Pieces: Book One,
The Rending
a TriNovelTM
BY
VerSal SaVant
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Pieces: The Rending ISBN 0-9741650-0-X
Pieces: The Fending ISBN 0-9741650-1-8
Pieces: The Mending ISBN 0-9741650-2-6
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Chapter 1
"Tyter. Wake up, lad, you’re late. Come on. Your breakfast’s on the table. Hurry up, now!” Bourg gave the sleeping youth a firm, but gentle, shake with his large, muscular hand. Tyter lazily stretched and groaned. It was in this half-awakened state that Bourg thought the youth looked most like his departed mother.
However, it was nearly thirteen years since he had last seen Maadle, so he was never quite sure if Tyter had really inherited his mother’s features, or if the image of her face imprinted in his memory had merely reshaped itself, becoming similar to the lad’s. It was a question Bourg considered only once, then relegated to a state of unimportance, which was his usual way of handling the unanswerable.
Bourg, after all, was a simple male, and he never claimed to be anything other than. Hidden beneath his long, gnarly beard, his thick lips stretched into a broad smile. A spectator might have wondered if it were one of joy or one of sorrow, for it contained strong allusions to both.
Tyter's eyes popped open. “Late again?” The words jolted his brain awake, but his body was not so easily aroused. Concentrating every ounce of energy into forcing his sleep laden eyelids open - then keeping them so - he focused on the massive, burly, figure hovering over him. Tyter had, of course, never even heard of a gorilla, let alone seen one. But if he had, his guardian, would surely have reminded him of one.
For Bourg was a male of unique physical features. He had unusually thick, wiry, black hair which covered him from the top of his broad skull to the bottom of his large, wide feet. In between, it adorned him like a thick blanket, which made the need to wear a pullover, for either protection or modesty, a moot point.
From the crown, his gnarly coarse head-covering cascaded down his wide, diminutive forehead to a protruding brow ridge garnished with one bushy eyebrow, stretching without interruption across the entire width of his face from temple to temple. Beneath this, peered a pair of emotionless dark, blue eyes, set deeply in their sockets, and held unusually wide apart by a rather bulbaceous, crusty nose which flared whenever something important either excited, angered or confused him.
"Yes, sir.” Tyter said, staring at Bourg’s nose which lacked the afore mentioned characteristic flare. Still, flared nostrils or not, he knew he had a job to do and he felt quite badly for his tardiness. This was the fifth time he had overslept since he turned twelve. Soon he’d turn thirteen, and he sincerely hoped it would be a far less obtrusive year.
Lately, his body had been experiencing some unusually strong urges which often awakened him in the middle of the night. They were the sort of urges that demanded immediate attention and tormented the flesh until their host discovered the means by which to appease them with relative satisfaction.
Quickly, Tyter sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the cot, attempting to outmaneuver the thoughts racing through his mind. He was at that awkward age when all humans get trapped between the miserable state of self-pity, where each of us is convinced no one understands us, and the paramount prominence of paranoia which assumes everyone - just everyone - knows every dark, dirty, disgusting deed we’ve ever entertained or dared to dream.
"Am I really - late - again, sir?" he asked with tenuous conviction, for he already knew the answer.
Bourg gave out a typical affirming grunt, then stepped lively into the adjoining room, where he quickly marched past the bowl of warm green mush which he’d left
class=Section2> on the eating room table. Then, with a bound he was out the front door, as one who, himself, was late. One might have expected to hear the door slam behind him, considering the gruffness of his comportment. But, there was not now, nor ever had been door slamming at this hut. For Bourg was, as everyone knew, a most gentle giant.
Tyter pulled off his sleeping gown then poured a small amount of water into his washing bowl. Momentarily, he entertained the notion of giving himself a much needed full body wash. But, as young males often do, he quickly reconsidered the matter and contented himself with a splash of water to the face and a dabbing under each arm. Bathed to satisfaction, he quickly slipped into a fresh pullover. Then grabbing up his sandals, he hurried into the eating room, where the inviting aroma of veget mush filled the air.
It never concerned Tyter that the mush he enjoyed eating for breakfast was made from the same plant which fashioned his garments. For everything produced in Nuttinnew which was neither sand nor stone came from the tall, abundant plant called veget.
Had Tyter ever questioned this, he would surely have received the standard answer given to anyone silly enough to ask such a radical question. That answer was: "That's how things have always been in our beloved little town of Nuttinnew and that's how they will always be."
Slurping up the last spoonfuls of mush in his bowl, Tyter looked out the window to the water well situated directly in the center of the town. There, as expected, he saw two familiar figures. One was that of Bourg, his guardian, who braced himself with his elbows on the well's smooth stones as he slumped over the rim and stared into its dark, damp depth.
The other was Bourg's long time friend and fellow wellkeeper, Loden, who, with one arm slung casually over the well's crank handle, had his attention focused intently on Center House which stood a hundred reeds, or so, directly north of the well.
