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Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Cardomon II: Sketches for Chapter Seven



Colonist’s hostility toward Leon was high, Hermione made a command decision for his safety: “We’ll escort him to Firstown and secure him for trial.”
Luenda was ready to secure him that moment, hand rested upon her knife hilt, eyes rested upon the prisoner: “Waste of time, we know what he’s done. Savaged our community and murdered Chowder! We finished Jason’s life, let’s do the logical thing… ” fingers curled around the weapon handle.
“I don’t know you, you seem a fine woman, but if you touch that man I will shoot you.” Hermione’s grip settled upon her sidearm.
Luenda stared with incredulous rage, stifled an outburst. Hunter’s eyes studied the merchant’s and saw affinity. Each had a long cast to her view, knit brows rimmed deep sockets, return looks flashed.
Not angry, proud and determined.
She liked the older woman and recognized superior experience and knowledge—wisdom.
Luenda relaxed, her hand dropped away from the knife: “He is going to pay… ”
“Yes—we’ll render justice. Appropriately.”
“You’re the new space trader?”

A sweet smile under a combat helmet: “Hermione Chockswindae, master of the Almanor. Whom have I pleasure… ?”
“I’m Luenda Mucetti—I live here.”
“I have heard of you. One of my crew has become quite fond already.” She turned her smile toward Alicia.
Puzzled, Luenda followed the glance, the crew member in battle gear was unfamiliar.
Alicia spoke: “We met yesterday,” removed helmet. “Just for a minute and in all of the craziness… ”
Recognition: “Peter’s new girlfriend?”
“Sort of… It’s Edzelian I really love… ”
Post-combat tension broke and Luenda laughed with a tummy rub and a hip slap, Hermione and Alicia grinned with her.

Music drew them to the door: violin and percussion, fast, brilliant, double and triple-timed, syncopated. Chloe opened the Old Firstown shed’s door, Pyteman followed her in. The sound expanded around them, reverberated from a high ceiling and bare walls.
The musician was solo, upon a small wooden stage—Kaila. Hair pinned up, in an exercise halter and shorts, on her feet were hard-soled wedge shoes.
She played and danced a hot leg-chop, kicking steps banged the stage like a drum, heel and toe clappers helped accent and interest, feral shouts reinforced it.
In full session, not expecting visitors, oblivious.
Pyteman and Chloe found chairs and took positions of admiration.
She saw them and halted with one sudden high kick stomp that rattled the walls. Made an ankle deep bow, lifted the fiddle and stick over her rump, came up with a ‘Whew!’ and tossed the sweat off of her brow. Catching wind, she let them speak.
Chloe: “Fantastic! How do you do that?”
“Lotta practice. It’s my workout, I drink whiskey—calories, dance them off and keep my tiny waistline, the kick steps build the derriere… “ she wriggled her rounded out shorts saucily.
Pyteman: “We’re not intruding… ?”
“Ready to pack it in, been here an hour. Speaking of whiskey, can I offer?”
Visitors nodded happily.
There was a cabinet, she put the instrument atop and pulled a bottle from a shelf, three glasses.
Dragged two chairs over, seat and bar. She poured.
Chloe: “Jolrae told us to look in on this. He said you draw a scene… ”
“They pop in and watch, someone brings a guitar or Patty will have her clarinet—she dances too, not the kicking thing. It gets social sometimes,” her smile claimed a broad definition for the word ‘social’.
Pyteman spoke over his tumbler: “We’d like to arrange a band. I’m having my workmen convert an empty warehouse into a showroom. The real deal: stage, sound and lights, casino on the side and a restaurant kitchen. Only thing missing is an orchestra.”
“That’s exciting! When will you open?”
“The work should take about three months.”
“Rehearsal time—I know everybody with an instrument, we’ll do it! Would this be a paid gig?”
Pyteman laughed and Chloe stretched indulgent lips, he spoke: “You’re sharp! We’ll make an arrangement—credit on your catalog accounts?”
Sipping warm whiskey with a smooth smile, Kaila said: “Yeah, we’ll make an arrangement… ”

