According to Teacher, the ancient ones were grasping for the gods’ powers. Our predecessors, if they were people, could fly through the air, mingle with the stars, and travel to the future and the past. I try to imagine my fellow villagers hovering over town, taking a trip to see their great-grandparents. If Teacher is right about this, then I wonder why my ancestors haven’t visited me yet. Another fantastic story is that the city dwellers could make fire without heat and conjure images in the empty air. Teacher’s eyes always grow wide and dark when she describes the powers these people had. Her hands contort into flying fists when she describes how they’d throw fire and light to immolate their enemies. She crinkles her forehead nodding forward when she says that, with a thought, entire cities would crumble. That’s where I begin to wonder whether the destruction was caused by gods. It seems to me that the wise, ancient ones may have done it to themselves.
It is a full moon tonight, making it tough to see the thousands of yellow and blue lights on its surface. Teacher says that the lights are the settlements — the windows of the houses — of the ancient ones. After these people were banished by the gods, they moved to the moon and to this day are forced to gaze greedily at the earth from their distant perch. When the moon is in shadow, the lights twinkle much brighter than the stars and are beautiful to watch. The moonlights change all the time. Sometimes they move off the surface into the inky darkness like shooting stars, except they streak across the sky and vanish, growing fainter rather than brighter. I’ve no idea about the true nature of these lights. But if the ancient ones are on the moon and still able to move in the void, I wonder why they never try to return. If the gods are keeping them from visiting us, wouldn’t we see them fighting in the sky?
I ponder how these people provided themselves with food and water. From the size of their cities and the fact that you can’t throw a stone without finding some evidence of their touch on the land, there must have been a lot of people here. I’m a garden tender and responsible for providing sustenance for my town. This means making sure that the land provides during all times, including droughts and floods. To meet their needs, Teacher claims that the ancient ones had vast temples that produced all the water and food they needed. I find this story more fantastic than any other. Food comes from the land and occasionally the lakes, streams, and sea. Water’s in the ground and needs constant coaxing during the dry times. I can’t see how some faceless gods would dump food and water into a big building where priests would hand portions out to the masses. Sustenance takes work and knowledge — a special relationship with the earth. If people were taking their food for granted, perhaps the gods were punishing them for laziness. Or maybe there were too simply too many of them and they killed each other fighting over the last dregs of goodness the earth could give them.
“Amy, darling. Where are you now?” Teacher’s eyes are fixed on me, looking a bit worn with perhaps a hint of annoyance. I have no idea where in the story she’s landed. She’s talking again. “Amy, it’s now time for you to tell us about the harvest.”
I stand up. Public speaking is not my talent. She’s expecting some wild story about harvests past and perhaps a short history of my family. Well, I’m not in the mood for jabbering. I mutter, “If you mean what we’re doing now — harvest is going well.” I smile weakly at the couple of dozen field workers who sit together near the fire. “My students are a great crop. We have completed the third rending and are putting the rewards to storage. We’ll eat well this winter.” I sit back and let my thoughts wash back into my mind. Teacher begins rambling on about my friend Theo’s great-grandfather and how this great man fought the sea villagers and defended our town many years ago. Again, these are stories I’ve heard in some fashion or another for years.
The fire still burns brightly. The young ones are being shuffled to their beds by exhausted parents. The older villagers, people I’ve known and mostly loved my entire life, conjure earthen jugs of shine and apple wine. Time to celebrate the shorter days and brighten the night. The shadows retreat. I look over at Wenn, who’s chatting with my father. They are too preoccupied to notice me retreating into the darkness of the village meeting hall. I’m so very tired from the harvest. We have so much more to do before we can face the winter. Even during the cold, dark times, we work, sharpening the tools, mending the carts, repairing the fences, and feeding the animals.
The village hall is a brown, stone building with strange runes etched deeply on the front. I can read some of the ancient language, taught to me by my mother. The first word means town, with its combination of curved and straight lines. The second word, if that is what it is, is a mystery to all of us. The first letter looks like a chair — I suspect the word means seat or something like that. Village lore holds that this was a place of governance and meeting. The building predates any of us, left by the founders. It was already quite old when the ancient ones left earth. The glass of most of windows has been replaced many times. But there is one set of panes, near the ceiling, made of colored glass that dates back before any memory in town. I love gazing at its scene of a fall harvest, a man in blue leggings and a simple white shirt stands next to freshly hewn grain.
The building interior flickers through the dusty windows with the orange fingers of firelight outside. I relish the smell of wood, shine, dust, and history in the great room. This is where the village leaders meet and the great decisions come to light. Marriages, family agreements, and assignments are made here. This is where I was appointed the keeper of the gardens after my mother went away. The leaders are chosen by a combination of age and experience. We record our history in large books and the elders are the most familiar with both the written accounts as well as the oral tradition. My father will soon join them and often boasts how he’ll improve our lot in life. I sigh at the thought. Our lot doesn’t need a boost. We’re just fine.
“Hi Sprouter.” A voice in the back of the room startles me. Theo’s lurking in the shadows. I know by his tenor that he is smiling, pleased with himself that I jumped.
“Theo. Hell. You scared the spit out of me. What are you doing sitting here in the dark? Shouldn’t you be drinking shine by the fire? There are plenty of young ladies who are looking for you.”
“Not feeling like a little warm village girl tonight. And I’ve had enough shine already. I figured you’d wander in here sooner or later. Heck, woman, I’ve known you since we were crawling around in the dirt. You come here every night during the harvest — been doing that as long as I can remember. Even before you were keeper, you loved this place.” He eyes the little panes of colored glass, the green and blue reflecting in his pupils.
“I’m unsure whether I should be flattered that you noticed or a little disturbed.”
“I could ask you why you aren’t with Wenn, your burly man.”
“Wenn’s busy with father talking shop. I’m bone tired. I just need time alone. With an emphasis on alone, Theo. So, I kindly ask you to give me some space tonight.”