Chapter Two -- Refugees

 

 

 

 

 

world alone

a fantasy

 

Chapter  2

Beginnings, Refugees

 

          Ryan could never be certain what truly had happened to him on Q8-EC6.  He only knew that a snippet of time had forever changed him, and whatever path his life took from now on was surely directed from those mysterious moments he could barely recall.  His exposure to the aliens " he chuckled silently, the natives, I’m the alien " had heightened his senses and perceptions to a level that had at first stunned him with vivid colors, screaming sounds and crystalline clarity.  What were once pleasant manifestations of his senses of vision and hearing became amazingly tactile experiences:  the silken and gray billowing masses of fog rolling over the coastal mountains in early evening, the sparkling prism of the morning light, the pristine quiet of this country in the blackness of its starry nights.  His spirit felt in tune with the rush of the wind, the graceful flight of the birds, even with the thunder of the murderous spring thunderstorms that grumbled through these valleys cradled in the rocky arms of jagged and deeply forested mountains. Though Ryan had never been a man who trusted his instincts, he relied wholly now on his intuition, a development which had served him well during his not entirely effortless assimilation into this tiny primitive world called Lairn by its natives and Q8-EC6.

 

          That day on Q8-EC4 had seen him become separated from the recon squad, as he dallied too long over a tiny plant with an exquisite, orchid-like blossom.  That was the extent of his fuzzy recollection, kneeling over the perfect little flower, then straightening to see that he was surrounded by radiant magnificent creatures, the like of which he had never seen.  He remembered no fear, just a mild surprise that his physical self seemed to have lost definition " he could sense no boundary between himself and the beings.  The only other thing he remembered was waking up three days later at the recon craft landing site, just as his fellow crewmen had given up on ever finding him alive.  Though they were greatly relieved to see him, his blank memory and cheerful demeanor aroused uneasy suspicion.  Surely a Terran kidnapped on a heretofore unexplored planet should be reduced to a gibberish-speaking and squalling gelatinous scrap of an organism, they asserted to themselves in the face of his unflaggingly calm and kind behavior.  As time went by, what they began uncomfortably to perceive as a total transformation of Lieutenant Sloan Ryan increased their wariness and doubts.  Quietly, inexorably, they began to keep their distance and finally to avoid his company as completely as it was possible on the small exploration cruiser.  For any crew, camaraderie is certainly a strong component of morale and since all the news from Earth was of the horrific wars and the planet’s descent into chaos, the morale of this tiny enclave could suffer few additional blows and hope to survive.  Soon the captain, a wry and gracious man called Pol Teneflen, was the only crew member who willingly associated with the young botanist Ryan;  the android called Weatherby, who served as aide-de-camp to the captain and was, of course, unmoved by the crew’s very human fears, continued to acknowledge Ryan as an equal and participating crew member.

 

          The fact that he was indeed different was not lost upon Ryan.  He could feel something glowing inside him, something that pulsated and throbbed with joy, with curiosity, with eagerness:  joy even in the face of the bleak news from Earth, even with the almost certain knowledge that he would never see his family and friends again, joy simply for the moment and the fact that another moment was hot on the heels of this one.  It almost felt as though he was constantly on the verge of erupting into laughter.  His knowledge of his own fields of expertise seemed to have exploded overnight, and suddenly those other fields that before had bored or perplexed him seemed exciting and familiar. He found himself studying all manner of material on the ship’s computer, and studying it at a speed he found difficult to believe.  Everything he learned and mastered with these studies only seemed to increase the glow and the warmth he felt within.  And he knew that whatever lit him from within had its beginnings in those three blank days in Q8-EC4. 

 

Solitude became the way of his days, but it was not unpleasant.  He spent the time tinkering with electronic or cybernetic devices alone in his cabin.  At first incredulously and then soberly, he thought he could hear whispers through the bulkhead; after a while, Ryan was thunderstruck to realize that what he heard was the thoughts of his fellow crew members.  At that point, his isolation became more self-imposed; shame kept him in his cell-like quarters, embarrassed that his face would tell all his heart had heard.

