The Stuff of Stars (The Seekers Book 2) Page 6

  ***

  After the meal was finished and the cleanup done, the children lined up to pay respect to their guests and bid us goodnight. With so little sleep and after a tiring day, I longed to go to bed, but once the crowd dispersed, I lingered in the common hall.

  The air beneath the dome had grown steamy from the crush of people and the heat from the smoldering embers, and I was steamy as well. The mentor had lied to us, I was sure of it. But to what end?

  Too restless to sleep, I urged Nathaniel to join me outside to take some fresh air. We walked arm in arm, pausing to watch the clacking and crackling of the repair machines as they patched the metal of the children’s dwellings, making the walls glow red in the dark. I wondered who controlled them, and what other talents they might offer. Might they possess the skill to build a new boat? I studied their mechanisms until my eyes watered, but their workings were beyond me.

  Once we’d wandered past the sandstone arch, I turned to stare back at the city lights, still bright for now, perhaps in tribute to the newly arrived guests. I tried to analyze what they were made of. Memories and dreams, I suspected, like so much else in the techno city.

  The lights had caused my vision to narrow and when I glanced down, I had trouble piercing the dark. I sensed the children in their shelters readying for bed, and wondered how different the evening must be in the homes of the greenies.

  I glanced up to the night sky for guidance, as I’d done for so many weeks at sea. The crisp air carried little moisture, and a crescent moon shed its pale rays on the jumble of ragtag shelters, but not so brightly as to obscure the stars. At sea, on a night like this, the stars would sparkle like jewels in the blackened sky, but here the lights of the city overwhelmed them.

  I turned to Nathaniel and studied his profile as he gazed up as well. His chin was raised, his jaw jutted out. His eyes burned as if he too were boiling inside.

  Was this how our quest would end, far from home, unable to help our family and friends? Was this what our search for truth had wrought, a land of brilliant children sustained by failing machines and fantasies and lies?

  Nathaniel caught me staring and reached out, tracing the line of my cheek with his thumb. Then he drew me beyond the children’s village, leaving the shining lights of the techno city behind. How well he knew me. He was leading me to the shadows where I could better view the sky.

  At the edge of the trees, he spun me away from the city so I faced the woods, pulled me close and held me tight, two strangers alone in a world we did not understand.

  As I focused over his shoulder at the darkened tree line, my pupils widened, and I sensed a presence nearby. I squinted, trying to tell real shapes from imagined, then moved closer for a better look.

  At the start of a narrow path stood a lone figure—the silent boy from the beach, half hidden behind a spruce. He separated from the trees when he saw me, but not far, wary of the techno city. As I closed the distance between us, he signaled for me to bend low and stroked my cheek with the tip of his finger, a memory we both shared.

  Yes, I nodded. I’ve cleaned up, and the moist sand is gone.

  Apparently comfortable I was as human as him, he reached into his pocket. Still without a word, he handed me a crumpled scrap of paper, so worn it seemed to have been erased and reused many times. I unfolded the message, smoothed out the wrinkles on my palm, and read the words, barely visible in the light of the crescent moon.

  The earth mother says to come in the morning. Step into the trees, and this boy will show you the way.

  PART TWO –The People of the Earth

  “The great enemy of truth is very often not the lie—deliberate, contrived and dishonest—but the myth—persistent, persuasive and unrealistic. Too often we hold fast to the clichés of our forbearers. We subject all facts to a prefabricated set of interpretations. We enjoy the comfort of opinion without the discomfort of thought.” ~ John F. Kennedy

  Chapter 8 – Greenies

  “Sorry, Kara, no lessons today.”

  “But....” Kara’s polite morning smile rounded into an O.

  “We need time to ourselves,” I said. “Today’s a special holiday where we come from, the festival of the light. It’s our tradition to go off into the woods and reflect for the day.”

  Nathaniel and I had stayed up late concocting this story. Afterwards, for the first time in weeks, I slept soundly, dreaming of blueberries and flowers—no midnight watch, no cries in the night. The bruises from the shipwreck had begun to heal, and I had a new quest to look forward to.

