We live up here, on Worcestershire Beacon, for long spells during the year. A core group of us work in the centre of the hillfort, making pottery, managing cattle, sheep, horses and pigs in their pens – it’s a well-run specialised operation. Some (including my husband) sometimes journey to the lowlands to rescue the bones of our ancestors when our fellow people make new farmsteads. Their job is to bring our ancestors to safety, and tell their story. I am Banba, Keeper of the Corn, processing and storing wheat, barley and oats for us and animals to eat.
On the fort, we listen to The Orators daily. They stand on the one stage. They bring in jesters to amuse us, people wearing rich cloaks who orate the news from around the Kingdom, singers and more. It seems as if there are many shows, but they’re really all part of the one show. All, organised by the tribal Chieftains. We sit at their feet, and for many, they are the one word.
Perimeter People
A small number of people, including me, become Perimeter People too. For, we often go to the Lookout on the perimeter of the fort, surveying the Kingdom below; watching, listening. Sometimes, we venture down to the lowlands where there are speakers on platforms, with a small crowd around them. These are alternative platforms – their speakers have different personalities, different backgrounds and reasons for gravitating to a small stage. We, Perimeter People, prospect for truth on our own, but occasionally converse when we see each other at the Lookout. We are few, and the others don’t really notice our time spent here.
Return to Contagion: Lively Dust, Us and Disease
