Chapter 2: Yr 505 - Hello Chuck

CHUCK

Yr 506 OCTOBER

Charles Downing. Chuck – My Story.

I have crossed out 'Charles Downing', the name above which I first penned when I restarted my diary. It's well over a year since I arrived now. In that time I've been known as Chuck and don't envisage adopting or readopting any other here. I'd better delete it. As far as I'm concerned that man died in the year 2003, not even living to celebrate the 4^th of July. When I came here, I knew nothing of who he was, his death or whatever people thought of him.

When I worked for Stonecrete Construction and Engineering, I had so little personal time, I dropped out of the diary habit. That shortage of private time continued from the moment I met Craggs. Today I made a vow to restart my diary, maybe not in the format I used before.

I have referred to a few of the notes I scratched as reminders to myself over the last eighteen months, when I made attempts to put pen to paper. I had better correct that, I started with a sharp piece of charcoal and rough paper. Oh, for my new version of windows XP or even Windows 98 or any basic word processor or even electronic typewriter – even a decent pen and smooth lined paper. Anything would be better than the writing implements I have now. At least I've found a source of half decent paper but hope you can read my writing, the paper's in such short supply and talk about expensive! Three credits for a score of sheets! I HAVE TO write in such tiny script, but have moved onto a turkey quill with some dyed water. The calamus or shaft of the feather that acts as a nib gets worn and breaks every so often, but at least it can be re-sharpened and the resultant nib re-split.

You won't be interested in my day to day problems as I have quite a bit to catch up about what's happened to me.

If it's one thing I hate, it's wiffle-waffle writing and sentences full of vagaries; but I plead guilty to that here, my first episode, as I set down my initial thoughts on arriving at the planet of Pionova. I think you are already aware that I lodged with Craggs on my arrival, a bit difficult that, a man happy with his own company, I always thought I was an interloper. You'll have to excuse my muddled continuity. I was more than confused for some months after I came, I had no idea what was happening to me. Then, earlier this last year, I started to have flashbacks of a developed, overcrowded society where no-one had time for anyone else. That was not very pleasant.

And it confused me the more.

It took a year for me to make sense of my existence. Until that time, I was convinced that I was a native of this planet as I had no recollections of life elsewhere. I had suffered the induced form of amnesia that all new immigrants experience. There is no wonder then that my notebooks were filled with muddled thoughts, as false reminiscences had supplanted my true memory, the false recollections were so real that I knew I had been brought up for the previous fifteen years of my life in one of the decaying cities some few days' travel away from here across the parched plains.

I take you back to that, my first day.

I was interested in the bright new future, opening up the Frontier. I was proud to consider that I was already known to be a Frontiersman. Yet my eagerness was that of a child. As I watched out of the window I was jerked from side to side of the lurching railway carriage. I was intrigued to know how the motive power of the spectacular machine worked. We had heard of the pioneering activities on the Frontier, but had no idea how far they had developed in excess of the indolent developments in the cities. I wanted to know more about railways. Would I be expected to learn all about this modern marvel? I found intriguing the peculiarly designed locomotive, particularly at one stop when I managed to buttonhole one of the engineers. He explained that its manipulation was quite dangerous and based upon spirits that came from a potato still. That got my mind working.

As we proceeded onwards at a rattling thirty miles an hour, I was not the only one impressed by the modern conveyance, but my eyes were eagerly glued to the moving vista outside the window. It was a hot day, scarce as a wisp of cirrus high in the blue sky, the sun bearing down on the plain. Through the open windows on the coach, the high velocity of the train managed to waft in sheets of warm air to make the journey almost bearable. Passing through the tiny settlements on my way to my destination, I eagerly regarded each small record of civilisation. I was shocked at the haphazard building of railway huts that showed signs of being thrown together haphazardly. Yes, there was work enough for a civil engineer's apprentice.

