Seed- The Gene Awakens

by Jane Baskin

Stories coming now, of this peasant hero. “Property” of the Lord of Seith, around thirty years old, a history of defiance. His skinny back covered with remnants of more than one whipping. His family, murdered. Survivors, in hiding. Those discovered, hanging on pikes along the roads.

  His resolve, tougher than iron. Faced danger like a madman. Stories, reporting his great suffering at the hands of his masters. Both parents killed for defiance: father tortured, mother raped; both shot to death. Two brothers, dead from overwork. Pretty sister, given to a lord’s son as a concubine … at the age of eleven.

  A rageful young man. A young man with innumerable reasons to strike out against the injustice of his life. Also a smart young man. A young man who often watched the training drills of the lords’ soldiers. Who sometimes waited until dark, then entered the practice yard and copied what he had seen. A fair hand with a sword, an axe, a crossbow. All the old fashioned weapons. And now, after raids on the surviving weapons caches, a fair shot to boot.

  In Seith, a leader of the helpless; the hopeless. Giving them training in whatever weapons he could steal. Urging them to fight like mad dogs, with or without proper weapons. Inspiring them to cast their misery away and die free.

  Many women following him as well. Preferring death in the field to what awaited them when captured.

  So the battle: a nasty affair. The lords, with their paid, trained, and well-armed warriors. Most of them mounted. The peasants, with their focused hysteria, not caring if they lived or died.

  An enemy who does not care for his life: dangerous, indeed. Especially in great numbers. And thanks to the South’s breeding programs, the peasants: massively outnumbering the lords.

  Gwildan, victorious; so the messages said.

  Of course Death, the greatest winner of the day. Fields, covered in mud and corpses. Red slimy things, barely recognizable as former humans, lying still. Waiting for wind to blow the smell away; for rain to come, to wash away the memory.

  And Gwildan, lost (again) to capture. Fleeing, so they said, across the lava fields, west, maybe north. Impossible to know; impossible to track over rock. Once again, hidden. As was his habit. Knowing the price on his head, Gwildan: always led his people and always ran, after. Only to rise again, someplace far from where he had last been seen.

  But this time: would he rise again? Rumors that he had been badly wounded, flying about line-message rooms everywhere. How could anyone survive such wounds? Where could he go? Doctors and clinics all over the South: alerted. If he turned up for medical treatment … medical personnel, watched, shadowed.

  But Gwildan: never reported to a physician, or a clinic.

  Headed north.

  Followed the northeasterly ravine of the lava field. Through the equatorial swamps. Ssurvived, miraculously. Emerged in the temperate woods. Laying up for a while. His wound, rotting with all the malevolent killing things harbored by the jungle.

  Yes, lay up. Find a small cave-like hollow in the roots of a giant tree, sleep. Just sleep, pray for healing. Pack the wounds with flesh eating insect larvae. Watch them eat the infection. Sleep.

  Those who surmised Gwildan had gone north: convinced he was dead.

  No one could survive the equator. Even the strongest of men, without a single bullet hole.

  Certainly not a skinny peasant, wounded, shredded, and filthy.

  So … lost.

  A rail-thin rider, on a huge black gantha. Coming across the front meadow, at the fastest speed possible in the snow. Reaching the bridge, galloping across. Into the courtyard, the gantha sliding to a terrible stop. Then collapsing, dead, covered in its own lather, foamy blood leaking from its nostrils. The man, rolling away from the beast as it dumped him. Rising to his feet with effort. Holding his side; his ragged clothes, torn; covered in old blood and new pus.

  Calling, in a strong voice despite obvious injuries: “Get the Lord! I must see the Lord of this keep!”

  Surrounded, of course, by People. People with rifles.

  Dar-agan, summoned. Soon facing the man, who swayed on his feet but nevertheless, met him with a keen eye.

  Dar-agan, circling the man slowly, sniffing.

  “What are you trying to smell, Lord? Roses? I was raised in shit, and will ever carry its stink.”

  Dar-agan, meeting the man’s gaze; a slow smile. “Is that so? To me, you smell like a soldier.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Are you a soldier?”

