CH01DoF

Once upon a time, there was a race of beings so brilliant, that they were able to develop miracles of science so great, that they could cross their world in minutes, double or even triple their natural lifespans, and even flee from the restraint of their planet's gravity well. Some how these savants were able to send some representatives of their race beyond the constraints of their sun as well. These same miraculous beings were so debased that they regularly murdered their own people, forced some of their young to starve to death, and had invented the most prosaic words to explain their actions, with things like "capitalism" or "manslaughter".

The sun shone down upon woman and field, warming and revealing the glowing hint of life in both. The summer heat was tempered by humidity hazing the air, and restrained by fluffy clouds above. As she walked along vibrant green fields, one hand rested upon the gentle swell of her belly. She stooped and gathered a handful of dirt. Running her hand through, moist, dark-brown, loamy soil full of life and potential. As her soft hands sifted the soil, it fell away in the mild wind leaving ladybugs, and worms that made it so vital, and one curiosity that caught her eye. She turned the object in her hands revealing a lone penny. Old and tarnished with verdigris, it dated from 1903. She turned her gentle brown eyes to the horizon as he stood. Nearly as far as she could see, were verdant green waves, as different crops were planted in organized rows. In the distance tractors moved through picking summer grains and vegetables to send to distant places, Chicago, and Denver two likely shipping locations. She turned and continued walking back toward her distant home. The beautiful old-style farmhouse painted in vibrant colors, lovingly maintained. Her regular path, walked often, was free from obstacles, as with the new life swelling inside her it became more difficult to walk every day. Her nose crinkled with her odd enigmatic smile, as she remembered her husband teasing her for waddling along the path.

As she came closer to the house, the irrigation system spraying the fields, caught her in a gentle mist. The aquifer under their land providing life giving water to the crops in the fields. Further in the distance, cars sped by on the highway, zipping with urgency from place to place, a sign of a vibrant economy thriving. She passed the house and made her way to the road, as she could see the approaching mail carrier bringing their daily allotment of bills and junk mail. She spoke with the older woman as she took the mail, joking about nothing important as they waved in passing, the social rituals having been observed. She sorted through the mail, a bill for Horace, a couple of advertisements for him too, today she was the winner, none for her. She made her way back to the house, she could see Horace moving his tractor into the barn, busy on his errands. The gentle sway of the porch swing, and the faint susurrus of wind through the crops louder than the sound of heavy machinery; she smiled while thinking of him. She walked up the solid stairs, marveling at the strength and craftsmanship Horace brought to everything he did. The porch and stairs would likely still be strong and solid when their children took over the farm. Things like stairs were harder each day, and she could hardly wait until the baby was born, so she could get back to normal. She passed the front door, moving past beautiful detail work and hand painting on the hand-crafted porch rails, to the back yard and her special place.

Where the fields that Horace worked were neat and well-ordered, they were business like; her garden area, though much smaller, was chaotic and filled with colorful life. While most of their money came from selling the crops each year, most of their food came from her garden. She spent some time weeding and tending the garden, taking from its bounty for their midday meal. Standing up something of a chore, she brought her armful of food to the house. The back door into the kitchen was more utilitarian than the beauty and craftsmanship at the front, but it was still solidly built, and likely to stand for an age. The door opened on well oiled hinges, with nary a squeak. She placed their lunch in the deep sink for rinsing and headed in to wash up before cooking. The kitchen bath was all hers. Flowers adorned the walls and several plaques with corny platitudes were mounted on the walls. Everything was neat, and obviously had a woman’s touch.

With a hum of the water pumps, she drew cool clean water. Nothing like the alkaline tasting well water she grew up with. With the inexpensive fuel, niceties like electricity and clean running water were luxuries she had become happily accustomed to. All of their saving allowed them to purchase the combine, and other equipment to help expand the farm, Horace was able to do more of the heavy work of the farm with less effort. They prepared for a family and looked to the future. Really, their needs were not much yet, but would likely grow when their first child arrived. As she worked on lunch, she could see the new garden shed Horace had made for her beyond the garden itself. The pastel colors she loved adorned her private spaces. The small shrine she placed for her mother and father well-tended, and blended with the rest of her private things. The harmony of the farm surrounding the disorder of her space was a pleasant contrast. She had her small smile as she worked to prepare food for her man. Some small extra effort to make things she knew he liked bringing her joy even as she labored. Before long, she heard him coming in for lunch. A kiss on the back of her neck, fortunately she had taken time to put her full and silky black hair up in a bun to make it possible. She smiled even more. Her tall, strong man had cleaned himself up before helping her to serve their food. Mostly simple things from the bounty of their farm and garden, served on the well-loved plates that she preferred. A few small touches showing the care and expertise she lavished on the food.

