Excerpt: A Drop in the Bowl

A Drop in the Bowl

Myms moved slowly down the poorly-demarcated forest trail that lead from her home to that of her closest neighbor, old man Kculu, balancing a half-full basket of melons on her head with ease. It was a path she knew well, she and her family being the only ones who used it. Last summer a particularly aggressive strain of kymz-vine had overtaken the path and she and her brother had been forced to beat it back with a pair of dull knives. The grass seemed to have taken the lesson, however, and now the path remained fairly clear of obstructions.

Feeling something tugging at her ankle, Myms directed her attention downward and noticed a strand of the aggressive vine tightening itself around her foot. Shaking her leg violently, Myms tried to free herself from the vine's grasp. Rather than loosening its grip, however, the vine instead began to clasp even harder. Growing at an extraordinary pace, the kymz vine started its way further up her leg. Setting down the basket with three of her free limbs, Myms tugged at the vine with all of her strength. She knew that the kymz vine could sometimes grow fast, but this was getting a bit extreme. Already the vine had snaked its way up her leg and was starting to wrap itself around her torso.

Myms flailed violently, attempting to break free from the vine's powerful grasp. It was no use however, already the vine was wrapping tighter and tighter around her, sending streamers down her other legs. In another minute or two she would be completely immobilized. Suddenly she heard the vine giggling and pressing itself tightly against parts of her body that no plant should be interested in.

“In the name of Mrjgthnch I rebuke you foul demon!” Myms called out in high-pitched near-scream.

Instantly the vine pulled away from her, as if singed by fire. Falling to the ground, it wrapped itself up in a ball and shuddered like a person staked to the ground on top of a nest of fire-ants. A moment later the ball of rose on eight vine-like legs and took the form of a T'hmaa, becoming a shorter, slightly more obese member of Myms own race.

“That was very unkind of you, miss Mymessilita,” the plant-changed into T'hmaa said in a downcast voice. “You know perfectly well that I am no demon but that it pains me to hear the name of my father repeated in anger...”

“Demon or not, Waulau, you shouldn't try such a dirty trick on me,” Myms shot back without hesitation. “As long as I feel endangered by your silly antics, I shall have no hesitation to call out on the name of our chief and holy protector in my defense.”

“Just as long as you remember that I am also the son of our chief and holy protector—as you correctly addressed him—and therefore you are utterly obliged to obey me as the enforcer of his laws,” the plant turned into spider--Waulau--responded

“I haven't broken any laws that I know of, Waulau, or have you thought of some new one for me to follow that says I mustn't speak your father's name if I am attacked by something that resembles a perverted plant-demon?” Myms said.

“I supposed not,” Waulau agreed begrudgingly. “But you do still have to pay the tax—or did you hope to get out of that by invoking my father's name as well?”

As he spoke these words, Waulau moved towards the basket Myms had set down while fighting him off and peeked inside.

“Tax!?” Myms demanded, allowing her complete surprised and shock to leak out in the tone of her voice. “But my parents already paid the tithe on these vegetables.”

“Ah... but the tithe is on vegetables for consumption,” Waulau pointed out. “These melons are surplus which you were planning to trade, are they not?”

Myms bowed her head in discouragement—was there really another tax on surplus vegetables that her parents had failed to mention to her?

“How much is the tax?” Myms asked begrudgingly.

“Two for one,” Waulau explained. “Two for me for every one that you are allowed to sell...”

Myms's jaw nearly dropped in disbelief. That meant she would be able to take only a third of the melons she had picked to her neighbor to exchange for a new tools that they desperately needed. Myms doubted she could even get a single hoe in exchange for such a pitiful quantity of melons.

By this time, Waulau had already taken the melons out of the basket and was sorting through them.

“Lets see here,” he said greedily. “These two are for me... this one is for you...”

Myms could see perfectly well that Waulau was hording the best of the melons for himself and leaving her only the smallest and least ripe of the bunch.

“That seems about right,” Waulau said, having divided the melons into two piles.

