When, at last, Loden paused, Pentalope seized the opportunity. "And just how do you propose to keep all this stored water from turning sour?"
"Ah!" the people of Nuttinnew, who had now turned their attention to the mayor, gasped in unison. They hadn't considered that.
"Yes, how will you keep the water drinkable while it’s stored in those barrels?" the people asked with their eyes which they now focused back upon Loden.
"Well,” Loden hesitated.
"Well? Come on. Tell us your great plan," they heard the mayor's voice demand with renewed confidence.
"Well, I - I'm not sure - yet. But there must be a way and if we all set our minds on finding the solution to the problem - we will!"
"We will? We will all be dead by winter," Pentalope barked with indignation. Then beaming a reassuring smile of confidence, she began addressing the people. "What are we to believe? Are we to believe what we have always known to be true, or are we to believe one male's fantasy, one male's illusion, one male's act of rebellion against all we believe in; against our traditions; against our beloved Center House; against the very lives of our own dear children?”
It was obvious two Nuttinnewians had quickly learned the skill of stump-speech making. The secret being, of course, to use enough highly emotional phrases to stir one’s listeners into a controlled frenzy of arrogant self-indulgence. It doesn't matter what one says, as long as it remains reprehensibly incoherent, inharmoniously disjointed, elaborately distorted and iniquitously contrived with just enough reality to give total fabrication an air of plausibility.
If properly executed, no one will understand, nor find fault with, a word being said, but all will hear clearly what they are already convinced to be true However, all this was still unknown to the inexperienced population of Nuttinnew. So no one had the slightest inkling their beloved little town had become infected with the incurable cancer of civilization - politics.
Chapter 4
The burning heat of human emotion is far more dangerous to a people's existence than the searing heat of any midday sun. The flame which arose from the gathering around the well hid from everyone the reality that as events unfold, time passes. The scorching Nuttinnewian sun was just approaching high noon, and as yet, no water had been drawn from the well. Still, the flames of human passion continued to be fed and fanned.
"Treason!" Pentalope cried.
The people gasped. Their eyes fixed on Pentalope, then on Loden.
"Treason?" Bourg croaked, drooling spittle down his beard. "No!" he refused to even consider such a thing.
"Treason, huh,” Loden said flatly, as if to see how the word tasted in his mouth. Then his facial muscles contracted, drawing his lips tightly across his teeth. His eyes widened in their sockets. Still kneeling, he leaned forward toward the people of the east. His hands folded over his chest as he clutched the tethered piece hidden beneath his pullover. "Treason, the most onerous mayor calls it. Humph! Is it treason to desire life over death; or to love flesh and blood more than mythical ideals of unknown origin? Is it treason to try to make life a little easier for everyone; to give our children hope for a better life for their children? Is it treason to relieve pain, to feed the hungry, to cure thirst? Is it treason to bring about change for the good of all Nuttinnewians?"
"Ah, ha! ‘Change’! There, there you all heard it with your own ears, my dear people. Change! Change! Change! This fellow, by his own admission, conspires to bring about change to our perfect little town. Such an act is called by but one name - treason!" Pentalope rose to the occasion with the enthusiasm of a youthful female discovering for the first time that the handle to the door of a young male's attention is his rod.
"Oh, my people, my dear people," Loden anguished, "I cannot believe the ancestors who built Center House and dug this well meant for us to become stagnated in our minds and in our hearts. Surely Nuttinnew has been set here as a refreshment in the celebration of life, not as a muddled puddle trapped in the hollow of a rock only to turn bitter or to wither away like the leaves on an unattended veget stock. It is stagnation that is treason, not change! Look! Look around you, my friends. Change is a natural process of life. We are living beings. We come into this world as helpless, mindless infants, but we grow and learn - we change. As a living community we, too, must grow and change - and we will change. Even now a new life is being born and it must grow to maturity like all living creatures. We cannot stop change. It will come upon us no matter how we feel about it. But we must not fear it. Instead, we must guide and direct it so we get the most good from it - so we will survive it."
