Chapter 6 Fresh air

 

Chapter 06

Fresh mountain air

Not a country fan

Baphomet was in a rough spot, and he had taken to biting his talons.  Assigned, for what reason, he knew not, to again cause division between those two nobody’s – Hul and Barb.  Wasn’t working.  To the contrary, the whole face-paint idea, one which Baphomet had deluded himself into thinking was his idea, in reality, had barely anything to do with his influence.  While the idea itself was through man’s own fallen nature, still, the colors and designs some of the men had taken to paint upon their faces, were strange to the beasts, who were intent upon crossing the perimeter, and yet some of the beasts had, apparently, thought it wise to, instead, steer away from …crazy.  Though Baphomet had attempted to make something that was not, and take credit, the king of lies, Satan, saw right through it.  And because of this blunder, on Baphomet’s part, his R&R that he was supposed to get, had been revoked.  And if that, in itself, hadn’t been bad enough, his break would have occurred in time for the New Year’s Eve celebration, on the square, in none other than downtown Enoch – where the action is.  If Baphomet weren’t so vile and wicked, one could almost feel sorry for him.  (Nope, not sorry 😊)

Of course, Baphomet’s imp servants were granted permission to spend the entire month in the city.  And boy, were they gleeful, filling in the details – especially the parties, so delightfully cringe; upon returning to their master, who was not only stuck in the boonies, but where the only music were hymns - sung by, which in his mind, were unschooled voices – work songs, love melodies and other folk ballads played upon tinny sounding homemade instruments. While Baphomet’s imp servants, had the freedom to run about the city, and although – competition being as it is – had to make do with possessing rodent bodies; still, the returning imps, were hashing on about the pleasures of biting the toes of drunks and druggies, while enroute to taking in the spectacle of this and that uptown orgy; that was, of course, before being run off, lest their host bodies be slain by security. 

In less prosperous sections, these doorkeepers were called “bouncers.”   The dusty later resented the uniformed former, for slaves were taking the better guard posts, which freemen, in former days, had aspired.   Slavery was becoming more prevalent, and putting many a day laborer out of work, and in a real fix.   While there were Abolitionist voices, they were being drowned out, by the black jersey’d fish-with-feet party. Wasn’t too long after that beer-hall speech, ProfToff, began gaining support.  Oh, to have been in that hall, where the action is.  Baphomet, also relished seeing men oppressed, by the richer, stronger and/or more organized.  But alas, where he was, he could only settle for hearing, but not witnessing, the details.

I should be in the city, not here, Baphomet sulked.  Satan was an idiot.  Did he not realize the potential threat to his kingdom, coming…from all places, in one of Enoch’s working-class neighborhoods.  According to Baphomet’s sources, word had reached Prof’s ears about a certain song, played by some rag-tag band, and of the man and the woman who had begun singing the ballad’s lyrics.  The scene had, evidently sparked interest in some supposed warrior GodKing - among people who could find no solace in a world view where all plants, animals and themselves arose from, basically, pond scum; only to struggle in dirty crowded situations; to somehow put not quite enough food on the table, inadequate raiment upon work-worn backs.  All along, only to grow old too early, to sicken and die, before their 600^th year – as if they mattered about as much as the typical gutter rodent. 

Word was: Toff had, evidently, gotten into a real snit about the street musicians, and the passersby, who were listening.  The interest in the GodKing was not merely among the city’s total losers, but among the barrel makers, construction workers, weavers – people who sometimes have sufficient coppers to buy, even brand new, scrolls.  Certainly enough for him to harbor fear for his book sales.  Every copper mattered, for Toff was…well, in a bit of a jam.  For, unlike Lamech, his father-in-law, Toff wasn’t careful with money.  And this is where Tubal-Cain, had been biding his time, just a little while longer, he was going to have the teets-on-a-boar unalived; the job would be easy enough – just a friendly game of cards, with ole EagleEye.  ProfToff looked down his nose at manual laborers, thinking such men weren’t smart enough to spot cooked cards.  Tuba-Cain hadn’t cared for Toff from the get-go, but he had gone way too far; Toff had beat up Naamah, TubalCain’s sister, one time too many.  She would soon be a widow, able to live a peaceful life, and eventually, hopefully, no longer flinching at about every other ordinary noise.

Baphomet, of course, only learned of all this, second hand; he absolutely relished watching men beat up women, especially husbands beating their wives.   Neither did Tubal-Cain’s plans to avenge Naamah sit well with Baphomet.  He grabbed one of the chattering imps by the neck, and up against a knotty tree, bashed the smirk off the imp’s face.  The reprobate angel spat, for the only action in this nowheresville was a slap, maybe a shove; about the worst insults husbands voiced to their wives was “You ninny!”  About the only thing, lately, that even remotely gave him a thrill, however brief, had been on a certain night, a short while back, when one of the nobodies, Rachael, had been especially tired, and simply wanted to go to sleep; her husband, Mash, had other ideas.  To add even more insult to Baphomet’s twisted injury had been, the couple’s encounter had progressed far different than it had begun – neither had it been brief.

Some five years later: around 1010

“Oh, how did you get so dirty?”  Barb giggled, hugging her five year-old son, Jared, while washing the dirt and grime from, his face.  Named after the boy’s paternal great, great, grandfather, Headman Jared; any resentment Barb had harbored, lay upon the ridge, four cubits beneath, within the folds of the Headman’s good cloak, which covered their former healer’s remains.  With all of Barb’s duties, it simply saved her time, to bathe the youngster and herself at the same time.  And a perfect afternoon, rather warm, if not somewhat balmy, for so early in the season.  While he was old enough to wash himself...yeah, sure… and not bother with behind his ears, or the bottoms of his feet.  Still, young Jared was five, and getting too big to be seeing his mother without any clothing upon her upper body.    When Tommy had been five, bathing in such a manner hadn’t been in issue; why Tom, she and young Tommy would bathe, splash, and laugh together in the stream.  But Jared was Hul’s son, and Hul was …well, quite conservative. 

Oh, if Jared could remain five, for just a little bit longer, but time simply didn’t work that way.  She reached for her garment, pulling it over her while standing up.  She then reached for the boy’s garment, but before she had half a chance to put it upon him, he had spotted a nearby turkey-lizard.  Already with a stick in hand, the boy took off, buck naked, running after the creature – who was fleeing toward the bushes.  Oh no!  Barb followed, for there could be, and probably was another, if not two, lurking, and ready to defend their fellow, against the stick swinging young biped.   With the steam of a chariot runner, she took off, caught up, and retrieved her son – who was struggling against her.  “Boy, you’re going to give me a head of gray hair.”  Carrying him back to the hut, he still struggled, wanting another go at that lizard.  “Honey, it’s time for your nap,” she then added, “and mine too.”

As usual, the boy having protested against having to take a nap – because such is for babies – the child lay beside her, fast asleep.  She arose, and kissed her sleeping young son upon his forehead.  Per the sun’s haze, nearing the tree-line, she had to get supper ready, for her Husband and elder son, Tommy would be shortly returning.  She made some haste, for she had slept a bit longer than she had intended.  Jared’s little head peeped from the chamber.  “Momma, I wanna go play Bat the Buzzards!”  Buzzards was another name for turkey-lizards.  “No, honey, not yet.” she retrieved a serving bowl from a shelf, “Your brother will be along shortly.” Removing the lid from a clay container, she added, “then you can play BB.” Hope you both get a couple of those monsters, she thought to herself, thinking of the possible, if not probable close call, but two hours prior.  Little devils, her legs and feet had more than a few scars. 

In the wee hours of the following morning,

Barb lay snuggled under a generous blanket, which kept both she and Hul – who lay upon his back, snoring rather loudly – all warm and comfy.  It wasn’t her lord husband’s snores that kept her awake.  It was Tommy.  His absence; for he was of the age, when boys began the long and arduous process into manhood.  Poor kid was probably shivering, likewise the other boys, out there, somewhere, sleeping upon the ground – with only a cloak, lain over a thin layer of grasses…hopefully, even that, to buffer between them and the upcoming mists.  The sounds of certain night creatures were the timepiece that vocalized around midway into the third watch – when the mists would thicken, making things damp.  Who could forget that nightly trail-time fun-time – wahoo 😐  Even, while a little girl, fussing with her older brother – who could be an obnoxious jerk, when he wanted – yet, she had felt empathy when he had reached the age of, basically, becoming functionally a homeless – only to return for meals and a change of raiment.  Not wanting to let in the gathering moist chill, she slipped out from the chamber bed, and parted the curtain only enough to pass through.  At least her brother, when he had reached his late teens, only had to deal with nightly mists.  Tommy and the other young men were putting up with nightly chill and mists.

She checked on Jared, who was his usual sound asleep, after a day of running and playing.  Gazing at the boy, she still had time to enjoy the moments he is all hers; but those moments were fleeting, for soon enough, he too would join the world of boys, who did not care to be held and kissed by their moms – and soon enough, look forward to becoming older boys, upon the trail to young manhood, and the eventual – after passing numerous tests – into full manhood. 

Every village has one

“Ruthie, just ignor him.” Her friend, Lizi, helped Ruthie dust off the residue, from a clump of dirt, which Anak had thrown at the two girls, who had been simply minding their business as they made their way to visit another friend.  “He’s a…a goof.”  The red clay was all over Ruthie’s bodice, and short of a good wash in the stream, the stain wasn’t going anywhere.  “Do you think it’s true?”  For a moment Ruthie had forgotten about the inevitable arriving home in such a state; her mother would be upset – doubly so, because she had told Ruthie to change out of her better dress.  “What’s true?”  Lizi didn’t understand the question.  “That men’s society would be better without women in it.”  Lizi shook her head, “if you believe anything that creep says, you’ve way bigger problems than a mucked up dress!”  Ruthie, glanced at the sun’s position, and decided it was time she headed home anyway.

Of course, her mother was home; she usually was, about her business keeping house.  It wasn’t that she didn’t go anywhere else, but aside of attending worship, running a basket of food to an elderly neighbor, or popping in to visit her friend, Aunt Barb, Ruthie’s mom was content to keep at home, and keep everything, just ever so.  “I’m sorry Mom,” she read her mother’s astonished face.  “We’ll get it washed and on the line.” Rachael reached into Ruthie’s chest, pulling out a shift and dress. 

“Mom,” Ruthie ventured, “Could RedWorld come true?”  A puzzled expression washed over Rachael’s face.  Her jaw dropped a bit. “SanMan?” Ruthie nodded yes.  “Oh, honey,” Rachael’s hand clutched the little pink quartz that hung from a thong around her neck.  “Anything that malcontent had ever written isn’t worth anyone’s time.”  Rachael had the stain out, and her daughter had the dress on the line.  “That young man, Anak, is nothing but trouble.” Rachael then added, “if you see that…that cretin anywhere, you just come right on home.” Rachael then gave the hanging dress one last look over.  “Bu-but Mom, Lizi and I didn’t even…” Rachael shook her head, “Sometimes just ignoring people like that, isn’t enough,” she then reiterated, “you just come home, when that boy is about.”

But Ruthie’s mother couldn’t ignore the fact, her daughter was no longer a little girl, but on the verge of womanhood, and she had questions.  She led her daughter over to one of the benches that ran alongside the family table.  “First off,” she looked her daughter in the eye, SanMan and …uh, that other maggot, Joker, are likely sods – but that’s beside the point.”  Rachael paused, then backtracked, “but not really, considering, such have no time for the Most High God.”  She continued, “so there, whacks any credibility right out of the park.”  Rachael reached for the rag she had been using to wipe of the table, and rubbed an area, upon an armrest of Mash’s chair.  “You understand that?”  Ruthie answered, “Yes Momma.”  Rachael continued, “Number two, think about it, what would songs be about, and how would music sound, if there were only men, and no women.”  Ruthie, thought over the many songs, about so many different things – one about a brother and sister finding their way home; there would be no sister.  Another pleasant melody, one about geometric shaped tea-cakes – she could only conclude, that in a world without women, any treats for common men – who couldn’t afford a pastry chef - would be stuffed into, basically unwashed, pans, and baked into one uneven lump; wouldn’t even taste the same.  “Momma,” Ruthie recalled, after her brother having raided the jar, she had seen only three or four remaining “We have to mix more.” 

Ruthie began dicing pieces of dried apple while her mother mixed flour and coconut milk, and blended in some honey.  “Bet the music would devolve into the same three-chord jarring …growl.”  Rachael then added the diced apple, and some leftover pieces of diced walnut.  “Think about the relentless conquests, most men - i.e., your Sans and …that other idiot, would be, among the first to become, but hapless slaves, chained in quarries, and trapped in the galleys of merchant ships.”  Both women deftly began cutting shapes of houses, trees, blossoms, and such into the rolled dough then placing the shapes unto a leafy bed, overlying the flat baking--stone – for they, like the other families, had only one metal bake-sheet, if that – which would only handle a dozen of the treats, unless one wanted to run two or doors down to borrow, certainly wasn’t worth the time and trouble to make any less than three dozen.  “Mom,” Ruthie again ventured, “if there were no women to wife, what would men do about…” she hesitated.”  Great! Rachael paused, how do I explain that one to young ears?  “Honey,” Ruthie’s mother searched for age-appropriate language, “men would …would have their way with…with other men.”