  “I’ve been known to fight.”

  “Your name, soldier?”

  Could stand no more. Toppled over into the trampled snow of the front courtyard.

  Not a great leap for Dar-agan – and everyone else – to guess the identity of the injured rider.

  Do not tell the South, of course. Do not complicate that which is already too complicated.

  Put the man – the hero? – into one of the few guest rooms left open in the castle/village. Attended by physicians, nurses. His side, shredded by bullets, festering terribly. The judgment: he would likely die.

  But … the inventiveness of the northern people. Physicians, doing quiet research in the clinic, down in part of what used to be a dungeon, now used mostly for storage. Aterya-te and Kyrugan, having sent new knowledge from the medical school in Sauran City. Sending it to all the northern keeps. Something about the efficacy of medicine made from spores. No need for maggots to clean the wound. Try this.

  So the injured fighter, miraculously, beginning to beat back the infection and fever that threatened to kill him.

  Dar-agan: “I tell you, we should make another visit to Sauran City. Tremendous stuff, going on there. They have advances in the temperate zones ... They have transports that run on cables around the city, that people can just step on and off of whenever they want. They even have small motorized transports so people don’t have to use ganthas. We’re far behind them.”

  Ilia-te: “So it would seem. As soon as this damnable snow melts, let’s go.”

  Villagers, many of them gathering in the hall outside the soldier’s room. Having guessed his identity. Who else? The hero – here. Impossible. But … yes. Maybe saved by the cold. Keeps the blood in, the infection down.

  And what can he tell us? What of my family? What of mine? What of my parents, who could not flee with me all those years ago when I came north? What of …

  So many of the People: having relatives in the South. In the last two hundred years, the northern population: swelled significantly by an influx of southern peasants, sneaking away from their lords, somehow making the trek north. Most of them, traveling singly or in small groups. Many of them, dying in the fetid swamps of the equatorial jungle.

  But many, making it to the North, and freedom. Settling into it. Still … ever wondering, ever hoping – to look up one day and see a wasted, bedraggled family member, struggling across northern borders.

  Che and Colwen, among them. Their own parents, refugees. So many years ago. Just before Che was born. Their parents: still grieving for those left behind. Like their mother’s twin sister. Like their father’s brothers and parents.

  Gwildan, generally regarded as a gold mine of information. Had been all over the South, darting around villages in every province. He knew … so much.

  So crowds of People, waiting to hear.

  Ten days. What it took for Gwildan to recover from his wound and the infection that soured his blood. The new medicine: wildly effective. But physicians, understanding: medicine could only do so much. Gwildan, a robust constitution, despite the minimal meat on his bones.

  Che’s mother, Ania-te: “That’s how it is when you’re a peasant. Weak ones die off quick. Only the ferocious babies live, and the only ones to survive past thirty have to be very strong. Able to survive hard work and little food. Skinny, but strong. There aren’t many old peasants in the South.”

  10.What’s That Smell?

  At last: the esteemed guest, at breakfast in the great hall.

  Che and Colwen, due to leave for their two w
eek shift at the munitions factory – delaying their departure, to hear what he had to say.

  Even Zoren-te, returning.

  This: an intriguing encounter. Zoren-te, serving herself from the table. Then seating herself quietly at the long table where Gwildan sat with Dar-agan and his family, Che, Colwen and their parents. Sipped her tea.

  Only took Gwildan a moment to notice her presence. He looked up, paused. Clearly surprised. “Lady Vel.”

  Zoren-te, meeting his stare. For a moment: silence. Then a wry smile. “Just Zoren, sir. Zoren-te.”

  Huh?

  Gwildan, taken aback. Finally: “What – what are you doing here, Lady?”

  “You don’t need to call me ‘lady.’ I’d prefer you didn’t. And what I’m doing here is, making weapons for my family’s enemies.”

  Gwildan stopped chewing his breakfast roll. Fumbled for words.

