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Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

The children, as they always did, perched on the Stones for the Evening Telling. The Teller stood, face in white, Stick of Truths in his hands. When it was such, only the Teller could say stories and tell truths. All others were to stay silent unless called to respond. Even the Chief-In-The-Walls could not speak if he were in attendance, although tonight’s Telling was only for the children and Mums.

Behind the Teller, the Burning Mums tended the Telling Fire. It kept the Teller in silhouette, and the children’s faces sweaty with its heat, hotter than usual tonight. The girls especially scratched at the cloth over their mouths.

Further back, seated on wider Stones, the Mums heavy with child attended the Telling as well, mouths also covered.

Tonight, the Telling was of the Beginning, and the Teller was on a tear. He told, spittle flying, of death on the winds, of the Great Plagues that swept the world like a broom, leaving only dust and dead behind. WEH-POH-NY-ZED began the chant. The Teller began it, as always. The boys took it up, dutifully. The Mums and girls remained silent, their eyes cast down with ritual solemnity, as the Teller admonished each in turn to remain thus, to produce children and milk to feed them, and that to fail in this duty was to risk unleashing the Plagues once more.

Thus it had been for generations. Thus it will continue, if the cities were to gleam again, and didn’t you want that, love? He would raise each girl’s head in turn. They wouldn’t answer, of course.

Then he would lay hands upon the Mums’ rounded bellies, and issue grave warnings to each. The Village wishes to hear the cries of infants, not silence. A woman that cannot give the Village a crying infant is little more than a parasite, and will join her child in the earth.

A boy fidgets, almost asks a question, but another stares him into silence.

The Teller said his truths with a smile, of course. It was only right that he said them. Thus it has been for generations. It was expected.

He visited each Mum in turn, and then, the last. She was smallest, in the back. And though farthest from the flames, she seemed taken by the heat, and had fallen faint.

Annoyed, the Teller set aside his Stick of Truths to stoop over her. He gripped her chin, opened an eyelid with his fingers to see if she would respond.

It was only, in the last fragment of an instant, that he caught a reflection in her eye of motion behind him.

They had no metal knives. Burning Mums were not allowed such weapons. But they did have wooden stakes sharpened to fine points, daggers of carved bone and antler, and one held a torch of tightly-wound cloth dipped in tar.

And they had anger.

Thus it had been for generations.

When dawn broke, and Chief-in-the-Walls came with his retainers to see what had become of the Teller, they found only a charred skeleton in the firepit, smouldering before the Stones.

All of the Mums were gone. Every single one. And six boys. The ones at the Telling last night. Food had been taken. Livestock. Horses. Vehicles. Weapons. Guns, and ammunition. Fuel.

Several sentries had been killed as well, but quickly. Neatly. Only the Teller had received such a death.

Stuffed in the charred skeleton’s mouth, a cloth, the same once used as a Mum’s mouth cover. The edges were burned, but a message inscribed in charcoal was still understandable. They were the symbols the Tellers taught them since they were children.

“WEH-POH-NY-ZED.”

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

The children, as they always did, perched on the Stones for the Evening Telling. The Teller stood, face in white, Stick of Truths in his hands. When it was such, only the Teller could say stories and tell truths. All others were to stay silent unless called to respond. Even the Chief-In-The-Walls could not speak if he were in attendance, although tonight’s Telling was only for the children and Mums.

Behind the Teller, the Burning Mums tended the Telling Fire. It kept the Teller in silhouette, and the children’s faces sweaty with its heat, hotter than usual tonight. The girls especially scratched at the cloth over their mouths.

Further back, seated on wider Stones, the Mums heavy with child attended the Telling as well, mouths also covered.

Tonight, the Telling was of the Beginning, and the Teller was on a tear. He told, spittle flying, of death on the winds, of the Great Plagues that swept the world like a broom, leaving only dust and dead behind. WEH-POH-NY-ZED began the chant. The Teller began it, as always. The boys took it up, dutifully. The Mums and girls remained silent, their eyes cast down with ritual solemnity, as the Teller admonished each in turn to remain thus, to produce children and milk to feed them, and that to fail in this duty was to risk unleashing the Plagues once more.

Thus it had been for generations. Thus it will continue, if the cities were to gleam again, and didn’t you want that, love? He would raise each girl’s head in turn. They wouldn’t answer, of course.

Then he would lay hands upon the Mums’ rounded bellies, and issue grave warnings to each. The Village wishes to hear the cries of infants, not silence. A woman that cannot give the Village a crying infant is little more than a parasite, and will join her child in the earth.

A boy fidgets, almost asks a question, but another stares him into silence.

The Teller said his truths with a smile, of course. It was only right that he said them. Thus it has been for generations. It was expected.

He visited each Mum in turn, and then, the last. She was smallest, in the back. And though farthest from the flames, she seemed taken by the heat, and had fallen faint.

Annoyed, the Teller set aside his Stick of Truths to stoop over her. He gripped her chin, opened an eyelid with his fingers to see if she would respond.

It was only, in the last fragment of an instant, that he caught a reflection in her eye of motion behind him.

They had no metal knives. Burning Mums were not allowed such weapons. But they did have wooden stakes sharpened to fine points, daggers of carved bone and antler, and one held a torch of tightly-wound cloth dipped in tar.

And they had anger.

Thus it had been for generations.

When dawn broke, and Chief-in-the-Walls came with his retainers to see what had become of the Teller, they found only a charred skeleton in the firepit, smouldering before the Stones.

All of the Mums were gone. Every single one. And six boys. The ones at the Telling last night. Food had been taken. Livestock. Horses. Vehicles. Weapons. Guns, and ammunition. Fuel.

Several sentries had been killed as well, but quickly. Neatly. Only the Teller had received such a death.

Stuffed in the charred skeleton’s mouth, a cloth, the same once used as a Mum’s mouth cover. The edges were burned, but a message inscribed in charcoal was still understandable. They were the symbols the Tellers taught them since they were children.

“WEH-POH-NY-ZED.”