The pile that consisted of Myms's melons was by far the smaller of the two. Myms stared at her own pile in disappointment, wondering what she could possibly tell her parents to explain what had happened. Tell them that she had been robbed by Waulau, one of of the god Mrjgthnch's own sons. What else was she supposed to do? Disobey him? Risk incurring the wrath of the gods and rejection by the whole tribe? Clearly Myms had no choice but to acquiesce.

“My pile is too big,” Waulau said—an observation Myms couldn't help but agree with. “I'm going to need this basket to carry it with...”

This—in Myms opinion—was over-the-line. If she had to pay the tax, that was one thing. For Waulau to take the melons was one thing—they grew because the gods had granted her family good weather after-all. For him to take the basket was something altogether different. In the first place, her family had already payed the basket tax—each family was required to weave seven baskets for the chief and his family each month. Also, it was a good, stout basket. It had taken Myms a week just to find enough of the right kind of reeds to weave it, and another two weeks to split them, soak them in water so they would soften them, and weave them into a basket. There was no way that Myms was going to let anyone—even a half-god—walk away with three-weeks worth of work for no good reason.

“Forget about it!” Myms declared exasperated. “You're not getting the basket... in fact, you're not getting any of the melons either!”

“You cannot ignore the tax,” Waulau insisted.

“You said it was a trade tax,” Myms said. “If my family just eats the melons, you have no right to tax them... I'm taking them home right now.”

“You can't do that,” Waulau insisted. “Once you've set out on the road, it's obvious that the melons weren't for consumption. How am I to know you won't just come back and try to sell them some other time when I'm not around to stop you from breaking the law.”

“Look! Forget about it, I said!” Myms insited. “I don't care if I have to eat the melons here and now to prove that I'm not planning to sell them. There's no way you're getting a single one of them! And you sure as enflamement not getting that basket.”

“What about the basket tax?” Waulau suggested.

“Already paid it,” Myms said smugly.

“Paid it... this year?” Waulau suggested.

“Of course,” Myms said.

“Well then,” Waulau reasoned. “I'll just take this off of next-year's basket tax.”

“You can't do that!” Myms shouted, somewhere between tears and anger.

“Can too!” Waulau retorted.

“Can not!”

“Are you challenging me—a god?” Waulau suddenly demanded.

Myms was instantly silenced. She knew there was only one answer she dare give to that question.

“No,” she said demurely, bowing her head.

“Well then,” Waulau said and began putting 'his' pile of melons into the basket.

Utterly despondent, Myms collapsed in a heap on the side of the trail. Meanwhile, Waulau continued to pile melons into the basket. Not knowing what else she could do, Myms attempted no further protest. Instead, a stream of unhappy made their way through her body, causing each of her eight limbs to shudder. She lay there helpless, trying not to think about the fact that she was being robbed and there was nothing she could do about it.

“Are those melons for sale?” a cheerful-sounding voice coming down the road asked warmly.

“Hers might be,” Waulau said, pointing at the smaller pile he had set aside for Myms. “I'm taking these home for myself.”

“How much are they?” the voice asked.

Myms now recognized the sound of the voice that was talking to Waulau—it was that of Pipsc, one of the young men from the village. Hearing his voice, Myms couldn't help but cheer up a little and also wonder what he was doing on this path—which only led to her home.

“I don't know, didn't pay for them...” Waulau confessed.

“Didn't pay for them?” Pipsc asked skeptically.

“The.. uh... trade tax...” Waulan attempted to explain his actions.

“The trade tax?” Pipsc proped further. “She was planning to sell those in the market? And why is your pile so much bigger than hers?”

“She... might have been planning to sell them in the market,” Waulau said. “And it's a two-for-one tax...”

“I WAS NOT PLANNING TO SELL THEM IN THE MARKET AND YOU KNOW SO!” Myms suddenly exclaimed.

“I do not know so,” Waulau replied.

“Do to!” Myms

“Even if she was planning to sell them in the market—which you haven't proven—a two-for-one tax means she gets to keep two and has to pay one as tax,” Pipsc said.