They finished their repast, and spent some time catching up on the events of the day. While they were efficient in their time, they still had time for tenderness and enjoyment of their food. The meal was lovingly prepared, and with love it was shared. As Horace returned to his afternoon duties, she returned to the garden, the electric whine as she started the watering system followed her. The beauty of numerous different plants with flowers and leaves and fruit of every color were the scenery as she walked to the back end of the garden. With care and gentleness, she laid her soft and supple hands upon each shrine. Each shrine was unadorned except for a simple name (in Japanese Kanji), Mofune Shiro, and Mofune Tetsuki. She placed fresh flowers by each shrine. The perpetual smile turned to something both more human, and much gentler as she muttered a faint Japanese prayer by each of them. Overall, she spent most of the afternoon tending her garden, and then repeated the ritual of meal preparation for dinner. Again, they shared the food lovingly prepared, and talked about the happenings of the day as well as the hope of the future they both looked toward. As they were both cleaning up from dinner, a movement in her belly tickled her into a surprised “Oh!”. They shared the moment feeling the kicking together, and staring into one another’s eyes.

As the time came to prepare for bed, she sat at her dressing table. In the center of the table was her treasure box. A small rosewood box she had painstakingly joined with no nails or glue. It was hand carved with Japanese Kanji. On top was her name, Mofune Kumiko and Remembrance Box, both in Kanji carved with care on the lid. The box was painted in her preferred pastel colors and lacquered so that it would last long enough to be handed down to their children. It embodied all that she hoped for the future. She opened the cleverly made box with just a hint of a hope filled smile. Several objects with memories and personal value were nestled within. In the place of honor within was a small golden locket with a fine golden chain. The locket was created by an artist in her father’s home town, and had a clever double catch mechanism. Using her deft fingers, she quickly clicked the secret catch open twice revealing two compartments inside. In the right or main compartment was a black and white picture of a young woman with the same smile as hers. Her hair done in the same style, and wearing tortoise shell combs just like hers, actually the same that she currently wore. In the smaller left compartment, were several baby teeth and several long black hairs, fine as only children’s hair can be. After a moment looking at the locket, she closed it back up, and grabbed the next several items, several small seashells claimed from a beach in the Hamptons while on honeymoon with Horace. A tender smile touched her face as she rubbed the shiny shells. Next, she pulled some ribbons from the box, made of silk, and brightly colored. She remembered her first day at American school her mother had helped her tie her hair up in intricately twisted, braided pig-tails using these ribbons. She smiled some more, and placed the combs from her hair into the box. The tortoise shell combs were her mother’s favorite, and had another place specially reserved in the box just for them. Finally, she pulled out the penny found in the field today. As she gently cleaned the green deposits from the verdigrised copper. Once she had cleaned it up, she gently rubbed it until it shone almost like it was glowing.

Part of the ritual for each object was to impress the memory upon her mind, and then to lovingly recreate it each evening. The locket helped her to remember her grandmother who died when she was so young. The ribbons, the remembered joy of meeting new friends, as she knew almost no one until she had gone to school, with the move to America severing all ties with her past. From the shells, she remembered the joy of the love she shared with Horace, and the beauty of their shared moments in the Hamptons, truly a beautiful, magical place. She remembered stepping on a sharp shell piece and cutting open her foot. Horace had carried her half a mile in his big, strong arms to get her to a clinic to stitch up her wound. The fondest of memories, the love and care that he had for her, even stronger than the consummation of their marriage. The penny, as the newest treasure, a symbol of the joy of her new family. The life growing within her belly, soon to join them. The hope for the future that she shared with Horace, soon to share with Adrienne or Simon when they finally joined them.

