Chapter 06

Fresh mountain air

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  And because of this blunder, on Baphomet’s part, his R&R that he was supposed to get, had been revoked.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 stuck in the boonies, but where the only music were either 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 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, not witnessing, the details.

ProfToff was one of those, it’s-never-enough people.  Word had reached Prof’s ears about a certain song, played by some rag-tag band, and the man and the woman who’d 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 the plants, animals and themselves arose from, basically, pond scum, only to struggle in dirty crowded situations to put not quite enough food on the table, inadequate raiment upon work-worn backs, to grow old too early, only to sicken, and die, before their 600^th year – as if they mattered about as much as the typical gutter rodent.  Needful to say, Toff had gotten into a real snit about it, because the reported 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 he-sow 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.  Tubal didn’t like Toff from the get-go, but the skank-wank had gone way too far; Toff had beat up Naamah, Tubal’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.   Niether 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 demon spat, for the only action in this backwoods was a slap or a shove, here or there; 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; well, her husband, Mash, had other ideas.  To add even more insult to Baphomet’s narcissistic injury had been, the couple’s encounter had ended 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 son, while washing the dirt and grime from, his face.  Both mother and son, named Jared – after the boy’s paternal grandfather – were in the brook, that ran along the border of the family’s back yard.  Barb, of course, hadn’t initially been partial to the name which Hul had, more like, insisted upon.  Oh well, past was past, and it had been long overdue to jettison the baggage.  With all her 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’d a chance to put it upon him, he’d 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’d slept a bit longer than she’d 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,” 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-ish hours prior.  Little devils, her legs and feet had more than a few scars. 

 

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 his 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.  Yeah, 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’d felt empathy when he’d 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’d become fourteen, or fifteen – well, somewhere around there – had only to deal with nightly mists; he didn’t have to deal with nightly chill and mists.

She checked on her son, 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. 

 

“Ruthie, just ignore him.”

Her friend, Lizi, helped Ruthie dust off the residue, from a clump of dirt, which Anak had thrown at the two girls, who’d 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’d 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 obnoxious people 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’d 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’d 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’d 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 aboard 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 just plain easy-peasy – go over and swipe two honey cakes from Aunt Rachael.  Oh, but there was a hitch: Even though the hazy ball in the sky was barely beyond its 2nd phase (1pm) Uncle Mash might come home, for he did, sometimes even twice in a day.  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 he’d lost a button in the brambles, the day before last, and had lost another about a week ago, 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 scary enough.  While most the wives, 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 stick.  Out of her earshot, of course, the pock-marked woman was known by several of the little boys and young men - who’d felt that stick - 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’d heard the grownups talking about the 998 sickness; from what he’d 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.  Still, “WarWagon…” that was a funny phrase, but one he had no intention of uttering anywhere near grownups’ ears.

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’d been at his grandmothers, who’d sent him off with a big cookie. Mr. Secretary, who’d 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 a 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 about no water, nor food, weren’t exactly in any condition to huff it on out of there.  The one, who’d just blubbered, something, had faltered; his misstep was answered with a shove.  The two, having had been, the previous afternoon, 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, Mash’s grandfather, recalled part of the sermon, but it had been awhile 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.  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 grandson, Mash had, what his granddaughter-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.   Blubberer began to whimper just a little, for he’d also had caught the whiff, and was hungry.  The last time he’d anything was yesterday morning, and not much at all, for he’d overslept, and missed the morning meal; the bland little pie, he’d managed to swipe, wasn’t filling.  “Hope ‘er old man bats ‘er one.” Blubberer muttered.

“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, the previous day, it still smarted enough; needful to say, that morning, he’d 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 ways 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 two bird-lizards?  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’d retire to beds - warmed by their affectionate wives.  The latter thought, raised the men’s eyebrows.

Mash held up his right hand, 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 mess with, best steer clear.  And anyway, 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.  Yeah, 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’d then had taken off running and screaming, but that wasn’t game over enough; their ROTTEN LUCK.  Stoney muttered a curse, his luck had waxed 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 made a team of prosecuting attorneys.

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’d, and for only a moment, parked the satchel on a nearby log, instead of wisely hanging it upon a branch.  Welp, 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. Yesterday’s scene hadn’t been lost on Mash, who, at the time, could barely contain himself from busting out laughing, watching his oversized buddy stomping off, muttering something about, “dern coyote just frontin’ fer a piece.”

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.  But all quips aside, several of the women, who had daughters to help them, would stealthily add a goodly handful of their gatherings into Barb’s basket.  One or two of the rather critical spirited gals would cluck at one another, little snippets, along the lines of “she needs to get some meat on those bones, if she’s to have any daughters.”