 

          Initially his peace was rocked by chaos and panic, but over time, he quieted the cacophony of others’ consciousness and learned to open that conduit only when he felt it necessary.  The wonderful something inside Ryan seemed to grow in strength whenever he struggled and then managed to control each new power that he discovered.  As time passed and the ship called Lady L hurtled through the vacuum of the universe, Ryan came to understand that he was no longer like any other and that every other man must never know that he understood that.

 

          So in the tedious course of time, a series of dispatches from Earth, at first desperate pleas for evacuation craft from the moonbases, then plaintive cries for rescue, and finally a curt and cold statement from the android general of the victorious robotic army of some fundamentalist sect, dismayed, shocked and then devastated the crew of the Lady L.  Hours were spent trying to contact any of the other sixty starships that had been sent from Earth early in the global crisis to try to find planets of refuge.  Sixty starships scattered through the black vastness, but there was only silence to answer their calls.  Pol Teneflen called the crew together to decide on their further course.  He insisted on a one-man one-vote strategy, and they unanimously voted to land her on the first hospitable planet they could find.  The grim pallor of months in space and unspeakable grief of loss permeated the ship and her crew.

 

          Except for Ryan.

 

          He had to steel himself against the howls of pain and sorrow from the minds of his fellows.  Home is gone!  All I love is gone!  Here in the belly of the void, refuge was nowhere in sight.  They mourned for the ocean, the redwoods, they mourned for the mountains, the beaches, the rivers, they keened for the books and music, for the flowers and birds.  My God, they wept, where has God gone?  Their grief for their lost loved ones was unspeakable, and Ryan did his utmost to be deaf to their private grief.  Ryan knew that Earth would probably become a wasteland, like all the other barren rocks in that solar system, but he was not numbed by any grief.  All he felt was acceptance that Earth, and all she held, was dead, and certainty that potential life and potential joy abounded on other tiny blue and green gems scattered through the inky universe.

 

 

 

 

 

          Weatherby found Lairn as he stood midnight watch.  It was a promising little blue and green planet, swathed with fluffs of snowy clouds, with a polar cap and a promising atmospheric readout.  The sensors indicated a small scattered population of humanoid life forms and no technology or industry.  The crew gathered around the view screen after responding to Weatherby’s alert; silently they stared at the pristine little gem of a planet, and silently they thanked whatever their spirits recognized as God. 

 

As was expected of an android, Weatherby volunteered to execute a solo recon, to test definitive gas levels and to assess the environment.  Pol Teneflen chose a landing site in a tiny valley surrounded by very imposing mountains, and soon the unflappable Weatherby was dispatched into the alien land.  Anxious to suck atmospheric air into their lungs, to tread on soft grass or rough stone, to sleep under the night sky rather than in it, to see a sun, any sun break gloriously over the horizon, the crew awaited Weatherby’s return impatiently.  Ryan stayed in his quarters, listening to their murmurings, their cries for their dead loved ones, their tenuous hopes for this new planet.  Occasionally he heard some distant rustling that did not emanate from those in the ship.  Rising and falling in volume, in a musical tongue, the sounds teased him until he realized that the sounds must be from the beings native to this new place.  His excitement grew so that he trembled on the inside.

 

          When Weatherby returned, he explained in his phlegmatic and clinical way that this was a planet that environmentally was very close to Earth, albeit, a younger Earth than we had known; it was very pastoral, almost bucolic, inhabited by a few farmers, some groups with nomadic habits, a scattering of rustic towns, no cities to speak of and a level of civilization that might equate with Earth’s 13^th century.

 

          “There is evidence of something quite like a feudal system, but I could ascertain no power greater than another, just a small group of warlords who rattle sabers at each other and occasionally terrify their citizenry.  All the inhabitants that I encountered spoke slightly varying dialects of a common language, and while none seemed overtly hostile, they were heavily pre-disposed to galloping superstition and quite ready to prescribe anything from a rainstorm to a runny nose to supernatural powers.”

