The Book of Told: Mere Words

By K A Gunn

You have a combat position
in the battle of words between a master authorand his rival.

An inconceivable setting.
A discovery.
A betrayal.
A war.
A forfeit.
A modification.
An unimaginable battle.

From ancient history to the Final Chapters

In The Book of Told, K A Gunn blends lived experience with metahistory, tragedy with punning, technology and theology. Her story has too much life in it to be simple allegory, and reads as an extended meditation on the phrase, in the beginning was the Word. Literary criticism is turned inside out, and it is possible that your life might be also.
Pastor R.D. Driver-Burgess, MTh

Brew discovers he is a single word in The Book of Told, written by an author he cannot see. This is the catalyst for a series of curious secrets, which draw him unwillingly into the greatest battle literarily foughtthe Battle of Words.

Sabotaged by a rival understudy within his own story, the authorLeonard Toldmust use what Words he can to create the most powerful statement ever declared! Brews character must stand up to the rivals genius and salvage Tolds reputation by garnering him all-time bestselling status.

What (kind of) word are you in this story?

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 11, 2014
• ISBN: 9781490838144

K A Gunn

K A Gunn is an artist and a lover of history and the Word of God. Putting these together in a three-dimensional timeline gracing the ceiling of her home, she learned alongside her family the genius structure of the story that is being told right now. K A Gunn lives to praise God! She enjoys running, nursing, and lots of family time with her doctor husband and six children in the beautiful setting of her story—New Zealand.

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K A Gunn

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Copyright © 2014 K A Gunn.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4908-3812-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-3813-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-3814-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014910115

WestBow Press rev. date: 10/17/2014

Contents

Pronunciation Guide

Anci-Ent History

Stone Age:

Bronze Age:

Iron Age:

Habitat Level Four

Pivotal Year 0:

Early Middle Ages

Dark Ages

Renaissance:

Modern Era

Industrial Revolution

Final Chapters

To my husband, Stephen—there is no one I love or respect more in the world.

To my children, whom I am each so incredibly proud of—Bradley, Ember, Riva, Lovese, Essence, and Ryan.

To my brother, Andy.

To Gran.

For freedom!

About the Author

AuthorPhoto.tif

K A Gunn is an artist and a lover of history and the Word of God. Putting these together in a three-dimensional timeline gracing the ceiling of her home, she learned alongside her family the genius structure of the story that is being told right now.

K A Gunn lives to praise God! She enjoys running, nursing, and lots of family time with her doctor husband and six children in the beautiful setting of her story—New Zealand.

Acknowledgments

I thank Beth Moore of Living Proof Ministries for letting God use her life to direct me and so many to delight in Him and gain knowledge of His power to change.

Through hearing her say (via my mp3 downloads) that the greatest stories have yet to be told, I was primed to recognize God’s pseudonym when I prayed for it only a month later. Isn’t He cool!

To Caroline, who had the enthusiasm to read my first draft and still be encouraging!

To Carolyn, who used her many skills to develop the concept and proceed to edit when I could do no more. And to her husband, Roger, for his insightful theological review.

To Annette, for her timely encouragement and spiritual evaluation—you are all so appreciated!

Introduction

Slavery is evil. We are all slaves to something.

In my hometown, slavery exists. My country funds slavery’s power under the guise of entertainment and materialism. Our overlords are our addictions, our work, hobbies or desires. They do not have to rule us.

Today the numbers of those in literal slavery are larger than ever before in history. Fight it!

Doing your part to advertise your stand against slavery, can be as easy as adding a link to your Facebook page, or Tweeting your position in social media. Alternatively, you might compose a poem and read it to your youth group or church, or design a broken-chain quilt for donation. You might enjoy selling biscuits and giving the funds to an antislavery campaign. Your noticeboard at work might have room for a printout on modern-day slavery. We all can petition for safeguarding laws. Use your talents.

I have written a book. It is where my passion is.

Talk about slavery at work, or to your children at home. It will open ears and eyes to the dark power that is infiltrating our neighborhoods and our minds.

Stop it.

Pray. Get your face to the floor and plead with God to place a hunger in you that burns for what is in His heart. Do this often.

Think about what enslaves you, and what it would be like to live free.

