Headstrong, Chapel left with a week’s supply of food and water. The last words he said to her, “If I don’t come back you have to be strong. You have to be brave and you have to make sure Veranda is safe.” Avara couldn’t help thinking then how selfish he was to ask her not to mourn if he didn’t come home. Yet she promised him she would be strong. And even though Chapel didn’t ask her not to cry, she refused to. Even with him dead at her feet, Avara was mad at him for putting himself in danger for a lost cause.
Still, she found closure with a proper burial. Many people who had gone into the wilderness, were never seen from again. Avara found solace in having him return to her even though those circumstances are cloudy.
Norvene found Chapel at the base of the foothills, seven days after he left. Although bruised and beaten he looked as if someone had cleaned and laid him out in custom with the tribe’s rituals. They left him in the right place to be found by Avara’s father. No scavenger would ever return a body, never. Avara wish she could thank the ones who did this, but they would remain a secret.
A moment of silence followed when Veranda finished her song. Avara looked out among the people in attendance. They stood close together blocking themselves from the cold April morning. Many wore what they owned, some wearing thin, thread worn garments. Yet, despite the strange chilly temperature in the air everyone in the tribe came to Chapel’s internment. They all looked to her now, all waited for her to speak, which was customary.
Norvene and Veranda took a step back. Avara was alone. The loss of her husband gutted her, and she wanted to topple to her knees and scream, but instead she took a moment to reflect on their life together. From the time they first met. Avara smiled in remembrance.
The people in the Tribe of the Free were a close nit lot. Everyone knew everyone from the time they were old enough to remember. Avara met Chapel when they were just learning to walk. As Norvene tells the story, they both took to each other as if born to be together. Chapel told Avara when they were six, “I’ve always loved you, and I always will.” He kept true to those words, never once leaving her side until he went into the wilderness and out of her life forever.
Avara swabbed away the pools of tears that welled in the corners of her honey eyes and wiped them on her tattered green dress. A cool breeze blew around her and gave her a chill. She folded her arms in front of her and cleared her throat. “We remember you today Chapel Rodan. Not because of your passing, but because all in the tribe held fond memories of you. I was… am your wife, and I know how you touched all their lives. They loved you, but not as I loved you. My life has lessened this day and I will forever remain empty inside.”
The members of the tribe passed by Chapel’s open grave and tossed small hand-written messages, folded up on parchment, in with his body. They each in turned bowed and curtsied to Avara before they walked away. For three quarters of an hour Avara returned their gestures with a nod. Until everyone, even Norvene and Veranda left, leaving her alone with her husband’s body.
Avara wanted to jump into the grave with him. But she held strong. Even alone she refused to break down, refused to bawl like a child. She made him a promise, and although more tears pooled in the corner of her eyes, she would not allow them to flow. Not while she stood over his silent body – at least not yet.
Avara’s home was an old run-down two-story building that leaned and looked like a good gust of wind would blow it over. The chipping wood and cracked windows were brittle to the touch, and by all rights shouldn’t be lived in. Like most people in the tribe she made due with what she had. Chapel always talked about building her a new home, but they were just words and Avara liked to dream of what her life would have been like in another reality. It allowed her to escape the rigors of life and even though dreaming didn’t put food on the table it was something she and Chapel shared.
Avara stood outside her shoddy home, unable to go in. She just watched the gravedigger fill in the patch of land where her husband rested, it didn’t give her the closure she hoped for. Her father told her before the services, “It will take time for you to get over his death.” How could I ever want to get over his death, she thought.
Inside the house, the old musty smell of mildew and rotting wood invaded her senses. She wanted to sneeze but pushed back the urge. Natural light filled the room through the grimy windows. She walked through the room; the old weak floorboards creaked underfoot. She didn’t want to disturb Veranda, who sat alone in front of the smoke charred fireplace. The girl poked at the dying flames with a stick and watched the sparks of amber disappear up the chimney. Avara elected to leave her alone. Veranda needed time – like she did. It will take time.
