Vertical Media proudly presents Stellar Shock, an immersive
audiobook podcast experience from the visionary storytellers
at Vertical Media Book 1, Embers of Rebellion.
Chapter 1 Domesnae kachunk The whole blade struck, jarring
Seraphin's grip. Rust had eaten halfway through
the hilt, loosening it to a soft wobble that grew with every
drop. Blisters lined his palms.
Splotches of red, old and new marked the same patches where
the sun had burned the wood to silver grey, and sweat had
worked grit into the grain with every movement.
Splinters teased at skin, digging into calluses too
stubborn to break open. Still, the work never stopped.
Dust puffed where the metal split earth.
Thick clods sprayed his legs and stuck to sweat on his shins.
Ketank. He didn't pause the field.
Maybe three dozen rows planted tight ran parched in the
afternoon furnace. The trench twisted along one
side and vanished behind jungle dark as midnight.
The dirt lay dry, hard enough that roots snapped when the hoe
cut too deep. Since noon, no clouds, no
breeze, not an owl or Finch daring a sound.
Just the hum of insects and that knife edge sun burning down on
aphirit humidity climbed out of the Wilds like an enemy choking
off each lungful of air. SER stood still a moment,
hunched with the hoe braced on her knee, and let the taste of
iron clear from the back of his throat.
He swore the farm itself watched him, old dirt and dry stalks
broadcasting every missed row and failure.
In an hour, when shadows fell long over the new walls circling
Tweetama, the field would look like every other patch, scorched
at the surface, green beneath, deathless and stubborn to the
last Ketchum. He finished the row.
The sound of cracking root echoed the ache crawling up his
arms. He stopped just short of the
fence, wiped sweat off with a sleeve and peered down the row.
Not a sole moved between the fields end and the blank shape
of the lumber wall. A cobbled together thing, logs
stripped by axe, the sour scent of fresh SAP cutting through the
overpowering stench of manure. When the wind shifted, it
brought the sharp bite of wood pitch, followed by the dry,
rotten stink that always clung to farm life.
Kitchunk. There was a pattern to the work,
but it felt endless. Each rut cut had to line up with
the last. The drills curved like ribs,
belly up to the sun, and the footpaths between hemmed him in
so close there was nowhere to back up if he changed his mind.
He'd first turned this soil when the houses had still been tense,
before fire pits marked the corners of every lane, and
before the elders had decided stone pathways made for safer
feet. Now Adobe walls ringed half the
farm roof, thatch drying overhead, and every shout from
the village bounced back off the hard surfaces.
He didn't start with much. At 12, he'd been handed a patch
smaller than most root Cellars, the only one eager to plant when
the others burned down brush for fresh building plots.
He'd spent five years staring down rocks and poor seed, slowly
raising yield, letting patience harden inside his ribs like a
Pebble. Now Saran ran this part.
It fed 100 bellies, maybe more, depending on who's snuck in at
night for an extra basket. Work was work.
Credit always ran up the chain and the elders, face lined and
hands soft, like to slap each other's backs and point at the
road. So worked alone.
He offered the job up plenty, asked at gathering and at
supper, even begged once when a fever had laid him flat for a
week. But the farm narrowed to his
shape and the others faded. The soil bit, the sun baked, and
most who came simply wandered off for easier work, digging
ditches, chopping wood, fishing the blue line of the river, or
if they were clever enough, apprenticing for a merchant or
keeper. Ke Chunk.
Sir ran the blade in lazy arcs, the sweat starting to burn his
eyes. He stopped and took a shaky
breath, feeling the whole afternoon pile up behind the
bones of his back. He'd missed lunch, barely
swallowing a crust of bread while scraping weeds off potato
hills. Those skipped meals added up.
His shirt clung loose and brown, faded where the sun cut in
through worn cotton. The teenagers in Twitama all
tried to grow into something hard and useful, says
schoolmates and cousins. Lavu, Viti, Balu, each carried
muscle and worked to out stride their fathers.
The elders praised strength, the visible kind.
Good in a fight or hauling a down trunk out the jungle.
SER, though, blended in. Tomasi, they'd whisper
background. Easy to miss him in a crowd.
He made use of that, kept his head low, watched, listened.
He'd learnt the only strength that counted was the kind that
lasted to the end of the row. He'd seen it a dozen times,
council meetings, voices rising, until someone finally gave up
and said yes to the wrong solution just to end the fight.
Around here, breaking was weakness, compromising marked
you as a loser. Elders took that as a cue to
boast about stubbornness, so mostly spat at them quietly
inside, knowing the same child's stubbornness was why he kept
going after his arms begged him to drop the ho Kechunk.
He lost track of time. Sky edged toward evening,
brighter at the top, blurred near the horizon.
A sound broke his trance, the crunch of boots on packed dirt.
He blinked, sweat slipping into one eye, spotted shapes at the
fence, Lavu, Viti and Balu. The three of them lounged like
cats, arms crossed, faces already grinning at the joke or
jab waiting to come. He raised his chin.
You lads say something? Lavoux perched smug on the
fence, called down. We said it's closing time,
farmer. The phrase bounced over the
Rose, warm and biting in the same breath.
Lavoux had a voice that always sounded amused, never serious,
not even when old Canulo, his father, lined him up for one of
the regular lectures about mixing with wrong sorts.
Sir shrugged, rolling his shoulders, letting the tiredness
spill down his back. I say I am.
The phrase landed and all four boys share the laugh.
Nobody missed the reference. Old story from a night when the
minstrels came through about a stranded man, a bird, and the
wrong meaning behind 3 words. The last of the tension washed
out of Sir's neck as the laughter echoed across the
field. His arms hung limp.
He peeled off his shirt, ringing it side to side.
Dust and sweat stained everything.
Now that shirt was useless for keeping cool, better for taking
weight off his cheeks and chasing flies from his face.
A line of mud marked his belly, where he'd wiped twice and
forgotten. He didn't mind the manual labor
or the dull ache. It was what kept him sane most
days. When he was small, broad, and
wild with worry. He couldn't stand silence or the
crawl of time. Tilling bred patience, pounded
impatience into something hard, almost sharp.
Now the restless spark survived, trapped under years of chores
and rituals. The field, oddly, was the only
place it didn't eat him from the inside.
Zaya had always hoped his easygoing mood would rub off on
the others. Instead, he just set himself
apart by never biting back. Except on the worst days, which
were mercifully rare, the others worked in theory.
Lavu's father brokered with tribes on the north bank, always
worrying about stolen livestock. Balu hauled timber and fished
when work ran dry. Viti.
Nobody really knew what Viti did when the sun rose, but by night
he made-up for it with raw wit and an endless supply of
trouble. The three together had run into
more trouble than anyone else their age.
Fist fights, barn door vandalism, stolen eggs or two.
But they'd left Sir's fields alone after a series of scraps,
black eyes, bruises, and mutual respect.
What's the job, Tomasi? Viti asked, stretching his arms
and rolling onto his heels. There was something calculating
behind the blue of his eyes, a readiness to amuse or to prod
until he found a weak scene. The trenches run dry again, Sir
said. He gestured with the hoe,
motioning toward the small gap of packed earth running between
end posts of the fence and three new rows going in.
Thought four hands might finish before dark.
He grinned. Balu snorted, letting his weight
press against the fence, arms crossed tight, eyes hooded.
Lavu gave a quick laugh, shoulders shaking.
Sia knew none of them liked field work, but the more he
asked, the less they could resist ribbing him for it.
Vt strolled over. He crouched by the cracked gaps
in the soil, dragging a stick through dirt and weeds, marking
a little circle at his feet. He started his act, parading
around the spot like a street performer.
Balu groaned, already bored. Anytime now.
Instead of stopping, Viti went full showdown on one knee, hands
spread. Sir, by now grinning, leaned
against the fence alongside Balu.
Viti hummed a nonsense song, gestured, then pressed his palm
to the ground. Gurgling rose not from his
throat, but from the soil itself.
Dark water spilled up, bubbling along the cracks, running at the
path dug wider by Sir that morning.
Viti, you're drowning me out, Sir called, but Viti ignored the
warning, locked in concentration.
Balu added, his peace hand outstretched.
Earth shuddered. The trench heaved wider, old
wood clattering aside with emotion.
He deepened the new stream bed, giving the water somewhere new
to run. Planks from the wall, shaken
loose by the sudden shift, slid down the new cut, nearly hitting
Viti's boots. Lavu whooped at the spectacle.
