Into the Raging Mountains Page 21
Uplifted emotionally, rationally, and yet not rid of the feeling of impending disaster, the villagers stared at the closed door. The priest was gone. Uneasy, they looked at each other, searching for guidance. None was forthcoming.
Tittering nervously, fond wishes flying, they abandoned the building. It emptied faster than a swarm of ants escaping the flood of their tunnels in a rainstorm deluge. Within moments of the priest’s departure, Tatanya and her family were alone, the assigned chore of locking the building left to them.
Azure loved to be a part of the village, but she did not mind being apart from the hubbub either. The sweet silence of a much used, well-cared-for structure fell around them. Tatanya had always loved to come early before meetings, just to sit awhile within the embrace of the eaves, peaceful and protected. She had passed that satisfaction on to her little daughter, although the twins were still oblivious to that particular feeling.
After sitting calmly a bit longer, Tatanya nodded to Azure, and they both rose. Tatanya’s chore was to close down the main room. Azure straightened the children’s play area that doubled as a cloak room.
Azure was glad to accompany her mother on these trips to the village. This season she had missed her father dreadfully. She went about cleaning and clearing the tiny room, thinking of him. He would come home when the sun hardened the roads enough. His return would bring the family a double cause for joy: release from the cold and the warmth of his returning embrace. That was the life of a trader’s daughter. Sweeping with the rush broom, reaching all the corners and making certain the place was ready for its next purpose, Azure worked methodically and finished quickly.
She met her mother at the joined doorstep and wrapping scarves tightly to their throats and faces, they stepped out to brave the chilly wind. As she walked away from the boarded schoolhouse, Azure thought specifically, All have gone! and immediately heard a deep response from the Mother Lurker. Like a clap of thunder from under the floor of the little meeting house, she replied: Then, we sleep again.
Satisfied all was well, Azure took her mother’s warm, capable hand in hers and they trudged home, balancing each other’s steps along the treacherous slope.
Chapter Eleven
Snares and Brambles
There was no doubt the theft would be avenged. The storm clouds gathered.
*
Warmth came slowly to the mountains. Little by little, the light fell with increasing force, pushing away the bone cold in the wind and dissolving the freeze-hardened layers of cold season's perilous grip. The thaw was glorious in its renewal of hope, its repetition of growth, and the overall sense of beginning anew. Peeking out of melting, foot-trodden ice, a glimpse of green waving in the breeze began to greet the eye. The wart-shaped buds on the trees began to swell and pushed free of the hardened skin of the trunks. A celebration of life and a cleansing of past woes, the thaw's arrival was always met with a joyous festival of bustle, a clamor of activities and the pervasive relief of being outdoors again.
It is thaw!
Azure's joy was shared intensely by all the children. The hard cold season had been renamed the Boring Old season at least a mooncycle ago. Instruction was scheduled again to resume at the village hall in a few days. Now that Azure's supple mind was able to read and write with grim determination, the few books available on the three, worn shelves of the schoolhouse called to her. She had finished the borrowed one at home during the last tremendous storm and was looking forward so dearly to reading something new.
After the first of the thaw had begun, the elders of the village met to socialize and take stock of the best grains, animals, and land for the planting. The riding wagons that carried them to the Village Council creaked over the ruts in the road, merrily announcing their arrival to anything with ears to hear. Ponderously, old men alighted to the muddy ground and stomped and scraped their dirty shoes on the shoe grate before heading into the full meetinghouse. The crisp air buzzed with the plans and talk of village life.
The four oldest men were seated in the central chairs against the far wall. Others spread out from the middle arranged by declining age. Wisdom always counted in the mountains. And the aged gained knowledge of their land that never changed, season to season.
While most information on relationships between people was written down in the village's Book of Keeping, the truly detailed records were kept regarding the breeding of the prize animals and the planting rotations. That information was incalculable in its value and its directions for the next planting. Therefore, the Book of Keeping and the Book of Planting were always found together, placed between the two oldest council members, referred to often and opened auspiciously.
