORD God’s service – didn’t quite know how to address what had been bothering him; he then just outed with it.  “So farbeit, for me to even think I might know a mere billionth of the Most High God’s will, but why…why is ImpotentRage still running about?”  The monstrosity - though, technically, an imp – wielded almost a devil’s power.  His co-servant shook his head, “I do not know, but that one is exceedingly dangerous.”  Both knew of the falling out between the imp and Destroyer was being tabled – at least for a season. “Things are going to get ugly in Enoch.”

Only a matter of time

Mouth was relaxing upon Destroyer’s bedstead of iron, while reaching for another mega-maggot; oh yeah, tasty – unlike those bland things, found upon any expired beast of forest or field.   He reached for one of the animal skin covers – its underside matted with decaying flesh - and caressed it to his boogery snout; he took in the odor.  “Oh, this is the best.” Mouth hugged himself, twisting his swollen body. Oooch, the movement had caused the chastity belt, which Destroyer had put upon him, to chafe, and reopen a wound, which the belt’s constraints had aggravated.  But Mouth kind of liked that.  What Mouth didn’t like, however, was the worry he felt.  Destroyer had been absent for several days; he had said something about a business trip.  Business trip…then why hadn’t he been invited to come along?  This had been the forth…no, the fifth, one.  Mouth, of course, knew better, through experience, than to ask for any details; was one thing to play dungeon, but another to be locked into one.  Mouth was trying to stop himself from considering the unthinkable: Destroyer might actually be…lying? to him, and was presently with another, enjoying the games they played.  Something was different, that was undeniable; for Mouth had, before the previous business trip, had exclaimed to his dom, “Wha, wol, what about me?”  To which Destroyer had coldly replied, “What about you!”

Mouth’s ears were alerted to a disturbance in the outer corridor. He smiled, upon hearing the delicious sound of a human skull - a servant, likely, who had passed too close, or had simply existed - being crushed into a stone wall, not too far outside Destroyer’s private chambers, of which – at least for the time being - only Mouth had access.  Before Mouth had time to assume an alluring position, the chamber door opened with a bang.  In swaggered Destroyer.  But he wasn’t alone; with him was ImpotentRage – the big imp, with an oversized tongue, was licking on a large rectangular lollipop – one that looked like it had lain, for about a lunar cycle, in a gutter, somewhere in NuMarket.  With a cold stare, Destroyer snapped, “Be gone.”  He then tossed Mouth the key to the chastity belt – it landed into a pile of muck; Mouth winced in pain, as he frantically searched the pile before him, and then another; meanwhile Destroyer’s foot was impatiently tap, tap, tapping away.

Leaving Destroyer’s underground lair, Mouth was left with having to consider his prospects – a tough call for many, if not most, imps.  He wasn’t about to join Destroyer’s harem of previous months. The competition to possess humans, and even great beasts, was keen – usually a bit too keen for imps who weren’t servicing a devil.  ImpotentRage was one of the few imps who was able to, sometimes, possess a human – but the last human he had possessed, had gotten into a barfight, lost, and was presently screaming away within the stinking fires of Sheol.  Mouth passed a swine farm, swearing, he would NEVER get that desperate.  Well, didn’t take long for Mouth to get that desperate; hardly a day later, he took possession of a male swine, and things were … eh, somewhat tolerable.  For a season, a short one, for Mouth.  The bull swine, was a rock, and trying to chat up a certain sow - who was bathing herself in a pond, which the farmer had put in for his animals.  The boar was mesmerized, watching the sow – oh yeah, she was a babe; but Mouth didn’t want any parts of that.  Instead, Mouth took the helm, running his host in an alternate direction.  Problem was, the other boar didn’t swing that way, and being bigger and meaner, killed Mouth’s host.

Mouth was not having a good season.

“For only Og king of Bashan remained of the remnant of giants; behold, his bedstead was a bedstead of iron; is it not in Rabbath of the children of Ammon?  nine cubits was the length thereof, and four cubits the breadth of it, after the cubit of a man.”  Deuteronomy 3:11

“When the unclean spirit is gone out of a man, he walketh through dry places, seeking rest, and findeth none.”  Matthew 12:43

“And they besought him that he would not command them to go out into the deep.  And there was there an herd of many swine feeding on the mountain: and they besought him that he would suffer them to enter into them.  And he suffered them.”  Luke 8:31-32