Sir joined in, helpless to fight the laughter as his meticulously
dug lines gave way to chaos. The new trench snaked from the
riverbank, arced past the farm, bent at a sharp angle to circle
the main road and Pierce the new wall for a second time.
Mud sprayed up, painting boots and legs brown.
The sound of water grew. The irrigation channel, crude
yet effective, linked at both ends with the river.
Viti stood dusting off his hands, face shining with sweat
but smiling. That's done it.
He said, proud. Water rushed full and clean.
Sir found himself mesmerized. For all the work he put in,
nothing beat watching a lifetime's knowledge of the land
get shown up by raw talent. The magic that marked his
friends and nearly everyone else.
He kept waiting for his own to show it never had, and after
enough years he found ways to get by without it.
Tears. Uncle Wode used to ask him about
it, puffing pipe smoke in slow, bored clouds while Sir tried to
explain. He felt no bond to any one
thing. Earth, fire, water, wind, they
were all just there, not friends, not enemies.
When he tried magic for himself, nothing worked but the routine
actions of hands and sweat and stubbornness.
Balu rolled his shoulders. Looks like it'll hold circles
closed. Won't dry up unless you plug it
yourself. Hidden satisfaction in his tone
helping. Felt better than he'd admit.
Sir shook his head, half grateful, half resigned.
Try not to wreck my roads next time, Vt.
And Balu only shrugged. The boys muddy smirks, told him
they were happy with their mischief.
Levou flicked a baseball sized flame in his palm.
Said don't rely on me. Haven't found much water in fire
before snuffing it out. Everyone cracked up, the
laughter relieved and not at Sayer's expense.
Distant running snapped the spell.
A smaller kid, legs pumping, blurred toward the field.
Raoul and Chehal, pole in hand and hair Wilder than ever, slid
to a halt, panting hard, eyes wide.
Raoul and Chehal had a knack for keeping dirt on his face and
hope in his eyes. The younger boy made straight
for SER, waving the bamboo pole like a weapon.
He barely cleared 12 harvests but already moved like he needed
to outpace bad luck. Sweat pooled in his collar.
He gulped for air, one hand on his knee, the other still
clutching his invention. Lavu straightened up, flicking a
Pebble toward Roland. Slow down, kid, you'll kill
yourself before you catch a fish.
Roland shot him a look. It's not for fishing.
I made something for SER. He stuck out the pole, the claw
and string contraption dangling, battered but proud.
The others closed in curiosity, edging out the usual jeers.
SER took the rod and inspected it with practised hands, weight
in the grip, a tangle of string running through handmade holes,
a claw at the end, like the snare from the riverbank traps
the old fisherman used. The trigger was simple, A
whittled stub for a thumb and a tiny crank made from bent metal.
Roland's cheeks were red, a thin crust of dirt tracing the edges
of his nose. Saw you fighting with that hoe.
Thought this might help you. Drop the claw, pull the trigger,
then wheel up the crop. Vt circled the invention,
eyebrows cocked. Balu leaned close, eyes
following the string. Lavu just smirked, picking his
teeth with a splinter. Give her a go.
Tomasi might be smarter than breaking your wrists open every
day. Balu said.
Sir hauled himself up, the ache in his back forgotten for the
moment. He moved to the carrot row,
ginger with the tulle, feeling the bounce in the bamboo, the
flecks, just like a fishing rod fighting something real.
He eased the claw down the string, biting A shallow path in
the soil, then snapped the trigger.
The jaws clicked tight around a carrot's scraggly green.
He braced his feet, lips twisted with anticipation, and gave the
crank a pull. The rod bent, nylon whined as
the tension grew. The carrot was stubborn.
Sir leaned back harder, feeling the earth give a little.
Then a sudden snap jerked him onto his arm.
String whipped his arm and the bamboo split with a loud,
splintery pop. For a second there was only
silence. Then all four boys howled.
Lavu doubled over, slapping his knee, Viti's laugh cutting
sharp, Balu grinning, wide and wild.
Roland froze, eyes bright, mouth open.
Not laughing. He clutched at the wrecked
halves of his invention, knuckles white and jaw
trembling. Sere picked himself out of the
dirt, dust and clods clinging to the sweat on his sides.
He knelt to Roland's level and put a hand on the boy's neck.
This is good work, Roll. My fault for pulling like I was
fighting a Gator. Make another and I'll use it
every day. Roland looked ready to spill.
The older boys watched, the scorn fading as Sir ruffled
Roland's filthy hair. After a second, Roland found his
words. Maybe if I use stronger string
and thicker bamboo next time. Bet you'll catch some carrots.
SES said, smiling with his whole face.
Maybe even the turnip, if you're lucky.
Viddy said, nudging Balu. Sir scooped his battered tools
from the ground and slung them over his shoulder.
He motioned to Roland. They walked off the field toward
the dirt Rd. into Tewatoma, Roland hugging the leftover
halves of his pole, steps beginning to match Sirs.
The other three brought up the rear.
Their jokes softened as if some line had been crossed and
quickly patched up. Balu ran a stick along the new
Creek, letting it shiver in the current.
Lavu picked up pebbles and winged them at fence posts,
missing most but never admitting it.
Vitty pressed ahead, whistling an off key tune, probably
already planning the next bit of trouble to fill the evening.
They passed the jagged edge of the wall, logs tilting in odd
directions where the Creek had undercut the foundation.
Sir glanced at the damage, winced, and kept on.
The jungle loomed a wall of heat and green.
No wind, not even a bird call. Roland kept glancing at Sarah.
The question came out between breaths.
That song you laugh about with the stranded guy.
Did he ever get rescued? Sirc to rock down the lane.
He didn't have to be. He drifted and drifted until a
different bird showed up and asked again.
Funny thing about persistence, Roll.
Somebody always asks again. Roland chewed that over, wiping
sweat from his top lip. His voice went lower.
You miss your folks. TER felt the old stiffness
between shoulder blades, the place where sadness never quite
left some days. But you keep busy.
You know how it is. They rounded a bend.
The huts and houses of Tuyatoma rose ahead, Adobe holding the
heat, smoke just starting to drift from cooking fires,
doorways wide open and screened with strands of colored beads.
A chorus of dogs barked and dashed past, racing something
only they could see. Villagers lined benches and
Stoops, churning gossip as the boys passed.
The older women eyed Sere and his crew, noting the mud and the
sweat. They clucked tongues, but their
faces softened when they saw Roland's small, hopeful glare.
A few villagers nodded and gave clipped evinens as the boys made
their way through the main square.
Loaves of steamed bread cooled on window sills.
A sharp, sour scent drifted from the fermenting cassava.
At the Cooper's Hut, the wood shop rang with the hammer clap
of the last repairs before Dark Vitty broke left and vanished
around a corner. SER watched him go, no doubt
headed for the big communal hall where the minstrels warmed
instruments and some enterprising elders readied
wine. Balu and Lavu peeled off too,
yanking open the door to a home that boomed with laughter and
pipe smoke. SER nodded a thanks, lips
pressed together, eyes meeting theirs in a rare silent
agreement. Tomorrow, the mess from today
would still be there, but for now, it could wait.
Sarah and Roland walked the last half mile alone.
Sir and Roland crossed the yard towards Sir's place.
The Hut stood at the fringe of the village, half sunk into
Ridge dirt. A single window stuck open with
a wedge of palm wood. Goose brivine snaked up one
side, the leaves thick and waxy, collecting humidity and cupped
puddles. The clay walls sweated out the
day's heat, pulsing out a slow wave of damp as the sun sagged
behind the jungle. So dropped his tools outside the
door, a battered hoe, the handle still bleeding splinters and a
bent tank spayed, whose edge curled in like a bad nail.
Roland followed, hugging his snapped pole, careful not to
scrape it on the frame as they stepped inside.
The one room home was simple, A table made from a split trunk
set, bow legged in the centre, 2 stools, 1 showing fresh glue
marks from last week's repair, squatted on the hard packed
dirt. A cook pot hung from a rafter
looped with copper wire. Sir's bed was tucked against the
wall under a ragged cotton blanket, an old army trunk for a
headboard. The only other mark of comfort
was a clay bowl of river stones beside a chipped mug, a child's
collection carried forward out of habit.
Ward's presence lingered everywhere, boots lined up by
the door, a belt draped across a peg, 2 sharpened walking sticks
leaning against the rear wall. Most evenings, Ward would arrive
home late, boots caked with sand or fish scales, often both.
Tonight he hadn't come back yet. Sir filled a kettle from a
cracked jug and set it on the old stove.