“EEWWWW!” Ruthie’s eyes waxed saucer. 

About three years later - 1013

“If you want to join OUR gang,” the ten-something boy stared down young Jared, who was a bit hesitant, “or are you chicken?”  The older boy scowled, “JaRHEDA”.  The other boy with him, joined in the mockery of their prospect. Jared was faced with two choices, for option three wasn’t happening.  Choice number one sounded easy-peasy – go over and swipe two honey cakes from Aunt Rachael.  But there was a hitch: Even though the hazy ball in the sky was barely beyond its 2nd phase (1pm) Uncle Mash might stop home.  Jared had overheard Aunt Peninnah say something about Uncle Mash being unable to hold up his britches.  The youngster could certainly attest to that, for the other day, he had lost a button while climbing rocks.  But aside of trouser buttons losing to branch and rocks, it was a tough contest, to either risk getting caught by Uncle Mash, or by Aunt Glori.   The second option was scarier than the first.  While most the aunties, more or less, looked the other way – for they too had little boys; and besides, was a missing honey cake or fruity roll, gone missing, worth a young boy’s thrashing from his father?  Aunt Glorianna, however, didn’t see things that way, nor was she shy to use that long metal spoon.  Out of her earshot, of course, the pock-marked woman was known by several of the little boys, and young men – who had felt that spoon - as WarWagon-With-a-Face-Like-a-Buckler. 

Jared recalled hearing his brother Tommy – who was no longer a boy, but a strapping young man – recently use that monicker, but mamma had overheard; ugh, nothing like the taste of lye soap. Somewhat later on, he had heard the grownups talking about the 998 sickness; from what he had been able to understand – for children did not interrupt grownups while they were talking – the word “pivotal” had been in the same sentence as “Council decision.”  The grownups were right, a kid could learn a lot, about things, by simply listening and not interrupting. 

The three boys taking shelter behind a row of dahlia bushes, began munching upon the cakes.  “This meeting is called to order,” the leader – whose name was Ephraim, but everyone called him Bucky – pounded a rod-shaped stone upon the ground, then had broken off a generous piece from his cake and gave it to Jared.   From what Bucky had heard of Council protocol, he then announced, to his second in command, “What is the order of business for today?” Bucky then, put the remainder of his cake on the grass beside him, for shortly before, he had been at his grandmothers, who had sent him off with a big cookie. Mr. Secretary, who had also shared his stolen treat with their new member, took another bite of what remained.  “Let’s race up that old walnut tree.”  Bucky shook his head, for the old tree grew outside the perimeter – he hadn’t yet forgotten a certain recent meeting, between the seat of his trousers and his father’s paddle. “Hey, we godda think up a name.”  The three paused for a moment, to introduce to the floor, two or three possibilities. “How ‘bout the Ik?” one suggested.  Jared shook his head, “Nah, PopPop says they’re demoralized.”  One queried face then asked, “What’s demoralized?” Jared shook his head again, “I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound good.”  Another one of the three, ventured, “How about…”

“How about CAUGHT!”  Three heads turned, three sets of eyes waxed saucer.  There stood WarWagon, with one hand amid the pleated folds covering a generous hip, her other hand shaking that long thick-handled serving spoon. 

Uh-o.

OUTED

“Hear the sound of that?” one of the men half grinned to another, in the party of four men, and two young men, whose job it was to keep an eye along the sides, while marking trail.  Within the group’s center, walked, more like shambled, two young men, whose hands were bound behind them, with leather thongs; between their feet, was also a length which enabled them to walk - but running off, highly unlikely.  Besides, both having had but minimal water and food, weren’t exactly in any condition to huff it on out of there.  The one, who had just blubbered, something, had faltered; his misstep was answered with a shove.  The two, having had been, two afternoons previous, caught in the act of a capital crime, were being “outed.”  Put the evil from your sight?  How’d that Scripture go?  The old guy, the victim’s grandfather, recalled part of the sermon, but it had been a while back – preached by Enoch, oh, about, what?  Ten years before the LORD God had taken him, or had it been more recent?  The elder couldn’t recall, and anyway, now wasn’t the time.  Out from the corner of his eye, he had spotted a bull moose feeding upon a bush – they could be dangerous. The last “outing,” some decades back, had been one man; the circumstances similar.  No surprise there.  What was a surprise: this sort of folly didn’t happen more often. 

“Let’s take a break,” the leader, the elder’s son-in-law, cocked his head toward the sky, where the sun’s haze, through the rather dense forest told them the approximate time.  (Some things haven’t changed – like the ten o’clock break.)  After checking the bounds to make sure they were holding solid, the men reached into their pouches for whatever their wives or daughters had packed.  The elder caught a savory whiff.  Wow, his grandnephew, Mash, had what his grandniece-in-law had called, a “hot packet.”   Not that it was hot, but the bread enrobed thick stew had just a kick to it – not much, but enough…mmmm, yummy; he wasn’t the only man who coveted the chance to get some of that – the enrobed stew. Blubberer began to whimper just a little, for he had also had caught a whiff of that luscious stuff.  The last time he had anything approaching substance, was two mornings ago, but not much at all, for he had overslept, and had missed the morning meal; the bland little pie, he had managed to swipe, wasn’t filling.  “Hope ‘er old man pounds ‘er one.” Blubberer muttered.  He was beyond the age of sill-swiping.

“SHADDUP!”  Mash followed up with a sound cuff.

Hul, one of the other men, pulled from his larger satchel, a sizable half-moon sized of a folded bread, which appeared to be filled with tomato paste, mushrooms, olives, peppers, onion, and something else.  If that was his mid-morning, his lunch would probably be about three more of such like.  The elder, had a few soft cakes just bursting with dried sweetened plums.  Those were his favorite, but having had a tooth pulled, two days ago, it yet smarted; he had neglected to apply the medicine Barb had given him.  Though hungry, he instead pulled a cluster of grapes. 

The savory scents wafted about the two bound outees, and that was as close to home-cooking either of them would get, for, well a long time.  If ever.  While, ever watchful, Mash peered into the distance, he repositioned himself to get a better glimpse.  Drats!  The last luscious bite-full had slipped from his hand, fell onto the ground, and bounced almost within reach of one of the outees.  Slipped on account of what?  The rustling in the bush had been a fawn.  Just as the one outee managed to snag the crust, now empty of its contents, Mash’s foot hit the ground, stubbing the outee’s second and third fingers. 

“Dude, that was harsh!” Hul guffawed.

They continued on.  A little way along the trail, a rustle of branches alerted the men.  This time, not a fawn, but a bear cub darted off; that meant mamma bear was nearby.  If the men were at attention before, they were now 110% at attention.  What was worse, coming in contact with a mamma bear, or a bird-lizard?  That was debatable, and a subject the men could discuss, later one, when they were back in civilization – back to delicious bowls of warm stew; shortly after which, they would retire to their beds - warmed by their affectionate wives.  The latter thought, raised some eyebrows.

Mash held up his right hand, then pointed in a manner that spoke, we’re going thataway.  Upon the ground, before him, and upon the lower part of a bush, was a marking.  The territory’s owner was nothing to trifle with, best steer clear.  With each step, the area was becoming less and less familiar; though the sun wasn’t quite at mid-point, it was time to off-load and head back.  Certainly.  That distant, but close enough, thankyouverykindly “EEEEE” sound confirmed the men’s decision.  And was it the same “EEEEE?”  It sounded more like an “EEEEEHe.”  While cresties mating season was a week or so away, explain that one to a young male, on the verge of adulthood.  The two outees heard it too; even Anak, a.k.a., Stoney, blanched some; the other outee was barely able to keep from fainting.  It was all Stoney’s fault, his idea.  Stoney, of course, saw events from another perspective.  Had dufus not made such a fuss over the stupid chit’s little bite…  She had then had taken off running and screaming, but that wasn’t game over enough; their rotten luck.  Stoney muttered a curse, his luck had waned even more so.  Of all people to step into the path, it just had to be old Scar-Neck - a.k.a., Hul.   The two outee’s scratched faces and forearms, and the girl’s torn fingernails, had sufficiently appointed the team of prosecuting attorneys.  The trial before council had been but a formality.

Little had either of the two bound perps known their heist-in-progress had been thwarted, simply because, several moments earlier, Hul, having reached for his satchel, to pull out some of his lunch, had become preoccupied with spotting two bull elephants, in the distance, squaring off, over something; he had, and for only a moment, parked the satchel on a nearby log, instead of wisely hanging it upon a branch.  A moment long enough.  He could only watch as the corner of his satchel was being drug into the bushes – a moment later, appearing upon a raised bit of ground someways distant, where two coyotes were making goo-goo eyes at one another, while enjoying Hul’s lunch. The scene hadn’t been lost on Mash, who, at the time, could barely contain himself from busting out laughing, watching his oversized buddy stomp off, muttering something about coyotes and “fronting fer some...”  Hul’s appetite was a good natured by-word among the villagers.  Heads would cock, smiling eyes would roll upon seeing BigBasketBarb making her way to the common fields. 

All along the trek, Stoney had played over and over in his mind, ways to get even, with ALL OF THEM!  As soon as the two would be off-loaded, and each issued a rather dull flint, as soon as Stoney got himself loosed, he intended do a bit of off-loading – namely, blubber-mouth.  With an extra day’s food and water, that would give him a leg up, to figure out a plan.  Though he had been fantasizing about circling back and burning the entire village to the ground.  With all their shelters and clothing gone, no, it wouldn’t be such a “beautiful day in the neighborhood, would it?” Not out here, not where the nearest shop was hundreds of furlongs to the south.  He snickered to himself.  Stoney scoffed, for the little tune from his boyhood brought back the memory of EmirRojors – a few of the younger children had trouble pronouncing his name, so the old gent had become known as MrRojors.  Stoney had never liked him, doubly so, because despite the elder man’s gentle, almost nannylike ways.  However, he was not one with whom to start a ruckus.  Ask the two, no it was three, wannabe-hoodlums over at Purveyors, who had tried to pick the elder’s pocket.  Last time Stoney was there, he had seen the one would-be thief, spittle coming out the corner of his mouth, as he shambled his way, holding on to a begging bowl; the other?  Who knew, who cared.  Probably dead. 

“EEEEEHee!”  The men halted. “Fellas,” their leader spoke, “eh, we’re far enough.”  With no delay, the two outees were each issued a none-too-sharp flint; beside each outee, was dropped a small leather satchel of food and a bladder of water. “Go, far away from here, and never return.” Was all that need said, for everyone knew that if an outee was to show up, there would be no investigation, no trial concerning his demise.

That evening, upon the men’s return to the village, if there were four or five songs sung, they were done so with a heavy, or half heart.  Before dusk gave way to moonless black, about everyone was either abed or heading that way.  Maybe, a few young men lolled about the common area, but none of the older folks were of any mind for an evening stroll.

“Then shall his father and his mother lay hold on him, and bring him out unto the elders of his city, and unto the gate of his place; And they shall say unto the elders of his city, This our son is stubborn and rebellious, he will not obey our voice; he is a glutton, and a drunkard.” Deuteronomy 21:19-20

Aftermath - few days later

“They had committed high theft.” Pastor Jason responded to his son, Travis’s question – for the boy had come into the world, somewhere upon the final ridge - as to why the two young men had been outed.  The answer caused the youngster to blanch, for in his pocket still remained evidence of a heist he had committed earlier in the day.  Where to off-load the muffin, his mind began working.  He would bury it, not just chuck it behind some bush, where a tom turkey-lizard might happen upon it, and parade his find in the faces of the lizard’s rivals – and perhaps draw bipedal curiosity.   The youngster had lived long enough to witness the creatures’ hierarchal activities – they tended to be loud.  The pastry would also take some buffeting before crumbling – per what auntie Athaliah quipped, during a recent potluck, further evidence as to which pantry the treat had hailed.  The lad quickly, perhaps too quickly, asked to be excused.  “Well, all right honey.” Marcella, the lad’s mother, was perplexed, for her son hadn’t finished eating the sweet roll she had placed before him. 