They found the abandoned shoulder bags and deduced that there was still a weapons cache nearby. Luenda led a search party uphill from where they first encountered the late renegades. It didn’t take much poking to discover the crevice and the hollow space behind. The floor was still knee deep in lethal hardware, what they couldn’t see was the quantity that Cal had removed and concealed high up in the foliage of a densely leafed tree, nor did they discover a single pharmaceutical.
The artist watched them from his burnt-hollow trunk, covered in soot. He wasn’t that disappointed, the items they recovered were of less interest to him, many were too heavy to handle alone.
But the day was warming up and he had been drinking only creek water since leaving the cliff-top still. He decided to go to Drunkard’s Den, already a preferred location.
Spear carriers Borin and Sappo confronted him at the entrance to the stillhouse clearing. They were old friends blinded by drugs and alcohol. Cal offered a vial of white pills: “Here boys.”
Suddenly they recognized him and lowered their weapons.
Delgard greeted him at the A-frame shed: “Man, you need a bath! Go jump in the river.”
“Gimme a drink!”
Delgard saw eyes he wasn’t going to argue with, went inside and fetched a jug.
Cal gurgled it, let the liquor splash down his chin, it dissolved the soot, made thick black streams down his shirt.

Yet another new environment, Taralisa’s Garden, Mabutu explored. As at Branch House rising before dawn and following shadows. He looked though windows and wondered about the artifacts and people inside. Questions: What? Why? Who? Lack of answers made him anxious. He tried doors, none were locked, latches and hinges were smooth and silent.
Not yet bold enough to enter, he looked through the opened portals, frustrated.
The move helped Salyanna’s spirit, finished the physiological side of recovery. Sweet mountain air and misty cascades pulled her away from convalescence—she took up walking. Mabutu showed the trails.
Children stayed three weeks during cleanup and repair at Branch House.
Brothel babe and eunuch found a favorite spot, a throne shaped boulder adjoining a stair-step brook. Salyanna took the seat, Mabutu knelt on a log at her hips, put his head on her lap and they slept the warmer part of the afternoons.
Woke once to find two children sitting in the stream with the cold water running over their backs and shoulders, swirling around their laps and feet. They looked quite comfortable.
Without makeup Ali Battaglia had a simple freckled face, short lashes, no mole, nor dimple and thin sober lips, Massive hair draped ropy down her frame, the ends tumbled in the cascade. She spoke to Mabutu’s eyes, on level with hers: “Hi!”
“Hello… ?”
Rajin Syneid had only shoulders and head above the spume, wet-down, his thin hair virtually disappeared: “You guys found the good spot,” thin smile was a practiced look, somber eyes failed to assist the humor.
Mabutu was wary, Salyanna was curious. Heretofore the native children had avoided the newcomers—except Luvin’s habit of ambushing the eunuch.
Ali: “We’ve wanted to see you without grownups around.”
Rajin: “Or Luvin… ”
“Yeah—without Luvin.”
“He’s mean and he doesn’t like you.”
“Or us… ”
“He hates everybody, never talks nice.”
“We’ve seen him knock you down.”
“Knocks me down when grownups don’t watch.” Rajin wiped a trickle from his brow: “They don’t notice, always think it’s play but he likes to make me hurt… ”
“We wanna stop him… ”
“You’re bigger, and if we get a couple other kids with us, we can knock him down and he’ll see what we feel.”
“The ‘Not Luvin’ club, see?” She looked to Salyanna’s eyes: “Moms say you’re a kid too, even grownup the way you are. Said people used to hurt you and we figure that means you can fight. With you in the club, Luvin has to go away.”
Rajin nodded and made a serious face, unintentionally comic in its severity.
Ali continued: “All us older kids wanna watch so we gotta make a plan for how we get him… ”

Other kids left him alone and Luvin was glad for it—they were finally getting the message: he didn’t like them. He craved solitude and with half the families in the Vale sheltering Taralisa’s Garden was the largest crowd he’d seen since last year when NanaMel took him to the Games and the angry Meeting that followed.
He still had the Boris carved flute she gave him, kept it away from sight, with other memories of NanaMel.
And new memories, visions of his mother and a madman, triumphant until Luenda entered. A man of power, driving with fists, taking and forcing—potent. Luvin understood the madman.

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