All the usual protocols were followed; the meeting ran smoothly. There was nothing to worry about, nothing to act on, nothing yet. A restlessness started to grow amongst the younger members. As the planting gathering drew to a close, the third eldest councilor stood, a little wobbly in his stance but firm in purpose.
“I have heard whispering and groanings this last cold season,” he began, “about some thief taking our rats. I have heard. I have seen the garbage dumps on the village's back side and noticed the same occurrence, namely, no rats and no rat carcasses. I have seen this. There is fear in the village's heart: a fear of the unknown.
“I offer caution now to all who seek my counsel. Protect your loved ones and yourself but do not fear dangers that are imagined and not proven. Let us all keep our watches and when the scavenger is found for certain then we will act with firmness and without mercy to save our children.”
Currents of rustling and murmuring ran through the room. The impromptu speech had alarmed an already fragile population. The elder's speech was meant to calm and instead incited even greater fear, no longer about a missing cat and dead pests, but of a pending attack on their families.
Uproar followed.
Roach's name was first whispered and then chanted.
Incensed panic congealed into action. The men marched out of the schoolhouse a complete rabble, bent on destruction of the unseen enemy, now collectively agreed to be the that scavenger Roach. The tales began, inflaming the mob. Roach had stolen a baby in the past, did you not remember that? Wasn't Roach around when the young boys went missing ten cycles ago? Wasn't it Roach who had stolen the necklace, the rolling pin, the shoes?
Now they realized it. Now, in sharp detail, it was clear: Roach was the one who took everything away from the village, everything good. Roach was the Thief of all Thieves and must be driven far away, never to receive safety from the kindly, innocent villagers, never to threaten them again, never to return.
From the meetinghouse, they set out, ostensibly for their own homes and the scheduled preparations for planting to begin. The tenor of the group changed, and changed, and changed again. The crowd became a hunting party. They began to avidly search the twisting alleys, the dank basements, the byways. Ferocious in their perception of protection, the group was on the brink of destructiveness, pulling loose walls away from the support wood, checking everywhere.
Every once in a while it seemed a few of them came to their senses, and would rush off to their own hiding places to move their personal secrets away from the eyes of the incensed mob. The entire village was turned upside down. Any possible hiding place for a small woman was opened and exposed. With bursting passion, they looked. And looked. Ready to fight, ready to attack, they were forced to come to the conclusion: there was no Roach.
No trace of Roach was seen, as if she had never been a part of their lives. Many spiders and cockroaches went scurrying under the onslaught of investigation. Many forgotten items were rediscovered in the upturn and a great deal of cleaning came about in the aftermath. But their driving force, their focus of fear found no purchase. Their prey had eluded them.
The tiny village began its planting season by germinating fear, suspicion and hatred. What good crop could come of that?
*
Blossoms grew. Powerful in the smallest
of means, the thaw season coached the tired, weary, and still sleepy land into the pursuit of new life. Almost as soon as the first shoots burst through the ungiving ground, the trees filled with the return of birds and their songs of sunrise. Multitudinous colors pushed from flowers that were peeking out of their buds. All the valley was on the verge of a dazzling bouquet.
Winged insects emerged from their eggs and danced on the eddies of air, flickering from flower to flower. Small animals emerged to feast on the pollinators, succulent roots, and juicy leaves. Rats with bushy tails scurried up trees. Not truly rats, but what were they called? Azure didn't know the word yet. She'd have to ask Laylada.
As the cold season retreated and the planting and growing seasons marched into an impermanent yet glorious victory, Azure resumed her make-believe throne on top of Lookout Rock. From that high vantage point, the whole valley lay before her in its bloom and vigor. Sitting on the formidable coldness of the rock, the little girl clasped her hands around her knees, breathing in the purity of life, the scent of newness.
Patches of snow were only found in the deepest shadows now and gooey mud puddles were everywhere. Care had to be taken if clothing was to remain in any presentable state, care that Azure completely disregarded.
