Chapters One, Two, Three, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen; Christmas.
(Flyover Planet, SF, starts here, and that’s the teaser.)
"So who are you inviting over?" Judge Joe asked. He and Ben were in his backyard, getting the firewood ready; Judge was splitting and chopping and Ben was stacking.
"Over for what?"
"What's the matter with you, Ben? Thanksgiving, remember?" Judge Joe snorted. He wasn't really a judge; that was just his nickname because he was kind of strict and severe; but Ben liked him because he was also really fair and would pay good money for any chores he did not enjoy doing himself (like stacking firewood); and he smoked really foul-smelling tobacco and blew the most amazing smoke rings.
"Yeah, I know, Judge, but whatcha mean, "inviting"? There's just a big feast for everyone in the Common tomorrow, isn't there?" Everyone had been working overtime, hanging up the bunting and the flags and pennants, setting up long tables on sturdy trestles and the barbecues and grills and everything. "And we also do this thing in my family, you give a gift to somebody who helped you out the most this year, to thank them. Is that the kind of thing you mean?"
"Well, that sounds nice too but no, that's not it. Oh wait, it's your first Thanksgiving in the Valley, isn't it? I guess we're just about due for a break here anyways; hang on."
Judge Joe housed his axe in the chopping block and flexed his shoulders with a little groan, stretching this way and that, then got out his pipe out and poured them some coffee from his thermos flask. Ben liked his with some cream but he would never admit that to Judge as they tipped their cups to each other with the hot black liquid sloshing inside. And for some reason it did not taste as bitter outdoors as it did indoors.
"We've always done this here in the Valley," Judge Joe had gotten his pipe going and blew his first perfect smoke ring. "Giving thanks is like saying, hey, I got plenty but it ain't from me, you know?" He pointed upward, in the direction of the cross just visible over the hill.
"Right," said Ben. He never troubled himself much about troubling God but he went to church and knew about thanks.
"So we share and share alike amongst ourselves, in plenty and in lean times. But there are others who got nothing, this year, or maybe got some grief, or they are just lonely or shy. So we do what we can: invite some strangers to the feast," said Judge Joe.
Ben thought about it.
"Isn't that kind of dangerous?"
Judge barked out a laugh, spoiling a smoke ring.
"This from the boy who brought in all those old folks, and the kids in the Spring!"
"Well, look, they mostly settled in fine, didn't they? None of the old folk have left, have they?" Ben retorted. "So is everyone inviting somebody?"
"Sure. There's some that have got townsfolk or relatives from outta town coming of course. And then that boy that's come back, what's his name, the tall ginger kid? He's got an uncle of his coming along."
"Clark," Ben said absently. Clark had been one of the two or three kids who had found it hard going in the Valley and had gone back to his school and the big city. But now he was back, with his uncle who, as he said, "just wanted to see how all this was getting on over here and keep an eye on Clark." Ben had seen him around the Valley a few times.
"Right. That uncle of his seems like a friendly fellow. Ready to lend a hand and always chatting to folks. Smiles a bit too much for me, but I guess that's mostly for the ladies," said Judge Joe. He reached out and gave Ben a clap on the back.
"Well, there you go. As for dangerous... if you go out in the world, you're gonna get burned at times, sure, but to get skint you gotta have real lousy luck or just be a born fool. Now, if it's bad luck, we'll all pitch in to cope; and you ain't gonna say your mama raised a fool, are you?"
"I won't, but she might!" Ben grinned. Judge puffed at his pipe:
"Then you just go and ask her about it just in case. Now let's get back to it, I reckon that old shed's gonna take a few more stacks."
An hour later Ben was running back home with his wages jingling in his pocket. He was going to run into town first thing tomorrow morning to spend some of it on a gift for Susan (it was her first Thanksgiving in the Valley too), and maybe bring back a guest.
"Just be smart about it," Ben's mom had told him. "If you don't like the look of someone or wouldn't ask them to hold your bike while you go into a store, don't ask them over, that's all. And if you do, you do."
"Just remember, your guests are your responsibility," Ben's dad had said. "Want me to run you into town? I'm taking the eggs and cheese to the market."
And so Ben jumped out of his Dad's pickup as the sun was rising over the ridge just outside the town, the one that separated it from the Valley. He helped his Dad unload the boxes and the crates and carry them to the shop for Miss Carton, the owner. She gave them some hot coffee and a couple of thick ham sandwiches. She was coming to the Feast later; this year Susan's grandmother had invited her for they had become great friends over their love of crocheting.
