Saturday 23 October 2021

Seeds by Pamela Zero

 



Seeds

by Pamela Zero


Jeela held his mother’s hand tightly and squinted into the sky. “I can’t see them, Mommy! Where are they?”

Patience, honey,” replied Suelsi. “They have to go to the capital first. They’ll be here soon.”

The little boy hopped in place, twisting and turning while holding fast to his parent’s hand. He was dressed in an intricately embroidered tunic with a rainbow of colors stitched into delicate globe shapes. His mother wore a simple white smock and had threaded a white ribbon through her dark hair. They were standing in the town square, surrounded by their friends and neighbors, all of them creating a wild palette of bright colors and white.

There! There’s one! Is that one?” the boy shouted.

A murmur swept through the crowd, as a few distant, feathery spheres appeared high up in the sky. They rolled overhead, followed by more, until the sky was full of tumbling balls of gossamer. Their paths seemed erratic, but it was clear they were slowly descending, closer and closer.

They’re here! The Friss are here! Mommy, where are the seeds?” Jeela looked around frantically, and then saw the bundle of sticks topped with seed heads his mother was offering him. “Thanks!” He waved the stalks wildly above his head as his mother lifted him up and sat him on her shoulders. Around them, others were doing the same. In a few moments, the square was filled with bright colors atop white shoulders, with every child clutching their seeds and waving with all their might.

Thank you!”, shouted Jeela. “Thank you! We are grateful! Thank you!” He glanced around to see his friend from next door a few shoulders over. “Loeter!”

Loeter grinned at him and waved his seeds.

This was the second year that Jeela had come to the square to offer seeds to the Friss. His older sister used to come too, and stand on a chair to get high enough, but she said she was too grown up for that now. Jeela loved wearing his special tunic and shaking the seeds. He especially enjoyed the shouting. Most of the time his mom told him to use his inside voice. Sometimes she said that even when he was outside.

Today he got to shout all he wanted. The louder the better, so the Friss would hear his gratitude. His teacher had said that a while ago everyone all around the world was very sick. Just one Friss had come over from the planet next door and dropped medicine that made people better. Jeela thought that was pretty far away to come all by yourself, even if you were a Friss and had a spaceship. That one Friss saved everyone from dying, but it got too tired after all that work and it died.

He waved his arm faster as he noticed a Friss rolling near him. It dipped closer and he saw the snowflake pattern of its spokes, and the dense area in the center where its brain was. He tried to shout but all that came out was a whisper. “Thank you.” He held out his seeds and the Friss extended a spoke slowly. The end of the spoke curled around the seeds and stripped them off the stalks. Jeela watched in awe as the Friss stored the seeds in its center, then puffed out a small cloud towards him. For a moment, the air smelled like flowers and rain and then the Friss was gone, tumbling up and over back into the sky.

Mommy! Mommy I did it! I gave it the seeds!”

Well done, Jeela! Did you say thank you?” Suelsi patted his legs.

I did but I wasn’t very loud.” He frowned.

I’m sure it heard you honey. Alright, should we stay for a bit more or do you want to go home and have lunch?”

Lunch!” Jeela wiggled as his mother lifted him down. He dropped the leftover sticks on the ground as he took his mother’s hand.


The mourners bounced through the atmosphere, buffeted by high altitude winds as they tumbled towards the planet’s surface. There were thousands of them. Gionsly was a peaceful planet, with just one, fairly small, continent. The Friss had made this pilgrimage for years now, ever since their neighboring planet had been struck by a plague. Their fellow Friss, Sll, had taken it upon itself to help, but the cost had been too high. It had died, spokes broken, after scattering the cure it made from its own body into the continental air currents.

The beings that it saved were grateful, and had put up a statue of Sll in their capital city. The statue showed it hale and whole, spokes unbent. At the base was a plaque that blew air scented with the clean, clear smell of Frissian flowers.

