Incidentally, I’ve progressed beyond 32,000 words which brings me ever closer to the half-way point of my goal of 80,000 words. The exciting part, for me at least, is that I’m just getting to the heart of the story, toward the central conflicts and themes. I’ve not written much in the past couple of weeks, but the planning, outlining, and incidental writing (such as the inscription below) will provide a big boost once I crack open the laptop once again.

“The Inscription”

What is the most hallowed path
To contain Andira’s wrath?

Seek you that which is without
The creeping enclave of doubt;

Seek that which is not within
Sacred villages seven.

The purity they both desire,
Held at bay by unseen fire.

Journey through darkness to light -
Night is day and day is night.

Excavate the hidden spell
That ancient wights knew so well.

Hear the connections and choose,
The power is yours to use.

Please be sure to visit my author page!

A couple of years ago I had written the first three chapters of what I had hoped would become my first Andira novel.  At the time, I was satisfied with what I had accomplished and filled with daydreams about what the story might eventually become.  But work stalled primarily because I hadn’t really thought through the book’s final chapters.  I knew what I wanted the story to say — I just didn’t know how to say it.

But thanks to an educational meeting with a literary agent — and a serendipitous encounter with a prominent children’s book publisher — this summer has seen significant progress.  A fresh outline, streamlining the conflict and character arcs reinvigorated the writing process.  The story got its title (The Darkness).  And a new approach to the voice and style of the book have provided what I hope will be a stronger emotional connection to the characters.

Of course, that meant going back to page one and rewriting almost the entire story.  So, for the second time, I have completed Chapter 3.  But this time, I know exactly where to find the path ahead.  I’m looking forward to exploring where it will take me and the story.

It should be an adventure!

“God I hate this place.”

That was the thought running through Tomas’ mind as he turned his face toward the overbearing sun.  He squinted his eyes – deep set and creased at the corners from age – and saw a few doleful creepers lingering in the sky.  But the wispy shapes did little to offer relief from the afternoon heat.  Slowly, almost painfully, he turned his eyes toward the scene before him.

To download the entire story, please click: Creepers and Dust (84)

Tomas merely shook his head and continued to try gathering his thoughts — like trying to gather creepers on the infernal horizon, he thought.

“That no one’ll remember me when I’m gone.”

How typical, Tomas mused.  Damn kids never hoist a damn bit of goddamn work, ‘less they have their goddamn feelings stroked like an ol’ Tabby cat. Tomas sighed.  It’d be easier to just whip the damn boy — Viktor’d approve for certain — and steer him back to the burrow.

And yet …

There was no denying that even he wanted his own feelings stroked a bit … just a little, perhaps.  Tomas realized he understood the boy far more than he dared admit to himself before.  In another life they could have been brothers — like the shipmates from the old tales heard in his youth.  But not here.  Not in this dust.  Not with the Enclave on its way.  The Enclave.  With its undisputed, far-reaching influence over all things.

God, I hate this place.

He wanted to help  the boy.  Really, he did.  But what was the damn point?  What would he do in any case?  Talk?  Might keep the dust out of the kid’s mind for a spell.    Wouldn’t last for long though, would it?  Sooner or later a squall would once again kick up the great dusty swells of emotion.  Besides, no matter how easy life at this farm might be made, there was always that wasteland of a world that extended far beyond the enclosure.  Better the boy come to terms with it sooner rather than later.  Hell, the first frozen evening on the hill had already proven to be addictive to the boy — a hope for distraction more powerful than the certainty of Viktor and the Pack — the longer this went on, the worse it’d get.

This nonsense would have to end.  For everyone’s sake.  Better to stay the course than wander into uncharted danger. The old routine would have to do.

For everyone’s sake.

When Tomas finally spoke, it was with more than a bit of resignation.  He turned to face Simon, narrowed his eyes and said, simply, “Enough with this selfishness.”

Simon received the words stoically enough.  Leastwise his face seemed unchanged.  But the subtle droop in his shoulders was enough for Tomas to know that his words had pierced the illusion of self-confidence the boy had been trying to conjure.  Tomas expected silence.  Expected, mayhap, muffled sobs.  He certainly didn’t expect Simon’s equally simple response:

“I know.”

