by Tuttle, Dan;
all destined thus to distance selves from Earth.
179.
“I guess it’s sensible to give you this,”
Abu said, handing Stella a small felt
bedraggled patch. For forging the abyss,
it read below the title. “Since you dealt
so bravely with the bird, despite your fear
of heights, I think you get the Monkey Crest.
Your climbing took you to the stratosphere,
I doubt I could be any more impressed.”
So there on ledge were Abu, Stella, BLING,
with Badges, Crests, and patches to reward
themselves for their pursuit of distant things
that prior to Pioneers were unexplored.
Then Stella reached inside her bag to get
a book bound by a jasper red rosette.
180.
“I spent the time when we were s’posed to rest
manipulating what I tripped beside,
that jasper piece.” Abu’s hands were then blessed
by intricate design: rose petrified
into a cover clasp o’er pages bunched,
thin fonts in capitals commensurate
with their importance (though a wee bit scrunched),
and swirl to draw eye in to denser bits.
Its title read quite clearly ANNALS OF
THE AFROASIATIC PIONEERS,
an elephant on pogo stick above
the small subtitle: OUR WORLDWIDE PREMIERE.
Unlocking all the pages from their bind,
he saw their oral history enshrined.
181.
The pages glowed as manuscripts of lore,
illuminated by a cloistered brush:
paint light from sun as metal fleck phosphor,
inked nights so dark they made his heart rate rush.
The early pages showed shared scenes, hues bright
if simple. Empty rectangles aligned
to not obscure the action. “Here we write,”
she said, “words coloring the space behind.”
Ab turned few pages later and saw blanks,
“You’re leaving lots of room for things to come?”
“Of course!” Last pic showed BLING airborne, ’fore yank
freed ring. “Some for where to, some for where from.
You want our public brand, but second-best
is setting it ourselves, well-hid from rest.”
182.
Two prospects came to Abu’s racing mind.
The first: that he in perpetuity
would be biographied for humankind.
The next: that questing had congruity
with what he’d hoped his future years contained.
The beauty of the book itself was moot
unless they planned adventures unconstrained
to earn the words behind such grand tribute.
He gazed into the distance, widened smile
with every passing moment, thinking then
of Gumi’s globe, its continents and isles:
not ‘whether’ laid before them, rather ‘when’.
“Why Afroasiatic?” boy, perplexed,
asked. Grinning, Stella said, “Well, China’s next.”
EPILOGUE
A decade out, I’d wise up to the facts.
It seemed so clear as child back then to think
authoritative adults hadn’t acts
deliberately used to kids hoodwink.
Safari guide? Nope. Ranger in cahoots
with markets black that move the plundered goods.
From ring’s blood crust I’d later on impute
the bird attacked the thief before in woods.
That camouflaged man had a bandaged hand,
and seemed so used to fighting off attack
he’d clearly frequented the place as planned
in looting circuit vast. Bird set him back
at first until he found chalk weapon’s use,
dry powder thunderbolt he slung as Zeus.
Yes, Anton previewed that a bust aglide
would be reflected on his shiny floor.
Yes, Gumi’s made-up story justified
the disappearance of ring husband wore.
Yes, artifacts unusual bedecked
their two locations, curios for sale.
No, never had I thought to double check
if immorality lurked ’neath the veil.
No, nor did I think to discount the word
that someone dealt me in a long-con game.
Perhaps, one day I’d also see how blurred
construction of a truth could garner fame.
But, let’s not speed. Let’s first fire more brick clay
to better build my life’s dimorphic way.
VOLUME TWO
PROLOGUE
In youngest children, acts set soil for seeds
of later personalities, which sprout.
One gravitated toward gold-making deeds,
one saw gold light from sun make nature stout.
As flora sprouts up, out, and ever grows
it’s hard to tell where single seed begins.
Our paths would intertwine in life’s next throes
as one expects from two pea-podded twins.
We’d learned from ‘solving’ Gumi’s errant quest
dependence on ourselves, which, similar,
quelled conflicts calmly. Augment age and stress
to yield divergent psyches, him and her.
I thus present to you the second tome:
of how we grew ’neath wing of powers unknown.
CHAPTER 5
1.
Stel looked past ng’ombe udder out to hills
so normal, slight in rise and run, and cringed.
Their cultivation, rows turned by hand tills,
reflected age-old ways none dared infringe.
They’d roll, though flat by eye, then disappear
into the shimmer heat horizon held.
They’d never matter now as new frontier:
today she knew she’d be stuck where she dwelled.