Every year this pilgrimage was made. Finding the statue of Sll, was easy. Paying respects was simple, as was layering the scents of the forest around the capital city so Sll’s spirit could rest. The difficult part was visiting the saved beings themselves. They moved quickly and erratically. They didn’t seem to use their sense of smell and their own odors were somewhat difficult to parse. Nonetheless, honor must be shown to those who sacrifice, so the Friss came every year to mourn Sll in the company of the beings it had saved.

This year was Wrr’s first pilgrimage. It was worried. What if it got lost? What if it got hit by one of the lumpy beings? They moved so fast. Wrr focused and made sure to keep up with its group as they layered the smell of fresh moss around the bushes in the capital city. After a while it smelled the scent in the air that signaled the tour of the villages. Wrr rose with its group and headed to the first village on their list.

When they got close to their target, Wrr dropped to the back of the group. It felt a flush of shame, but stubbornly held its position. This high up no one would smell it and it could barely see the lumpy people below. With any luck, all the seeds would be gathered without it having to interact with any of the lumpies. In a few minutes the smell of leaving filled its spokes and it gusted relief in spite of itself. It managed to keep to the back, up high, for the next two villages as well.

The last village twisted into view below. It saw a mass of color and waving seeds. One of the lumpy beings was making a hole in its face, over and over. It looked very agitated and was moving its seeds around at a rapid rate. In spite of Wrr’s caution, it lowered itself down to see if the lumpy was alright. The lumpy stopped moving and its face hole appeared again, but much smaller. Wrr rippled its spokes in a pattern of mourning. The lumpy moved the seeds closer, and Wrr prepared a cloud of Sll’s scents to share sorrow, then took the seeds. The lumpy was still and Wrr released its cloud, full of sadness and pride. It watched the lumpy breathe Sll’s scents in, and felt the power of shared grief.

Wrr rose up and headed to the upper atmosphere. This year’s pilgrimage was done. Sll had been honored, by both races, and it had not shirked its duty completely. It even had seeds to sow in the community garden. It felt its spokes ruffle as it flew, and let a scent of joy and relief waft through the thin air. “Rest well Sll. Be at peace”, it thought. “Worlds of beings honor you.”



Pamela Zero is the author of the Visitor Series, a trilogy featuring people pulled forward hundreds of thousands of years into the future.

You can check out her amazon page here

and her debut novel, the first in the trilogy here.


Thursday 14 October 2021

Interview with Ernest Hogan

Interview with Ernest Hogan 



Q. When you were first published in 1990, you were described as one of the up and coming new writers of the decade. Nowadays, however, you’re more widely known as the father of Chicano Science Fiction. How do these two phases differ for you? What can you do now that you couldn’t do then? And vice versa?


A: Actually, my first story sale was in 1982. My first publication of any kind was back in 1969 or 70. I could write something and it could end up on comic book racks all over the country. I started high school knowing I could be a writer, but it wasn’t easy—it was a long, hard guerrilla campaign. It felt like I was thrashing away for centuries when I sold my first novel—which wasn’t the first one I wrote. It’s pretty rare for some to sell their first attempt. The first novel I wrote is still unpublished. . . Maybe, someday . . .

It felt good being called an up-and-comer, but it didn’t last. The publishers—especially the science fiction crowd, didn’t want a wild and crazy guy coming up with new ideas, they wanted “marketable” fantasy epics and space wars. And I’m not getting into the whole Chicano thing yet. . .

This was when Tor was giving million dollar advances to writers like Newt Gingrich.

They told me that Cortez on Jupiter didn’t sell, and when High Aztech came out all kinds of strange things happened:

No review copies were sent out—I kept hearing, “Is your book out? We got books from Tor, and yours wasn’t in the box.” The ad in Locus had no text, just a big, gray, blank space.

The Mexican science fiction magazine Umbrales published a positive review, so I sent identical letters to my editor and the publisher telling them make sure outlets in border towns were stocked with it, because people will be coming up from Mexico to buy it, both letters came back unopened, stamped RETURN TO SENDER, NO SUCH ADDRESS. I wrote my agent, who confirmed I did have the address right. I asked what could have happened. She wrote back “Gremlins?”