Become for a moment, a stolen girl ripped away from her haven with fears beating fiercely in her mind. Travel with her through work, beatings, rape, drugs, isolation and pain of all variety. Watch her observe her neighbors die with no hope, no clue. Be the hand that holds out her freedom, the hand that repositions her safely before it lets her go.

God watches us, our innocence stripping away as awareness grows. Though the world’s anxieties drum strongly in our mind, we have a choice. When you look back on your life’s story, you will know who your master was.

Slavery is evil. We are all slaves to something. But there is a key-holder. There is a freedom-giver. Let His story be Told.

Please let your word read something meaningful in life’s book. There are so many great words and languages to choose from, and we have a most powerful statement to declare!

In many senses, The Book of Told is a mystery as much as our story is a mystery. The passages of time add to our knowledge until suddenly we find ourselves at the end and it all makes such brilliant sense. Trust the author, and when you reach the final chapters, remember the beginning.

And get the story Told—for freedom!

Pronunciation Guide

Irim: I-rim

Reson: Rez in

I AM:

Hebrew verb Haya, (haw YAW):

to exist, to be;

to become, to come to pass;

to be done, to happen, to be finished

—to be told

In the beginning, I sat at my writing desk and thought. The page before me was formless and empty; my hand’s dark shadow hovered over the surface. There was my world, and there was the world in my mind—a single stroke of my pen would begin it.

My story needed a setting. I gave myself a week to create one.

I penned the word ‘light’. The light contrasted against the dark. Together they took me through an evening of deliberation, and then a morning—the first stage.

Liquid was essential to the plot, so I shaped the word ‘water’ below the light above. There would be another evening, and morning—the second stage.

‘Land’ was then formed under the water. I made it habitable. An evening, and a morning would occur—the third stage.

This structure was easy to mark out.

My thoughts lifted to the ‘constellations’ that would illuminate the depths of the story. I wrote that word next. It was a good outline. The next evening’s thoughts, and the morning, marked—the fourth stage.

To be habitable, the water must overflow with life; the skies contain callings to take flight; and the seas teem with life’s variety, and the promise of a thrill to be caught. This led to another evening, and morning—the fifth stage.

I penned some Words to define many words then—special Words.

I created these Words to compose their own meanings.

I gave them the power to flesh out the story in the setting I had created.

And it was so.

It was very good. And there was evening, and there was morning—the sixth stage.

—Told

Anci-Ent History

I am Leonard Told, the author of this story. The characters are already known, and the story threads are organized. I just have to set in motion this dance between characters by writing the first words to set the scene of a unique community’s six years by the sea.

It would be described more accurately as a firth in a country with a warm climate and a winding coastal road sheathed in tree tunnels formed by the tough, native, sea-hugging hardwoods. Somewhere on one of the sharper road bends, you will find a mirror that reflects a small building and a pullover pit. Hidden partly by the steep hills and the bending road is a simple pathway to the side of a shed. Up this trail is the place I choose as the setting for my story.

The long path is steep and overgrown, and it has at least six bends. Beekeepers’ hives are two-thirds to the top near one of the many walking tracks that branch off. A jaunt on this path will surprise you as you come over the last rise and turn the corner. Open before you is an extensive valley system woven into hills covered with bush. What really catches your eye are the windows set into an ivy-covered bank to your left and a magnificent set of structures—four in all, standing boldly in the center of the valley—on your right. This is what a man named Habit saw when he arrived. Now, only one magnificent structure is in place before you, an impressive building clearly designed to stun the eye and mind.

The unusual valley layout creates a sheltered haven from all but the uncommon south-southeast and southwest winds. Sea views of no comparison smugly call your attention, and your natural response is to twirl and soak in the 360-degree splendor. Everything speaks of utter privacy, grand heritage, and awe.

Perhaps it might be assumed I would tell you about the buildings next, but first, I must mention the stream that runs through the valley and under the structure. It is special, though I cannot hope for you to grasp why until the end of my story.

As you cross the ivy-dressed culvert bridging this waterway, your eyes take in the wooden moldings and fretwork trimming the mansion. The building is constructed from a range of different woods carved, shaved, milled, and pieced together to create a mesmerizing, real-life fantasy of master craftsmanship. Doors and windows are framed so alluringly that you want to look in and out of each. This building pulls you in by its sheer presence in the same way certain people draw you to them by their energy.

