The Stuff of Stars (The Seekers Book 2) Read online

  After Devorah had gathered the people named, she slipped away to one of the flower gardens to pick a handful of daisies

  “What are those for?” I said.

  She offered a smile tinged with sorrow. “Wait, and you’ll see.”

  I glanced at Nathaniel. He and I had hardly been apart these past months. As the two groups went their separate ways, I brushed his arm with my fingertips, a message of encouragement, and whispered a prayer for his safe return.

  Chapter 17 – Honeysuckle and Reeds

  Beyond the outer rim of huts, we entered a well-trodden path lined with dwellings as far as I could see. The earth mother, it seemed, presided over much more than the village. The greenies were a sprawling community larger than I’d imagined, populated by able-bodied adults accustomed to hard work.

  No wonder the mentor feared them.

  After a ten-minute walk, the number of huts thinned and we came to a large, heart-shaped clearing. Along its edges, the trees held mounds placed on platforms at eye level, each decorated with flowers and seashells.

  Devorah turned off the path, approached one of the mounds, and laid the daisies she’d brought on top, fanning them out in a half-circle. Then she bent a knee, dipped her head, and closed her eyes.

  “What’s she doing,” I whispered to the earth mother.

  “This is where we bring our dead, a tradition I started when I first came here. I wanted to make our goodbyes in a peaceful setting surrounded by trees. We wrap the body in robes, and the whole village gathers to carry the remains to this spot. Here, we place them on a litter bound to branches, so we can pay our respect each day on the path to our chores. We hold a brief ceremony, and anyone who wishes may speak kindly of the deceased. When they’re done, we line up one by one and leave a single flower. In this way, we remember those who once lived and gave us life, much like the earth. That mound is the resting place of Devorah’s father.”

  “Is this where the technos bring their dead as well?” I said.

  She shook her head. “For the technos, death is something to be hidden. Machines disintegrate the remains, leaving nothing but energy—a clean and sanitary process. The dead, they believe, should not startle the living with a reminder of their mortality. The so-called machine masters prefer to pretend they’ll live forever, but we’re not meant to be immortal. We’re a part of the cycle of life, the same as the other animals and plants.”

  When Devorah rejoined the group, we resumed our trek but at a more somber pace, shuffling our feet through the dried leaves covering the path. The swish of our footsteps sounded like the muffled voices of those who had departed.

  Once the tree-lined graveyard lay behind us, the earth mother turned to me. “In your world, how do you send off your dead?”

  “Not so different from you. We dig a hole in a special place on a hillside surrounded by trees, lower the body down and cover it with dirt. We mark the spot with a stone with their name carved on it.”

  “Is this satisfying to you, planting your loved ones in the earth?”

  I pictured the day the elders placed my father in the ground. The sky had been overcast with a drizzle in the air. I could still smell the moist soil and hear the thud as each shovelful landed on his coffin.

  “My father died when I was seven.” I paused, surprised by how much emotion still welled up in me from the mere mention of him. My voice quivered, and I needed a breath to continue. “I loved to visit his grave and pretend I could speak to him. How I wish I could visit him now, and like Devorah, decorate his resting place with flowers.”

  The earth mother laid a comforting hand on my shoulder.

  At first, I pulled away, but then gave in to the warmth of her touch as if I were a child again.

  “Each of us bears our own tragedies,” she said. “No shame in grieving. It’s part of the great circle, like the passing of the seasons. The dreamers denied the circle of life, believing death was something to conquer, not accept. If death could touch them, they’d never become gods. That’s why they invented the dream.”

  We continued on in silence until the greenie cemetery receded deep into the woods. Soon, the trees thinned once more and workshops began to appear, make-shift shelters where food, clothing and crafts could be prepared even in foul weather.

  The largest of these echoed with the sound of hammers and any other tool that set metal to wood. In every corner, Caleb’s men wielded axes and splitting mauls to hew fresh timber for the newest huts.

