Planets Falling (19 page)

Chapter 43
– Earth

Amy Marksman was born a chubby, bawling baby in a small cottage in the mountains facing the great ocean.  Her village was small, populated by only a few hundred people or so.  The villagers were mostly merchants, trading with the ocean dwellers to the west and the plains people to the east.  Her father was the town blacksmith.  He’d travel to the ancient, ruined cities to the north, bringing back carts full of rusted iron and other metals.  He could forge just about any tool or device in his shop.  His guilty pleasure was crafting blades.  Many lawkeepers and hunters would travel long distances to buy or barter his wares.

When she wasn’t engulfed in the smoke and heat of her father’s shop, Amy’s world was pine trees and songbirds.  Salt air would drift in during the evening; she’d spend many evenings sitting on the porch, dreaming about ships and far
-away places.  But traveling the world was not in her stars.  She was the village's prime gardener.  Her mother, grandmother, and generations of female ancestors before these women had the same gift as she.  Every spring they would conjure berries and vegetables from the rocky dirt.  They had a sense of the seasons and the soil, knowing what amendments and additives were needed - when to make the land work and when to let it rest.  The village eagerly awaited the rewards of their labor.  The best children in the town became her apprentices.  A considerable army of assistants was at her disposal.

Since she was a young girl she saw the tiny creatures in the forest beyond the farm fields.  They glowed lightly, like little candle flames, always retreating into the dark trees when she approached.  She spoke to them often.  They only responded in giggles or silence.  Of course, Amy wasn’t the first or the only one to see others in the forest.  As the world healed after the ancient ones left, the spirits returned.  Gods walked among them, swam in the oceans, and commanded the skies.  However, rarely did the spirits pay mere humans heed.  Amy was lucky to have the little ones there, watching her fields and protecting her when she was alone.

One clear night, Amy sat with her father admiring the stars and the moon.  The white orb was dotted with lights that shined brightly even when its surface was clearly in shadow.  Many stories existed about the origin of the tiny flickering moonlights.  Some old timers said they were fireflies; others believed they were jewels.  Her favorite explanation was that they were the houselights of the ancient ones, still living on the moon.  But if the ancients were there, why did they never return?  Did they orbit the earth revering, worshipping it?  Did they fear the gods on its surface?

Her father told her stories of his childhood - hunting, exploring, his time sailing the sea.  He told her that he would miss these times together.  She was engaged to marry after the fall harvest.  Soon she’d be busy raising a family as well as the fields.  Hopefully, a daughter would arrive to learn her trade.  No more time for these moments with her father.  The crickets sang harmonies and the bats fluttered. And then the strange man arrived.

In the dark shadow of the barn, a large figure, taller than any man they had ever seen, appeared.  He glowed lightly like the little people in the forest.  It was cold, but no cloud of breath appeared from his mouth.  Steam curled from his vest.  His eyes were deep and coal black -the moonlights sparkled in them like crystals.  Behind him appeared six tiny creatures - the same ones that flirted with Amy during her entire life.  Her father grabbed her hand.  She could feel the calluses and muscle, the warmth of creation in his pulse.

They both stood.  Horses whinnied and the dog barked.

The glowing man raised his hand and smiled.  "Hello, my friends.  I’m Fromer.  Your little guardians here told me to visit you.  I have wonderful things to show you.  Together we’ll travel further than you ever imagined.  And some day, many will follow.  But before I explain further, do you have any strong tea?"

After an eternity, Amy’s father stirred and nodded.  She turned toward the kitchen and prepared the fire in the stove to boil some water.  Fromer smiled and sat on the stump of a dead willow tree.  It was time for him to embrace his destiny.  He was home at last.

Book 2: Ends

Chapter 44 - Amy

The village teacher sits by the fire, yapping as usual.  She’s too close.  If an ember goes flying, she’ll get burned.  She rises, her gnarled hands waving as the story she tells reaches its climax.  Her multi-colored robes spin and twirl, while her long, grey hair bobs.  The crowd’s pleased with the drama, shouting and clapping.  A bottle breaks in the distance.  I yawn.

I’ve endured Teacher’s tall stories since I was a little girl.  According to her and generations of teachers before her, the world used to belong to the ancient ones who left one day.  That part’s true, I think.  Someone was here before us and they made a colossal mess of things.  Their trash is strewn everywhere, buried right under the surface.  When I work the earth for planting I’m always finding trinkets of the past.  Some I recognize - coins, buttons, bones, and lots of glass.  Most things are mysteries.  They served some purpose to those people, but the little boxes with symbols and shiny things with knobs mean nothing.  All of us villagers throw the detritus in a pile at the outskirts of town in honor of the ones who were here before us.  The mound's huge, taller than three men, and wide as a field.  Some townspeople treat it as a shrine.  Maybe someday the old ones will return for their tools in that moldering heap.