Norvene motioned for Avara to join him at the kitchen table, where he poured hot liquid into a chipped porcelain cup. He’d taken off his black, sun bleached jacket and tossed it to the back of a chair. “When your mother died, my father made me a cup of this to ease my pain.”
Avara pulled the ribbon out of her sun kissed brown hair and took a whiff of the steaming hot drink and asked, “Where did you find hibiscus? I thought the plants had died off a long time ago.”
“Oddly enough I found a patch growing along the hillside into the black hills,” Norvene said and gestured for Avara to sit across from him.
“The black hills? Nothing grows there.”
“Yes, I know. It’s a sign,” Norvene said pushing the cup toward Avara. “A sign that things are about to change for the better – for all of us.”
Avara gave her father a long questioning look. The last thing she wanted to think of was better times – she said nothing to discourage him. Norvene always found signs and pretense in things that weren’t there. Far be it for her to take away his dreams no matter how delusional.
“You don’t believe me?” Norvene asked.
Avara worked up a smile, the first one she’d had in days. “I never said that.”
“But you were thinking it,” Norvene said with a smile of his own.
Avara wanted things to go better for the tribe. However, she understood that the time for them neared an unpleasant end. She prepared for that. If the harsh elements didn’t kill them, the scavengers would. Murder us in our sleep.
“Humor me, daughter, if not for this tired old man…” Norvene looked into the adjoining room at Veranda.
Avara took a sip of the bitter hot drink and tried not to make a face as she swallowed. “All right, father… what signs have you seen?”
Norvene’s sandy eyes widened, and he leaned forward. “The tribe is nearing a crossroads. Do we leave this place hoping to find a better place to live and take a chance of dying in our search? Or do we remain here where we will die. Trials and trepidations are what await us, no matter what we do Avara. Chapel knew this… he and I spoke of it many times.”
Avara waved a hand dismissing her father. “This isn’t a sign. Everyone knows what will happen either way. So much for your premonitions,” she said.
“Scoff if you will, Avara, but I believe that something will happen soon that will change the way we see things. We will leave this place. Of this I am sure.”
Avara had cold chills. Intrigued, she asked, “When will this happen?”
Norvene’s voice changed, his face behind his thick beard flushed grayish white. “That’s just it, daughter. I feel like it’s already happened, but it hasn’t caught up with us yet.”
“Hasn’t caught up with us?”
Norvene shrugged. He pointed a finger at Avara. “I can’t tell you anymore because I don’t know any more than what I just said. Call it a feeling or a sign or whatever you want, but mark my words, sooner or later it will come around and when it does everything will change.”
The Langland Clan Encampment – Dalnaspidal Scotland
April 15, 2442
The sun pushed streaks of morning light through the harsh cloud cover over the moors; little pin pricks dotted the sky and looked like stars. Colin McGregor caught sprinkles of water in his hand. He looked
up at the dark veil over the village. No real accumulation of rain fell on Dalnaspidal for many years. Water in the local well had run dry and the small number of crops to be planted in the spring was in danger of not reaching maturity.
The little food harvested from the previous fall ran low and was in risk of running out before the end of the summer. Things looked bleak and Colin’s warnings of famine fell on deaf ears.
It appeared the more Colin tried to express his concerns the more Lord Langland refused to listen. After many years of having the chieftain’s ear, Colin found it difficult to be rejected. If it weren’t for his loyalty to the clan he would have struck out on his own a long time ago. He knew if he went, he would go alone. Shane had to think of his wife; even though the two were childless he would never endanger Lonnie. Colin wouldn't ask his lifelong friend to choose sides.
With food in short supply, tension ran rapid through the population. People were openly talking about their mistrust of Lord Langland. Some were even bold enough to compare him to the high-born. Colin refused to partake in the gossip. Instead, he hoped his audience with his clan chieftain would clear the air.