  Near the end of the row, two substantial structures stood opposite each other, the only ones made from stone. Both contained a furnace built into their back wall. Smoke from their fires rose up through chimneys and scattered in the wind, as flames pulsed from their openings, sending waves of heat in my direction.

  I recognized the one on the left, a shop where cups and bowls were kiln-fired and glazed. Greenies sat on benches molding clay on rotating platforms, not so different from the potter’s wheel back home.

  The earth mother drew me into the opposite structure. As she stared proudly at the forge, a red glow from its flame fell across her face. “Here, you can see how much we’ve grown. At first, we made tools from chiseled stone, but now we’ve learned to craft metals. We tried the red copper, found everywhere in the surrounding terrain, but we found it too soft. By combining it with other elements like tin, we’ve been able to strengthen it. Through trial and error, we’ve learned to heat it in the fire, and then pound and fold it into shape on this platform. Do your people practice such skills?”

  I suppressed a laugh. The spinner’s store in Great Pond, where I so often traded cloth for thread, stood next to the blacksmith’s shop. I’d often go watch him work while I waited for my spools to be packed. He had a furnace as well, and a platform where metal was forged, but the similarity ended there. The blacksmith’s anvil was made of hardened metal and finely crafted to do its job. On his wall hung a variety of hammers and tongs to shape the most precise tools. By contrast, this shop seemed more like the play room of a child who’d newly discovered fire.

  “Yes,” I said. “We call such people blacksmiths.”

  Despite my efforts, the earth mother read my scorn. “Much better than ours, I gather. Perhaps another skill you can teach us.”

  As I emerged from the shelter, glad to be away from the heat, the earth mother pointed to the last structure in the row. “I placed the basket shop on the outskirts of our community to be nearer forests and fields where materials abound.”

  The basket shop was little more than an open shed with three walls built from interlocking logs supporting a thatched roof. Inside stood sheaves of straw and a wooden workbench littered with scraps of grass. An assortment of tools hung on pegs at the back.

  A single gleaming knife caught my eye. I ran the tip of my thumb along the blade’s edge—as sharp as any forged in Great Pond. Perhaps I’d underestimated the skill of their blacksmith. “Did your people make this?”

  “A leftover synthesized from the machines,” Devorah said. “That blade never rusts and hardly ever dulls. Since we have so few, we limit its use to special purposes. We’ll get no more like this, until our own tool making improves.”

  I glanced around the shed. “I’ll need some bowls filled with water.”

  “We can fetch bowls from the potter, but I’m afraid the water is foul.”

  “No matter. The water’s not to drink but to the soak the reeds in so they’ll be easier to bend. Do you still make quilts like the one on our bed in the techno city?”

  “Oh, yes, finer than any made by machine. One of the few crafts we preserved from our ancestors.”

  “Then you must have sewing needles.”

  She reached into a drawer beneath the workbench and withdrew a packet of wooden needles.

  “Wonderful. You have all the tools I need to weave the baskets. Now to search the woods for the materials.”

  “I’m too old to be scavenging in the fields,” the earth mother said. “Best I leave you i
n Devorah’s capable hands.” She turned to the others, embraced each and whispered in their ear, “Listen well and learn.” Then she grasped her walking stick and ambled off.

  I led the three greenies into the forest. On our first trek to the village, the scent of honeysuckle had told me the bush flourished nearby. We had scant trouble finding a large patch.

  I urged each of my students to inhale the perfume of the flower. “Now, place the tip of the blossom to your lips and sip out its nectar.”

  The three stared at me and hesitated. Devorah was first to try.

  “It’s delicious,” she said.

  Jacob, a man who looked old enough to be Devorah’s father, reached for a berry. “What of the fruit? The berry’s smooth and blue like the earth mother teaches.”

  I stayed his hand. “The nectar of the flower is safe. The berries are not.”

  In no more than a few minutes, we’d used the knife to slice off several lengths of vine and strip them of their flowers. Then we coiled them for easy carrying.

  “Is there standing water nearby,” I said. “Not ocean, but a pond or swamp?”

  Devorah nodded. “This way.”

