Rumbletum

The brass bell atop the school echoed across the yard with an aged peal that was instantly recognizable; but the sound of the bell was quickly drowned by the clamor of the school children. They fetched their bags and their books and squeezed their way through the door and into the bright blue world. The day was half over but the sun still shone and the birds still sang. The warm breeze fluttered in from the surrounding woodlands continuing it’s interminable journey to the shore and beyond. The children raced down the cobbled stone streets of Brimbrooke toward the village square. Today was Tuesday and that meant  Gabriella would be returning from her trip.

Gabriella Odel was an enchanting woman, or so some of the boys thought. She was young and sweet and generous. Her father owned a farm in Hillside Harrow where the soil was always teeming with life. Giffard Odel was a hardy man dedicated to his land and his family. Two of his sons worked the land while the third had gone away to school. Gabriella, the youngest of her siblings, was the smiling face of the Odel farm. She traveled from village to village selling the delicious fruits that grew there. And always she would recount tales of her travels to the children of Brimbrooke. Some of the older children would scoff at her embellishments but the little ones gobbled up the stories as if they were candy.

The children were elated to see Gabriella standing in the town square, her cart ensconced near the fountain and adorned with colorful fruits. But it wasn’t the sights that caught their attention, it was the smell, a wafting aroma of sensual delight.

“Gabriella!” some of the children called out.

“Hello munchkins!” her voice was sublime. “Come sit. I have something special for you.”

The children climbed over one another like a colony of insects drawn to a fallen apple. When the young ones had all taken a seat, Gabriella revealed to them her surprise. She had baked three bitterberry pies! The children groaned and stuck their tongues out dramatically. Normally, children hated bitterberries but Gabriella had a way of turning even the sourest things sweet. She handed out slices of pie to the children but they were reticent to try even the smallest bite. “I promise it’s delicious,” she said, but the children shook their heads. “Very well. I’ll have the first bite.” Her teeth sank into the crust and her lips enveloped the mouthful. With an exaggerated flourish, Gabriella retched. “You were right! It’s awful. I...I think I’m dying!” She collapsed to the ground with the delicateness of a ballerina. The children saw through her playful ruse and laughed. She sat back up and took another bite of the pie. “On second thought, it’s not bad.” With an exaggerated ‘Mmmmm’ she extolled the pie’s deliciousness. One by one the children followed her example and there wasn’t a single dissapointed tongue.

“Tell us a story!” a girl begged. Her lips were smeared with bitterberries. Gabriella pondered for a moment and then began her tale. “In the heart of the woods lives a bear,” she told them, “a bear named Rumbletum.” The children laughed at the comical way she pronounced the name.

“He has lived a thousand years and grown to be the size of a house.”

The children were awed by this claim. Many of them had never seen a normal sized bear, let alone one the size of a house.

“As it happens,” she continued, “the sweetest bitterberries grow in a special grotto deep within the forest. I traveled for hours and hours until I found the spot. Exhausted from the journey, I leaned against a hill and slept. But then, I awoke to a loud snoring sound.”  The children were amused as she imitated the snort. “The hill wasn’t a hill at all, it was Rumbletum! I carefully crept around the furry mound until I reached the bitterberry bush. I filled my basket to the brim and was about to leave the clearing when I heard a deep voice.”

“It’s not nice to steal.” Gabriella imitated the giant bear in her deepest voice, “Since you took my meal, perhaps I’ll eat you.” She raised her arms and spread her fingers like claws doing her best impression of a bear. The children closest to her leaned back for fear that she would reach for them.

“What happened then?” asked a boy near the back.

“With some quick thinking, I came up with an idea. In exchange for letting me go I promised to return with a bitterberry pie for Rubmletum to eat instead. Which reminds me…”

Gabriella stood and rushed over to her cart. She searched the wooden curricle frantically.

“Oh no!” Gabriella cried. “I forgot to save enough pie for Rumbletum! You ate the last of it! Be careful, Rumbletum might smell the berries on your breath.”

With a growl, Gabriella pretended she was a bear and chased the children around the square while some screamed and others laughed. She gave chase until the children were to too tired and too full to run.

“It’s getting late munchkins. Better hurry inside before Rumbletum comes sniffing around.”

The children dispersed, bellies full of pie and minds brimming with ideas. When they had gone, Gabriella Odel began packing up her belongings and securing her cart. One of the children stayed behind and approached Gabriella. It was the little girl with pie stains all over her face. Gabriella chuckled.

“Look at that mess,” Gabriella pulled out a rag from her cart and wiped the girl’s face clean. “Your parents would not be happy with me if I left you like this.”