Outside Langland’s tent Colin rehearsed what he would say. Although an older man, Lord Langland had a sharp mind and wit. Colin needed to say the right things.
Darmon Hill appeared through the flap of the chieftain’s tent. When he smiled, Colin saw the black gums around the man’s brittle teeth, his hazy gaze narrowed. “You’re late.”
Colin didn’t reply. Though he wanted to do nothing better than knock the worm on his ass, he held his composure. “I was ordered here, I’m here. Let’s get on with this.”
Darmon cast the flap aside. Colin entered, his eyes adjusting to the dim light within.
A harsh smell of smoke from the fire and strong burning herbs stung Colin’s eyes. The pergola interior, filled with piles of stolen weapons, diagrams of high-born ships and a cache of slave clothes that smelled of mildew was all that was left of Langland’s plan. At one time James Stewart Langland spoke of taking the fight to the high-born. Invade one of their orbiting platforms and spread pandemonium, incite riots and show the slaves they could fight back. Langland’s plans were well thought out, and his details, his timing were down to the second. Colin, like many of the Highlanders, prepared to follow him. Then, the talk of battle stopped.
When he saw Lord Langland sitting in a chair drinking from a large cup, Colin saw a shadow of the man he once was. Although the old man’s eyes were bright, the rest of his features looked tired and rugged. His hair hung stringy down his back and his clothes were dirty, yet presentable.
Langland stiffened his posture and sat his cup on the arm of his chair. In a gruff voice he said, “Once again you’re standing before me with your balls in your hand.”
Colin bit his tongue. As long as he could remember, Langland’s greeting had always been those words.
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
Again, Colin kept quiet. He watched Darmon walk across the tent, crossing between him and Langland; the two kept a watchful eye on one another.
Langland stood, weak in the legs he struggled. A grunt came from deep within him, and he said, “I heard you left the camp after I ordered no one but the hunting party to leave.”
“I had no desire to disobey you. But, I learned my sister had been taken from the breeding facility and I…”
Langland raised his bony hand. “She’s gone, gone to the stars to be a slave. Get over it.”
Colin winced. Lord Langland never minced words, he always spoke his mind, but the old man never intentionally hurt someone’s feelings, no matter how harsh the truth.
Colin noticed Darmon's rancid smile. He'd kill the sniveling worm if he hadn’t left his weapons in his tent. Still, the thought of using his bare hands to strangle the life out of Darmon pleased Colin to no end. Instead Colin focused on Lord Langland, and pleaded, “I’d like permission to go after her… if it’s all the same to you. She’s the only kin I have left.”
“The clan is your kin, Colin!” Langland raised his voice. “You need to accept her fate… and yours.”
Colin’s brow knitted. “Still, I seek your blessing to try and find her.”
Langland struggled to walk back across the room. Each step seemed a challenge. Colin could tell by the blank stare in his chieftain’s eyes he didn’t like his request. “Impossible. Where would you look? You do not understand how to get into space. You’d be out of your element up there.” Langland grunted when he sat down on a long ragged, burnt-orange sofa. His bones popped, sounding like brittle kindling.
“What you say is true,” Colin replied. He kept his uneasy alliance with Avery Lexor a secret. “But if anyone could find her I could.” He saw the dismissive glare on the old man’s face. Colin knew he would never allow any rescue attempt. He cleared his throat and said, “If that is all Lord, I’ll be–”
Langland laughed and Darmon followed with a whiny laugh of his own. “You are summoned here not to talk about your sister, but to answer for your disobedience. What am I going to do with you?” Langland asked.
Colin didn’t fret. Lord Langland always treated him fair. He knew the encampment needed him, if not for the hunt, but to protect them from the Orlanders. Langland said many times there was no better fighter in the clan than Colin McGregor.
“You will have to be punished. Darmon and I have decided a whipping – in public – will suit your crime.”
