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Ghosh Dhar (Gairon's mother)
Ghosh Dhar cradled her swollen belly in both, cupped hands. While Dhar had a plethora of reasons to be insanely anxious, she felt an overwhelming peace. She could neither move nor want to move. Like the mighty oak in front of her, she was rooted in place. A typhoon couldn't rattle a single leaf...
If in fact she had any.
Leaves, that is. The fact that the oak's leaves were dark blue, instead of bright green, didn't register. Dhar was a daughter of this New World. This Homestead. Whatever color of leaves should an oak have, save for blue? Or, sometimes, red?
Her thin, flaxen gown draped her frame like the shed skin of a snake 150% her size. The thick breeze caught in its every fold and wrinkle. The delicate, beige, floral print rippled like a real field of wildflowers.
Reluctantly, Dhar raised her tawny face so that she could marvel at the oak. Her 2, partly hooded, chocolate eyes scrutinized the solitary tree. No. Not quite alone for many fallen acorns had taken root, most fated in time to blend with their mother's stout trunk.
My tree. No. Our tree, my little one.
According to the few, remaining, unassimilated Elders, the ancient tree seemed to be 1 2/3 times as tall as its proper size. Yet, to Dhar, who was a thoroughly assimilated human, the oak was the perfect size for being itself.
Or, rather, themself — if you counted its already merged daughters.
Our... Tree...
Dhar was surrounded by a sea of ripe, dark blue grass. The sunlight had a pleasant, scarlet cast to it. Isabel (the super-Jupiter which Homestead orbited) hung full in the verdant, western sky.
The hazy air was pregnant with swirling pollen. The dull roar of innumerable insects reminded Dhar a chorus of 6-legged lions with laryngitis. That too was normal. (The lions' 6 legs. Not the laryngitis.)
She smiled timidly at her small joke: a mini ha-ha. O! But was not Homestead possessed of a terrible beauty?
Terrible. Beauty. Like her late...
No. She was stronger than that haunting memory. Because...
• Because she had to be.
The petite widow smiled ruefully as she blinked back tears. Tears of joy. Tears of remorse.
She rubbed her tummy. Mine. You're mine. My little acorn.
Suddenly, a shift in ambient light's intensity and color demanded her attention. A glance skyward gave her the answer: a magnetic storm was brewing. She frowned slightly, the expression tugging at the corners of her petite lips.
Worst case scenario: a lightning fall could rain down on her from the writhing, tormented firmament. Suddenly being near this majestic tree was no longer joy making!
Problem: she was the next tallest thing for easily the next several furlongs! (At least her generation's furlongs, making it 2/3 the original generation's furlong.)
(A few forerunners still lived. They seemed almost gigantic!)
Humanity's open question: which generation's measurements to use?
She shook her head. No time for daydreams!
The mighty oak became wreathed in blue, crackling, St. Elmo's fire. The very air felt pregnant with electricity — its purpose near completion. Soon it'd travail in violent splendor.
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ONE OF D-GIRLS
FantasyExcerpt from the Prolog: AFRICAN PROVERB: THE CHILD WHO IS NOT EMBRACED BY THE VILLAGE WILL BURN IT DOWN TO FEEL ITS WARMTH "It is better to suffer wrong than to do it." Samuel Johson "Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can surv...