“Is it really true?” asked the girl, “Did you really meet Rumbletum?”

“Why wouldn’t it be true?”

“This one boy says that you were fibbin’.”

Gabriella knelt down next to the girl so she could look her in the eye.

“That’s the wonderful thing about imagination. We can dream up fantastic worlds and creatures. Let me ask you something. Did you have fun today?”

The little girl nodded.

“Then maybe it doesn’t matter whether or not there really is a giant bear who likes pie. The stories we tell each other enrich our lives.”

“Oh,” said the girl excitedly, “Ok, bye!””

Gabriella smiled as the little girl ran off to catch up with the other children. Her cart was packed and she was ready to travel south along the road toward Galanstead. She left the city proper and continued into the forest. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of a familiar burly shape.

“You know I’m not as big as a house,” came a methodically deep voice.

“It makes for a better story,” Gabriella explained.

Rubmbletum sauntered out from the cover of the trees to walk alongside Gabriella. He was a big bear but definitely not house sized. He nuzzled his snout against the cart and began sniffing.

“Did you save me any pie?” asked the bear.

“You hate pie,”said Gabriella.

“But I’m hungry,” he groaned.

Gabriella laughed. “You’re always hungry. Let’s get moving. We’ve got a long trip to Galanstead.”

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Rumbletum was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.

Quarry

Kul’s pick ripped through the air, striking the rock with such fervor that sparks curled to life. The timeworn slab finally began to crack. He wrested the pick’s head free and with a single arc he swung again. His aim was impeccable and could only have been earned through years of repetition. With a clangorous jounce the stone split into two even halves. The slabs would be smoothed and transported across the desert but those were tasks for others.

The disparate beads of sweat on Kul’s head coalesced into a single tiny flow. He wiped his ragged hand across his face to dry his skin. The work didn’t bother him. He was born for labor. The gods had gifted him with the strength of a mule and though he was by no means a stupid man, his predilection for swinging a tool was far greater than his ability to swing a sword. The cormary sought him out at the age of thirteen - they were always keen to add another warrior to their ranks - but it rapidly became apparent that he did not possess a mind worthy of battle. And so they had put a hammer in his hand and stood him at an anvil.

Sometimes he missed that life, especially when the whip cracked. The scars on his back revealed nothing about him; it told only of the cruelty of others. Kul’s story was written in the creases on his face and calluses on his palms. When the Tandari swept through his village he did not pick up a sword but instead ran for the river. The air had been thick with smoke from the burning huts. There was a young boy separated from his mother. Kul scooped the child up and absconded to the shore where they hid amongst the reeds. They might have remained unnoticed but the child’s cries alerted the Tandari. They slaughtered the boy there on the bank and immured Kul. He could still remember the child’s blood dissipating into the running water.

That felt like another life and he remembered it almost as if it happened to someone else. This was his life now, breaking stones for the Tandari. The conditions were harsh and the rations were meager but it was work and Kul was born for labor. He heard whispers of what they were building. It was to be a vast stone Urdakai, a symbol of power at the heart of the Tandari empire. He also heard whispers of an uprising but Kul did not want to fight against the oppressors. He wanted to swing his rusty axe until the day his body wouldn’t allow it.

The sun sank below the horizon but the heat of the day would linger for a few hours more. Kul set his pick against the rock wall and leaned over the stone he had just split. With a grunt he hefted the slab up over his shoulder. The short walk to the cart was the closest thing he would have to rest until the day was done. The foreman nodded to him as he placed the block next to the others. Kul was satisfied.

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 Quarry was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.

The Messenger

The land was cracked and worn like an ancient clay pot. She shuffled along the uneven surface doing her best to avoid catching her toe in a crevice. Though her feet throbbed, she refused to unstrap her boots, apprehensive about the condition in which she might find her feet. Her blood was pooling so thickly that it had begun to tarnish the leather. The pain was but one shred of an entire spectrum of growing agony.

Her legs pleaded for rest but she could not spare even a moment. Her message was vital to her clan’s survival and the less time she spent in this godsforsaken desert the better. Her waterskin had dried up days ago, yet still she would wring the empty container as if her coaxing could reveal an untapped cache. Her lips were blistered and her mouth as dry as sand. The pulsing misery in her head blurred her vision, or perhaps it was the heat of the sun roasting her flesh like a beast on a spit.

A sudden convulsion brought her to her knees. She had been ignoring the pain in her stomach and its supplication for food but now she could abate it no longer. Her hands sizzled against the earth as she heaved but there was nothing to expel. She collapsed onto her side and curled into a ball.