She then crossed into her husband’s study.  “Another cup, Dear?”  Jason looked up from his scrolls, “Only if you’ll join me.”  A typical busy morning, the couple typically took a break around this time of day.  Their conversation was the usual relaxing, enlightening.  Though this one, interrupted - not by a four-footed beast laying waste to someone’s garden or shed, whose natural inclination was to obtain, or reclaim, his territory.  Marcella, returning the cups and pitcher to the tray, arose from the chair, which sat on the other side of her husband’s writing table, concerning the theft. “A thorn?” she then added to her husband’s previous statement, “Husband, i fear a canker!”  Hmmph, the group’s shepherd thought inwardly – there was no point in softened terms; she was, as usual, on target with things.

Meanwhile, near the border of Jason’s and a neighbor’s property, Travis had already come back from the midden, where he had seized upon a remnant of discarded leather.  He had lined the hole in which he had dug.  The evidence, almost laid to rest, the boy, however, had a change of mind.  The overbaked muffin was a trophy – one he wasn’t ready to part with, for he was no longer a mere prospect, but a fully patched member of the Enus, Big and Strong.  He tossed the muffin into the air and caught it.  Little did the youngster realize, he was being tracked by a member of their rivals, the South Plains Stallions.  Debating whether, or not, to stash the booty, he again tossed it into the air and caught it.   The boy sure did - from out of nowhere, Jared was on him like cheap-weave.   Hardly a moment later, some other boys were on the scene, they gathered around, yelling and cheering. 

“BREAK IT UP!”  The onlookers scattered, Jared and the other boy separated, but not before Jared gave one last clout, then retrieved the stolen trophy – one which had come from Grandmom Tamar’s pantry.

An hour or so later.

“Lookie, Grandmom,” Jared held up the recovered prize.  He exclaimed gleefully, “and it didn’t even bust.”  The slender, but matronly, woman’s face turned a few shades red. The boy’s mother, Barb, almost choked on her coffee.  The boy’s grandfather, unlatching his tool belt, parked the apparatus on the table – it sent up a cloud of dust.  Tamar had long since learned to only use an old table cover during the week; her two good ones were safely put away, and only brought out on the sabbath, when tables only held a centerpiece and plenty of foods – prepared the day earlier.  The elder high-fived his grandson, then took his seat.   The family joined hands for the blessing – Amnon’s words were brief, but for real.  Amnon, as head of house, was the first to reach from the vessels; these were then passed among his family.   

“It happens.” Tamar’s daughter-in-law, whispered to her mother-in-law, in response to the elder woman’s murmured statement, concerning the muffins having turned hard.  At the table’s other end, Amnon reached for a bowl containing a fruity sauce, but in the process, knocked over his cup.  He about emptied the bowl’s contents upon and around the pastry.  As his wife finished pouring him another cup of juice, he turned to her and made some bawdy crack concerning the muffins, then followed up with a tweak.  Barb’s sister-in-law giggled; her brother slightly guffawed.  Hul, Barb’s husband, managed to keep a poker-face – but barely.  Her mother somewhat mortified – but this hadn’t been the first time.  “Young ears!” Barb met her father’s gaze, then cocked her head toward Jared.  The boy was oblivious to the tall-talk – he had more important items on his plate; there were races to run, places to explore, dragons to slay. 

That was, until his uncle said something about somebody’s “testimony before council.”  The lad blanched, turned to his parents for permission to be excused.   His request softly denied, for he had not yet cleaned his plate.   The boy fidgeted, getting hold of himself, he made a plan: a truce between the Stallions and the Enu.  He felt near certain, Bucky, the Stallions’ president would not veto – even though Travis was an icky Enu… The boy knew he messed up, and he had to fix it.  Around him, the tall-talk continued.  Men plan, he took the cue; his left hovered at the side of his plate; his pocket on ready.  Men plan.  In his mind, he ran over what things any boy would need while laying low, for a couple of days.     

A few days later

“Oh, that’s just demented!” Rachael exclaimed, after asking Barb how old Tommy was.  Tommy being in his mid-20s, meant Stony was close to thirty, and the poor girl who had been assaulted was barely twenty.   Neither woman cared to elaborate the girl’s probable future – one where she would likely end up as wife to some old widower.  Younger men, of course, wanted wives who had no knowledge of a man...  The two friends turned to another topic.  No small comfort to Barb, especially, since she had given testimony before council, and the proceedings still fresh in her memory. A case of poison oak had prevented her friend Rachael from having attended the trial – which had been but a formality, since the incident was open and shut.  But, evidently, open long enough for certain invasive questions, Barb’s ears still burnt from having witnessed the poor girl having to recount the details.  Rachael, though, still had itchy ear; for which her friend, the settlement’s stand-in physician, had given her a potion, and had, again, reminded her not to scratch.

“HEY!” Rachael called to her youngest, Uriah, “I said not near the house.”  Barb arose, stepping away from the bench to check on, Jared, her youngest.  “Boys…” Barb grinned. The two youngsters had moved their bat-ball-to-wall, to a nearby column of standing logs; these were still holding fast into their concrete base – unlike the one of three, across the path which had toppled a day or so after the…trial.  Barb’s smile faded, and turned upside down. 

“They charred the kid!  Barb spoke, then added, “Isn’t it enough, the girl’s friends pass by the house as if she had no longer exists”.  Rachael’s eyes met Barb’s somewhat dazed pupils.  Hitting the cannabis, again, obviously, but Barb, didn’t need any lectures.  Considering, it was no small wonder her friend was self-medicating – but still, wasn’t the first time, a bit heavy on the hemp.  From what Rachael’s had heard, while on her way back from the commons, when the girl’s tattered dress had been shown, one of the councilmen had remarked about it having had fit the growing girl a bit snug at the hips and rather short at the hem.  Whew, Rachael, again, inwardly sighed relief, for Barb’s pointed rebuttal could have landed her friend an entire afternoon in the stocks.   Contempt of Council was no small matter.  Little did Rachael know, that before the hearing had come to order, Barb had overheard her father, Amnon, make some flippant comment to one of his buddies something about, “doing the work” and “another thirty years, or so, the two could have had taken wives” for that.

“A canker, alright!” Rachael exclaimed, “can you imagine, what that poor lad was thinking?”  Barb swatted at a gnat, then responded, “Frankly, I’m relieved the Stallions and Enus are at it again.”  The gnat then decided Rachael’s plate was safer.  Was safer, for a moment; it didn’t see the swatter.  “Silver in the foundry cloud, I suppose,” Rachael both smiled and grimaced at the waft of wood burning into charcoal, which, moments earlier, had made its way across the yard, “they’re good kids.”   Rachael’s face then formed a scowl, part of the gnat had landed in her cup.  After emptying and giving it a quick swish, then a refill, she added, “but I can only imagine what was going through Marcella’s mind during the search.” 

From outside came the voices of two or three other boys, followed by a series of shrill, but menacing chirps.  The two women immediately arose, but their concern was put to rest when one of the boys exclaimed, “Hey, that works better than just blowin’ grass.”  Barb blushed, at the unintended pun.  Her son, Jared then followed up with, “Nex’ round you cin be th’ centipede.”  A slight grimace washed over her face – but, frankly – at least for the time being – she was about done with contraction confrontations; though her boys’ grammar still remained a tender spot.  Her husband didn’t think grammar was an issue – obviously.  Truth – that was another matter; one which they were on the same team.

Jared let out more chirps.  “Where’d ja fin’ that!” Bucky queried.  “In th’ midden,” came her son’s response.  Barb shook her head; she was nobody’s tattle-tale – and besides, considering the search for Travis, her boy had received dusting enough from his father.  The game was on: two or three lord dragons, verses two or three giant centipedes.

“Ladies, thread your needles.” The two looked at one another – just another day raising sons. “What on earth...”  Hearing some noise just inside the pantry’s other side, Rachael arose, grabbing a broom – thinking Willard was back.  She was ready; as was her friend who joined forces – a granddaddy rodent could pose a danger.  “Uriah…!” The lad looked up from his sorting through the bottom of the midden basket.  “Can’t be no centipede without tusks.”  He grabbed several rind fragments, then took off.  Rachael, shaking her head, reattached the lid. 

A few moments later

“Oh goody, goody gumdrops!” Rachael made faces at her friend, Barb’s, mention of the upcoming.  “Menth’s Monthly…”  A piece of grape, spurted out of Barb’s mouth, sailed across the table and hit the ground.  “You crack me up.”   The two women were in the midst of discussing an upcoming event.   Though, outside a full season away, their work-centered lives called for planning in advance, so that.  “Shoot!” Rachael sputtered, “and I was going to…just who was the fff” she stopped herself, “the blithering IDIOT who came up with THAT idea!”  It was all perks to serve on the executive committee – well, for their husbands.  To be an “executive’s wife,” however, that was more work than anything.  It was both she and Barb’s turn, along with that of two or three of the other wives, to serve the monthly dinner, then clean up, then wait in the common for the men to adjourn.  Most times, their session was brief – most times. 

Dinner served

Rachael made a face while lifting the clay pitcher – not that it was heavy.  Stupid hornet, she half muttered, but then again, the bug couldn’t have been too much of a dim wit, for the plum sized bug had evidently seen the leather swatter coming its way, and had gotten out of there quick.  While Barb’s salve did relieve the painful itch, lugging around pitchers and platters had brought back enough of the throbbing – her hand was a bit swollen, but not like earlier when Rachael had been mixing and filling the pies.  She hoped the two had turned out, despite the hornet’s rude interruption; she had intended to make three, but that didn’t pan out.

The long table seated twelve, of course there was always two or three empty seats.  A faint, but noticeable, growl from beyond the perimeter explained the absence.  While pouring the coffee, she goofed – for she had set it atop of the area which wouldn’t quite level, due to a knot.  The bell-shaped cup turned on its side, sending forth its steaming contents onto the old bachelor’s best - actually least raggedy - raiment.

“You ninny!”

“I’m so sorry.” Embarrassed, Rachael headed for the kitchen; the man was right, for she should have not only been more careful, but should have paid attention enough to have remembered the wiping cloth she had neglected to put into her apron pocket; it was sitting on the counter. 

While the rather dismissive rebuke had been hardly more than a facial expression, the communication hadn’t been lost just a few seats away.  Message received, loud and clear enough.  Such was would be addressed during a following meeting – one which would adjourn, not with the rap of a gavel, but with Mash’s fist up alongside his fellow exec’s head.

“Aw Rach,” Barb handed her friend the towel-dried bowl, of which Rachael placed upon the shelf – for use during the next time – “he’s a ding wit, let it be!”  Rachael was a bit clumsy at times.  “And he sure takes the cake,” another woman tittered.  The women were nearly done, their conversation was the typical mix of catching up and laughter at this or that – someone’s recipe, new baby or grandbaby, a daughter’s embroidery sampler, someone’s boy having had his trousers dusted.  The usual – and a comment or two of no longer having the free time, which civilization’s work-savers had bestowed.  “That was a good read,” one of them remarked, to which the author replied with, “because your story had sparked the idea.” To which, another responded, “iron, sharpening iron, anyone?”  More laughter, amid the muffled clattering of wooden utensils and clay crockery – for they had few items of metal.

“CAN IT!!” Their chief barked.  

The ladies quickly, quietly finished up, gathered their things and filed outside to the common area.  Moments passed.  Of all times to forget one’s shawl.  Barb shivered a bit, as dusk gave way to night. While a nearby torch gave off light, it’s heat quickly dissipated.  Nearby, two or three of the woman’s daughters, sat upon the ground.  In the center of their huddle, cards were held and being drawn upon from the pile.  Not being certain, low long or short they would be waiting for their fathers, the girls were doing more chattering than play – but that was about par, whenever they played.  One of the girls had drawn the remaining rock-star card; she had the other one, and so laid down the pair. “J’ever see a concert?” one asked another.  Barb, sitting nearby, caught enough of the girl’s response.  Her jaw dropped a little, at what she had just heard, or thought she had heard, and to question herself, was she becoming old? 

“Mama says they’re nancy-boys!” to which another, one of Glori’s girls, had responded with, “Nuh-uh, they can’t be nancies, they’re with a different girl every night.” Rock-star…nearby, one of the aunties shook her head, for when she been a maiden…the grandmotherly woman mouthed a thank-you to the Most High, for allowing their community, safe passage far and away from…that sort of thing.  The elder took in a breath – the very air, crisp and clean.  Ruthie was the oldest among the girls – 27, or was she 28?  Barb wasn’t sure.  Ruthie then responded, “that don’t make no difference, they get all boozed up and don’t remember Jas, or whoever, keep things straight!”  Barb’s eyes lifted, her jaw dropped at the girl’s statement, and the ensuing tittering; she glanced at her friend who was sitting beside her.  Whether or not Rachael, who was conversing with another, had heard the way too tall-talk initiated by her daughter…that was up in the evening air – and, as far as Auntie Barb was concerned, outside her perimeter.

