“Coming, dear."
***** ***** *****
All over Nuttinnew, both west and east of the well, the people were racing about picking up the strange shiny pieces which they were sure, if seeing is believing, had fallen through a hole in the sun. But even if they hadn’t these magnificent objects were absolutely beautiful and everybody wanted one. Veget! Everyone wanted all they could collect. And why not? There appeared to be an ample supply for everyone to get his and her full share, whatever that was.
The pieces, themselves, were extremely hard, but their unsurpassed smoothness made them feel comfortably soft to the touch. They had mass, yet even small children could carry about sackfuls twice their size with ease. Whatever these strange pieces were, they had an even more alluring quality than simply their magnificent physical attributes. For as soon as a person touched a piece, a sense of its intrinsic value was instantly realized and, he or she would be filled with a deep, impassioned craving to possess it all the more.
This compulsive-obsessive possessiveness quickly swept through the entire town until nothing else mattered - not breakfast, not work, not the clear blue sky which still showed no sign of rain - not even, the daily necessity of collecting their life-sustaining ration of well water.
***** ***** *****
"Tyter, are - are you alright, son?” Bourg asked in a broken voice of jubilation as he lifted his young charge from the well seat.
"Yes, Sir. I’m okay, but you'll never guess what happened down there. When I got to the one-hundredth stone a ...."
"Now, now, lad, you can tell me all about it later. Look here, you’re drenched to the bone,” Bourg said as he pulled off Tyter's pullover, but failed to notice that although Tyter's clothes were cold and wet, his skin was quite warm. However, as soon as his pullover was removed, Tyter began to shiver as his skin turned cold and damp.
"My piece of skybow!” Tyter thought. "I've lost my wonderful spiece.”
"I'm taking Tyter back to the hut, to get him warmed up,” Bourg said. "I’ll be back to get the water rations to....” He stopped abruptly, as he just then realized the whole town was running amuck.
Setting Tyter on the ground, he stepped onto an inverted water bucket to assist him in climbing onto the well rim where he could get a better view of the madness surrounding him. In the heat of the day, people were running all about grabbing up handfuls, sackfuls, and bucketfuls of those strange pieces which had just pummeled the town.
Tyter took the opportunity to search his discarded pullover, but the piece he’d brought up from the well wasn't there. Frantically, he began crawling about the well and cracked his knee on something hard. "Ouch! By Veget!” When he looked down to find what he was cursing, he didn't see anything but flat, smooth sand. Then a slight gust of wind stirred the sand just enough for him to make out the outline of his previously colorful, warming piece. Curiously though, he couldn’t see the object itself, not at all.
Doubting what he saw, he reached out his hand and discovered he could feel it even though it remained invisible. Instantly, he could feel a soothing warmth flow up his arm. He quickly picked up the piece and tucked it under his left arm. Immediately, his body began to radiate a warmth and his shivering ceased.
Bourg shook his head after surveying the mayhem. Then he eased his massive weight down off the well rim, walked over to Tyter and picked him up with his thick, hairy arms. "There's something very strange going on here,” he thought aloud.
It was while Bourg was carrying him back to the hut that Tyter first noticed for himself the chaotic manifestation which had infested the little town of Nuttinnew. People were scrambling everywhere, picking up strange shiny objects which appeared to have been scattered all over the town. They were grabbing them off the ground, off roof tops, off the piles of pieces others had already collected. Tyter was quite amazed and watched, as best he could from his cradled position in Bourg’s arms.
"What's this?” Bourg queried as he stopped abruptly at the entrance of their hut. He was looking down at the ground, so Tyter twisted his head to see what had caught his guardian’s attention.
There at Bourg's feet lay an object shaped very much like the invisible piece of the skybow currently tucked under Tyter's arm. This one, however, was not invisible, but shone beautifully pure and shiny.
"Where did that come from?” Tyter wondered, but said nothing. He could feel Bourg’s posture stiffen as he continued to glare at the unusual object for several moments. It was as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. Then with a swift swing of his sandal, he gave the shiny object a kick, sending it into the small patch of short, wilted veget lining the front wall of the hut.