It was Tomas’s turn for a nearly imperceptible reaction.  But he wasn’t nearly as good at disguising his emotions as Simon.  For his part, Simon gleaned a small measure of gratification.  He’d wanted, for a great long time now, to vent his frustrations — let them radiate away from him like the heat radiates from the dust.  This was what he needed, far more than anything else.  So he said what was on his mind.

“What you think we grow in this here place?  Selfishness.  Just as you say.  And you just keep it going, don’t you?  You don’t care what happens to all that ‘selfishness,‘ do you?  A big phony in a big stupid hat, you are.”

Simon supposed there was more in him to say, but the words he’d managed were enough.  They were something like a conduit through which the rest of his emotions could escape from the shell of stoicism.  He breathed deeply, exhaled, and, for the first time he could ever remember, felt free.  It was a fleeting moment, one that had sailed away even as he had noticed it.  But he savored it just the same.

For his part, Tomas turned away from the boy, searched the patterns in the crystals hanging above his world, and felt, not for the first time, the hopeless fatalism of his circumstances.  Simon was right, of course.  What he hadn’t expected was the clarity with which the boy saw the world.  He’d thought only of shaming the boy into deference.  But that wasn’t what had happened, was it?  He’d never been a good teacher.  Never fancied himself as one.  And here’s all the damned proof he needed to reassure his own self-doubt.  Finally he found his voice.

“You’re right, sure enough.  But I’ve already made my choices.  For the worse, it’s true.  You can still make yours, though.  Mayhap you’ll stop this selfishness and get yourself back inside ‘fore it goes hard for you, me, Viktor and them other brats in the Burrow when the Enclave arrives.  Being out here?  Damn selfish.  Who’s it for, if not you?”

That ought to settle the matter for certain.

Simon said no more.  Took one more look into the night.  Stood.  And left Tomas to himself.  Tomas sat, bewildered, anchored to the dust.  He’d watched SImon leave and saw, beyond a doubt, a smile on the boy’s face.

Best not to think on it.

**********

Viktor stood by the hatch, watching.  He never much liked Tomas, much less the orphans.  What overseer actually spends time with them young’uns anyway?  Leastwise beyond beating another hour of work out of’em?  And yet his mind was fairly addled by what Tomas was up to.  Why coddle them damn orphans?  For certain it was more trouble than it was worth.  He was right sure that the Enclave was on its way and they’d have great interest in these dark doings.  He’d have to report it.  He was sure Tomas knew this to be true.

Why then?  What could be so special about a goddamn boy?

And yet, the boy had endured the punishments.  Mayhap there was an unseen strength?  Had Tomas seen it?  Was that what Tomas was up to?  But why?  It made no sense.  He was used to things he could explain.  Crops might not grow, but there were always reasons why.  This?  Damned if he knew how to explain it.

Still, he had to admit a surprising, begrudging admiration for the boy — a child whose spirit had not yet broken.  He still didn’t much like either Tomas or the boy.  But there they were, two spirits on a dark hill in the middle of a frozen night.  That had to amount for something, didn’t it?

Just then, Simon rose and navigated his way back toward the Burrow, leaving a wave of dust in his wake.  He stepped back from the hatch in time for Simon’s arrival.  For the first time, he did not rouse the Pack.

**********

INTERLUDE

They’d never before seen an Andira that wasn’t green and vibrant.  They expanse before them was, if nothing else, alien.  Inexplicable.  What did that strange, silver vine have to do with the wasteland?  If anything at all?  And what was that strange call they had heard?

Magic was everywhere, they had been told.  But magic such as this they had never expected.  In the great gloom before the sun rose, they struck a path along the vine.  With every step, great plumes of dirt belched upward and the clouds seemed remote and timid.  They were unsure how long they could hold their course toward a horizon that seemed threatening.  But they knew magic was the key to survival and, if they could discover a new magic, their Villages may yet prosper.