Meanwhile, the precocious girl’s mother did hear; she could no longer avoid the fact, her little girl was growing up too fast.  Rachael pondered, where upon the Most High’s green earth did Ruthie pick up such too-tall expressions.   Hmmph, had to be that Suzie with whom her Ruthie had been keeping company – the conclusion drawn, rather hastily.  Farbeit, her little girl’s off-color phrases may have originated, closer to home.  As in, conversations, among her husband’s brothers and cousins, during one or more backyard gatherings.  While Rachael had partially made the connection, some recent banter, having been held a bit close to the family table, had compelled her to reach over and cover her daughter’s ears.   There wasn’t really much of anything she could do about the brotherly banter, but she could, however, limit her daughter’s time with that Suzie.

And women run their yaps?  Hmmph!  Rachael, along with the other wives, glanced toward the Council House; one of the ladies in waiting, unwrapped her shawl, and placed it around her little girl’s shoulders; the child insisted she wasn’t chilled. 

What the deal

It had been just a stupid fight. Ruthie pondered, what was the big issue, that’s what guys do; it’s like they enjoy pounding the sense out of one another.  Though her father tried to mask his forlorn countenance, that wasn’t happening.  He missed his perimeter pals.  Not one, but TWO lunar cycles!  A bit extreme.  The punch was certainly for just cause; for dim-wit had insulted Mom.  Having overheard the ensuing tall-talk – for which any young person caught eves-dropping, was likely to have trouble sitting for a day or three – Father must have had forgotten he still been upon Council premises when he had thrown that punch.  So, basically, Father was temporarily an “inside outee.”  She had overheard that statement just as midweek was letting out.  No, she hadn’t remembered Pastor’s sermon, but did recall, just prior to the service, Boco saying something to his brother about wishing he had “seen it go down.”  Not that it was any secret that Boco was about over the moon.  “BOY, can it!”  came his grandfather’s rebuke, for talking during the preaching.

Technically, Boco was a young man, one on the verge of full manhood; he was nearing 50, and was chomping at the bit to prove himself.  That trial, well the last phase – since boys and young men went through numerous of such like – was to begin soon.  Ruthie, of course, not being in the loop, didn’t quite know when the testing would happen, but she did know – as with any other boy or girl – the final consisted of the young men, usually two or three – being led rather deep into the wilderness.  E-YIKES!!!  The thought stirred Ruthie - who normally didn’t give much attention to the things of God – to pray for their safe return.  And also, one of thanksgiving, for the Most High having made her a girl, and not a boy.

Ugh, the very thought, of being out there…anywhere near that “EEEE” creature, and others such as.  That wasn’t the half of it; having to keep a poker face, through it all, in the face of all that??  “Little girl!” while the sermon continued, she had recalled her Father’s terse query, “th’ [expletive] you know about poker?”  She had stuttered a bit, with a “ja-jus’ heard about it, a card game that men play.”  To which her father had rebuked, “NOT Men, rummies!”  All kids know what that was.  In one or more of the sermons – the few times when she had been paying attention – that slang term was more accurately detailed as “base fellows.”   Such brought about a deck of mental pictures – half stumbling red-nosed louts with rotting teeth and bottles in hand, torn and filthy raiment upon their backs.  Bluuch.

The following day.

“Honey,” Rachael called to Ruthie, who was sorting threads by color – in which she would include into fabric for a dress. “When the loaves are cool enough, will you run them next door?”  “Sure Mom,” Ruthie grinned, for now was her chance to get away from house and yard to perhaps visit a friend.  The grin was short lived, when her mother added, “But you come right back.”  Rachael put the tray of breads and fruits - which she was in process of taking out to the shed, where her husband and sons Bron and Uriah, were working on something – back upon the pantry work-table, and stepped toward the weaving nook.  “Placing her arms around Ruthie’s shoulders, Rachael kissed her along the side of her face, “Sweetie, I just want to know you’re safe.”  Although Rachael was in back of her daughter, she sensed the girl’s frown, “I know, it’s not fair, but it’s the way things are.”

Rachael put the tray down upon a clear spot away from her husband’s and son’s activity.  She leaned in for a closer look at the implements the two had finished, and were each carving.  One of the clubs hung from a notch.  “Wow!”  Mash reached over, and removed the club; handing it to her, he pointed to an area where the light was better, so that she was able to see the tiny etchings.  It had been by happenstance, that his daughter had revealed a detail he had missed all these decades.  Unless something was about right in front of his wife, she didn’t see details so well. 

When the Most High shuts a door…Mash wasn’t too worried about his middle son’s future; he enjoyed the exacting work of detailing both furniture and implements.  A good trade, for a man – a man whose spears and arrows were not only top-quality, but also works of art.  As for the young man’s targeting skills…those could be better.  His daughter’s eagle-vision, not too previously, had put the pieces together.  Bron had it also – the near-sight.

Even snakes tremble

BigSnake wanted out of there quick, but it was a slow go, with some ¾ a talent (about 120 pounds) of possum in his belly.  The normally vicious creature trembled and cowered as the devil passed on by.  The devil saw him, but, meh, maybe later. – there were more important things to deal with than a new brief-case; Satan had recently noticed a spot upon the corner, and so it needed replaced.  Baphomet, the devil spat, was about useless.  “Shoot,” the Devil grimaced, what to do now!  Well, one thing for sure, Baph was going to PAY DEARLY for his blunders.   To think, that marriage between the two nobodies – thoughts rambled through his head at the highly irritating choices of the Most High God.  The Devil spat again.  Why does He choose such, nincompoops? 

Why, if I had the Throne...  But he didn’t.  Not yet, he rubbed his talons.  That marriage…yeah, that was another thing that irked the Devil to no end.  Men were stronger, why on earth would they have to marry, one of those, puah, creatures.  If I had the Throne, men would just …and be done with it, then move on down the line, when the urge again came upon them.   Would have been an ez-peasy breakup, but no – the Devil’s lower-lip curled, Baphomet, evidently, hadn’t been paying attention.   Otherwise, that post-supper conversation would have never taken place between Hul and Barb.  What especially rankled the Devil was: the intel had only reached his pointy ears, not even a day ago.  Most upsetting was, the convo had taken place, hardly a few months, if even that, into their marriage.  He shook his head.  Wasn’t like an exercise in quark physics; even the likes of Grot know, that females don’t take real kindly to learning they’re second best.

Barb had gotten wind that Hul’s first choice had been that Lylia – but, of course, the beauty was out of that old bruin’s league.  The devil spat again, for Lylia was safely in Paradise. Word had been, the scrawny little bovine, Barb, instead of starting a scene, and continuing – as those vain creatures are known to do – she took his … his paw in her hand, and said something along the lines of, both having suffered loss.   To add insult to injury, next thing you know, the two nobodies were going on about some other things – something about the upcoming “Return,” or was it that pathetic “Deb Supper” - while playing some stupid game, where you move flat etched disks on a wooden board.  As to Baphomet’s whereabouts, at the time of the pivotal conversation?  Actually, he wasn’t much further than maybe six furlongs; but his focus had been upon some water buffalo.  Or was it a moose?  No matter.  At least, after the fiend had gotten his delights abusing the creature, its carcass had stunk up the area, for days on end. 

The devil paused.  A furlong, and maybe a half, ahead of him, his pointed ear caught the snap of a twig, followed by a hushed murmur.   One of the males was rather doughy in appearance.  The devil, of course, remained out of site.  What was this all about?  Seeing that two of the males were bound, they were both outees.   Sending a wavelength, one which neither humans nor animals could hear, the devil whistled for one of his imp servants to fill him in.  The devil shook his head, outed for what?  Some stupid chit, that’s what.  Human males, and their codes of conduct, their penalties for breaking those codes, such would never cease to amaze, and anger, him.   The little imp, swelled full of himself, for having been granted the rare, and much coveted, privilege of actually conversing with the Devil himself; he couldn’t get enough.  He added, that the doughy one was, Rok – one of the sons of Jorg and Glorianna – and how …   And how, indeed.  The devil’s back-talon rendered airborne the imp, landing him directly into a thick patch of nettles.

About a third of a watch later (an hour)

The two outees struggled with their excuses-for-flints, the one, called Stoney had been the first to get himself unloosed.  Rok didn’t see the small flatish boulder.  Mmmhmm, nothing finer than the sound of a human skull being crushed.  With no delay, Stoney took the other satchel, pulled off Rok’s raiment, and headed southward.  Hot diggity dog, the Devil was about jumping up and down; he had an idea.  This one would take time, and careful planning.  He called for several demons, and, point blank, told them to watch over Stoney, and see that not one hair on his head comes to harm; the devil also detailed the consequences if the demons messed up.  He instructed them, to steer Stoney to a certain creek bed, where an adequate supply of gold nuggets lay readily available; such would be more than enough for Stoney to get where he needed to be.  The devil also turned and headed southward.  Baphomet could be dealt with at a later time.

Never get to go anywhere

About a month after the two rural hood-rats had been booted from the settlement. “You need to calm down!” Mash placed his arm upon the small of Rachael’s back, nudging her to their little blossom grove out back.  Though about every couple had a retreat, somewhat away from the house, where the two could enjoy some peace and quiet – while near enough to keep an eye on their children – his wife sure had a way with making things just ever so; but then again, that’s probably about what all husbands think.  But surely, about all husbands considered it a treat to actually have a few moments to just sit awhile and relax.   He bade her to take a seat – not that his urge was exactly a request.  “Ba, but…” Mash cut her off – just another a typical day in Mash’s domain.  “I don’t think it’s…” Mash cut her off again. “For heaven’s sakes, Woman!” Between, her husband’s rebuke (which wasn’t really anything new) and the recent exchange between she and her daughter, she began to weep.  Here we go again, Mash shook his head, while gathering Rachael into his arms.  Doggoneit, she smelled good; he dismissed the thought, with so much to do before day’s end, that would have to wait. “They’re snake poop by now.”  Or wolf excrement, though it didn’t matter, the two would not be back.  He kissed her forehead, then added, “Honey, you can’t keep the girl yard-bound forever.”

Hardly a moment earlier, Bron, their son ran up to the family table, where his sister, Ruthie, was seated upon one of the benches, grabbed two or three apples from the bowl – and in the process, knocking over her sewing basket.  Not skipping a beat, and ignoring the dirty look which crossed his sister’s face, he took off for elsewhere to be and to compete amongst the other young men.   Pursing her lips, Ruthie laid aside the hoop-bound cloth, emptied the basket, and resorted the various colored threads.  The girl was still upset at what, moments ago, had taken place – not on account of her brother, whom she titled LarTheLummox, but her mother’s “NO! You stay nearby.”  The threads, almost back in place, the girl’s sullen expression read, “I never get to go anywhere, do anything!”

Mash watched his son depart. Bordering upon Mash’s property, Bron met two of his companions, who had evidently had run home for a quick pick-up till supper.  Off they went.  Enjoy yourselves, youth is fleeting.  Mash arose, headed for his worktable, upon which, about an hour earlier he had parked his tools.  Before heading back to join the others at the jobsite, he stopped at the family’s table and gave his daughter permission to visit in the common area, but not to wander from its perimeter. Making his way, Mash’s youngest, Uriah, came running toward him. “Daddy, lookit!” In the boy’s hand was a long thin headless snake – its tail skipping along the ground.  They met.  “Son, you did good!” Mash, noticing the pattern upon the creature, emphasized to the boy to go wash his hands “real, real good, and use soap.”  Mash then added, “And don’t tell your mother – Okay?”

Young lady

A short time after Ruthie’s remark to her mother needing to stick up for herself once in a while, had…well, that hurt.  But the truth can, and often does, just that.  But “she-simp?”   Any other daughter who would address her mother in such a manner, would end up with a slap to the face or a mouthful of lye soap.  Rachael had done neither, quite upset, she instead retreated to the little grove out back to calm herself.  “Simp!”  Certainly not.  Yes, it was true, her husband was overbearing.  She had put up with a lot, over the years.  But uh-uh, she may be among other things, but certainly no she-simp; for if Mash ever strayed, there would certainly be heck in camp.   In Rachael’s heart of hearts, infidelity was one thing, she couldn’t see herself simply looking the other way.