She would never be able to blend into the role of perfect village girl, although she often wished she could. She wanted to grow up admired, to be strong, capable, and pretty, just like her dear Laylada.
To be so able! Laylada could make anything she wanted in the kitchen. It was almost as if she conjured the tasty treats from nothing, so effortlessly did she bake cookies and breads. Azure's favorite place to visit in the whole village was still the backhouse of Laylada's. Sure of a warm reception and a great hug, she headed there after school ended almost every day. Laylada was easy to understand, graceful, and kind: the perfect sister.
And so wise! She knew the answers to all of Azure's questions, impertinent though they often were, and took the time to explain them to her little friend. Plus, by helping Laylada in the tiny kitchen, Azure learned the basics of cooking that her mother had neglected to teach. Every time the inquisitive child had asked Tatanya to show her, pulling on the apron strings, her mother's haggard eyes and careworn face had greeted hers. With the constant sicknesses and worries in the village and the twins becoming ever more active, there was not as much time for just the two of them. Laylada stepped into that need, filling it perfectly.
During her visits to her older friend's house, Azure often caught glimpses of Cethel, or rather Cethel's hair. When she was stirring the batter, adding the grease to the waiting pans, doing the little chores that make great food taste even better, every once and a while she would see him watching them work. The first few times she waved her hand. Each time she was ignored. Oddly, whenever Laylada would turn away from the oven to help her with a chore or knead some ready dough, Cethel's unruly lock of hair vanished.
Azure didn't understand.
With the innocence of a six-cycle-old she asked Laylada as they roped batter into knots for cooking, “Why does Cethel watch us all the time?”
Lalayda's brow furrowed. “Watch us? What do you mean?”
“Well, he is over there beneath the large, bent bough of the pine tree. He won't come in to talk to us. Why?”
Her hands resting on her sides, Lalayda's eyes searched the area, looking for any trace of Cethel. None emerged. “Just a moment, Azure. Let me go look.”
Walking with surety across the back house's gardens, Laylada moved through the foliage and out of Azure's view. Azure could hear her walking as the crunch of gravel and the suck of mud were loud in her wake. After a small while, the older girl emerged with a few leaves in her hair, shaking her head. “Azure, little Blueberry, I don't see him. If he was there, he's gone now.” Looking back to the bent limb, she finished almost to herself, “I wonder why he didn't just come over?”
“Cethel's not my friend, Laylada. He hates me.” Looking down at the floor, where her shoe kept tracing a figure-eight pattern, Azure did not see the shock on Lalayda's face at her simple pronouncement.
“I am sure he doesn't hate you, Azure. He's just a boy.” Laylada spoke quickly and gave a little hug, before continuing, “Besides, he is older than you. You probably don't understand him, but that's alright, you're a little kid. Boys are just contrary at his age. The best thing for you to do is to just leave him alone for a bit. He will grow out of the grumpiness, you'll see.”
Azure looked at the earnestness of Laylada's face and the reassurance of her voice. Azure's troubled eyes cleared. Taking a huge bite of the salted-dough knot, she grinned as the whole piece proved a bit too much for her mouth, and one crusty end bobbed along with the rhythm of her chewing.
Freshly baked dough was so perfect in its buttery taste and snappy crunch of the crust.
*
Crunch. Crunch. Slurp.
His wet tongue dipped in richness, velvet thickness oozing out. Satisfaction and cessation combined. Savoring the warmth of the fleeing blood, the fading life, the village priest felt no remorse at the fine entrée, if altogether somewhat skimpy meal, set before him. Inhaling deeply the fragrance of onions and butter already heaped in a delicate pile on his plate, he reached again into the basket lined with flower-stitched fabric, his hand obscured momentarily within. His face showed a passing display of concentration and then of success.
Withdrawing his hand with practiced elegance from the container, the thick fingers clutched tightly around a squealing bundle. Not much older than a few days at most, that was how he liked to eat them, crunchy and delectable without chance of injury or fight. No hair to peel, just a fine tickle on the back of the throat.