"Treason! Treason!" Pentalope screeched as if it would somehow negate Loden’s argument. All the people stood stunned, vacillating their heads and hearts between the mayor and the eastern wellkeeper.
Bourg scratched at his beard and inadvertently wiped away the spittle. His face was flushed and hot. His mind reeled with confusion. The more Loden talked, the angrier at him Bourg became. He was losing another friend to the lunacy of rebellion - first Talon, now Loden. A fire of fear burned in his breast, as the thundering throbs of his own heart so filled his mind, he could no longer comprehend the meaning of the words emitted from his friend’s mouth. He felt as though his head would burst. "Treason! Treason! Treason! Change is treason!” Bourg roared in a large gruff voice that stunned everyone, including Loden, to silence.
Several long, still moments passed before Bourg, realizing what he had done, turned to Loden and spoke in a half whispered voice. "Oh, Loden, why? It’s not you, surely. It’s the heat. Look it’s high noon and you’ll feel better with a little water in you. Yes, yes that’s it. Here, my friend, I'll draw you up some.”
Bourg reached for the wellkeeper’s bucket, but Loden grabbed him at the wrist. "No! I'll not take one drink until everyone else has collected their rations.”
"But!”
"No buts. It’s my oath.”
"But, you’ll be banished - forever! Like Talon, I'll never see you again.”
“The time is ripe. This is the moment for which I was born. Oh Bourg, you call me your friend. Can’t you see, this thing you are calling treason, is at the very essence of what makes me the person you are kind enough to call friend?"
"But, I don't like this part of you," Bourg could barely mutter the words.
Loden could see the glistening beads of tears beneath the big male's bushy eyebrows brought on by a heart overwhelmed with pain. How he wished Bourg could understand and join his cause, but he held out no hope for it. All he could do was wonder why Talon had left his secrets with such a simple minded fellow. So many times he had tried to pry those secrets out of Bourg's memory, as they worked together at the well, side by side, day after day. How often he wished Talon would have left the secrets with him instead. They might have made the illusive direction of rebellion so much clearer - or at least he supposed they would have.
Loden looked long and hard at his friend and realized that just as Bourg didn’t understand the things Talon had conveyed to him so many years earlier, he currently could not comprehend the conceptual commitment called change.
"It’s okay, my friend. I understand if you’re reluctant to join me, but must you align yourself with this perpetually self-promulgating, person by calling my act of love - treason?"
Bourg’s tear-filled, dark blue eyes pierced deeply into Loden’s. "You know I don’t want any harm to come to you, but by all I’ve ever been taught - by all I’ve ever known - this deed of yours is an act of treason!"
"Treason! Treason!" Pentalope screeched delightfully. "The western wellkeeper has confirmed it. This wellkeper’s words are indeed treasonous."
Hearing these words Bourg flinched. He could no longer look Loden straight in the eye. Loden released his grip on his big friend’s wrist and placed it on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. It was a reassuring gesture, mixing the comfort of a newly found understanding with the sorrow of an unsought farewell. Then standing straight up on the well rim, Loden assumed a
posture of defiance with hands on hips and feet wide apart.
Pentalope pointed her long spindly finger at Loden's face and shouted for all to hear. "Loden Sknett, wellkeeper of the east, before all these assembled here, I formally accuse you, of being guilty in both word and deed of the unpardonable crime of treason. As the duly elected mayor of Nuttinnew, I declare this assembly to be henceforth an official hearing for the purposes of determining if this accusation levied against wellkeeper, Loden Sknett, shall result in the proscription, as seen fit by our ancestors who had the wisdom to prescribe such extreme punishment, foreknowing such scoundrels as this would occasionally arise, like a worm in a veget stock, threatening to destroy our beloved Nuttinnew through the infection of change. Having already heard sufficient evidence to convict the accused, I call for The Vote of Three Witnesses. How do you vote? Wuder. . . er, Mr Pulpitt?"
"Huh? Wha - what, dear?" Wudrick stammered.
"How do you vote on this matter of treason? Haven't you been paying attention at all?”