Tyter slid out of his chair and stepped to the stone hearth. Discovering a half bowl of warm veget mush left in the cooking cauldron, he quickly devoured it straight from the pot - something he had promised a dozen times he would never do again. In and of itself, it was a minor infraction to be sure, but one that bordered on rebellion by its repetition. So when asked why he continued to do it, or similar minor infractions, he would give no answer. For there was no answer he could give. In his own mind, he was convinced, it had something to do with his recent episodes of late night torment, which he dared not to reveal to anyone, let alone Bourg.
After swiping the pot clean with his finger - another of those rebellious acts - Tyter wiped the pot with a dry cloth. Later, that evening he would wash all the day’s eating utensils. For water was in short supply and the daily ration per huthold was rather meager even for the huthold of a wellkeeper. The rains of autumn were several weeks overdue and the water level in the well was at its lowest since the year of The Great Drought which also happened to be the year of Tyter’s birth.
Tyter dashed out of the hut, once again forgetting to close the door behind him. As he ran across the short expanse of white sand toward the well, he had no way of knowing that the coming event in the well which would alter
his own life forever was merely the first piece to be played in a vast jigsaw puzzle, where every life and every event would connect in such a way as to reveal an image far removed from the pastoral picture that had always been Nuttinnew. The rending was about to begin.
Neither wellkeeper acknowledged Tyter’s arrival. His guardian remained hunched over the well, as if frozen in contemplation, while Loden’s attention continued to be fixated northward toward Center House, the official residence of the duly elected town mayor, Pentalope Pulpitt.
Center House was the only two-story structure in Nuttinnew and according to the songs of the children, had been built at the very beginning of the town’s history by a mysterious people, referred to only as The Ancients. Because of this (or perhaps, despite it) everyone agreed Center House was mighty important to the little town of Nuttinnew, though everyone would have come up three puffs short of a wind to explain why.
According to the songs of the children, Center House came first, then the well. As the town grew, an imaginary line from the house to the well, divided the town in two, geographically and socially. Though arbitrary in nature, this division did come to perform a very practical function in the dispersion of the well’s water. For the people on either had their own wellkeeper to insure each received their fair share of the precious, life-sustaining fluid. Currently, Bourg was the wellkeeper of the west, while Loden held the corresponding position as the wellkeeper of the east.
When Tyter arrived at the well, the well seat had already been prepared for him. Climbing up the well wall to mount it, he gave a cursory glance toward the eastern hut closest to the well. In the morning light, he was sure he caught the glint of a familiar face through the singular window which faced him. As always, it comforted him for the task ahead, in a creepy sort of way. In a few moments, he would be perched on the seat and the wellkeepers would be lowering him into the cold, damp, darkness below where he would measure the day’s water level. For among all Nuttinnewians, young or old, male or female, Tyter alone held the unenviable job of wellwalker.
Each day he was lowered into the belly of the well on a swing seat, as the wellkeepers slowly turned the crank handles located at both ends of the shaft assembly mounted over the opening. During his descent Tyter would carefully count the layers of slick, cold stones, which formed its cylindrical wall, until he reached the water level. This daily excursion was purported to be the singular direct mandate handed down by the Ancients, and had always been regarded as obligatory and therefore never questioned.
Supposedly, the counting exercise was to indicate how low the water in the well was. But, since no one had any idea just how much water there actually was in the well to begin with, it was a rather dubious exercise at best. Still, it continued without fail, as each day Tyter found himself being lowered deeper and deeper down the dank, dark throat of this cylindrical stone creature which held within its bowels the very sustenance of life for the entire community.
For the past several weeks, Tyter had been having a most peculiar sensation while in the depth of the well. It was much more ominous than even his late night urges, filling him with an immense apprehension that something very unusual and bizarre was about to happen - to him. He hadn’t told Bourg about this because - well, Tyter wouldn't have been able to describe this feeling any better than his urges. Besides, it wasn’t even a feeling, really, just an odd sensation - one he had never experienced before. But then, he was beginning to experience many things he had never experienced before.
"Ready, lad?” Bourg asked.
"Yes, sir," Tyter responded, then glanced eastward.
Soon the sun would be climbing over the huge slumbering mounds of sand which formed the hills surrounding Nuttinnew. With it would come the hope, or despair, of the new day. Would the sky be red, revealing the coming of the much needed rain clouds? Or would it once again, reveal a clear dome of rich blue hue, indicating continued water rationing, the retelling of retold tales of The Great Drought, and the necessity for even deeper, more perilous, descents into the bowels of this stone throated for the young wellwalker? Already the golden rays were pushing back the darkness of night, painting the eastern sky with the steely grey of a clear, cloudless dawn.
Since nothing ever changed, the people of Nuttinnew had virtually no interest in history. Still, if pressed, they could recall in remarkable detail hitherto forgotten facts dating nearly as far back as twenty years. So the events surrounding The Great Drought, just thirteen years earlier, were well within their collective, historical memory.