“It does?” Myms said, and then looking directly at Waulau. “Why you filthy, good-for-nothing..!”

“Before you finish that sentence, I'll have you remember that I am a god and insulting me is blasphemy,” Waulau threatened her.

“Half-god,” Pipsc pointed out.

Pipsc had now begun putting all of the melons in the basket—in order to give it back to Myms.

“What the Enflamement kind of difference does that make?” Waulau demanded.

“You know perfecly well what it means,” Pipsc said cooly.

“Oh really!?” Waulau replied.

“Yes,” Pipsc said, still calm.

“Are you... challenging me?” Waulau asked, suddenly bringing out his trump card.

Even when they were not directed towards her, the words sent a shiver down each of Myms's eight legs.

“Did you just try to force a young girl to pay a tax she's not required of and then rob her of twice as much of that tax as you're entitled to?” Pipsc retorted unflinchingly.

The way that he spoke made Myms feel so attracted to this brave, handsome young man. At the same time the fact that he had just called her a “young girl” made Myms feel rather pathetic.

Rather than stay and answer Pipsc's question, Waulau suddenly melted into a puddle of water and disappeared into the earth.

“How are you feeling?” Pipsc asked, lifting the basket into his own head and helping Myms to her feet.

“Better now,” Myms said. “Thanks, you really saved me there...”

“Waulau can really be murder sometimes,” Pipsc said. “It pays to know ones rights.”

“Glad you showed up just in time to explain mine to me,” Myms admitted. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

“Forget about it,” Pipsc said. “Were were you taking these?”

“Just over to old man Kculu's to trade for some tools,” Myms explained.

“I'll help you carry it over there,” Pipsc offered.

Seeing as he had already lifted the basket up onto his head, there wasn't really much Myms could do to protest. Besides, she didn't mind having Pipsc's company at all.

“So... how are you?” Myms ventured casually.

“A little tired, actually,” Pipsc confessed. “The other night a pack of wamglers broke into our sauma-fruit patch and ate almost half of them. Since then my brother and I have been keeping watch trying to keep them away until the sauma-fruit is ripe-enough to pick....”

“Ours looks like it will be ripe in three-or-four days,” Myms pointed out optimistically.

“Yes, ours too,” Pipsc agreed.

Not able to think of anything in particular to say, Myms allowed the conversation to die off into silence. This seemed to suit Pipsc as well and so the two of them walked together wordlessly.

The path wasn't wide enough for Myms and Pipsc to walk side-by-side. Instead Pipsc led the way—with her basket on his head—while Myms followed meekly behind. From this position she couldn't help but stare ahead at him, admiring his subtle, masculine form. He was—in Myms's opinion—one of the most marriageable young men in the village. Not that I have much of a chance with him, Myms chided herself. Especially after he just called me a little-girl to my face...

So caught up was Myms in staring at Pipsc carrying the basket—something he did with ease, although it had been quite heavy for her—that she nearly tripped on an unseen object. Remembering her earlier encounter with the kymz-vine-turned-half-god, she automatically called out the name of Mrjgthnch as she nearly tripped over her own eight feet.

“Are you okay?” Pipsc demanded, turning back.

Undoubtedly, he had been surprised to hear such strong language coming from a “young girl.”

“I'm fine,” Myms reassured him. “I just tripped over a rock or something...”

“Oh, okay,” Pipsc said, and then turned to continue down the path.

Myms noticed that he had stared back at her for a moment longer than was entirely appropriate before turning around. His voice, too, showed a surprising amount of concern; although it was possible he didn't want to be responsible for someone's “little girl” getting hurt.

By this time they were nearly to their destination. A short while later, old-man Kculu's hut came into sight. Like most T'hmaa structures, it followed the traditional reeds on a wooden frame form of construction. A few of the more permanent structures in the village were made entirely out of wood. The only stone structure in the village, however, had been built not by the spider-like T'hmaa, but by a secretive race of beings who called themselves the “Nhaclunts”.

