by J.P Jackson
*
Health improving, Taylor ventured out to observe as much as he could, or at least as much as he was permitted. He felt more like a trespasser than a guest during his brief explorations. Workers remained suspicious and cautious priests appeared to track his footsteps. Wherever Taylor turned, he would be met with narrow eyes. He respected their wishes but curiosity took him to the brink of their patience. Desperate to learn as much as possible about the alien's origins, culture and agenda, Taylor stopped anyone who'd give him the time of day. He'd outline a beak over his face and attempt to mime questions, but the response was a cocktail of confusion, fear or silence.
Questions drew attention, and the more he asked the quicker he outstayed his welcome. The only factor keeping Taylor safe was the support of Bull, whose influence bought Taylor time. Taylor would often catch Bull looking at him with a deep sense of curiosity, as if Taylor was some kind of totem, or gift from the Gods.
The mud huts housed families of all ages, and each was decorated with colourful artwork. Some depicted the tall bird with the yellow feathers, but the majority was dedicated to the healing powers of the aloe plant, found in abundance on the river bank. The village revolved around that cool and slow winding river, it was the life blood of the community and when not working, villager's could be found conversing, resting or bathing at it's banks.
Workers kept their noses to the grindstone for the most part. At the crack of dawn, women and children prepared meals, tended to livestock and other chores before collecting seed for the caravan. The seeds came from a cultivated patch of sunflowers at the furthest end of the village. The patch was at least half an acre in size, sheltered from the wind yet fully exposed to the sun. The stems of each plant grew up to seven feet tall, with the wilting heads waiting to be harvested.
Adolescents would toil though the tall patch, snapping the heads from the stalks, scraping the seeds into leather satchels then hauling their load to the river on the opposite end of the village. There, the women would wash, dry and fill sacks ready for collection. Despite the energy sapping work and the size of the crop, it appeared they were adept at collecting every seed. On the second day their bounty would be collected by the caravan, and it's significance was an utter mystery to Taylor.
Grown men like Bull worked outside the village. After breakfast they joined a large company from adjacent villages, then started a march into the deep and intimidating jungle that loomed over the huts. Taylor heard rustling creatures and birds fluttering in the treetops, but would wait till he was fully recovered before launching an expedition.
The men would returned to their homes and families hours later, exhausted and hungry, sometimes bloody, and always caked in powdery chalk.
Near the patch of sunflowers, the village ended in a cul-de-sac of broccoli shaped trees nestled around a temple composed of limestone blocks. The temple entrance was high and narrow, symbolically guarded by two statues facing one another. The left statue was of a lion, standing ten feet tall on it's hind legs. He was mean and mighty, with the same snarling visage that Taylor had seen in the depths of Fort Knox. The opposite statue was an equally proud, yet calmer looking lioness. He was the fire, and she was the light.
Feeling brave, Taylor went closer and creaked his head up at the stone giants. Squinting inside the temple, he saw a gloomy hallway and a priest hurrying toward him with his arms out. The priest was yelling, his angry voice echoing enough to draw attention. Taylor raised his hands and stepped back from the temple. He got the message, and the priest returned to his post inside.
From a distance, Taylor watched most of the day as priests came and went from the temple. They prayed over broken down husbands and weeping wives, but for all their smoking incense and heavenly gesticulation, all Taylor observed were their distant eyes, side yawns and obvious intentions, to keep the workers working.
Some time into his stay, the hut directly opposite Bull's piqued Taylor's interest. It was like the others but for a solitary teenager, loitering at the door. Women would pass him food and water to see him through the day, and the only time he appeared to lose focus was whenever priests took a stroll through the village. The kid pretended to look busy with other things, as if securing the door no longer mattered. Once the priests were out of sight, however, the boy returned to his post with as much attentiveness as he had before. When his long shift was over, he was replaced by another, equally keen young man. Security of that particular hut, Taylor presumed, was a private operation, one the community did not want their hierarchy to know about.
Nights grew cold in the hut so Taylor made himself useful by collecting wood for the fire. A healthy fire was the evening's entertainment, it meant relaxation and recuperation. After a meal of fish stew, Bull gazed unblinking at the flickering flames and orange embers. Taylor crouched to warm his hands while Bull's wife, whom Taylor had learned was named Mesha, dabbed aloe gel on the blisters blighting her husband's feet. It was clear that these people were not workers, but slaves.
The air was hot and the mood was sombre. Transfixed by the fire, Taylor imagined the aftermath of the comet strike, New York City and the world burning amongst the flames. Over and over he heard Lanza's voice and his last words: 'It's not a comet!'
'So what the fuck is it?' he thought. It didn't make sense and Taylor didn't have the pieces to make the puzzle fit. The future unfortunately, would have to take a back seat to more pertinent problems in the present.
Bull pressed his cheek against his wife's pregnant belly. The minute he closed his eyes, Mesha smeared the glistening tears from her own, swallowing back grief so as not to disturb her husband.
Taylor reached out to her but Mesha jerked her elbow from his fingers. She didn't need consolation, but a contribution. Four sacks lay in the corner, one empty and the rest half full. Failing to mask her feelings any longer, Mesha expressed her concerns to Taylor by emphasizing her open, and empty palms. The message was simple, the crop had been harvested and they were running out of seeds to fill the sacks.
Taylor looked at Mesha and was surprised when she met his gaze. He told her it was going to be alright, that he would deal with it. More surprising was how she seemed to understand and even believe his bullshit. It was bullshit, but he owed these people his life.
With the caravan due in the morning, Taylor would be the one to answer for the discrepancy.