Good dwelling in such harshness needed roots,
to draw out soil’s nutrients and make
plant food for ruminants’ herdbound commutes.
Her roots that day were chopped when didn’t wake
her Grandmum, only soul with whom she shared
a lineage. The world left none who cared.
2.
Stel’s Grandmum passed in sleep pacifically,
when soul found now-enfeebled shell unfit
and rose alone most honorifically
back to that place from where life must emit.
Stel’d not had family nuclear per se,
her father long unknown, her mother gone
before establishing more matron ways.
Stel’d caretaken Grandmum and cows at dawn,
each day of milking milking her of fate
preferred: more exploration in the woods.
Tuberculosis she’d ameliorate
with household labor, helping where she could
so Grandmum could rest self and sharp tongue. Aid’s
need passed, day’s milk chore felt like masquerade.
3.
Without a public-formed security,
a social welfare system formed itself.
Tradition placed a host in surety
for household servant’s debts. Cook, sweep, wash delph,
farm, tend, and such. Earn roof with servitude
let human left from torn-up family
stay off the streets by serving other brood.
To stay alive on scraps as inductee
was better than pure beggardom. There, dough
was hard to get – farms made no millionaires –
so house help slept on dirt floors, earning no
room’s privacy. Host homes were simple there.
Her Grandmum’s death meant f
ate would be controlled
by others: she’d as housegirl be enrolled.
4.
This Tanzanian system kept alive –
through bonds and low-skilled household labors long –
the folks whose rotten luck had thus deprived
of chance in social structures to belong.
Stel felt it more akin to trick than treat,
knew Gumi used hers for a scapegoat’s load.
And so as Stel coaxed milk from ng’ombe teat
she feared she’d be stuck, bent to power unowed
if she were to remain. To overthrow
the system outright couldn’t be recourse
at twelve. Perhaps eighteen? Flight drove her, foe
was buy-in to the system here endorsed.
Flight would be hers, she vowed, toward life renowned.
Such heavy burdens children lost have found!
5.
“Hey, Stel!” familiar voice exclaimed from back
behind the bound-stick structure where she sat.
She smiled at joy’s inflective. Brainiac
Ab was, a once and future ’ristocrat.
Past glories lost propelled his want to be
a Someone in the future, known for Things
like treasures, once again the bourgeoisie!
It seemed that when he spoke there bubbled springs
hot with ambition, tempting, powerful,
but measured so as not to geyser out
all strength propelling them. The morn hour pulled
a recollection from her mind: devouts
were off in church, at least, the Christian folks.
Again, Abu and Stella were the rogues.
6.
“No church today?” he asked, small frame leaned on
the grass-strapped poles that held few cow-wide roof,
blue sweater accent to the celadon
that healthiest acacia held as proof
short rains had come, however short they’d been.
“I’m glad to see you, but,” said Stel, “surprised
you came to see me on a Sunday.” “When
folks leave I turn to you. And, I surmised
that something might be wrong when in a dream
you climbed that one tall tree we practiced with
long back. Instead of me, you fell and screamed,
no prank. The sun went out. A guy with scythe
came out to take you.” There he stopped mid-phrase,
relieved life counteracted dream’s displays.
7.
“Ha ha,” she laughed with effort faked. “Still here.
You play dead really well, I was so sad.”
“And guilty, if my recollection’s clear,”
replied Abu, “you hadn’t raked the pad
of grasses up beneath the trunk.” “I’d not
thought you’d stretch out to save a simple moth—”
“A dragonfly.” “Sure. Still, it’s no mascot,
compared to whimsy elephant on cloth
evokes.” “We would choose differently. But that
is neither here nor there.” “You really dreamed
my undertaker came?” “Yep. You fell flat
once losing grip.” “You’re not far, with that theme.”
“I’m lost. Do you mean something’s wrong?” he said.
“No, everything is. I found Grandmum dead.”
8.
The moment froze, despite the heat. A haze
precipitated milkily in air,
as if there coexisted yesterdays’
false memories, seen, that tethered Grandmum there.
Expressionless Abu turned eyes toward feet
from off horizon’s wishful line, drew in
his shoulders to his body, form downbeat
in recognition of the loss of kin.
“I’m sorry,” Ab said, “something cardiac
arrest at night?” “Don’t know. Don’t care,” said Stel
whose melancholy dragged her body slack
relapsing into fear she’d said farewell
to global exploration. “What I need
is some way out of here.” Abu agreed.
9.
“You’re fearing what I think you’re fearing,” he
asked quietly to roundabout confirm
the plan they’d make would make an escapee
of Stella. Then she nodded. And he squirmed.