  As soon as I awoke, I located the crumpled piece of paper the silent boy had given me and reread the message. Not my imagination. The invitation was real, and I was eager to accept it. All we needed was a way to slip from Kara’s watchful eye.

  “The mentor says you should—”

  “He’s your mentor, not ours,” Nathaniel said.

  Kara flushed and pressed toward him, but I slipped in between. “We’re grateful for your hospitality, but I’m sure the mentor also teaches respect for the customs of guests.”

  “But the mentor insists I escort you everywhere, and I mustn’t miss any more of my lessons. I have so much to learn from the dreamers.”

  “You go along to your lesson. I’m sure we’ll find our way without you.”

  When the girl refused to move, I signaled to Nathaniel who brushed her gently aside.

  After we’d cleared the doorway, I turned. “Forgive us, but we’re bound to do what we must.”

  Kara chased us across the large hall, shouting after us. “The mentor still sleeps, but when he wakes, I’ll tell him what you’ve done.”

  “That sounds like a fine idea,” I said on my way out the door.

  We wasted no time leaving the techno city behind. Once we reached the path through the woods, I ducked behind a thick oak and peered around it back toward the gate.

  Seconds later, a flustered Kara rushed out accompanied by several of the older boys, each bearing one of the sharpened sticks we’d seen on the beach.

  We may not be prisoners, but the technos and greenies were enemies, and as newcomers, our loyalties were unknown. Best to keep our destination hidden. I grasped Nathaniel’s arm and drew him deeper into the woods.

  Finding our way was no problem. The techno city had been built on a plateau on the shoulder of the mountain. The terrain above it was steep and rocky, a poor home for those wishing to live off the land, so we headed downhill, following troughs made by the runoff of rainfall and bushwhacking through brush where none could be found—an approach I’d taken years before when we’d fled the deacons outside Little Pond. I prayed this new adventure would end as well. Still, I paused every two minutes to glance over my shoulder, trusting nothing to chance in this strange land.

  Partway down the slope, a rustling came from the bush below, too loud to be a bird. Moments later, the silent boy emerged from the trees.

  I blew out a long stream of air, knelt down, and waved him closer.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he rushed forward and gave me a hug.

  From there, we followed the silent boy to a meager path, only wide enough for one of us at a time. The trail seemed infrequently used, but was at least free of the prickly burrs of the woods.

  The silent boy pranced ahead, but every few steps came running back. He seemed to have taken a liking to me. After his third foray, he stuck by my side.

  At the first glade, he motioned for us to stop. He pulled a hand carved flute from his pocket and blew five notes—one long, one short, and three long, like the woody call of a mourning dove. Hoo-ah, hoo hoo hoo. The same notes answered back, but too far off to be an echo—a response from downslope.

  In a matter of seconds, two dozen men and women surrounded us, more adults than I’d seen in the entire techno city. Like the silent boy, they had long tangled locks and wore tattered tunics patched with animal skins. Every stitch of their clothing was brown or grey, as if anything brighter had been dulled by the sun to
the color of dust.

  Despite their clothing, they looked more like my neighbors in Little Pond than the technos, a proper mix of ages, with thickened arms and bronzed skin, people accustomed to hard work outdoors. Several carried skimpy baskets, but most bore crude spades and pruning knives, the tools of a poor farmer.

  Such a strange world—small children who’d mastered mathematics more complex than anything I’d learned in the keep, machines that synthesized food out of air. Yet before me stood adults with clothing and tools more primitive than any back home. Where were their craftsmen, their blacksmiths and carpenters, spinners and weavers? Or had they relied on their machines for too long?

  The greenies gathered in a circle, evenly spaced around us in what seemed a well-practiced formation. A fair-haired woman, not much older than me, stepped forward and made a formal bow, then laid her stone axe at my feet.

  A sign of peace, I presumed.