She wished she had died on the tip of a spear as her kith had, at least it had been a quick death. Instead, she would be erased from history, just as the temple had nearly been. She discovered it years ago when first she ventured into the desert. At first she had been certain it was a mirage. The great stone Urdakai jutting its tapered tip out of the sand, its monolithic body buried eons ago. She saw visions of a great civilization, her predecessors, working the land and prospering under a great ruler. She knew then in her heart that they would once again rise to glory. But she lived many years since then under the heat of a harsh sun and any such optimism had been long since evaporated.

She rolled onto her back and stared up at the sky. Little specks of black circled far above. She had failed. Her body was spent. Her skin was seared beyond recognition. Perhaps her tribe would yet survive the coming battle even without her warning of treachery. She tilted her head to the side and gazed at the distance. Dark figures danced on the horizon; probably another mirage. She closed her eyes and thought of home.

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 The Messenger was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.

Into the Chasm

He was aware of the vertigo and the torrent of wind rushing past him but the physical sensations paled before his panic. This is to be a righteous death, a necessary death, he told himself. He had lived his life not only anticipating it but yearning for it. Just seconds ago he had stood at the edge of the dark chasm, sanguinely anticipating his descent. Yet now, as he plummeted through the air, his heart brimmed with regret and sorrow.

What had his life been worth to be snuffed out so abruptly? He had devoted his youth in reverence and piety yet his reward was a cruel and inelegant cessation. What a bitter fate. Curse the inevitability of his birth, the rotten destiny that had led him on this path. Had he been born to a farmer, he could have toiled away his life in relative peace. But then, there was no real peace to be had in life. At least his death would provide a reprieve for his people.

Death for life.

The night air was frigid in motion but that wouldn’t matter soon. What would it be like in that final moment? It was the one aspect they never spoke about. The texts spoke at length about the ritual and the prosperity the act would bring to their people, but what of dying? Would he have time to feel the pain as his body was obliterated against the rocky canyon below? Darkness engulfed his mind, devouring his rational thoughts and leaving only a void. How could any conscious being truly cope with the absurdity of death, especially in the final breaths of life? These thoughts were foolish. His sojourn on this earth was swiftly dwindling to a close and he was wasting his last seconds on remorse and fear.

He could barely make out the torch light at the top of the cliff. Strange how much he missed their warmth and their light as he descended into the night. The stars did little to illuminate the ground but he could feel it fast approaching. The sound of the whipping wind began to overtake his senses. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

There is honor in this ending. Death for life.

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Into the Chasm was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.

The Valley of Life

Nästa drew her hand across her lips and nose as a blind man might do to recognize a face. The pain she felt as her finger caressed the split skin was intoxicating. She pulled her hand away and turned it over in the still air to see what destruction had been wrought upon her flesh. Dirt and blood infused forming muddy rivers between the calloused bumps on her palm. A single drop of crimson clung to her outstretched finger refusing to drop. She was reminded of the sacrificial cliff divers and their tedious ritual at the chasm’s edge. Nästa did not have the patience for religious rites, she preferred the ritual of battle. The tip of her spear expressed more in a single thrust than a priest could through a lifetime of study. She clenched her fist and watched her blood splatter against the barren earth below.

She knew her opponent by reputation. Her people called him Windfall because he moved as silent as air but came crashing down like thunder. She had never expected to face him but she was not afraid. One blow from the hilt of his sword was all it had taken for Nästa to understand him completely. He could have cut her down but instead he was toying with her like a beast with its prey. His stubborn bravado may have been well earned but it was now his greatest weakness. He did not fight with strength or skill, he fought with infamy. But his legend would not spare him from her blade.

All men had a weakness when it came to combat, especially one such as Windfall. Nästa knew what thoughts lay behind those lascivious eyes; he wanted her. Perhaps his desire came second to wanting to kill her but whether by thrust of the waist or thrust of the sword, it was clear he intended to overpower her. Nasta was unburdened by such intoxications. Her lust for battle was real but she did not suffer the inability to separate desire from action. She kept her eyes locked on his, it was the best measure of a warrior’s intent. As good as anyone could be at masking their next attack, the eyes knew it before the body. And there it was, a near imperceptible focus in his pupil. Nästa’s arm twitched and her spear erupted.

The drums of war echoed far throughout the sacred valley. The land was now stained with the blood of two peoples which no ideological differences could prevent from mixing. Spears clashed against shields, bones broke, and the cries of warriors were etched into the canyon walls beyond. The metallic gold of the aging sun melted into the clouds painting a vast empire across the sky.

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  The Valley of Life was written by Daniel Weinell and illustrated by Maribel Navarro.