 

Since Weatherby was equipped with cyber-miraculous gizmos, he was able to catalog a great deal of their language for the crew’s future reference, and the ship’s linguistics team, Ensigns Detweiller and Gregorian, were excited to begin the task of creating translation guides and teaching their crew members.  While conducting his language analyses, Weatherby had learned that one group (or tribe, as he explained, the inhabitants seemed to use a word that closely resembled the definition of tribe or clan) was unilaterally distrusted and disliked by all others:  they were called Vlern, and all calamities were blamed on them. Vlern were not physically different from the rest of the natives, but something in their genetic makeup caused an identical birthmark on all who were born Vlern, Weatherby had gathered from his various encounters with the paranoid un-Vlern, and this “mark” inspired terror in all who spoke of it.   Weatherby added mildly that he himself had encountered no Vlern, so he could offer no support to the claims of the natives; by all accounts the Vlern kept to themselves in the rugged mountains, presumably because they tended to be hysterically slaughtered if discovered by these good citizens " who claimed, Weatherby added dryly, that the Vlern could steal their thoughts from their heads! 

 

          At Weatherby’s wry statement, exhilaration shot through Ryan like a thunderbolt; he could scarcely remain still.  Throughout Weatherby’s debriefing, he had stood beside, but a step or two behind, Pol Teneflen, endeavoring to be as inconspicuous as possible.  The thrill of possibly meeting kindred beings trembled inside Ryan.  Through enormous effort, he did manage to remain motionless and was relieved that the eyes of all other crew members stayed riveted to Weatherby’s bland androgynous countenance.  As Weatherby detailed another anecdote of the natives’ superstitions, the rest of the crew gave a derisive, communal guffaw at the childish fears of the natives.  A small smile played at Ryan’s mouth.  Ah, he thought, this makes us big, strong, evolved Earthmen feel better:  the fears and weaknesses of these primitive folk who have not yet managed to rape and demolish their own planet " for a moment we can gloat with superiority.

 

          When he raised his head, he was unnerved to find Pol Teneflen staring at him with a quizzical eye.  Quickly Ryan averted his eyes to Weatherby.

 

          “I have made plans to equip each of you with a translator complete with tutorial " it is hidden in what serves as a belt buckle,” Weatherby explained.  “I have some rudimentary maps drawn also, and those will be duplicated for each of you.  I advise you that it will be wise to decide what useful trade you can master.  This is a society that works with its hands.  It is also a society with no appearance of charity or social welfare.  Without a skill or goods to trade, one will go hungry.  From all appearances, those who cannot take care of themselves are put into service to others, so to retain your personal autonomy, you must be able to flourish in a trade or trade on your knowledge.  There is no technology in this society and to avoid suspicion, you must take very little of that nature with you.”

 

          Sounds of protest were made.  Pol Teneflen stepped to Weatherby’s side and gestured for silence.

 

          “I understand your reluctance to abandon our fantastic tools and wonderful toys,” he said, smiling, “but I think you will agree that, in the long run, the technology of Earthmen has not served us well.”  He paused to look at each of their faces.  “Let us become part of this world without the baggage of the last.  Weatherby and I have designed a gear pack that should enable each of you to survive comfortably the elements and maintain your nutrition level for three months -- with discreet use of items that might raise suspicion with the locals.  The solar batteries in the translators, of course, have infinite life.  Assisted by Weatherby’s observations and the ship’s sensors, we can fashion suitable clothing and possibly map some itineraries for you.  Of course, you are free to take anything from the ship that will not draw undue attention and may be of some use to you.  The males among you may disperse as you please, but I caution the six female crew members:  in this culture, sadly, women are virtual slaves, dependent upon the good graces of men to support them, feed them, protect them.  When Weatherby said the 13^th century, he was by no means exaggerating.  While I cannot allow you to take any of our modern weapons, I will insist that each woman seriously consider choosing at least one male companion -- if only to validate herself in this new society.  After you assimilate, perhaps you can make subtle rearrangements in your situation, but I do advise extreme caution on your part.”

 

          The female crew members were visibly shaken by this disclosure, but since several of them already had attachments to male crew members, there were no displays of emotional devastation or righteous indignation.  What choice do I have? Ryan heard Glenna grimly consider.  Indeed, he agreed silently.