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’d 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’d 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 never liked him, doubly so, because despite the elder man’s gentle, almost nannylike ways, uhm no – not one with whom to start a ruckus.  Ask the two, no it was three, wannabe-hoodlums over at Purveyors, who’d tried to pick the elder’s pocket.  Last time Stoney was there, he'd 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.” Was all that need said, for everyone knew that if an outee was to show up, there’d 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-

 

A few days later

“Oh, that’s just sick!” Rachael exclaimed, after asking Barb how old Tommy was.  “Tommy being in his mid-20, meant Stony was close to thirty, and the poor girl who’d been assaulted was barely twenty.   Neither woman cared to elaborate the girl’s probable future – one where she’d likely end up as wife to some old widower; younger men, of course, wanted their wives to not having had any sort of previous experience. –The two women turned to various other topics.

“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 chattered away while worked on a project for a different 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!”  Yeah, it was all perks to serve on the executive committee – well, for their husbands, it was.  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. 

 

Rachael made a face while lifting the clay pitcher – not that it was heavy, well, not too.  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 work quite well, 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’d 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’d 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’d 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.  Yeah, 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.  Unlike the old days, the people – the women, especially – no longer had 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!!” Came the voice of Cainan, their Chief.  

The ladies quickly, quietly finished up, gathered their things and filed outside to the common area.  Moments passed.  Yep, 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’d 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’d just heard, or thought she’d 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’d been their age…the grandmotherly woman mouthed a thank-you to the Most High, for allowing their community, safe passage far and away from those corruptive influences.  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, couldn’t even get it up!”  Barb’s eyes lifted 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 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.  Never mind, her little girl’s off-color phrases may have originated…well, as they say, “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 banter, but she could, however, limit her daughter’s time with that Suzie.

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

It had been just a stupid fight

Ruthie queried herself, what was the big deal, 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’d still been upon Council premises when he’d thrown that punch.  So, basically, Father was temporarily an “inside outee.”  She’d 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’d “seen it go down.”  Not that it was any secret that Boco was about over the moon.  “Boy, can it!  Had come 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, 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 to the Most High, a prayer of mercy and of thanksgiving, for 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’d 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 time 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.

…

“Honey,” Rachael called to Ruthie, who was sorting threads by color – in which she’d 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 son 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’d missed all these decades.  Unless something was about right in front of his wife, she didn’t see details so good. 

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.

Get scripture about “base fellows.”

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.  Oh sure, 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.

Long story short: 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.  Word was, 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, we both have 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 equally 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.  Maybe a furlong ahead of him, he saw the rustle of branches, then careful movement, then hushed voices.   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, full of himself, for having been granted the rare, and much coveted, privilege of actually conversing with the Devil himself, 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.

While 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, and some other precious stones were 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.

 

About a month after the two rural hoodrats

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 watch the birds.   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 bowel – 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’d 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 he'd, about an hour earlier 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, then added, “get yourself cleaned up real good, and don’t tell your mother – Okay?”

 

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?”  That’ was a bit extreme.  Then again, after all, any other daughter who’d address her mother in such a manner, would end up with either a sore lip, or a mouthful of lye soap or both.  Rachael had done neither, quite upset, she’d retreated to the little grove out back to calm herself.  “Simp!”  Certainly not.  Yes, it was true, her husband was overbearing.  She’d 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’d 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’d 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

“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’d 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.  Though, Mash 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’d responded with something about how and why she, and not “her,” was the better, and 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 deemed 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’d be any time, or resources, for things like clothing that didn’t wear like the potato sacks with which they’d, 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’d 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 or three 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’d always be 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 few 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, the alerts each needed to sound alike.

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’d 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’d 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’d 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’ve an eight-year old – who won’t sit still, for even two seconds - and one on the way.

It had only been a matter of time; Barb gotten so busy with things, that she’d 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 - 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’d barely a chance to pass their family table, she’d 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!

Barb chided herself

for the less-than kind thought.  For several moments, she’d 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, with medicine bag, to Cappy’s and Peninnah’s.

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 Lord 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!”

 

Two of the three debs

were folding a tablecloth, the third was standing upon the head table in order to unlace, a bell-shaped decoration, then handed it to a deb from seasons past; the older woman put it into a wooden box, lined with soft grasses; the ornate decoration – unlike what few other fineries - had somehow not ended up in the gulch.  “You think we could somehow make another, for next season?”  The first deb paused, looking over to box which sat among other items to be put away in a storage nook adjoining the municipal pantry.  She then responded to the second, “you’ve a point, it’s looking a bit worn.” 

