All characters are over the age of eighteen.
I'm not a professional, and this story just sort of comes out of me and not necessarily in the right order. This chapter probably should have been the prelude, but it's here now.
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The history of Hidden Acres, especially its peculiarity in comparison to the rest of the world, began in the old world. Traditions brought over by immigrants who developed their own customs, which were in stark contrast to the Puritans who first settled the New World. These settlers were happy to start new lives, but they would not give up their old ways.
1833
A tall, well built man stood looking out at the night sky on the front porch of his small cabin. Smiling, he sipped from a cup as he gazed at the stars and felt his building excitement. Turning, he moved into the house. Arild stepped through the door into the tiny room he shared with his wife, Ainye. He stood back and watched as she brushed her honey colored hair with a fine comb that she'd brought with her from the old country. So many things had changed in their lives since coming to America, but some things had remained the same. Tonight she'd continue a tradition that had been passed down for countless generations. He recalled his own initiation with fondness and felt a pang of jealousy.
"Second thoughts husband?" Ainye turned to look at him, her simple gown homespun and threadbare. Their lives were not filled with many luxuries, but they were happy. And free.
"No," Arild answered with a playful smile. "Just recalling the time my mother invited me into her bedchamber. I can only imagine Sven's face when he sees you for the first time. It's a vision that will stay with him forever."
"Oh? Do you still think of your mother when you lay with me?" She laughed at his blushing cheeks. "I guess I should be grateful she taught you well and that you were so fond of her. I have reaped the benefits of that love."
"And Sven's future wife will be just as grateful to you."
1851
Frederick Long stood atop the small rise and looked out upon the tree covered hills. His luck at gambling had provided him a plot of land to provide for his extended family. His wife, Maeve, had misgivings and her dark looks were averted whenever he offered the alternative.
They'd been driven from three towns in as many years. The mobs that had driven out the Mormons couldn't or didn't want to see that Long's clan was not part of that sect and had turned on them as well. His father Arild had perished on the first occasion they'd been forced to flee in the night, his mother a year later of a broken heart.
Now he had found a place where he and his cousin's families could settle down and make a life of their own. A community that they would build and not be subject to the moralists who'd rather rail against honest, free folk who chose to live their lives a bit differently from themselves.
"It's not much," Finn, Frederick's eldest son, said at his side.
"It's ours and that is the most important thing." With a clap to his son's back he said, "It's home now."
"Granddad would have loved it," Finn said.
1879
Long's Camp had tripled in size in nearly three decades. Gone were the tents and makeshift shelters, replaced by log homes cut down from trees along the hillside and further up the mountain. In creating his home, Frederick had found a business, providing lumber to the saw mills along the river. Unlike other logging camps though, this place was a home to families and had turned into a small, respectable town.
The work had been arduous, back breaking labor, but they'd cleared the land enough for small plots to be tilled. The pride of the community was the garden that they all tended, growing food for themselves. It grew in size over the years until the placement of homes had surrounded it. A newcomer walking through the rows of houses would suddenly find themselves in a lush, wild Eden-like area. It became known as Hidden Acres.
Orla Ivers was covered in sweat as she worked the ground, digging up potatoes and tossing them into a basket. A cloth tied around her head and pulled low over her brow, kept the sweat from her eyes but her face was dirty where she'd wiped the back of her hand against her cheeks. A few feet away was another woman, a few years younger, but just as dirt covered.
"Don't you think it's time, Hannah?" Orla looked up at her sister in law. She stopped working and waited for the other woman to respond.
"I'm still not sure," Hannah responded at last, depositing a small pile of potatoes into the basket. She set her trowel down and looked up. "I'm not like you, Orla, I wasn't raised the way you were."
"Angus is a man now," Orla said, as if the woman had been unaware that her son had grown up. "He goes to work with the men, does as much, if not more than some. Soon he'll be wanting to find a wife."
"I know, I know," she said, irritated. They'd had this conversation a number of times over the last three months, twice in the last week. "Why do you hound me so?"
"Because you agreed to this when you married Arlo. You have benefited from our traditions, you've told me as much and in plain words." Hannah lowered her head in embarrassment. "You know I speak the truth."
Hannah nodded in agreement and looked up into the sky. "I just don't think I can do it. I don't think I can lay with my own son."
Orla considered her friend for a long moment. She'd feared this for a long time. Hannah had never truly embraced their traditions when she'd agreed to be Arlo's wife. She wasn't the only one who married into the family who had refused to partake in their ways, and Orla feared that their traditions were in jeopardy of fading away.
