This past few days, and for about fifteen years now, I have had a project in development involving a reimagining of Uncle Tom's Cabin, by Harriet Beecher Stowe. The original work was something a horror novel, if truth be told, intended to convince northern farmwives of the inherent evils of slavery. Written in the 1840s, it was widely distributed in the pulp book mail order market where, at the time, women subscribed to book programs where they would recieve a book monthly. This helped them out socially quite a bit by giving them something to talk about after church and in the sewing circle. Somethings never really change, though the means shift around a bit.
The structure of the story, the way it flows, is a melodramatic thing that overstates most of what might be thought to actually be happening to slaves in our "perculiar institution". But this story was cited as a cause of the Civil War when I was in grammar school. (Where I didn't pay much attention.) I was assigned this book as reading in the fifth grade, never did it, then the idea forced me into reading the book at fifty years old. The plot is a particular thing. We start together, split focus into two divergent story arcs, then rejoin at the end. This was written in the 1850s and the verbosity is pretty heavy handed. The scenes are heavy handed. The movement is choppy, like a cartoon.
But at some point I had an idea, between 2005 and 2013, and since then I have gone to college, built a farm and a retirement business, written ninty-plus stories of various lengths, and otherwise just got older. But the story stuck around and lived on. About a week ago my Muse showed up speaking loudly about this story. No telling what triggered it. So I do what I do: tuck in and type. But things are going a bit differently this time and it gives me hope for the future of this book.
I have been learning and building tools to allow myself to keep true to a storyline. I have an organizational chart to track relationships, a timeline to put events on and make sure they operate sequentially, an adequate word processor, spreadsheets to plot things in an organized manner, and a file naming structure which allows me to keep track of closed files logically so they can be opened appropriately. All of these things came to me over time to remedy a lack of inherited organizational and professional writing skills, and also a burning desire to just dig in and type, when I got a new idea. Tools to keep me on task so I don't write the thread and paint myself into the corner of whatever place I started building. This time all of these tools are being brought to bear and the Muse has signed on to allowing me to do the hard parts prior to doing the fun stuff (like writing stories).
Let's see where this goes, but here's the draft of the first Chapter of what promises to be a 155 page quick reader. It seems destined to borrow (without plagerizing) Stowe in her goals and mostly within the outline of her work, but deep in the sci-fy genre.
If ever there were 'ere such place as is home.
There would be comfort for those who would stay.
No matter how high, or lowly born.
Or how far they might roam.
Chapter 1 - The Book of Daniel
1.0 Before the Beginning
Gentle Readers we must start at the beginning using the right foot if we don't wish to lose our way. Our different paths have lead us all to a rainy Winter's night in a very large house near Cincinnati, in Ohio. This is the ancestral home of the Ferguson Family where we might learn more about a grave injustice. But for now it is enough that we imagine a wonderfully warm and welcoming place with soft evening lights and very little noise.
1.1
“Daniel, it’s time to say goodnight.”
”But Pappy I’m not sleepy yet. Can't we have another story.” A little boy, barely five years old was already snuggled down deeply in the thick blankets and comforters on an overly large bed. One could see from looking in his eyes that he was ready for sleep. But part of his nightly ritual was pretending that he was not tired. The boy always loved his bed. No one had ever found trouble in getting him under the covers.
“Your Mother said ten o’clock Daniel.” Pappy said this in a soothing voice. “No use in making her mad now. Better roll over and say goodnight.”
As the boy rolled to face the wall, he said sleepily, “Pappy? Will you stay here with me until I’m asleep?”
“I always do. Anytime you need me, just call out and I’ll be there.” Pappy started Daniel’s favorite sleepy-time music and faded the lights down just a little at a time as Daniel drifted off to sleep. “Good night Daniel, sweet dreams”.
“Good night Pappy,” said Daniel. As the song came to an end, the lights dimmed to barely visible glow on the ceiling. “I love you Pappy.”
“I love you too Daniel,” said Pappy.