It is in this megastructure that most wonderful things waited and horrors beyond comprehension were realized.

As the author, I can say that this place is ancient, but in reality, it is as young as the first writing of these words. I have decided that the buildings will speak of mystery and order, curiosities, and unfathomable talent. However, what you must let me explain is that my plan is not only to write a story but also to allow my characters to have a renewed chance to see and hear and feel properly as they used to. Their story began earlier than they could conceive, you see, because they were living in a drug-induced kind of haze or stupor. Living that way from their beginning, they remained unaware of their state even though they were living with a range of diseases as a result.

Yet they all had opportunity enough according to their situations to be healed. I made sure of this. I am good at knowing what interactions each would make and continually weaving the story line according to each character’s decisions and talents. Because I know how the story is going to end and can see who will respond to my plan, I have decided to give them something special to make them more able to display my ability to others and help them see my plot through their haze. It would have worked for everyone, but everyone had to fight his or her own battles with their cravings for this drug.

Then there was Luman.

The first man to be brought here, Habit, had in his pocket a seed hidden among scrunched leaves from a tree. He planted it and then protected and befriended it, his worst enemy. This tree lived with them always in the Habitation, the community named after the man himself. Wars raged because of it, but all desired it so much they united only in their perceived need to keep it in their lives.

I had created the Habitation as an extraordinary place that would stimulate Habit’s brain to feel again the normal responses of his senses, to think more about and wonder at life, and hopefully to wake up enough to comprehend what happened and what needed to happen. Habit’s story, though, is not for today’s telling.

However, Brew’s story will be told! He was a young teenager, bitter at and wary of too many of life’s emotional punches and blows. Although I master-planned and wrote this young man’s story too, I will let him tell it to you in his words.

We are about to begin, but first step back and let me read you the sign above the enormous carved door. It can be interpreted as Behold All Knowledge, written in the only universal language I created for all to understand—images.

You wonder how drawn images could reflect a meaning such as this, and you glance up. Hieroglyphs of stars, moon, and sun were engraved and burned into the beautifully grained wood. Standing next to them are a man, a tree, and a figure of an atom. A scroll frames these all, and in turn, the outline of an eye encircles them with meaning.

Because images are the only true universal language, I have written my story for all to read in four-dimensional images rolling into one another in a continuous motion—creating the effect of life. After all, the best story for listening to is the one being told.

Well, I will leave you here with Brew’s take on things to be entertained. Oh, that word hurts.

The entrance into his story is on the next page. Be entangled in his words, but do not entirely become entrapped in them or you may become part of an accident. Oh, that’s painful and humorously sad at the same time. You will understand this mystery of Anci-Ent history soon. Yes, his story—history—told.

To the Ent tree way—and the passages of time.

Stone Age:

The Entrance at Level One—

On the Shore

Chapter One

D ark red ink flowed from the tip of my pen and sank into the porous bark, creating an even darker dried-blood look with movements that framed my thoughts. My experience with writing was unusual. Words seemed to flow only after an epiphany—when I was in the first-love passion of a good idea. I was driven to write sayings that helped me, like witty phrases or clever pieces of wisdom—this is how I coped with my life. Trees were my notebook. Writing on their trunks and branches in little, tight letters with my favorite red pen is what made my brother think I was crazy, and he was partly right.

This is what I was doing when Judd, five days shy of being two years older than me, burst out of the chilly spring waters directly below the overhanging trunk that was the medium for my latest scrawling. He tried to look innocently at me with his blue-gray eyes as my pen fell, along with my good humor, to the stream’s bottom.

At the same time, eight-year-old Jimmy’s shouting head appeared over the rise. One hour till the feast! One hour till the feast! He was red from his bright hair to his sweaty body sticky from pinesap that had collected an abundant amount of dirt. He must have been decorating his tree, I thought. I rolled my eyes in frustration at my lost pen and at what his mother would say about his appearance.

Can I jump in, Judd? I won’t tell my ma. Jimmy looked so eagerly at my brother.

Jump in, give yourself a scrub, and get straight out. I answered for him. But go downstream from the tree; I want the water to settle so I can get my pen.

Brew, why’s Judd’s voice not working properly? Jimmy asked, his filthy green shirt stuck at the widest part of his head.