  Zoren-te, an incomprehensible smile. “I was captured by that oaf over there (pointed to Noar) and brought North. After he blew up one of my father’s weapons barns. I’m a hostage.”

  Now Gwildan, looking from face to face. Someone please tell me what’s going on.

  Dar-agan, clearing his throat. Uh, awkward. “That is true, more or less. My reckless younger son thought having a hostage might keep Lord Vel from raiding this year. It was a foolish mistake. But as you can see, the lady is free to come and go as she pleases. Apart from a bout of the sickness Lord Vel and his colleagues introduced here, she has not been harmed.” Don’t think about that morning in the secret garden.

  Gwildan, still in shock. “Uh – Lord Vel will not be raiding this year. He’s busy – very busy – trying to quell the peasant revolt.”

  “So we’ve figured out.”

  Still staring at Zoren-te. “What do you plan to do with her, then?”

  “Send her home. As soon as it’s possible to travel.”

  Finally, Gwildan: able to look at his food, resume chewing – slowly. “Lord Vel will be very happy. He thinks she’s dead. Killed in the explosion at the weapons barn. That, by the way, we had nothing to do with.”

  Noar: “That was me.”

  Gwildan: a difficult breakfast, this one.

  Nayan: “My brother and I did some raiding of our own. We blew up or fired a number of weapons dumps, throughout the major six provinces. The fever disease had weakened us. We wanted to cripple the southern war machine, maybe get them to think twice about raiding this year.”

  Gwildan: okay, then. A light laugh. “So that was you, eh? You have my thanks. Gave us the idea to finish the job. We blew bunches of weapons caches after that. They should never have made us work in the munitions factories. Wasn’t hard to steal supplies of gunpowder, explosives and such.”

  Ilia-te: “So how are the lords managing to fight you?”

  “Oh, that’s not hard. For them. War is what they do. After the attacks on their weapons caches, they whipped their peasants – those that weren’t fleeing to join me – into weapons production. Day and night, every day. Many of them died. But they were replaced. Only took them a few months to rebuild.”

  “And now - ?”

  More and more people, entering the great hall for breakfast. Noticing the unique visitor. A low buzz around the room. Soon, the hall: crowded. People even coming in from the nearby town.

  The village headwoman: “Sir, please tell us what’s going on. Many of us … have family … there.”

  So. Gwildan began his terrible debriefing. Told them what was happening in the South. “I think I can honestly say that this uprising is worse than that of nearly two centuries ago. Maybe the three months it took the lords to rebuild gave us a chance to band together … I don’t really know. Maybe the improved weapons. But now … every province is involved. Every peasant strong enough to hold a broomstick is involved. I’m aware some have fled north, and I don’t blame a soul. People can only take so much. Here I am also, myself.

  “But I won’t stay. As soon as I’m fully healed, I have to get back. We have a chance at winning this time … or at least, dying with dignity. The conditions in the South are deplorable, as you know. Peasants are property. (Did several people just look over at Zoren-te?) Their bodies, even their minds, are exploited for the lords’ use and profit. One cannot leave. One cannot live.

  “My own parents’ corpses rot on pikes on the main road through the major six provinces. My father, forced to watch the abuse of my mother, both then shot. I forget what their transgression was. Something … I believe my father was sick, and didn’t report for work one day. This was just before the uprising, you see. The peasant population had been renewed. Lords used us … for sport.

  “After this, I fled. My two brothers died in work related accidents. My baby sister was given to a lord’s son. There was nothing to hold me. And I had learned a few things, unknown to my ‘masters.’ I had watched the soldiers practice as a boy. My job was to clean and rack the weapons. I watched, I imitated, and I learned. When Lady – when Zoren-te invented rifles, I stole one. They counted them of course. The man who died for it wasn’t the thief, I was. But I knew … I let him die, and I carry his death like a rock in my soul … because I knew I would need that rifle some day. I knew our way of life simply could not go on.

  “I fled and lived in various hiding places for a year. Always practicing the art of fighting. Learning to shoot. Begging scraps of food in villages I passed through. People got to know me. Over that year, I traveled through every one of the twelve southern provinces. Over the southern sea. I believe I left my mark on people, because when your young lords fired weapons caches in the major six, and I followed up with sabotage of my own, people came to me. They wanted … to fight.