  “Welcome to our home,” she said. “My name is Devorah. The earth mother sent me to bring you to her. I see you’ve made a new friend.” She ruffled the silent boy’s hair. “You’ve done well, Zachariah.”

  The silent boy nodded and beamed back at her.

  “Come with us,” she said. “We’re out for our daily chores, so we’ll need to gather food on the way. I’ll show you what we’ve learned of berries, how we tell which are safe to eat and which will make us ill. We have much to learn about finding food from the land, and there are many plants we haven’t tried. Perhaps you’ll recognize some from your homeland and teach us about them.”

  Zachariah grasped me with one hand and Nathaniel with the other, as if to show the others we were friends. Then the whole band resumed hiking downhill. Several of the stoutest lagged behind, a rear guard, I presumed.

  As we walked, I breathed in the scent of sap and pine needles from the trees lining our way, and the aroma of the rich brown earth giving gently beneath my feet, a fertile land any farmer in Little Pond would be happy to till. On the surrounding hillside, I caught a familiar growth, a field of flax in bloom. Their pale blue flowers brightened my day.

  Soon the trail widened and side paths spiraled up a steep embankment to my right. The greenies spread out and put their tools to work, clearing and widening the access to what they hoped would be a rich crop of berries.

  Devorah handed me and Nathaniel spare baskets she’d brought, so we could help in the gathering.

  As we strolled along, stopping occasionally to poke through the brush, I studied my basket, a flimsy, shallow thing woven from straw, unlikely to survive a hard rain. Every child in Little Pond made baskets better than these, not of straw but of willow or oak or ash, with a tighter weave, braided or coiled, crafts practiced and perfected across generations. All carried more weight and would last for years—a skill I could teach them.

  The slope steepened. After a ten minute climb, we came to the edge of the scree, where the trees thinned and turned to bramble. Scattered throughout were low bushes of what I instantly recognized as blueberries.

  The greenies split up, each of them seeking their own spot apart from the others. At once, they began to fill baskets with fistfuls of plump berries.

  “These are the same as we pick back home,” I said. “Do you eat them often?”

  “It’s much of what we eat this time of year,” Devorah said, “along with the fish we catch, now that we get so little food from the technos. It’s that or starve. But taking food from the land is new for us. The earth mother teaches us to proceed cautiously. Some of the berries can make us sick or even kill us. So we test new berries by feeding them to our animals. It’s a cruel trial, and we use it sparingly. The earth mother teaches us to treat our animals with kindness, harming them only out of necessity. Mostly, we stick to what’s proven to be safe.”

  I wandered deeper into the berry patch, in search of fertile bushes still unpicked, as I’d done so often with Nathaniel and Thomas in childhood. At the far edge, I caught a pleasant surprise—raspberries. I reached in to pick some, but my attempt was stayed by the grasp of a small hand. I looked up to find the silent boy frantically shaking his head.

  Devorah and the others were immediately upon us. “Not those berries. The earth mother teaches us to avoid them.”

  “Have you tested them?” I said.

  The greenies shook their heads and eyed the raspberries fearfully.

  “Then what makes you think they’re dangerous?”

  Devorah glanced back at the others and fidgeted, suddenly less sure of herself. “The earth mother tested a number similar to those. She believes the safest berries are blue with a smooth skin. She teaches us to shun the blacks or reds, or ones with clusters of droplets like these.”

  I suppressed a grin. A little less than gods, but afraid of a raspberries. I reached in and popped one into my mouth.

  The greenies gasped and held their breath, but I only smiled.

  “Delicious,” I said, “and they make a lovely jam.”

  “What is jam?” Devorah said.

  I started to answer, but stopped when I noticed the greenies hanging on my every word. All I’d learned in the keep, the science and mathematics, were of no use here. I could do more good by teaching what my mother had taught me as a child.

  I finished filling my basket with raspberries while the skeptical greenies looked on, and then followed them down the path to their village, staying close enough to eavesdrop on their chatter. “No earth mother” I heard them say, “but a lord and lady in silver, perhaps sent by the dreamers.”