  We followed down the trough of a rain run-off and came to a marshy area, bounded, as I’d hoped, by reeds. I snipped off several of the thicker stalks and headed back to the shed.

  “We’re as babes compared to you,” Devorah said. “You know so much about plants and trees. What else can you teach us?”

  “One lesson at a time. Today’s is the making of baskets, but maybe we’ll stumble on something along our way.”

  I strolled down the path, scanning either side and inhaling deeply. How good to be outside. For a land grown dependent on machines, the vegetation grew lush and green—perhaps mother earth showing her defiance. The mentor’s mind games seemed foolish to me now—to lose all sight or smell... what a dismal skill to learn.

  At last, a familiar fragrance wafted my way. Ahead, an ancient sassafras loomed, one of the largest I’d ever seen. I thought of the greenies having to boil their water, and the children complaining about the taste.

  “We call this a sassafras. You can spot it by its scent, but also by its furrowed trunk and leaves that look like mittens.”

  “What are mittens?”

  “Like socks for your hands to keep them warm in winter.” I picked one to show them.

  Devorah brightened. “I see—a wide part for the fingers and a smaller one for the thumb. Can we eat its flowers or fruit?”

  “Not the flowers or fruit, but.... Hand me the knife.” I knelt down on the ground, dug down a bit, and cut off a piece of the white root. “Place this in boiling water to make a fine red tea. Your children will prefer its flavor to the sweet drink from the machines. You can extract its oil as well to give a pleasing aroma to your soap.”

  Devorah grasped the root, sniffed, and smiled. “It smells like spring.”

  After the humiliating lesson with the techno children and the mentor’s berating us as dullards, I was delighted to be the wise one for a change.

  When we returned to the basket shop, I asked Jacob to fill some bowls with water and set the vines and reeds to soaking. Once they were pliable, I cut the reeds into four flat pieces of equal length and aligned them crisscross on the workbench, holding them in place with a needle stuck in the center.

  While the others leaned in and watched, I wove a honeysuckle vine through the eight spokes, over and under, as I’d done so often as a child. When I’d completed three rows, I let Jacob take over.

  “Over and under,” I said, “and be sure to pull the vine tight. The water makes the reeds and vines as easy to bend as straw, yet they’ll be much stronger when they dry. The rest is the same. Keep weaving until the basket rounds up to the top. Then I’ll show you how to finish it off.”

  I stepped aside with Devorah and watched Jacob work. He was the most nimble of the three, born to the craft.

  “He looks like he’s done this his whole life,” I said.

  “The earth mother picked him for a reason. He’s the best craftsman in our village, especially working with wood. He can take a piece of furniture manufactured by the machines and reproduce it by hand within days.”

  I pictured a spinning wheel and loom—a challenge for Jacob but not beyond his abilities.

  As Devorah studied this newfound craft, I studied her. She had a strong chin, high cheekbones and eyes intensely focused on the task. Though I never saw her laugh, she smiled often, a widening of her lips to show small white teeth, followed by a slow and effortless closing. Clearly someone the earth mother trusted, a future leader perhaps, though only a few years older than me.

  I recalled her kneeling by her father’s grave. “I was saddened to hear about your father. How long ago did he die?”

  “He’s gone four months now, but I think of him every day.”

  “May he go to the light everlasting.” I repeated the phrase by rote, the custom taught to me by the vicars, though I immediately regretted it. I knew little of the greenie’s beliefs.

  Devorah’s lips parted, and she drew in a breath before speaking. “His death has clouded my faith. The earth mother calls it the shadow inside me, like a visit by a gloomy spirit. You said your father died when you were seven. How long did it take for the pain to go away?”

  “I don’t know. It hasn’t gone away yet, but over time I’ve learned to live with it, to not let it control my life. Grief is an affliction we all share.” I recalled Kara speaking about her parents lost in the dream. “As far as I’ve traveled, people are all the same. Despite what the earth mother says, even the technos grieve.”

  “The earth mother bears no ill will to them and teaches respect for all. Only a few among us see the technos as enemies.”