"Nothing but trouble. I want no part of it,” Bourg mumbled to himself as he carried Tyter into the hut. "You neither. You just let them be, too!”’ he scolded so harshly, it startled Tyter. He’d never heard his guardian use such a tone before. It was the anger of self-defence brought by a fear of the unknown.
"Huh? Oh, yes sir,” Tyter chirped in reply as he squeezed his hidden, invisible piece pressed snugly under his arm.
***** ***** *****
The sun had slipped much farther to the west before the people of Nuttinnew finished gathering up all the pieces. The gathering process had caused quite a few scuffles among family, friends, and neighbors as often more than one person attempted to claim the same piece. Although no one was severely injured physically, many relationships were irreparably corrupted. Ultimately, every male, female, adult and child over the age of five had collected a sizeable, personal stockpile.
Once all of the pieces were gathered up and their ownership established, everyone felt completely content with the number pieces in their collection. Oddly this sense of satisfaction came with a concomitant companion in the form of a great phobia which overcame the inhabitants, until the mere thought of losing just one of their precious pieces was far too unbearable to even think. Soon all piles of loose pieces were stuffed away in veget sacks where they could be more easily contained, controlled and toted about, so that wherever their owner went, they went as well. For the more they desired their pieces, the more they feared they would be lost or, worse, stolen, until they came to trust no one, absolutely no one.
While the whole town was secreting away their marvelous pieces, a freckle-faced, seven-year-old female who had not yet had all the rebellion whipped out of her, turned to her grandfather and asked, "But, grampie, what are they good for?”
Soon, the young female's question spread across Nuttinnew like a wildfire in a veget field until a contemplative hushed silence fell upon the entire community, as the most thoughtful among them rocked in their rockers and sat on their sitters, drummed their fingers and scratched their heads, but no explanation, not even a reasonable hypothesis, was forthcoming.
So in typical Nuttinnewian fashion the only answer forthcoming was the standard answer which was always used I response to such deliriously difficult questions: “One does with them what one has always done with them.” But, of course, no one had ever done anything with them before, because no one had ever even seen one before.
There was something new in Nuttinnew and nobody knew what to do about it, so they chose to pretend that everything was as it had always been - slightly varied, perhaps, but definitely not changed. That would be treason.
By the time Mayor Pulpitt was unglued, only those pieces which had fallen on the Center House porch roof, and thus unseen by the others, were left unharvested. As soon as Pentalope saw them she had her well-rounded husband precariously crawling about the roof until every piece was recovered. She even sent him back up an additional three times just to insure he hadn’t missed any. Once satisfied that all of them had been recovered, Pentalope sent Wudrick back up on the roof one more time. Then she sat down on the large, covered porch and began to admire and count her own cache of pieces.
As she did so a little male of six or so, walked past, tripped and dropped the four small pieces which he had colle
cted all by himself. After expending the obligatory amount of childhood tears, the little fellow carefully joined the pieces together by sticking the protrusion of one piece into the indentation of another piece. This he repeated until the four pieces formed a loosely joined box which he placed upon his tiny head like a hat. Then, standing stiffly erect, he proudly strutted off.
"That's it!" cried Pentalope with a shriek that could have made even the normally unshakable Bourg cringe.
"Wuderbutz!” she screamed. “Come down here this instant!”
“Yes, dear,” Wudrick sheepishly answered, as once again he obediently jumped to her beck and call.
“See that male child with those pieces on his head?”
“Er, yes?”
“Take those pieces away from him and bring them here to me. Now!" she commanded of her husband as she jumped to her feet and pointed her long bony finger toward the meandering youth.
"But, but, he's just a little fellow. Surely, you have enough of your own pieces already, my dear” Mr. Pulpitt whined in a weak, though unusual, protest to his wife's strange demand.
"No ‘buts,’ Wuderbutz! I don't want anyone else to see what that obnoxious little child has done. Now get them! Hurry, before someone sees him, and attempts to my grand idea. Once you’ve done that, go collect my seamstress!"