Although it was the year of his birth, Tyter had never heard a full account of the unusual events which had taken place. But he had picked up bits and pieces through the years. Most of which just confused him. Many times he had wanted to ask Bourg about the events surrounding his birth. But, he found his guardian a difficult person to get more than a few words out of concerning current matters, let alone the events of thirteen years prior. Of these, Tyter had never heard him speak to anyone - not ever.
However, if he could have asked questions of Bourg with the expectation of receiving an answer, the first would have concerned his mother. Just the year prior, at the annual Veget Cooking Festival, he had overheard Martle Britel gossiping with Oralee Grossnit about the western wellkeeper, Loden, and why each thought he had remained un-joined all these years. Subsequently, Tyter’s own name was mentioned. Then added as a footnote, was the fact his own mother had died shortly after giving birth to him. The serendipitous discovery didn’t exactly startle him. He had suspected as much. Still, hearing the words spoken aloud helped to make it a historical reality, even if it didn’t come from the most reliable of sources.
The second question would have concerned the mysterious disappearance of Talon, the combination wellwalker/wellkeeper of the west, and the father Tyter never knew. Even in this, however, Tyter wasn’t without some knowledge. For although no one would ever say anything directly to him about it, he discovered, through careful eaves-dropping, that directly following his mother’s death, his father had entered the well one last time and came out crazed in the head, which wasn’t too farfetched since most considered him mad for ever going down there in the first place.
Then, on that same eve, after his mother’s Rite of Mourning, His father had summoned his longtime friend, Bourg, to his hut. And in a fit of pure madness, he gave Bourg all his earthly belongings. These included his hut with all its furnishings and his newborn son. He also bestowed upon Bourg his present position as wellkeeper of the west.
Unknown to the gossip mongers, on that fateful night Talon had removed a finely crafted ring of woven veget from his ring finger and slipped it on the little finger of Bourg's left hand - being the only finger small enough for it to fit.
The ring was Talon's wedding band, the symbol of his vows and his love for Maadle, Tyter's mother. The ring, therefore, was quite familiar to Bourg for he had seen it many times prior. However, the small, smoothly ground stone which once graced it was gone, leaving only the irregularly shaped pit of the empty setting. Bourg assumed Talon had removed it as a keepsake, although he never did understand why he didn’t just keep the ring intact.
"Take good care of my son," Talon commissioned Bourg. "From this day forth he is your son, too."
"I will care for him and love him as my own son, just as I have loved you as a dear brother,” Bourg wanted to say, but all he could do was shake his head up and down - and grunt. Talon needed no more affirmation. It was just one of the many reasons why Bourg loved him. Then, after kissing the infant Tyter on the forehead and giving Bourg a long, firm embrace, Talon disappeared into the night and was neither seen, nor heard from again.
All this, however, happened long ago and, if Tyter hadn’t been so distracted with his thoughts, he might have noticed Bourg's hands trembling as he helped him into the well seat.
“Ready?” Bourg asked his fellow wellkeeper.
"Huh? Oh, yes,” Loden responded as he came out of his solitary thoughts which ha
d remained focused on Center House, and the occupants therein. At heart, Loden was a natural born rebel - one of the few to reach adulthood.
Nuttinnew had no formal judicial system. As a whole the people were quite docile toward one another, and what few rules there were to remember never changed, so they were quite easily kept and/or enforced. It wasn’t that they didn’t mind a certain amount of rebellion from their youths. A nominal amount was considered a natural, expected part of a normal childhood. However, there was an even greater expectation placed on the correcting influence of a veget whip frequently applied to a child’s "seat of knowledge" for the sole purpose of bringing such natural impulses into conformity with the town’s uniformly cherished traditions. As the saying went: "So long as there's a youngster, a whipmaker will never be without work.”
Still, as in all cultures, Nuttinnew wasn’t without its unforgivable crimes. It had one: the greater form of rebellion called treason. Whereas, rebellion was the suggestion for change, treason was the attempt to actually implement it. Punishment for this heinous crime was a pubic trial in which the perpetrator, along with his or her immediate and extended family members, were openly humiliated and disgraced.
The inclusion of the extended family presumably helped to insure no family member, no matter how distant, would allow even the slightest hint of active rebellion to manifest itself. It proved to be a most effective form of deterrence. Of course, if it did fail, there was always the final judgement for treason: banishment from Nuttinnew - forever. So feared was this unmerciful punishment, no one could actually remember anyone being charged with this most horrendous of all crimes. But this came as no surprise, for who would be so foolish to venture down such a calamitous path?
Who, indeed, but the eastern wellkeeper. As a rebel, Loden was a natural. His head was full of ideas for change. For instance, he wanted to hold the office of Mayor without first waiting for the appropriate occasion: the death of the current mayor, a person who spent her every waking hour doing everything she could to hinder the day of her demise.
Pieces: Book One, The Rending Page 1