Nicholas – The Beginning

Nicholas – The Beginning

  The Legends of Quone-Loc-Sie #1

  By John Stevenson

  Copyright 2010 John Stevenson

  The Legends of Quone-Loc-Sie have been passed from father to son, mother to daughter since before time: as time is acknowledged or known. They speak of many things; of princes and hero’s; of a time before the waters rose to inundate and famine swept the lands, and strangest of all; of machines that flew.

  The part of the legends that will follow is of the prophecy; and have their origin in a settlement called Boramulla, where no more than four hundred souls live in that district. Bounded on one side by a curve of the great Mulgrave River: on another by the savannah plains; and on the third, the foothills of the Blood Mountains. It begins at the end of the dry: in the nineteenth year of the rule of the Lord Marshal, and far from his distant city of Quone-Loc-Sie.

  The cluster of humanity that call themselves citizens of Boramulla dwell in simple houses; with thick insulated walls; stout timber doors and heavy shutters. All were needed when the heat became too fierce, or the cold unbearable.

  In one of the outlying houses lived a youth turning into manhood by the name of Nicholas Day.

  Nicholas had lived in the provider’s house all of his young life, that being almost twenty-two winter seasons. With the exception of occasional trips to neighboring towns on market days; or on the business of his father, he had never left the district; encountered strangers: and from them, gossip from far away. Or paid any serious attention to the troubles and tribulations of the past; those of advancing age liked to share with anyone who would listen.

  He was bright, cheerful, and intelligent; assuming intelligence is gauged by ones capacity to manage life’s challenges capably.

  In some ways he was privileged, though privilege was an overstatement in terms of luxury. But as his family were the communities provider (a provider being those chosen to process, store and distribute the communal resources; and the one who was responsible on behalf of the settlement to pay dues to the Marshals local representative) it did give them some status, albeit little.

  A provider was trusted; his word was his bond, and it was unnecessary to ask for more. To those outside the settlement the provider spoke for all those within; and to those within, he was a person who would do the best he could in the community interest.

  In simple terms and in many ways Nicholas’s life was ideal.

  On this morning, though he gave scant thought to it, his mother had mentioned the ageing. She had said no more, but he was quick to recognize it as a veiled reference to how he should seek a wife and prepare for the time he in turn would become provider. The obligation to take over the family responsibility he already accepted, but the choice of a bride was something he was keen to avoid; and he had quickly steered her words to ask of her own visits to the most populated town this side of the tablelands; Riverslee.

  From past conversations he knew it was sited at a place where the Mulgrave emerged from the chasm the great river had cut through the mountains.

  The stories always motivated him, though like everyone he knew, in all probability he would go there only occasionally in his lifetime.

  In any case it was of no real consequence. His future: if he thought much of it: was a continuation of the daily toil that was already the pattern of his life. It was normal, even comforting to think that all that was to be, was already set in place. It gave him no worry, it was all that he did, and would do, as the time approached the end of the drying

  Now that the heat was retreating the first mists had begun to form. In the coming days they would slowly creep outwards, covering the land more and more densely until the eventual cold froze the moisture into the soil. Before that time, winter crops would be planted, and tended, ready to be harvested after the frost retreated.

  The group of buildings owned by the provider; Nicholas’s father, were to the edge of the settlement; closest to the reclaimed fields, and set off a little from the road. While it was ultimately the community elders who decided how each families needs were to be met, the provider needed a great deal of diplomatic tact in apportioning which of the supplies were to be given. It was no easy task, neither was avoiding the ravages of water and damp, arid heat and scavenging creatures, including the odd human one, but it was one that this particular provider and his two sons more than adequately met.

  The storedomes, as the round buildings behind the dwelling were called: were seven in number. Two being set up higher than the others; though both were rarely in use at one time, and only after a succession of bountiful seasons. Whichever of these storehouse’s were in use; was filled with the grains from a high gantry traversing between the two, and accessed from the ground by a sturdy ramp. At the top, once tipped through a trap, the grain would fall through to the sloping floor via a series of sluices where it was batched in whatever way was needed.

  Of the other five buildings two were for drying, one for treatment with herbs and spices and the others where bags of produce were kept safe for distribution to the village in less bountiful times.

  It was the last day of the working week by their calendar. A fine crisp morning: dawn had broken; the sky streaking a pale pink light, and the mists had begun to fade.

  The aroma of freshly brewed coffee having sped his dressing, Nicholas opened his sleeping room door to the welcoming sight of his mother, glancing up from stirring a large bowl of thick porridge that hung over the open kitchen fire. She smiled, looked at a serving dish at her side, and nodded towards the large table.

  Nicholas understood the familiar gesture and picked up the dish as he made his way to his usual seat. He placed the dish between another laden with freshly warmed meats, and a cutting board that had a barley loaf and a slab of bright yellow butter on it.

  “Morning”, he said belatedly to his mother as he looked through the window for his father “Is help needed with the milking?” His father was always around when the morning meal was served.

  A deep male voice answered. “No, but thanks for the concern.” His father entered the kitchen, and placed a pail of creamy liquid on the bench. “Where is Philip?” He said, noticing with slight annoyance the empty seat opposite Nicholas.

  His mother said nothing and avoided the questioning looks in her direction

  “Nicholas. Where is he?” His father muttered grouchily.

  Nicholas tore off a huge chunk of bread and forced it into his mouth in an attempt to avoid replying, he didn't want to start the day by placing his elder brother into trouble, but the man stared at him patiently, until he swallowed. The firm gaze didn’t break, and he had no alternative but to answer. “I believe he was with Becky Martin last night... maybe his return home was a little… late”. ‘Very late’, he thought, in fact he wasn’t even sure Philip had come home.

  “Philip.” his father’s voice boomed through the house carrying a threatening tone.

  “Frederrick.” his wife chided him. “Let the boy be, breakfast can wait.”

  But already there was a feeble answer. “...Coming” The voice was still coated in a mantle of sleep.

  “Nicholas”, said his father shaking his head. “Your brother is a worry to your mother and me, but I sometimes despair of you. It is time you, not just Philip, were courting; or better still, betrothed to one of the village girls.

  Nicholas had heard all this before and he answered passively. “Yes father.”

  “It’s one of the village girls I want to hear a yes from, not you.”

  The words started to slip by without Nicholas listening. His father was right, he knew that, but although he found the village girls enjoyable company, none had tugged at his heart, as his mother liked to re
fer to falling in love. He would find a girl someday; he had no doubt. He just hadn’t found the right one yet, though Philip seemed to find a different right one, every week.

  His father was still talking. “…Is far too well known about the village. Already several fathers have had words with me about his…”

  “Be patient with the boy”, interrupted his mother “Nicholas’s match has been made; the future is set for him; we will all have to wait for the time it is to show.”

  His father shrugged and let the subject drop, but there was no doubt to any that he felt both of his sons should be married; with children on the way; as other boys already had.

  A youth entered the room. “Morning Mother. Father. Nick... Sorry, I did not hear you awaken.” Nicholas looked at him, his eyes gesturing over to their father, in something of a cautionary way. There was no acknowledgement, but Philips voice effortlessly