***** ***** *****
Bourg gave Tyter some warm veget cider and tucked him into bed. He was still standing over him, looking down at the content smile on Tyter’s face, when he heard Pentalope's screech from the Center House porch. Scratching through the thick mass of black curls on his head, he wondered how Tyter had come out of the well drenched to the bone, yet was perfectly warm and comfortable by the time he picked him up to carry him to the hut. He hoped it wasn't some unknown symptom of the Dreaded Drought Disease.
Bourg also had another concern. Between sips of cider, Tyter had concoction a most fantastic tale which had undoubtedly been the result of his horrendous experience in the well. In his tale Tyter claimed he’d seen his mother’s face, then was attacked by a grotesque stone monster, causing a three-inch gash on his forehead. But, as hard as Bourg tried, he could find not so much as a scratch anywhere on him, which was particularly odd since the upper portion of his pullover showed signs of fresh crimson stains.
Bourg couldn’t help but recall that Tyter’s father, Talon, had also made such a mysterious claim thirteen years earlier, on the day he had his unusual experience in the depth of the well at the one hundredth stone level. All he could conclude was that Tyter must have somehow heard the story about his father and had merely confused this memory with the reality of his own experience. Perhaps one of the more daring children had mustered up the courage to tell the forbidden, "Terrible Tale of Talon.” For as Talon, himself, used to say, “It’s always the rebellious child, who, in defying cultural norms, carries forward the seeds of truth which are immediately and officially relegated to the status of myth.”
However, such a thought was too mystical for Bourg’s simple mind, so he closed the sleeping room door. And, although the sun was already well passed its meridian, he set out to disperse the daily water rations. At least, this was something he did understand.
On his way to the well, Bourg passed a small child wearing something unusual on his head. A moment later, Wudrick Pulpitt dashed past him huffing and puffing and mumbling something about someone being the death of him yet. Northward the mayor was standing on Center House porch, gesturing wildly and shouting incomprehensible commands to her husband, but Bourg gave very little thought to any of this. He had far more important matters on his mind.
The strangeness of the day’s events had thrown the whole town’s routine activities into total disarray. When Bourg arrived at the well he learned from Loden that not one had come to the well to collect their daily water rations. Further he’d already decided on his own that, given the unusual circumstances, the people could afford to miss one day’s rations. So with nothing more to do Bourg reluctantly return to his hut, being convinced more than ever that there truly was something strange in Nuttinnew and whatever it was, it would come to no good.
***** ***** *****
That night sleep passed by Bourg’s door, as he lay on his cot staring at the twinkling eyes of the night sky through the open sleeping room window. Several times he got up and went outside for a walk, strolling the distance between his hut and the well. It troubled him that his neighbors were so caught up in their mystery pieces that they had neglected the necessities of life, such as watering the few remaining veget gardens, which, due to the drought, were already limp from dehydration. The lack of even the least proper care for the struggling plants would have a devastating effect for each neglecting huthold, but what could Bourg do? He couldn't make the people of Nuttinnew do what they should do - could he?
Bourg thought of the piece he had kicked into the veget garden running along the front of his own hut. He went to the place where he had seen it disappear into a clump of withering veget stalks and began to comb gently through the long, dried stems. Once exposed to the bright moonlight, the object glowed with its reflection. Bourg reached down, picked it up and dusted it off with the hem of his pullover, then carried it back into the hut.
As Bourg closed the door behind him, he heard a deep sighing coming from Tyter's room. Placing the object on the table, he lit a candle and walked silently to the sleeping room door. Peering in, the light of the candle revealed Tyter resting comfortably with the same peaceful expression on his face he had observed earlier. Bourg pulled the door to nearly closed, then retired to his favorite eating room chair and plopped down with a heavy grunt.