When I was trying to get copies for an autograph session, I called one of my editors, he went to look, excited to help me, and after a long wait, came back confused: “Uh, I don’t know what happened, I was sure we had copies this morning—but now they’re gone.” When I told my agent, she contacted them, assuming the first printing had sold out, and was told, “They didn’t sell—they’re just gone.”

They rejected my next novel, Smoking Mirror Blues. No New York publisher would touch it, Finally, in the year 2000 it was published by Wordcraft of Oregon. I have not been able to sell anything to a New York publisher since.

I tell people that I keep on foot on the underground, so when the shit hits the fan, I’ll have a place to stand.

I don’t really see two phases in my career, the industry thrashed me, but I kept on writing. Chicano, and Latinx readers and academics treat me like a chignón. But I’m not a specialized, ethnic studies writer, I have fans in England, France, Mexico, Russia, and other places. Except for a short time when I got depressed, I never stopped writing. I keep doing new and different things, because just the way I am. It’s how I interact with my environment.


Q. Your first novel, Cortez on Jupiter has become something of an underground cult classic. What was it like being published way back in the day before the internet?


A: It was a totally different world. Most communications were through the physical mail, and it could be weeks before you got a reaction. Then there was the whole process of creating a manuscript with a typewriter, when cut and paste literally meant using scissors and glue, and physically mailing it. . .

Nowadays, communication with editors is instantaneous. They can demand changes overnight. And I once got a novel rejected twenty minutes after sending it.

The social media makes self-promotion a lot easier. An underground cult classic can become popular faster. Readers can buy books from small presses with a couple of clicks. You can also let people know that you’re still around, and haven’t given up or died.

I was invited to do my column, Chicanonautica, for La Bloga, because of my Facebook activity. Strange Particle Press, who republished my novels, found out about me through La Bloga. This led to academics discovering me.

None of this would have been possible in the pre-internet days.



Q. Am I right in saying you’ve only published three novels in the last thirty years? Has this been a deliberate attempt of pacing your writing career out, being in it for the long haul and taking your time?


A: Argh. Nothing in my career happened the way I thought it would. I thought I would dazzle the world with short fiction – if Ray Bradbury and Harlan Ellison could do it, why not me? I didn’t think that being a Chicano would be the big, hairy stumbling block that it turned out to be. I figured by now I’d be rich, famous, and writing whatever I damn well please as a Grand Old Man of Letters.

The publishing biz still doesn’t know what to do with me. Do I really exist? Am I human? Are those rumors of cannibalism and human sacrifice true?

Editors tend to like me, but the corporate entities they have to answer to don’t see any commercial potential in me. Still, there are people who love my work.

I have several unpublished novels. My attempt to write a “straight, commercial novel” was eventually deemed “too weird” for any New York publisher.

So I get published where I can. Usually something out on the fringes, taking advantage of new technology.

Yeah, I’m in it for the long haul. I’m not going away. I’ve given up on trying to please “them” whomever they may be. I have these novels I want to write before I die. And I get new ideas all the time.

But then, I can be distracted if someone wants to make a serious deal for real money...


Q. Your writing style often seems quite ‘train of thought.’ Do you scribble in notebooks and edit later?


A: It’s always gonzo, stream-of-consciousness or screenplay-like image collage with me. My current novel is a gigantic, unholy mess. I always make a mess first. In notebooks and sketchbooks.

I’m dyslexic, and my mom got some bad advice that had her taking things out of my left hand and putting them in my right hand, which messed me up and made my life a lot more interesting than it should have been (thanks, Mom, I love you). If it wasn’t for my superpower of an imagination I would have been doomed.

After I have enough of a mess, I go in and thrash it around until it can be sent off to the markets.

It’s a violent process, not at all pretty.