We don’t know. I said flatly. I looked at Judd then to see if he would respond. He was concentrating on lifting his seized-up legs onto the bank with equally seized-up arms. Water certainly frees you when you’re in it, Judd, but I’m worried the cold doesn’t ease your movement when you’re out.

Shall I push from behind? Jimmy offered with a cheeky smile.

No. Judd forced out a thick mumble. He gave his distinctive left-eyebrow raise that said everything he ever wanted it to. This time, the hairy movement was saying, I’m managing and I’m enjoying the company.

Judd was suffering from incurable muscle deterioration. Every muscle in his body was losing strength fast, apparently caused by something in his brain. It would eventually stop him being able to eat and then breathe. Judd was particularly young for it to have progressed this far.

He was tall and strong, or had been, and had brown, wavy hair and olive skin, like mine. My hair was darker and straighter, though. His eyes were a gray-blue while mine were more gray-green. I was nearly as tall as Judd. The doorpost in our home proved I had grown the distance between my stretched-out thumb and forefinger in one year. Being the owner of big hands and feet, I was fortunate the animal-skin boots I wore for winter warmth stretched with my growing.

Go have your swim, Jimmy. He’ll be all right, I reassured him roughly.

This is when the first of an escalating series of strange happenings began to alter my existence. Leaning out over a smooth-barked tree (they are obviously the best ones to write on), I listened to Jimmy’s gasping in the coldness and waited for the mud to resettle. The reflection of the sky was mirrored perfectly on the still corner of my favorite stream bend, so the bottom lay unseen whether clear or muddy. Thinking the other side would give me a clearer angle, I looked to the opposite bank for a good tree leaning this way. None was suitable, but a large, squarish rock looked easy enough to climb. Beautiful greens and brown and red mosses made the rock blend into the stream’s bank; I did not recall noticing it before. Late afternoon sunrays peeking through treetops were trying to warm a section of the flat top, except in the center, where a small hollow held twigs or something snugly cradled.

Inside me grew a sudden deep longing, which seemed to come from nowhere, to walk across the water.

The other side was just there, and the quickest way would be to walk it, I reasoned. My logic was obviously flawed, but I could not help thinking about what it would be like to just do it and all the what if’s involved. Clouds passed by behind the stream’s reflection of silhouetted fraying branches. It seemed to be a solid moving surface of sky at my feet.

Could it be done?

What if no one had actually tried before, or what if things became what you had faith enough to believe them to become? These were the types of crazy thoughts running through my head. I was so engrossed in my own reality argument that I dangled my leg out and gently eased my foot onto the surface and let it hover, feeling gently for resistance.

Not surprisingly, my foot found none. I felt unreasonable disappointment, but still, the bizarre thought that surely it should be possible distracted my mind from my lost pen.

A grunt from Judd brought me back, and I yelled rather roughly at Jimmy, Get out now. Judd needed help with his clothes, and we started walking back at his pace, Jimmy dancing on the spot to warm up from his brisk dip. We had been there too long. Not many minutes later, I realized I was terribly thirsty, yet thought better of trailing back the distance we had come for the sake of Judd’s legs.

I forgot all about water walking as I anticipated the feast to be savored that evening. We gazed ahead up the cut track as we walked and saw the iconic building central to our valley, the huge mansion we called the Habitat.

Our world was called the Habitation—named after our ancestors Habit Racter and his family. The Specialty lived inside and ran things. No one had ever seen them in my memory, but I was then only seventeen.

During every feast (we had four a year), a member of every home in the Habitation would drop some extra goods into the little trapdoor that was at the entrance of a dark hallway leading to the inside courtrooms of the Habitat. The Specialty lived on this tribute. Sometimes, I had the impression of an underlying competition about who could give the finest, best, and most-prized items to the Specialty. Families would often wait around the door until others showed up so everyone could see their silverware, fine needlework, new tools, or prized produce as it slid down the ramp to the storerooms below. This really annoyed me, as Judd was well aware.

Nudging Judd, full of recollection, the following memory came out of my mind. Do you remember the wee girl’s expression as she dropped her smelly old doll down the tribute chute, Judd? Her eyes … she felt so privileged to be there. She was the only one who was genuine in the whole crowd! Her greedy father was too busy eyeing up his neighbor’s woodcarving. And remember, later, you told me she found a newly sewn doll from who knows where sitting on her doorstep when she got home?

