Wudrick stepped beside his wife holding the crown of pieces she had lost in her fall. She grabbed it from his hands and placed it on her head. The weight of it dug deep crevices into her sensitive skin. Raising herself to her full stature, she fought not to grimace. “By the authority of my office, symbolized in this glorious crown upon my head, I order you, Loden Sknett, to stop drawing water from the well right this instant!” Pentalope was a show-stopper when she got it all together and at that moment she had it all together.
The Nuttinnewian sun had moved quickly past high noon. Its rays reflected in every direction from the shimmering crown. It was an impressive sight to see, even for Loden who gave an involuntary shiver, wondering if he truly had the perseverance of heart to carry out his rebellion.
Such is a common concern of those who seek after a grand, altruistic ambition, yet haven’t had the good fortune to be disillusioned out of realizing their personal vulnerabilities. Among those who seek the moniker hero, success is rare, if ever. All that is certain in life is that - we do what we do, then we die. Whether one is judged to be hero or a fool is only a perception in each person's mind and has little to do with reality.
The eastern wellkeeper, however, was not a male to be shaken easily from the noble ideals which filled his heart and mind. Looking at the pieces on Pentalope's head reminded him of the piece that had nearly split his head the day before. He reached into his shirt, pulled it out and held it high in the air.
"By my position as Wellkeeper of the East and by the authority symbolized by this badge, I order everyone to have their ration buckets filled before the day’s end!” The Nuttinnewians looked back and forth between Loden's singular piece and the mayor's crown of pieces. Clutching the sacks containing their own pieces, they were in a quandary. All they could think to do was to do what they had always done under such circumstances. However, there had never before been such a circumstance in all of Nuttinnewian history - at least as far back as they could remember..
"Urg! Wudrick, go get the western wellkeeper,” Pentalope ordered.
“Wellkeeper Bourg?” his voice was slightly more hesitant than usual as he nervously studied the expression of each female's face. Both were intense beyond measure.
"Yes, yes - Wellkeeper Bourg. Certainly you don’t expect us to collect our water rations from this traitor!"
***** ***** *****
After Bourg finished applying the soothing veget ointment to Tyter's blistered buttock, he realized the confrontations at the well had fallen strangely silent. Although he might normally have taken this as a positive sign, the recent, almost mystical events at the well, culminating in the loud clash and bright flash, gave him an eerie feeling, and he found no solace in silence. How could he?
There were too many unsolved mysteries, too many questions without answers. What caused the flash of light? How did Tyter's buttock get burned? These were only two of many such mysteries troubling Bourg's mind. For example, why was the blister on Tyter's buttock shaped like one of the strange pieces which he was sure had something to do with the current unrest infesting Nuttinnew. Bourg had neither the time nor the where-with-all to even consider all the possibilities.
When Tyter asked him to push his bed nearer to the window facing the well so he could see what was happening, Bourg just grunted at him.
"There's nothing out there for you, son. Just hush and be still. I've done all I know how to for you. I'll be back shortly to see that you’re alright. You just lie here and rest. I’m going back to the well.” With those parting words Bourg bound out of the hut, slamming the door behind him, and almost running over Wudrick Pulpitt who had just arrived to fetch him.
Tyter, who was lying on his stomach, bounced a foot off the cot at the sound of the hut door slamming. It wasn’t a sound he’d ever heard before. However, like his guardian, Tyter's mind didn’t have time to ponder each leavening event being kneaded into the once dull dough of his boring bread life.
"That blasted, blistering piece!" Tyter cried, as he eased his body off the cot. Then grunting, groaning and grimacing he managed to push it to the window facing the well. Each thrust of his weight caused his buttock muscle to tighten, and with each tightening, it spasmed, and with each spasm, a flurry of pain shot throughout his body. "Blast! Blast! Blast!" he cursed with each spasm. It was the only swear word Tyter knew. If only he had gotten to know Brindle Hopes; she knew every swear word ever uttered. She even knew how to make ordinary, everyday words sound like they were swear words.
