HOMESTEADING[]
Xadia set the corpse down on a small Pyre. Constructed from tinder and logs cut from the surrounding jungle trees. The Pyre sat atop a cliff face, facing outward into rich sapphire oceans, spanning onyx-sanded shores. A sunset crowned the distant horizon. Bands of red and gold arched across the sky. The undersides of the clouds shimmered with a brilliant light. Xadia’s face hung neutral, his eyes cast down onto the bundle of linen and wrapped cloth. An old tradition. Centuries old, from back during the founding of Actium, and stretching back even further than that. The linens were freshly cut from the stems of Baradisk plants. Pressed, woven, and stitched with thread from the cotton buds Baradisk grew. Their fruits served as the dye, colouring it a rich and vibrant purple once treated. Raw stalks wrapped around the bundle. Criss-crossing the wrapped body, from the head to the feet. The linen bulged around the tight-twined stalks. Flower petals were sat where the stalks crossed, and they caught the sunlight with a wonderful blast of complementary and clashing colours alike. While Xadia beheld the wrappings, Eleise finished wreathing the Pyre with stones. Flint, shale, and gathered rocks formed spirals outward from the Pyre at the centre. A combination decorative flourish, and a practical firestop to prevent the flames from encroaching across the grass towards the tree-line. Torches surrounded them, flickering from where they were hammered down into the peaty soil and mud. They, too, were wreathed around with stones and gravel shards. Eleise stood up, dusting off her hands, before standing by Xadia’s side. Other faces gathered round, all in black mourning clothes, wearing matching mournful expressions. They carried lit torches, burning bright as the shadows lengthened beneath the sunset. In the flickering light, their faces were grim, with baleful shadows beneath sunken eyes. Xadia heaved a deep breath, filling his lungs with the salty brine of the ocean, and the fresh scent of wood and linen. His hands would smell for days after this—soon the scent of linen and flowers, wood and winding thread would be covered. They would stink of ash and soot, instead. Stepping back, he moved away from the spiralling stones, down a culvert Eleise had left cutting directly to the middle. A coastal wind began to howl up from the crashing waves, and gulls screamed above them. Mournful, lowing screeches against the backdrop of a beautiful sunset. Coming to stand next to one of the larger torches, he paused. It reached up almost twice as tall as his and Eleise’s seven foot frames. Turning again to face the Pyre, Xadia touched the staff—it was cut just that morning from the same wood that now made up the Pyre. The varnish was still sticky, but dry enough for what they planned on using it for. Peat, hydrazine, and the rest of the linen wrap wound close about the tip in a foul-smelling bouquet of fuel. Bringing a lighter up to it, it caught alight in a second. A woosh and a spit of flame shot into the sky, dissipating in a cloud of acrid black smoke. All the gathered eyes turned to face him and Eleise. Xadia stood with his feet as far apart as his shoulders. He held the lit stave away from his body at an angle. Eleise reached up to grasp it just below where his hand was. She mirrored his pose, feet apart the same width as her shoulders. Face neutral, eyes fixed on the Pyre. Both she and Xadia reached their free hands behind themselves, balling them into fists, and pressing them to the small of their backs. They held their heads up, regal and poised. The flickering light illuminated their strong, tall bodies, and all those gathered watched with reverent silence. Xadia looked up at them, raising the torch up high. “So passes the first child of our Homestead. May she be carried to safer shores than these.” He turned to one side, reaching a hand down. Eleise did the same. They both gripped the staff with both hands, and began sliding their hands down the length, inching the flame closer to the pyre. It touched the base, and the flames caught. Flickering heat and light began to claw its way up the sides. Into the logs, clinging around twigs, weaving through the dead bushes and dry grass. It reached hot tendrils up to the linens and flower petals, charring them a smouldering black. In an instant, the Pyre caught alight with orange and red, and the body was consumed. One by one, the gathered crowd began to throw their torches onto the Pyre. Their flames and fuel consumed by the ever-burning mass. Some offered prayers, most offered silence. “Life goes on,” Xadia whispered. “For us. And for now, yes.” Eleise didn’t turn to look at him, but reached down with a hand to grasp his own with a reassuring squeeze. Xadia brought Eleise’s hand up to his face, kissing it softly, before lowering it again to his side. As the flames burned, smoke and embers began to drift up and away. Xadia watched them, cartwheeling on microcurrents, and caught by the sea breeze. Stinging smoke whipped its way up and around the winds. The brine mixed with the smell of smoke and ash, and of burning flesh; a scent all too familiar