 

          “What about you, Captain?  What will you do?”  Detweiller asked Teneflen, signaling a chorus of like questions.

 

          “Well, truthfully, I haven’t decided yet,” Teneflen replied.  “Weatherby and I will, of course, secure the Lady somewhere safe, and then I’ll probably spend some time organizing logs and dispatches " write the mission’s final reports, you know.”

 

          Ryan heard all of them think almost an identical thought:  why?  And Ryan agreed:  the regime of officialdom is no longer.  His eyes caught Teneflen’s for an instant and there Ryan saw despair.

 

          Teneflen cleared his throat before continuing.

 

          “Of course, Weatherby and I will program an automatic repeating transmission to our sister ships so they may join us if they wish. When those tasks are done, I will turn my attention to the matter of my niche in this new place.  Maybe someday we will all meet here again and regale one another with tales of our adventures.”  Deftly he turned the attention from himself and strode forward to shake the hand of each crew member and wish them luck.  They, in turn, began to shake the hands of their comrades, embrace one another and mouth the stanzas of hope that launch such a journey.  Only Ryan stood apart, that small smile still on his lips, the truest hope inside of him, singing like a soprano.

 

 

 

 

 

 

          Ryan was the last to leave on his journey into this brave new world of Lairn.  Rather perversely enjoying the apprehension of his companions, he watched them preparing for their departures, each one silently terrified that Ryan would ask to be included in their parties.  To their collective relief, he never did, only bade each of them a solemn farewell accompanied by a wish for good luck.  He felt their enormous gladness to leave him behind, and he felt their barely concealed terror of the unknown before them. What a beautiful tableau, he thought:  they were the finest of the fine, a few gleaned from Earth’s brightest and best, whose frailties only began to show in the confines of that lonely starship.

 

          Four groups had formed:  Phillip Detweiller, Gianna Corlotta, Sharif el Halid and Chloe Twambatu had elected to become a party of man and wife and servants, since Chloe was apprehensive about ethnic structure in this society and was uncertain how a woman of color would fare;  Doctor Benjamin Diaz de Leon, Stephan Robataille, Zhen Wu, Dieter Mueller, Subash Patel, Lourdes Hidalgo, Michael Gregorion, Glenna Wade and Clive Mackey had decided to become a roving band of players, since they would be acting their asses off anyway, Patel joked.  Weatherby actually seemed to enjoy amassing a collection of costumes and scripts for them, somewhat titillated by bringing Shakespeare to a virgin planet.  Christian Duchant, distraught that Chloe would not accompany him, set off on his own with no verbalized plan, a matter that clearly disturbed Captain Teneflen and Weatherby happened to mention that a number of animal embryos were missing from the cryolab along with a portable refrigeration unit.  The remaining women on the crew, Lin Zhu and Allessande Sebastian and, had banded together with Nicolay Polevitsky and Angus Fitzgerald and coyly refused to discuss their plans, but seemed quite confident that they would flourish. Ryan heard hints concerning the brewing process and the profitability of pubs and every man needed drink, now didn’t he?

 

          Ryan let a day pass after the departure of the last group.  He and Weatherby scouted the valley for a suitable place to secure the ship so that it would not be observed.  By midday they had found a suitable hollow under a granite outcropping where Weatherby could maneuver the ship and calculate a cloaking force field around it.  Ryan assisted Weatherby in securing the Lady L in her snug hiding place and policed the now vacant quarters of his departed team members, quietly commandeering any useful little items he found; his newfound knowledge could make marvelous use of these gadgets, he guessed.  He felt no guilt. 

 

The captain was withdrawn.  How hollow the ship seems, Ryan mused as the sounds of his own footsteps echoed in the air.  The sound of Lin’s vivacious banter and her wonderful laugh still seemed to echo with his footsteps.  This is the sound of loneliness, Ryan told himself, only the sound of the air coming into my lungs and going out again, the memory of someone’s dark eyes, the memory of musical laughter.  But Ryan could be comforted:  inside him was that wonderful thing, that wonderful something that would sustain him.  What, he wondered, what will sustain Pol Teneflen?

