May 31, 2017

PC 472: The Chaos Village — Part 2

* Author : M.K. Hutchins

* Narrator : Heath Miller

* Host : Graeme Dunlop

* Audio Producer : Pria Wood

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PC 472: The Chaos Village — Part 2 is a PodCastle original.

The Chaos Village – Part 2

By M.K. Hutchins

Sarsa was cooking some kind of coarse flatbread — it appeared to be made of wild roots and ground wild seeds — on a griddle slanted up toward the storage pit. Her hut was mostly empty otherwise, packed up into neat baskets still sitting outside the door. When she flipped a flatbread, it fell slightly sideways, hitting the tilted griddle squarely. The smoke didn’t rise straight up, but at an angle away from the storage pit and out the narrow window. That explained the lack of soot stains on the ceiling.

She didn’t look up as Rob stepped off the ladder. “Are you ready to apologize, young lady?”

“I’m not a young lady.”

Sarsa screeched. She flung a flatbread at him. It made a partial orbit — Rob had to jump back to avoid getting hit in the nose — before splatting onto the only basket still in the storage pit.

“I want to hear about what happened to my notebook.”

Sarsa cursed and began scraping the half-cooked dough from the basket. “Gone. Tossed it into the Chaos. It turned into a rabbit.”

Martu reported it had turned into a rock. Had the young woman not listened closely enough?

Rob swallowed the lump in his throat. He would get a new notebook. With blank pages and a clean, unloved cover. But when he cracked the unused spine to that stark paper, he would have new information for it — he’d have answers to his other questions. “What happens if an object is between the gravity of the last person who touched it and the home it belongs to?”

She stared at him, befuddled. Apparently that wasn’t what she’d expected him to say. She scraped the ruined bread into the coals, then held the basket behind and below the griddle. She flipped the flatbread into it. “I’ve never tried that.”

Never tried? Rob felt like she’d crushed his innards.

Sarsa licked her thumb and wiped a smudge of dirt off the basket, then set it on the floor. It stayed put, the center of the home having no pull on it. Even the steam from the bread drifted straight up.

“How did you do that?” Rob asked. “Specifically, getting the basket to stay put. I’m well aware of how one doesn’t try a thing.”

Sarsa kneaded dough in a deep clay bowl. Whenever she dropped it, the dough thunked against the side of the bowl nearest the storage pit. “Why are you still here? Haven’t I made it clear that I’m not your friend?”

“You’re the only one who can tell me first-hand about my notebook.”

She actually flinched. “I’m not helping you, spy.”

“I’m trying to help your husband, too.” The man ought to be mourned, ought to have his death recorded. Rob wiped his clammy palms on the front of his dust-collecting tunic, which only made his hands filthy. Maybe Sarsa would just get mad, like Martu, but it seemed respectful to try again.

Sarsa didn’t yell at him, though. She went rigid. The dough dropped from her hands and fell sideways, hitting the rim of the bowl. Half the dough remained inside, while the other half hung, slowly stretching in mid-air towards the storage pit.

Sarsa ignored her dough, staring straight at Rob. She dropped her voice. “What do you know?”

“I know a lot of things.” Odd. She hadn’t been interested in discussing his research before. What a vague question to start with, too.

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