"This whole lot will be gone by noon though, trust me! So if you're staying in town till then you can just pick up your share of the money," she told Ben's dad who shook his head.
"My wife will have my guts for garters if I do that, ma'am. Just bring it over when you come to the Feast."
Miss Carton promised to do that and offered Ben a seat in her car if he was still in town when she set off.
"Otherwise catch a ride with someone you know," Ben's Dad told him. "Don't leave it till too late though. You sure you don't want any help though?"
"I don't and I won't," Ben promised, and off he went. The market was just starting but it wouldn't run late, not today of all days. So he went and had some hot cider (at the second stall; at the first stall they asked for his age and ID), and then he went over to a stall he never visited before. That had all kinds of thread in every shade and color, and scraps of fabric and needles and pincushions and everything, and the lady behind the counter was sewing tiny triangles of different colored fabrics together quite quickly.
"Have you got anything with a chickadee?" Ben asked. "For someone who likes them, I mean." Chickadees were Susan's favorite birds, though Ben didn't think them particularly exciting. It's not like they were rare or large or even hunted.
"As it happens, I do," said the lady behind the counter. She was quite old, as old as Ben's parents probably, and she was wearing glasses that made Ben think of a bird too, maybe because the frames were tipped upward at the outer corners like wings and her eyes were bright and quick. "Does your girl have a favorite color?"
"She is not my girl," Ben said, flushing. He'd been teased about his friendship with Susan before and he'd thumped some of the other boys over that but he couldn't thump a lady. "She is just a girl. A friend. A good one."
"All right," the lady said as if she hadn't noticed him flushing. "How about this then?"
She held out a patchwork purse. Somebody had made a little chickadee in flight out of scraps of fabric, with bright eyes and a funny little fan of a tail. It looked pretty cool, actually, though Ben wouldn't have admitted it out loud.
"That will hold quite a few spools of thread and even a pincushion and a pair of scissors. And anyway, a purse is always useful to a girl. Can't have too many, take it from me," she added cheerfully.
"If you say so," Ben did think it looked like something Susan would like; so he didn't haggle too long over the price, just a little bit as a matter of courtesy, to show he had no hard feelings about the seller's guess about Susan not being a friend.
"Tell you what, I will throw in a bit of thread for her as a compliment, how's that?" the seller spun a few of the silky spools in her palms. "Know her favorite colors?"
Ben did not (he never thought about colors much) but he picked out a bright blue and a glowing orange and a kind of muted purple that made him think of thunderclouds and the seller tipped them into the purse and buttoned it up and wrapped it into rough brown paper that was nice to the touch all in a few quick movements. Ben wished her a happy Thanksgiving and received one in return, and went on his way.
He was at the center of the fair again, looking for something to eat and drink before he remembered that he had yet to find someone to invite to the party. Should he ask a total stranger? He could go back to the sewing stall but maybe he could look around to find someone needy or lonely? The sewing lady had looked quite cheerful. But if he found someone who was miserable and gloomy, was that someone he should invite? Or would that spoil the party for everyone? What if he turned out to be someone like his cousin Mellin?
Things had seemed really simple yesterday but now Ben was not so sure. He did not want to spoil the party for everyone and be known as the boy who brought over a wet blanket for a guest. And it turned out (this was news to Ben) that sometimes it's much harder to do things if you think about them first than just jump right into them, as he had usually done before.
"Ok, I will have some food first, and then I will go around the square and have a look at everybody, and if I can't find anyone I will go back to the sewing lady," he decided. There was a stall with some food he had not tried before; it was called falafel and did not look pretty, but when Ben took a bite (it had been wrapped up in a very flat thin kind of bread that looked like an old bedsheet) he was pleasantly surprised.
"This is actually pretty good," he told the skinny guy behind the counter. The guy looked to be in his twenties, really pale and skinny, with a weedy little growth on his chin that hadn't really made it to a beard, and a dinky little hat perched just at the top of his head. He sure moved fast though, wrapping the falafels and doling out the hummus with graceful economic movements. There was nothing meaty in his stall (the falafel was made of some kind of beans or something); it was not a very popular stall either. And the guy did look kind of lonely, with really tired eyes behind yellow-tinted glasses and a turned-down mouth...