to Xadia and Eleise. Nobody wished to be the first to turn away as the Pyre burned. Some found comfort in the arms of those beside them, some merely rested arms or heads on shoulders. Xadia turned away first, dropping Eleise’s hand. “I should prepare the Urn,” he said, traipsing towards the treeline. Eleise watched him leave with an impassive stare, before calling after him. “You still plan on going through with it, then?” Pausing, Xadia didn’t look back. “We agreed.” “We did,” Eleise nodded. “And I support it. Even so, it pays well to ask. Just in case you changed your mind.” “I have not changed my mind.” “No, I know.” She tilted her head. “Even so.” “It was her wish.” He moved his head a hairsbreadth, then began walking away again. “Hey.” Eleise called. Xadia paused, turning his head over his right shoulder. Eleise raised her right hand to her heart, tapped it, then kissed her fist, then released her fingers towards Xadia. “I love you.” He smiled at her, tapped his chest, and kissed his fist. “I love you, too.” Trekking through the treeline by the cliffs, he passed through a scant few of them before coming to the clearing where they had parked their mobile homestead. The colossal and imposing form of the converted Mammoth rose up above the canopy a few metres. The additional side and rear-mounted huts extended a bit further still. Additional plates were bolted onto the sides, reflective and burnished grey in places, while pockmarked with scars in others. Huts serving as housing were supported by struts hanging off the sides. Where once there were no safety railings, and ample means to fire downward onto the ground as the mobile command post rode past, now there were metal bars and solid walls. Beneath the struts were hanging baskets, woven from thread and taut with crisscrossing nettings. Beside the wheels, hanging from the same struts that supported the huts above. Replete with scrap and trinkets, odds and ends, reclaimed and rusted metal alike glinted in the shallow sunbeams peeking over the cliff edges. There were eight huts in total, four on the sides, two at angles next to them, and a further two at the rear. Each had a large window and shared living space for the occupants to share, bathed in the sunlight streaming in. Like a dorm room, with more luxury, in which the beds along the centre of the back wall serving as privacy dividers and rest spots both, ensuring each room could be retreated into, for times of solitude and private reflection. The rear ramp was opened until it was flat, then spot-welded shut with retaining walls and armour plating. The side doors were similarly shut, bolted down and reinforced with metal. The only way to enter their home was the front deployment bay, or scaling the walls. Fabric hung between the struts and supports under the huts and homes, and splashes of vibrant greenery and crops shocked away the uniform beige and grey The deployment ramp on the front was opened—the only ramp that it could open—and the hazard lights winked in the dying light. Their pickup truck still affixed to the magnetic mounting moors. Not far from the entrance was the urn he had prepared for his daughter; a smelted metal vase extending a full four feet from the ground. It was decorated with flowery vines and locks of wound flower stems. Beneath the plants were the same patterns, painted in the same dye as the linens. A small spade sat on top of it, laying across the neck of the vase. He grabbed it with one hand, and the metal vase with the other. Slinging it up over his shoulder, he gave no noise of exertion nor pain. Turning, Xadia trudged back down the open ramp, spade and vase clinking against his formal wear trimmings. Eleise had woven gold thread into it, and then mounted more along the trims. They were real gold, too. Taken from metal circuit boards, shaved from between decking, capacitor banks and other odd ends. All for one outfit, that Xadia now wanted to shed come the evening, and never spare a glance at again. The pyre continued to crackle. Everybody remained fixated upon it. The little body atop it had been reduced, from recognisable silhouette, to rapidly-deflating mass. Fuel for an all-consuming thing such as fire, a life and love reduced to ash. Snapping of vines followed, then the dull thuds of shifting logs breathing their last. Without knowing when the flames would die, he would keep himself busy. Xadia stuck the spade into the dirt, and stooped down to inspect the haul. Picking out rocks, stones, shells and shale, with fingers quick to discard them down onto the jungle underbrush once again. The bladefull, bereft now of detritus, fell into the urn. Some of the gathering watched him, but most remained fixed on the pyre. Xadia continued; a second crunch of the spade, and Xadia stooped back down again. Only the topsoil, the fertile, the life-giving. The peat and gravel, the stones and shale would not do, and so with each shovelful he stooped to inspect, and remove. A second shovelful fell into the filling urn. A third, then a fourth, and a fifth followed the first. By the time the sixth was free of undesirable debris, the flames on the modest pyre had