He wiped down the table, then used the same shirt to clear out
the shallow bowl of grit that had collected since dawn.
Roland watched, fidgeting with his ruined invention.
And something with rice? Seyer said, voice flat.
More habit than offer. Roland nodded, but didn't look
up. Seyer pulled 2 handfuls of dried
beans from a sack in the corner, measured rice into the chipped
pot, and set about lighting the old firebox with a scrap of
Tinder and a well used striker. The rasp of steel echoed around
the room and the first spurt of flame jumped in the low light.
Roland placed the pieces of his broken pole on the table.
He traced cracks in the bamboo and picked at a knot where the
string had burned through. For a while, neither spoke.
Just the click of stones in the pot and the hum of water over
new flame. It was the hour before supper,
when the day flattened. Too early to sleep, too late to
plan anything new. You'd think I could use metal
for the next one? Roland asked, eyes still on his
work. As long as it's sharper than
Riverstone. Ward's got some wire from the
market, if he hasn't sold it yet.
Sir looked around for where Ward might have hit his stash of old
gear. Roland seemed to brighten.
You want to help me build it? He said it quick, and with a
flicker of hope that scratched beneath Sir's armour.
Maybe after the harvest. Sir said, taking a seat with a
grunt. Farm comes first, but I'll
watch. Outside.
Night rolled in with a smear of clouds.
Lanterns popped on across the village square, lampoil burning
low in Jelly jars tied up with twine and driftwood.
The laughter from the hall got louder, music leaking from
cracked doors, voices rising above the TuneIn fits and
starts. Someone dropped a bowl in the
neighbour's yard and a Cus bounced off the fence.
Sir handed Roland a tin cup filled with pine needle tea, the
liquid thinner than water and smoked from too much firewood.
Roland sipped, face pinched, but he swallowed anyway.
What's it like? Roland asked suddenly, wiping
his mouth with the back of one hand.
But being to Massey, the one no one sees, T, you still got to
shovel shit and whole water. Less shouting your way, more
time for watching. It's not a bad deal if you don't
care about applause. He smirked, the edge of it real
but without heat. Roland worked the answer over
inside his head, maybe saving it.
In the far distance, a dog barked.
Behind that, frogs launched into their nightly war song.
The jungle sounded alive, the kind of alive that made you
check the corners before you set off walking.
The kettle shrieked, snapping Sir out of his thoughts.
He poured the hot water into two bowls of rice and beans, the
food plain and practical, meant to fill bellies, not impress
guests. They sat eating in silence.
Roland's stomach grumbled. Sarah found it a comfort to have
someone else filling the chair across from him.
For a moment there were no chores, no broken walls, no
jokes at his expense, Just the scrape of spoons on clay and the
scent of charring wood. Thunder cracked far enough off
to be nothing but a threat. Sez's mind ran through his
evening checks, tools to bring in the last rose to water, maybe
an errand at the Riverside to pick up fishing line.
Ward would want his supper hot no matter what time he staggered
in. Halfway through the meal, Ward
came in, arms stacked with river reeds and a string of limp fish
caught just before dusk. He grunted at SER, nodded to
Roland, and unloaded his hall beside the stove.
Jungles crawling. Ward said, voice rough from
another hour in the heat. He ran a hand through his hair,
black but streaked with grey, and put his foot up on the
nearest stool. You finish out that irrigation,
or did your magic friends fake it again?
Zermet. Ward's gaze, not blinking.
It's done. Might need to show the wall
tomorrow. Ward barely nodded.
He poked at the embers in the stove, eyeing Roland's broken
pole. Fix it or junk it.
Fix it? Roland said.
Ward granted a twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Approval, maybe, or just a tick. He picked a bit of mud from one
of the fish and shook his head. If it's worth building, it's
worth building, right? CIA cleared his throat, busying
himself with the dishes as Ward brought in the evening's hard
news. Ward moved around the cramped
space with iron in his step. He set the fish on the Table 1
by 1, gutting and cleaning with a bone knife.
His arms flexed with the habit. Roland watched, restless, hungry
hands still clutching the halves of his tool.
The knife rasped as Ward slit open the bellies, scooping the
insides out into a clay bowl and flinging skins onto a pile for
the dogs. Ward worked without looking at
Sir or Roland. His jaw was set, mouth flat.
Sir finished his meal and stacked his bowl on the
washboard by the doorway. He poured water from a jug over
the rice, scrubbing the clay with the edge of his palm, skin
red and tough. He sensed Ward's tension, A
tightness that grew with the knight, sharp as the smell of
blood and boiled reeds. Roland set his small shoulders,
clutching the new project he planned for tomorrow.
Sir returned to sit, dusting grit from his knees, and asked.
How's the river tonight? Ward didn't look up.
There's trash floating up river, bits of burned net.
Saw a boat I've never seen before.
Not hours, not from downstream. His voice hung measure steady as
a drum beat. Something's off.
SER listened, but didn't answer right away.
He'd learned in 100 small ways not to show how much Ward's
words meant. He stole glances at the fire and
the crooked shadows stretching up behind him.
Roland blinked, fidgeted, looking from SER toward the room
grew warm, the kind of warmth that gathered in places that
held out the night. From outside the mud brick walls
came the sound of laughter, someone drifting on a flute, and
the far off thumper feet dancing in the communal hall.
The whole village seemed to sag into evening, everyone searching
for comfort before the next hard dawn.
Ward slid an extra bowl of fish toward Roland, eat it before the
cats come in, then turned back to his tasks.
Roland dug in, careful not to spill any on Ward's boots.
Sir turned to Ward, voice low. How bad you think it is?
Ward wiped his hands, flexed his shoulders, and stared at his
burned fingers, the lamplight accentuate the lines running
over his knuckles. Depends on what floats down
next. Could be upriver trouble.
Could be a new tribe sniffing around.
If it was Keeper's business, we'd hear the drums.
Could be nothing. Seir tried.
He leaned back on his stool. Ward grunted.
Nothing floats upriver that fast unless someone's pushing it.
His eyes lingered on Sir, then slid away again.
They ate in silence. Roland finished his fish and set
the plate on the edge of the table.
He glanced between the two men, one boy, one nearly old, both
tired, both carrying too many silent questions.
Sir cleared his throat. I'm down a hoe.
Handle the spares half eaten through.
Ward sniffed sharply, a faint smile.
Leave it out. I'll run a new one for you after
sleep. The unspoken price.
Another day's labor nodded, accepting the deal the way he
had since he'd been tall enough to wield a shovel.
A moth battered itself against the lamp, sending dust moats
swirling in golden arcs. Roland yawned, head tipping
forward, lashes crusted with the sweat and smoke of the day.
Ward finished the clean up. He gathered the guts in a leaf
wrap and tossed it out the barely open window.
The motion disturbed a patch of dust where the wall cracked,
dirt crumbling in old lines nobody had ever bothered to fix.
Everything in the house carried layers of Ware lines, dog by
hands and daze, and the ashes of 100 old fires.
Sarah stood, stretched, then pulled a blanket from the edge
of the bunk and handed it to Roland.
It's a short walk home, but you can use this if you're tired.
Roland shook his head. I don't want Auntie mad.
He held the blanket anyway, eyes wide, heavy lidded.
Ward laid a firm hand on Roland's shoulder.
Go on then. You did good today, come back
tomorrow with stronger string. Roland grinned.
He hugged Sir abruptly, then skidded for the door, blanket
tucked under an arm, invention clattering in the other.
He disappeared into the tar, beckoned night, heading back
through the crooked alleys and torch lit yards to his aunt's
kitchen. The night sat heavy.
Ward and Sir said little ward counted hooks, sorted old nails,
planned the next day's repairs beneath his breath.
Sir, stripped to a thin cotton undershirt, settled onto his
straw pallet, listening to the distant drumming and the
laughter from the communal hall as it climbed, peaked and
finally started to fade. There were always new chores.
The house needed a better roof before the monsoon, the wall
would have to be shored up where the Creek tore through.
Roland was onto something with that tool, and SER meant to help
him once everything else that kept people alive was finished.
A dog barked. Ward grunted one last warning
about locking the door, his words trailing into a gravelly
hum. The old man stretched out
beneath A battered sheet, face turned to the shadow where the
sun's heat still lingered on the floor so watch the lamplight ebb
and finally drifted off to sleep.
The sticky air pressing in. Tomorrow was coming quick, and
none of its promises felt gentle.
The night clung to the village, thick enough to press on Sail's
chest even as he lay on his pallet.
