The Devonians – Book One: Daydreamer

…by Nancy Tart

Chapter One: Daydreamer

Matthew dropped a cold clop of black soil on his twin brother’s bare foot and laughed. 

“Hey!”  Stephen yelped.  He jumped back and shook the soil off, only to plant his foot right on top of it as he glared at Matthew.

“Mom!” Matthew cried as Stephen jumped at him.

Their mother, Kelly Taylor, ignored them with a shake of her head and a grin.  If Matthew didn’t want Stephen wrestling him, he shouldn’t be instigating trouble.

“Boys!” Their father, Randy, boomed in his loudest voice.

They both stopped. 

“But, Dad, Stephen…”

“Is your row done?”

“No sir,” Stephen responded.  Matthew let Stephen talk for him too.

“If you want to go with Michael, you have to finish this first.”

Everyone in the garden knew that didn’t need an answer.  Within seconds Stephen and Matthew were back to their work; poking the long rows with the stick, tossing a teardrop-shaped seed in the hole, and covering it with their toes. 

“Mr. Taylor!” Janine Summers called at the edge of the garden.  Janine was one of their neighbors.

Mr. Randy looked at her, “Yes?”

“Daddy says to please come.   Mommy’s trying to wash up the baby but the water’s flying out of the ground again!” 

“Okay, one second,” Mr. Randy called.  He laughed, sighed, and looked at his wife.  “I’ll bet it was that Froo-foo again.”

All five boys in the garden snickered. 

“No one has proven that the brown-sheep breaks the pipe, Randy,” Mrs. Kelly reminded. 

“That’s what they are supposed to eat,” Mr. Randy laughed.  He set his seed sack on the edge of the garden out of the way.  “I’ll see you at the meeting, most likely.”  Remembering that the sky warned of rain, Mr. Randy picked the seed sack up and toted it into the barn.  

“The meeting can’t begin without Sandy,” Mrs. Kelly laughed.  Today Sandy Summers was giving the lesson.  “See you there.”

 “I finished first!”  Stephen shouted.

“Did not!  I got it done first!”  Matthew returned. 

Their mother looked at them. 

It was quiet for a moment. 

“Mom, may we go to the meeting with Michael?”  Charley ventured.  He was taller than Matthew and Stephen even though they were fourteen months older. 

“When your rows are finished,” she glanced around to see Jacob proudly moving about halfway down the row.  Joseph, the eldest of her children, stood leaning on his stick and staring off at the tops of the trees in the horizon.  He was barely eight feet from where he started. 

“Hey!  Daydreamer!”  Matthew laughed as he threw a dirt ball to splat at Joseph’s feet.  “You haven’t moved at all!”

Joseph looked back starting at the beginning of his row.  He hadn’t gone very far.  The sack of seed in his hand was nearly full.

“Matthew,” Mrs. Kelly grabbed his attention, “do you want to take over Joseph’s row?” 

“No ma’am,” Matthew replied, “sorry Joseph.”

“That’s okay, I was daydreaming,” Joseph returned sheepishly. 

“Mom, we’re all done, may we go with Michael to the meeting?”  Charley asked again. 

Mrs. Kelly glanced over their rows.  “Sure.  Wash up and come inside first.  I need you to take some of the nuts ahead.”

“Thanks mom!” All three chorused and sprinted off for the outside pipe. 

Fat, shiny bamboo pipes stuck out of the water drum on the corner of the barn.  One snaked into the barn to water the animals, one went out into the kitchen garden on the north side of the barn, and the third jutted just out of the drum with a plug in it.  The small one with the plug was very skinny and allowed everyone to wash outside.

Mrs. Kelly bypassed the boys as they washed their soiled hands. 

“Don’t dawdle here if Joseph doesn’t finish,” Her husband said, emerging from a stall. 

“What are you still doing here?”  She laughed.  “I don’t plan on waiting longer than normal.”

“If he doesn’t finish I’ll do it when we get in tonight.”

“It might rain,”

“It will rain,” Mr. Randy grinned.  Mrs. Kelly loved his boyish grins.  Her husband’s eyes twinkled, “it had better rain, anyway, or we will be lugging buckets from the well again.  And that Froo-foo is the pipe-eater.”

Kelly laughed as Randy kissed her and went north toward the Summers’ home.   Joseph was always daydreaming.  Kelly wasn’t about to miss the meeting because of Joseph’s daydreaming. 

“Mom!” Jacob called, running into the house. 

“Yes?  What makes you holler so, young sir?” 

