fair 'nuf  ~smile~ 

My suggestions are use-or-lose propositions -- they've been tossed out og the Garden before... to dwell alone East of Nod LOL

Norm

Tim,

Yup.
"to create a world that mimics ours without pointing a direct finger"
I DO get that point.

It's just that the mark of Cain is iconic (maybe to such a degree that it has become trite in literature). A fictitious religion is not much of a cover, IMO because it will be so apparent to the reader the theme is an extended metaphor of a "real" faith embedded in humankind's history (for better or worse).

But you did reference it without knowing methinks: " Chamfer stops and nods. So...I'll tip-toe out of the garden, head east and just give you the nod on the way out  ~smile~ .

Norm

Just a thought (since nas mentioned the scar)... would you toy with the idea/metaphor of Cain's scar (maybe just a hint?).  I know it is a different "garden" but knowing what kind of messaging you have and will be doing in this piece, maybe you could drop in some sort of subtle reference like that -- if you're ABLE (tee-hee)?

--- probably just a "norm" thing to do?

Hey Nas,

Thanks for coming back. 

The idea of a child being left alone or brought to the fields is (in research in the U.S. and Latin America) varied on any given circumstance. Growing up in my time, such a child would have been called latchkey. Growing up then, the answer largely depended on the master's whim.

In story, some of these questions will be answered shortly in the next sections. 

Regarding a flashback with Garcia and Chamfer, that request was made by a couple of students (out of 22), thus I don't know what to think about that. 
The "why today" question is because Chamfer is being tested for magic. This allows me to depict an unusual day while reminding the reader that other things normally occur. I'm pondering starting this story the day before Chamfer gets tested for magic. Thus one day in the life can be shown, with the excitement leading up to the big day, and how the plantation in its various ways expects and reacts to the holy day.

That is something I will keep in mind in the redraft.

Thanks again.

Namaste,
~Tim

nas, that's good to know about length. dialogue starts after this passage, and I didn't want to get that going and stop it suddenly. Most of the background "balls" are in the air, now it's time to keep returning to them for development. 

Norm, yes "oven." not sure what's happened in the earlier editing process. Like season instead of seasons.
The violence of Jalla's past is partially an attempt to keep the normality of the slave world in the background of a very, rare and peaceful day like the solstice ceremony. 

I'll note the "Aunts" suggestion. It's less awkward than what I have.

Thank you both very much.

namaste,
~Tim

It's not at all too long.  In fact, any shorter and it would break up the story too much.  It would end just as the reader is getting into it.

Too tired now to give a proper reply, I'll come back to it in the morning.

     Even lying down, Chamfer is light-headed from the fast that started yesterday. His stomach rumbles as loud as Alexa’s purring in his ear. His hands are jittery. He will have to breathe slowly and carefully, the way the padre taught him last week, to calm the panic of hunger that starts in the stomach but quickly works up the spine to the head. Chamfer exhales and swings out of bed. Marco, Mattea and Maximilian, Alexa’s sibling named after the saints, start to meow and circle the earthen floor. Chamfer finds the broom and clears the straw from the hut, working around the other bed that Aunt Espy and Aunt Amalia share, and the trunk underneath it that holds some of his Rosetta’s possessions.  
     Normally, Aunt Espy would leave stew and rice and plantain simmering in an iron kettle next to the central brick oven for the commons. Instead, once Chamfer finishes sweeping, cats meowing and swishing in his wake, he recites a loud prayer of penance to distract his stomach and saws a few trimmings of dried pigeon hanging over the fireplace to throw to the cats. Then, over the well bucket that Aunt Espy leaves for him every day, he dunks his head, bubbles sealing up his ears.  He holds his breath. The pulse in his temples soothing, calming. 
     He lifts his head, and washing his hands, says, “Mascul, as I cleanse my body of yesterday’s dirt and sugarcane, in Your Holy Fire, cleanse my soul of its impurities, so that I may see You and my ancestors, and walk with You toward your ever-sunlit garden. Amen.”
     A breeze, now warm, passes. Clouds lash and scar the red sky. Chamfer slows, fingering his own crisscross of scars on his lower back. Theft is common in Caridad, especially over the last two rain season when it’s been hard to grow food in private plots. Weak harvests for the marse and the workers. And overseer García, whose constant squint exaggerates a thick unibrow, is very accurate with a whip.
     Chamfer dresses in a white linen suit Aunt Espy made for him for today. He pours some of the bucket water in a bowl for the cats, and throws the rest out. Next to the door, an altar of picture weaving, wooden icons, bones and beaded leather hang over incense and candles almost burnt down. He kisses a small hand weaving that depicts his mother’s face which is staring off past the weaving’s corner, as if in holy contemplation. Aunt Espy made this from painted bamboo beads the day after Rosetta was found.
     Chamfer steps onto the tiled courtyard of Asunción. Alex snatches her piece of pigeon and follows. Chamfer waves at a couple of viejas, who are preparing a vat of pigeon pea stew in the brick over for after the ceremony. His stomach tightens, almost cramps. Chamfer repeats the absolution, pantomiming the hand washing. A few people sit outside the thatched huts, some mending clothes or fixing tools, enjoying the day off from the fields. Others, elders whose cane juice dried out harvests ago, play chess with pieces made of carved animal bones and toothlessly laugh. Outside a larger hut built for migrant workers, Chamfer sees Jalla lugging in a traveling case and duffle bag. Jalla is a tall, slender man whose dusky-colored arms have burn scars that resemble a thin layer of bagaze, cane pulp after the mill. Jalla used to boil sugar on a different island before the workers in many of the plantations rose up and started to slaughter their owners. Jalla left when the army came to his plantation. No one--neither workers, nor owners--trusted the king’s army. Jalla came to Caridad last harvest.