The young child beamed while trying to nod, clearly having already forgotten half the information. As the young one had not been held firmly, he slipped free and darted away to screech the information at the rest of the playgroup with glee. They made a massive cacophony before speeding off to the well like a poorly organized mob of energetic squirrels. The kindly Elder watched them bolt, then looked down at the floor behind him. The shells were small and broke easily.
He did have a tendency to snore or otherwise sleep with his mouth parted since he could never trust his nose. Since the children had never bothered him even when they had reached the pinnacle of boredom, this was a new experience. In fact, he had the sneaking suspicion that someone had put them up to this. He’d have the children clean the crunchy mess on his floor up later.
Staggering over to the center walkway, he patted an unstrung and long unused hunting bow hanging from a supporting beam. They had many adventures together, but that was all in the deep past now. From the edges of the beam, he picked up a simple, gray gi and white outer robe. The hanging robe was soft, made from the fur of those mountain animals. What were those called again? Alpacas? Popular beastie for cloth. “Shall we go wash? Alpaca towel. Oh, ho-ha!”
His thoughts slipped before returning to the forlorn bow that had been repurposed as a clothing hanger. Well, forlorn was too strong a term. It hadn’t been that bad in his many years here, spending his days on the edge of the known world. ‘The Fringe’ was what everyone called it, at least those who knew what a map was. Here, the social rules were considerably different, and education was entirely a personal ordeal—normally, an ignored personal ordeal. Being called ‘Elder’ still felt odd, but he’d gotten used to the naming conventions. In fact they were very simple—your name in the village was a derivative of your function.
Nostalgia struck him suddenly. He recalled arriving years ago, running from all the problems in the world. Had it actually been problems he was running from or merely regrets? His grip around the robe strengthened, and a tinge of discomfort bit through as he forced the thought to pass before reaching for his woven tabi and wood-carved sandals. This penchant to wander off in thought was going to be the death of him one day. Now that he thought about it… he had certainly been running from the regrets.
The Elder had to give up his name in order to be admitted by the Fringe. Now he was just ‘the Elder’. It had been a rule as much as it was a ritual and one he recalled not trying to fight in the least. It wouldn’t ablate the memories, but what lost soul did not appreciate the chance at a clean slate? When his arms were still strong, he had helped gather the salt from the flats each day after the thin tide that rolled over the flatlands evaporated, leaving behind only the substance that the town was named for.
Salt.
That had been long before he started deteriorating. There were people in the village who beat him in age yet still had more vitality and youth in them. While physically, he counted around the age of fifty, visually, he appeared several decades older. His position became more administrative as a result—check up on everyone else’s tasks, keep stock of events, and humor the children. Or rather, educate them, as nobody else had the time or ability to do so. There had not been any sort of election or formal process to this.
He kept doing what he could, and the way people had addressed him simply shifted over time until they’d all called him ‘Elder’. In this village, being called an Elder also made you an Elder. Being ‘gifted’ the title afforded you an automatic council position. It assigned larger responsibilities and decisions, such as speaking to the traders that came every few moons and keeping track of goods. His word relegated where the settlement grew, as such tasks were left to those who spent all their time paying attention to the minutiae.
The aged man stopped to squeeze the bridge of his nose and groan at the unfortunate recollection. The traders. That unpleasant conversation was tonight, wasn’t it? Elder ‘Switch’ would no doubt muscle her shrill voice to the top of the pile again, making endless, unreasonable demands that only suited or benefitted her. How had she ever become a respected Elder in this town?
A pain in the shoulder snapped him from the vestiges of reflection. *Mmf*. He soothed it with a stern, thumb-pressed rub, drawing upon his limited knowledge of acupoints, being anything but quiet about his discomfort. When the mystery pain passed, he finished dressing and could already hear the panting breaths in the distance.
The *thudthudthudthud* of small feet accompanied a hasty beeline towards his small home. Was that sloshing? Why would there be sl– Ah! The pail of water. Good.