Jacob grinned.  He felt special when his mother called him young sir.

“I finished with my row!  Come see!  It’s all done!”

“Really?” She smiled at him and nestled the still-warm pot into the sturdy basket. 

Jacob only nodded.  He sometimes ran out of words when he was excited.

“Okay, let’s go see,” Mrs. Kelly held out her hand.  Jacob grabbed two of her fingers with his entire little fist and they went back out to the field. 

Joseph had been roused from his daydreaming by Jacob’s cries, and had returned to working, only a few feet farther now.  He was very quick when he put his mind to his work. 

“Wow, Jacob,” His mother commented, “nice job.”  It was clear where every one of Jacob’s seeds were, a big toe-sized smash in the dirt hid them.  Several of the seeds had tiny flecks of tan still peeking up from the ground.  That didn’t matter, though, since squash seeds germinated even if they were just tossed on the ground and watered. 

“Can I help inside to get ready?”  Jacob asked. 

“Sure.  Joseph, we’ll be leaving shortly.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Joseph’s ears turned red.  He knew his mother knew he had spent all the time since the others left daydreaming, again.

Mrs. Kelly and Jacob returned to the house and finished packing up the stew, biscuits, and cookies.  Being a wise woman, Kelly also packed a change of clothes for Jacob and an extra shirt for Mr. Randy.  She knew he’d be sweaty from working and probably leave his shirt at the Summers’ house. 

“Joseph!  We’re ‘most going!  Mom says wash up!”  Jacob yelled out the window. 

Joseph shook himself out of his meandering thoughts and eyed the rest of his row.  His ears reddened again even though no one was outside.  He’d stopped working shortly after his mother and brother had gone back inside.  Even Jacob had finished yet he’d barely sown twenty feet.  Joseph wanted to finish.  He didn’t want to be the only one who didn’t. 

As Joseph hurried planting his seeds, two of the seeds fell into the same spot.  That started an idea.

Maybe if I just finish them after the meeting is over. I can put them all out here in one hole.  Then I can get back and finish them tonight.

Joseph dug a hole with his right foot and poured the rest of the seeds from his pouch into the hole, then covered them with dirt.  He made sure the spot looked just like the rest of the row.  Finally, he carefully laid a twig on top. 

When Jacob and his mom exited the house, Joseph was washing the dirt and sweat from his face. 

“So,” Mrs. Kelly smiled, “clean enough to carry a basket?”

“Yes ma’am,” Joseph dried his hands on his pants and took the basket his mother offered him. 

“Jacob, you stay on the road, please.”

The road was just a walking path, but they called it a road.  Mrs. Kelly carried baby Rose – who at 9 months, was just beginning to want to waddle herself instead of be held. 

“Yes ma’am!”  Jacob imitated in perfect echo of Joseph.  He toted the basket with cookies and biscuits in it. 

“Did you finish planting?”  His mom asked. 

“Yes ma’am,” Joseph returned.

“You had enough seeds?”

“They all got planted.”

“Very good,” She smiled, patted Joseph’s back, and finished with a wink, “I knew you could do it.”

Joseph swallowed a lump.  Mrs. Kelly didn’t notice because she had to grab Jacob’s free hand to keep him from grabbing a frog and spilling the cookies and biscuits all over the road. 

I didn’t lie.  I’ll get them tonight anyway, Joseph told himself.  He lagged slightly behind.  That wasn’t unusual though, since he was often lost in his dreamy state and even Jacob knew the way well enough to walk to the meetinghouse while asleep. 

Even if someone wasn’t paying attention and didn’t know the way, his nose could lead him.  On Sunday for the meeting, each woman brought food for the buffet.  They’d eat lunch at noon, listen to the lesson, give praise, eat supper, and separate.  The council would meet in the meetinghouse.  Everyone else would gather around and listen to stories.  The older children would take turns reciting stories while the younger ones would listen for errors.  Joseph loved the stories.  He especially liked it when Butterfly or Darren played the storyteller.  Butterfly was only twelve, but her animated way of using her entire body while reciting drew her audience into her story.  Darren always tried to trick everyone by making mistakes on purpose to see how far he got before someone caught it.  Joseph loved puzzles, and always tried to be the first to find Darren’s errors. 

“Hi Joseph!”  Alena greeted.  She looked too much like a girl with her dress pressed and clean.  Joseph liked to see her looking like her normal self, in a cotton tunic and leather pinafore that she didn’t worry about keeping neat.  Alena was more fun when she looked like Alena; wild, free, tomboyish.  She never wanted to race or climb trees in her Sunday meeting dress.