[The older lady, the former deb recalls when the ceremony was basically a pot luck, not that she resented the new debs.  On the contrary, she’d a hand in making the ceremony what is was, for she’d also clung to civilization’s hem; she’d also read about the Enu – or had it been the Ik?]

“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 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 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, but 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 being proud, hadn’t wanted to let on, not knowing its meaning – and so, had asked his wife, Rachael, in private; for 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 my 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 a long-nailed 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’d virtually had never seen his wife take a stand.   

Two old women, seated at a nearby table, looked up.  One whispered to the other something about coordinating her wash-day, 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 eventually would – for the couple, as with her other Elamite kinsmen, lived in the village.  And certainly, 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 aging 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 undisputed monarch of his holdings – his holdings, however, did not include every place within the settlement – namely the laundry area, where their respective wives would inevitably hash it out. 

 

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’d 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 strewn about garments which the girl should have put in the chest – Opening the chest, a corner of a parchment peeked out from beneath one of Ruthie’s shifts.  While Rachael being nearsighted, could not recognize the small print – for paper, like everything else, had to be made, and so carefully used. Holding it up, 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 descriptive, 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’d 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 the flippant statement.  And why couldn’t she use just regular words – like Rat!  Her people were the same way, using those high falutin’ words.  Words that didn’t help them 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 those 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.  Trouble was, the Elamites, with all their…he paused…their multi-syllabled words, and long paragraphs, had been long on making the tribute.  

“All girls her age…”

 

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’d 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’d 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 along the track.  But 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 could barely spare from her own pantry.  The journey had been a tough trek; anyone over fifteen 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. 

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 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’d 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” – and her kindly stepmother, (for her natural mother had passed into eternity when Rachael had been yet a child) who had raised her, as if her own, to be wise, to be quiet, watch and learn from the older women.   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.”  Rachael sniffled, batted her eyes, and started chewing the side of her index fingernail.  “Stop that!” Mash nudged a cup toward her, and pointed “’el settle yer nerves.”   

Later, after the ceremony, it’s almost third watch.  Rachael had gotten up and is sitting at the family table, all worried about her little girl.  Mash arises, they have a short convo.  His recollections about their wedding night, and her recollections, aren’t the same.

 

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’d 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 overly nervous moms who’d 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 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’d 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 350, at the most.

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 bit longer, Tubal-Cain and his co-piolet would soon be heading back.  This was certainly no place to end up stranded.  Especially, since this exploration model carried virtually no on-board ordnance, and only a minimum of emergency gear – for such added weight and reduced fuel efficiency. He looked down, and northward.  More ridges.  They seemed to go forever.  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 BigFeet.  While some were known to dwell in forests; these foul-smelling mutations only remained in one place long enough to lay waste upon the local beasts, then move on 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’d 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 barrowed 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.  They were being pursued. 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’d 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.  Tubal turned the wheel a bit more.  They were heading back to civilization.  Pronto!  Sure, one day this god-awful wild might be tamed.  And such could wait for Tubal-Cain’s sons or grandsons; he himself wanted no parts of it.  No thanks.

 

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 - 1060

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 boo-hoo.  “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 rode back to his house.

…

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’d 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.  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’d 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 unnatural, and 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.   As if any man would even consider imitating the Most High?  Bold-font blasphemy!    Neither was Jorg the only man among them who wanted keep distance from … from that.   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 family who’d 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’d 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.  Risks, such as possibly encountering a settling cresty; 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 experiencing a less-than good morning.  While few days earlier, she had secured a better place, her 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 chilled body – for the stressful journey had put her body in a moderate, but significant, state of shock.  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’d be quick to run off any rivals who’d 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’d eaten some insect-rich grass, she needed flesh.  Her nostrils picked up the slight scent of bipeds, but she was 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’d 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 the imp 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’d another concern.  The giant population was down – thanks to Tubal-Cain’s four fighter planes.  So far, the plans to unalive that workaholic, weren’t happening; 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?   Oh Satan being wise, 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 … blacksmith, Satan spat – almost hitting his expertly buffed conference table – care to place bets on 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 fresh waters, 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 the 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.

…

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 – and exceedingly sad - 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 quite longer lifespans. Word was, if any of them made it to their fourth 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’d taken a bite; the Sethites, and the Elams, were sorely missed – nobody could grow such fine produce.  Virtually free of spots and worms, in such abundance, that even poor people were able to enjoy – either through purchase, or from the vendor’s charity bin; even their third-bests weren’t half bad..  The man’s son 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