died. The embers were still aglow, the ashes still smoking, but now came the part to which the urn was prepared for. Shovel in hand, knuckles white, and jaw set firm, Xadia took a step towards the ash. He paused. Legs began to shake, as did his shovel. Before the world around him could tumble, and take him along with it, a soft hand enveloped his own. A shuddering breath came, and he leaned upon the foundation of the one next to him. “It’s okay,” Eleise said. “You don’t have to.” “I do,” he said. “It was her wish.” Leaning up, Eleise planted a kiss on his cheek. “Together, then.” Xadia nodded, but did not divert his eyes from the pile. “Together.” They stepped forward, down the culvert path carved within the spiral of stones. Eleise’s hand tugged at his, and the shovel came up. Xadia put the urn down, and threw his weight behind the blade. It sank into the pile with a crushing bite, cleaving a chunk away. The ash flitted in the wind. He reached a hand forward towards the head of the shovel, taking it in hand and sinking it into his fingers. His knuckles on that hand turned pale, matching his other. Eleise let him go, and in that one instant he felt the absence keenly. He turned. Slow, cautious, movements. Then, the pile of ash fell into the urn. A second. A third, all with Eleise there. She stooped, cupped her gloved hands, and sunk them into the pile. Xadia threw the shovel aside, dropped to his knees, and pulled the urn close between him and Eleise. She slid the precious handful into the urn. Xadia waited while Eleise bore the brunt of the burden, only able to watch as more of the pile vanished, and it became progressively smaller. Eleise eventually placed the last handful within the urn. “Will that be enough?” He stared down at the contents. Beneath the ash, a layer of dirt from Actium’s untouched regions. Poetic, and simple. Exactly what she wanted. “It must be,” he nodded. “Okay,” she said, then sat back on her legs. With a slow tilt of her head, she stared down at her blackened gloves. They were shaking “I…” she gulped. “I think I need to…” she trailed off, staring up at Xadia with swimming eyes. He nodded. “Go,” he said. “Do not dwell on it.” “Right,” she nodded. “You’re right.” She stood up, grabbed the shovel, and placed the lid on the urn. “Come in soon, okay? I… I don’t want to be…” Xadia stood up, hefted the urn close, and slung it under one arm. Holding a hand up to Eleise’s shoulder, he held her there, then moved it to cup her cheek. “I know. I don’t want to be alone right now, either.” Eleise smiled, leaned into his touch, and kissed his palm. Letting the hand fall, she walked past him. Back towards the Mammoth. As though some spell had been broken, members of the gathered procession began to trickle away as well. In their absence, Xadia took one last breath, then trudged his way back, urn carried heavy beneath his arm. “Boss?” a voice to his left called. Xadia paused, turning to face the speaker. “Martin,” he nodded. “What is it?” The man paused, wringing his wrists and shaking his head. “I’m sorry. She was a good kid.” Xadia closed his eyes, clutching the vase tighter. “Thank you.” “The crew and I were sort of wondering,” Martin began, reaching a hand up to rub at his neck. “What exactly do we do now?” “We move on,” Xadia said. Sighing, Martin looked away, into the tree line. “I mean, what do we do, like, as a community?.” Xadia took a step closer to the man, staring down with a newly-hardened gaze. “This changes nothing.” “Boss—” “This. Changes. Nothing,” Xadia growled. “We find The Salvageer.” Martin stared up at the taller man, shaking his head, and raising his head. “Revenge won’t bring her back.” “Revenge is for the feeble.” Xadia shook his head. “This isn’t about revenge, it’s about safeguarding every one of us.” Martin averted his eyes, dropping them to the ornate metal urn slung under Xadia’s arm. “Why?” he asked. “Why couldn’t he just leave us alone?” “I ask myself the same thing. But then I realise, that’s not the question,” Xadia shook his head. “The question isn’t ‘why’. We know why.” With a slow turn, Xadia stared up at the Mammoth. Their home. “He wants it back?” Martin asked. “Really?” “The question is ‘why now’,” Xadia said. “Why not ten years ago, when we were still weak. The answer is still the same,” he shook his head. “I do not know.” He looked down at the urn, then, from beneath a furrowed brow, stared at Martin. “But I intend to ask him. Personally. And he will answer me before the end.” “Will he talk?” Martin asked. Xadia tilted his head. “I will make him.” Martin shuddered, and took a step back. “Alright. On your go, Boss.” Xadia turned his head, holding a hand up to his face. “Prepare for departure!” he shouted over the wind. “We leave when the light dies!” With a hastened step, Xadia climbed back up the deployed ramp, around the mounted pickup, and into the Mammoth proper. Martin went to say something more, but closed his mouth with a click. With one last parting look behind him, towards where the Pyre sat, he turned away. |
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Homesteading
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