It wasn’t long before they realized that their quest was perilous.  But they had been chosen by Anaria, herself.  Theirs was the most respected of the Wide Patrols.  They had been given a task and, Andira-willing, they’d complete it.  Nothing happened without reason, they had been told.  And they believed it, too.  There was a reason waiting for them somewhere along the horizon.  And so they toiled under of a blazing sun in a cloudless sky, across a sea a desert wasteland, broken only by swells of dunes and shoals of rock outcroppings.

Or was this monotony?

There you go thinking again.

If not mine own thoughts, what else do I have?

Tomas reflected back on that second night when Simon left the burrow. He’d already decided to let Simon be, let life teach the lesson this time. Tomas had burrowed into his hammock … but he’d been unable to keep the burrowing doubt out of his thoughts. Like the ever-present dust, the Night Chill crept into the wooden structure. Moonlight sifted through the cracks like frozen creepers. It was here that Tomas went to war. With himself.

At least, Tomas fancied it a war. It made the struggle seem more epic, more meaningful. Even if it wasn’t. Perhaps it he might salvage some meaning from his life on this farm. Perhaps it was only his weakness showing again.

In any event, Tomas couldn’t help wondering why Simon was out there waiting for him. Waiting for some sign of recognition? That their meeting wasn’t simply to be buried under swirling dust? Tomas could reach out to the boy — reach out through the dust-choked emptiness — put what little power he had to the test and hope for … for what? That Simon’s burdens would be lightened? That, inexplicably more crops would grow? Just what would taking this chance bring to himself, to Simon, to the crops?

Tomas hated the ambiguity and hated himself all the more for his indecision. There really was something to be said for sticking his neck out for the boy: it would give his life a purpose he’d not had in many a year.

But what the hell would Viktor think? Or the Enclave? What good would it do anyone anyone but Simon and his own vanity?

Time seemed stretched as thin as the creepers that drifted inexorably through the frozen night. And still Tomas had no answer for himself. For the Enclave. For Simon.

But it was Simon who saved him from the burden (or was it the dignity?) of having to make a decision. After a time, the boy got up, returned to the Burrow, and endured a fresh encounter with The Pack for his troubles.

Better the Pack than the dust, Tomas thought.

And so the routine began. Or was it the monotony? The delirium? Days and nights passed in a fevered dream: Dawn, dusk; Creepers, dust. Days passed like hacking fits. Tomas reeled.

Like phantoms hovering on the edge of consciousness, the vagaries of the new routine were close enough for awareness, but not near enough for understanding. He and Viktor had not spoken. By day, Viktor nodded noncommittally as they went about their daily rituals. And that was all. The other Overseers kept a slightly further distance. The orphans trudged on. Simon searched with those piercing eyes. By night, Simon would exit the burrow to hold a silent, lonely vigil over an ever-melting moon, before returning to the Burrow to endure his own ritual of sacrifice.

As the days stretched onward, there came to Tomas a strange idea — one that would rescue Simon from the dehumanization of the world and, perhaps, rescue himself from the same by giving his life some depth of meaning. He could help the boy escape. A small sacrifice’d be more than no sacrifice at all. And there was still time, Tomas, thought, to reach out to the boy. To take the chance he’d been given. And yet, he never could quite bring himself to do anything.

Perhaps you’re weaker than you thought.

Any day now the Enclave would arrive. They’d set to Tomas’ failures. They’d descend into the depths of Tomas shack, file their damnable reports — never a one of praise, though, Tomas realized — and they’d wait on a decision about Tomas’ fate. Having already spoken once on Simon’s behalf would be bad enough once the Enclave heard from Viktor. Another gamble would spell his end, for certain. Maybe if he held fast, the Enclave would overlook the missing crop, the lapse in judgment, and, mayhap, things’d be better next season.

There was always next season right? Certainly the Enclave would see reason and let him face another season?

Did he really want to face another season?

Really though, that was what needled him the most. Tomas had spent his life working the dust, working the orphans, cultivating what little life there was to be had in an inhospitable place. He’d had his successes. Now he’d had his failures. Did the Enclave really expect a crop in such a barren world? What matter the fruits of the past when living in the dust of the present? Like the creepers who, for all their efforts, never seemed able to conquer the damnable sun, Tomas never seemed able to conquer the damnable land.