The jungle outside simmered with sound, frogs bleating, insects
clicking, unknown birds shrieking their one note
midnight warnings. Down the lane, a door thudded
and someone called a name. No answer came back.
Wood smoke drifted through the slit window, but it mixed with a
constant damp and the undertone of rot clinging to afirate all
the time. Ward snored softly, shifting on
his cot every few minutes. His sleep brought no real
relief, just a turn of the cycle.
Sir counted the seconds until the old man muttered and fell
silent, the pattern breaking and then resuming.
In their world, sleep was earned, not chosen.
Fear of what prowled outside closed more eyes than weariness.
Sir tried drifting off, watching the crawl of lamplight against
the cracked wall, listening to new drummers testing beats in
the square. When the music stopped, laughter
rolled out, but even it sounded drained, rationed.
His mind returned again and again to the river, towards
words, trash floating upstream, boats in the wrong place, drums
that hadn't sounded yet. SER slept rough.
When dreams came, they dragged him like a fish on a line.
Flashes of green water, hands underwater, rocks splitting open
to reveal roots, flames licking the edge of jungle bamboo.
He dreamed of Roland's wide eyes and broken invention, of his own
hands clawing up dirt that slid away faster than he could pile
it. Somewhere in all the mess, he
dreamed of his parents, shadows leaning over his cot, their
faces never settling enough to become real.
He woke twice, sweat soaking his blanket.
Outside the village, night shape shifted.
Patrols moved along the fresh wall.
Three men with clubs, one with a bow strung tight but no arrow
knocked. They looked back, always, eyes
half in the world of torchlight, half caught on the mass of vines
only a few paces outside the wall.
Dogs barked at nothing, turning the torches shadows into moving
threats. On the river, something bumped
the small dock. A loose plank bounced.
A rat scurried for cover. For as long as anyone
remembered, things turned up in the water.
Sometimes gifts, more often warnings.
Once a month, someone found a mark carved into a tree at the
edge of the field. Old runes, Nobody reading them
now, but Ward claimed they were warnings from the days before.
The village settled for good by midnight.
Hush ran over the huts. Even the common hall went still.
Pipes burning out, flutes lowered.
Fireflies blinked in slow spirals above the new Creek,
their lights muted where the water lapped at cut earth.
Beyond the last house, the jungle pressed in thicker with
every passing year as abandoned land was left to the creepers
there woke before dawn. He rose in the blue, half dark,
careful not to disturb Ward, whose night had turned rough at
the end. Breath sawing in and out, Ward
twitched beneath his blanket, mumbling about broken necks and
dipped paddles. SER dressed every muscle, stiff
arms, waited by the memory of the prior day.
He drank from the jug, swished warm water around his mouth,
spat into the furthest corner of the yard.
Cold nipped his toes through the thin floorboards.
He checked the hooks and tools first, making no noise, moving
like the tomasi he was named for.
Easy to miss, always first to the day's grind.
The sun came up on a haze that never fully left.
Village Shapes stood half lit, edges blurry.
Chickens darted between the huts, hunting the last scraps
from the night. Sirs Field waited, newly lined
with the trench the boys had carved yesterday.
Water already snaked along its course.
He squatted down, sifting mud through his fingers.
It clumped the right way. The current had flushed the
salts. For now things looked steady.
By noon it'd be dry again, unless the river gave more or
the rain started on time. He fetched the ho, the
splintered one as Ward hadn't yet repaired the handle, and
started turning earth. Each thrust felt heavier than
yesterday. His hands remembered every pain
but the rhythm, the ke chunk. Ke chunk kept a steady pace
against silence. Neighbors stirred.
The first smoke of cooking lit up across the rooftops, stinging
the air. Roland drifted by, eyes rimmed
with sleep, clutching a bit of breakfast bun.
He gave a shy wave and vanished around the corner to his uncle's
house, invention pieces dangling from one hand.
Balu stalked into view, shirtless arms already streaked
from hauling wood from the pile outside his father's house.
Lavu balanced a slop bucket on his shoulder, making faces.
Viti flung a fistful of nuts at some foul missing and cursing
sharp. Their morning routines bounced
with silent complaints. The rituals marked them as sons
of Twitoma, but not yet men in their own right.
Ward creaked out of the shack. He squinted at Seer, reached for
the tool kit, and without a word, started planning a new
blade of wood. Slow, careful, precise.
He checked every knot, cut away every bit of rot.
Later, when the work was paused and the sweat ran down Ward's
face, he would snap. You don't get strong staring at
others. Go get dirty.
Seer felt the truth of it as the morning wore on.
All around the village, others set to their tasks, some as
routine as the sunrise, others strange.
A woman mending fishnets singed at the edges.
A child gathering worms from the wettest part of the Creek. 2
boys tossing stones into the new irrigation, checking which rocks
the water could lift before sinking in Mid morning Roland
returned invention reassembled with new twine.
He found SER at the far end of the field and held up the pole,
proud face bright in the hard sun.
Tried again after one more row. SER agreed wordlessly.
Roland waited, sitting at the edge of the dirt, chipping dried
mud from toes with a splinter. SER finished the row, the line
dead straight. He took the tool, lined up a
stubborn beat, and with care set the claw just so, hand steady
and pulled. The mechanism creaked but held.
The beat came loose, flinging dirt.
Sir laughed, surprised. Roland grinned, a moment of
unguarded pride. Around them, the day went on
without noticing. By late morning, the farm buzzed
with low, steady movement. Old Niema, the chief Baker's
widow, paced along the fence, baskets slung over each arm.
She stopped to check crops, muttering to herself about last
year's moulded grain, the cost of salt, how boys spent time on
tricks instead of sweat. Sir straightened under her gaze,
gave a polite nod. She sniffed, moved on, tossing
sliced crusts to the chickens trailing her like a guard.
The little ones nabbed crumbs. The rooster kept its distance,
one eye on Sarah, daring him to cross the line closer to the
road. Lavu and Balu set up for their
own chores, hauling bricks cut from riverbank clay, stacking
them in muddy piles for whoever would build next.
They didn't rush. Lavu ran a thumb along each new
brick, inspecting the work, occasionally frowning when a
shape didn't please him. Balu did most of the lifting,
arms bulging, face slick. When elders passed, both
straightened, working twice as hard for the short span until
the old men vanished out of range.
Vt, meanwhile, ran errands. He skimmed through the market
stalls, shaking down the fishmonger for a couple of bones
to use as hooks, trading sharp quips with girls from the
weaving house. He never lingered long enough to
get bored or scolded. Roland found him snatching an
overripe melon off Madame Annette's cart, stuffing wedges
in his pockets. Viti swore Roland to silence
with a look and gave up a wedge as ensure.
Midday torpor settled in, sun pounding the Adobe roofs, heat
turning every breath into a task.
Sir retreated to the narrow shadow beside the fields water
tank drank from the tin dipper, nerves finally cooling.
He closed his eyes, letting the thrum of insects crawl over the
haze. Sweat traced new maps down his
back, pooling where his shirt stuck tight as bark.
After a time, Roland ambled back, invention clutched under
one arm, face shaded by an oversized hat he'd snatched from
some uncle's hook. Together they worked a quiet
duet, Roland handing Sir new crops to pull, Sir showing the
smaller boy wear roots tangled too deep or rocks hid in the
dark soil. They worked without pattern,
improvising around the failure's broken claws, tangled string, 1
good row replaced by the messy hope of another.
Farther up the road, the square filled for midday meal.
Elders claimed the central bench, gesturing with the air of
judges, watching every move and muttered comment.
Old Ketta, bigger than two men, held court with jokes about lost
shoes and the price of thatch. Shops propped their doors,
trading news and goods. The butcher's queue stretched,
parents trading gripes about missing hens, rotting fruit.
The shifting river so rarely went to the square unless he had
business selling surplus, fetching salt, checking the list
of chores nailed with a hook to the notice tree.
He preferred the edges kept to routines handed down by
necessity, not pride. His few visits brought
predictable questions. Crops good.
Need more hands next storm? Why so quiet, Thomasy?
And every time so found simple answers, rarely lying, never
telling more than he must. By early afternoon, repairs on
the new Creek began. Balu and Larvu showed up with
spare stones and buckets, shoring the place where water
chewed. Too close to the field, Larvu
stuck his hands in the mud, sculpting a rough dam, hair
matted, skin painted with dirt. By degrees, Balu hefted baskets,
setting weights along the trench.
Squabble broke out. Balu's basket broke, dumping
rocks into the current. Larvu called him Butterfingers.