Placing his calloused fingertips to his forehead, he deeply rubbed his hairy brow in an attempt to relieve the tension which filled his face. It helped, but not much. Dropping his hands to his side, he expelled a heavy sigh then let his head fall against the high-backed chair. When after a time he opened his eyes, he found himself staring at the strange object sitting on the table before him.
For something which had caused such havoc throughout the entire community, this little piece of the sky now appeared most docile glowing with the warm reflected light of the lone candle. Before long Bourg’s mind and body began to relax in its ambience of tranquility. Until, whatever burdens he thought he might have had earlier, now all seemed of little significance.
He thought how glad he was he had retrieved the piece from the garden. It was the last conscious thought he had until he awoke the following morning.
Chapter 3
"Is it finished, yet?” Pentalope cried as she raced down the stairs to one of the spare rooms that had been quickly converted into a sewing room.
"Not quite, ma’am,” Fleetra called back.
"Well, hurry - hurry! The night is almost over. People will begin gathering at the well. I must make a most impressive appearance."
Fleetra said nothing as she looped the thread, shot it through the needle, pulled the knot tight, snipped the loose end with her teeth, then grabbed up another shiny piece and began attaching it to the flowing mantle upon which she had worked all evening.
"Wuderbutz. Where's my glass of veget juice?"
"Coming, dear," a gasping voice called from just outside the side porch door. There was a sound of hushed whispers and a quick shuffling of feet. Then the door slammed behind him as he dashed though the house to the eating room.
Pentalope heard none of this, for she had already dashed back up the stairs to decide what she should wear with her fine new mantle of many pieces. She wanted her surprise to be perfectly - well, surprising. This was to be the greatest day in her life; greater than any of the many times she had won the Veget Cooking Contest; even greater than the first time the people of Nuttinnew unanimously elected her mayor. Today, when the sun rises over the eastern rolling hills, Mayor Pentalope Pulpitt would outshine them all, proving herself to be by far the most superb, unsurpassed Nuttinnewian ever.
She selected a pullover which
she knew sure would look superb with the marvelous new mantle, her seamstress was preparing for her. "If only there was some way to capture such extraordinary moments forever,” Pentalope mused as she admired herself in the Center House mirror. It was the only mirror in all of Nuttinnew and only Pentalope, her seamstress, Fleetra, and her husband, Wudrick had ever seen themselves in it. Only Pentalope enjoyed the image it reflected.
At that moment Wudrick dashed through the door with a glass of veget juice in his hand. "Here's your (gasp) juice, my dear,” he said out of breath from racing up the stairs.
"It’s about time!" Pentalope grumbled, not bothering to look at him or to take the drink from his hand.
Wudrick stood slightly behind her panting, as he watched his wife admiring herself in the mirror. He recognized the look on her face and knew she was momentarily in a world of her own making; a world in which there was no room for him; a world he wanted to get as far away from as possible - but a world from which he could not escape. Nuttinnewians partnered for life. It had always been that way, and as everyone knew, it always would be.
"Should I leave your drink here on the table, my dear?" he asked.
"No, take it down to the sewing room. I'll be along shortly - and tell Fleetra to hurry."
Mr. Pulpitt shuddered and dashed out the door and down the steps he had just climbed. Pentalope followed him moments later.
"Well?" she asked as she entered the sewing room.
"It’s finished!" Fleetra announced with a combination of excitement, pride and relief. She held up the mantle for the mayor's inspection.
“It’s about time! Oh!” Pentalope stepped forward in silent awe. It was all she had anticipated, perhaps even more, although she’d be loathe to admit it.
The finished mantle was just beautiful, being made from several yards of white, flowing, finely woven, veget cloth. It was completely covered with the strange shiny pieces the seamstress had sewn to it with loops of veget thread. As the mantle flowed, each individual piece reflected beams of light from the various candles scattered about room, giving the mantle a most marvelous, shimmering appearance. Pentalope could imagine how awe-inspiring it would look in the full radiance of the sun. She took the mantle and draped it over her shoulders. Immediately her breath become short and choppy with an overwhelming exhilaration she had never in her life felt before.
Pieces: Book One, The Rending Page 5