  I placed a hand on her arm. “I hope you don’t view us as enemies. We’re neither greenies nor technos, but two travelers trying to understand your ways.”

  Ruth, who had taken over for Jacob, cursed as she realized she’d missed a spoke of the basket.

  Devorah eyed Ruth as she undid the weave, then grasped me by the elbow and drew me outside. She lowered her voice. “Caleb claims the mentor burns with hate for us. That’s why he suspects you. For the mentor to let you go.... What price did you have to pay?”

  “There’s something he wants us to do. We agreed only if he let us spend time with you.”

  “So there was a price. What did he ask of you?”

  I stared out at the horizon. Daylight was dwindling. Soon it would be time to return to the techno city.

  I shook my head. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you, but believe me we’re not your enemy. We’ll come back again, I promise, sooner the next time, and teach you how to build a spinning wheel and loom.”

  “What are those for?”

  Glad for the change in subject, I pointed to the distant hillside. “That field is covered with flowers we call flax. The spinning wheel will turn the fiber from their stems into thread, and the loom will weave the thread into cloth. You already know how to sew. Once you have cloth, you’ll be able to make new clothes. I’ll even teach you which plants to pick to add color to the cloth, something brighter than gray or techno silver.”

  “New clothing sounds wonderful, but aren’t those machines?”

  “Only ones powered by hands and feet. Is that a problem?”

  “Not for me, not for the earth mother. Maybe for Caleb. He says machines have done great harm, and accepting even the simplest will lead to disaster.”

  Like the vicars, who banned honey from our wassail and limited music to two flutes and a drum, all innocent practices they claimed would lead back to the darkness. Why were there always those who’d rather restrict than enable?

  “Why does Caleb hate the technos so much?” I said.

  Devorah glanced over her shoulder at Ruth weaving our little basket, as if she hadn’t heard my question. After a moment she turned back.

  “Many of us have been part of this community all ou
r lives. My parents were born here. Others came as children after they’d failed the exam.” She lowered her voice. “Ruth is one of the cast-offs. Caleb is... different. He, like the earth mother, was one of their scientists. He came to us about ten years ago, around the time I first heard of the dream. His wife had just died. While he never speaks of what happened, he arrived a broken and angry man. The earth mother helped him heal and gave him new purpose, but the rage remains. I know little more than that. Following the day of reckoning, he was the strongest voice against offering help, insisting what had happened was pre-ordained—nature’s revenge for the dream.”

  “But isn’t that what the earth mother preaches as well, that the dream is a sin?”

  “The earth mother teaches our bodies are part earth, part water, part past and future, and part the stuff of stars. We are a part of the universe and not its masters. She doesn’t condemn the technos for their beliefs. She merely chooses a different path.”

  “Then do you oppose Caleb when he says the dream must end?”

  I counted three breaths in and out as we both stared at the surrounding terrain. The afternoon sun had sunk below the treetops, so curtains of light streamed through the leaves. Beyond the trees, the hilltop pulsed with flowers blooming and birds riding above them on the currents of wind.

  Devorah grasped me by both arms and faced me. “I believe each of us was placed on this earth for a purpose. If we can find that purpose, we’ll have respect for each other and for all living things, because we’ll be grateful every day for the gift of life. Those who we call the dreamers had a purpose of their own. Is their plight a punishment for their sacrilege? It’s not for me to judge.”

  No absolute truth. Neither technos nor greenies own the truth. Both have much to offer. At that moment, I was sure of only one thing: I was grateful for my life.

  When the basket was finished, and our band returned to the village, I was relieved to find Nathaniel laughing with the others, as he discussed the timing of the harvest and the making of a mill wheel to grind wheat into flour. On the ground beside him lay a straw basket filled with seeds and a tiny plot where he’d demonstrated how to plant them. I pictured this village in the fall, surrounded by tall brown stalks waving in the breeze, and the greenies harvesting them in newly crafted baskets. I could almost smell the aroma of freshly baked bread.