Q. Do you have a favourite line or paragraph; an excerpt from your writing that you’re particularly fond of?


A: I seem to be quotable. Whenever I see excerpts from my stuff, I’m impressed. Wow, did I really do that?

I don’t dwell on my past work. I’m thinking about what I’m doing now, and I’m always doing something.

I also do great one-liners that I put on Facebook and Twitter. People always say I should make them into stories, but most of the time, one-liners are just one-liners. Occasionally, these have ended up in my writing.


Q. Is ‘alternative writing’ hard to get right? I’ve found from my own experiences that it’s not like music where something unpolished can come across as cool and effective. So I wanted to ask, how do you achieve making your prose so pure, raw and natural, but also readable? Is it a case of the more you work on it, the more natural it sounds?


A: “Alternative” writing? I guess you meant informal, unconventional prose that mimics the words that actually come out of people when they experience life without the usual filters, the kind English majors like, where all the rules are followed to the letter. I find proper prose to be boring. And I didn’t have to spend much time around English majors to figure out that I wasn’t one of them.

What I try to do is make the words come alive. There it is, creative writing in a nutshell.

My dyslexia made learning writing and reading the way they teach it in school difficult. Then I discovered comic books, and soon was reading more and faster than anyone else in my class. I was more interested in comics, television, and movies than books. My approach to prose is more like dialogue or speech than “writing.” (I also tend to start with images and words come tumbling after.) The problem is, the publishing world is ruled by English majors. I work toward an awkward truce.


Q. Which ‘alternative writers’ are you a fan of? Who have you been compared to?


A: Harlan Ellison was a big influence in my early days. The New Wave and experimental writing took me to some interesting places. I like Ishmael Reed, William S. Burroughs, and Guillermo Gómez-Peña. I’ve been compared to both Hunter S. Thompson and Oscar Zeta Acosta (AKA Dr. Gonzo).


Q. You have a new story out in Speculative Fiction For Dreamers: A Latinx Anthology. What can you tell us about that?


A: That’d be “Those Rumors of Cannibalism and Human Sacrifice Have Been Greatly Exaggerated” inspired by my travels in Aztlán (the Southwest). After he has left the U.S.A., a gringo anthropologist gets picked up by a pair of Latinoid truckers who take him on a wild ride.

I’m really proud of this story. I think it’s a prime example of Chicano Science Fiction, reveling in societal mutations and new lifestyles that come about in and around what I call the Latinoid Continuum.

I hope a lot of people read it.

I’d get my hopes up for an award if I hadn’t gotten disgusted with them decades ago.


Q. In fact you’ve had quite a number of short stories published over the years. Who are you most proud to have been published by?


A: I’m proud to have appeared in Amazing and Analog, and to be connected to the tradition of the pulp magazine. Also, I thank Aztlán: A Journal of Chicano Studies for giving me clout in La Cultura.


Q. Your wife is a writer too. Have you ever worked together?


A: Now and then. We are very different writers. We can work in the same room and be in different universes. We’re always bouncing ideas off each other. We have fun together. Our collaborations tend not to sell, We’d probably do more of them if they did.


Q. Okay, last question. You’ve been described as a writer who is both controversial and ahead of his time. Do you think there’s a connection there, or are these simply two different aspects of the effect your stories have?


A: I’m always doing something different. I can’t help it. If I don’t I get bored. I’m also out of sync. Everybody crowds around something, and I drift off, and find something else to focus on. Sometimes these things sell years or decades later. Meanwhile, I’m getting old. I don’t know how many decades I may have left. At least I’m going to have some fun.


Thanks very much for the interview Ernest Hogan.



You can check out Ernest Hogan's amazon page here

Connect with him on goodreads here

And find his website here



Thursday 7 October 2021

Art - Luca Oleastri

 

Art - Luca Oleastri




Alien City




Colony Ship




Green Planet




Light City




Solitary




Space Seeds



For more information on Luca Oleastri you can check out the link here.