**********
INTERLUDE

They’d never before experienced such strange magic. They had thought it a fortuitous act of the Guardians that they’d found the broken down shelter on the edge of a great wasteland. They’d been traveling for weeks as part of the Wide Patrol, searching for anyone who might be friend or foe of the Village. They’d seen a great deal — people, guardians, maybe even magic. They’d experienced great success. In time, new villages might join their own. It was almost time to turn homeward. But this new experience intrigued them.

It had happened on their very first evening in the enclosure. A sound entirely unlike that of Andira — neither bird nor beast nor plant nor wind nor human could have made such a strange and shockingly disturbing noise. They’d found the source quickly enough. It was hard like the stones being used to raise the Solstice Shrine. But it was not stone. The shape was all wrong, for one thing. For another, it had shining sliver weeds growing from it.

And it chirped. Almost like a bird.

After a short search, they’d discovered a great vine headed off into the wasteland. They resolved to follow it a way. But not until they waited for the chirping to start again. It was strangely patterned and they thought might make sense of if … if only they could hear it again.

But that was many cycles ago. So now it was time to follow the great shining vine. Perhaps there would be more magic at its source. More magic for their Village and for their great purpose on Andira …

**********

Tomas had lost track of the days and nights since he’d first met Simon. He still fought within himself. But he reckoned a parlay might change matters. Maybe he’d get that fool child to stay underground for an evening. And if just one evening, mayhap a whole host of others. Mayhap it’d keep him from having to actually make a decision.

So just as the moon was melting into nothingness, he stepped out of his hovel and into the dusty, frozen night — a night which even the Creepers seemed to have abandoned. Simon was there, and glanced up at him expectantly. Tomas sat down without a word. Simon waited, wondering if there was to be a conversation of some sort. Tomas, who was busy trying to arrange his thoughts — he’d never really been a deep thinker — stared off at what little was left of the moon.

Anticipation hung like a lonely, hopeful creeper. And it was Simon who staved off the breath of wind that would have sent the creeper into forgetful absence.

Writing is set to begin February 1, 2010, and I will post updates on my progress — in part, to keep myself honest! — so keep checking back.

Click below to listen.

Andira Theme – 01

Of course, this is a work in progress.  But, I figured it’d be worth sharing …

EDIT:

As of 2012, this piece has been renamed “Serena’s Song” – it represents what Serena’s composition might have sounded like in The Darkness. Of course, I imagine Serena’s version is much, much better.

His morning routine consisted of a brief cleansing with a dirty, muddy rag, a swig of water, and a silent mantra which he had repeated ever since he was a boy: Day for day, effort for effort, sacrifice for sacrifice, life for life.  Somewhere, back in his youth, he had been taught that words held magic, so now, even though the words rang hollow in his mind, he’d not the strength to abandon the ritual.  It reminded him of the hope and promise of his youth — a potential long since exhausted within the enclosure.  A potential long gone … like what little magic that was supposed to be left in the world.

And so it was with these thoughts that Tomas exited the structure, hearing Viktor spur the orphans with his usual tirade.  And so it was that Tomas saw a youngster whose head was not bowed to the ground like the others.  Instead, the boy was looking directly, and knowingly at Tomas.

It was Simon.

The moment unsettled him slightly so Tomas fixed his hat and, doing his best to ignore the incident, strode off to attend to his morning duties.  He had much more important matters on his mind.

He’d have to hope for a miracle, though.  When he’d sent his report the day before there was, of course, the standard confirmation — that someone had been listening.  His message was received.  That’d mean the Enclave was sure to be sending someone to see in person — to decide whether Tomas was on the level.  The thought needled him.  Tomas was proud of one thing he’d manage to accomplish in his life: His word was his word and that was that.  If nothing else, Tomas was an honest man.  And to think that somewhere someone was questioning that lifetime of trust he’d sowed … well, that just didn’t sit with him.  Not one bit.  That’s what you get for choosing to stay here, said a familiar voice in his head.  I know, replied another, though it comforted him not at all.

Best not to think on it.

