The Colony Ship Warren #1-7, page 40
part #0 of Colony Ship Warren #1-7 Series
Pastor Ancel went on, “I grant that the words might have similar sounds, but the terms sext and seis come from very ancient ways of counting time throughout the day. The sext-seis service is our midday event. As the faithful in Scourge, we use the sext-seis service to remember the elements, the elementals, and give thanks. Sexuality, on the other hand, is a private matter between consenting adults and the elementals. Modesty is a virtue which is rewarded.”
Allen—feeling some added shame at his misunderstanding—started to reply, hoping to explain, but Millgram stepped between them, “Here is the letter from Pastor Zumbardo. It has his wax seal on it. I am sure he would not want me to delay in its delivery.”
“You are to be commended, young lad, Millgram. You have been a faithful messenger. Messages between the towns of this world are rare. Most rare indeed,” Pastor Ancel replied as she took the letter. “Let me read this tome before you burst in eagerness.”
She took out a small and very sharp blade and cleanly sliced the wax seal. Unfolding the paper, she read its content.
“Thank you, again, Millgram. Most informative,” she pocketed the letter without any explanation.
Allen and Beth looked at her, expecting to learn the content of the letter and how it applied to their lives.
Pastor Ancel crossed her arms and said simply, “Now, I can be of more service and will listen to whatever tales you want to regale me with of your trek here to Scourge. Most travelers—few that they are—arrive much later in the day. But, I am not curious as to your particulars, but am willing to listen to whatever you feel compelled and need to share. If that is nothing, that is perfectly acceptable to me. Your choice on what to share or keep. A time to keep silent and a time to speak, as the elementals lead.”
Beth was unsure if she was being sarcastic, arrogant, or perhaps just aloof. She took her guidance from Millgram and stated briefly, “We had a horse and it was killed by a lion. We came here as quickly as we could after that attack. Thank you, Pastor Ancel, for your hospitality.”
Allen looked away and was unsure what to say or do.
“Thank you for sharing,” the pastor tipped her head and understood that no more would be said about the incident. “I will leave you to get acquainted with our town. If I can render other services, please seek me out at the church. You are welcome to join us at vespers which is just after we secure the gates, or compline, which is just prior to bedtime. May the elements bring you what you need.”
She turned and walked off without waiting for a reply.
“Millgram? What was in that letter from Pastor Zumbardo?” Allen asked.
Millgram shook his head and just looked back with uncomprehending eyes.
Allen sighed out and closed his own eyes. He considered his favorite book and how it might apply. He half believed Beth and he were in Wonderland, though a weirder and more bizarre one than his imagination had ever conjured up. He knew if he had to open his eyes again, nothing would change, but he so wished that it might. If he could just go back to the dull reality of the tan world of Dome 17. There he understood the social structures, the patterns, and the threats. Here, on the Warren, things were not only overtly different—wonderful in a few amazing ways, horrifying in others—but the subtle differences were perhaps the most striking.
I do not even understand their nonverbal communication and the way they speak is just off, Allen mused silently.
He did finally open his eyes, but Millgram was still silent and just looking at him and waiting.
Beth too was just standing there, but she was gazing over the town, her arms crossed over her breasts and her short hair tossing in the air currents.
“Well,” Allen went on, “I thought she would tell us what was in the letter. What did it say?”
“How would I know?” Millgram retorted. “That was a private letter to Pastor Ancel. Sealed. Sealed with wax. You are not suggesting I break a wax seal, are you? Seriously? Do… do violence to another’s privacy? The violent always get taken. Always.” Millgram’s bottom lip quivered.
“Sorry. I do not want to get you or us into trouble,” Allen said in genuine contriteness, but then he pressed. “I just have so many questions. If these two towns are as isolated from each other as they appear, at least on the surface, how do these pastors come to be so much alike? They have nearly identical clothing. They have the same attitudes. They have the same schedule. Service times and a church? Is there some central plan? Is there somewhere where they make those clothes? Do they go to a special school, or what? And who do I show the spanner to? And should I ask about that? It is marked with this town’s name. It must have some connection to here. Right?”