“I’m getting old,” he mumbled while hitting the small of his back with the side of his fist, preparing his muscles as he lifted and moved the wooden plank covering the door. Shifting the rectangular weight to the side, a few of his stockpiled things fell to the floor. He stuffed the plank behind a spare cloth, logs, and other clutter he’d accumulated and stored over the years. An attentive moment was spent to safely store the fallen roll of vellum. Handwritten philosophy notes were priceless beyond compare… at least to an academic like himself.
Exiting his small home, he kept his hand over his eyes, so the light of the sun didn’t stab him right in the face. His blocked vision aided in noting the smell of crushed posies and hibiscus that hung on the breeze.
“Ah, so Hibi is home,” he spoke to himself, a small smile forming as he thought fondly of events to come. If Hibi was home, it meant that when For returned from the salt flats… he could tease the young man about the moon-eyes he constantly made at the girl. The current matter came first, as his slightly hunched form awaited the stampede coming right for him.
“El~de~ee~er!” screeched a mousy voice in the distance, though that distance was lessening in a hurry. Those little rascals were just so fast! With a curt nod, the Elder hummed his way forward and began his daily trek to the deeper salt-stream. One’s health and cleanliness were important. He, as usual, didn’t get far before there was a parade of activity underfoot.
“I got the freshwater!”
“No, I got the water!”
“I got it first!”
“I filled it after you dropped it!”
“I only dropped it because you pushed me!”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
The Elder clapped his hands together. “You all got the water here, so you all did wonderfully. Put it in the usual place, would you?”
His tone was calm, passive, and weighted with pensive depth. The whirlwind stormed off, a wooden *tak* sounded as the bucket loudly hit a stone, and then the sproutlings raced back. “Elder, we get our question!”
“Yes, we get a question!” The children were all bouncing with big smiles, balled hands, copying his hunched posture. Sure enough, he’d told them before that if they helped him with something, they would get to ask a question outside of their adventure time. Which normally was generally nothing, but he tried to get lessons in between the many attention-demanding voices squawking over one another like a flock of tiny birds. He needed a solid breath.
“Very well. You did earn it. One question.” The Elder paused in his calm stride and raised a single digit as little students fought to be heard.
“Why are leaves green?”
“Why can’t we use leaves to color our clothes green?”
“Why does mum wash the color out of my robe?”
“What was your name before it was Elder?”
“I found a pretty leaf. Can I put it on your head?”
Several more questions whizzed past. It reminded him of the blather that happened closer to the evening when all the seamstresses got together and whispered that new gossip to one another. Of course, they whispered loudly enough for others to hear, and most things said were just to rabble-rouse, but everyone had to find joy somewhere. In the questions of the children though, one was out of place.
“What was my name before it was Elder? Now, now. You know that’s not something one is su
pposed to talk about in the Fringe. Before I answer one of the others, what is the rule?” His tone shifted to a sterner, determined flatness as he kept a solid eye on the one who had chirped the question.
Serious engagement made the congregation fall silent and shrink away an inch. They knew better, of course they did. With a swallow, the mousy voice piped up, “Everyone that wants to live in the Fringe becomes part of the Fringe, and everything you were before is left behind.”
The Elder nodded and dropped the stern quality; it was unnatural for him and took effort to uphold. “That’s correct, sproutling. Now, while I have your attention, was it Elder Switch who put you up to that game from earlier?”
Embarrassed nodding did the rounds. The Elder sighed and rubbed his forehead. “That woman is rage incarnate.”
The embarrassment of the group changed to quizzical frowns. They didn’t know those words, so he explained, “She’s always angry, particularly at me.”
Clarification complete, he then turned to the young girl holding a very big leaf. “As for the question I’m answering. I pick yours, and yes, you can put the leaf on my head.”