I must admit my being brought up outside the Frontier made me laugh at the hustle and bustle caused by the arrival at one tiny settlement. It appeared to disrupt the whole activity of every occupant of the nestled group of shacks, our presence became the central attraction. The arrival of the train without undue incident appeared to be an achievement at every place we stopped.

I knew the rail tracks extended some four hundred miles from the Avon River and later roughly followed the course of the Deer River to the town of Lush, at the foothills of the Green Mountains. From there I understood that it had progressed further, but few people had little real knowledge of the Frontier.

It was late afternoon before we were due to reach the first real settlement of the Frontier, Lush. However, before that, the countryside began to change. The tempo of the carriage's motion was reduced as we negotiated a slight incline and the line started to curve more. The air became noticeably more bearable. At the same time, the view out of the window revealed the hillier scenery and reduced the scape of the wide sky; which now, sported playful cumulus, white puffy clouds.

Within five minutes, one or two travellers started to close the windows as the air, carried a welcome chill. At the same time the visibility outside the window was reduced.

I welcomed the climate change of the Frontier. Parched dry land and thorny scrub had given way to rolling green hills, leafy trees and the sight of streams and lakes, the like of which I had only been seen in books. I was not the only person who had been reluctant to believe that this Eden really existed. Other young men were similarly staring with wonder through the glass, now speckled with drizzle. Each appeared to be of my own age, roughly sixteen.

It was strange that, considering the hours spent in the carriage in our close proximity to each other, as well as the similarity of our ages, not one of us broached conversation with another. I questioned myself later as to why I had not been the first to instigate an exchange of experiences. It just never occurred to me to do so. It was THEY again and THEIR influence.

As the locomotive arrested at the timber-built station of Lush, our carriage was halted within the midst of a tunnel and later it shuffled forwards with little jerks. Here, I saw for the first time the leather-attired Frontiersmen with their weather-beaten faces and gnarled hands. But it was their demeanour that impressed me most; it was their quiet confidence and an unassuming strength with which they unloaded packing cases and hefted sheep and young calves up onto waiting carts.

All too soon we were on our way. I never questioned wherefore I was bound.

Wherefore? What a word! My vocabulary and my speech, I discovered, adapted to that of the Frontier based upon some mixed archaic utterances of lonely prospectors. Yet even in the short time I've been here, I have become aware of the subtle change in which we use our words. I attribute that to the sudden influx of a large number of young people.

Sorry, I digress. It is a failure of my written words. I have rarely got above a C+ in English. I must return to my train journey which had such an impact upon me at the time.

More winding curves and fertile land passed us by. Always with the Deer River on our right hand side, sometimes close too and sometimes distant. The River Deer, much wider than I had ever imagined it to be, was almost insurmountable without a ferry if you wanted to cross it. It was a further eight years before a safe ferry was constructed to open up the lands on the left bank.

I'm doing it again, aren't I: Waffle and introducing asides that confuse the reader? Back to my rail journey and the next town.

That was Huntersville. We met Huntersville in the midst of a deluge where no amount of peering out of the window gained me any more information on the settlements of the Frontier.

All too soon we were jerking across the station switches and were further on our way. I had no idea what to expect with mental visions of being delivered as far as the Purple Mountains.

It was another hour before we came to my own destination. Here, the halt was brief. I was preparing to disembark when my decision was taken from me by the guard, who locked each door and thence disappeared. Later I was to discover the rickety-looking trestle bridge had a weight limit. The locomotive had abandoned us, taking the first couple of wagons across the River Long. In the drawing gloom I saw that a horse was hitched to the front of the carriage and, soon after, an 'ostler had us moving at a genteel pace across the precipitous rail bridge that signified we had arrived in the town of Hartglade.

Peering out of the window, I appreciated the chasm of River Long was frightening to me. The distance down was quite terrifying as I saw not even a parapet of a bridge below. Later, I was to discover the width of the bridge was precisely 4'8 ½" and any part of the rolling stock not within the gauge of the wheels overhung thin air. No wonder the conductor had locked each door!