Myms had never seen a Nhaclunts, but it was obvious from the construction of their stone-structure that they were a powerful race of beings—nearly as powerful as the gods, perhaps. Not even the gods lived in a stone stucture, although this was perhaps because such a place struck them—as it did Myms—as unnecessarily cold and dark inside. A portion of the taxes which were collected by the gods were set aside in the stone structure built by the Nhaclunts. How they took it away from there remained a mystery to Myms, since even in the dead of night she had never heard of one of the Nhaclunts coming to collect the tribute stored away for them in the stone building.

“Why hello there, young lads and lasses, now what brings you here today?” the raspy voice of old-man Kculu called out in the distance.

“Just one lad and one lass,” Pipsc corrected him—unnecessarily in Myms's opinion. “Your beautiful young neighbor Myms asked me to help carry this basket of tasty melons to you hoping to trade it for some tools...”

Myms felt embarassed. She hadn't asked Pipsc to carry the basket; he had volunteered, hardly even giving her the option of saying “no.”

“Why hello there, Myms,” Kculu called out. “Tasty melons indeed; I can smell their sweetness all the way from here...”

“Once you've had a bite of one, you'll gladly trade all you have for another,” Pipsc said tantilizingly.

“Oooh... I must be careful then,” Kculu said. “I suppose little miss Myms will rob me blind if I don't use all of the shrewdness I've got..”

It embarassed Myms to hear the melons being praised so highly on her account when she hadn't even grown them. The melons were her younger brother's duty while she usually devoted herself to weaving or other more “womanly” work.

Pipsc walked up to old-man Kculu and set the basket down in front of him. Taking out one of the best-looking melons, he offered it to the old man. Kculu accepted the melon and quickly stripping off the outer husk took a bite of the sweet fruit inside.

“You didn't lie one bit,” Kculu exclaimed. “Why I'd spend the rest of my life in enflamement if I could just have a dozen of these...”

“I don't know why you'd want to do that,” Myms interrupted him. “Mom and dad just told me to get a new set of skinning knives and a hoe if I could...”

“Well, well, well... if a simple set of skinning knives can buy my way out of enflamement, I am a lucky man indeed,” Kculu said. “Why don't we have a look-see and discover what I've got to trade for a bas basket full of your wonderful melons...”

Myms and Pipsc were led into old man Kculu's hut where he unrolled a leather pack containing an assortment of simple but effective-looking knives. Myms—who had always assumed that a knife was a knife was a knife—was surprised to noticed the diversity of cutting-devices that now stood before her.

“Which one of these are best for skinning an animal?” Myms asked naively.

“Well, you need something sharp-enough to make a nice, clean cut, but thin enough to go between the meat and the skin in order to separate the two,” old man Kculu started to explain.

Myms—who had always been too squeamish to watch her father skin a dead animal—found even this explanation a little to gross for her tastes. She was used to having animals delivered in small, salted portions for her to cook and eat, not to thinking about cutting open a whole animal. The thought of cutting open what had once been a living thing actually made her more than a little uncomfortable.

“What about these here?” Myms asked, pointing to a pair of knives more or less at random.

“No,” Pipsc corrected her, pointing at a different set of knives. “These are the ones your father will want for skinning out a keldbaur.”

“Absolutely right,” old-man Kculu agreed. “In fact, that is exactly the set I was going to suggest myself.”

Myms felt as though she had been properly put in her place by the two men. Obviously the purchasing of knives was not something that “little girls” were properly equipped to deal in. A little while later when they moved on to picking out a gardening equipment, Myms felt more in control. Neither Pipsc nor Kculu had anything bad to say about her choice of a hoe. Soon the whole transaction was completed. After helping Kculu unload the melons into his cellar, she and Pipsc took the knives and hoe and were ready to be on their way. Old man Kculu wished them a warm goodbye, and the two of them started down the trail back to Myms's home.

At her insistence, Pipsc allowed Myms to carry the now empty basket. Surprisingly, she found it even harder to keep balanced on her head empty than full, since it kept nearly blowing off and she had to reach up and balance it. Inside the basket, was only the set of two knives. The hoe—which was too long to fit in the basket without unbalancing it—was carried by Pipsc.