Having visited relatives who lived in downtown Purveyor’s, young Rachael had seen enough of that sort of skanky business being transacted.  One of her aunt’s neighbors had been carrying on with two different men.  One lived just down the street, he was married and had children.  While the neighbor had no children, she was also married; it had been rumored, she had been seen coming out of the potion shoppe.   The deceit, and the kid-killing – no thanks. The needless drama hadn’t ended well; for the woman’s husband, having been away on business, had taken an earlier caravan, and arrived home early…

“Come, let us take our fill of love until the morning: let us solace ourselves with loves.  For the goodman is not at home, he is gone a long journey: He hath take a bag of money with him, and will come home at the day appointed.” Proverbs 7:18-20

Drama in the camp

“Are you nuts!” Wide eyed, Mash exclaimed, pulling the sultry wench into his back yard, and beyond the vantage of any of the neighbors, who would either be passing by, or going about their business within their respective properties. “My Wife…” The voluptuous woman, leaned in, smirking.  “She’s with the other, HENS.” The woman, licked her painted lips, began unlacing her bodice.  She cocked her head in the direction of the chamber, to which Mash shook his head no.  “Here? Hmmph,” she hesitated, then pouted, “why not?”  Mash said something about the woman’s exquisite perfume.”  Her pout turned into a victory sneer; the robin’s egg hued dress, dropped to the ground, exposing a set of lingerie, though the finely woven two pieces were barely that; her heeled sandals carefully stepped over her outer garment.  Mash, though, captivated, had uttered, “We must hurry.”   He quickly followed up with something about his “Wife’s” imminent return, and something about some sort of couple’s function over at the lodge, or was it the worship house? 

Either way, the woman’s face again drew a pout, she had responded with something about how and why she, and not “her,” was the better, and how she, not her, should be enjoying the social privileges.  Mash then launched into the typical sweet talk, adding a dash of oh pity me’s – such that side chicks have heard, and have fallen for, over the centuries.  He then concluded the same-old, with the triggering “…is what it is” sort of statement.  Then, came the real zinger, sides, especially, don’t like hearing.   “The Lady…” and anything else which either begins, or ends with, “My Wife.”  Well, the hottie now displeased, he then back peddled - with another batch of sweetened bull cookies - lest he not get any before sending her away.  It worked, always does.  He grinned.  Predictably, what ensued next were noises, and some rather colorful language, the sort inappropriate to be spoken within “The Lady’s” hearing.

Noises.   Two young voices, one male, the other female, were coming from just outside.

Rachael’s eyes shot open.  “OH MY GAWWDD!!”  Quick time, she somehow grabbed the blue garment; and not a second too soon, had it upon her person.  “Mom, Dad, guess what..!”

Upcoming deb season  1015

“Wuh-huu,” Barb exclaimed, looking over the violet gown.  Had any of the moms, or anyone else, even imagined, not much over a decade back, there would be any time, or resources, for things like clothing that didn’t wear like the potato sacks with which they, for the first year or so, had to make do.  Even Barb, who wasn’t the greatest with either the spinning wheel or the needle, had managed to make herself at least a few nice things.  But this?  Barb admired the full-skirted garment.  Wow, where did Rachael and Ruthie find the time to do such intricate needle work?  Barb glanced at her thickened middle, hoping to still be in a condition to be able to attend the debut of Ruthie, and that of the two other girls.  Hard to believe, Ruthie was thirty, or had she already turned thirty-one?  Where does the time go?  That CrateFullLaDead melody, wove its way in the recesses of her mind; they had been her favorite band, but that was so another lifetime. 

Barb’s unborn child kicked, but nothing like her two older sons had, when still growing inside her.  Tommy, her eldest, had been the worst – though, Jared, his younger brother was a close second.  Though relieved her current child wasn’t nearly as rambunctious as the previous two, her unborn’s contentment, as if she… She.  Barb caressed a fold of the violet gown; she wanted to hug the fabric – as if it could offer the expectant mother reassurance concerning her unborn.  Over the past several weeks, Barb was about positive, her unborn was a girl.  She, again, gazed upon the lovely fabric; she batted her eyes.  Gown or no gown, this untamed land was no sort of place for baby girls – girls who would grow up in circumstances which would shave off their later childhoods.  The privations of their community’s first several years had etched deep into Barb’s mental maps.  She, again, reminded herself, she had to let go of the past; if her unborn was a girl, well…

Though, Barb didn’t voice her opinion, early-thirties was too young for a girl to be introduced into adult society – for what followed, a year or two afterward was inevitable wifehood.  Why most girls, Ruthie’s age have barely started their monthlies.  Used to be, a girl wasn’t considered marriageable until she was into her late thirties.  Am I getting old??  Barb asked herself.  The internal question was interrupted by the tinny sound of a less than straight metal rod striking a not-exactly round disk, which was suspended from a nearby porch rafter, or tree branch.  While the people made do with very little metal, the UglyAlerts took priority; unlike musical instruments – of which can be worked around - the alerts each needed a certain and consistent sound, at the first strike.

Ruthie was the first to dash into the relative safety of her parent’s chamber. “HATE those things!” the girl muttered.  The three sat on the bed and waited.   A moment or so later, came their sighs of relief, upon hearing the second set of rattlings, which announced, not only an all-clear, but better yet, the winged dragon was likely to be downed, for it had been pierced by someone’s arrow.  Barb was the first to inch outside to the family table, followed by coaxing her friend that it was safe.  Ruthie then - before her, still shaken, mother could call her daughter back – had taken off, like a shot, to the common.  “Just like her father,” Rachael, still trembling, began to sniffle.  Barb then reached for her friend’s shawl, wrapping it around Rachael’s shoulders, then – knowing her way around her friend’s pantry – poured her a cup of still warm tea. 

“Just a JuniorMiss,” a neighbor called to another, who was running toward his domicile.  That was a good sign.  For the young ugly, having to hunt her sustenance so far from the ridge, that usually meant, she had so far been unable to acquire her own territory, and so her prospects of finding a mate, and making little uglies, didn’t look so good – especially now, with an arrow having pierced somewhere upon her scaly body.

Rachael stepped back inside, to where her daughter’s near completed deb dress was hanging.  Cradling the skirted portion of the garment, she then ran her fingers along it’s bordered hem.  Latching onto civilization’s hem, lest it retreat.  Well, something to that effect, Barb reflected, watching her friend.  Sure was the makings of a story; maybe, she would get the chance to pen up a short one.   There had been several versions of “The Savage Jungle;” but the one brewing in her mind, was more like the original.  The difference, however, would be - since they were actually living it - her tale wouldn’t have the tragic ending.   The young female, would not be neither be feral, lice-ridden, half-naked, malnourished – and certainly not ran through, and so, like the battered women of the Enu - fated to rapidly age, sicken and die, long before their fourth or fifth century. Barb remembered having read how the only tribe members to even approach an age where one’s hair begins to silver, were only the strongest, and harshest of men; this had also given credence to the reported size dimorphism between the men and the women – which many of the experts had believed to be an exaggeration.

Footnote:  there was a tribe of people’s (carbon-dated about 5,000 years ago) who lived in Central America, where the women’s bodies were smaller and malnourished, while the men’s hardy.  (Should have swiped that National Geographic issue from the dentist’s office :\ )

Rachael still trembling, pulled tighter the shawl around her; looking toward the ridge which ran northwest, she began chewing on a fingernail.  Barb took the woman’s hand. “Honey, it may be best you lay down for a bit;” Barb parted the chamber curtain, and pulled back the blanket; she helped her friend into bed, tucking the blanket about her.  “The ugly’s about done.” Barb sat upon the bed, patting her still distressed friend’s hand.  Barb didn’t know the particulars, but Rachael had been around Jared’s age, when she had lost a sibling to one of those flying monstrosities.  Stupid dragon, she muttered inwardly – arrow or no arrow - hoping it wouldn’t decide to come back, for one last hurrah, for Barb still had the weeding – which had ended up preempted by something else.  Such as life, when you have a nine-year old, who won’t sit still, for even two seconds - and another child on the way.

It had only been a matter of time; Barb gotten so busy with things, that she had forgotten to mark off the days.  So, when that two-to-three days window appeared, it had already been a day or two past that point.  Some two weeks later, no period – same with the following month.  And it was, here we go again, folks.  This lack of enthusiasm, Barb chose not to share with Rachael, for last year – or was it two years - her friend, had lost hers, while retrieving high growing blossoms off her RoseOfSharon; the step-ladder, upon less-than-even ground, had rocked just enough to send the wingless woman into a very short flight.  Oh good, the familiar foot-falls were those of her friend’s husband.  “See you later.” Barb departed, but before she had barely a chance to pass their family table, she had heard the muffled thud of deerskin trousers hitting the rushes.   “All he ever thinks about…hmmph, that man.” 

Passing members of families reuniting with one another.  Just ahead, she spotted Hul and Jared headed her way.  Tommy?  He was among other young men, who were either running a race, practicing with javelins, climbing rocks, or simply enjoying a game where they buffet the tar out of each other - over a ball that resembled an egg with dull pointed ends.  What sort of mutant dragon squeezes out something resembling that?  Must hurt like a muthahubba, if it comes out sideways!

Need to know basis

Barb chided herself for the less-than kind thought.  For several moments, she had indulged in a fantasy, of having been a small brown moth, safely blended into that nearby tree truck.  The same tree, which upon one of the lower branches hung that bee’s nest.  Oh, to have seen, and to have also heard, Mash, flailing his overshirt, and screaming, in a high-pitched voice, at the some-dozen retaliating bees – for Mash having swatted one of their number.   A voice like a girl…ha-ha-ha, “Get away from me, get away…!”   Maybe Cappy had been exaggerating about what happened out there, but judging from the swellings upon Mash’s neck and upper chest area, maybe not. Either way, if Mash gets wind of Cappy’s jibes, Barb would likely be stopping over to Cappy’s and Peninnah’s – and bringing along her medicine bag

Some people didn’t do well with bee stings.  Mash was one of those people.  Had he received several more, this could have been bad.  Rachael wasn’t doing so good either.  Barb had called for Ruthie to take her mother for a stroll – one long enough for Barb to remove the stingers and salve the wounds.  As Barb was finishing up, her foot brushed up against a sequined, what passes for, a garment – peeking out from beneath the chamber bed.  Rachael, having returned, and calmer, sat by her husband, holding his hand – evidently, she was calmed down, certainly enough for a blush to wash over her face, upon seeing Barb step over the piece of “clothing.”

After explaining the salve and the pellets, neither which were complicated.  Barb made ready to leave. “Rachael, honey, your husband will be fine;” Barb spoke while gathering her things, added “but it’s important that he quietly rest, for two, maybe three, days.”  She added, that she would stop again later in the day.  She then turned to Mash, “For the next few days, it’s best there be no…” Barb pursed her lips, “theatrics!”

She headed for home, thinking about the upcoming event, and what a blessing it was to have the time and resources.  The first several years had been wanting.  Much effort in clearing fields, planting orchards, wheat and flax, all the while the beasts whom they had displaced hadn’t given up.  Neither would they.  Keeping deer out of the corn was enough, but that young andy was another matter.  Probably the same one which had come through the perimeter, and had taken out half of her mother’s potatoes – she had no other recourse but to run to the neighbors.   At a distance to her left, she passed a length of wall that yet stood, but for how long?  The two logs at the end were leaning; one forward, the other sideways – their cement bases dislodged. 

Part of a conversation from a few days ago circled back, when she noticed Hul glancing in the direction where the pierced junior miss had flown.  Concern etched upon the men’s faces, the dialog halted when she had rounded the corner. Something about the spear was all she had been able to gather.  Her bent ear had been met with Hul’s raised eyebrows.  She was on a need-to-know basis, like the other women, kept out of the loop. Tom had never been like that…Outside of hearing range, she reached for her distaff.  She didn’t have to ask, whether the dragon’s body had been found, that news would have spread throughout their frontier settlement, within moments. 

Day following the party

One of the three debs was standing upon the head table in order to unlace, a bell-shaped decoration, then handed it to the second deb, who carefully placed it into a cloth-lined cedar box; the ornate decoration – unlike what few other fineries - had somehow not ended up in the gulch.  The statement was a general euphemism for any item lost or irreparably damaged along the journey.  

“Junior about had me scared half to death,” Suzie, one of the debs, exclaimed, sitting down. “You and everyone else,” Ruthie, replied, then added, “sure upset Mama, gave her a nightmare.”  The third deb added a beautifully embroidered ribbon to the cloth-lined chest, to join the others, for next time – when next season’s debs would repack the day after the ceremony.  “Gave me upset stomach, stank so bad.” Their conversation -having taken a turn to the uglie’s in their habitat – had perked the ears of a younger girl, who was in her early teens, and over the moon, about looking forward to one day, becoming a deb herself.  Suzie continued, “Didn’t your brother, Bron say that she-uglies usually build their own nests?”  Ruthie answered, “Yep, all by themselves.” The young teen’s jaw dropped, just a little bit, “But I thought the male builds, then mates.”  Ruthie looked over at the surprised youngster.  “No honey, she-uglies don’t always have a mate.”  The third deb then quipped their smell driving off even the foulest of demons. The youngster’s jaw dropped even lower.  “Bu-but how do they make baby-uglies?”  Ruthie let out a soft guffaw.  “The usual way.”    Ruthie arose as if to reach for something. The younger girl, still didn’t get it.  “Nah,” Ruthie added, “they just fly around, find themselves a stoner,” she leisurely stretched both arms, as if to take flight.  Raising her eyebrows, she continued, “one with a …” her hips begun a slow swivel, “a big enough…beak.”