Instead, Tomas chose to do the only thing he could do: His daily routine.  Walked over the crest of the hill, the highest point of land, and took in the scene.  Dust was just beginning its day-long boil from the toil of of the enclosure.  He’d wait until the work was fairly begun, make his rounds — inside and out — return to hill, talk to Viktor, and turn in.  He followed his routine, almost relentlentlessly, trying his best not to think on things — the dust, the Enclave, the past — but more often than not, his mind would wander upward toward the Creepers.  Their shadowy existence entranced him.  They watched, silently.  Daily.  Yet, they were above him.  Far above.  And what thoughts they might have on his world were entirely unknown to him.  He pondered a way to reach out to them.  To contact them.  There were days when he implored a sign, a message — anything — from them.

But there was only silence.

Today, though, the Creepers were less in his thoughts than usual.  Oh, they were there.  They were always there.  But today, the jagged pebble in his mind was Simon.  That look.  That recognition.  As if the boy somehow expected him to respond in kind.  Immediately, Tomas’ thoughts snapped to the Creepers.  And he understood the irony.  Until the previous evening, to Simon, he’d been little more than a Creeper in the sky.  Tomas wondered how he would react if he’d somehow made contact with a Creeper.

Best not to think on it.

So Tomas went on about his business of the day.  Dust boiled.  Creepers gathered at the edges of the conscious horizon.  Viktor drove the orphans.

God he hated this place.  More than ever.

This place was once alive.  Tomas knew that not just from stories he’d heard — but from his own experience.  When he first came here, the dust was barely a breath on the wind.  The ground was a yellowish green of life.  Things would grow.  Where had it all gone?  The land, his youth, the magic …

… where had it all gone?

Tomas sighed.  The blaze of sunlight was now slanting toward dusk.  He tilted his hat, and walked off toward Viktor.

In a greasy, fawning voice Viktor said, “G’day to you, sir.”

Tomas affixed Viktor’s gaze with his eyes and managed, “What say you, Viktor.”

“We been at them roots ‘n tubers since last rain, but that dust jus’ up n’ chok’em, I reckon’.”

Tomas nodded, then turned to set off toward the structure on the hill, but Viktor took the unusual action of gripping Tomas’ elbow.

“‘Nother thing, if I may, sir.”

Tomas glared at Viktor who seemed to be second-guessing his breach of respect.

Viktor decided it’d be best to continue and managed, “Y’all make the report to th’Enclave?”

Tomas nodded.

“Ain’ right they ‘spect sumthin’ from this here dus’.”

Tomas waited.

“An’ from them diggers, neither.  Why one of’em jus’ out-n-out refused to work today.”

“Who?”

“Don’ know his name.  Don’ rightly care, neither.  Was the one caused the ruckus las’night.  We’ll see if’n a week ‘thout water will change’em.”

Tomas lifted his hat and ran a dusty, grimy hand through his hair and around the back of his neck.  Putting his hat back on he thought.  He thought about the land, the magic, his own youth.  Viktor fidgeted and was about to say something else when Tomas finally replied, “Best give’em a drop a day.  Mayhap a carrot’ll work ‘stead of a stick.”

Viktor was thoroughly shocked. Seemed to struggle with a response and managed only a choked, “Sir?”

“You heard right, Viktor.  A drop’ll do.”

“Now, sir, you know what’s like runnin’ them diggers.  Give one a drop, the whol’ flock’ll be takin’ wing.  If you get my meanin’.”

“I do.  Jus’be quiet-like ’bout it.”

Viktor just couldn’t comprehend the situation.  Tomas wasn’t supposed to be acting this way.  Sadly, Viktor couldn’t quite manage the right words to convey his confusion and managed the ill-fated question, “You goin’ soft er somethin’?”

Tomas’ anger was instant, he didn’t hesitate, and Viktor quickly doubled over from Tomas’ fist in his gut.  Coughing dust and gasping for breath, Viktor slowly stood.  By then, Tomas had already strode off toward the enclosure.  Viktor understood the message.