And connect with him on facebook here



Saturday 2 October 2021

The Woman Who Changed Everything by Howard Loring

 



The Woman Who Changed Everything

Or

A Brief History of Beans


by Howard Loring


Even as a child, things that grew had fascinated her. Of course, as gathering wild plants was within the female realm, this was fortunate. Other women in the tribe were good at the task, as she became, but she really enjoyed it, as well.

When the foraging parties had left each morning, she dashed ahead, eager, anticipating. If the gathering was good, the women’s baskets were soon full and the young girl was then free to roam on her own. She used that time to look at plants.

It didn’t matter if they weren’t edible. Often the most captivating ones she found were not. She just liked things that grew, for they were always interesting.

As a toddler too young to gather, her chores had included helping, as best she could, the older women as they engaged in cleaning in and about the family’s tent. This involved tagging along as the toothless ones dumped the garbage at one of the various pits the tribe used for the purpose. It was there that the young girl had first noticed the newborn growing things, struggling to live at the pit’s edge.

Why would plants live in such a smelly place, she wondered? Still, they did, pushing their spindly stalks to the sun. They even moved their new, tender leaves towards its direction, and how did the growing things know to do this?

Later, after turning old enough to forage, she discerned even more intriguing things, details the others didn’t notice or care about. They couldn’t be bothered for their only concern was filling their baskets, and looking at things that you couldn’t eat held no fascination for them. She, however, was always captivated.

Her primitive tribe of hunter-gathers had no permanent home but perpetually moved about, yet often as not, if the local game was plentiful and the men and their dogs successful in the hunt, it stayed put for more than a season at a time. And, when this did happen, through all the year the inquisitive girl had carefully noted each change occurring in the many growing things. Soon, no matter the season, she could predict what would happen to them next, and she was always proved correct.

A few times, while still very young, she tried to grow plants but this had never been successful. She’d dug holes and placed sprouts from the pit’s edge into them, but the plants had perished, drying up in days. Then she’d tried planting them closer to the river but these, having little sun, also died.

Undaunted, on the next occasion she once more planted in the sun, but this time she watered the sprouts.

A neighbor boy she knew, whose father was headman of her clan, thought this whole idea very foolish. Why work so hard to grow something that just grew elsewhere? What was the purpose, given you could simply go out and find it?

Still, she persisted and carried out her idea. Because the boy liked her, he feigned interest, and he even helped her tote the water. But the experiment proved inconclusive, for the tribe had traveled on before the outcome became apparent.

She resolved to try again once the proper conditions permitted, but thinking in this next effort of using a different kind of plant.

In the meantime, her life moved forward, as did her wandering tribe. Once the boy became a man, he took her, now a fine woman, as his mate. They were happy.

She quickly became a mother several times over, and for a while this halted her excursions. Yet she never forgot her plan. In fact, she thought of it often as her offspring aged, for each reminded her of how the plants also grew and changed.

When her children were toddlers she resumed her foraging, for they could now accompany her. However, as they demanded much attention, she had no free time to implement her long simmering idea. Yet, once adolescents they began to have chores about the camp, and this at last allowed her to consider it again.

The tribe’s currently claimed area turned out to be bountiful, and the tribal elders, who were the headmen from each clan, announced their decision to stay for as many seasons as the abundant game continued to thrive. So, the young woman judged the time to try once more might never be better. But what growing thing, she constantly wondered, would she endeavor to cultivate in this newest attempt?

Then, one day late in the afternoon, she discovered a peaceful meadow cut by a lazy stream encircled and hidden by the deep, surrounding forest. The open field was thickly covered with many vines that twisted and climbed amidst each other. From long experience she easily recognized these plants, now in full flower.

Soon, she knew, these vines would bear pods, and these pods would then grow the tasty beans so prized by her kind. She also knew that other gatherers would take them if they could, even before they were ripe, for everyone in the tribe enjoyed their hearty flavor. Therefore, the young woman told no one of her find.