Judd nodded and smiled, raising his brows in happy agreement. Judd noticed what was happening in the community more than I did. My thing was to just get annoyed at the injustice in our world and hide it with snarky humor. I had no time for hypocrisy.

Judd’s symptoms had nearly finished their job with him. Secret thoughts of how unlucky I was plagued me—he would be soon gone from this place and would have no more pain or hurts, and above all, no more confusion.

My wonderful big brother. Why do you make fun of everyone and get so annoyed with life? he had once pinned me down in a wrestling match to ask—back when he was stronger than me.

I don’t. I pushed him off, and brushing grass from my face, I said, I just hate feeling that I don’t know something I should and that if I knew it, everything would make sense. Like why people are so nonsensical in the Habitation, and why some people get sick and not others. Why is it so hard to think outside ourselves, and yet we get angry with those who don’t? Judd had just started to show symptoms at that stage. We had seen others suffering this before, and being young, I slipped easily into bitterness. If it were not for our beautiful valley and my love of fishing, I might have succumbed to it permanently.

Many sicknesses claimed lives from the most random families. I remembered Rarn Bazin from high up the northern ridgeline. His mother had suffered from liver disease not too long ago. He was shortsighted himself—a burly, tough person.

Hey, Judd. I nudged him, still holding his elbow to walk him steadily. Do you remember when we overheard shortsighted Rarn telling his mother he couldn’t see himself ever helping with the feast prep?

Judd chuckled and choked with his attempt. Jimmy looked confused.

He couldn’t ‘see’ himself ever helping, Jimmy—he’s shortsighted! Oh never mind. Jimmy kept looking at me strangely and then cringed as he stood in a squished apple rotting at the base of its tree. I rolled my eyes at him as the call for the tree dedication trumpeted throughout the valley.

AW.png

READERS, THIS IS MY STORY as it happened. As it does with the valley where I lived, the telling will expose places of desert; flowing waters leading to cascades in dialogue; narrow thought-paths to traverse; lush, busy, descriptive word forests full of life; and at times, monotonous, rolling hills of expressions fluidly leading to the sea of deep meaning.

Chapter Two

L ook at that mustache on Louie’s tree! Jimmy giggled. How did he get it to grow so curly?

I cheated, Louie Pravis answered, affectionately tussling Jimmy’s red hair. It’s lichen from a rock. It works though, doesn’t it?

Louie was my good friend. I was in debt to him for all the times he had gotten me out of trouble with his fast-talking when we were children. Lean, with curly blond hair, he had stunning blue eyes everyone fawned sickeningly over all his life. He took this in stride, though. Leaning up higher on one elbow, he peered around the campfire to admire his tree work.

Looking spookily alive with the contrasts of deep shadows and flickering firelight, the face he had created on our family tree was clever in design. Judd had agreed we should let Louie decorate it this year. The tree’s face was made from only bark, seashells, eggshells, and cream lichen. Maybe I should have added some driftwood and given it a goatee. His second-guessing himself was something we all had to put up with. He was very analytical. Catching my fake disdainful look when he glanced my way, he grinned. I always felt Louie was someone special and would be a leader someday. He had a confidence we all desired and a creative and independent manner that made me always curious about his thoughts.

Louie came across as a friend to all; he knew something about everything and everyone. He also lived alone, though I had never been to his house, as he lived on the other side of the stream up in the north gully. Most families did not mix or share between themselves at that stage.

Louie had also gained the pity of the Habitation and roamed freely between families because he had had no parents from a very young age. He was first found wandering without knowledge of his past, and he had belonged to everyone ever since.

Having some talent with elaborate designs, Louie was always excited at feast times, flitting among the families who wanted his help. This being the Feast of Seats, our chairs became an important part of the celebration. We remained seated throughout the evening unless necessary, and the fun came from the unusual objects we chose to repose in instead of chairs.

Choices of seating varied between elaborate, formal woven mats and the more adventuresome display of hot stones, withered flower beds, dried animal tails, and (only for those eager to shock)—dehydrated animal dung.