“LUCY, YOU COME HERE, RIGHT NOW!”

The girl high-tailed it, over to her mother.

“Uh-o.” Ruthie back up a pace or two.  Uh-o, indeed. Forget junior miss, Suzie, took off like a full grown big-ugly; the third deb wasn’t too far behind.

“And YOU, MISSY,” Glori approached, pointing a sturdy, well-manicured finger, directly in Ruthie’s face.  You mark my words, your Mother AND your Father will be hearing about this.”

The visitation

Huh?? Mash scratched his head, reading the glare in his wife’s eyes.  Glorianna had used the word “precocious.”  The word had come up a time or two in the past.  Mash hadn’t wanted to let on, not knowing its meaning – and so, had asked his wife, Rachael, in private; she knew a lot of fancy words.  Precocious simply meant a thing, like one of the flowery bushes – growing nearby where the four of them were sitting - which always bloomed ahead of the others.

“Surely, you misunderstood, whatever my Ruthie had conveyed to your Lucy.” Rachael tried to diffuse the situation. 

“I didn’t misunderstood, nuthin!”  Glori snapped. 

“Oh no, not Ruthie, she doesn’t even think things like that.” Rachael clutched the little gem upon her necklace. 

“HAH! Your little Ruthie is a hottie!”

Hottie??  Oh, that was more than enough, Rachael’s patience took flight - like a big-ugly, “dismissing” a stoner.  Even so, to Rachael’s surprise – she stood up from the common table, a low gravelly voice arose from her throat, she balled a fist.

“I ought to clout you a good one!” 

“Try me.” Glori was on her feet. She then, ever so, pointed an index finger to her jaw.

“Sweetie Pie!” Jorg’s appeal to diffuse the situation went unnoticed.  He responded with a face-palm to his shaking head.  Mash, on the other hand, responded with a jaw-drop – for he had virtually had never seen his wife take a stand, and against all people...   

Two old women, seated at a nearby table, looked up.  One whispered to the other something about coordinating their wash-days, so as not to miss the upcoming, the inevitable, action. 

At once, Rachael’s eyes waxed saucer, her fist flattened – like a tire tube, pierced by a gramma-nettle; the same hand now covered her mouth.  I really did it this time; she had noticed the two older women.   Starting a ruckus in the common area?  Disgraceful. She hadn’t been raised to start a scene, like a charwoman.  Oh stepmother would be devastated upon hearing of the incident – of which she certainly would – for the couple, as with her other Elamite kinsmen, lived in the village.  And neither did Rachael want to end up, possibly being put into the stocks. While not often, such did happen to women, about a year ago; an offender had either taken the seat for spreading gossip - or had it been drunkenness?  Didn’t matter.  By day’s end, the poor old woman had been covered with …yuk!

“We’ll be going now.” Jorg put his arm around his wife.  He turned to Mash, “Friend, this matter need go no further than right here.”   Both men knew – as each householder, was the undisputed monarch of his holdings – however, men’s holdings did not include every place within the settlement. 

Warning shot.

What a royal mess!  The men’s council house lay in smoldering ruins, along with several tables and benches which sat in the common area.  Chief Cainan was among the men picking through the remains.  The coat of arms, which hung on the lattice behind the head table had been reduced to ashes amid lumps of charcoal. He blew on two or three of his fingertips, after having attempted to retrieve some documents – they were so charred, hadn’t been worth the injury.   The commemorative lances and shields were loss enough, but the parchments!  Those were important. 

The pantry area was rubble; here and there lay half burnt ends of utensils, and chards of serving vessels, Barb read Rachael’s thoughts.  The men would rebuild.  Wouldn’t be long before they were back to holding their meetings - and still expecting food and beverage to be served…on what!  Platters and cups, schlepped back and forth – along with the victuals - from their wives’ pantries.  Using the business end of a flint-tipped garden hoe, Barb upturned the top of a cubit-sized crate.  Only part of its charred bottom remained.   Within, lay ashy remains of what had been their WagonDay decorations; the festival commemorated a long ago victory, against a mangey horde.  At this time of year, a wagon was prepared.  Shields and banners, both used and taken during that battle, hung from the sides.  Woven around this ordnance were garlands.  These were made by little girls, who looked forward to the day, when they would be old enough to sit in the back amid the spoils. 

The festival, only a week away, would have to be postponed.

Barb’s father, Amnon, glanced skyward, toward the ridge, where the lord dragon had set up his throne, at the highest peak, where the great winged beast overlooked his dominion. Lowering his eyes, they met those of his son-in-law – as if both warriors knew, for whatever reason, they, as with their fellows, had been taken down a peg or two.  Hul had realized that, almost a week back, while on patrol, when he had happened upon the lance, which had pierced the young female dragon - but evidently, not for long.  Having handed it over, Boco - the spear’s owner - swallowed his adam’s apple.  A silent understanding had passed between elder and younger – hadn’t been just any old junior miss.  And neither was this chapter going to end free of consequence.  We’re all vassals, the unspoken realization among the men, did not sit well - most especially - with Amnon. 

Standing nearby, the worship house remained, without so much as an ashy blemish.  Marcella placed an arm around her husband’s, Pastor Jason’s, shoulders.  The other held a pitcher of coffee.  She topped off his cup, then went back to whatever she had been doing.   He was drafting a sermon, focusing upon man’s besetting folly:  pride. 

Rachael finds the parchment

“Hmmph!”,” Rachael surveyed Ruthie’s sleep-space; the bed wasn’t made, and her good dress just slooped over the headboard.  She let out a raggedy breath, it was one thing to pick up after Bron.  William had been the worst, but, thankfully, his messes were now her daughter-in-law’s problem.  “Ouch!”  She looked down at the upturned sandal.  Leaves shoes lying about, just like her father.  She sat on the bed and rubbed her toe; the nail chipped, she would take a file-stone to it later.  Right now, she resolved to do what Ruthie was supposed to - clean up her sleep-space – Talk to the lattice!  Rachael shook her head, then began to fold the carelessly strewn garments, which the girl should have hung upon peg, or put in the chest – Opening the cedar box, a corner of a parchment peeked out from beneath one of Ruthie’s shifts.  Rachael being nearsighted, could not read the small print – for paper, like everything else, had to be made, and so carefully used. Holding it close to her vision, she wasn’t even past the first paragraph, before the story had her in its grips.  While beaming with pride, for the paragraphs were quite descriptive – yet, by around the sheet’s middle, a bit too detailed, for a maiden to be putting to pen.

“Mother!”  Ruthie’s eyes narrowed upon seeing the unfurled page, and the opened chest. “You have no right.”

“I beg your pardon?” Rachael turned around.

“It’s private.” Ruthie countered.

“And would have remained private, had you cleaned your area.” Rachael continued, “like I had asked you to do – yesterday.” She stood up, stepping over to her daughter, put her free arm around her.  “This is quite good, actually.” Then added, “a bit too good.  A moment passed.  Reaching the story’s end, she handed the page to her daughter.  “Now tuck this away, and keep it as such, lest your Father gets wind.”

“Gets wind of, WHAT!”

Oopps.

It took more than a few moments, but Mash read every word upon the parchment – though, with his wife’s help, for several of the words, he had maybe heard a time or three, but didn’t quite know their meaning.  Finishing, he handed the parchment to his daughter, telling her she was a fine writer, but to put it away.

“It’s time, we find a Husband for the girl.”

“We…!”  Have you a rodent in your pocket?”

Mash’s eyes narrowed at his wife’s flippant statement.  And why couldn’t she use just regular words – like Rat!  Fancy words hadn’t helped Seth’s brother’s people when those … Mash couldn’t recall what that landless horde had called themselves, but his wife’s people, the Elamites, had been few enough before that raid.  Elamite lands, neighboring the larger holdings of the Sethites.   it had only made sense for the latter to drive off the horde – and collect a fair amount tribute for their trouble. 

 

Barb gives birth to a daughter

Doris?  That’s a strange name, Hul scratched his thick fuzzy beard, then pulled it – sort of – back into shape.  Oh well, unusual names, like mother, like daughter.  Though the name, meaning water, suited her; from his vantage - where he was carving a chunk of corkwood, into the shape of a duck – Baby Doris was in her mother’s arms, laughing and splashing the brook’s water.  He paused, thinking, though the duck looked a bit worse for wear, it would have to do; he was no Bron. 

The return of the three men

was first spotted by one of the men guarding the perimeter.  Immediately, he bellowed to one of his fellows nearby to get help, for the three young men, now full grown, were barely able to hold one another vertical. 

Celebration was postponed for a bit.

…

Barb checks in on Boco, he was the one who sustained injury; and the man the other two had surprised with a plaque they had made in his honor – for he’d taken quite a beating in saving them both.  He was laid up a few weeks.  Between getting him back to health, and tending to her infant daughter, she was tired and irritated with Boco, because he didn’t want to be stuck sitting up, like some old woman.

“They…they broke my bowl!”

Barb flung the rag she was holding into the soapy bucket, sending water and suds everywhere, including the table’s area where she had soaked and scrubbed away the previous evening’s sticky rings and spills, seed entrenched spills; orange juice had to be the worst. She let out a sigh, then reaching for the largest upturned shard, gathered the other two or three which lay on their sides and tossed the pieces into a nearby recycle bucket – one which would later be added to the compost pile; the shards added to a separate – some of which eventually be ground into powder, to be recast for chamber pots and other less noble things.   It wasn’t like her pantry was lacking crockery – or jars and baskets of foodstuffs; actually, the broken corded pottery had a long-time crack running along its side, and a few chips here and there.  Those obvious signs of age and use weren’t the point. 

The point was: the bowl had been a wedding gift – a gift from someone who most likely hadn’t quite enough to spare from her own pantry.  The journey had been a tough trek; anyone over twenty could, at least partially remember the lack of food, of seeing satchels and baskets tumbling into ravines, and shivering at night, because the other cloak had also “gone over the edge.”  The phrase denoted anything, however lost - more than a few satchels had been snagged by the quick jaws of animals – all one could do was see the corner disappear into the thicket.  Who could forget the dutchess – and, shortly after arriving, her bigger, uglier, sister-in-law, with whom the women and children had “taken tea” on more than a few occasions.

“Men!” Rachael shook her head while dousing a rag, then going after a gooey mess, which had apparently been jettisoned off the table but caught the bench on its way to the ground – the confection now smeared upon the toe of her mother-of-pearl encrusted sandal.  “They get to arm wrestling, and whatever else,” she turned, tossing a broken spoon onto a pile of kindling, the added a mutter - something about it’s not like Purveyors being a third day’s journey.   She then felt something gooey upon her foot, the naughty word which escaped from her lips wasn’t quite a mutter.  By mid-morning, the three or four women and two or three girls had washed the tables and put right the benches; the cups, utensils and crockery were all cleaned and put in their respective places. 

Wedding ceremony

The wedding loaves had been cut, the coffee and juice served, and distributed to the guests – which was basically the entire village of some hundred and a half individuals.  Soon, the two packages, which sat in front of the couple, would be unwrapped of their parchment coverings; the other nuptial gifts had been, a day or two previous, taken by the several of the women, to Boco’s house.  The opening of the gifts was the last phase of the ceremony; a wedding tradition, one that went back…for centuries, even to Seth’s days.  He and his wife had left right after the couple had exchanged vowels; Seth was not well, and this short outing would likely do him in for the following day or three.

What a cute couple, there had been more than a few “Aawwws” from the wedding guests.  The mother of the bride, Rachael, was taking this all in, this is how a marriage is supposed to start – unlike the start of hers.  Rachael had been, basically, an article of tribute.  At the time, the sons of Seth and the sons of Elam (Seth’s brother) were neighbors, and sometimes didn’t get along too well.  Though the two lines now lived in the same village, among the older people, especially, there were still differences.

The music, oh the music.  Songs about marriage, the good times and getting through the inevitable not so good ones.  After this song, she reasoned, but after that song, came another good song, and then another.  Well, nature couldn’t wait. Rachael headed to the outhouse.  In a hurry to get back so as to not miss any of the party, she didn’t see the mess along the path.   The outer heel of her sandal went right into it.  Lizard dooey, had to be the worst.  Lifting her skirt just a bit, she hobbled over to a nearby stump, sat down, pulled off the sandal, then found a stick and some leaves to wipe it off – or at least most of it; she then grabbed a nearby clump of soft grass.