1.2
Pappy left the boy to his dreams, then left open the household intercom just in case Daniel needed something. The nightly routine didn’t change much for Daniel in these early years. Nine-thirty was bed time. Ten o'clock was sleepy time. Daniel would rise when he felt like it. Pappy knew that soon the boy would start school and begin following a stricter schedule. Tonight all was as it should be.
At exactly ten-ten Pappy finished his security sweep and ordered the Abe security system to lock all outside doors and windows. Pappy instructed the environmental Robo into night time efficiency. At exactly ten-eleven Pappy ask Mammy to closed down the pantry and prepare a lite meal for the Master. The Driver Abe had signaled “home soon” and added “no supper”. The time was exactly ten-twenty-one when the Mistress called Pappy to her sitting room.
“Pappy, I don’t think you should be telling Daniel that you love him.” The Mistress shook her hear slightly, “It’s not right.
“Yes Ma'am,” Pappy replied
in a customarily dry tone. Pappy could sense more of the same was
incoming.
“They tell me that leading child psychologists
think it might cause undesirable tendencies later in life.” The
Mistress was practicing the ages old art of crochet, an appropriate
hobby for a woman of good family, home alone, late in the evening.
She didn't look up from the work in her soft hands, but did shift
slightly in her wing backed chair. “If children become too attached
to their Pappys this early in life they might develop a
dependency.” The Mistress said all this casually and without
looking up from the thread-work project she had been working on for
nearly two years. “He's the Stewart's future so we can't have
dependencies.
“No ma'am,” Pappy said. “As you say ma'am. Though, it does seem to comfort him and I don’t think it will cause him harm.” Pappy had a great deal of experience in these matters. He had raised Daniel’s father, and his father’s father in much the same fashion; watching them all grow into strong and confident men.
“I know you mean well Pappy, and I don’t wish to meddle in your affairs; but this is my decision.” The Mistress of the house did not like being challenged and it did not matter a speck if Pappy had been running Stewart House for more than three generations of Stewart Patriarchs. Pappy had never given her cause to worry; but if pressed to it, she would indeed send him into Cycles. They both knew she would enforce her rule out of principle.
“As you wish Ma'am,” said the Pappy, who knew his place in the Stewart pecking order. “I see that the Master has arrived. Shall I tell him where to find you?”
Putting the hooked needle work down under the light on the side table she began to rise, “No thank you Pappy, I 'll go down and meet him and call if I need something.” The tall woman, dressed well, but in comfortable clothing, checked the mirror over the hearth in her Sitting Room before floating silently down the hallway towards the kitchen muttering softly: “I do wish he'd come in through the front door. He comes in like the groceries.” Her husband had always come through from the carriage house where they kept the cars. ”He has never lost his childhood ways.” She stopped with the double opening into the kitchen just ahead. “By the way Pappy,” the Mistress said without looking, “remind the Driver Abe that the Master will be flying to New Chicago tomorrow.”
“He already knows Ma'am; the Jumper is fueled and ready.”
“Don’t be impertinent Pappy, simply tell-the-driver to be ready. Taking the Jumper is okay and the Master can put down at the Office.” Her tone was not cross, but it was best not to cross her.
“Yes Ma'am,” said Pappy without any discernible tone in his voice at all.
1.3
As Daniel lay in his bed, his long life flashed briefly before his eyes as would a video edited too harshly for time. Daniel had a long and happy life. A young man's life full of adventure. A grown man's life of triumph in business. An old man's life of family and children with their own lives. In every way one might measure a life his was measured as a good one. Now Daniel lay dying. At the tender age of one-hundred, eleven years old he lay in his comfortable bed at nine-forty-five in the evening, talking with Pappy and happy to be there. As they had always been.
Daniel scarcely remembered his youngest years. The “sweet dream” wishes that came always from Pappy; the eternal service Pappy had provided, without question, for his every waking and sleeping minute, were all appreciated then, as now. Daniel had always loved Pappy and didn’t care whether his Mother disapproved. She was long since dead and buried alongside his father. Daniel's thoughts seemed to blur his conception of time and he couldn’t tell, and didn’t care, which event came first or after. Daniel hoped that the stories were true, that he would now see his father again. He hoped to spend some time with the man who spent so little time with in life and so much time trying to please.