  Innocent as babes, makers of flimsy baskets, frightened by raspberries, and ignorant of jam. What else might Nathaniel and I teach them? How to pick flax and shear sheep? How to spin the harvest into thread and weave the thread into cloth? How to till the land?

  I was no dreamer, but here in this world I could teach them so much. I hoped I could learn as well.

  ***

  With baskets filled, our troop resumed its trek down the slope. After an hour, the scenery changed from wild growth to land with a more human touch, the prelude to the home of the greenies.

  I took in every detail, hoping to better understand these people the mentor so mistrusted. Their village differed from the city of the technos, and not just because of the absence of machines. Here, someone had made an effort to beautify the place. White rocks lined a path groomed with crushed shells from the beach. Though the land was not as well tilled as Little Pond—with its fields of wheat in rows and apple orchards dotting the hillsides—cleared plots began to appear, kitchen gardens with tomatoes, peppers and cucumbers, and green beans spiraling around poles. In between grew a welcome display of color, beds of daffodils and lilies, with tiny snowdrops and blue forget-me-nots, and here and there, a splash of daisies.

  I’d gone so long without seeing flowers in bloom that I stepped off the path to inhale their perfume.

  Soon after, I sighted the tops of modest huts, the first sign of the village. These were round in form, with roofs made of thatched branches rising to a peak with a smoke hole in the middle. They reminded me of our NOT tree, the play shelter Nathaniel’s father had built for us as children—called NOT for the three inseparable friends: Nathaniel, Orah and Thomas. At the start of winter, before the annual festival of light, we’d gather to dress it with freshly cut balsam boughs, not mere decoration but a covering to block out the wind and the cold. These dwellings seemed not much sturdier.

  Thoughts of my childhood distracted me, and the village loomed. Soon, the crunch of shells underfoot announced our arrival. Several children ventured out of the huts to greet us, all dressed like Zachariah, their feet bare, their shirts and leggings worn and tattered. A few sheep and goats wandered freely among them.

  I turned to Devorah. “Why do you dress your children like this?”

  Devorah stared at the ground, watching her sandal dig a hole in the soil. “Before the day of reckoning, we received all our clothing from the technos. No more. We wear what’s left, and stitch t
he pieces together with bits of animal skin. But the earth mother forbids us to harm the animals unnecessarily. We take their skins only after the rare times they’ve been killed for food or died of natural causes.”

  I eyed the greenie children. No parent in Little Pond would dress their child so poorly. With so much flax in the surrounding hills and sheep bulging with unshorn wool, they must know nothing of weaving and spinning. Yet these children seemed happy, and Kara said they slept well at night, without the nightmares that cursed the technos.

  Who was the better off? The greenies living their crude, uncomfortable lives with their belief in the land, or the technos placing their faith in brain-building drugs and failing machines? Had Nathaniel and I come so far across the ocean to find people worse off than our own?

  The children held back, gawking from a distance. What must they make of us, me with my auburn hair, and my tall, bearded companion, both dressed in the silver garments of the technos. Then the silent boy, Zachariah, raised his hands over his head, still grasping ours, like an elder declaring a winner at festival, and the children rushed forward, wanting to be part of the celebration, reaching out and touching us as if to make sure we were real.

  “So much like Little Pond,” Nathaniel said.

  “And so different.”

  Devorah broke into a wide grin. “Everyone’s glad you came. We need a glimmer of hope. The earth mother will be pleased.”

  The huts were arranged in circles, with eighty or more on the outer rim, and lesser groupings inside. As Devorah escorted us down one of the paths radiating from the heart of the village, I counted the circles—six deep, dwellings for several hundred families.

  At the very center, an ancient beech tree sprawled, its broad arms extending in all directions as if to protect the village. At its base lay a single hut, no different from the others, yet it had an aura about it—perhaps the way the greenies gathered round it and hushed in awe.