"Er, yes dear." In truth, Wudrick hadn’t. His mind was busy considering Loden's proposal of storing water without it spoiling. For some reason he was reminded of something he had discovered in his research - something which he thought was only a curious ornament. Now, he was wondering if it might not be more.
“Then say it,” Pentalope growled at him under her breath.
"Say what, dear?" he groaned. His scientific mind didn't understand the complexity of politics any better than it understood the intricacies of regulating morality.
"Say 'treason', so everyone can hear you.”
"Oh. Treason,” Mr Pulpitt groaned.
“Louder! Louder, so everyone can hear you!” Pentalope demanded.
“Treason!” he shouted in compliance, and immediately returned to his scientific contemplation, not even noticing the gasp gushed forth from the easterners gathered. Among them, the widow Forbal stiffened with shock.
"One vote says treason,” Pentalope announced, gleefully. "And how do you vote good wellkeeper of the west?"
Bourg hesitated, then after a long pause, he answered, "Treason, but - but....” He wanted to say something more. He wanted to explain that he didn't want his friend banished, but his wits were not quick, and words evaded him, so he fell silent as the mayor continued to the third and final count.
"Two votes for treason!" Pentalope was boiling over with joy. She looked about for the third witness whose vote she could be sure of. For the law was clear, three witnesses must be called to vote and the vote must be unanimous. Her searching eyes paused on Loden who was still defiantly standing on the well.
"Yes, of course!" Pentalope thought. "How much more perfect a witness could there be?” Taking a deep breath, and pushing herself to an even lengthier stature under the weight of the mantle of many pieces, she spoke slowly, clearly, and loudly, so no one would doubt what she was saying. “And you, Loden Sknett, Wellkeeper of the East, how do you vote?" A sneer formed on her quivering lips, as her heart pounded with an anticipation of jubilation.
The town gasped in unison. Never (as far as anyone knew) had a defendant been called onto give witness in one’s own trial. Surely, they thought, the mayor has made a great error, if she really wanted to convict Loden of treason. Could there be any doubt he would vote 'No treason', and save himself? Especially since under the law of the Ancients one could not be tried for the same offense twice. Loden was saved, or so everyone thought. A silence of anticipation fell over the crowd as every eye was upon Loden, and every ear awaited the words it expected to hear.
"If, love for one's friends and neighbors, is treason; if, having great hope in the future of one's community, is treason; if, being motivated by this love to make the right changes in order to insure a prosperous future for all, is treason," Loden spoke eloquently, "then I am beyond a puff of a doubt, guilty of treason.” Again, the town gasped as with one throat.
Pentalope was ecstatic. "Ha! By your own vote, Loden Sknett, you’ve been found guilty of treason and are, hereby banished from the little town of Nuttinnew forever and ever - and ever! You will be gone by the morrow's sunrise! Ha, Ha!” Pentalope could not contain her joy.
"No!" Loden spoke firmly. It took awhile for the word to sink into everyone's consciousness.
"Huh? What? What do you mean, ‘No’?" Pentalope flustered, "You mean you refuse to leave?"
"Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” Loden answered.
The whole town fell into a muddled silence.
"Yeeeoowww!" Tyter's scream ripped through the silence. The piece he had been sitting on suddenly became sizzling hot. The time would come when he would be proud of that unseen scar on his right buttock. For the present, however, it was just an excruciating pain. In an instant he jumped to his feet and hopped about in circles grabbing the location of his wound. Instinctively, Bourg reached for him.
Everyone was too distracted to notice the ray of sunlight strike Bourg's ring, (the one Talon had given him), and reflect a single, intense ray of concentrated light to the mysterious piece, laying uncovered, yet invisible, upon the ground.
"Ka-BAM!" a loud, thunderous crash filled everyone’s ears. In the same instant, a flash of bright, white light momentarily blinded everyone, sending them stumbling and tumbling to the ground, groveling about on their hands and knees. Many dropped their sacks of pieces spewing them all about.
Mayor Pulpitt fell flat on her back under the increased weight of the pieces which adorned her mantle. In falling she barely missed crushing poor Mr. Pulpitt. Fortunately for him, as soon as he hit the ground, his round physique sent him into a roll, taking him several paces out of the line of her collapse.