 

“Well, sir, I am ready to leave.”

 

          Pol Teneflen was staring at a small screen with vacant eyes; he looked up when Ryan spoke to him, and in the space of a heartbeat, smiled and reached forward to grasp Ryan’s hand.

 

          “Good luck to you, young man.  Yes, I see you have all your gear.  You haven’t told me what it is that you plan to do.”

 

          “Well, sir, as a botanist, I think I can probably either do some farming or work on somebody else’s farm, maybe teach some modern methods -- I did take the liberty of helping myself to a number of bulk seed stores from the hydroponics lab, sir.  Then, too, I worked my way through college as a magician, and in my first two years at the Academy, I trained as an emergency medical technician specializing in survivalist methodology -- perhaps I can be a witch doctor.”

 

          They both laughed.  There was a pause, Teneflen obviously casting about for what to say next.  He was spared further awkwardness when Weatherby joined them.

 

          “Lieutenant Ryan, I see that you are preparing to set out.”

 

          “Indeed, Weatherby, I am, at last, ready.”

 

          “I am concerned, Ryan, that you were not interested in joining any of the other groups.  I realize that Christian’s solo exit was due to his distress over Chloe’s decision, but you didn’t seem to wish to join a group at all” Teneflen said, rubbing his chin.

 

          Weatherby, looking Ryan directly in the eye, replied blandly, “I think it is not a matter of Lieutenant Ryan wishing to join the other groups, but the groups desiring no more members.”

 

          “Quite so,” Ryan replied quickly.  How odd, he thought, evaluating the steady and level gaze of Weatherby, he is the one being I cannot examine down to the lint in his quasi-bellybutton, and yet I think he knows everything about me.  With that thought, Ryan realized how very much he relished his power, and how very much he did not relish the possibility of Weatherby knowing of it.

 

          “You have all your gear, Ryan?”  Teneflen asked, feeling rather like a fussy father sending a boy off to the first day of school, “you have the maps, your translator, the nutrition packs?”

 

          “Yes, sir, all of it.  I’m ready to go.”  Ryan slipped on the crude backpack that Weatherby had fashioned to resemble those he saw on the natives.  A heavy fabric bag stuffed with the seed samples he had scavenged from the hydroponics lab was slung over one shoulder.  With his free hand, he gave the captain and Weatherby a brief salute and strode out of the Captain’s quarters, down the gangplank and into a new life on Lairn.

 

 

 

 

          The tapestry of those moments spun in Ryan’s mind as he knelt shortly beyond the edge of a roughly plowed field, using the cover of a small riotous hedge to observe a farmer stomping clumsily among the dirt clods, profanely exhorting a small filthy person wielding a crude hoe.  The past few months had taught him to assess these possible encounters carefully before approaching.  The something wonderful was still inside Ryan, but on the outside he was a little bruised, a little wary and a little weary, and that without somewhat muted the beautiful sound within.

 

          So far in his journey he had met none of the notorious Vlern, though he had heard many a bloodcurdling tale of them, and the reactions he received when he inquired about the Vlern certainly discouraged any further inquiries. As bright and favored as he felt he was, Ryan was not prepared for the brutality, the ignorance and the sheer grime of a time that “roughly equated” with Earth’s 13^th century.  Longingly he dreamed of hot showers and luxuriously lathering bars of delicately scented soap, clean underwear, soft toilet paper and clean sheets.  My God, he groaned inwardly, clean sheets, a real bed and a soft pillow to bury my face in!

 

          The farmer howled with displeasure and smacked the small person with a great filthy paw.  The slight figure straightened somewhat, almost defiantly, Ryan thought, as the farmer danced about in rage, gesturing at the hoe and then at the ground, shouting utterly incomprehensible sounds that surely must be four-star curses, Ryan guessed.