As she unbound her hair and prepared for bed, her contractions began. The gush as her water broke, taking her by surprise. She cried out to Horace that the time had come. Horace helped her down to the car, money had been budgeted for the impending hospital stay, it was difficult to get to the doctor, but they’d planned for this event for some time. Horace took her to the hospital nearly 30 miles away, the entire trip hazy. Giving birth, and the joy of their new baby boy, Simon, eclipsing everything else. Her eyes grew blurry looking at her man and their child. The sounds of the people around them only barely heard as they had eyes and attention only for the tree of them. Outside, the sound of thunder presaged the coming of a summer thunderstorm, bringing with it life and hope for renewed growth. For some it was a time of new beginnings, and the future looked bright.

* * *

The sun shone down upon man and field, burning and revealing parched crags in both. The summer heat was unrestrained by wispy clouds, nor tempered by humid haze. As he walked along dead and dusty fields, one hand massaged the other, as the twisting of age caught up to him. He stooped and gathered a handful of dirt. Running his hand through, dry silty-brown, crumbled earth more like sand than topsoil. As his experienced hands rubbed the dirt, it blew away in the mild wind leaving nothing but desiccated insects, as even they need water to live. He examined the dead insects, and the dry crumbled earth, no life left in the soil any longer. He turned his sharp blue eyes to the horizon as he stood. Huge clouds of dust were blowing west in the clear blue sky, taking the topsoil that made this the breadbasket of the world and sending it to smother distant lands, not stopping until it hit the front range, or Denver perhaps. He turned and continued walking back toward his distant home. The striking old-style farmhouse painted in fading colors, had seen better days. His path, not walked frequently, was strewn with debris. He had to pay close attention as he walked, with the new pains and swelling in all his joints it became more difficult to walk every day. His eyes squinted with remembered pain, as he recalled his wife teasing him for being too serious, walking this way often.

As he came closer to the house, the irrigation system sat unused. With the pipeline drawing from the Great Lakes, the aquifer under his land dried as well. Further in the distance, dead hulks of cars littered the highway, where they died from lack of fuel. He passed the house and made his way to the road, nothing moved along the road. More derelict cars were strewn along the road, and his old decrepit mail box hung from its post. With the closing of the local post office, there was no need for the box, and nothing important likely needed to be sent to him that required his fixing it. He saw an old advertisement wedged beneath the box. Picking it up he saw it addressed to Miko, she would say that he had won, as all the junk mail was for her. He made his way back to the house; he could see the unmoving tractor beside the fallen down barn. The moaning of the porch swing, and the malevolent hiss of wind blowing away his soil louder than the sound of his thoughts. He walked up the creaking stairs, wondering how long ‘til he’d need to shore them up. Things like that, taking longer and more effort each year. He passed the front door, moving past faded and flaking paint on the splintering and worn porch rails, to the back yard and Miko’s garden area.

Where the fields were dried up and completely dead, you could still see the order of the furrows. The garden area, though much smaller, was much less organized. With the loss of money from selling the crops, most of his food came from the garden. He spent little time weeding and tending the garden, taking food for lunch instead. Standing up something of a chore, with the arthritis in his knees, he brought the armful of food to the house. The back door into the kitchen was less exposed than the front, and was thus not as faded and falling apart. The door opened with a creak from the hinges, in a rusty way. He placed his lunch in the deep sink for rinsing and headed in to wash up before cooking. The kitchen bath had belonged to Miko, so he went into the main bathroom in the front hall. The well-ordered bathroom was meant for guests and visitors, family and friends, nothing adorned the walls and few homey touches were on display. This was a utilitarian room, not meant for dallying. Everything was neat, well-organized, and obviously had a man’s touch.

What water was in the local water table was not as clean and pure as the deeper aquifers that had mostly dried up with the Great Lakes. On the plus side, the deep well had required constant power to draw water, the local well much less. When the Earth First Movement blew up the refineries in Houston and other spots along the Gulf, fuel became too scarce to run the generator except in small amounts. The combine, and other equipment also too expensive to operate, he was unable to do most of the heavy work of the farm. Instead, he resorted to a hand pump for water, and hand tools for subsistence level farming. Really, his needs alone didn’t require much. As he worked on lunch, he could see where the shed had once been. The scar of the removed items with their frou-frou colors glaring in absence. They were replaced by 5 crosses made from the old wood. The green of the garden, and the flowers placed upon the graves of the only ones he’d ever loved a contrast against the sere and bleak backdrop of the farm. He had a frown on his face as he worked to prepare food for himself. With minimal effort he made few items with no real complexity, his labor pointless with no one to share his food. Before long food was prepared, and the silence of the house was complete. He’d cleaned himself up from the fields out of habit, his dark hair thinning and starting to turn gray with age. He frowned again. He gathered the food and brought it to the table. Simple fare prepared with little skill was little but required nourishment, with even less attention paid to its taste. The lack of care and expertise spent on the food, was shown by the old chipped and worn dishes that it was placed upon.

