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People of Stones, part 3 Cyd had forgotten how relaxing working outdoors could be. Although she had gotten plenty of exercise during her stay on the WindDancer, it wasn't the same. She had tossed most of her clothing over a bush and was now working in just her short sarong and sandals. The early morning sun beat against her skin as sweat trickled down her body. It felt good. Frank Johnson, Pam's minister father, worked near her. He kept his eyes politely on his work as he weeded the field. He was hardly shocked by nudity but the older gentleman wasn't going to be guilty of ogling the young women either. As the morning sun grew hotter he could certainly understand the reasoning of the new custom. It got rather hot in the valley compared to his former residence in England. The minister was glad he had chosen the baggy shorts and loose cotton shirt to wear. Frank took a linen handkerchief from his pocket and wiped away the sweat from his brow. The muscular young woman next to him spoke up, concern in her voice. "Why don't you take a break, Father Johnson? Sit in the shade and drink some water," she suggested. Since he wasn't feeling his best, he nodded and walked over to a shady spot and wearily sat down. It was somewhat annoying to age, he thought to himself. He closed his eyes and relaxed against the tree truck behind him. He must have fallen asleep because he was startled by a touch on his forearm. "Here, drink this, Father Johnson." After he took the dripping tin cup and swallowed the cool stream water, he felt a little better. He looked up into the gray eyes of the tall woman and thanked her. She still looked worried. He patted her hand and stood up. "I'm fine, really. I'm just getting old and these old bones don't enjoy the heat much." Cyd was silent for a long moment, doing her best to be diplomatic. "Perhaps since you aren't accustomed to our harsher temperatures you can do one of the indoor chores. There's plenty of them to finish," she suggested. She didn't like the way Pam's father was wilting and didn't want him having heat stroke. She just had to be careful not to make him feel like he wasn't contributing to the community. He had his pride. He pursed his lips and looked like he was about to protest. Cyd quickly intercepted his reply. "You could help Patricia in copying her journals. Mocci means well but he writes like a doctor. You have beautiful handwriting and the future generations would be able to actually read what you copy." Frank let out a grunt, unwilling to admit he wasn't up to the hard work but understood she was trying to spare his feelings. "Humph, copying a bunch of medical texts. I'd be lucky to keep awake doing that job." He sighed, "Well, I suppose someone has to do it." He struggled to his feet and grabbed his hoe. "If I'm not at the dinner table tonight, come wake me. I'll be at the good doctor's home." Cyd forced herself not to grin at his gruff instructions. "Yes, sir." ***** Jason, Michael's lover, and Elaine Metz, the chemist, were experimenting with making homemade oil paints. He had long ran out of his supply from Earth and felt reluctant to ask Cierra to risk going back to find him painting supplies. "Here, try this now," Elaine said, handing him a jar with yellow mixture. He took his brush and picked up a little so he could try dabbing it onto the canvas. The paint stuck lightly to the heavier paint below. At least the thickness was good. He then spread the paint over a clean area on the canvas to study its clarity. "Looks good." He place a lid onto the jar and then into his paint box. "I think that's it for now. Thanks for helping me out," he told the woman. "No problem. I have the recipe for each color now. Just let me know when you need more." He thanked her again and headed for his 'studio'. It was nothing more than a roof covered deck next to their tree home. Jason liked being outside in the breeze when he painted. He had a storage closet built onto the deck to keep his things safe from the weather and squirrels when he wasn't there. He had learned that lesson early on when he found his belongings scattered from here to there. He climbed the steep stairway that spiraled around the tree trunk and placed his box on a table. The easel was brought out of the closet and he sat down to continue with the portrait of Pam and Eva. Although he hadn't said anything, his plan was to paint portraits of as many of the original people as possible for the future generations. Perhaps it was from his own genealogical study of his own family that made him determined to leave pictures for people in the future. Without photography, his paintings were all of the incredible people who began this whole colony. Jason glanced at his sketches of the two women and their child out of habit but he didn't need to recall what they looked like. The artist knew everyone down to the smallest detail and could paint them from memory. The portrait he was creating featured Pam sitting down, Mel on her lap, while Eva stood to her side and slightly behind. Neither subjects looked directly at the artist in the painting but rather at one another. There could be no doubt in any viewer's mind that the women adored one another. In the painting, neither woman noticed that Mel was leaning away. The toddler's attention was firmly placed on a fluttering butterfly, her pudgy hand reaching for it. The painting was cute but Jason ignored that fact. He painted exotic, sexy, and dramatic. He didn't paint cutesy. He fibbed to his inner artist and said it was a light drama to shut up the Muse. Jason then began adding more details to Mel's dress in the painting, adding delicate lace and a little bow to her hair. The Muse growled and he told it to be quiet. Mel did have a bow in her hair when they posed and they had to be a stickler for details. Yeah, that's what he told the Muse to shut up the demanding voice. ******* Botta studied the strangers from a distant hill. He was squatting low in the shadows so he wouldn't be seen against the bright summer sky. Mabo, the eldest hunter, had told him of the magical creatures with a shudder of fear. He spoke of creatures with four legs and two heads that travelled quickly across the land. In spite of his own uneasiness, he sought out what could be dangerous beasts to get answers. Below him, he watched a huge community of people. There were more people