Just imagine stepping out and tumbling down into the deep chasm! What a surprise! The idea left me gasping for air as I had a fleeting daydream or should I say nightmare, scared that it was a premonition; falling, tumbling in a weird, devilish conveyance to the bottom. There, I met My Maker and ended up in Purgatory! The idea of falling a great distance through the air and meeting the ground with a big splatter scared me more than anything else, for some reason. No, I'm not waffling now. Though I do not just relate what I saw, I think it quite appropriate to relate what I was thinking at the time.

'Hartglade' was the name that was roughly painted on the station noticeboard. It was typical that the distant capital could not keep up with the changes out here; for my own information I had been sure that in the little I knew of the Frontier, one town had been named Hart'sglade. I assumed this was the same place.

Craggs, my mentor, met me at the station. He was a man some few inches smaller than I was. If I were asked, I would put his age in the mid forties but over the coming months he regaled me with anecdotes of his achievements since the 440's. That, to my mind, would make his age approaching eighty. He acted as no octogenarian I had ever met. But I soon discovered that no man on the Frontier looked his age.

Within minutes of meeting me he was throwing bags of gypsum plaster from a rail wagon onto his horse-drawn cart. I made an effort to help him and was surprised that I had the strength to lift the bags, never mind hefting them into neat rows. If there was work waiting to be done here I was going to be very busy. Craggs was not sour, but I recognised straightaway that he was unused to company and kept his words to himself.

My presence was a necessary infliction to be suffered and to be got rid of as soon as possible. He was a loner and liked his own company, cooking for one and not one to indulge in idle chatter.

It was as I was sitting at the front of the cart, when he took the reins, that I began to look around. The horse, drawing the weighty load along, impressed me straight away. I had never seen one so huge. Later, I discovered that I could have done nothing better than to have remarked upon the weighty beast. It was a point of his pride that he had a part share in a stud of like goliaths.

Craggs took great satisfaction that, with others, he had managed to breed this veritable monster, "King is a Shire horse. He's eighteen hands high."

I knew he was big, but had no idea what 'eighteen hands high' meant. I kept that ignorance to myself but exclaimed, "Wow, I'm impressed!"

Was there a hint of a smile in that pox-marked face? "We breed them here." There was a light chuckle as he explained that he boasted of his interest in the ranch.

"You'll be able to find buyers from Lush to the Purple Mountains, "I started. It never occurred to me to mention the metropolis, though there they could do with some strong beasts of burden rather than the half-fed scraggy animals they put before a cart.

"We looks arter our own, fust," he declared (We look after our own first) he addressed me in a peculiar accent that I found difficulty in following for the first few weeks. "We'll see that our own Pioneers are satisfied before we start selling the shires to outsider Frontiersmen. You'll find all the farmers around have one on the plough. They have the power to keep the straight furrow and the ploughshares dig deep, two furrows at a time."

"The horses must weigh a ton."

He agreed with my comments but assured me that he wouldn't waste time trying to assess their weight. "There are bigger ones at the ranch. Sampson was the real pride. He was 21 hands high and two inches." Then his voice showed his chagrin, "But they had him gelded, he died in '46." I understood that to mean in the year 446. It was strange, I came across an aged man many years later who averred that the largest shire horse ever to live on Earth was of the same height, named Sampson too, he was a gelding and his life ended in 1846! When I learnt this, it crossed my mind, did THEY practise the reincarnation of horses too?

I gazed about with wonder as we progressed from the station yard through to the town. It was immediately obvious that new buildings had expanded the settlement in some haphazard way. At first, I was under the impression that the man, Craggs, who was driving the cart was not a social soul. Strange how first impressions could be so misleading. Within a few seconds he imparted the information that he was a builder and the City Fathers were trying to instil some form of order and standards into the further growth of the town. I understand that it was they who had sponsored my apprenticeship.