Reson, who was usually at my side, had taken his place at his fire as his father had died in a hunting accident when Reson was young. We had been toasting to his memory, waiting for the official beginning to the occasion. Reson and Jimmy had slipped away from their families early to join us.

The scents of piping hot, date-filled apples and steaming honey buns, charcoaled mushrooms, rich meat stews, and wild rice were wafting from the cooking fires. We lounged around our evening fire due to Judd’s limited ability to move, enjoying the building tension as we waited for the dome of the Habitat to illuminate the valley. With us also were Inodia Vaheese, our mood-swinging, tagalong friend who desperately needed to relax a little, and Anna, Louie’s particular friend.

I adore this time of year, Inodia exclaimed dramatically. It’s still cool enough for a decent, hot meal but also fresh and exciting with new everything! I saw my first baby lamb today. We all loved this season, though none would describe it with such passion as Inodia. Her enthusiasm was a little freaky that evening, but she could be generally described as either very high or really low.

Didn’t we have lamb in our stew, Nods? I asked dryly. Maybe she was not so bad, but I was recovering from the heavy meal. Tone it down, please, I begged inside. My eyes kept closing in sleep, as I tried to soak up the talk and atmosphere. My bone-tired muscles were ready for bed after a busy day catching fish and the cleanup that followed.

Not even that comment, Brew, will spoil my mood tonight! Instead, she blew me a kiss, which I quickly ducked. I would come closer, but you smell like a fish. She smirked at me with a threat in her eyes.

She knew I hated anything girly or any physical closeness. Horrible, sick feelings would overcome me if she or anyone got too close—so much that I was afraid I would actually throw up. Back off, crazy girl. I had a wide personal space bubble when it came to affection.

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ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-SIX ORANGE campfires were glowing throughout the valley, blending with the stars and looking dreamlike in the smoke and glowing darkness. One hundred and ninety-six families lived in caves throughout the Habitation altogether, each with its own way of celebrating the gift of the Ever-Nurture, each with unique traits and skills. Some of these skills were displayed that night in the faces on their family tree. Clearly, not family trees as you know them, but real trees that each household would add character to by adding flora to make strange and delightful countenances.

The feasts, all four of them, had unique themes linked by the celebration of the one tree that gave our valley its life and freedom—the Ever-Nurture tree.

The oldest tree in our world spread its limbs on the rise east of the Habitat. Its size was not huge, nor were its leaves beautiful, but it provoked reverence with its trunk and branches. Twists and knots, bark and moss, merged to form the curious look of a kindly human expression set into the trunk just below where the forks began. It was just a face grown by chance, but something intriguing and not quite finished about the features made it a curiosity and the source of countless mysterious whimsies. That and that fact that its leaves were so desirable; they were rumored to be the reason for the Habitation’s existence—if history could be trusted.

Discussion throughout the ages had rendered the plant’s face genderless. Neither he—nor she—had enough distinction in its features to leave its admirers in agreement.

Where did old Habit get the seed from to plant our Ent? Jimmy was still young enough not to know the whole history and folklore of the Habitation.

Habit found the seed in his pocket, we are told, with some dried-up leaves that legend says he brought in from another valley, before our time existed, I replied, loving the unreality and fantasy of the past.

It boggled my mind to think Habit had really been the first one here. I marveled at what he must have seen. I looked at the hills covered in the thick, darkening greens of forest, taller and denser at the tops. The aromas of smoke and pine gum mingled with the leftover scents of dinner, increasing the impression of an opulent countryside. As the valley spilled out and flattened to meet the stream, the trees thinned and became secondary to the cropped patches where sun met land. A red sunset hung to the left of the hill. The Habitat of the Specialty lay in the middle, undergirded in its midsection by our spring water source.

I glanced at everyone’s faces that were warmly reflecting the flickering light of our fire tonight. Inodia looked at me with her confident doe eyes and laughed boldly. She straightened out her pink, green, and gold dress. Her bracelets flashed. Our time has always existed! she responded. Judd turned to look steadily at her. I mean, things just are the way they are and always will be, she said.

She started slowly tangling her bronze fingers through her straight, black hair. Judd was trying to say something, but singing had broken out at a distant hillside fire. Louie, could you pour me some entwine please? Inodia politely requested.