 

 

 

 

          Locat wanted to hit the little wretch again, but the glint from her dark blue eyes frightened him, reminding him too well of the barbarian Vlern with the flaming red hair and glittering blue eyes who came charging down from the mountains years ago -- the same savage who burned his barn, laid waste to his fields and raped his woman to beget this devil’s spawn before him now.  Every time Locat was near the little wretch, he trembled with anger and terror, and could only protect himself by striking her or screaming at her.  No punishment seemed to weaken her, and Locat had tried to punish her for even the air she breathed.  How he had wanted to kill the brat when she was born, that red fuzz on her crown declaring her kinship to the Vlern warrior who had raided Locat’s farm,  but Locat’s wife had begged him to let the child live, promising the child would become a servant to them.  Each time Locat caught sight of the crescent shaped mark on her cheek, the mark of Vlern, the bile rose in his throat.  Years ago, he had banished her from the small shelter and fire he shared with the rest of his family; he beat his wife to silence her tears and protests.  Early in their lives, his other children learned that shunning their older sister would ease their lives considerably.  Now, Locat swore, she could not even do this work to earn the food for her damned belly; he was accursed with the burden of her, he should string her skinny carcass in the trees for the mountain eagles to feed on --

 

          She spat at him.

 

          The growl began deep in Locat’s gut, and he began to lunge towards the brat when he heard a stranger’s voice behind him.

 

          “Eh?  Who goes there?”

 

          “Brother, brother,” Ryan began tentatively, feverishly wondering what words he could string together to divert this great oaf from beating what Ryan had realized was an adolescent child.  “I am a traveler here on your road and I heard your voice. Can I help in your fields for a night’s stay at your fire?”  Ryan instructed his voice to be soothing in an effort to calm; he had read the maelstrom of bitterness and fear in Locat’s heart and realized that murder was a very real possibility.

 

          Locat turned towards the voice, squinting in the sun.  He saw a very clean man, possibly the cleanest man Locat had ever seen, fair of face with pale hair, rare in these parts, smiling with the smile of a man who has not one ounce of guile in him.  A scholar, Locat thought, or a noble, or a noble’s kin, but certainly someone whom Locat did not wish to witness Locat murdering this small wretch.

 

          “Eh -- what -- oh, yes, good brother " friend,” Locat grunted, straightening himself and facing the clean man.  “Traveling, eh -- yes, yes, help in the fields would be good -- this little pig cannot do it " she cuts the seedlings,” he snarled at the small figure behind him.

 

          So it is a girl child, Ryan thought as he probed the tangle in the farmer’s brutish mind to find the reason for Locat’s venomous hate for this child.  The savage tableau that Ryan perceived unnerved him, and he pitied the small girl who was damned by a parentage and vicious history barely understandable to her.  Try as he might, he could hardly see himself as her rescuer, but something in him made his reason close its eyes to reality; he was ready to use all cunning and wiles to snatch this underfed and abused little wretch from Locat’s grasp.  Ryan considered the cache of worthless but glittering trinkets he had acquired on his travels as he bartered his way from settlement to settlement.  Surely Locat’s interest could be piqued by some exotic junk, Ryan chuckled inwardly, and he could strike a bargain for the girl, especially since Locat seemed frustrated to the point of madness with her recalcitrant manner.

 

          The girl was motionless, watching this stranger through narrowed eyes, small slits of startling, almost violet blue fastened on Ryan.  Ryan could sense her ambivalence towards him, but at that moment, he needed to concentrate all of his persuasive powers on Locat.

 

          “I have traveled a long way, friend, and I have acquired a few small treasures along my weary path.  The shadows of this day grow long, and I yearn to rest in the shade of yon tree with your fine self.  The sun is hot on my noggin and dust is in my eyes. Can we speak as brothers, and may I ask of you sanctuary on your fine land this evening?  I can pay you, friend, with goods for my keep this night, eh?”  Ryan pulled the backpack from shoulder as they together strode the wide and cool shade of an ancient tree at the edge of the field and squatted together in the shadow of the wide branches.