“Can’t hide,” he said, “they’d find you anywhere.”
“Well, everywhere we know is pretty small.
Don’t you recall how we became a pair?
Your lusty look at Gumi’s globe enthralled,
when thinking hard about how big this lump
of dirt beneath our feet is. Countries change.
It’s surely different somewhere.” She’d quick jump
at any chance to future disarrange.
They’d orient themselves on endgame view,
while anxious they’d lack way to muddle through.
10.
“Your future staying here’s not great,” Abu
said weightily, as if a somber thought’s
high pressure zone had briskly blown into
his weathered mind, its forecast too, distraught.
Continuing, he said, “The crops are poor.
The rainfall farmers knew for all their lives
is changing now. It’s hard to reassure
yourself that you’ll continue to survive.”
“I’ve overheard that too,” said Stella, “grass
is growing different places for the cows,
or so said Grandmum.” Truly, biomass
behaving differently did quick arouse
suspicions of pastoralists that change
in climate turned once-fertile fields’ crops strange.
11.
Combustion sounds rolled by behind them, air
compressed in corridors cylindrical
along the distant road. Its disrepair
in Tanzania archetypical
of thing that happened with the heat and rain:
age-old design that cracked with weather’s pound
discouraged folks from crossing ’tween domains.
“They’re inbound,” Abu said while tracing sound.
“The papers said two years ago no MAC
would go that way,” referring to the trucks
with hauling power so to match overpacked
grains, produce, livestock, anything a buck
could trade for. “Work in inland districts should
help bring more shillings through our neighborhood.”
12.
“Chinese?” asked Stella, head not turned to look
if trucks had calligraphic characters.
“Their words and alphabet’s gobbledygook,
that’s all I know.” The thoroughfare tricked her
young mind: each year its busyness increased,
yet all its bustle bypassed their small ’hood.
The shilling boom Abu referred to greased
another place’s palms, did kids no good.
“Construction, Stel. They’re here to build. It might
be something we can use for your big plan.”
He stopped as if he knew she’d need one night
of dreaming flight on far-off harmattan
beside her fluffy loyal balled-up BLING,
for curiosity to mend her zing.
13.
They spent the oven day at play on parched
and sun-baked ground awaiting rains’ return,
though Stella’s flowy attitude was starched
in stiffened future mind cocooned concern.
A pattern they’d last year was go to climb
the recollected tree. But it was far,
and they’d learned ways in town to make playtime
a bit more adult, feigning air guitar
&nbs
p; and actions never seen when growing up
among the grubs and chlorophyll of farms.
To pass the time they’d toss sticks for the pup,
until BLING tired and fell asleep. The charms
of nature that left gleams in recent eyes
lost glisten under worry’s present guise.
14.
Expectedly, the night renewed the verve
that Stella felt toward life as Pioneer.
She’d started the society to curve
away from social expectation’s sphere.
Instead of taking tome straight from bookshelves
full of advice from stranger’s history
she liked blank page on which they’d anchor selves,
as Abu’s pen once doodled boats at sea.
To better plan their future’s sketch she made
a pact with Ab, asked him to tell no soul
that Grandmum slept her final nap, afraid
the news would spiral out beyond control.
(It would be her first lesson on effect
of stories crafted so to self-protect.)
15.
At time aligned with moment sky takes tint
of predawn breaking light in monochrome,
Stel saw reflected moon on water, print
indelibly etched on brain’s astrodome.
She dreamed her dreaming future somehow passed
into the realm of archaeology,
as flooding fate thrashed life’s ship, broke the mast,
left her as hapless shark food, all at sea.
She witnessed artifacts two thousand years
in age get shattered, swept into deluge,
from pots to beads of prayer, sea’s new veneer
was refuse history left no refuge.
Her waking came at moment when that breath
of water dreamed insinuated death.
16.
Catastrophe imagined – landslide, flood –
though elementally impressive, did
jumpstart her senses. Staying meant the suds
of servitude. Or she could drop off-grid.
At that time she believed the flood was sign
that if she stayed, became a housegirl, she’d
drown in subservience of life defined
by loss. She’d sooner choose to self-secede
from system. It would take duplicity,
rehearsed and tiny lies, and take her far.
If doubted? Shrug it off! Insistency
gives fantasists a leverage quite bizarre.
Her plan was winding down Grandmum’s estate
to buy a one-way ticket out of state.
17.
Thus Stella’s spirit lifted slightly by
her notice of home social system’s gap:
where in America if parents die