***** ***** *****
Brindle Hopes was the young female who lived in the small hut nearest the well on the eastern side. She was only two years older than Tyter, but the distance between a thirteen year old male and a fifteen year old female could only be measured in eons. For this reason, among others, Tyter had never actually spoken to her. In fact, he had never personally heard Brindle say even one swear word. However, all the other young males of the west talked incessantly about her verbal repertoire with great admiration; each claiming to have heard with his very own ears such a flow of foul fluidity, they were too awed by the experience to remember, let alone repeat, even one singular word. How could Tyter doubt so many ear witnesses?
However, it wasn’t Brindle’s vocabulary which piqued Tyter’s interest. The simple truth was he thought she was beautiful - almost, too beautiful to even look at. It was a private truth which he kept to himself. For even at his young age, he knew there were some truths better left unspoken among one’s peers.
Eight full faced moons earlier, just as Tyter was being drawn out of the mouth of the well, she arrived with her parents to collect their daily ration of water. All he could do was stare at her - a look she returned, with her head cocked slightly to one side. It was then he became aware of his wide eyes, dropped jaw, dry mouth, and quivering spine. "Oh, by veget!” He shriveled with embarrassment. “She must think I’m the weirdest person in all of Nuttinnew - even weirder than the oddlings.”
Even now, he remained convinced she had been too repulsed by his oddness on their first encounter to even make fun of him. He would rather she had spewed forth a vicious string of her renown curses at him, than to say nothing at all. It was the very worst moment in his entire young life. He was sure he would never get over it. And, now, as he laid on his bed, remembering that horrible experience, he was convinced it would make him miserable for the rest of his life.
Still, he couldn't help but think about her. He would often lie awake at night wishing Brindle would come right up to him and say something - anything, even a vulgar swear word, but for the life of him, he couldn't think of any reason why she would.
Still, there were times he was sure he saw her looking at him through her sleeping room window just as he was about to be lowered into the well. Each time he felt embarrassed and ashamed. It wasn’t easy being the only person in Nuttinnew to get dunked into that cold, damp, stone hole day after day. Bourg had made every effort to assure him that what he was doing was a noble, honorable task which meant the survival of the whole community. However, the other children equally assured him it was a pretty weird and stupid thing to do, which is one of the reasons Tyter didn't have any real friends.
"Like father - like son," he had heard so many of them jeer. It wasn't easy being the son of a legend - especially when that legend is considered crazy.
Despite Bourg's efforts to make him feel worthwhile and important, for a lad of thirteen the truth was pretty obvious. He had no reason to believe Brindle didn't feel the same as the other children. Every time he thought about her looking at him through her window he could imagine her spewing out a string of swear words, then laughing with a most horrible screech. Her beautiful young face twisted into a crusty, crinkled contorted form which took on a precise, hideous, resemblance to the stone monster which had attacked him in the bowels of the well, forcing him into the underground room where he eventually found the piece which had burned his buttock.
"The piece!" Tyter yelped. "It’s st
ill out there on the ground by the well.
With much strenuous effort and despite intense pain, Tyter maneuvered his cot to where he would be able to look directly out the window toward the well. It was a simple task which took nearly all his energy. Exhausted, he collapsed face down on the cot muttering his only swear word until the pain subsided. Eventually, he raised his head and forced his pillow beneath his chest to prop himself up just enough to see over the window sill. With eager eyes he searched for the spot where he had left his piece, but it was hidden by the crowd gathered about the well.
"My piece! My piece! Where is my beautiful, wonderful piece? I must find it. I must!” He could feel a fever of anguish rush through his body as he buried his head in his pillow and groaned, "Blast!"