Every few days she went back to assess the bean plants, knowing that once the pods ripened they would soon pop open. When they did, of course, the beans were released and fell to the ground, thus becoming harder to gather. So, each day she tried to pick the ripest pods just before they popped, correctly judging from both familiarity and long experience the most opportune moment to harvest them.

Indeed, they were very tasty.

As the pods ripened at various times, her harvest continued for several weeks, but soon almost all of them were gone. She noticed, however, a few of the plants had pods that although ripe had failed to open, as if to protect the beans inside. Finally, when the days turned cold, she picked these now hardened pods, as well.

Yet, she didn’t cook the now sleeping beans they held.

She put these pods, only a handful, in a hollowed-out gourd she used for storage. From time to time she’d crack one open, finding the beans in perfect condition. Once the weather warmed, her long considered plan was fully formed.

She picked a sunny hillside not far from her tent, and set her children to clearing an area sufficient to accommodate her beans, now seeds of the next generation, which numbered well over twice the amount of all her fingers. She then scattered them about, lightly covering them against the birds that also appreciated their delicious flavor. She carefully watered them, and waited.

Yet they did not grow. She resolved to find out why. She then dug up a few and examined them.

They still seemed perfect, and she was confused. Next she decided to visit the original meadow, to see if any beans were growing there this season. None were, but she found something else in the clearing, something quite unexpected.

A strange man, not of her tribe, was there. She abruptly stopped, leery once she finally saw him sitting in the meadow. Yet he only smiled sweetly, and nodded.

She thought of running away, but she didn’t. She sensed no danger, oddly none at all and, after a bit she stepped closer, now only wondering who he was. At her steady, determined approach, the strange man slowly stood.

He was thin and very tall. He was also dressed strangely, for he wore garments unlike any that she had ever seen. No clan she knew of had such an eccentric covering.

Welcome,” he said to her, “I’ve been waiting for you.”

This statement she didn’t believe. Still, she laughed a bit, for he was a man and she thought him only flirting, as most men would do with any unattended female. Yet the stranger politely persisted, quickly dispelling her misplaced conclusion.

The ground remains cold,” he informed her, “too cold for your still sleeping seeds. Just have patience. It won’t be long.”

Following this profound pronouncement, she did become wary. The feeling, however, was fleeting and soon passed. She looked him in the face, now highly curious.

How do you know such?” she asked of him.

The man bid her to sit. He sat also, across from her. Then he smiled again, in reassurance.

I know many things,” he answered her. “I know of your long interest, and of your newest intent. And,” he added for emphasis,

I also know your vision is a true one.”

At this, she smiled at him, for under the bizarre circumstances she was compelled to accept this stranger at his word. It was an easy thing for her to do. The woman still didn’t know who he was or why he was helping her, but nevertheless she somehow understood that he had only her best interests in mind.

Indeed he did. He was most eager to assist her, it was his sole, singular goal. The tall stranger was from another Timeframe, and aiding her was his direct mission.

Soon the beans grew. Every evening, she checked on them after her daily chores had been seen to, and shortly others in her clan took notice, as well. Her mate was much amused by all this attention, seeing no real value in her self-imposed, added labors.

Nevertheless, the beans thrived in a perfect growing season. Nothing went amiss. The rain was always gentle and no pest, insect nor animal, attacked her plants.

Now more than her clan was engrossed. Word was spreading. The local men who came to gawk were well entertained by all the heavy interest, as her mate had been, but the hard-working women in the tribe saw and appreciated the inherent advantages.

They offered their help.

The young woman politely refused.

Their labor was currently unneeded, she knew. The strange man in the secret meadow had explained everything in detail.

Maybe next year,” she said.

Her bean plants soon produced a bumper crop. When this happened, word really spread. Even the most hardened of the tribal men were impressed, for they all loved beans as much as meat, and now they saw the obvious advantage, too.

Beans, after all, while being quite an enjoyable meal were generally hard to come by.

The young woman shared her bounty with her clan, and her mate shared in the gratitude that followed. He was most proud of her. Undeniably, she was a good woman.