Balu shot back that Lavu's hands were too soft for anything
harder than gossip. The spat got loud laughter and
shoves breaking up their rhythm. Sir watched, resolved to let
boys burn off temper while the crops drank up the flowing
water. 2 girls, a few years older than Sir came from the
well with bowls and joked about the bickering.
SATA, sharp chinned, tanned, deeper than anyone, eyed Sir
with a smile. You keeping your friends?
Out of trouble, Thomasy. They are old enough to trouble
themselves, Sir replied. Satter laughed, tossing her
braid and walked on with her twin bare feet kicking dust up
behind them. The afternoon stretched air
thick and slow. Sir dragged the last row, double
checking for grubs, weeds, missed stones.
Roland left to check traps by the Creek, pockets bulging with
the last quarter loaf from the Baker's cart.
The market emptied, the square hollowed out.
Life shrank to the places still in shadow, the way it always did
before the sun dropped and work called souls back toward dinner
and sleep. Sarah glanced down the field,
watching the sun line gold across half grown squash.
He bent, fingers working open the mouth of a stubborn plant,
checking it for rot or worms, then moved again.
The pattern would repeat tomorrow.
Hands in the dirt, eyes scanning for broken things, ears open for
anything from the jungle that didn't sound right.
Beyond the village, the mid afternoon stillness broke once.
Distant yells across the new wall.
Kids finding a snake, adults herding them back.
A dog barked itself, horse under a banana tree.
The river marked. Time unseen, moved on by the
current and what it drifted down from.
Elsewhere, SER stopped to stand straight, spine crackling, sweat
drying into salt on his collar. The world was a rough.
Place, but routine made it bearable.
The day's edge had come promising, A brief window for
stories, sleep, or maybe a trip to the hall if the family chores
didn't call first. He took up the hoe and moved
again, never quite done, never caught in anyone's way, always
merging back into his field as if the horizon itself knew his
name. When dusk crawled over Teutoma,
the fields faded to shadow and the heat died back.
Work eased as light went grey in the corners and the jungle's
edge blurred into a wall of growing dark.
Sir brushed dirt from his hands, hefted tools, and set his path
for home down the lanes. Families filed inside.
Lanterns lit behind covered windows, their light shaky but
comforting. A few voices lingered on
porches, the old man trading curses about leaky thatch, the
women comparing prices of pork and pearls.
Every noise sounded sharper and more lonely.
At dusk. From the common hall, music
crept between houses, a choppy stringed tune joined by feet
slapping on packed dirt. This was the only building with
solid stone walls and a broad roof of layered palm.
Tonight already, minstrels tuned lutes and flutes brought on
oxcarts from upriver. Those who weren't bone tired
found excuses to gather song, wine, the promise of another
tale. The young ones, restless and
bold, waited for a lull so they could sneak a gourd of rice beer
or steal a kiss beneath the laundry lines.
Sere left his tools under a leintu, tucked a handful of
beans in his pocket, and drifted close enough to catch a little
of the music. He kept to the edge, leaning
against the cold stone, letting his sweat dry as the notes
twisted through the warm air. Inside, villagers crowded
benches and pounded rough tables in time with a beat.
The minstrels played loud, the singer's voice scraping but
real, cutting through the smoke and rough laughter.
In one corner, Lavu and Viti dealt dice on a table sticky
with spilled drink. Balu stood in the crowd, back to
the fire, telling a story so wild even the elders pretended
not to listen. I saw a Wildcat as big as a boy
yesterday swear on my mother's shoes, looked me in the eyes,
then ran off with the chicken right in his mouth.
He spread his hands. Wide, the crowd groaning but
pressing for details. SATA called him a liar.
Balu just grinned. SATA sidled past the gossip.
SATA caught his eye. You going to sing Tomasi or just
haunt the doorway all night? He shook his head, lips
twitching. Don't remember the words.
That got a laugh. Someone shoved a cup in his
hand. Thick, sweet tea, stronger with
each refill. Elders filled the bench by the
fire, passing their own jug, talking politics as if doing so
made them younger. Old.
Keta argued with whoever would bark back, his words slurred but
quick, fingers wagging, face red.
For a while, nothing else mattered.
Sarah leaned into the rhythm, letting the catch and release of
song hold him. He caught bits of their stories,
Tribes upriver with gold for trade, Monsters that slithered
between tree roots and knocked on shutters at night.
The endless bragging of someone who saw a float of banners far
downriver may be a sign of travellers or trouble, nobody
sure which. Dories grew Wilder as the night
thickened. Flying spirits that painted the
moon yellow. Boats that ran by themselves.
A devil dog LED into the village by a runaway child Near the
hearth. A Crone spat on the dirt and
swore she'd seen a wind reader in the jungle last week, someone
who could split trees with a whistle and drive snakes into
the river. Nobody quite laughed her off.
Roland squeezed through, eyes big and shining.
Clutching a string of reeds. He lingered at Sir's hip.
You hungry, rol? Sir asked, voice pitched under
the music. Roland shook his head, already
scanning for something else, a play, a story, anything to take
home for his dreams. Sarah ruffled his hair, nodded
for him to run and watch the boy tear off after a gang playing
shuffle bean with old buttons. When Sarah drifted outside, the
air was cooler, thick with wood smoke and the distant murmur of
frogs. The village felt smaller by
night. At the edge of the square, a
couple sat in the grass, shoulders pressed, heads
surrendered to the dark. In the far lane, Ward strolled
past, stiff, silent. He met Sarah's eye, offered a
sharp nod, then moved on. Sir, headed home by the back
lane. The mud had dried on the road,
marking every child's barefoot in perfect fossil rows.
Along the way he heard shouts break out.
Lavu and Viti, drunk and daring, had set up a bet by the Creek,
shouting over who could leap widest across the water.
A crowd egged them on. One might fall in, but nobody
minded so long as the laughter lasted.
He skirted the noise, thinking about his field, tomorrow's
stone, heavy tools, what repairs he still owed Ward before the
week ran out. Above all that, a different
thought persisted, a hollow crawling, something.
He wondered if he was built for nothing but dirt and sweat, if
the stories the minstrels told, the magic, the Lost Boys, the
hidden tricks of the world, were true for somebody else, a
different flavour of living never meant for him.
He rounded the last bend. The Hut loomed ahead, soft
lamplight holding back the dark for another night.
As Serre shut the door and dropped onto his cot, the day's
chatter still worming through his mind, he let the day's grime
weigh him down. Sleep came harder as the noise
and stories faded, leaving the old silence that had always been
his alone. Sleep in Twetoma never came
easy, especially when the air hung heavy with the kind of
stillness that meant storms or trouble.
Sir lay on his cot, staring at the patch of ceiling where a
single lizard clung, unmoving. Occasional wind slipped through
the open window, not enough to stir the heat, only enough to
carry the scent of distant market fires burning down their
last embers. Ward's breathing, roughened by
age and years of field dust, rolled behind the wall on the
far pallet. He muttered, sometimes half in
dreams, words spilling out about broken Nets, boats unseen in the
fog, enemies that drifted too close for comfort.
Sir had gotten used to it, the way one grows used to rain or
the itch of a healing cut, annoying at first, then blending
into regular noise. Not all the noise faded out in
the lane. Voices started up.
Kids, mostly older, testing their luck or their lungs.
A bottle shattered. Quick laughter and the shuffle
of bare feet followed. Someone strummed 2 uneven notes
on a borrowed loot. Farther off, near the new wall,
a dog barked at nothing. In Tuatoma, nothing was often
something the elders taught that, though no one could say
what. Sir's head filled with lists.
Crops to mend the cracked wall at the North End that needed
fresh mortar, the broken blade on the spare hoe.
He thought about Roland's invention, about the pride in
the boy's eyes. For a fleeting moment, he
wondered how it might feel if that pride settled in his own
belly. If one day he'd pull a trick
from the air and leave every whisper of Thomas E in the dust.
He rolled to his side as the quiet thickened behind his shut
eyes. The day replayed in flickers.
Lavu and Balu's argument by the irrigation ditch.
Balu's wild hands and Lavu's laughter when the water ran over
their shoes. Sata's smile, the line of dust
clinging to her ankle, the push and tumble of dice on sticky
tables. Old men debating what counted as
a fair story. He rested A knuckle against his
jaw, mapped out the field in his mind's eye, counted the rows,
saw what would need pulling before noon tomorrow.
Maybe, he mused, he'd never touch magic.