than he had ever seen gathered in his life. Most tribes only held three hands of people at most but below him were far more than he could count. The people, in spite of being so different in appearance, didn't seem so alien when their actions were observed. They spent the day cooking, making things, talking, and entertaining themselves with games. Then he spotted one of the creatures Mabo had spoken of. His eyes focused on the many-limbed beast. Then suddenly it stopped before one of the odd shaped tents and Botta saw that it was not one but two living beings. A male stranger had been sitting on a four-legged animal. So that revealed that mystery. But why did an animal allow him to sit upon its back? Botta was confused. The only animals he had experience with were animals he hunted and the half-wild dogs that chose to live and follow their tribe. The dogs were permitted to exist on the fringe of their camps because they warned of dangers near them and even at times protected them. Throwing the dogs scraps seemed a fair exchange for their presence. The leader of the Tappa clan scratched his rough chin as he thought over his many questions. He also considered approaching these people. After all, they had offered no threat when they met up with his hunters a few days ago. They had held up their palms in friendly greetings but had kept to a safe distance. Perhaps they would not object to a single person nearing them. He could always retreat if they threatened him. Yes, this he would do. Botta gathered up his spear and leather satchel from the ground and stood up. He would give the strangers time to notice his presence first. It was only polite. Once he saw several people pointing his way he knew that they saw him. He began carefully making his way down the steep hill towards the strangers. It was difficult to watch both his footing and the others but he managed to do so without stumbling. He reached more level ground and kept his spear carefully pointed downward, showing his peaceful intent. The leader of the Tappa clan saw no men hurrying for their weapons and took that as a good sign. None of them saw him as an enemy. Of course, he was one against many. Even unarmed they could easily overpower him. Tate Redhorse told everyone to stay calm as he slowly moved forwards towards the primitive man. The man, dressed in stained skins and wearing an assortment of bones, teeth, and feathers, stepped closer. His hair was long and dark, held in a rough ponytail tied with sinew string. Rough tattoos were along his cheeks and broad forehead. The man carried a flint tipped spear in one hand and the other was empty. Tate noted that the hunter looked cautious but not confrontational. Tate stepped forward and held out his hands, showing that they were free of weapons. "Hello." The man looked at him carefully then said a word in his own language. Tate hoped it meant 'Hi'. Placing his palm on his chest, Tate told the man his name. The hunter grunted and cocked his head slightly before doing the same, saying his name, Botta. "Hello, Botta," Tate said calmly as he motioned the man to come closer. The Tappa clansman stared at Tate. He seemed to be the leader but where were his tattoos? A glance at several men told him no one had marks of authority. They must have different ways to identify high ranking men. Well, they were so strange that it made sense that their ways would be unlike others. He grunted and joined Tate, sitting down on a log in front of one of the pointed tents. One of the females handed both men cups. A cautious sip told Botta that it was honey sweetened tea. Another woman offered him a bowl of sliced meat and cooked grains. At least the custom of offering guests food and drink was the same. He pulled out his flint knife and used it to eat, spearing a chunk of meat. It had an unusual flavor but it wasn't unpleasant. He ate silently as he casually observed the people around him. In the distance he saw children playing and people performing chores, much like his own people. Perhaps they weren't so different. Botta watched a dog trot over to Tate and sit next to him. Amazingly, the animal allowed the man to stroke his head and neck. The large beast didn't so much as growl as the man petted him. In fact, it seemed to enjoy the attention. Its next action startled Botta. The animal left Tate's side and approached him, his tail wagging, He then placed his chin on Botta's knee and nudged his arm. Nervously, Botta lifted his hand and placed it on the large dog's head. When it didn't growl or retreat, he grew more bold and copied Tate's movements, rubbing the dog's head and nape. The animal's heavy tail thumped against the dirt, raining bits of grit over anyone nearby. Eventually, Tate ordered the animal away and snapped his fingers. The dog reluctantly left his side and plopped down with a heavy sigh. Now his attention was drawn to the huge beast that the male stranger had been sitting on. Tate saw Botta's interest in the horse. Well, it could be expected. The closest thing to horses in North America was a wild horse that resembled monotone zebras. There weren't domesticated or very large. "Hey, Tobias, bring your horse over here. Show him they aren't some sort of devil or monster," he told his friend. The older man took hold of the reins and led the mare closer to the sitting men. Botta looked nervous but didn't move. Tate stood up and patted the horse's neck then waved Botta to come closer. The man gripped his spear tightly and stood slowly, his eyes riveted to the mare. The Whitefeather leader spoke softly, urging Botta closer. Once the native was near enough, Tate mimed that he wanted Botta to touch the horse. A trembling hand rose and hesitantly rested against the coat of the horse. Once the man looked more at ease, Redhorse taught Botta the word for horse and began guiding him around the camp, naming random items. Botta seemed happy to learn the words until later in the afternoon when he looked up at the sun. The Tappa leader didn't have the words to explain that he must return to his people before they grew worried. He placed the back of his hand against the opposite cheek, an expression that meant he left sadly. He then turned away and walked out of the camp. Once he reached the top of the hill he turned and looked back. He saw the people of the village wave so he returned the gesture. Yes, it was a good beginning. Next Chapter Email Me |