From her vantage, she caught a glimpse of Glori, and Peninnah who were chatting away while packing a goodly basket of foodstuffs for the bride to take to her new home.  “MY stump!”  The memory, of a certain stump-session past, jarred her somewhat.   Rachael, when still a new bride, had been doing about the same, except, at the time, she had no sandals upon her feet – nor access to them.  She had looked up, and before her, had stood the two larger, and sturdier women.  Rachael had turned slightly; standing behind her was a third; to her side, over by the tables, several older women had been whispering and pointing.  She could still remember one of them casually biting into an apple - as if the elder had been among the audience within Purveyors Premier Theatre House, simply enjoying the show.  Rachael could only thank the Most High for sparing her daughter such a “welcome.” Rachael had given apology for “not yet knowing the ways of your community.”  Around her, raised eyebrows, and snickers, “Oh trust me, you’ll learn soon enough.” Glori, the women’s leader, had spoken, then she and her crew had dispersed. 

Rachael had returned in time to watch the couple open the two gifts.  Ruthie opened her package.  It was a beautiful codex, containing recipes and some other things brides needed to know.  Per tradition, she opened the volume and, for a moment, browsed its pages.  Leaning into her husband, she showed him a page or two, somewhere in the middle.  Some laughter, and a whine here or there from a tiring child, came from the guests.  Ruthie then slipped the volume within the parchment shell.   The laughter took an increase in volume as Boco reached for his package; a parchment enrobed rectangle.  Per tradition, it contained…well, the symbol of his Headship.  As in ceremonies past, more than a few borderline raucous phrases had erupted from the tables.  Following some song, the couple made ready to depart. Ruthie’s left hand carried the basket, as she and her husband, Boco, walked off, holding hands.  “Aawww.”

As the sun slipped below the horizon, the celebration began to break up.  For all but the newlyweds, morning came early, bringing with it, another full day of keeping after house, laundry, field, and the wood cutting.  Mash was stuffed – that extra slice of cake he had eaten, hadn’t been necessary.  Times like these – especially – he was glad his holdings were located at the far end of the village; the eight some furlong (about a mile) walk, from the common area was exactly what his stomach needed.  His wife, Rachael, was also pleased with the arrangement, for Father and Stepmother lived just two properties away. 

As the couple sat at table, sharing a warm beverage and some conversation, their son, Uriah, was playing in the backyard – acting out a story he had heard from one of his companions; one where a brave knight rescues a fair maiden, and sees her home to her father and mother.  Dusk was coming on, Mash arose from his seat to call his son, for it was soon time to turn in.  However, before the man could get the words out, Uriah came running.

“Daddy, Daddy,” the boy exclaimed, his eyes wide, “we must rescue Ruthie.”  The young armor-bearer, then turned to retrieve his father’s spear and satchel.  “Son…What?”  Mash then looked to Rachael, his wife – who was just as confounded as her husband.  “But Daddy!” the boy’s eyes showed alarm. “Sir Boco may be keeping her.”  Mash couldn’t contain himself, he let out a throaty chuckle.  “Sir Boco, better had.” 

Now the youngster was confounded.  For the previous day, he had accompanied his mother and his step grandmother over to Sir Boco’s holdings.  As the two women, who were joined by two or three others, were stocking both pantry and sleeping chamber, the boy happened to notice the bed.  It was small. “Momma,” Uriah turned to his mother, “but where will Sis sleep?”  Rachael put aside some threads she was sorting. “Your sister will sleep with her husband, of course.”

The family turned in.  Uriah entered his sleep space.  One thing the lad knew, he wasn’t about to marry – he had not forgotten the time he had walked in on his sister, while she had been changing into fresh raiment.  That vase had been little, but still...  Laying down, he made a mental note to warn his brother-in-law to knock first, lest he get conked upside his head.

About the year 1025 or 30

“Still breaks my heart, whenever I see them.” Ruthie’s mother-in-law, spoke in a somewhat ragged breath.  Ruthie wished she had not blurted that stupid quip concerning a boy who lived next door.  The youngster had taken a serious dusting from his father’s paddle, for doing what any normal, red-blooded boy does – crossing the perimeter.  Ruthie further chided herself, for she and Boco’s son hadn’t yet turned seven – an age where the settlement still remained a world vast enough for boys to run, play and imagine.  Then again, she recalled, her friend’s son had been only a few years older, when he was crossing – but of course, Tommy’s father was no longer around to have given his boy a thorough dusting.  “Most High’s been merciful to me,” the elder woman added, “having spared my boy from such a fate.” 

It wasn’t a mere matter of a few understandably nervous moms, who had been taken aback from the border incident.  And neither had the thirteen, or fourteen, year old been the first to end up in the jaws of a great beast.  The sentry-teams had been doubled, and it appeared, such would be for, at least, the foreseeable future.  It was as if, the great beasts had stepped up in their recruit of warriors from their ranks.  Though, over the three past decades, such four-footed maneuvers waxed, then waned, still the community found themselves, again, troubled, by the fear of possibly being overrun, driven from their homeland, and jawed one-by-one as they fled for some semblance of safety.  HAH - like wherever else that would be!   The question, once again, crossed Ruthie’s mind; how could they – the beasts – have any idea what had, so long ago, taken place, all the way beyond the HedgeLands?   Wasn’t Eden many, MANY furlongs west of them? 

While sprinkling an herbal mix onto a wooden tray of open-faced sandwiches, a rustling branch caught Ruthie’s attention; from out of the leafy medium, a raven took flight.  Ravens.  While she couldn’t recall the passage, Pastor Jason did mention the text in one of his recent sermons – something along the lines of ravens “crying onto God.”  She could only reason, if birds knew the MostHigh, why wouldn’t they – and other animals – be cognizant of things, which people chose to deny or simply ignore.  Placing the tray, along with the tea and the cups, upon the family table, she noticed the raven having landed upon one of the last remaining sections of the would-have-been perimeter walls, which – after these three decades - hadn’t yet toppled; though the concrete was likely, as with the few others, was showing more cracks and crumbles with each passing year.  How many times had she told her son not to play near the column?  Boys…Was the raven a he or she, Ruthie couldn’t tell from her vantage, but the bird was sure yapping its beak at something, making its way in the tall grass below.

Nevertheless, the undisputed fact remained.   The people’s numbers were few.  Last count was 140-something; was only by the Mercy of the Most High God, they had been able to hold things together.

The very same fact, also jammed the widow-woman’s mental signals.  Ruthie’s mother-in-law had made it clear enough to her son, Boco, Ruthie’s husband, she was not yet ready to re-marry. Ruthie circled the older woman.  Perfect.  All was left was to stitch a border along the hem; the lovely dress would be ready within a few days – plenty of time.  “Mother, it’s quite beautiful, Ruthie added, “if i may say so, myself.” Ruthie couldn’t help but feel a bit giddy at her needle-skills.  While her mother-in-law, had painted upon her face, expressions of appreciation – for which the elder was for-real, after all, her daughter-in-law had put in quite a bit of work; that is, on top of her own tasks.  Still, the older woman could not mask the reality that she was spending her last days in her own space.  The same property, of which her own boy, had already shown to, not just one couple, but two others. 

The woman, having been triggered by this morning’s “showing,” had muttered something along the lines of her boy, wanting to “off-load his old mother.”  Ruthie, hearing that one, had to stifle a laugh – old?  Her mother-in-law was, at most, three and some half centuries…oh, but it’s young people who are drama-potentates.  The idea of preferring to remain a widow…why?  Ruthie pondered, perhaps her late father-in-law may have been a fuddy-duddy.   That she couldn’t wrap around her head; her eyebrows raised, recalling one morning – though whatever contained within the book was permissible – of Boco’s initial hesitations, his exclamations that we can’t…that he would be late.  Perhaps the chamber-conversation which had transpired between Boco’s parents had been…well, rather quiet.  After all, when there’s children…hadn’t exactly stifled her parents. 

A roundish bit of marble flew past the two women, toppling a vase which occupied the middle shelf of the couple’s pantry.  The ceramic container fell to the sideboard, broke into shards, displacing other containers – one, which Rachael, in the nick of time, had steadied.  “HEY!” Rachael took off running, she called out to her son, “I said, NOT near the house.” Boco, Jr. knew he was in trouble; he took off after his companion; for the lad had already learned that, unlike a month or so previous, his mother was no longer able to catch up in pursuit – but actions and consequences had yet to fully etch themselves into his developing mental maps.  From behind him, his mother’s voice called out, “… Your FATHER…”

Uh-o.

Cain in a plane, year is about 1060

Tubal-Cain cast his eye upon the fuel gage, the tank was two-thirds full; had he instead chosen to fly either of his two other planes, neither war-plane would have made it this far, without stopping at a fuel depot – the nearest landing strip was, of course, some distance, a field several furlongs north of Enoch. While there was sufficient fuel to continue exploring for a while longer, Tubal-Cain and his co-piolet thought it best to start heading back.   Out here was certainly no place to end up stranded.  Especially, since Tubal-Cain’s exploration model carried only so much ordnance.  That last ugly looked menacing enough; fortunately, she was occupied with a young alligator, who was trying to wrest free from her talons.  There were no two ways about it; the uglies out here were fiercer, if not bigger – as if the ones that lived upon the ridge back home weren’t enough of a threat. 

He looked down, and northward.  More ridges.  They seemed to go forever.  Being in the valley region, Tubal-Cain descended, to have a quick look around; but not too low, lest trees upon a nearby hill hide another ugly.  It was then, he caught, almost out of his sight, what appeared to be … a corn field?  Here??  Of all places.  Who the heck would want to ek out a livelihood, in such a god forsaken …boonieville.  Certainly not the feet.  While some were known to dwell in forests; those foul-smelling mutations only remained in one place long enough to lay waste upon the local beasts, then shamble on elsewhere to do the same.   It then occurred to the world’s first aviator.  Perhaps, an outlying tribe, displaced by LaGree’s quarrying; that was a possibility, however a remote one.  While the first mountain was said to contain a few settlements – they were generally unstable; life in the mountains was…short-lived.  Though still far off, his vantage revealed an orderliness about the land.  After all these decades, and no contact with civilization?  He had lived long enough, had seen it play out, prolonged isolation didn’t end well.  He wanted to lean in for a closer look, but instead, scanned in all directions, and made a mental note to come back this way, at another time, by himself.

The only people he knew of, who even might be able to make a go of it, were the supposed “devolved” tribe of Seth.  Boy, that would be a story!  One that Tubal-Cain had no intention of telling – anyone; for the royalties of the late ProfToff’s evolution books were providing his widowed sister with at least a reasonable income.  Between the sales - and some help from her father and brothers - Naamah had been able to pay off numb-nutz’s debts – which had been many - and to afford herself a modest, but pleasant villa; and enough funds to retain a few servants.  Toff, what a donkey wipe!  He’d even borrowed against his life-insurance policy – probably to bet on the ponies, or to keep from getting his legs broken, for nonpayment of the same.  Well, that brilliant plan had only worked out, for so long; anyway, Tubal-Cain wasn’t telling that story either.   As for the Sethites, if they wanted to hoe potatoes, while evading the dires and the dragons…and boyo, there were some hum-dingers out this way.  Anyway, their business; theirs and TubalCain’s secret. 

“HOLY COW!!”  His co-piolet called out, pointing to their south east.  TubalCain’s hand reached for the ascending knob, his foot romped on the gas.  Where did that one come from? His co-piolet was doing all he could to hold his part together, but the fear in his eyes was unmistakable.  Tubal-Cain had nearly peed himself upon catching, in their rear-view, what had been chasing them.  Both men, let out sighs of relief, when the firery-breath’d big ugly decided she had flown far enough – into the territory of another big-ugly, who might be about - and had, instead, veered off in another direction; perhaps into the territory of a less formidable rival.  Nesting season…my rear!  Tubal-Cain turned the wheel a bit more.  It then struck him - the dragon was no ugly; it had an appendage hanging from its middle.  A sturdy one.  Enough of this, Tubal-Cain reasoned, they were heading back to civilization.  And pronto!  Sure, one day this god-awful wild would be tamed.  Such could wait for Tubal-Cain’s sons or grandsons.

Meanwhile, on the ground.  Lamech and several other men and young men had been near the south ridge, and had heard an unusual, an unnatural, droning sound coming from above and to the south.  They looked up.  One of two of the men had, for a split second, caught a glimpse of a flying object – one neither could identify; but it was certainly no big-ugly, nor any other winged beast.  “This isn’t good.” Lamech replied, “Nope!” Jorg concurred – for he had long suspected, it would only be a matter of time, before outsiders would eventually come horning in upon their territory.

Grand theft air auto

Some while later, Lamech was on his way over to his son’s foundry, when he spotted Tubal-Cain, sitting hunched over just inside the hanger.  What th…?  Lamech’s son was sniffling.  Something was very amiss, for Tubal-Cain wasn’t one to sulk.  “What’s up?”  His son, barely holding back tears, half-blubbered, “…stole my plane.”  Took Lamech a moment, “HUH??”  Lamech added, “How th’ [expletive]...” After a second or two, Lamech then figured it out. “BOY, didn’t I tell you about leaving keys in ignitions – IDIOT!”  Shaking his head, Lamech got back onto his horse, and headed for his mansion.