She did ask her female kinfolk for help in shelling the beans. It was a big task taking much time, for there were many full baskets of pods. The women sat in a circle as they worked and talked of the future, laughing together at every opportunity.

The beans were carefully graded before being doled out. Many of them were an average size or smaller, and these were the ones equally divided and dispersed, a most succulent bonus. A substantial number, however, were bigger than the average, and the woman kept these back to plant in the next season.

The next season never came. The tribe, after two years, moved on. Sadly, its new territory was heavily wooded and held no area sufficiently suitable for her beans.

She and her mate then argued over them. He wanted to eat her tasty seeds, and he boldly stated they would go bad if they didn’t. She’d always check first, but after finding them still only sleeping, each time she stiffly refused to comply.

Then, in the warming time the tribe suddenly returned to its previous location. The cautious elders now judged moving a hasty mistake. The available game was still plentiful and there was abundant water to be had close by.

The woman staked her rawhide tent by her old, sunny hillside.

Now they came, scores of women from many clans in the tribe. Their mates all wanted tasty beans. Teach us, they pleaded, the secrets of how to grow them.

She did, but she demanded a price. The women would learn by tending her plot, under her instructions, some of every day for a season. She would initiate them, and also give them beans to plant, but only after her harvest was completed.

This was a stiff bargain. Men didn’t like waiting. More importantly, they wouldn’t understand such a strange and novel arrangement, and they’d only see their women working for someone else, an unheard of thing.

The now fully mature and resolute woman replied only, “If we start soon, and the early air is warm enough, we can have two harvests. Your men will have beans later, in the cooling times, but still this season. Or,” she casually added, “only my clan will assist me now, and next season you can ask them for help.”

The tribe’s women saw wisdom in this, for it was a good plan. Enlightening their mates would be a different matter. Still, after using her argument, they did.

This time, there were problems. First there was too much rain, and later the fat, green worms arrived. Luckily, many men, always impatient for beans, came by to check on things and ended up eating most of the juicy insects.

Some plants did die, but many more survived and again there was a bumper crop. As earlier stipulated, the growing season was only halfway done and the mentoring woman then held to her part of the bargain, dispersing seed to her now trained, former helpers. All of the women were excited, and they eagerly rushed home to quickly create their own, small garden plots.

After her second course of beans was planted, she returned to the hidden meadow in hopes that the strange man would still be there. He was. Again they sat.

You’ve done much good,” he told her.”

Yes,” the woman concurred, “this is a wonderful thing for the tribe, but I’m most concerned. There are times that I cannot grow tasty beans, for often the forest is too thick and the sun is blocked. Tell me how to raise my plants then.”

The time traveler answered quietly, saying, “You must grow your beans in a new and different way. Your people must have fine fields, always. Your tribe should not move but forever stay, and grow many beans in many fine fields.”

But men hunt,” she answered him. “They follow the prey to do so. The tribe will move, it will always move, it must.”

You can trade for meat,” was his rejoinder, “for other tribes will savor your tasty beans, too. Many tribes would gladly trade good meat for good beans. And your men will be busy with another thing, a vital thing they must do now.”

What thing,” she asked, “helping grow beans?”

Not yet,” he instructed. “That will come later, but for now the men must do something else of great importance. They must protect the ones that grow the beans.”

This scenario she understood. Why work for something when it can be taken by force? Many unfriendly tribes would want beans and, not yet knowing how to grow them, they would try to steal them instead, why wouldn’t they?

Still, she had reservations.

The tribe will always stay,” she asked him, “for beans alone? No, this is too great of a change. This would change everything.”

The stranger slowly nodded, understanding her dilemma. Yet, he also knew that it was just a matter of time. Change always comes, and time will out, regardless.

Your beans first came from wild beans here,” he said, with a sweep of his arm, indicating the meadow now full of fine grass.

Yes,” she agreed.

Yet, if you didn’t take them,” he continued, “the pods would have just popped open, with the beans falling to the ground.”

