Depending on demand and input, I'll put in more chapters. This is just the first chapter of the first book, which is in a series of a planned four books. I've already written seventeen (out of twenty-five) chapters in the first book, totaling approximately 40,000 words in seventeen chapters. I am EXTREMELY eager for honest input and examination.
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CHAPTER ONE
FINAL, REVAMPED VERSION
“Get me the fish from outside, Joachim,” Mother orders busily as she prepares supper.
I abandon stirring the stew for a moment and walk swiftly outside of our hut. It’s been another scorching day outside. The thought of a hot meal on such a warm evening seems ridiculous to me. I guess the village has a particular liking to the stew regardless of the weather.
I look up and see a familiar, lonely cloud looming above me. It reminds me of that hot afternoon before it happened. The sky was completely clear, except for one small cloud off to the east. It seems imperfect to me, like that cloud somehow wasn’t supposed to be there. Now a similar cloud, off to the east like on that day, serves as a wisp of insight into that horrible memory.
It’s been nearly eight months now since it happened. I remember like it was yesterday. Since then, I’ve numbed myself to the pain and I tried preoccupied myself with other things. I pretend I’ve forgotten and completely avoid talk of what happened. Even when asked, I neglect to tell. I refuse to speak of how I feel about my father’s death, for the others in the village cannot learn what
really happened to him.
I stop staring at the mocking cloud and venture over to the pail where the gutted fish meat is wading. The water is warm from lying in the hot rays of sun all afternoon. The stench is unbearable; vapors of skinned, sour fish fill my nostrils.
I glance across from me. Outside a neighboring hut is Darcie. She is one of the prettiest girls in our village. Her blue eyes shimmer as she glances at me, as if her eyes are complimented by the gentle rays of sunset. Her dirty blond hair is choked high in a bun atop her head.
She is fixing the top of the pine table. Supper is almost ready and the table is coated in a clutter of plates, spoons and forks. Wooden chairs line the sides of the long table. The soft, blue table cloth blows slightly in the wind as the noise of crashing waves can be heard in the distance.
“Is supper almost ready?” She asks, folding a napkin neatly beside one of the wooden plates.
“Nearly…” I answer, dunking my hand reluctantly into the wooden pail.
“I’m surprised that fish hasn’t cooked already” She says, her red lips dancing a beautiful pattern across her chin. “They’ve been lying in that pail out here all day.”
I glance at her again and let out a little smirk. I often find it hard to speak in front of Darcie. I’m afraid that I’ll say something incredibly stupid. Mother says that I look like a jerk when I just smirk, but it’s the only thing I can do when I’m face to face with her.
Without any further conversation, I return to the hut. I finish preparing the evening’s meal as the sun shines a mosaic of scarlet through the glassless window. Before long, the cooked fish had left a light brown film of fat along the rims of the pot. I bring the stew out to the table, just as mother has brought out the rest of the salads and pastas for tonight’s supper.
I look at the table in a slight disgust. The taste of salad is losing its succulence and is hardly satisfying. Also, the thought of eating fish yet again makes me gag. Animals are scarce on the beach, and many people won’t go into the Unknown for food. From what I’ve heard, the same meal has been served since the apocalypse.
I sit between my mom and Darcie, glancing hungrily around the table. More food from the others in the village litters the table top. Their food is, again, very much the same, but in my disgust, I realize complaining won’t fill the void in my stomach. I’m about to dig in when a wave of anxious whispering consumes the supper instantly.
I glance up and look at people’s faces; the fifty other villagers are painted with worry and grief. I glance at Darcie. Even my mother looks dismayed. When she sees my puzzled look, she points across the table. To my dismay, the seats that mother is pointing to are empty. Two villagers are missing.
My mind begins to wander.
What if the villagers who occupy those spots were taken into the Unknown? What if the creatures have claimed two more victims? What if the creatures that killed my father have come again? Even though the other villagers are ignorant to the dangers of the Unknown, they look just as worried.
“Ted and Ophelia are not joining us at this meal.” Baruch starts solemnly. He stands from his seat at the head of the table.