But I digress. I recognised my first view of the place. It was likened to storybook pictures of the Frontier studied since infancy. I knew I had seen images like this. They were familiar. I assumed I had studied the Frontier at school here in Pionova. At the time I arrived, I had no memories of reading about the opening up of the West of the American continent. Only later, a year later, did I begin to realise that the images that I held in my head had not been learned at some fictitious Pionovan elementary school but were a conglomeration of all my second-hand experiences of the West in the Eighteen Hundreds. The buggies, delivery drays, horses standing at the hitching rails, the unmetalled pavement; all could have been from the films like Gunfight at the OK Corral, a television show or even a book of genuine photographs of the Wild West.

The only difference was the smell! Yuk! Oh, and the depth of horse manure that permeated everywhere - was it just horse shit? But there was one difference that I did perceive as we progressed while dusk began to fall; no-one wore a six gun at their belt. Rifles in leather sheaths lay from the withers against the shoulders of many a horse. Yes, lots of the Frontiersmen were experienced hunters and if they saw anything from a bear to a wild goat it would provide variety in that day's menu. They ate well.

As we drew near to his home, I was intrigued to see a couple of hunters with their mules carrying what to me with the most exotic of kills; a wild boar and a large antelope of an unknown variety.

I cannot help regaling here how I was intrigued by the butcher's shop at which they hitched their horses and mules. Over the coming weeks I saw many a semi-dressed carcase of the most varied variety of wild game and meat delivered there before it appeared on his hooks. Everything was available from pheasant and turkey to duck and partridge. Wild, roe deer, red deer, fallow deer, white tail deer, tufted deer, bongo, antelope and gazelle as well as moose made their appearance on the hooks; wild boar, sun bear, black bear, brown bear and grizzly, and lizard were there too. I found the Longtail lizard a particular delicacy. I wasn't the only one.

There was little wonder there was not an awful demand for the ranchers' beef products though the city fathers were encouraging more domestic beef. When I knew them better, I was sure that the idea was to ensure the newcomers had the beef before they developed a taste for the hunters' delicacies. They, themselves, wanted to continue to enjoy the wide variety of specialities of the Green Mountains. I'm also of the opinion that they did not want to overkill any one species. In fact, within a month of my arrival they put a stop on the sale of the longtail lizard and the black bear, for what I later understood to be conservation issues. Yes, they were prepared to forego their own delicacies for the good of their environment.

Everything I saw for the first time was a wonder. I was aware of, and had read boys' adventure stories of, the first pioneers in the 400's and their achievements and discoveries in exploring, prospecting and mapping the Frontier. To be where history was made was exciting, even though I tried not to show my exuberance and childish enthusiasm to the very serious, middle-aged man showing me around. I believe I have mentioned Craggs. If there was any man to curb my enthusiasm it was he.

Indeed, I was to meet another apprentice, a seventeen year-old stable-hand who had the charisma of an experienced wrangler, breeder and veterinary surgeon all in one! It was well over a year before I understood that he had probably been brought up on a ranch and spent six or seven years at college learning his profession. He could have been anywhere from the age of twenty-five to sixty-five with years of experience, and, like me, was no adolescent teenager in understanding and learnt skills.

But back to Craggs; that was his name and all that he was ever called, no forename and never a title such as 'Mr'. He was stocky and walked with a limp after some minor accident. I was amazed at his musculature under the patterned woollen shirt.

I marvelled about everything that I saw but tried not to appear to be too childish in my exclamations but could not help, "Is that woman of a particular order?"

He glanced at the subject in question, attired with a bonnet that covered all her hair and half her face. She was keeping her head bowed down. "They keeps themselves to themselves, women! We don't hold for low morals." I think he was referring to her form of dress, a large pinafore in unbleached grey cotton encompassing some black form of attire which she wore underneath. To complete the ensemble, I saw black boots striding their way through the mire. Hardly an inch of bare skin was visible.