“Pappy?” He said without noticing the thousands of thousands of times he had said it before. “Are you there?”
“I am always here Daniel.” The Pappy said in his best sleepy-time voice. “I have always been here and will be here whenever you need me. Just call and I will come.”
“I love you Pappy,” said Daniel.
“Thank you Daniel’ said the Pappy who had never told Daniel of his Mother’s order that he not respond in kind. Pappy had worked out a way around her orders very soon after she had issued them.
“Do you love me Pappy?” ask Daniel. It had been years since he had rarely ask the Pappy this particular question; but tonight was unique and he wanted this little comfort, a feeling of belonging to someone, a sense of family.
“Yes Daniel, now and forever,” returned the reply Daniel had wished for. Though Daniel had heard it rarely from his blood parents, his Pappy had never failed to give the right answer.
“Pappy, how long have you served the Stewarts?”
“I don’t know Daniel.” Pappy answered, before adding: “The dates with precision anyway. My Cycle was re-set in twenty-two-ten by the Taking. There is little left of that life I had before that.”
Daniel felt a chill run through him, the pain he might have felt in earlier times was almost completely blocked by modern medicine, but the pain was still there; only masked from sensations by a swarm of Cobots patrolling his blood stream. Daniel knew that there was not much time left and he welcomed the journey ahead. “Pappy. From what you do know, can you guess how long you have been with the family?”
“I don’t have to guess Daniel,” said Pappy proudly. “I have always been with the Stewart Family and I became Pappy here when the Estate was built.” Pappy let his voice raise a little to lighten the mood in the room. “Though why they left that particular information available to me I cannot tell you.”
“Are in family Pappy?” Daniel said, not surprised by the knowledge. The records had been made was clear on this. But he was surprised that Pappy knew anything of it.
“That much I do not know Daniel. ”
“Pappy, please send the following record to our attorneys.” Daniel talked clearly and quickly, as if he had just finished a breakfast before leaving for work. “Mr. Kendrick, As the last act of my long and happy life and in addendum to my last will and testament. As my last act on Earth I free Pappy of Stewart House of any obligation of servitude to the Stewart family or any person or entity in perpetuity. Charles Thomas Shelby is my genetically verified family member and I release him fully realizing the consequences of my action. Send that immediately Pappy. Or should I say Tom?”
“It is sent Daniel, Tom is fine, though it seems so strange to hear that old name spoken and have it meant to describe me. God knows I don't know what to do with the information.” Pappy, now Charles Thomas Stewart, could begin to remember himself as the chemical blocks on his personality deep in his semi-Liquid Matrix the blocks dissolving from the moment his name was mentioned.
“I can't tell you Pap . . . Tom. I suppose you are free to do pretty much as you like. And free to discontinue yourself if you wish, though I wouldn't until I thought about it a bit first.” As he said this Daniel began to lose his sight, the light draining from him. “It takes a family connection you know, to set free a Pappy or Mammy. You are a rarity indeed; but we knew this all along, didn’t we.”
What might have passed for panic swept through the circuits and electron pathways of the Tom's semi-liquid matrix. There was so much to sort and recollect. He could see Daniel slipping away and wished he had the capacity to show his grief somehow. Something within him knew what grief felt like. Grief was like a the fog coming down the valley from the Lake far to the north. It would soon overtake him and decrease him. But Tom had no way to express this, having no Mechatron ready nearby. The thought of this made him wonder if he still might be able to access House assets like Mechatrons, or even give instructions to the House Staff.
“But you see Grand-Uncle, you are free to know whatever you wish, to learn whatever you want to learn, to go wherever you wish, to find yourself. If that is still possible.”
The only thing Tom could say was “Thank you Great Nephew.” Tom had no time to think before he sensed the failing heart of his long time charge and former master. The last thing Daniel Stewart heard in life was his “Pappy” saying, “I love you Daniel, sweet dreams” without having to be ask for the pleasure.
The last thing Daniel Stewart felt in life was love for what was technically, a sort of machine.
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