Minuscule eyes watched everything, flitting everywhere, searching to understand the rush of cold air, the newness of environment.
Dabbing his chin with a slightly crumpled napkin to catch a remnant, a brief glimpse passed between the man and the tiny animal. They saw each other. A strange moment, when food stares back in wonder. He kept eye contact and watched as dawning awareness filled its pooled-black irises. Awareness changed to panic, followed by intense life-altering pain.
Crunch. Tear and rip.
Pure life bled out of the entrée's eyes as teeth ground together and bit the little body in two. Blood squirted for a moment and then ran in spurts to the waiting plate. The napkin rose again, to mop and wipe. The thought crossed his mind, It's good to be at the top of the food chain. With his second bite, the broken remnant was consumed completely. He washed it down with a light berry wine, and searched the basket once again.
*
A trisket, A trasket, a green and yellow basket,
I wrote a letter to my love,
and on the way I dropped it.
I dropped it.
“Why did the song repeat that last part? Why write a letter and then have no common sense? How completely silly. Anyway, what is a trisket? Is it like a brisket? Because, I have had brisket before. It's good. But, I don't think you can write a letter on it. Maybe the song should really go more like this: “A brisket, a casket, a green and yellow basket?”
Deafening silence answered her question.
After a few breaths of quiet, she doggedly argued on, “Why not include a goodly chunk of meat, and a box for the dead in the midst of the madness? Why do we sing songs about nonsense? Isn't there enough trouble and truth in the world for us to ever think about? Why add to the confusion with dribble?”
“What are you supposed to learn from the original verse, Azure?” came the terse voice interrupting.
“He must not have loved her very much, to be so clumsy!” she replied earnestly.
Apoplectic eyebrows almost met, as the old school master arched his brow and then rolled his eyes. “Impertinence!” He turned back to the chalkboard.
*
Tatanya was not all that surprised when Azure got put on the color system at school.
She was just too curious, insatiable actually. The daily b
arrages of “Why?” seemed to flow like water downhill, unstoppable. She possessed a strange wisdom, or at least the little blue girl managed to grasp some deeply adult ideas, but then she applied them oddly to her own small conception of the world.
So, everyday after school the master sent home a little scrap of paper, its color indicating exactly what kind of trouble Azure had gotten into that day. Tatanya knew Azure would never bring home the white tag indicating a child was clean, orderly, obedient, and quiet. Instead she brought home a rainbow of color for being distracted, talking, interrupting, asking questions, and annoying the master.
After less than a cycle on the color system, Tatanya's kitchen pile began to resemble a collection of spring mountain flowers, vivid and bright in their indictments. Truly, this did not trouble Tatanya; after giving birth to a blue baby, very little did. The arrival of the twins just clenched her understanding of the peculiar vagaries of life. She knew with a mother's love and perception that Azure's path would never be conventional.
So, every day she got the distributed tag and every day she asked her little girl what had happened at school. When there were problems, they talked about behaving kindly and proper actions, but mostly they just laughed. Tatanya answered Azure's probing questions until the circle of logic spiraled away into the infinite.
When Azure mentioned how pretty all the different colors were, Tatanya got out the paring knife began cutting shapes from the tags of misbehavior and inconvenience, diminishing their admonishments into the cutout shapes of actual flower petals and leaves. A fantastic garland slowly began to decorate their kitchen walls: a flower bouquet made up of a child's mistakes and learning. In her mother's home, Azure bloomed.
Even with the constant reprimands flowing home, Azure maintained an eagerness for school and for knowledge. She had read through the meager book supply of the school and her home. Soon she began to pester her parents for more stories, more legends, more tales of the great days of yore, of disasters averted and heroes discovered. Her favorite stories had a clear depiction of the good side and the wrong paths. The moral was always transparent and simple. It suited her perception of a life with the dual options of either and or. If the conflict was not resolved one way, it must always be the other obvious choice.