Maybe it was work instead, the callus, the sweat, the whole
that would hand him the kind of meaning others plucked from thin
air. Thunder rolled faint, a warning
belly growl. Beyond the Ridge, the drip of
condensation from the eaves kept beat against a half buried
stone. Outside the door, somewhere on
the edge of sleep, Sir heard Ward rise, cross the room to
check the lock, then return, feet dragging slow.
A cup thunked onto the table. Rain threatened but refused to
arrive. In that late hour, the village
changed. New Watchmen paced the wall,
quiet as shadows. SER recognized the grunt of Big
O Dan, the thud of the club he handled with more faith than
necessary. The men moved slow, peering over
the jungle, listening through the layer of humming insects.
Nothing changed, but nobody ever trusted the quiet past midnight,
the window clattered in the square.
Someone cursed, a woman's voice carrying sharp as a tin bell.
A baby whaled, was hushed, and then side off into the hush that
filled in all gaps after two Atoma powered down for the
night. All around the jungle pressed
in. It owned every gap, every loose
door, every unpatched place where the barrier between safe
and wild thinned to a breath. Sir finally drifted towards
sleep, not dreaming anything he'd remember when dawn tugged
him back. Only the heaviness of the day,
the feeling of being a hinge between what was and what might
yet happen. Here, in the dirt, in the
laughter, in the rumors that drifted like smoke through walls
thinner than secrets. He woke to pale light streaking
through the window. The world gathered itself in
blue and grey. Ward already stood at the table,
whittling at a length of wood. Strips of shavings curled at his
feet. His silence said more than a
greeting. It was time to move, time to
work, that period before talk or complaint.
Sir took a slice of hard bread, chewed it down and checked the
yard. The dew sat.
Heavy droplets beaded on every stalk, every fence post.
The field waited, the Creek still burbled alive thanks to
Balu and Lavu's frantic dam work.
All was as he'd left it, but the air was restless, the sky
promising something it couldn't yet deliver.
He started to the field, passing neighbors squinting in the thin
light. They nodded, words unnecessary
in a place where labour counted most.
At the far edge of the field, he spotted Roland crouched beside a
cluster of morning glories, hands busy fixing something.
The sight made Sir pause, a few seconds of quiet admiration for
stubbornness that matched his own.
Balu trailed behind, dragging a sack.
What is coming up faster? Might break the bank if it
rains. Ville shore it, wool shore it.
Walls next after this week's planting.
Lavu sauntered to join them, hair wild, shirt only halfway
buttoned, eyes swollen from too little rest.
Even Viti emerged, shoes in hand, complaints already
brewing. The boys circled up for a
moment. Nobody worked, nobody bragged.
They just breathed and watched the clouds roll in, waiting for
the day to prod them into motion.
The world beyond the fields tugged at their inside edges.
A rumor of travellers down the river, a story of flames
glimpsed far off in the rainforest, daughters of
neighbors claimed by a sickness that no amount of root or magic
would cure. The mess of things pressed
closer day by day. But in that hour, muddy and
bruised and braced for sweat, Sia and his friends had whatever
piece of morning in Titoma would grant just enough to keep
moving, to act like the world was theirs, even if only until
the story shifted and the next test began.
The morning pressed forward. Clouds smeared low across the
treetops, their color threatening rain, though none
had fallen yet. SER plunged into the usual
routine. He walked the boundary of the
field, checking for new animal tracks.
Always risks with the Creek so close now.
He spotted prints near the squash row, small enough for
rodent, too wide for hair. He stomped twice to warn
anything near, then set to inspecting each plant for chew
hole. Nothing major, not yet.
Roland hovered at his elbow. Invention now improved, extra
knots in the twine, points on the claw wrapped with A twist of
copper scavenged from an old lamp.
The boy had a hammer leftover from the Festival games, and he
field fixed it with a grit that made Sir quietly proud.
A shout rose from the lane. Viti appeared, hair still sleep,
matted, shirt untucked, carrying a battered basket and a look of
trouble. Odin's looking for you, Sir.
He called something at the far bank, where the old ferry posts
are. No one used the ferry since the
last storm washed half the dock into the river, but folks still
checked the site for signs of driftwood or bodies or whatever
else the current spat out. SER left the field in Balu's
hands. Don't pull the onions too soon
or you'll get nothing but mud and set out with Vt Roland
tagging along. The path twisted through shorn
grass and soft red dirt. The boy's feet tracked the
Knights, damp marking their way beyond the last houses.
Big Odan waited by the overgrown edge of the river.
He stood near a pile of tangled reeds, hands on hips, a long
stick prodding at what looked like a sack washed half ashore.
Gulls circled overhead, diving when Odan's head turned near
him. Two elders grumbled, neither
willing to get closer. Swinted as he neared.
The sack wasn't empty. A collection of objects spelled
trouble. A broken Lantern, a child's
sandal, A rag that might have covered food.
None belonged to Atoma. No marks, colors, wrong.
Leather worked with a northern style.
Odan grunted in greeting. Thought you'd know if any of
this got lost out of your part of the village.
Looks like strangers up or down the river.
He didn't say what everyone in the circle thought.
Sometimes Wanderers showed up run down, sometimes sick,
sometimes dead. Most moved on or blended in.
Once, years back, Raiders from upriver sent a scout this way.
Though nothing bad happened. Folks remembered the unease for
months. Sir bent low.
Inspecting the pile, he found a strip of dried meat, teeth marks
too small for an adult, heel of a biscuit hard as stone, a bone
carving in the shape of a fish or left behind, signalling
something. Roland leaned in, steady,
curious, as Viti circled them, wary. 1 Elder spat folded arms.
Rivers putting a warning on our shore, That's what I say.
The other muttered agreement, peering into the Bramble as if a
whole army hid just out of sight.
Mean. Roland asked.
His voice scraped a little, not just from fear, but from wanting
to know how the big people really thought about such finds.
They have found calm words. River throws up whatever it
can't use any more. Sometimes it's junk, sometimes
it's lost. Sometimes it's news about
change, or about trouble. Never know which till later.
Odan wrapped the sack hard. Doesn't smell rotten, no bugs,
no blood. He poked at another item, a
small round stone painted with a faded spiral.
Anyone know these colours? BT shook his head.
Slow up north. They use spirals to ward against
sick water. Easy to miss in daytime, but it
catches moonlight. Maybe they came through at night
and didn't want to stay. The elders mould that over.
The biggest of them finally said too loud.
We'll bury it away from our water, then burn the rest.
If it's a curse, it'll break, if not, dust to dust and the day
gets on. Sir joined the boys holding
debris past the last fence post, digging A shallow trench with
the edge of a flat stone. Rollin handed him the painted
Pebble. Sir rolled it in his palm,
feeling the strange coldness kept by stones touched by river
wind. Let me keep this one.
Rollin whispered. Sir nodded.
No one stopped them. Superstition ran thick, but
sometimes plain curiosity was a better use of found objects.
They finished the burial, padded the earth down, then watched
Odan strike a spark to light the rags.
The fire burned fast, crackling blue and white, smouldering
sweet, as if the river stone itself had blessed the ending.
Heading back the. Boys met Lavu.
At the gate he gripped a branch, blunted at one end.
Old Ketta wants council to meet at dusk.
News from the travellers, bands coming W from the city, chasing
rumours of flame in the north. He looked grave, but his eyes
flickered with the thrill of something new.
Every time there's a council everyone fights Roland side.
But he still followed along as the group gathered, each kid
shouldering a little more of the morning's tension, knowing that
change, good or bad, always followed the river's strange
gifts. SER reached the field just as a
light rain at last began to fall.
Short drops at first, then a solid shower.
He tipped his face up, letting the water cool his scalp and
rinse the sweat from his brow. The earth under foot softened.
Fact or omen, he couldn't say, but the dirt smelled richer than
ever. The rain came down with purpose,
cleansing the dust from leaves and pounding the dirt into fresh
mud. Roofs drummed in chorus, every
thatch and clay tile adding to the swell.
The villagers welcomed the rain, at least for now.
Sir worked through the weather, steady at his row, not minding
the water soaking into his shirt or the way it plastered his hair
to his skull. At the Creek, Roland danced in
puddles, joy bubbling up at the first storm of the season.
He splashed at Balu, who faked outrage but didn't move away.
Vici tried making a bowl from a broad leaf collecting rain, just
to dump over Lavou's head when the other boy wasn't looking.
Laughter carried diffused by the rain, loud enough to warn off
any trouble for a few moments. By noon, the sky had lightened
and the square filled again. Water streamed down the new
trenches, carving deeper lines in the clay.