He finished his repast, and spent minimal time on cleaning. Everything he did was quietly efficient, he reused the same dishes and containers for each meal, with little variety, thus requiring little effort to maintain. He returned to the garden, hand-pumping the well water to water the garden. The effort became more daily, as it was evident that his well was starting to dry out. Finishing that chore, he walked to the back end of the garden. With care and gentleness, he laid his withered and cracked hands upon each cross one at a time. “Here lies Kumiko Johnson, beloved wife and mother”, the smaller crosses to the right were simpler, and obviously less effort had gone into their fashioning. They were simply adorned with a single name, Simon, Hiram, Elise, and Adrienne, respectively. The perpetual frown turned to something both more human, and much darker as he gently touched each of them. Overall, he spent most of the afternoon tending the garden, and watering the small fields by hand before preparation for dinner. Again, he ate quietly, the food quickly prepared, and thinking little of what he ate, and enjoying it even less. He cleaned up the small amount of detritus from dinner with little thought or concern.

He poured himself a tall glass of whiskey, and went up to the room he’d shared with Kumiko. He sat beside her old dressing table. In the center of the table was her treasure box. A small rosewood box she had painstakingly joined with no nails or glue. It was hand carved with Japanese characters that she had explained to him once long ago, but he had forgotten some time since. The box was painted in her preferred flowery colors and lacquered so that it would last long enough to be handed down to their children. It now seemed a pointless extravagance. He opened the cleverly made box with just a hint of a sad smile. Several objects with memories and personal value were nestled within. First, he removed several small shiny seashells, claimed from a beach in the Hamptons while they were on honeymoon. Another sad frown touched his face as he touched the shells. Next, he pulled some silk ribbons from the box, they were brightly colored, and one of the hairstyles she liked to wear was those ribbons tying her hair up in odd sideways pony tails, or pig tails or something. He smiles remembering how beautiful she’d looked. He smiled even more as he pulled a set of combs from the box, made from some shiny natural material, wood maybe. She loved those combs, and he loved to see her put her long and lustrous hair up with them. Next, he pulled out an Indian head penny. It might even be worth something, but like everything in the box, she lovingly polished it to a glossy sheen. He next pulled the special locket from the box. The old necklace was crafted by an artist with beautiful designs front and back, but the most amazing part was that if you knew the secret, you could pop the locket open. In the revealed secret place was a black and white picture. While he knew that was a picture of her mother or something, it looked like her, with life in her shining eyes, and her enigmatic smile.

She had a nightly ritual where she polished each item. They all kept some special place for her. For him, the memories were different. The locket was just the image of Kumiko, the ribbons, something she wore, and the penny was from the night their first child, Simon, was born. From the shells, his remembrance was different than hers. They were together at a private cabin in the Hamptons. It was their honeymoon, the most expensive place he’d ever been, with overpriced food, stuck up people looking down on them, and with the lights of New York, it was always as light as daytime. He remembered as they were walking along the beach, she stepped on something sharp and cut open her foot. He was afraid that she would bleed to death, it was gushing so bad. He ran carrying her for a mile or more to get her to a clinic to stitch up her wound, he remembered that she seemed light as a feather at first, but was extremely heavy by the time he reached the clinic. To her, strong memories of a life lived. To him, a past life starting to fade away. As he touched each item, he remembered Kumiko, and the children taken from him by some disease of the lungs brought by the dust.

When the water dried up, and the drought began, First Kumiko, and then in turn each of the children grew sick, coughing, and unable to breathe. Without gas for the car, and the dwindling money, it was near impossible to get them to a doctor at all, and with only excuses, nothing to be done for them. He brought them home, and buried them behind the garden one at a time as they died. He finished drinking the last of his alcohol, and from a dresser nearby he took an old pistol, once belonging to his father. He placed the dull metallic barrel into his mouth. His eyes grew blurry remembering the life he’d lost. The loud report was heard by no one, and there was none to mourn his passing. Outside, the sound of thunder presaged the coming of a summer thunderstorm, bringing with it life and hope for renewed growth. For some it was a time of endings, and it was too little, too late.