Inside, away from the heat and dust and Creepers, Tomas felt guilty.  Viktor was the closest thing he had to a friend in this place.  But the Enclave would be here soon.  And he’d have a right hard time holding on to power here.  If he lost it, Viktor needed to be reminded that Tomas was not weak.  Nossiree.  Not even if he chose to give a digger a drop a day.  Why had he done it though?  As dusk turned into night, a refrain kept repeating itself in his mind:

Perhaps you’re weaker than you thought …

As he was drifting off to sleep, Tomas heard something.  A familiar something.  He knew what it was almost immediately.  Simon had left the burrow.  Tomas got out of his hammock and looked through the slats of the structure to see Simon silhouetted against a rising moon at the top of the hill.  He wondered whether or not he ought to go to the boy.

Perhaps you’re weaker than you thought …

With that thought ringing in his mind, Tomas turned away from the view, crawled back into his hammock, burrowed into a shred of blanket, and closed his eyes …

TO BE CONTINUED …

• Part 1
• Part 2
• Part 3

Best not to think on it.

**********

Underground, Simon lay awake, trying desperately not to let his crying become too loud, lest The Pack heard and decided to vent its frustrations and anger at him.  He had lived in the dust for his entire parched life, such as it was, no more able to influence a day’s events than the ever-elusive creepers.  And yet this day he had suffered Viktor’s blame, and curses, for not producing a crop.  As punishment, he’d had no drink from the well.  A muddy, brackish drink was better than no drink at all.  And it was downright unfair that he should go without.  He knew this was just the way things were.  Every day Viktor picked on someone different.  It happened to be his turn.  But it just wasn’t fair.  Not fair at all.

It was all Tomas’ fault, he decided.  He was just a big dumb phony in a big stupid hat.  Viktor hadn’t picked on anyone until Tomas came ‘round.  And now he had no water.  He was thirsty.  He was lonely.  And no one cared about him.

And he could help himself no more.  The tears became more of a deluge than the world above had seen for many weeks.  And his cries became the whistle of parched wind.  The ears of The Pack took notice.  They descended upon him and punished him for shaking them from their tepid sleep.  Simon’s howls became a gale, blustering through the tunnels of the enclosure.

**********

In his hammock, Tomas was jolted awake by what sounded like a storm.  At first his heart leapt with relief and a cracked smile began to form upon his face – until he realized it was the ruckus of too little sleep, too little water, too much work, and too much dust.  Shouts and yells spiked up from the tunnels.  An orphan wailed.  Viktor’s voice boomed.

“Y’think y’can spite us fer yer punishment by keppin’ us ‘wake half a night?  See how’nother day w’thout drink sits on yer tongue!”  Viktor’s words were soon swallowed by a thirst for curses and threats and insults.

Just another page in just another story, Tomas thought.

He picked up his hat and jammed it over his ears.  It was as good at muffling the thundering sound as creepers were at shading the infernal heat.  Tomas frowned.  A bad day whirling into a bad night.  At least the farm was good at producing one crop without fail:  Despair never seemed in short supply.

Best not to think on it.

**********

Tomas closed his eyes and waited for the storm to fade.  As it did, sleep finally began to seep into him.  But before he completely succumbed to its all-too-brief respite, alertness snapped back into his mind.  Someone was moving through the enclosure, scratching at the dust.  The night overseer?  No, if he wasn’t casing outside the tilted walls he was asleep – wrapped in the only blankets the enclosure had.

Someone else, then.  An intruder who found his way past the sleeping overseer?  Real troubles hadn’t found their way to this place for a long, long time.  It was a nothing place in the midst of a nothing world.  So why now?

He’d better go look.

Tomas swung his legs out of the hammock, stood with a weary effort, tilted his hat, took a labored breath.  And set off for the dusty night.

The wooden door of the wooden building thudded shut and Tomas exhaled into the murky, frigid dark.  The dust never sleeps, but sure enough, the sun does, Tomas thought.  He braced himself against the blades of the cold, squinted his eyes against the dust, waited for them to grow accustomed to the blackness, and scanned the enclosure.

Nothing moved.

But there was a sound.