“Hi,” Joseph returned her greeting and set the basket down on one of the long tables under the arbor.

Later toward the afternoon as the members of the council retreated into the meetinghouse and most of the children gathered to listen to the stories, Joseph slinked away to sit at the edge of the meadow.

Alena noticed and followed. 

“You look like something’s wrong,” Alena said as she sat beside Joseph.  The meadow on the edge of the square was purposefully kept fallow so that the children would have somewhere to play. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Joseph retorted, but that tone told Alena something was wrong.

“So, what’d you do this day?” She grinned, “fight with Matthew?”

“No.”

Alena let silence reign.  She knew Joseph well.

“Why’d your dad have to talk about that?” Joseph whispered.

“The sower and the seeds?  That’s his favorite parable from the Bible; that’s why.”

Another awkward silence.

“I didn’t finish my planting.” Joseph said.

“Planting?  We just did those big tube things… um… potatoes,” Alena acted unconcerned, “Daddy said that real Earth potatoes were white fleshed with brown or red or white skins.  That sounds dreadfully bland to me.  I like purple ones best.”

“Alena.” Joseph looked at her.  His eyes looked hurt.  “I buried all my seeds in the end of my row and said I had planted them.”

“Joseph!  The plants won’t be any good.  That’s major waste.”

“I’m going to fix them when we get home.”

“In the dark?  With a storm coming?”

“Just rain, not a storm,” Joseph protested, “I can fix it and make it right.  Nobody will know but you.”

“Then why’d you tell me?  You should tell your dad, you know.”

“He’d be angry that I didn’t finish.”

“No,” Alena retorted.  She had the same irritating trait as her mother; when she was berating, she got sassy, and she always seemed to be right.  “He will be angry that you lied.  I’m going to tell him myself.”

“No,” Joseph said firmly, “I’ll fix it myself tonight.”

“Nevermind,” Alena snorted, “God will tell him; you’ll see.”

“Joseph!  Alena!  Darren’s doing Jonah!” Shouted Celia.  She was almost twelve, the youngest of the original settlers.  

Joseph and Alena ran back to the others. 

Lost in the gaiety of Sunday evening, Joseph forgot about the seeds. 

To continue with Chapter 2, click below!

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The Symbol of El Adame

…by Nancy Tart

Introduction:

The dismal sky held a blend of putrid orange and violent purple-blue hues that periodically lit with flashes of reddish yellow lightning strikes.  The rumbling thunder warned of the rain.  Animals scurried to hide.  Even they knew of the dangers of the first rains.  After a flash of lightning exploded across the sky, acid drops fell and sizzled on the leaves and ground.  This was a normal downpour, though and because of the heaviness of the rain, the sizzling chemical reactions were washed out too quickly for fires to start this time.  New pockmarks were left in the stones from ancient buildings long since abandoned.  The huge walls of the new city where smoke could be seen in the far distance didn’t escape the fury of the acid rain – the new city dwellers always coated the top of the wall with fresh resin after each rainstorm.  Here and there an inhuman shriek of pain would sound and be drowned quickly by the crashing thunder.  Wilders.  Though the animals knew to hide, the wilders didn’t seem to have that instinct.

“Hurry, Michael!  Please, they’ll be coming back soon, please Michael!” Sara rubbed her hands together frantically, eyes fixed on the mouth of the cave; peering through the dense rain that formed a screen between them and the ferocious creatures beyond. 

“Almost done,” Michael spoke quietly without turning from his work.

“Why must we keep coming here anyway?” Sara stuttered on almost every word, petrified with fear. “They know where we are now, Michael. Please! None of this even makes sense,”

“Sara,” Michael turned to her, setting the paint down. He tenderly placed his hands on her trembling shoulders, and bent his knees bringing his eyes to hers.  “They will not enter the cave while the fire still burns.  Not much longer.”

“He’s right,” added Grace, Sara’s twin who acted more Michael’s equal than Sara’s.  “They don’t know fire and fear it.”

Michael returned to his painting.

“But Haavae will kill you if you’re tardy again,” Sara whined.  She hated to see Michael in trouble and couldn’t understand why he kept it up. The awful man scared Sara almost as much as the animals beyond the cave.  Actually, she was more fearful of Haavae because he was tangible; she hadn’t seen any of the Wilders since the crazy ceremony where Michael had become a member of the El Adame warband.  He was supposedly a shadower, but Sara didn’t care about the hierarchy among the tribe other than to know her place.