  “So we became an army. An army of slaves, you might say. An army of people who care little whether they lived or died. And because of that, deadly. I trained many people; they trained others. From strong young men and women to grandparents and small children, everyone practiced fighting. And when the lords rebuilt, we met them face to face, not as a raggedy band. When they forced us to work the munitions factories, we stole more than we made. I believe the lords were … are … surprised.

  “My injury, my flight … this is just a minor setback. Besides, my army can fight without me. They know now what they’re fighting for, and all the heavens and hells won’t be able to hold them back. But … the destruction, the loss of life … is terrible.”

  Then … the questions. Oh! The heart wrenching supplications of the villagers, both castle and town. Have you heard about (name)? What of my family? What of my parents? What of my children?

  While Gwildan knew many people, of course he did not know them all. Most questions, unanswered; except for details of battles and vengeances exacted, near the places where family members were said to live. This, enough. Villagers retiring from Gwildan’s table weeping, consoling one another.

  One of the last to ask: Che and Colwen’s mother. Her sister, belonging to Lord Darleigh. Known, as was the custom, by his manor name. Sold off by Vel, years before. Her in-laws, at Vel. What of her family?

  Gwildan, exhausted now. Not from his injuries; from the flood of unanswered need. The need to know that loved ones were well, the impossibility of fulfilling that need. Most loved ones – not well. Not at all. Many dead. Many having died horribly. Many stuck on giant pikes like kabobs for birds and flies.

  When Che’s mother asked about her sister and in-laws, Gwildan: sighing. Lowered his head. Had a difficult time raising his head, meeting the mother’s eyes. “Yes, I know of them.”

  “Tell me.”

  Put one of his giant hands over hers. Sighed again. His eyes: red, moist. “You may not want to know.”

  “I want to know.”

  “Your sister sent her children north. I have no idea if they made it or not. But she and her husband, and all those in that tiny town, fought Lord Darleigh’s soldiers to the death. They made a stand at their house in the peasant village. I believe they killed quite a few soldiers. Th
en more came, and they were shot, then hacked to pieces. Their bodies – what’s left of them – hang on the post road leading from Darleigh Castle.”

  Che’s mother: looking like she were made of iron. “Are … are you certain of this, sir?”

  “I was there.”

  Che’s mother, Ania-te, not given to weeping. A tough woman, her. Scarred by servitude, suffering. Didn’t really want to leave the South at such a time – pregnant – but persuaded back then, by her new, powerful husband. “Let’s give our strength where it might serve a better purpose.” And … circumstances.

  When she ran afoul of the House of Vel … the Lady of Vel … no choice.

  Tried to get her sister to come along. They were twins … so close. Her husband, trying to persuade his family.

  But all agreed: the larger the group, the more easily detected. So after a farewell to her sister – the other piece of her – that tore at her very guts, Ania-te and her young husband: crossing the equator together on foot. Ania-te: advanced in her pregnancy at the time. Sweating and heaving, eventually placed in a drag litter pulled by her strong, determined husband. Developing some kind of fever, on the miserable trek. By night, her brow and feet washed with river waters, themselves running with silt and heat. Only her defiant constitution allowed her to live. Leaving the equatorial jungle, began to revive. By the time they reached the temperate wood, she: on her feet again. Burned the makeshift litter to cook small game she had caught with her bare hands.

  Arriving at Cha-Ning Castle in late spring. Regarded as a curiosity by soldiers in the courtyard, then met by Dar-agan and Ilia-te. The last, seeing the condition of Ania-te: calling at once for maids, physicians. Installed the new arrivals in a guest apartment at once.

  Che, opening his sky blue eyes in Cha-Ning Castle, two days later.

  Did the warm welcome of the northern lords and the villagers help close some of the wounds? Of course.

  But some, running so deep: could not be closed. In time, roofed over with the kindness of their new neighbors. But under that surface, still festering.