"Say," said Ben on an impulse. "Have you got anyone to celebrate Thanksgiving with? If you don't, would you like to come to our party tonight? It's gonna be really good!"
"Thanksgiving?" the guy asked in a piping sort of voice, like he'd never heard of it before.
"Yeah," Ben said, surprised. Maybe he was from somewhere else? "You know, we roast some turkeys and everything, and give thanks for all the good things that happened, and for friendship—"
"Friendship!" the guy yelled, and his eyes flashed behind the yellow glasses. "I bet you people dress up like natives too, do you?"
"Well, the little kids dress up like the Pilgrims and the friendly Wampanoag, and Squanto..." Ben trailed off because the guy looked totally mad now. Ben still couldn't see what the problem was.
"Thanksgiving! Wholesale murder! Privilege!" off the guy went into a rant that was barely coherent because he was yelling so fast, but Ben caught a few words here and there. He was still mystified.
"Anyone who celebrates it is a murderer! And dressing up like Native Americans is genocide!"
"Well that's not what genocide is," said an older man mildly who had stopped by the falafel stall. He looked like any other farmer to Ben, with his thick plaid shirt and heavy vest, and his weathered face, with the eyes crinkled against the wind and the sun. "And my grandmother told me many stories about Tisquantum when I was a kid. He was a hero, a man who brought new settlers and the first people together so they could become friends. And it was the settlers who saved Tisquantum—"
"Your grandmother was an ignorant bigot who whitewashed history!" the guy yelled into the man's face. Something tightened in the man's face but he answered in the same pleasant voice:
"My grandmother was Cora Black Swan McCord of the Night Fires Nation. You might want to hold your tongue before it runs away with your brain, boy." The guy backed away from his counter, half-sullen, half-scared. As the man moved away Ben touched him on the sleeve.
"Sir... That's a seriously cool name," he breathed, awed. "Did she — was she a warrior?" Ben had seen many striking pictures of Amazons and Native Americans and Elves shooting arrows off the back of a horse and fighting off enemies; somebody called Cora Black Swan of the Night Fires Nation had to have been a fearsome warrior!
The man laughed, and clapped Ben on the shoulder.
"She would have liked to hear you say so, son. Actually, she was a librarian! But she could get pretty fierce if you didn't put your books away properly; or when grandpa Ian came back after being out with his brothers from Scotland!" he said, and Ben laughed with him. "Where are you from, son?"
"Over there," Ben pointed in the direction of the Valley. A thought struck him.
"Say, sir, would you like to come over and share our Thanksgiving supper? I mean it for real, not like," he looked back at the falafel stall where the guy was very clearly ignoring them. The man sighed.
"Of course not. Don't take what some idiot says to heart. It's a kind offer, but..." He looked a little sad.
"My son and his kids are coming to see me and..."
"Why don't you all come then?" Ben said. "I will have more guests than anyone in the Valley I guess! And there is plenty of food! We've had a good harvest this year, and there will be turkeys, all crispy and golden, and gravy in huge boats, and mountains of roast potatoes, and squash, and pies, and bobbing for apples for the little kids, and—"
Ben thought belatedly that this was an impulse and he was supposed to think, but the man was laughing again:
"All right, all right! It's been a while since my son and his family have seen any friendly faces, and it sounds like this is going to be the best party for miles. Where is it?"
"Right on the Common, you can't miss it!" Ben and the man (he introduced himself as Martin Forest) shook hands and Ben sprinted away happily in the hopes of catching a ride with Miss Carton.
She had gone; but Ben hiked out on the road and got a lift from a trucker anxious to get home before dinner; and was set down at the turn that led down to the Valley; and ran through the woods, minding the path he could see even in the gathering gloom; and on to the lights and the singing of many clear voices that grew clearer and clearer as Ben sprinted toward the Common:
...Before thy works our powers pall;
Though we should strive years without end,
We could not thank thee for them all!
"Drat that boy!" Ben's grandfather said to his wife. "Ain't it just like him, to miss the hymns and grace but to come right to the feeding time!"
And that's what Ben had done! And there he was, seated between Susan and his new friend Martin Forest, and surrounded by his family, and all the farmers, and Clark's uncle with his easy smile, and everyone in the village, eating, singing, laughing and giving thanks for the light of grace and friendship in the long dark night.