(1 rating) Rate this Story (5 best) 1 2 3 4 5

SUMMARY: A Tale Taken From Radthorne's Art- http://www.kevinradthorne.com/Graphics/TheSummons.jpg

Consider this world as if a godling, from great height, green and blue, silver and brown, colors of life spread spilled on the surface by some child-god in play. Select a continent to narrow your view, noticing the mountain range on an eastern seacoast, the second range hiding behind that coastal barrier. A third or less north of the world's equator, this second range seems greener than most. Narrow the focus to find its more interesting aspects.
Consider the village, buried in these mountains, one of many but one to study because the study of many loses the definition the study of one may bring. Houses in our village boast mud walls, tile roofs, doors facing south, dirt floors, no furniture, a central fire place. Today they are empty.
Consider the bamboo huts built to provide shelter and privacy the same as the village huts but spaced much further apart, close to family paddies. The weather must cooperate to make these places home.
Consider the rice beds, spawning ground for this year's crop, tended carefully by every family, every member of every family. From our height all we can see are the backs of the villagers, stooped over to tend the shoots, cleaning parasites, removing weeds, caring for each shoot maybe more than they care for each other.
Consider one family, three adults, five children, all but one working the bed that means their life. An old woman, the father's mother, works the east, the youngest grandson, proud of this new status, works at her side, following her instruction. The wife works on the west side, the newest child slung beneath her arched body where she can tend its needs. Oldest son works the south aided by eldest sister. Father and second son work the north.
Consider the sounds rising from this bed, this family: the slush of feet moving carefully through the irrigation, the grunt of a body straightening and then bending again, the soft burbling of the baby.
Consider the thoughts rising from this man, the father, as he worries about the clouds in the sky that may compound the difficulty of tending the rice beds, should he drain the bed now before the rains add just enough water to flood the bed risking loss of the shoots and the family's livelihood; as he worries whether these shoots will transfer to the family paddy to grow into a more comfortable life for he and his; as he worries whether third son will survive this first year of his life, so many do not as his second daughter had not; as he worries at the age of his mother, the pain she always feels from the back she long ago lost the ability to straighten; as he worries whether his neighbor's daughter will make a suitable match for eldest son; as he worries whether he can find a decent house for eldest daughter; as he worries about the ceremony they all must attend this day; whether he may be summoned, a secret smile playing on his face.
Consider this man is named Chu after a famous rogue though this Chu will only be confused by the thought he might be different from the man who has spent 37 years tending this bed, that paddy, building summer huts, hiding away from the winter in his village.
Consider further up the mountain a building not made of mud walls, but fine timber caulked with mud to resist winter's winds; not one room but many; not one floor but three; each floor with windows to allow the sun to look in, to allow the residents to look out; not dirt floors but floors of that same fine timber, covered with pillows, long and narrow, thin, fragile, used for a season then discarded; not a central fire place but niches under the bottom floor for charcoal burnt to warm the house in winter and a kitchen for cooking.