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.
The Prisoner of Genda
Part 1
The Prisoner
Cold sweat chilled the back of his neck. His breath came in shallow gasps and hung silver in the frigid air. With a grunt he hefted the pole against the town wall, and then turned it so the foot holds he had notched faced outward. His eyes lifted to the curved quarter moon that hung low in the black sky. A grey cloud drifted across and its rim glowed briefly before blocking the moonlight. He grasped the pole and clambered up to the top of the wall. He steadied himself, pulled the pole up to vertical then shoved it into the darkness so it fell lengthways along the base of the wall. Hopefully no one would notice and raise an alarm for a few days at least. That was all he would need.
The stink of pigs rose to his left. To his right a dark smudge of smoke rose into the sky and bent lazily to the south. He had dragged his crude ladder a few meedas further away from the house. Far enough he hoped, to avoid the greenhouse, and with luck, land on the compost heap.
He couldn’t be sure. Even in three years the town had changed. The wall was enlarged to the west and on the east side a new gate had been constructed facing the road to the city. He wondered how his family further north were faring. He hoped they too had prospered, but he didn’t plan to stay even if he could.
He patted the breast pocket of his coat, mumbled a prayer, and leapt. The crash of glass shattered the silence and sharp edges scratched his hands. He landed heavily on the ground in a shower of shards. “Sackemon!” He rolled to a halt amongst some low plants. He strained his eyes to make out the door. He stood and felt his way along the thick stone wall at the rear of the greenhouse. It felt warm as it released the heat from the day’s wintery sun.
A shaft of light swung across the glass above him and he heard running boots thumping on the earth outside. He slunk into the deep shadow in the corner of the greenhouse. The door creaked open just a few meedas away. A short gleaming barrel poked through the gap, followed slowly by a cautious face and then two figures in thick red jackets. Sackemon, Mounties.
“Gotcha! Raise your hands where we can see them.”
He looked behind and winced as the lantern glare seared his eyes. He shaded his face with both hands and squinted at the men. Two Mounties. Faces almost as red as their coats. He smelled beer on their breath. Off duty, on the way home. He shook his head. Bad luck or not, he was too close to give up now.
“Get up.”
He half rose, staggered and fell sideways into the plants.
“Get up. No funny business.”
He rose slowly, arms raised, threw a fistful of dirt at the Mountie with the gun then ran for the door. The lantern bobbled. He heard a voice shout. “Get him!” A truncheon blow landed on his head and he fell to the ground again. The Mountie with the gun pointed it at his face. “Don’t move a senamee. Check his pockets.”
The other man handed over the lantern and reached inside his coat. He removed a knife and a small tomahawk slung from a wide leather belt. He reached into the coat pockets. He smiled as he raised a small clinking bag of coins. He weighed it in his hand. “Just reward for a hard nights work, eh?” The other Mountie grinned. The money bag disappeared into a red pocket and the Mountie patted down the prisoner’s legs. “That’s it.” He picked up the knife and tomahawk and raised them to the light. “Navy issue knife” He looked again at the prisoner still shielding his eyes. “Looks like we might have ourselves a deserter.”
The other nodded. “His coat looks Rosh made.” He stretched out a hand to push aside the prisoner’s hands and stared at his face. “On the run are we?” The prisoner jerked his head away and said nothing. The Mountie shrugged. “Let’s get him to the lockup.” He kicked the prisoner’s leg. “Get up. Jail’s the only place you’re going tonight.”
****
Read The Prisoner of Genda - Part 2 The Widow, 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
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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
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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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