The Elder lowered himself down, and the smiling girl zipped up to place the big leaf on the Elder’s bald head. He promptly got back up and struck a pose. “How is it? Do I look beautiful?”
He did a turn and a flourish, playfully taking the hem of his robe to make it sway from side to side as he took little, bouncing steps to match. A smile remained on his bemused face as he stood there like an awkward duck with the leaf on his head. The laughter and snorting giggles from the children made him not mind one bit. He didn’t bother taking the large greenery off as he turned to continue his trek to the saltwater stream. At least the freshwater in the pail was going to quench his dry throat upon his return.
When the laughter was dying down, the Elder turned to look at them; dramatically and with much vigor as possible, he snapped back into the awkward ‘look at my leaf’ pose. As expected, back down into the land of snotty, ugly laughter the children went. One of his arms was poised above his head, oddly bent as he pointed at the leaf while his face scrunched up and eyes squinted. One knee was bent, while the other remained straight out and at a sharp angle. He couldn’t hold that long, of course, so released the pose and patted the new hat on his head.
“It’s a great leaf,” he mentioned as he wandered to the stream, giving them a light wave and an idea of where he was going to be when done with bathing. “Orchard. Bring your cups.”
He stopped to look over his shoulder as a, “Yes, Elder!” rang out behind him. He gave a positive nod and the children charged off. “They’re good little ones, beneath all their wide-eyed wonder and boundless energy.”
The Elder mumbled the words to himself but couldn’t keep the smile off his face as the sun uncovered from behind a single dense cloud and stabbed him right in the eyes. He recoiled from the searing assault with an *argh*!
It had gotten him again today. “You win this time, shiny sky orb. You win this time!”
Chapter Two
*Shkrack*! A thin wooden cup crashed against the wall in the village longhouse, fragmenting into sizable chunks. The Elderly, bossy voice shrieked, releasing a spray of spittle as the sound of a long, thin piece of wood impacted with a *switch*.
“Ahh!” A screech of pain erupted from a young voice as they were hit by a sharpened switch. The wince was as deep as the injury, but the cowering young adult bore it as silently as possible.
“I. Said. Do it!” the curmudgeonly Elder demanded.
The young villager stammered in an attempted reply, “E-Elder, we can’t just–”
His words were sharply cut off as the thin, freshly cut hazel branch swung and missed with a sharp *whizz*. “I am the only Elder in this village whose opinion matters. I am the oldest. I have been here the longest. I am sick. And. Tired. Of being told I cannot do what I want with my village. If I say we are accepting the new trading currency, then we are accepting it. If I say you work on the salt flats this year, then you work on the salt flats, and If. I. Say!”
Another *whizz* of the rod swinging past without striking the intended target interrupted the diatribe. “That I am the only Elder who matters, then you will live by that rule, or great hazel help you, I will strip each branch from that tree only to beat you with it until you’re disciplined! I chased you as a bothersome little child, and I’ve had to chase you all the way to the age where we’re supposed to name you, yet you can’t even follow simple tasks!”
The hesitant reply came with a concerned tone, “Elder, the rule of the village is that all Elders must agree on a decision. Otherwise, it can’t be said that the village is sure—or united—about what is good for everyone.”
He deftly dodged another wildly swung *whizz* from the ancient, enraged woman. “That tired old relic isn’t fit to be an Elder, and I don’t care what the rest of the village says! I will never accept him as my equal! I am the one that grew up here, and I am the only one who truly knows what is best! That lost-in-thought outsider has his head so high in the clouds that he forgets mid-conversation what I am talking about. That fallen log can’t agree with me on the most basic tasks of how a village should be run, and he has stolen all my precious young sproutlings!”
She took a heaving breath and continued her tirade, “My stories are the true lore and history of the village! Not those flighty, made-up tales that blind oak keeps rattling off. It’s affecting their young minds and making them deviate from what is truly good for the village! The youngest is even asking questions about things that have nothing, nothing to do with what he’s going to spend his life doing! All those bothersome, pointless questions about color? There’s nothing wrong with a lack of color! Our clothing is functional, and I have the softest robe. What else matters?”