Michael didn’t reply, but the halted brush stroke and stiffened shoulders told the girls he had heard.  Since he’d been a Shadower there’d only been a few times he’d ended up violating a warband rule; every one of those instances had been an unintended breach of curfew.  Michael could count them on one hand – but he still didn’t want to break the code.

“Sara, we won’t be late.  Not this time.  Terry will be here just before we have to leave.” Grace shrugged.  They had been telling the El Adame that they were tending to the homestead – which was true, it just wasn’t all they were doing.  Grace always tried to calm everyone’s fears.  Terry was actually tending the homestead today.  Usually Sara stayed with him. 

Sara snorted.  Not that she didn’t trust Terry; he was as much Michael’s brother as she was his sister, and likely hated seeing him in pain just as much.  It was that the others hadn’t bought her argument.  She knew Terry would come to get them in time, as soon as the storm passed.  Her snort was followed by a sigh, she usually didn’t come along with Michael and Grace to the cave, rather she would tidy things in the homestead.  Since there hadn’t much to do at the homestead today she had obliged her whim and followed them to the cave; Sara hadn’t been in so long that she didn’t remember how much she detested it.  It was dark and damp and too many scary things waited outside and she knew the El Adame would kill them if they really knew about Cheyne and Michael’s project.  Sara preferred to pretend it didn’t exist.  Terry and Grace were always at the homestead.  Since Cheyne and Anne had gone, Michael spent every spare second here, painting.

“This is our story, Sara,” Michael indicated the cave walls and ceiling, “someone must tell it so that others do not make the same mistakes.” 

His full attention returned to finishing the last piece.

“But Michael, even Grace and I can’t read.  Nobody left can read but you…” she sighed, “you work for nothing; no one will ever read our story.”

Grace didn’t bother to correct her sister; she could read.  It was just not useful in the village.

His reply came soft and passionate but he didn’t stop working. “Someday people may rise to the height of our civilization; they may find this cave and read our story, then maybe they will learn from our destruction and prevent their world from dying.”

Sara and Grace looked at the giant mural.  It started at the ceiling of the cave and circled slowly down like pages of a comic book pasted end on end.  This covered the upper walls and stopped three feet from the base of the cave.  A small crawlway near the back of the cave led to a smaller room and in there Michael and Cheyne had written out the same story in the crude “old language” that Cheyne had learned from a nomadic tribe and taught to Michael and Grace.  Although Sara could read some in her native language, she had never seen the need for reading and writing after coming to this side of the Wall, so she had turned her attention to more useful skills like clothes-making and proper storage methods for various food goods.

The bright colors of the mural were bold and eerie in the glow of the smokeless fire.  How Michael had managed to access so much dry wood was quite a puzzle to Sara; although she had never paid attention to Michael’s goings on before the last attack.  In truth, Michael, Grace, Terry, and Jason had been building that woodpile for months before Cheyne even started the paintings and while he completed the etchings and then Terry, Jason, and Grace had finished stocking the pile as Michael finished working on the story.  The small gourds lining the wall were filled with various pigments and some oil to wet them into paint.  A gourd with murky oil water and three soaking brushes of various widths sat nearest to Michael’s last “page” he was currently painting.  The interior of the cave had been carefully smoothed by chisel and a rounded file so there were few irregularities in the canvas, as was the deep room prior to the etching of the story.  Cheyne had chemically engineered the pigments and the oil base to make sure it would attach permanently to the cave walls and Michael had followed the mixing instructions perfectly.  Grace thought the cave mural was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.  She loved handmade things, though, in stark contrast to Sara, who clung to everything modern before they fled the city and now focused on what would make her village life easiest and her belly the least hungry. 

“This is the last one, then?”  Grace asked as her voice returned moments later.  Michael was busy painting again, and slowly nodded. 

Sara sighed, “then you won’t ever have to come here again.  Maybe then Haavae will let your shadow rise instead of beating you down.” Both of her siblings were now ignoring her jabs at Michael regarding the warband leader.

“Oh,” Grace watched as Michael set the yellow smeared broad tip brush in the murky oil water gourd and pulled out the thinnest tipped brush.  He dipped it in the tiny cup of mixed black paint and carefully drew letters in the old language across the yellow banner that streamed atop the page. 

“But that means United Ones, that wasn’t their name,” Grace informed. 

“That’s what they were.” To continue with Chapters 1 & 2, click below!

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