Later that day

Hul and several of the other men, who were afield, heard an awful sound of metal breaking; they had been making ready to return to the settlement, but instead headed southeast to investigate.  He was greeted, by one of three bird-lizards, fleeing the noise, which had only by an index or two, near-missed, ramming into Hul.  The short stocky man was taken aback, for he had never seen, nor even imagined, an expression of fear upon a bird-lizard’s face.  The snappings of branches and twigs only began to fade when the, still panicked, creatures were several furlongs behind them.  Hul about chuckled in amazement, for these lizards were generally larger and fiercer than the ones which lived beyond the perimeter of their old settlement. 

Arriving at the scene, pieces of metal were strewn all about – the main portion had exploded only moments ago; the local beasts, as perplexed as the men, had scattered to safety.  The men put out several fires, while keeping an eye on the main one – which was letting out as much steam as flame. Hardly a chirp or a rustling in the area. Needful to add, the plane was already “hot” before it had taken flight from Tubal-Cain’s air-strip.  One of the two thieves lay upon the ground; his body a mess, for he had gone headlong through the windshield; he was obviously dead, and would need to be buried; while cremation was known among more than a few tribes, Sethites would have no parts in that.  As for the other man, his body was likely lying somewhere nearby, for the manner in which the plane had crashed, it had skidded and turned;

Jorg, now taking in the cause of the disturbance, was rather unsettled upon having seen the fleeing lizards – it was as if these claw-toed wildings knew whatever had taken place, was an unnatural occurrence; they had wisely wasted no time in getting far away.    Men flying?  Why?  To take dominion of the earth, not from the natural means of traversing over territory by mule and cart, but cheap shotting it from heaven.   Bold-font blasphemy!    Cappy, surveying the wreckage, saw a treasure trove of metal, which could be disassembled and recycled into a wealth of labor-saving field and kitchen utensils.  Enough metal for all the men and woman; their work-worn lives made easier.  As the parade of hoes and rakes, of axe-heads and hammers, of pots and baking sheets, began their march down the main throughfares of the men’s minds, from man to man, a single question halted the music in mid-beat and silenced the cheers in mid note.  Would bringing back pieces, mark them, their wives - and even the children - as partakers in the sin of … putting on airs before the LORD?  Upon their return, one or two of the men resolved ask Pastor, though the same already knew the answer – because each hoped Pastor’s answer was one the men wanted to hear.

After having found, and buried, the body of other operator, the men and the young men turned their backs upon the site, and knocked the grass and debris from their sandals as they began their trek towards home.  While two or three of the young men didn’t see the big deal about lifting a random piece or two, none had dared – why court a flogging, ugh! before the Council, over what!  A piece of tail?   One or two of the young men, however, had already made the decision to eventually return to the crash site, at a more convenient time. 

Young Noah

Peninnah was to become the women’s unofficial “chief,” but she was too grieved to think about status.  Sure, the crew would still, from time to time, gang upon some nervous young bride – especially if she was Elamite – and throw her into the creek; but with her dear friend, Glorianna, soon to depart, this clean bit bully-fun just wouldn’t be the same anymore.  Not that Peninnah could blame Glori for being in every bit of agreement with her husband about trekking even further into the vast wilderness.   Peninnah wasn’t alone in the opinion, the departees were being a bit reactionary, but on the other hand, it was neither Peninnah nor any of her immediate family who had fallen so seriously ill during that 98 pestilence – or had it been ’97?  Didn’t matter, all that mattered was: her friend wasn’t anxious to go through that again; had it not been for the old healer’s skill, Glori would have surely died.  That was some three score ago, and still they had no healer, even close to the late elder-woman’s skill.

The departees’ things all having been neatly packed upon carts, breakfast having been served, the parting songs – some of which were similar to those sung at funerals – had been sung, the two groups were saying their final farewells, on this side; those departing had begun taking their place in line.  “BOAT!”  A somewhat chubby little boy, of four or five, and missing a front tooth, reached to retrieve the little craft he had made – and for such a young fella, he had done a fine job of it.  The top of the chest shaped craft was slightly raised in its middle. “Wanna play wif my boat.”  Just as he was ready to enter the water, where some rapids were nearby, jostling the craft of tightly woven straw, his mother Doris, grabbed him.  “Noah, we must be going.”

As the departing column wended their way into the foothills of the next mountain, which ran to the northwest, they skirted a certain marshy area – one which, as with any other wetland, men did not care to enter, for there was nothing but unnecessary risk, therein.  While swampy areas were neither the first, nor second choice of any self-respecting cresty, a young female half-limped her way along the shore of a murky waterway.  She was not exactly experiencing a good morning.  While few days earlier, she had secured a better place, that comfy situation changed real quick, after having been served an eviction notice from a rival; the script etched upon her shoulders and back – the red ink still seeped in areas.  Finding a reasonably sunny spot, in this rather dismal area, she laid down to rest a bit, and warm her stress-chilled frame.  Her body needed nutrients, in order to heal; she hadn’t eaten in, going on four days.  Her ribs were beginning to show; in this malnourished condition, she would not attract a mate – at least one suitable, one who would be quick to run off any rivals who intended to slay and eat her young.  She sniffed to her left and her right.  Nothing, for now.  Sooner or later, a frog or a nice juicy snake would happen by; at present, she simply wanted to rest, undisturbed. While she had eaten some insect-rich grass, she needed flesh.  Her nostrils picked up the slight scent of bipeds, but she was simply too exhausted to even consider going after one of them near column’s end, nor any of their animals.

At least the swamp afforded the weary creature, relative safety, and privacy. So, the young dragon had thought.

…

The Prince of the Power of the Air was also experiencing a less than cheery morning.  Satan was just plain disgusted – in two words, “tail assault.”  Such a noxious bunch of incompetents who had grabbed onto it, upon that sixth morning, back in year 0000.  Destroyer, his Number #1 minion, was still giving him the stonewall.  Over what!  Destroyer needed to get over that Ort-Cloud incident.  Yes, it was that imp, what’s-his-ugly-snout’s blunder – on the surface, that is, for Mouth was too much of a third-rate dolt to realize, he had merely carried out preventive measures.  Having re-checked his calculations, based on careful study of the humans, their numbers wouldn’t even reach one billion for at least another some-five thousand years; currently, their population wasn’t even close to a mere two million – an eighth-copper firecracker. Satan was patient, he wanted see hell explode like a cartful of three-silver Enoch-candles - baVOOMMM!!  He checked his wrist watch; it read 09:57 – But the Devil’s patience had its limits – and he had another concern.  The giant population was down – thanks to Tubal-Cain’s four fighter planes.  Neither did it help matters, the progeny of fallen angel and human female tended to not survive beyond the tenth or twentieth year – though, there were exceptions.  Still, his plans to unalive that workaholic, weren’t panning out. Meanwhile, Tubal-Cain kept on working his foundry – and training piolets.   Satan checked his watch, it read 09:58.  Where did that ... that glorified blacksmith, and flying-ace-wannabe, find the time?   Satan knew the answer to that question – and it chapped his tail, bigtime; Tubal-Cain had no interest in the city’s night life, nor did he care for anything stronger than coffee; neither did that…oaf Satan spat – almost hitting his expertly buffed conference table – spend either time or coin attending the chariot races.   

It was 09:59. Destroyer had one minute. 

Glancing again at his jewel-encrusted timepiece, it was just in the nick of time, he happened to catch a glimpse from a certain imp, waddling his way toward one of the padded leather conference chairs.  “Oh no, Satan, in almost a panic, had called out, “Grot, you go with the column.” He added, “NOW!”   The distended imp simply turned tail and, before making that long journey, waddled toward the bank of murky waters, where he made a quick withdraw. While he much preferred defiling clear waters, that meant delaying his gratification.  The swamp would have to do.  Little did WallyGator, his mate, Wanda, and their little Willie realize, their usual mid-morning swim-brunch would be the gator family’s last outing.   

Satan re-checked his watch.  The digital time read 10:02; Destroyer was late – again.  Destroyer’s habitual lack of, even commonplace manners would not do; there were consequences.  Satan called for an imp, and handed him a key; the imp, not wanting to end up in a briar bush, said not a word, but went straightaway to fulfill Satan’s command - to unlock Destroyer’s dungeons.

The time now read 10:06.  Where in tarnation was Destroyer?  The weaponized poultry matches didn’t start until after 1:pm – those were the earliest.  And forget torture parties – those were night-time events.  Oh, silly me, the Devil chided himself, for it was early in the new month – that meant Destroyer was … occupied with a new favorite.  The Devil shook his head, in profound disapproval of such…cringy pursuits.  Did these utterly timewasting FOOLS not realize – for one millisecond - precisely what was at stake?   Would they not come to grips with the … the exceedingly frightful possibility, the Most High and His angels could be victorious – and grind Satan, and his army - of nincompoops - to powder?

The Devil, seeing no reason to further delay the meeting, grabbed a mallet-headed imp, turned him upside down, and pounded him upon an exquisite marble block – the fallen creature moaned in agony. The Devil then called for the secretary to read the previous meeting’s minutes.  When the official finished, a look of annoyance crossed the Devil’s face; for the secretary - the buffoon - had neglected to include a most prominent item, heading the list of new business.  The old saying among Enoch’s WadStreet middle-managers, held so, so true: “one cannot soar with eagles, when one works with turkeys.”  The Devil, glared at the secretary, then introduced this most important topic.  He began briefing his staff – of which, had they been paying attention, this sudden meeting wouldn’t have been necessary.  Again, consequences.  How does that new saying among Enoch’s youth go?  “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes.”   And Baphomet had been awarded the grand prize; the fallen angel began to pout and whimper, for he was commanded to also follow the column quite a distance north west, even further from Enoch’s nighttime action; Baphomet’s imps, seated upon the floor in the back, snickered amongst one another.  The Devil had no time for this foolery; he banged his animate gavel - this time, the mallet-headed imp screamed.

The sun was leaning toward mid-afternoon when the meeting adjourned.  The demons and imps went their way; two of them passed by the cresty, whose head lay near to where a modest spring sputtered into the half-stagnant water.  Nearby, several fish floated, belly up.  Upon them, and in the water, flies and other dead insects, also floated listlessly on by.  Both devil and imps, paused to take in the luscious aroma of death.

Meanwhile, along a distant valley stream.

The little wicker boat made it way down a crisp stream, having traveled hundreds of furlongs, it finally landed upon an assemblage of pointy rocks, peeking from near the stream’s middle.  A boy, about young Noah’s age, waded out to fetch it. Taking it, he showed the craft to his dad, who momentarily wondered from whence it came.  Couldn’t be from the mountains, for if there were any children – which he doubted – among the slaves who toiled in the quarry, surely, they would neither have the time, the mental capacity, nor any spirit left in them, to be making their own playthings.

That quarry, he spat.  If LaGree was going to break rock, where the man’s tribal leaders had suspected, his people would have to pull up stakes.  One of the problems was, the better land bordered a bit close to Ik territory – they were nasties; had the Ik put half the effort into working their own land, instead of brutalizing one another – and raiding the produce of neighboring villages, they would be quite well to do; and would enjoy longer lifespans. Word was, if any of them made it to their fifth century, that was nothing short of a miracle.  His mind wandered off the Ik topic.  Maybe that story of the Sethites going back to being baboons – the man never could square with that one; perhaps, the real truth was, they’d, one by one, died from bitter waters.  And if that story had gotten out, everyone would have, long ago, been up in arms, and would have banded together and ran LaGREEZY all the way to the world’s edge, and into the great sea – where Levithan and his many princes roared their decrees, with fire.   

Ugh, the man tossed into the bushes, a mottled apple from which he had taken a bite; the Sethites, and the Elams, were sorely missed – nobody could grow such fine produce.  Virtually free of spots and worms, back then, the fruits had been in such abundance, that even the poorest of people were able to enjoy – either through discounted purchase, or from the vendor’s charity bin; for even their third-bests weren’t half bad.  The youngster waded near the shore, enjoying his newly arrived play-thing.  The man called to his son; the boy picked up the craft, tucking it under his arm.

Get a reference about the Ik of Africa, who mainly because their hunting lands had been STOLEN from them, by the government – for some park – their society had completely demoralized within one or two generations.  Their story was in an article that was published in the early 1990s

 

1060 - The first characters to leave the story, for lands farther away from the, obvious, incoming corruption are:  Methuselah and wife, Lamech and wife (Barb’s daughter) and young Noah, Pastor Jason and Marcella his wife and a few of their kids; Jorg and Glori