The sneering tirade paused as the old crow of a woman leered, her dense brown gaze heavy upon the soon-to-be adult. “Tell the traders the deal is accepted.”
A deep sigh was all she got in reply. “A decision cannot be given if all the Elder in t–”
The crone shrieked as the violent whip of the fresh branch snapped loudly enough to scare some others out of the longhouse. “Get out!”
The young man’s protest was silent and done swiftly with ink and vellum in tow. His arms were full of written documents that clearly weren’t going to be delivered, and the man was sour about having been declared ‘not an adult’ and not deserving of a name.
“Grouchy old toad.” His trembling voice was nearly audible as he stamped out of the building. Nobody cared that the longhouse was the most comfortable building to physically be in; by any other standard, it was the worst building to be in. Elders had privileges that other villagers simply didn’t. People had to listen without interrupting when they talked, they could set the rules you had to follow, they could assign names, and they would determine the results of any disputes that became loud enough to make it to their old ears.
What you got out of life stopped being a matter of discussion, instead becoming entirely dependent on their ruling. They were also the only ones in the village who could properly write, even if most could decently read. Once a village had agreed on who was an Elder, the spot was permanent. They couldn’t suddenly not be—as much as some very much desired it—unless an Elder declared they would discard the title and step away from the discussion table entirely. A few had done this, but almost always for the reason that any interaction with Elder Switch was beyond undesirable. Unfortunately, that also silenced their voices and opinions unless called upon, as it stripped them of privileges they otherwise had.
Only two Elders remained now, and one of them was a nosy outsider who had properly followed all the rules of the Fringe to be admitted. He had been brought up to the position by the virtues he freely provided to the villagers. Elder Switch, to the knowledge of anyone who indulged in gossip, despised her opposition above all else. Her regional purity clearly made her ‘superior’ in her own crone eyes, and
she had not a single inhibition about being vocal about the matter. The whipping *switch* of the rod had even become so prevalent that it had been added to her name.
Elder Switch seethed as she sat alone, sneering at the small fire that reflected the burning, eternal smolder she felt inside. If something didn’t go her way, it didn’t need to go at all. She’d spent years and years solidifying her grip on the village. However, that sopping wet rag of an outsider had doused her rapid rise to power by simply existing! The slight left a sour expression on her face that could be seen just by glancing at her. Each of her heavyset wrinkles described the story of her long rise.
*Plink*. Old ears perked up when she heard a sound similar to a cup gently plunking on to a nearby table. Elder Switch sharply exhaled through her nose and started talking to the hidden figure who had just made its presence known. “Gold. It will replace salt as the main currency of the Fringe, and we will be the first to adopt it. I refuse to lose out any more to Lapis, that pathetic crag of rock-gatherers with their tiny, little village of color-loving savages. Blue this, blue that, blue rocks, blue fabrics. They’re living in a blue world, and I don’t want nobody to listen! To their attempts at sales, that is. I’m going to throw a cup at someone if I see that abyss-hued color. I tire hearing of how well it sells! Our Salt is a much more reliable and profitable village, and salt must remain the best-sold good of the region.”
She swiped a piece of vellum from the little nook next to her, crumpled it in her gnarled fingers, and disdainfully threw it right on the fire. Switch derisively watched at the conflagration of the secret message in the hearth. “Lazuli has no place alongside Salt. The Fringe will be known as my salt region once the mapmakers come.”
“Is the trader informed?” her impatient voice crooned.
A sharp, metal *plink* of a fingernail cleaning knife ceased its repeated activity. Words full of breathy poise and tact bled through a powerful woman’s sharpened teeth, “Of course he is, Grand Matron of the Salt v– Fringe Region.”
Axiom Page 2
