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Village of the Golden Gleam

John Talisker

Ever drifting down the stream

Lingering in the golden gleam

Life, what is it but a dream?

--Lewis Carroll

A fun SciFi novel for all ages to be released in the fall of 2025

Duggan

There are exactly one hundred and twenty-seven structures in the village, made of stone, wood, and whitewash, spread out along a gravel road that winds down from the mountains and clouds and then splits into a T at the river's edge. There is a church, a general store, and a school with four classrooms and the same four teachers that have ruled there for what seems like one hundred years or more. There is a library, a town hall, an ice house, a boathouse, and a jetty with a handful of boats tied up alongside. There is a garage capable of performing minor, and, occasionally, major repairs to any and all electrical and mechanical devices, not that there are many such contrivances immediately apparent. There are no automobiles, bicycles, or skateboards, or especially horse-drawn carriages, since that would be perceived as unfair to the horses who roam happily in the fields above the village. During summer, the only means of getting from A to B is by foot or by boat, where by foot infers a stroll and not a trudge or a forced march, while by boat infers a day trip upstream to nowhere or downstream to a similar nowhere, their choice. During winter, there are only skis or skates: ski down to the river, skate all day, sip hot chocolate by the bucketful, and take the rope lift back home as night falls and the temperature drops even further. Oddly, some prefer winter over summer.

Life is long and peaceful in the village, as long as the summers are short and as peaceful as the winters are long. It is a happy and content place beneath the snow-capped mountains, the treed slopes, and the winding river. There is no structure; there is no one in charge. It is a place where everyone exists on an equal footing, children included, except when scolded for some small infraction, such as when Duggan, often standing alone among the children, and that is because he was not born in the village—not that the villagers minded, but he did—shattered Teddy’s shop window with a perfectly preserved snowball in July. He didn’t intend to hit Ted's daughter, but just come close, with the hope that Mel might, just might, notice him for once.

Alessandra had said, "Well, my boy, you succeeded beyond your wildest expectations, didn't you?"

He had forgotten about the window—but then again he was only 5 at the time.

“She did notice you, after all." Alessandra added.

Summers in the village are pleasant but short, just long enough to grow a single crop on the side of the hills that face the sun. Just long and hot enough to enjoy a few months fishing on the river with sun hats pulled down and fishing rods held languidly over the side of an open boat. Just long enough to enjoy a few beers down by the jetty and roasting corn behind the school.

Ah, but the winters, the winters are long and harsh. It was not unknown to have a minimum of thirty meters of snow drifting up against the sides of homes, and in some cases completely burying the roofs. It is quite common to have homes linked by tunnels that twist from door to door through the snow. And on days that people farther south would claim the worse they had ever experienced, villagers of all ages ski from their rooftops, swooshing down the slope that leads to the wind-swept ice covering the river like a sheet of blue steel. By December, the villagers erect a carrousel where families gather to put on their skates or warm themselves with hot chocolate. The short winter days create a festival mood, the entire village, men, women, children, old and young, skating with arms linked in a long chain across the ice beneath a spotlessly blue sky and the sun like a diamond. By January the temperature drops as low as minus forty and feeling much colder than that with the wind chill. But the villagers brave these harsh conditions every day. With the long hours of winter stretching ahead, they are out in the frozen chill with rosy cheeks and their breath like hot clouds of pressurized steam pouring from their mouths.

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