***** ***** *****
At the well Osgrove Hopes handed his ration bucket up to Loden with one hand while clutching his bag of pieces with the other. Beside him stood his wife, also clutching a bag of pieces, and their mentally deficient daughter, Brindle, who they didn’t consider trustworthy enough to manage her own pieces. For like nearly every other Nuttinnewian they were caught up in the frenzy of fearing someone might attempt to steal their precious pieces. Brindle too felt fear, but hers had nothing to do with the strange pieces, but rather the well-being of the young wellwalker, Tyter, who had somehow been injured when the strange flash of light struck near the well.
When she later saw the western wellkeeper returning to the well, she nudged between her parents to get a better view - to see if the wellwalker was with him. At first, she thought he was, because the crowd about the well was not only making an opening for Bourg, but for someone else behind him, who was too short for her to see. However, when the second person came into view it was only the mayor’s short, bumbling husband.
"Aw, Ugh!" the young female grunted, imagining the worst for the young wellwalker.
"What is it? What's wrong? Was this fellow trying to steal our pieces?" the young female’s father shouted, then grabbed the collar of a fellow who had been pressed against them by the rhythmic wave of the gathered mass. "I'll teach you to bother the personal possessions of Osgrove Hopes, you, you. . . ,” he threatened as he raised his fist high into the air to strike the accused with a mighty blow.
The poor fellow hadn't the slightest idea what Osgrove was ranting about. Nor had he time to gather his wits. Stunned into inaction, he just stood as if frozen under the impending hammer of flesh. Never in the history of Nuttinnew (as far back as anyone could remember) had any person ever intentionally struck another in anger.
For a moment Osgrove hesitated as he focused in on the contorted expression on this thieving fellow face which was no longer that of a human male, but of some hideous beast, horrible beyond description. Somehow he, too, no longer felt like himself. He had been transformed into someone else, somewhere else, at some other time. He was in a new reality, but one which only existed only in his fear.
"Osgrove! Osgrove! Stop that! Don't you dare strike my brother!" his wife shouted in his ear.
"Huh? What? Brother? - Oh, uh, Gidwell?” As Osgrove continued to stare through wide, blurry eyes at the face of the beast he was about to slay, the reality of the outer world slowly came into focus as the fellow’s hideous features faded into the terrified face of his wife's brother. "Brother Gidwell, it is you! But I - I could have sworn ... I mean, a moment ago you - you, looked so different. I ....”
“For veget's sake, Brindle,” Osgrove's wife interrupted with a shout, “see what you almost caused by your outburst. I swear you’ve got the whole of Nuttinnew sitting on a quill of veget needles. What’s gotten into you, child?"
Brindle didn’t answer. She didn’t hear. Her mind was beyond the well, beyond the mass of people. It stretched into a far different world, the world of a thirteen year old male who now lay unconscious from fever on a sweat soaked cot. She wondered if Tyter could hear her thoughts as she spoke to him with her mind.
So many times she had tried to send her thoughts to him as she peeked from her sleeping room window while he prepared to be lowered into the bowels of the well. Each time she feared for him as he disappeared beneath the stone rim of the well wall. Each time she rejoiced in her heart when his little head would reappear. She wished so much that just once he would come over and talk to her, but she could think of no reason why he should.
She was convinced in her mind that surely, being the only one chosen to enter the mouth of the well must have made him the most popular young male in all the west. Why should someone so important as that waste his time on someone who couldn’t even express her simplest thoughts with the most elementary of words?
***** ***** *****
Tyter's eyes had grown heavy as he peered out his sleeping room window. His body ached as his spine shivered with fever. Curling himself into a ball, he pulled the covers tightly about his neck and buried his head beneath his pillow. Soon he was drifting along the chilly waters of a nightmare which returned him to the cold stone room at the bottom of the well.
Many times during the previous night Tyter’s mind had returned him to the well chamber. Each time he faced the grotesque, stone face, and experienced the sensation of drowning. Each time he would survive the ordeal and end up lying peacefully on the cold, dry slab of stone which was somehow made softer in the warm glow of his magnificent multicolored piece.
This time, however, Tyter found the room cold and damp. This time there was no piece in the chamber.