Up at the notice tree a fresh round of council announcements
had been pinned with old iron nails, ink smudged messages
pocked with wet women gathered by the well, buckets in hand,
trading the latest whispers about strange fines on the bank,
about travellers moving through the area, about the way old
Keita's temper had burned hotter than usual since the last failed
harvest. Children darted between them,
chasing frogs that had appeared from nowhere at the first heavy
downpour. The council called everyone
together. As the rain slowed, families
folded up chores or left older children to mind.
Houses, Sir, with his friends at his back, took a spot near the
circle, just out of the elders line of sight.
Roland settled first, feet tucked beneath him, a look of
aspiration in his eyes, always seeing counsel as some secret
place where old men played at being wise.
Old Ketter boomed everyone to silence, standing in the middle,
hands raised. His beard streaked the colour of
singed bark, dripped from the rain. neighbors.
We got word from the river this morning.
Some of you saw the junk Odin turned up.
It's not from here, but it means we're not alone.
Not just travellers, not just beggars.
Folks moving for reasons. He let the last words sink in.
Ketta circled the group. We also got rumors.
A caravan's riding from the north.
Keepers, so they say. Word of fire in the cities, wind
in the old islands, rain that tastes like iron.
Some of you remember the changes that come with new hands on the
roads. Times may be shifting.
One elder coughed into her hand. What's it matter to Tuitoma if
all we do is till dirt and patch holes in the fence?
Cater didn't blink. Because if it matters and we
didn't listen, we lose what we can't get back.
Strangers might bring trade, but they might bring more mouths or
trouble. We keep watch, widen patrols
after dark, and tie up boats we aren't using.
Avu muttered to SER. A council's way of saying
they're afraid to admit they're afraid.
A council's way of making work for us.
Viti whispered, but his eyes tracked every shout and gesture
the way a hungry dog watched a cut of meat beside Keta.
Old Jerry spoke, voice thin as spider silk.
Keepers coming through means news, News means change.
A fear. It never stands still.
Neither should we. She wagged a finger at the
crowd, more warning than blessing.
Once debate picked up speed, opinions scattered like
raindrops in a gust. The ambitious pushed for new
defenses. Practical voices wanted to trade
with the caravan, perhaps to bring in better tools, Real Salt
cloth, not full of burrs. Skeptics suggested closing the
gates, locking down to Timoma tight.
Let the wider world pass by. Cater looked to the young ones
scattered at the edges, the future Labour, the ones who
wouldn't stand council for a decade yet.
You kids hear this? World's bigger this year than
last. Be ready to see more than the
crops. Sarah knew what that meant, but
it left an ache in his stomach. His whole world had been plants
in the dirt, sun on his back, sweat as currency.
The idea of caravan folk, keepers, magic, strangeness.
He frowned, not in mistrust, but in longing that was hard to
name. Arguments circled and wore down,
replaced by reminders about watch rotors, the need for
volunteers who would patch the dock before the next high water.
In moments, the urgency melted to the regular tug of war.
Whose turn, Whose fault, Who cared most?
Roland tugged at Sayer's sleeve. If the world's coming here, do
you think it'll want what we grow?
They're squeezed to the boy's shoulder.
Someone always wants what they don't have.
Our jobs to make sure we have enough first.
Roland nodded and grinned, running off to tell the others
what he'd heard. When the council broke, the
grown-ups drifted into groups of three or four, talking low,
casting glances at the clouds, the road, the river.
The boys gathered by the edge of the square.
Balu started drawing lines in the mud, setting the rules for a
match of knuckle stones, a distraction to burn off the
tension. Lavu, restless, eyed the road as
if expecting a caravan to appear at any second, his fingers
itching for excitement. Beyond hauling bricks and
patching the fence, Vt stayed sharp, listening, always with
one ear to the adults trying to suss out something useful or
dangerous. Say.
I leaned back, his hands crusted with dirt, gaze lost in the
shape of the hills beyond Twitoma.
Change was coming. He could feel it in the
restlessness on the air, in the way the clouds wouldn't settle,
in the hum of a field on the verge of planting or rune.
For now, the work didn't stop, and neither could he.
Thunder grumbled over the far hills as council broke, sending
villagers home under a patchwork of woven hoods and palm hats.
The air felt cleaner, new, the kind that lingered after a storm
but made sleep restless for the first time in weeks.
Tuitoma's main road was empty by dusk, each family drawn in by
concern as much as routine. Houses glowed from within,
lanterns flickering atop window sills.
Their flames, buffered from errant wind by panes of cloudy
sere, drifted along the edge of the square, hands still caked in
clay, the rain long since dried as a crust on his forearms.
At the gate to the field, Ward waited, arms crossed, brow
furrowed. More than usual.
The old man nodded toward the farm with a knuckle, gesturing
for SER to catch up. You hear all that talk?
Ward said, voice pitched low and rough, meant for SER's ears
only. SER nodded, wiping grit from his
face. Keepers caravan, possibly
trouble. Ward half snorted.
It's always trouble, sooner or later.
Just comes in a new coat. He looked out at the last half.
Row of beans. The storks bending under a
returning breeze. Council said anyone willing
should take a turn at the wall tonight.
I'll do first watch you check the tool shed before you bunk
down. They knew the pattern.
Let the young do the repairs, the old do the watching.
He moved through the shadows behind the barn, unlocked the
tool shed, a rickety thing full of battered spades, picks, saws
and buckets with split handles. He counted every hoe, even the
worn handle, waiting for a new head, then clicked the rusty
lock shut, reassured by nothing but habit.
Inside, dinner was quick and plain.
A wedge of boiled cassava, fried fish cooled to a gluey paste,
water with a hint of lemon. Leave.
Ward ate with his head down, jaw tense, one hand flexing his old
scarred knuckles under the table.
You're looking on, Roland. Ward said when the meal was
over. Boy might hear things at council
he don't need to worry about. SER wiped his mouth, took a
torch from the bracket, and walked the path to Rolland's
place. The yard was alive with the
sound of crickets and a single voice, Rolland's uncle humming
as he patched a net by Lantern light.
Roland sat on the stoop, carving at the river stone he'd kept
from the morning's find. Sir sat down at the edge of the
step, torch guttering. Your uncle's still got plenty of
fight in him, he said, just to break the ice.
Kutalu says storms come in clusters, Roland replied, eyes
on the stone. You think the world's getting
smaller, Sir? Or the trouble just going around
in circles. I think the world shows up when
it wants, mostly. We manage with what's ours.
Caravan will pass, and we'll still be fixing fences and
counting tubers. That's the part they never write
songs about. Roland pressed his thumb into
the groove he'd cut in the stone.
I want more than Caravan stories.
I want something bigger, something we start, not just
what washes up. SER Heard himself say.
You will. You've got restless hands.
They both sat awhile, silent, the torch hissing as the first
wind found its flame. Back on the main road, the boys
had gathered under the eaves of the common hall.
Balu practised knife tricks, blade flashing and sticking in
the damp plank step. Lavu watched clouds rush across
the Half Moon, analysing shapes as if he could predict trouble
by their patterns. Vitty, unreliable as always,
whispered bets on how soon the keepers would arrive, spreading
wild talk to see who spun up or who laughed it off.
They joined them, just close enough to be part of the group,
just far enough to keep his own thoughts.
Old Keta limped past on his evening round, a robe pulled
high against the night's chill. He stopped, squinting at the
boys. You lads do your work tomorrow,
you hear? Don't get swept up in all this
talk. Won't feed you, won't keep the
rain back. Belou rolled his eyes, but
nodded. Respect.
The old man disappeared in the dark, grumbling to himself.
Night pressed in, colder and sharper doors latched across the
village. Lantern light shrank.
Ward's silhouette stood by the main gate, a staff in one hand,
the shimmer of a polished stone hanging from his belt.
Sir went home, not tired, not really.
He washed in a chipped basin, hands raw, then lay on his
pallet, wide awake. The world felt different,
stretched and unsettled. Tomorrow they would still be mud
to shift, seeds to check, errands to run.
But tonight, under the Press of silence and the ghost of
incoming change, Sir stared at the rafters and let the
possibility of more than to Toma break open in his chest.
More than dirt, more than sweat, more than crops or passing
storms. He couldn't say what, but he
counted himself ready, if even for one bold step past the edge
of what he'd inherited. Bleep came when it was ready,
Nothing more, nothing less. The night outside held its own
watch, as all nights in Afirid do, waiting for someone, anyone,
to move first. The dawn came with birdsong and
the distant stutter of drumbeats far upriver.