 

Ryan’s fingers dug in the backpack, identifying the objects by their feel: a string of amber-colored glass beads he had gained in an amiable barter with a cheerful young prostitute at the last village back over the ridge of green hills behind him; the smoothly worn tapping sticks used as percussion instruments by village musicians; a leather flask filled with a fiery home brew that had warmed his Terran bones on frosty nights; a small animal skin scroll inscribed with strange characters purported to tell Vlern secrets; a crudely made bracelet of a silver-colored metal that never seemed to tarnish encrusted with probably worthless, roughly cut but shiny stones;  two small wooden bowls and awkward spoons worn smooth as silk with years of use;  several hermetically sealed packets of electronic gear scavenged from the Lady L;  and the polished stainless steel frame holding a picture of his parents and two sisters, taken on Earth, in Yosemite before his tour of duty began on the Lady L.  A stab of pain woven of sorrow and loneliness sliced through Ryan, causing him to close his eyes briefly and endeavor to prevent his sudden intake of breath from becoming a sob.  After an infinitesimal moment, his fingers confidently grasped the amber beads; ah, he thought, if only they were truly amber, and I had in my grasp a tangible and beautiful link to my home!  He handed the beads to the farmer, and Locat grinned greedily as he fingered the string of beads.  Encouraged by Locat’s response to the worthless beads, Ryan thought giddily. Magic beans!  I need some magic beans to bilk this Jack out of his cow!   He quietly removed his hand from the backpack and stuffed it into the rough fabric bag contain the hundreds of seed samples.  Magic beans!  Of course!

 

“Aha, my friend, I have something here from the far reaches of our world, from the perpetual garden of heaven --” Ryan fervently hoped he sounded convincing. “This will transform your field into exotic plenty, the likes of which your lord has never seen!”  He drew several packages from his bag and glanced quickly at the labels with their lush renderings of the resultant plants: several varieties of both fat and sleek squash and melons, silver and yellow corn, haricots vert, dark and plump tomatoes, delicate French breakfast radishes, curly spinach, feathery fennel, durum wheat, glossy elegant eggplant, long luxurious leeks, bok choy, dense crisp Napa cabbage and several packets of hot and hotter peppers.

 

“Eh?” Locat grunted and grabbed the packages, staring at each illustration in turn with growing amazement.  “What is this, traveler?  These I have never seen! Where is this place you call heaven?  Can we eat such plants?  Can my woman cook these?  Can my fields grow these things?”  Locat paused as a sobering thought overtook his excitement.  “Will my Lord Brunin accept these as part of my tribute after harvest?”

 

Ryan had already seen the subsistence diet of the peasants in this place:  a couple of strong tasting root vegetables similar to turnips and some field greens that grew wild supplemented with small portions of meat that doled out by their overlords.  He realized that not only would Locat elevate himself to local celebrity status with these plants, but his Lord Brunin’s stature would grow in turn since Locat was his vassal.  Knowing that the tribute extracted by the feudal lords sometimes defaulted to the farmers’ livestock if the harvest was poor and that in more desperate times, the farmers’ children might be pressed into slavery, Ryan was sure that these seeds would serve Locat well, intrigue his feudal lord, and in time, perhaps benefit more of the peasants living in these foothills. 

 

“I am sure your Lord Brunin will welcome such tribute with delight, and you shall become his favorite vassal!  I will tell you all about these -- how they must be planted and cared for -- how you must save some of the harvest to make more seed for the next year!  Such delectable fruit, friend!  These are like seed you have ever grown! They are blessed to grow huge --“

 

Locat suddenly scowled.  “Bewitched seed?” he snarled. “I’ll ha’ no cursed Vlern magic on my land!”

 

“No, brother, never!” Ryan sought to reassure him.  “It is your land and your good skills that bless them!  It is the good sun and the good rain " all the good things that already visit your good farm here.  Call your cleverest children here, and I will teach you of these plants now.”  Ryan gingerly patted the filthy back of Locat, thankful that manipulation of plant genetics was not a familiar subject to the farmer.  Locat seemed to calm, and his avaricious grin slowly crept back to his face.  Ryan could sense that Locat felt sure that he was fleecing this pale, clean stranger.

 

Ignoring the still motionless figure of the girl standing in the field, Locat bellowed a summons towards the hut, and two children, as grubby as their father, scampered from the hut to stand slightly behind Locat, peering around his shoulder at Ryan, blinking their wide and dark brown eyes at his cleanliness.  Ryan smiled at them and lifted one of the packets to show them the picture.  A woefully thin boy of perhaps seven or eight grabbed the packet from Ryan and sniffed it noisily, stroking the picture and examining it with what Ryan perceived to be a keen eye.  Ah, Ryan thought, here is the Einstein of the family.