Millgram sighed out. Then he said in a very quiet voice, “I know not all the answers to all those questions. The curious get taken, sometimes. But, not every question is motivated by curiosity. I think we should find Sora and ask her. But let me do the asking.”
“Lead on,” Beth said. “But how will you know where to find her? This town is bigger than Blight, and you have never been here?”
“Pastor Ancel told us Sora might be going to see someone named Yudkin. We will ask for either of them, and someone will assist us,” Millgram replied.
“But will they think we are curious?” Allen asked with a bit of an edge in his voice.
Millgram shook his head, “It all depends on how you ask. We might have gotten better information and help from Pastor Ancel had I done all the talking. Asking about sex in that service, oh dear, sire and madam, that was so offensive.”
Allen pursed his lips but said nothing.
Looking around, Millgram quickly spotted a single-story building and began walking toward it.
On the front of the building was a sign, “Pinkie’s Pub” which was painted on a flat section of wood.
Beth looked at Allen, “I suppose Millgram does know the best way to continue. Did you notice that Pastor Ancel never offered food or lodging?”
“Because I offended her, no doubt,” Allen said with a smirk. “It was unintended, certainly. What do you think Pinkie’s Pub is?”
Beth shook her head a bit, “Pub was an ancient term for some kind of gathering place for drinking and socializing, I think. Not as big as our cafetorium—well Dome 17’s cafetorium—but it could be short for public house or… public welcome… or a bunch of other phrases. Public utility building, or something else? That was way back before the Great Event when alcohol and so many other drugs were used by much of that pre-catastrophic society.”
“They did imbibe, consume, and devour massive amounts of toxic substances which altered their minds,” Allen agreed. “Caterpillars just sucking in poisons of various kinds. Never did make them butterflies, but may have led to that society nearly committing mass suicide in the 90-Hour War.”
“Indeed, anyone who will poison her own body cares little for other people’s lives,” Beth added, “but that pub place does not necessarily mean a place where intoxicants are served. There were public libraries as well, and maybe Pinkie’s Pub is a reading room? Pinkie might be a name, title, or something. Color? I will assume Millgram knows what it is and that is why he is heading there. Shall we both just tag along and see what happens?”
“Sure, but nothing about the Warren feels normal and those pastors just creep me out in a way I cannot yet explain,” Allen raked his hand through his hair.
Millgram had stopped outside the small building. It had shuttered windows and there was a smokestack—chimney thing—which extended out from one end of the roof. A bit of smoke rose from that and an aroma of food wafted over them.
“Please, sire and madam, let me ask the questions,” Millgram said as they approached him. “Please, no comments about food and drink. Your fancy clothing will already be distraction enough, especially considering we are visitors. But I think we can find someone here who will be able to tell us where Sora went. But they may only tell if asked in the correct manner. Something neither of you seem to understand. Please, let me speak for us.”
Beth and Allen nodded.
“And keep your totems out of sight. All of them. Later we will have someone—the right person—appraise them, but not right away. And do not ask about your friends, Monitor and Elsa, until we know someone. Please?”
Beth and Allen nodded again.
Millgram opened the door.
The inside was lit by candles on the twelve tables and a fireplace at the left-hand end of the room. The right-hand end of the room had a countertop across the entire way with racks of shelves behind that. Bottles, pots, and vases filled the shelves. A door directly across from the entry opened and stayed open. Some light spilled out from behind it. A window in a wall beyond that had its shutters open which allowed additional light inside, but when the door swung shut again, that light was cut off.
A scattering of people were present. Some seated on the benches at the tables, and a few were standing about talking in soft voices.
“Welcome, strangers,” an older man said from behind the countertop. He was wearing a frame with glass lens over his eyes.
“Good day,” Millgram said and walked over to the man. “Barkeep, may the elementals bring you all joy and happiness.”