Slowly, just as it took his eyes time to adjust to the nigh, Tomas’ mind adjusted to the moment.  And Tomas figured out the puzzle.  The orphan must have actually left the burrow.  Left the burrow.  Left the warm, dreamy shelter of the burrow for the brutal realities of the enclosure at night.  Now there’s a story that hadn’t been told before.

Tomas finally saw the huddled, shivering, shuddering form at the crest of the hill, just as the enclosure descended to its southern edge.  It was the wrong place to be in the middle of the night.

One way or another, the child would be taught a lesson.  Life teaches best, Tomas thought.  But on a night like this, with creepers turning moonlight into frozen gauze, the child, more like as not, wouldn’t ever live to make use of the lesson.  Tomas exhaled and wisps of creepers escaped his lips and wafted upwards to join their kind in the frozen skies.

He’d have to be the one to teach the boy a lesson.

And Tomas hated being a teacher.  It just didn’t suit him.  He’d neither the patience nor the mind to manage it.  Besides, best to learn through experience.  Talking never did substitute for experience.

But, Tomas reckoned, a lesson from the dust would just about put an end to the child – and he hadn’t the luxury of losing workers.  Rubbing his hands to warm them, Tomas set off for the hill, dust erupting from every step, wondering how the devil could have conjured a night like this.

**********

Simon, who had been lost within his own despair, nursing each of his wounds – both physical and emotional – recoiled when he saw a tall figure at the crest of the hill, silhouetted against the moon.  Simon knew almost at once who it was – the shape of the hat was unmistakable.  But the realization didn’t calm him at all.  He cowered, waiting for the inevitable torrent of words, or the crush of a fist, that surely would be next.

Instead, Simon found himself fairly perplexed when Tomas sat down next to him.  And for several minutes neither Simon nor Tomas spoke or moved as the dust settled around them.  Creepers drifted above them … and seeped from every breath they exhaled.  Tomas realized he was dealing with a very young boy.  He’s either too brave or too foolish for his own good, Tomas thought.

Finally, while still staring into the night, Tomas said, “You stay here, you die.”

Time passed.

Tomas found himself fighting an urge to wring an answer, a noise even, out of the boy.  It was all he could do to stay still.  Eventually, Simon found enough of his voice and quavered, “I can’t go back to that place.  I just can’t.”

This time, Tomas turned to face Simon before saying, “You just running foolish, boy.  Get yourself back while you still can.”

Simon shook his head.  And, as he knew it would, Tomas felt his patience bleed out of him.  In its place, frustration was building – like a thunderhead creeper.  He had tried waiting.  No luck.  Time for something else.

Tomas grabbed the orphan’s hands, and roughly twisted them palm upwards.  Simon yelped, tried to pull away, but was held firm in Tomas’ grip.  His eyes welled up once again.  Tomas noticed that while the hands of the boy had some blisters, they were already callused and leathery.

“Your hands, boy.”

Through his tears, Simon looked at his hands.

“They hurt, don’t they?”

Simon nodded again and looked at Tomas whose eyes seemed ablaze in the moonlight.  Simon’s despair began to deepen.

“Bet they don’t hurt like they used to though, do they?”

Simon shook his head.

“Cut on the plow handles?”

Simon nodded.

“Listen boy.  You’re gonna get cut again.  And much worse than this nonsense.  Just the way life is.  You get yourself back to the burrow, let yourself heal.  Next time, you won’t hurt as bad.”

Simon blinked back more tears.

“You stay here, there is no next time.”

Simon wasn’t quite certain he understood – other than he was pretty sure he didn’t ever want there to be a next time.  But before these ideas had even rightly settled into his mind, Tomas had stood, gripped his shoulders, and lifted him to his feet in a burst of dust.

Simon finally began to feel too cold.  Along with his thirst and hunger, along with the pounding bruises that were sure to form by the morning, Simon realized how tired and weary he was.  He raised his eyes to find Tomas staring intently at him.  Again, Simon noticed the eyes.  And, finally, he relented.

Together, they set off into the night.

Above them, unhindered by creepers, the watchful moon stared down at the frigid world.

TO BE CONTINUED …

• Part 1
• Part 2
• Part 3