Here I have to tell you that entwine is exactly what you might think—wine made from the fruit and seeped leaves of the Ever-Nurture tree. Everyone drank of it—even children—as its effects were deemed harmless and its taste was to die for!

Shhh, everyone. Say it again, Judd. I hushed them all as I saw Judd’s agitation at trying to gain our attention.

Scwoll, was all he could manage. He raised his brow in frustration and pleaded with me to understand.

Scwoll, I repeated. You mean scroll? Do you mean the scroll theory? I got a grateful nod from Judd.

Do any of you remember the idea that got passed around last year when one of the families over there, I waved in the general south sea direction, found some sort of inscription on the rock face down the path that had pictures of our valley surrounded by a scroll etched into it? Judd has a real interest in our past, don’t you? I turned to him.

Another nod from Judd.

What’s that got to do with Habit and the Ent and our time? Louie sat up quizzically and poked a stick to stir up embers in the fire.

Well, there was a theory going around that it meant our whole world was a story that someone was writing—a story like a scroll.

Isn’t that a fool’s tale? asked Louie sharply.

’Course it is, I said with a shrug. But it’s interesting how the images found on the stone were similar to the inscription on the Habitat. If only the Specialty would share some of their inside knowledge, I drew an imaginary bow and fired it in their general direction, or if they could at least even open a small part of the mansion for us to look into … I trailed off.

I knew that my wistfulness came across more as bitterness. I knew that fear of the Specialty was what kept everyone in order, but I was a hurting teen who relied on my instincts for self-preservation. My disrespect for the Specialty was fueled by mistrust and the disregard they showed us by hiding in luxury. The only sign of their presence was the smoke seen rising during winter and when cooking was done—and the occasional shadow sweeping past the windows.

You can’t say that! Inodia was outraged. What if someone heard you and passed a note down to the storerooms? We have no idea what they’re like or what they might do. If they have the power to make the dome light up with each feast and cause the hummings … she trailed off, eyes big.

No one knows what causes the hummings, Inodia, I reminded her. Judd nodded, and Jimmy looked perplexed. Anna just faded more into the background with a don’t-look-at-me slouch.

There is not much to explain about the hummings. They were just unnatural sounds that hovered over the valley at random times. People have described them in many different ways—fearsome, dooming, toneless, grating, spiteful—though I had never experienced many of them myself. As one of the fishermen, I was often at the sea, listening to the waves and wind whip past the open rocks, well out of range of the strange sounds above the land.

Somewhat reassured, Inodia relaxed her pose and continued with her hair teasing. Louie, she purred. You probably mix with the largest number of people—what do others say about the scroll idea? I think she may have liked Louie at that stage, not that I cared; sometimes, life was so complicated.

I don’t bring it up, Nods. I guess some may have mentioned it in passing, but it’s just so unlikely. I mean—Jimmy, you’re too young to get this. Louie’s gaze flicked from him to the rest of the group. But think of what that would mean. First, it means we’re characters who don’t have free will. All our actions, even what I’m saying now, would be part of a plot that leads somewhere. What are we? Words in the story? Second, it means someone knows the story line in advance. Third, and most important, it means there’s an author who wrote this story, every word and every meaning. Moreover, for what purpose was our life written, and who would benefit from reading it? I would like to know what the meaning of life is too, guys. It’s fun to ponder over, but it makes no sense at all. He pulled his skin coat around him tightly and leaned closer to the fire as the temperature dropped with the sun.

I toyed with a stone in my hands. Anna squirmed on her folded blanket in the rising wind, searching for the bravery to point out to me like a shy mouse, I think Judd is trying to draw something.

He had picked up a stick and was awkwardly outlining the shape of a scroll in the white ashes edging the fire. A stick-figure man emerged next, with something dropping from his right hand into a circle at its feet. He drew a small tree next to this. Hab, he said. Hab. He pointed to the scroll stiffly.

He means that Habit believed in the scroll theory, I think, Nods said. Is that right, Judd? She was always thoughtful of him when we were in a group. It was easy to ignore him because he could barely contribute to the conversation. His being a good sport helped though.

Judd nodded gratefully to Inodia and looked at me to elaborate. Well, yes, that’s what legend says. That is the most agreed-on meaning to the Habitat’s sign. But we live in a story, Judd? Is this what you believe? I was not going