You could see that he had little time for females and murmured something about their presence being of recent origin.

Craggs, my new master, was a builder and took me to his bachelor residence, a roughly built log cabin with attached builder's store set some way from the main street. To my mind, he took more care over the builder's storeplace to ensure his products remained dry, than in his own spartan living quarters.

Yes, as far as I knew all Frontiersmen were bachelors, a fact that didn't disturb me. The lack of a feminine presence was no hardship. (Whatever I had been like in my teens on Earth.) Now, I was no hormone-ripe adolescent forever jacking off and peering at every puritanically attired female whose long skirts wafted along the raised wooden sidewalk. Women were of no interest to me, well for that first year they were not! I had other more important tasks on which to concentrate on, redrafting drawings of structures my master was tackling and helping to improve the manufacture of bricks at the mud flats near the marsh were but two demanding exercises, while I sawed many a truss to the correct angle and educated many labourers of the safer way of carrying out their tasks

Each day I returned aching from carrying hods of slate onto the roof of the new Meeting House of the town. Yes we're blessed that, not five miles from the town there was a vertical outcrop of an attractive purple slate that was ideal to split. No one had ever considered its use until I spent one day there with a few chisels and breaking boards to ensure that my selections were all of a size and some three millimetres in thickness. The slate was easier to cut and would last three times the duration of any shingle.

Over the next year I helped Craggs construct a couple of barns, a homestead for a rancher and I drew up plans for an improved saw mill. It never occurred to me to question from where my knowledge originated. I just assumed the technical plans, the knowledge of weights and the calculation of stresses had all been picked up as a part of my hobby.

I enjoyed my first year of life on the Frontier without any of the frivolous distractions of my previous existence. There was an ethic of hard work that was often the subject of conversation when describing a man with respect.

THEY, whoever THEY are, had made a blanket decision that all new immigrants should become acclimatised to life here more readily if they knew of no other life. I do suppose it helped and I pride myself on thinking as a Frontiersman now. I must reiterate that in the first year I had no concept of life outside this new environment or an inkling of the existence of THEM.

Now, how does a frontiersman think?

He thinks he has a duty to develop his environment and contribute to the life of not just himself but everyone around. Don't get me wrong; there are some very go-ahead men here who are proud of the wealth they have created. No one begrudges them that and I, even at the age of seventeen, I'm building quite a nest egg.

You may ask how that was.

"Timmins," Craggs broke his evening's silence and regarded me. I'd only been there some seven months so his next words were of some surprise. "One night, you want to talk to him. He's building a new house. I told him you would draw up the plans. It's better you start at that stage than trying to change the construction when it is halfway complete."

"Me? Plans? I'm not certified." I don't know where that idea came from.

It certainly made no impression on Craggs. "Certified?" He regarded me as if I were talking through the back of my head. "Yes, if we add a madhouse. I reckon we'd get you certified."

"But, I've never drawn up plans before."

"Nor have I. I just put up the buildings as they ought to go up one timber on top o' t'other. It all makes sense. But Timmins, he's new, new ideas. He wants to see what it looks like when it's done. You're the only one as can do that," I conceded by his use of the local vernacular he was a bit tense. He tended to lapse into an archaic form of talking when nervous or embarrassed.

"Your ideas on the barn, that extension to the orphanage and the new tannery out-of-town all made sense." He lowered his voice, "More, what's the word you use, cost effective, too."

"When do you want me to see him?"

"That's up to you, lad." He appreciated my having agreed, "I'd charge him sixty credits if I were you, for the plans. I told him it would be more than that and worth it to the man, more money than sense, he has."

"You want me to charge him, but I'm your apprentice?"

Craggs, with a knowing air, chortled to himself, giving me the impression that he was proud of knowing something that I didn't. He went on, "I'll make more money if you draw up the plans and conduct the supervision. It is a bit far out for me to go traipsing around on horseback. It's beyond Potters Pond. I'll take on the construction and be out about once a week. You can be there each day. You know what you're doing."

