Roots and Forbidden Fruit

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He had had the stars, and wandering; now he only wanted to sink his roots into his chosen section of enduring earth.

The virgin soil parted beneath Sergei’s plow like a magnetic Stiktite closure unseaming. The weary neo-horses plodded on as he guided them in the precise furrows.

Once, in another life, he had berthed shuttles, piloted starships, commanded men with the same fiercely determined competence.

At the edge of the field he saw Elder Mihael Werner, standing with arms crossed over his chest and wooden-soled boots firmly planted, as ominous and inflexible as the angel with the flaming sword from the ancient writings that had whiled away so many of the long starry hours.

Sergei cursed under his breath. One at a time, he wiped his suddenly sweaty hands on his coarse linsey-woolsey breeches.

The light was dimming into a spectacular sunset, it was time to quit anyway. At the end of the furrow, he headed for the crude barn, greeting the Elder who fell into step beside him.

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