The teacher links us to the past - for that I'm grateful.  But my skepticism grows the further she goes back.  Most towns have a few teachers that pass the stories across generations, with the flavor of the tales being as diverse and unique as the plants on the ground.  From the towns I've visited, I've picked up some common themes, but the adornments and embellishments are sweeping.  They do provide entertainment, helping us traverse the time at night when the darkness settles and I swear the shadows are moving out there.  Crouching, with wild eyes, the teacher describes how the world formed from the void.  Darkness was separated from light by the gods or the ancient ones or someone.  This is where I begin to doubt just about everything we know.  I’ve met only one god.  And once I got to know him, he didn’t seem very godlike to me.  And then there are the little ones in the forest who have flirted with me my entire life.  They certainly aren't gods.  They can’t even talk.

Teacher’s stories get more interesting when she reaches the part about the demise of the ancient ones.  No matter how fantastic her depiction, it's obvious the end had to be horrific.  I’ve never been to the ruins of the cities.  Mostly the men, including my father and husband Wenn, have traveled to them.  A few of our women are strong, wily, and perhaps daft enough to join the boys on their expeditions.  When our explorers and scavengers reach the ruins, they find twisted metal jutting out from brambles and woodlots.  Mountains of rock carved into strange shapes and sizes are covered by thin soil and sparse trees.  Our explorers scavenge for materials to fabricate into tools and weapons.  They occasionally find trinkets that fetch a good price on the market.  Some traveler visiting our town is always willing to trade a chicken, smoked fish, or occasionally something special like a horse or a sword for the rings of shiny metal or the extraordinarily hard, clear rocks that father brings back in his satchel - a worn, scarred leather bag that mom made for him.  He treasures that thing.  When father or Wenn drink too much shine, they talk about the bones.  Piles of them are scattered everywhere.  Teacher says that the ancient ones were punished by the gods for trying to emulate the gods’ power.  If there really are gods, they were obviously not happy with their subjects, given the destruction and death they left behind.

According to Teacher, the ancient ones were grasping for the gods’ powers.  Our predecessors, if they were people, could fly through the air, mingle with the stars, and travel to the future and the past.  I try to imagine my fellow villagers hovering over town, taking a trip to see their great-grandparents.  If Teacher is right about this, then I wonder why my ancestors haven't visited me yet.  Another fantastic story is that the city dwellers could make fire without heat and conjure images in the empty air.  Teacher’s eyes always grow wide and dark when she describes the powers these people had.  Her hands contort into flying fists when she describes how they'd throw fire and light to immolate their enemies.  She crinkles her forehead nodding forward when she says that, with a thought, entire cities would crumble.  That’s where I begin to wonder whether the destruction was caused by gods.  It seems to me that the wise, ancient ones may have done it to themselves.

It is a full moon tonight, making it tough to see the thousands of yellow and blue lights on its surface.  Teacher says that the lights are the settlements – the windows of the houses- of the ancient ones.  After these people were banished by the gods, they moved to the moon and to this day are forced to gaze greedily at the earth from their distant perch.  When the moon is in shadow, the lights twinkle much brighter than the stars and are beautiful to watch.  The moonlights change all the time.  Sometimes they move off the surface into the inky darkness like shooting stars, except they streak across the sky and vanish, growing fainter rather than brighter.  I've no idea about the true nature of these lights.  But if the ancient ones are on the moon and still able to move in the void, I wonder why they never try to return.  If the gods are keeping them from visiting us, wouldn't we see them fighting in the sky?

I ponder how these people provided themselves with food and water.  From the size of their cities and the fact that you can’t throw a stone without finding some evidence of their touch on the land, there must have been a lot of people here.  I'm a garden tender and responsible for providing sustenance for my town.  This means making sure that the land provides during all times, including droughts and floods.  To meet their needs, Teacher claims that the ancient ones had vast temples that produced all the water and food they needed.  I find this story more fantastic than any other.  Food comes from the land and occasionally the lakes, streams, and sea.  Water's in the ground and needs constant coaxing during the dry times.  I can’t see how some faceless gods would dump food and water into a big building where priests would hand portions out to the masses.  Sustenance takes work and knowledge – a special relationship with the earth.  If people were taking their food for granted, perhaps the gods were punishing them for laziness.  Or maybe there were too simply too many of them and they killed each other fighting over the last dregs of goodness the earth could give them.

“Amy, darling.  Where are you now?”  Teacher's eyes are fixed on me, looking a bit worn with perhaps a hint of annoyance.  I have no idea where in the story she's landed.   She’s talking again.  “Amy, it's now time for you to tell us about the harvest.”

