This is the second of four parts of the short story “Ecencial” by Dave Vierling. To read Part 1, CLICK HERE. You can follow Dave on Facebook and stay tuned right here to #JPLMagazine for the story’s conclusion over the next two weeks.
Ecencial (Part 2)
I always open the land at first light. Pai used to talk an archaic utterance, “The early rooter sucks the water table dry.” Some of these words have since been misplaced in translation. I can only glean his context of early.
The climate this light was gorgeous. No Nearbys had roamed the dark in search of her nourishment. Perhaps they raided a neighboring talker. These infrequent calms earn me moments to undividedly pray to Ecencial, my surrogate Majka, which culminates in the imbibing of her sample. Congratulations. She exudes the most consistent taste in the land due to her untainted origins, boom, bust, blessing or a curse.
Ecencial. My purpose serves her. My profession profits from her. There is no separation of church and state here, like rotted democracies past. Chalky soil, scarce game and no chuva for circles upon circles have choked out any liberal sovereignty around. Once ago, talkers had webbed majestic social networks that stretched further than the known land. I read they could even communicate through far away machines without yelling.
Those relic moments barely glimmer now. Think-tanks old enough to have progenerated The Gold Age are burying any optimism for sapien equality. Some talkers recently coined our new age. The Drought. This scientific word hasn’t been pronounced since paper was made from fa, undetermined circles back. I suppose it means an unfurling chuva shortage.
Another book read our bodies survive at least eight drinkless lights. When staple public leaks dehydrated, Nearbys were the first to thirst. Acts of insubordination grew passively in the beginning. The more humble Nearbys started to beg for discounted access to Ecencial like she’s some measly floozy. Uman, a runt among twits, especially angered me. A miscarriage had sapped her strength’s majority. Dizzy and cramped, she fell to knees, kissing my repulsive feet. A trade was then offered, fleshly compensation for Ecencial’s nourishment. Blast! I ignited in English.
“How dare you equate my bestial lust with divine endowment.” I grasped Uman by the follicles and dragged her shrieking to the shore-step of heaven. “Is this what you crave?” I baptized her dirty face into virgin nectar. Gargle, thrashing, panic and lift. All along, my elitist tongue disqualified her comprehension. “Ecencial will spread her legs until they become your gallows.” I spat mucus in eyes, submerged her breath and weathered the storm. Ravenous resistance benumbed into a glassy peace as bubbles ceased.
Drained of emotion, I rested on fallen fa. Waning light had beautified the blue above. Colors pasteling cotton wisps chorused by faint birds all guided me toward a revelation. There I sat thinking that The Drought had only transformed us into savages, panting animalistic endorsements. Dearth of excess has simplified life and necessity has metamorphosed into conscious desire. Nourishment is fiended for. Passionate spirituality steers us once more. Yes, we are savages but you could talk that we cut out the fat. Only those with resourceful access will flourish. When alternatives are at a premium, hierarchy is born.
I tied rocks to the Nearby’s leg gifting her to Ecencial. After short prayer, there was meal and music. No one ever vomited Uman’s name again.
My Majka’s life stopped her when I was a mere five circles round. Her legacy is sketchy in my mind. Pai talked of her perpetual kind beat. She must be the excuse why I’m half as cruel as him. My closest neighboring talker is honest, despite his mistrustful appearance. He’s named Ningen and has existed for over 60 circles, an extraordinary feat these ages.
“Your Majka would frequently convene with Nearby women,” he stories with the clarity of a photographic memory. “She recognized their resourcefulness as more nomadic procurers and exchanged vats for gathering cues. She also applauded their sticky family unit.” Each talking of my Majka conjures subtle approval in Ningen’s words but I have mixed feelings. She was a beautiful wife who could cook. Why pine for more and endanger your safety?
When the chuva vanished, so did the Nearby husbands’ patience. They viewed Majka as a spy, briefing the talking community and assembled a crude witch-hunt party. The husbands met the male talkers, aligned on flat land. Nostrils huffed, kicks revved up soil, and a solitary moment before death bled everywhere, Majka intercepted the battle, scurrying.
“Both sides of you are wrong. Fighting for me is thinkless.” These suicidal words stabbed a fatal edge into Majka’s neck. Gasps dropped jaws. She danced a stagger while pumping red squirts high in the climate. Surprise plagued as not a being could have predicted her end. Majka had obtained everything necessary yet through cavalier progressiveness, dumped herself in the refuse.
Ningen believes she promoted valuable concepts. I disagree. He’s old school, a dying breed that hasn’t calibrated civil rights to modern circumstance. To empower women publicly in this dire Drought would be to convolute the simplicity that will haul us through. They already exercise dominance in the shelter. Hence, there has to be balance. We shan’t especially cut across privileged lines to teach English either. The very fabricate of our society depends on non-action. Once Ningen’s life stops him, I will restructure the system. He’s the last lighthouse of a shipwrecked age.
I loved my Majka. She taught me survival skills. My eld techniques were all crafted under her coaching and they heat throughout entire darkness’. Majka also taught me how to scout the best fa. I often afford to solicit excess pieces that I’ve gathered as a result of her expertise. She followed a moral compass, which can’t be faulted. A woman long after her moment.