 

Carefully Ryan explained the seeds, their planting and care, their appearances at the various stages of growth, the determination of harvest time, how to preserve some seed from the harvest for the next year, and how to use the wonderful fruits and vegetables resulting from their labors.  The keen-eyed boy was quite attentive, squatting in the grass, picking at his dirty toes as he listened to Ryan, even breaking in with several astute questions.  Locat merely nodded and occasionally grunted, obviously proud of his quick-witted son.

 

“Boy is sly, eh?” Locat chuckled when Ryan had exhausted the knowledge he could leave with the seeds, and the two children skipped back to the hut to fetch their mother.

 

“A brilliant son, yes, very sly -- he will serve you well on this farm -- better than the scrawny little wretch in the field, I daresay.”

 

At the mention of the girl, Locat’s head snapped in her direction and his ferocious scowl returned.

 

“That one " “ he spat in her direction, “she is the spawn of the thooradan -- a snake in our house -- her bony body is like a rock, her head like a rock and her stubborn heart like a rock!  She gives no work and pleasure " I will cut up her stringy body and use her to bait my forest traps!”

 

Ryan felt suddenly chilled by the image the man’s conjured, and the chill was deepened when Ryan verified that image with Locat’s thoughts: the brutish farmer’s body pinning the girl to the ground and slamming himself into her.  Ryan choked back the nausea; he cleared his throat and felt his heartbeat quicken -- this is the time -- carefully -- carefully --

 

“Honorable brother, why not send the bony little b***h with me? I am in need of a slave, and I would relish the beating of her.”  Ryan smiled beatifically.  Locat snorted a short laugh and then grew quiet to consider this proposition.  Ryan thought dryly, he’s going to up the ante.

 

“But who will do her work, brother?  If we make such a bargain, I must be paid more.  She is not much, devil’s spawn she is, but she is my slave,” Locat asserted.

 

          Ryan pulled from his pack the gaudy bracelet and two bags of medicinal herbs, Locat laughed roughly as he snatched the bracelet.

 

          “Keep your dried grass and twigs -- I’ll take the jewels and you can take the wretch!”

 

          “But brother, this is no ordinary grass and twigs,” Ryan protested.  “It is potions to keep sickness off your children and woman -- so they can be strong to work your fields.”

 

          Cackling softly, Locat grabbed the bags of herbs, and Ryan heard his thought: I am no fool you can swindle, stranger!  Ryan offered his arm in friendship and Locat clasped it.

 

          “Then our arrangement is satisfactory, brother farmer?  My gifts of the seeds and these other treasures for yon slave?”

 

          “The bargain is done, traveler! I am happy with my end, but down the road with that little hellion, you may think better of it!”  Locat rumbled with laughter at his own cleverness as he beckoned to his wife; a gaggle of dirty urchins huddled behind her, the smallest clinging to her mother’s worn skirt with tiny grubby fists.  The gaunt woman had been standing a few paces away, trying to ascertain what was transpiring between her husband and the clean pale stranger.  When Locat once again impatiently beckoned to her, she hastened to his side, her face apprehensive.  Ryan thought, well, he has no shortage of candidates for beating and screwing -- everyone here except the clever little boy seems to be totally subservient to the great pig.

 

          When Locat bragged to her of his bargain, her gasp was perceptible, and the sideways glance she turned to the lonely figure still standing in the field, now soft in the twilight, was fleeting but also tender.  Then responding to Locat’s sharp voice, she began to nod in assent with him; disagreement would only bring his anger crashing down her and her children.  If she ached, no one would know, she reasoned in her mother’s heart, and if the little Vlern were gone, perhaps Locat would be in a better humor, and life might be easier for her and remaining children.  As Ryan heard that thread of reasoning in her mind, he thought, not bloody likely, dear -- this b*****d is a born tyrant. He sensed the sorrow in the mother, but more resignation.