The story is set in a town in Genda (Canada), somewhere in eastern Ontario near Quebec. The time frame is approx. 25th century. Weather patterns have settled after the long drought and it is a period of ‘peace and prosperity’ including trade with Rosh (Russia) across the northern ocean protected by the Genda navy and the southern neighbours Meriga and Meyco.
Read The Prisoner of Genda - Part 1 The Prisoner, here.
Read The Prisoner of Genda - Part 2 The Widow, here.
Shattered glass (Photo: via ghostsandghouls)
Part 3
The Gardener
“Hallo. Garint
sunna Jardin?” The Mountie shouted loud enough to be heard three lanes away.
Garint rounded the corner of the house, his left leg dragging as he
limped toward him. A grin creased his broad face. “I was in the greenhouse
looking at the damage. I’m glad it wasn’t me that fell through that glass.” His
ears stuck out through his unruly hair but his beard showed signs of occasional
brushing. His clothes were rumpled and dirt stained.
“We want you to come and have a look at the prisoner. If you know him
it might help explain what he was up to.”
Garint wiped his hands on his pants. “Just a moment. I have something
to deliver on the way.” He ducked into the small house and emerged with a burlap
bad tied loosely at the top with string.
As they walked toward the jail the Mountie prattled on. “Strange fellow
this one, wears Rosh clothes and carries a Genda navy knife. We reckon he’s a
deserter. Wouldn’t say a word when we nabbed him. He understands though, you can
tell it in his eyes.”
Garint asked him to wait as he went to Rouss darra Sage’s cottage and
knocked on the door. She opened it with a smile. “Morning, Garint sunna Jardin.”
She wiped flour from her hands on an apron.
“Morning. Some vegetables for you.”
“Thank you Garint. I’ll return your book tomorrow with a loaf of bread.
I’m busy this morning.” She had to shout to be heard, as she pointed to the
builder’s prentice hammering in a nail under the eaves.
Garint waved goodbye and rejoined the Mountie. They reached the jailhouse
and followed the jailer’s slow heavy footsteps down the dim narrow corridor to
the cells. The other Mountie waited by the door. The jailer jangled his ring of
keys with a flourish and rattled one in the lock. The prisoner looked up from
where he lay on the narrow bed, huddled under a rough woollen blanket.
“Get up.” said the Mountie. “This is the man whose glass you broke.
That kind of salvage is expensive and hard to replace.”
Garint took one step forward through the doorway.
“Do you recognise him?” asked the Mountie.
Garint watched carefully as the man dropped his feet to the floor and
stood up, head still lowered and all but his bearded face covered by his hat.
“Well?”
The prisoner lifted his eyes for a split second and shivered, ending
with the barest shake of his head.
Garint frowned, licked his lips slowly, then shook his head. “He doesn’t
look familiar.”
The Mountie stepped into the room beside him, slapping his wooden
truncheon rhythmically into the palm of his hand. “What have you got to say for
yourself?”
The prisoner coughed and took a breath. A deep resonant voice boomed from
his throat. It made Garint think of the Rosh baritones he had heard on the
radio. “I’m sorry about your glass Mister. I meant no harm. I hope I am able to
make amends.” He paused. “Please check the soil very carefully for glass.” The
last sentence he said with a deliberate slowness.
“You should be you on your hands and knees in the dirt doing that, you
bucket of pig swill.” The Mountie raised this truncheon. The other laid a hand
on his arm. “Leave him. That’s enough for now.” He motioned Garint out of the
room. “The judge comes to town next week. You will be asked to describe the
damage and estimate the cost to replace the glass. You might have to travel to
the city for that eh? The judge might also order amends.”
The jailer locked the door and replaced the keys on his belt. He looked
into the room through the small barred opening in the heavy wooden door. The
prisoner’s breakfast, a slab of bread and smear of butter, was half uneaten . A
broad smile the creased the jailer’s face. “Not hungry, eh? What were you
expecting, coffee and crussins? Pancakes and maypa sirp? This ain’t some fancy
Otwa hotel.” He turned and shambled away chortling at his own joke. “Coffee and
crussins. Ha!”
****
Read The Prisoner of Genda - Part 4 The Builder, here.
Glossary
Stars Reach words used
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New words coined for this story (in rough order of use)
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Darra
|
daughter of (e.g Rouss darra Sage)
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Sackamon
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exclamation derived from Sacrament – Quebec French meaning “God Dammit”
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Gaian
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Religion based on worship of Gaia (Mother Earth)
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heronna
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Her honour (official title)
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Genda
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Canada
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juree
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jury
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Gummint
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government
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munee
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municipality
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Mam Gaia
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Earth (seen as a goddess)
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crussin
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croissant
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Meeda
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metre
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maypa sirp
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maple syrup
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Meer
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Leader of Genda
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Eldmin
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Alderman/Alderwoman of the town council
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Meriga
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the former United States
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hizonna
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His honour (official title
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Meyco
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Mexico
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Nowell
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Christmas (from the French Noel)
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Old Believers
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Christians
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chinselk
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Chinese silk, obtained via trade with Rosh
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Otwa
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Ottawa
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Prentice
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apprentice
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Rosh
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Russia
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Semba
|
December
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Senamee
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centimetre
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Sunna
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son of (e.g. Garint sunna Jardin)
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Constructive comments welcome :-)
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