"You trust me?"

"Trust is something a lot of newcomers have trouble with here. We use it a lot. I trust you will not go running off. You've got a few credits in the Credit Union and you're not the man to leave his job and home. You take a pride in your work, why should I not trust you?" he flashed a glance around the almost bare room of the hovel. "As for the plans, you've got some good ideas, new ideas, on construction, good techniques, ways to save labour and materials, and every one of your ideas has been received well by the customer."

"You want me to charge the customer direct. I'm not an architect."

"Architect? What's one of them?"

I had no idea why I had said that but we soon sorted it out. It was in Craggs' interest to give me free rein on dealing with customers myself. At the age of sixteen! He spent far too long drawing up smudged charcoal sketches that he called plans and costing out the materials for a building. I think his best and most accurate technique was a guestimate, rather than a truly assessed and calculated estimate!

Oh, he was right more often than not. Experience sure counted where it mattered.

After some fruitless discussion of what an architect and an engineer was and what their responsibilities would be I got myself in a tangle. Mind you, that was last year, 505. I had no clue at all, at that time, that I had travelled through space and time from planet Earth.

I just got confused finding myself in this predicament and my mind wandered all over the place. All I was aware of was that, having achieved the age of sixteen, I had reached the ultimate of my schooling and achieved a high enough standard to earn a position on the Frontier. It was a real achievement. Few even managed to get any work in the haphazard economy of Pionova's largest city. As a Pioneer would I escape the clammy year-round over-humidity and searing heat of the parched and uncomfortable city in its violent, gang-ridden death throes?

In fact those decaying metropolises from which most new arrivals at the Frontier arrived had never existed. The corruption, murders, disease and lawlessness that we had all suffered was all in the mind, as far as our experience in Pionova was concerned; but even so, I'm sure now, that it was based upon our experience of the worst features of life on Earth. This distaste, nurtured secretly by any chosen immigrant, ensured the worst life at the Frontier was preferable to returning to one of these fictional metropolises.

I'm now sure the aliens, THEY, had a warped sense of humour. They made the cities epitomise the evils that man had made of earth; pollution causing extreme climatic conditions, searing heat and floods and droughts, poisoned rivers and water supplies, self-initiated diseases and cancers, lawlessness based on self-interest, drugs and alcohol.

Many people living in Hartglade, and other Pioneers I met too, regarded the damage to the environment with anathema. I think that was part of the reason why we had so much difficulty sourcing materials like iron and steel, because of the damage their extraction and production would cost to the environment. My new brickworks had little impact upon the town. Apart from digging clay pits in a boggy part of the district, where a mountain stream came down, I constructed a series of beehive kilns. I had already decided that the lowest pit, set out of the way, could act later as a sewage farm, the clay surround could retain the effluent that would not pollute other land.

I didn't hold with discharging all the sewage directly into the Long River. There was an awful smell there where it was tipped and clung to the sides of the gorge. I was scared that it would encourage disease-carrying insects apart from any other considerations.

Measuring out carefully where the next clay was going to be extracted, I ensured that this could be done with one small pit at a time. The location appeared to be ideal, under the mountain stream, to construct a trout farm. Having no knowledge of fish farming I said nothing of my plan, at the time.

Digging out clay, ensuring that it was good quality and forcing it into wooden moulds was hard muscular work. Upon learning what I was doing, the City Fathers bent over backwards to help subsidise the enterprise by directing cheap labour my way. Fire was a perpetual threat to any settlement and the more brick constructions the better.

It wasn't just the physical environment we were all conscious of. Judging by the reaction against any antisocial attitudes, I later got the impression that most of us had, at one time or another, been subject to some of the worst effects of corruption, gang warfare, robbery and theft. We know these ills were destroying the big cities. It was only later that I realised that it was the big cities on earth that we were escaping from.