Yes,” she said again.

The beans do this to live,” he said, “so that other beans will come later. But some of the pods did not pop open. Their beans, being trapped, could not grow.”

Yes,” she said for a third time.

But now they do grow,” he pointed out. “They can live and thrive because of you. These beans will now feed your tribe, and other plants do much the same thing.”

Again he indicated the field around them. The tall grass there was full of tiny, green seed heads. Strange, she hadn’t noticed them before and she should have.

This particular type of grass was a most delicious plant, too.

These seed heads must be taken early, before they’re ripe,” he explained. “If not, they will just fall from the stalk in order to grow the next grass. It’s hard to gather then.”

Here she only nodded, knowing from experience it was true.

But, like your beans,” he said, “some of these stalks will keep their tasty seeds. They won’t fall like the others do. These seeds would never grow, for once the stalk finally fell, the ground itself would then be too cold to welcome them.”

I see it,” she said, but then she made the larger connection.

The man, realizing this by the look on her face, smiled.

This grass can also be grown?” she inquired.

Easily,” he answered, “but plant only the ones with the largest seeds, like you did with your beans. Some of the new seed will be larger still, and you will then save this to plant. Much food can thus be grown and traded by your tribe.”

She traveled home, enthused, but still her mind was troubled. How could she, only a woman, convince the stiff elders to always stay and grow things? She knew not.

Yet, once at her tent she found that great change had already arrived. The clan’s headman, her mate’s father, had died suddenly in the night. The clan members, losing no time, had quickly elected the dead man’s son, her mate, to replace him.

Now her mate was the headman of her clan, and so by extension a member of the tribe’s elders as well, albeit the youngest and most inexperienced of the group.

We must always stay,” she told him. She then explained the reasons why, the same rationalities the strange man had listed. But her mate was noncommittal.

Trying to sway him, she returned many times to the meadow to pick the ripest seed heads there, for he loved the sweet loafs they always made. The smell of them cooking alone was mesmerizing. Still, he didn’t agree to always stay.

Every time the determined woman returned to gather, she wished again to speak to the tall stranger, but she never did. She couldn’t. Unlike before, he was never there.

One day when the cooling times had arrived, she stood surveying her bean field. The dying plants were now bare of pods, for they had all been harvested. Because of her unwavering efforts, the plot was now just one of many in the tribe and this season they had all produced many tasty beans.

Her mate, returning from the day’s hunt, then approached her.

When will you tell the elders to always stay?” she demanded.

He sighed, not wanting to argue further.

To always stay may be a good idea,” he conceded, “but it’s a new idea. And I’m a new elder. They would not listen to me.”

You are my man,” she said slowly, her eyes hard and her jaw set, “and you should see this my way, it makes good sense. Beans keep, meat does not. They will feed our clan when the cold comes, a good thing if the hunting is bad.”

This blunt statement shocked him at first for he took it as an affront, a commentary on his competence as a provider, but that reaction soon passed. She was a good woman. She spoke the truth and undeniably it was a noble point.

What’s more, he hadn’t even considered this view, a valid advantage. That rankled for as an elder, even a novice one, he always needed to contemplate every option. Yet now, the hard-pressed man only grunted, turned and walked away.

She turned also, back to her dead beans. What else could she possibly do? The woman didn’t know.

Much later he returned to the tent, holding a solemn face.

I talked to the elders,” he announced. “They agree to always stay, at least for now. The tribe can still move later, if need be.”

Her eyes filled with tears and he took her in his arms. Then she cried outright. Next, her mate tightly hugged her.

Good thing,” he whispered, “they all love beans.”

Before the cold time started in earnest, she returned to the meadow. The strange man was not there. Something else was though, a gift from him, perhaps.

She noticed dark brown, fully ripened seed heads on several of the grass stalks. These seeds had not been broadcast. She gathered them and then walked home.

To always stay.




HOWARD LORING creates EPIC FABLES on the ELASTIC LIMIT of TIME.

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