Baruch is the oldest man in the village. Many think of him as the village teacher, others think of him as the village leader. Although our village has no official form of government, Baruch advises us about what to do. Somehow, he doesn’t seem worried, which is reassuring. He is the only person, other than my mother and I, who knows about the creatures.
“Last night, at around midnight,” Baruch begins. I hold my breath and wait for the worst. “Ophelia went into labor. She has just given birth to their first son and the newest member of our village. His name is Lukas.”
Immediately, the intensity subsides. I sigh in relief, and the whole table begins chattering happily and smiling in joy. Although I know that no one else knows what could have happened if they had gotten ‘lost’ in the Unknown, everyone is glad to hear the pleasant news instead of grief.
“Yes, yes…” Baruch says smiling. “There’s nothing like a new born child to lighten the mood from a day of labor. A child is so innocent. A child’s slate is clean, so to speak. It is our duty as a village to raise this child and show him right from wrong.”
With that said, a villager sitting across from me stands up with his glass smiling.
“To Lukas,” he says, lifting his stone mug full of water.
“To Lukas.” The table says cheerfully lifting their mugs in honor.
“Let the feast begin.” Baruch says with a smile.
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After dinner, Mom and Darcie clear the table and wash the dishes and mugs in the cleaning tub. I walk inside my hut to change into warmer cloths before I join everyone at the evening’s fire.
I walk past the stone stove, and the small bamboo couch. Our hut is petit; even smaller than most of the other huts in the village. It consists of a joined kitchen and living room, along with a bathroom, and two bedrooms. All the huts on the beach are made out of bamboo or pine wood. Some stone was used in making the foundation, but the village saved majority of the stone for the construction of the library. The roof is made out of several layers of carefully woven leaves and the little plastic that still remains in the village.
My room is small. It’s just big enough for a bed, a small bookshelf, and a tiny pine cabinet under the window where I store my cloths. The window is pretty small. During the day, I keep the curtain open wide to air out the room. There is no glass on the window, all the salvaged glass from the Bright Age was used in the library. On the bamboo cabinet, there is a sundial, my notebook, and an old electronic clock that no longer works.
When I was younger, I used to take apart the old clock in an attempt to get it to work. Baruch says it worked at one point in time. I remember him saying that after the asteroid hit, it threw the earth’s magnetic field and radiation into a strange state. The old way of making electronics has become nearly impossible, and we haven’t been able to tweak old electronics to work in the earth’s new state.
Without further thought on the subject of the past, I grab a pair of long pants and a sweater from the drawer. By the time I’ve changed, the dishes have been washed and everyone is sitting around the village fire. I walk over and sit down on the cold sand. By the sounds of it, another heated discussion has erupted about the usage of water in the village.
“With the rainy season just ending, we’re going to need to start conserving fresh water again.” A male, middle-aged scientist says to my mother with persistence. “Last year, we almost brought a drought upon ourselves.”
“Then I guess we can agree that the fresh water from the waterfall should only be used for drinking and watering the crops.” Mother says, referring to the gardens behind the library.
“I agree.” Baruch pipes in, calmly. “Instead of fresh water, salt water should be used for bathing and washing cloths. This way, we’ll make it to the next rainy season without the drought.”
Last year was a bad year all around. The rainy season was short and rather dry. When drought hit, it was decided that the crops should not be watered any longer, and that the ripe crops would be preserved. The diminishing amount of water was conserved for drinking only. With the lacking length of this year’s rainy season, I can see why people are getting apprehensive about the water supply again.
I tune out. I hardly find anything to say at these discussions. Instead, I watch the immense fire. I look around the circle. Most children are sleeping in their mother’s laps. Some people are reading, or having small conversations among themselves. I look at Darcie. She’s been looking at me. We make a slight eye contact, but I look away nervously.
I decide to leave the fire. I walk past my hut down to the beach toward the black rocks. The rocks are my sanctuary in my time of need and doubt. They’re right beside the ocean; secluded from the rest of the village and have a feeling of blissful peace. I often come to clear my head and tonight is no different. I stare out into the endless ripples of blue and think of all that could have been if my father remained.