The man scratched his bald head for a moment. “And blessings to you as well.” The words lack enthusiasm and were obviously just a ritualized greeting.
Millgram stared at him with a deeply puzzled expression. The ring of hair around the older man’s head was sprinkled with browns and grays, but the crown of his head was bald. It was hard to determine his age. His response was different than Allen or Beth expected, but they refrained from jumping into the conversation.
“Have we interrupted something?” Millgram asked in bafflement. “We do not seek to intrude.”
The man and youth stared at each other.
Finally, the man said, “No intrusion. None at all. I would certainly welcome all to Pinkie’s Pub, and yes,” the man then spread his arms wide and raised his voice in a jovial tone, “let us all be thankful to the elementals for what we have.”
“Well said, Yudkin,” one of the patrons yelled. “Here, at your pub, we get our ale and meat and enough to eat.”
A ripple of laughter came from some of the others in the pub. The laughter had a strong element of sarcasm in it.
Millgram looked puzzled, but then smiled and said, “We met your good leader, Pastor Ancel, and presented her with a letter from Pastor Zumbardo of Blight.”
A snicker came from someone, but it stopped abruptly when Yudkin glared at whoever had made the comment. After that, the silence felt portentous and troubling. Allen was not sure if the sarcastic laugher was more ominous than the foreboding silence. The whole place had an odd emotive milieu to it all.
Millgram’s emotions jumped around, but mostly they bounced from perplexed to baffled to mystified by the responses. He had presented himself in a reasonable and polite manner, but wondered if he was being mocked, insulted, or just patronized. Looking around, he tried to read the patron’s faces, but could gain no insight by doing that. He looked around again, and then back to Yudkin.
He spoke again, “I am Millgram and these are my friends, Beth and Allen. We came from Blight. May we partake of your establishment? We also had the pleasure of meeting Sora as we came into town.”
“Now there is a good one!” someone called out. “A right fine provider and neighbor.”
“Here, here!” another patron called out. “Smart and pretty.”
Applause broke out around the pub.
“Knows what to eat, too!” another voice added.
Yudkin waved his hands in a gentling gesture, “Friends, be seated. Have you eaten? Our stew is ready and we have it in abundance for friends of Sora. Take a seat over there and I will join you with bowls and some pints.”
Millgram thanked him and the three of them moved to sit at the indicated table.
Allen scanned the room and the patrons had returned to what they had been doing previously. Now, none of them were paying the newcomers much attention.
He whispered, “These people here, well, they have a different attitude toward that Pastor Ancel than the people in Blight did toward Pastor Zumbardo. Yet, I still want to know how these pastors are so similar, if contact between the towns is so rare? Is there some communication system hidden somewhere? A pastor’s network or something like that?”
Millgram rolled his eyes, “The elementals guide the pastors in the ways of the truth. Obviously. Why would they not be similar? They serve the same elementals. Truth is the same no matter where one goes.”
Beth’s hand squeezed on Allen’s thigh to signal that he should not respond with an argument. His thigh muscles were already tensed, but her caress helped him to dial-back his responses. He understood and resisted replying to Millgram about what was true and what was mythology.
“Millgram,” Beth interjected, “please help us know what these foods are and how we should eat. The right protocol and etiquette is important. And, will you ask about Sora or someone else who might assess our tools… totems?”
“Madam, I will help. We have come so far already; I will not abandon you now. Cooperating is essential.”
Millgram put a finger in his mouth and chewed on it for a brief moment. He then spoke, “There is something here which is… unusual.”
At that moment, Yudkin came back to the table carrying a large platter. On it were four bowls, four large mugs, a platter of some kind of foods which were red with a green edge, and he also had a tankard.
“Steaming hot stew, watermelon, and pints for us all.”
The aroma from the food was pleasing and as Yudkin placed the platter on the table he looked carefully at Beth and Allen. He then sat down, and peering over the top of his glasses he said, “Well, tell me your story. Few travel from Blight to Scourge. Very few.”