Nothing urgent but new, a pattern none intuituma
recognized. Sunlight split the low clouds,
bleaching mud to grey and stirring the air with the
promise of heat. Seer woke before Ward.
He washed his face with rainwater, scratched at the
stubble on his jaw, and creaked his muscles into readiness.
His first steps out the door took him straight to the field.
Dirt gave under foot, richer for the rain but softer now, mud
that sucked at boots and tried to pull a man's balance from
under him. He checked his rose by habit,
counting and memorizing what had grown overnight and what the
night's animals had pulled up or patted down.
New bite showed on the outermost squash, purple green marks from
a burrowing pest. He dug into the roots, pulling
one after another, finding three ruined before he hit firm flesh.
SER tossed the ruined ones over the fence for the chickens and
kept moving As he turned. Roland skipped down the centre
path, one hand fisted around something he held tight.
Without speaking, the boy opened his palm, a small carved stone
now notched with deep grooves and polished by hours of
handling. Are you going to make it a
charm? Roland said, voice too low for
anyone but them to hear. For good luck, or maybe to keep
away bad luck. Seya nodded, not trusting the
Dame enough to promise anything. They worked side by side, Sir
setting the rhythm with his hoe, Rollin spotting grubs and
running traps. Rollin's uncle passed by,
squinting at the new marks in the mud and the skies uncertain
blue. He called a greeting, then
continued toward the river, his shoulders set for the weight of
morning fish. By mid morning, the main Rd.
bustled. Lavu and Balu hauled Timbers,
stacking them by a new frame going up behind the Potter's
Hut. Their shirts never stayed dry
for long, the rain and sweat mixing in equal measure.
Viti ducked between them, running errands for his mother,
always late and never lacking an excuse.
In the center of the square, a pair of travellers sat beneath
an awning, one tall, narrow shouldered man in a patched
cloak. Beside him, a boy nearly says
age, skin dark, eyes quick, boots new enough to draw comment
from every passing villager. Their gear was neat.
A pair of packs stitched with orange thread, a battered loot,
and a coil of rawhide rope hung over the crossbeam above.
The council had already assembled.
Kita was there, chin set, arms folded.
Other elders staked out a broad circle, broad enough to be seen
but not close enough to show concern.
The man introduced himself. Jill Barden.
That's my son, Choris. We came up river out of
necessity, not choice. Plenty who are seeking safety
farther N the lower towns are uneasy.
We've seen banners burned, some farms emptied.
No attack yet, but folk don't like the look of things.
Keta gave nothing away. All Wanderers say trouble
follows or trouble chases. There's always an enemy in the
next bend. Is this one real, or just
another time of leavings and returns?
Barden looked Tutuma's elder in the eye.
Real enough to chase the brave and the fool.
Same way whole bands headed this direction.
Others went E, hoping the mountains would offer something
steady. We just want rest and a chance
to work. The council debated
practicality. One out, the caravanner and his
son were offered a patch of land near the eastern Rd. lodging in
the carpenter's spare Hut. In exchange, they'd pull their
weight, splitting wood, tending new crops, teaching what news
they carried for the price of a meal.
After the meeting, Lavu cornered Sere next to the millstone, his
voice pitched lower than usual. They talk careful, not just
trouble by the road, but talk of real war to the north.
My father says keepers are moving armies, not just bands
anymore, not just stories. People dying, towns burning.
Said he saw a body flow downriver last week.
Never said if it was marked as ours or foreign.
CIS easily let the news settle. That could have been washed down
from anywhere. Anywhere isn't far enough now,
my uncle says. I fear it could see the next
trouble, not just stories this time.
Lavu spat into the grass, looked at his boots.
Roland listened, silent, his face, sharp and drawn, held a
new calculation, the kind the older boys wore when someone
died on the North Trail, or when the last big fever swept the
village and took three infants with it.
He tucked his charm into his sleeve and wandered to the road.
Balu joined at that moment, lacing his boots, eyes narrowed.
Don't see why the world can't leave us be.
Works here, waters here, walls hold.
But they all want to check us, see what side we're on, who we
feed and who we turn away. Sarah agreed.
That's how it always starts, Outsiders wanting the peace that
isn't theirs, us trying not to let what's good slip out the
gate. The grown-ups talked in
clusters, close Canut, arms crossed close to chests, voices
held just above whisper. Sir's heartbeat with more noise
than he let on. If war came to Itoma could be
wiped up and forgotten in the time it took a storm to move
from one bend to the next. By midday the square emptied.
The travellers disappeared into the carpenter's Hut, not to be
seen again until supper. SER returned to the.
Rose working. Twice as hard as usual, eyes
checking every shadow, every path along the fence, every
noise drew his eye. Even the smallest breeze had the
weight of threat. Roland spent his afternoon
working with the charm, binding it on a length of twine,
stringing a second painted Pebble inside as backup.
Lavu and Balu finished the 1st frame of the shed, calling Sir
when it was ready to roof. Viti brought nails as if
offering his absence had been the most important contribution.
They worked late, hands blackened with pitch and dirt.
At dark they shared what bread they could spare sitting along
the wall, not saying much but keeping nearer to each other
than most days allowed. That night the drums upriver
played again, faint and halting. Ward came home with news of
another stranger passed on foot, silent woman this time, leading
a little girl with hair black as crow's wing, eyes darting as if
afraid even of the moon. She didn't ask for water, just
pointed north and moved on fast, feet covered in mud.
Marked her where I could. Won't forget that face.
Think she's running from the same things as the caravaner?
Sir asked. Ward grunted.
There's a wind stirring trouble from every side.
No one knows how far or how much sweeps with it.
I say we don't take chances. Sir nodded.
Beside him. Roland finished tying his charm
and pressed it into Serre's palm.
You'll need 1, he said. For luck, or for hiding.
For yourself, maybe for the field, The feel of it.
Cool stone hand carved by someone who wanted to believe,
stuck with Serre long after he crawled into bed.
He lay awake, listening, fearing and hoping as the world pressed
a little closer on all sides. The next day dawned raw and
humid. Clouds lingered low orange at
the edges, promising more storms.
Activity in the square started early, villagers up before sun
to finish as much as they could while the air was still
bearable. Sir and Balu fixed the loose
planks in the wall where water had gouged away mud during the
last rain. Tools thudded and scraped.
Good work. Bodies hunched to the task.
No wasted words. Lavu patrolled the northern
edge, scanning for fresh marks, boot prints, animal sign,
anything outside, the usual. He found none.
The only visitors were the tracks of last night's patrol
and the pressed lines of the cart that had brought in sacks
of last year's grain. News of the travellers had set
the women stewing up harder, trading recipes for tea and for
defence in equal proportion. As Sir made his way back from
the wall, old Cater's voice caught him.
We'll have a watch at every gate.
You know your field, you know the road.
If you see anyone come in different, you tell me or tell
Ward. Sir nodded.
Katter pointed his staff at the horizon.
The world's big, but this patch is ours.
Never, just is, always has to be kept.
The old man's eyes watered from the brewing wind.
He blinked once, hard. The noon brought the caravaner's
son, Corus, looking for work. He trailed Sir along the edge of
the beans, silent but full of interest in every new tool,
every line Sir marked in the dirt, every odd call of to
Atoma's birds. Sir showed him where pests hid,
how to tell which patches would flood first in the rain, which
edges of the field grew fast and which languished.
The boy worked hard, didn't complain.
You ever want to stay? SER asked, pulling weeds along
the squash row. Coris shrugged.
No place stays safe for long. My father says you keep moving
until the river tells you otherwise.
Sometimes you build a town, sometimes you bury it.
SER couldn't help but wonder which end to Itoma would find
that evening. The hall filled again.
Minstrels played, bringing news in song, tales of battles won
and lost, of roads blocked by fire and armouries broken in the
night. Children gathered in tight
knots, faces drawn and gleaming, old enough to know what danger
made. Mothers whisper, fathers pray,
and neighbors count their knives.
Twice before dark, SER moved to the edge of the crowd.
Ward called him over, voice grave.
Time to think about what you'll do when the road comes for you,
boy, Don't just tie your luck to the ground.
Give your hands something to hold, but your mind something to
plan if it comes to leaving. SER nodded.
He wished he could speak some certainty into the air, but
nothing there would settle. Not even the promise.
Roland's charm pressed into his palm.
Above them, the wind bent, the fires smoke sideways toward the
river, pulling change into the heart of Totoma, slow and sure
and unwilling to be stopped. Thank you for listening to
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