Colin’s eyes flashed with anger. He’d taken all he could of Darmon Hill’s influence over Lord Langland. He pointed a calloused finger at the sniveling man and although he knew he shouldn’t, Colin spoke his mind. “That son of a bitch is the reason behind this clan’s troubles. You were a great man once, Milord. You don't need to be listening to him!”
Langland stood back up, his legs buckling under him, but he steadied himself on the arm of the sofa. “How dare you – you’ve gone too far!” he raged in an acidy tone. “I am the clan chieftain. My word is law. You might be many things to this community, Colin but you are not above me.”
Colin's chest tightened. Since he was a boy, Lord Langland had been like a second father to him. Though Langland and Colin’s father, Douglas, were always at odds, they had great respect for one another. So much that Colin could accompany Langland on hunting trips. Sit by his side like a son. The two were inseparable. He taught Colin how to fish and he shared whisky with him over conversations about the proper way to bed a woman. The clan chieftain’s influence ran deep, and it hurt Colin to stand at odds with him.
“When my father died you stood at his grave with me,” Colin said in a subdued tone. “The two greatest men I’ve ever known, one alive and one dead. You told me that day how sorry you were for me, and that you would stand by me, no matter what… do you remember that?”
Langland shook his head. “Yes, I remember.”
“I never thought I’d wished you were the one cold in the grave, and my father were here with me now,” Colin said and turned his back on Langland. His heart hardened. Colin considered the man a worthy successor to his father. “To think I once trusted you… gave you a son’s love. And for what? To be betrayed by this devilish man!” Colin lunged toward Darmon.
“Guards!” Darmon shrieked.
Several men ran into the tent and took hold of Colin. They struggled to keep him controlled, but Colin was relentless. He swung wide, clipping the jaw of one of the men, and kicked another in the groin. Two more men jumped on Colin’s back, and pulled and tugged him from the tent. Colin caught a glimpse of Langland just before the two guards pulled him away. The old chieftain hung his head low, not looking toward Colin in regret.
Later that afternoon after the word of Colin’s punishment circled the encampment; two men under the orders of Lord Langland led Colin out into the center of the camp. Everyone, including children, were ordered to be in attendance.
Shane Gibson met Colin on his way to the punishment pole. Shame faced, he said,
“This is my fault Colin. If I hadn’t told you to rush to the Hallmark this wouldn’t be happening. I need to tell them–”
“You'll do no such thing,” Colin snapped as he walked along, pulled by his jailers. “If Darmon gets wind of that you’ll be up here next, and I’ll not have two of us getting a beating just to feed that man's ego.”
The two Highlanders leading Colin to the punishment pole strung him up, tying his arms above his head. “I’m sorry I have to do this Colin,” one of the men said.
“Aye, I feel poorly because of this,” the second man whispered.
“Think nothing of it,” Colin told them. “You have your own selves to think of.”
“Colin, I wish – wish there was something I could do to make this right.”
Colin looked at Shane with a relaxed look, and said with a forgiving smile, “When this, this beating is over – don’t come to me, neither you nor your wife. I’ll get up on my own. And when I do… when I do there will be hell to pay.”
Locklorn DeGray, a tall brutish man, with arms thicker than tree trunks, lumbered out of the chieftain’s tent holding a black bullwhip. A timid man by nature, Locklorn’s reputation as a trustworthy man preceded him. A likeable person, he followed orders and did not shirk responsibilities. Colin knew he would do his best in giving him the lashings ordered.
Behind Locklorn, Lord Langland walked out, his towering body supported by his wooden cane that he clutched tight in his right hand. His steps were slow and shallow. He didn’t walk far before reaching a rickety old chair and sitting down.
Darmon exited the tent last. Wearing all black, he looked like a vulture. Colin saw the conceit on the worm’s face. Darmon smirked, his thin lips curved up into an evil smile and he stared at Colin without wavering. Everyone in the clan stood around the punishment pole. Mothers made their children turn away, not allowing them to watch. The men stood rigid, some angered by what was happening and others indifferent. Colin knew who in the clan supported him.
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