Allen was sorely tempted to ask about a communications system, or about the uncanny similarity between the pastors, but he refrained and with a nod, he deferred to Millgram.
The youth answered, “My friends and I had a mishap on our way here. Our criollo was attacked by a lion. We fled to Scourge.”
“That is a story,” Yudkin replied, “brief, terse, lacking of substance, and unsatisfying. Like one of Pastor Ancel’s meditations, or her meals.”
Millgram’s mouth dropped opened in astonishment and his eyes grew huge. He said nothing, but just stared at Yudkin.
Beth stepped into the conversation, “What is in your stew? And this drink? It is unfamiliar to me.”
“You have no gruit in Blight? Or do you use a different name? Your accent is unusual. Some call it ale, and long ago I recall people calling it small beer,” Yudkin answered. “Our barley farmers have good crops and when fermented and fashioned we have our gruit.”
“Alcohol? An intoxicant?” Allen asked. “I knew ancient peoples sometimes named alcoholic concoctions after characters in fairytales. Is this alcohol?” He tapped the mug.
“No one gets drunk on gruit, my dear new friend. If drunkenness is your wish, I suppose I could open a bottle of whiskey or brandy, but is that really necessary? I prefer to wait until the gates are closed for the night, before I open up those bottles. Sadly, some have quaffed too much whiskey or brandy and wandered off to never return. One assumes they were caught outside after dark. Tragic. Just tragic.” Yudkin’s face was testimony to his sincerity. “That does not happen drinking gruit.”
There was an awkward pause and Millgram finally shut his gaping mouth, yet all he could do was wipe the drool off his chin and sort of glance at the other three.
“As for the stew, it is lamb, bacon, potatoes, carrots, mushrooms, onions, and herbs. The pot has been simmering, so all is well cooked,” Yudkin said and looked over the top of his glasses at Beth and Allen. “Stew needs gruit, right? Muscles need stew, the bladder needs gruit.”
“Gruit? Sounds like grootslang,” Allen blurted out, “are the words related?”
Yudkin /pushed his glasses up on his nose and shook his head ever so slightly. “The grootslang is far worse than the lion which attacked you and killed your criollo.”
“Yes, I have heard. Indeed, the curious get taken, sometimes, but the violent always get taken,” Allen chimed in. “We have been informed, repeatedly, and I doubted it at first, but no longer.”
Millgram interjected loudly, “My sister was taken. Do you not fear provoking the grootslang by your verbal violence against Pastor Ancel? She is chosen by the elementals. The grootslang is their enforcer and punisher.”
The pub was utterly silent after his outburst.
Beth was unsure what to do, so she lifted a wedge of the food that was on the platter. It was cool, very wet, and had been cut into thumb-thick wedges about as long as her hand. Taking a bite, water rushed over her lips and nearly spilled down her chin. It was one of the most fluid-saturated foods she had ever eaten. Her mind was shocked at the water density in the delicious food.
“The watermelon is ripe and juicy,” Yudkin said with gusto. “Very flavorful and satisfying. A sweet compliment to the stew.”
“Watermelon?” Allen asked in all seriousness. “Are there earth-melons, air-melons, and fire-melons as well? One melon for each elemental?”
Millgram gasped and held his breath. He was terrified. He snapped his lips tight and turned to glare at Allen. He could not make his words come out.
Someone in the pub called out, “Now that one, he is a true believer!”
Beth was unsure if that person was referring to Millgram or to Allen.
A roaring laugher ripped across the room as others spoke about the four kinds of melon Allen had mentioned. Some comments were crude while others just chuckled and repeated Allen’s question in silly voices.
Beth knew they were mocking the whole elemental system, but she was unsure how to deal with it.
Millgram finally started breathing again, “Mockery is verbal violence. Do you… must you… I mean… I know that I fear infuriating the grootslang by verbal violence. There is much violence here. First, against Pastor Ancel and now, against the creation of foods which the elementals have granted to us? How many times must I say it? The grootslang is the enforcer and punisher, sent by the elementals, the very ones who you just mocked!”