I stand up.  Public speaking is not my talent.  She's expecting some wild story about harvests past and perhaps a short history of my family.  Well, I'm not in the mood for jabbering.  I mutter, “If you mean what we're doing now - harvest is going well.”  I smile weakly at the couple of dozen field workers who sit together near the fire.  “My students are a great crop.  We have completed the third rending and are putting the rewards to storage.  We'll eat well this winter.”  I sit back and let my thoughts wash back into my mind.  Teacher begins rambling on about my friend Theo’s great-grandfather and how this great man fought the sea villagers and defended our town many years ago.  Again, these are stories I've heard in some fashion or another for years.

The fire still burns brightly.  The young ones are being shuffled to their beds by exhausted parents.  The older villagers, people I've known and mostly loved my entire life, conjure earthen jugs of shine and apple wine.  Time to celebrate the shorter days and brighten the night.  The shadows retreat.  I look over at Wenn, who's chatting with my father.  They are too preoccupied to notice me retreating into the darkness of the village meeting hall.  I'm so very tired from the harvest.  We have so much more to do before we can face the winter.  Even during the cold, dark times, we work, sharpening the tools, mending the carts, repairing the fences, and feeding the animals.

The village hall is a brown, stone building with strange runes etched deeply on the front.  I can read some of the ancient language, taught to me by my mother. The first word means town, with its combination of curved and straight lines.  The second word, if that is what it is, is a mystery to all of us.  The first letter looks like a chair – I suspect the word means seat or something like that.  Village lore holds that this was a place of governance and meeting. The building predates any of us, left by the founders.  It was already quite old when the ancient ones left earth.  The glass of most of windows has been replaced many times.  But there is one set of panes, near the ceiling, made of colored glass that dates back before any memory in town.  I love gazing at its scene of a fall harvest, a man in blue leggings and a simple white shirt stands next to freshly hewn grain.

The building interior flickers through the dusty windows with the orange fingers of firelight outside.  I relish the smell of wood, shine, dust, and history in the great room.  This is where the village leaders meet and the great decisions come to light.  Marriages, family agreements, and assignments are made here.  This is where I was appointed the keeper of the gardens after my mother went away.  The leaders are chosen by a combination of age and experience.  We record our history in large books and the elders are the most familiar with both the written accounts as well as the oral tradition.  My father will soon join them and often boasts how he'll improve our lot in life.  I sigh at the thought.  Our lot doesn't need a boost.  We’re just fine.

“Hi Sprouter.”  A voice in the back of the room startles me.   Theo's lurking in the shadows.  I know by his tenor that he is smiling, pleased with himself that I jumped.

“Theo.  Hell.  You scared the spit out of me.  What are you doing sitting here in the dark?  Shouldn’t you be drinking shine by the fire?  There are plenty of young ladies who are looking for you.”

“Not feeling like a little warm village girl tonight.  And I’ve had enough shine already.  I figured you’d wander in here sooner or later.  Heck, woman, I’ve known you since we were crawling around in the dirt.  You come here every night during the harvest- been doing that as long as I can remember.  Even before you were keeper, you loved this place." He eyes the little panes of colored glass, the green and blue reflecting in his pupils.

“I’m unsure whether I should be flattered that you noticed or a little disturbed.”

“I could ask you why you aren’t with Wenn, your burly man.”

“Wenn's busy with father talking shop.  I'm bone tired. I just need time alone.  With an
emphasis on alone, Theo.  So, I kindly ask you to give me some space tonight.”

Theo jumps up on the heavy oak table, a typical sign of his lack of deference for authority.  He's so indignant.  Yet it's a façade.  He wants to lead someday.  And I think he will be a great elder for the village.  He just needs to see his path through the fog of youth.

“See you later Sprouter.”  Theo shrugs and heads for the wide double doors.  Then he’s gone into the yellow glow of the night.

Theo and Wenn are the best of friends.  Since we all were children playing chase the rabbit and sitting on our parent’s laps, Wenn and Theo have loved each other like brothers.  They communicate without speaking.  Both are dark and strong – physically similar.  But their eyes are so very different.  Theo has eyes of the ocean, blue and grey with flecks of emerald.  Wenn’s eyes are like the coals of a dying fire. Frankly, if it came between choosing Theo and me, I wonder whether Wenn might pick Theo.  I clear my mind in that quiet and timeless room and forget about them.  The darkness winds around me and I find peace.

“Amy.  Amy sweetpea.  Wake up.”  Wenn’s thick baritone pulls me from slumber.  I wonder how long I've been out.  My feet are ice and the orange glow is gone.  My mouth's fused into a pasty mess.

“Hi,” I groan.  Wenn puts his hand on my shoulder and helps me up.  We walk toward the doors.  Wenn is full of shine and is a little shaky but so very warm.  I'm thankful for him.