As soon as the world came back into focus, the people began scurrying about, gathering up their scattered pieces. More than a few got their knuckles bruised for reaching into someone else’s collection. Then as soon as they were collected, each person hurriedly counted and recounted their cache. And although the total amount turned out to be exactly the same as the number they had brought to the well, each had a deep suspicion they had somehow been tricked by their neighbor. So they counted and recounted, again and again, each time getting the same total as before, and each all the more convinced of being cheated.
"Yeeeoowww!” Tyter continued screaming.
"What is it, Tyter? What's wrong, son?” Even in the confusion of the moment, or perhaps because of it, Bourg’s primary concern was for his young charge, who was hopping about with his hands clutched firmly to his buttocks. Figuring that was the seat of the problem, Bourg yanked up Tyter’s pullover and took a look. "By Veget!" he exclaimed in disbelief. Taking care not to touch the irregularly shaped, red blister on Tyter’s rear, he grasped Tyter up in his arms and raced off to their hut where he carefully applied the soothing, healing ointment made from the sap of the veget stalk.
After Bourg disappeared behind his hut door, Loden grabbed the well bucket and addressed the gathering who were still recounting their many pieces. "I don't know what that flash was, but I do know the sun is at high noon and no one has their water ration. Hurry, get your buckets. I'll get everyone's water, east and west, all by myself, if I have to.”
Like a one-male machine Loden lowered the bucket deep into the well. Moments later, he cranked the well handle with the strength and energy of two until the bucket was raised from the well, sloshing it's cool, life giving liquid. Then Loden locked the handle and held out his hand toward the nearest Nuttinnewian of the East, who was still busy recounting his pieces. Not waiting for a response, Loden snatched up the fellow’s ration bucket and filled it. "Now, make way for the others. Go home!" he ordered. The fellow immediately obeyed, struggling to gather up his water and his pieces without spilling either.
"Next!" Loden shouted.
"No! Wait, (sputter) wait!" Pentalope gasped as she flailed on her back like a fish out of water. Her husband struggled to help her to her feet, but found the task surprisingly difficult as she seemed unusually heavy. "Untie
the cord - the cord about my neck. Wuderbutz! Hurry! It - it’s choking me. Ugh!"
Pentalope’s hands tore at the cord which normally held the mantle together in the front so it wouldn’t slip off of her shoulders. Presently, however, the cord was like a bond fastening her to the inexplicably heavy weight of her mantle of many pieces.
Wudrick fumbled at the expertly tied seamstress knot. "Ugh! Fool! Get - Flee - tra - here - quick!” The words hacked forth from Pentalope’s throttled throat like congealed phlegm. However, before Wudrick could call out for Fleetra, a slight female form slipped past him. Pentalope felt the smooth, flat surface of a short, slender veget knife glide across her neck, then press against her throat. An instant later the cord which held her to the mantle was severed. Gasping, she pushed herself upward, extending a hand for assistance.
"Finally! It took you long enough, Fleetra. Don’t ever . . . !" Pentalope barked in her usual, ungrateful manner. But as she raised her head, she didn’t see the round, young, robust face of the docile Fleetra Frump. Instead, she found herself staring into the cold, confident grey eyes of the widow Forbal.
Sollie Forbal rose slowly to her feet, slipping the small knife back into a small sheath on her waist band. Then, as quickly as she had appeared from out of nowhere, she disappeared among the crowd. Her nemesis gone, Pentalope sprang to her feet and frantically shook her body as if to cast off the weight of her garment, as well as the weight of the moment. Whatever the purpose, once served, she proceeded with the matter of urgency.
"No! No!" she shouted again. "Don’t take water from him! He is a rebel - a treasonist - an outcast! Anyone who takes water from him will be considered his accomplice and - and a traitor as well.” By this time, however, several buckets had been filled for both the people east and west of the well. The sight, sound and taste of the water had, for the moment, broken the spell of the pieces over the people.
Pieces: Book One, The Rending Page 8