"I’m freezing! Where’s my piece to keep me warm? I’ll die in this horrible cold without it. Where’s my piece? I want it! I need it!" Tyter roared in the noisy confusion of his own mind. For although his body reclined like a corpse on his sweat soaked cot, his thoughts twisted and turned down a million milieus, searching everywhere for his magical piece.
Eventually, he noticed a very faint glow against the back of the envisioned cavern and he sat very still.
"My piece?" Tyter hoped aloud. The glow became brighter and brighter, eventually forming an illumination resembling the figure of a human female. It looked like the same young female who haunted him from her hut window each day. It looked like the infamous curser of the east, Brindle Hopes.
"Tyter. Tyter can you hear me?” the figure called in a voice which seemed more felt than heard.
"Y - yes, I can hear you. Are - are you the one called Brindle?"
"Tyter, Tyter, if you can hear me. . . .”
"I can! I can hear you! But can you hear me?"
“I want you to know you are not alone. I am with you. I will always be with you. We are of like kind. We....”
"What?"
"... are one."
"What do you mean, 'we are one'? Brindle, what do you mean? Can you hear me? Brindle!” Tyter's voice was excited, confused, and desperate. Was Brindle really talking to him - at last?
Gradually, the glow became fainter and Brindle’s image faded with it, until, once again, Tyter found himself in total darkness. Wet and cold, alone and tired, all he wanted to do was sleep. He couldn't think anymore. He didn't want to think anymore. The lovely Brindle had spoken to him. If this was to be the last pleasure in his short life, he was content.
Curling his body into a tight ball, he rested his head upon the damp, stone cavern floor and inhaled deeply. Then with a quick gust of breath, he exhaled, as if releasing the very essence of his own being.
"Blast!" a loud voice broke through the black silence and bounced off the cavern walls. The shock caused Tyter to gasp. His lungs filled with the cold air. The adventure of Tyter's life was not to be such a short one after-all.
***** ***** *****
Long before the sun sank beneath the gentle rolling hills surrounding Nuttinnew, Mayor Pentalope had stomped off in a rage to Center House, leaving poor Wudrick standing in the back of the western ration line to collect their water.
"Will that be all, mayor?" Fleetra asked as she tried to avert her eyes from the lanky, angular frame slumped naked in the bathing basin.
>
Pentalope always enjoyed her frequent baths in the finely crafted, hollowed out stone, a vestige of what life must have been like when Center House was inhabited by its builders, the Ancients. More than at any other time since she became mayor, she desired, at that moment, the pleasurable relaxation she had always experienced in its soothing water. However, her three baths the night before had depleted their water supply, so the bathing basin remained dry except for the perspiration which streamed from her own hot flesh, and pooled into puddles beneath her.
"No! Hand me my mantle of many pieces - and my crown!"
Fleetra gathered them up where they’d been discarded, and carried them over to Pentalope. She was about to ask her where she would like them hung, when the mayor reached out and snatched them from her arms and crammed them beneath her nude body, then placed the crown upon her head.
"That will be all - for today. But be back at the first light of dawn tomorrow so we can make my marvelous mantle ready for the morning ration call. It seems to me it needs more pieces attached, uh, here and here and ...” Pentalope's voice had trailed off without finishing the sentence aloud. Her expression revealed she had suddenly become lost in her own thoughts.
Fleetra waited momentarily to see if Pentalope would soon snap back into the outer world. When she didn’t, Fleetra curtsied instinctively, then backed out of the room muttering the habitual, “Yes, ma’am.” Stopping momentarily in the hallway, she peered back in at Pentalope sitting naked in the hollowed stone basin. She felt her body quiver at the sight.
Taking a deep breath, she dashed down the hallway, fearing any moment Pentalope’s shrill, irritating voice would fill the rooms of Center House with her name. It was a sound she hated, but one she tolerated as best she could. What else could she do? No one else in all of Nuttinnew would hire her. She should be grateful to the mayor for giving her work. Over time, she had convinced herself, she was.
Pieces: Book One, The Rending Page 9