[The setting of this story is in the middle-ages. A simpler time in a near fairy tale atmosphere where the daily tasks of human subsistence and complete isolation create a world of innocence and discovery. Just for clarification, all characters are at least 18 years of age.]
Chapter 1
Long ago on a remote hilltop far from the nearest village, a small farmhouse was nestled on the South slope. Surrounded by an orchard of fruit and nut trees, terraces that nearly circled the hill, and animals and crops that graced the terraces providing work and reward for the farmers. An overgrown path led up the hill to a house and barn, but you can think of the path as leading away from the homestead as the occupants viewed it this way. The location was beauty to behold, with grand views of other hills and valleys on all sides. The climate was composed of four seasons which seemed to merrily float by one after the other, each promising their own set of chores and rewards.
Chores meant survival as they had from countless generations past. Sow, tend, harvest, process, and prepare to do it again. The seasons and the chores meant food. No matter what chore you were doing, it ultimately led to food. Either the production or consumption of food because there was a cost-benefit to things. Chores, like preparing your ground, maintaining the terraces, or milking the goats meant bread and cheese. Chores like canning, preserving, and cooking resulted in the necessary consumption of food, which in turn allowed you to produce more food. Maintenance chores like washing, making & mending clothes, and story time were considered important although no one could quite determine the cost-benefit of them, it didn't matter because family was foundational. Family was companionship, education, the beginning of the day and the end of the day. Family is there at the beginning of life and there at its passing. Chores, in all their categories, preserve the family.
Parents of twins, Toby and Tilda inherited the farm from the previous generation. As all children growing up on the farm, you are taught how to live by following your parent and doing what they do. Toby and Tilda grew up this way, learning from before the time of memories the things that needed doing each day, each week and each season.
The children, Tim and Tabitha, never got to meet Tilda in their time of memories. Tilda barely survived giving birth and suffered complications over the following two years and finally, mercifully, passed just before the children turned three.
This was a difficult time for Toby. A caring and loving man, he was emotionally torn between his grieving and the delight of his little ones. Yet, the burden of caring for three wore his body and drained him of his prior jovial nature.
Toby remained gentle despite his internal and external struggles. He taught the children all the things he knew from morning till evening. Although being nearly alone in the heavy chores, the farm's production dropped only slightly which was fine under the circumstances due to one less mouth to feed. He was stretched to the limit though the kids never heard him complain, his body was complaining with lack of sleep, hard labor, and the stress of sole responsibility.
At the base of the hill was a stream that flowed steadily through all seasons of the year. It was the backup source of water in the summer if the rain barrels went dry or leaked too much. On the near side of the stream, on a grassy and flat plain was the burial ground. The plots stretched around the bend of the hill. The family had been here many years and buried many generations. No one knew how many and it was not possible to just count grave sites since periodic flooding had removed some of the older markers.
As you walked through the grave site, the markers got older and more worn. Then some appeared missing, then more as you went until you had no idea if you were still in the grave site. If you kept going, you would eventually round the base of the hill and be back at the path that led away from the hill.
The trail that came down from the farmhouse met with another path on the opposite side of the stream. This path was known by Toby as Village Road, although that was not an official name, it was what his parents called it. Toby had only traveled it twice in his life.
The first time, Toby went with his father into the village to trade some produce for cloth and a few tools. The second time he went by himself as a young man.
Springtime had overtaken winter. The birds were back and busy building or restoring their nests, gathering leftover seed from the fields and a few ripe worms that ventured too long at the surface. The fresh green landscape was spotted with color from early flowers that dotted the hills. The trees were flexing their new leaves and squirrels raced around finding their last troves of buried treasure. Spring was a time of new life and renewal. Tim and Tabitha were delighted with the freedom of the outdoors after another long cold season stuck inside.
They were eager to run and play and found every opportunity between chores and even during them, if possible.
This spring, little rain had fallen. There was plenty of snow melt to keep the fields moist, but the rain barrels were depleted which meant refilling them from the stream. Bucket after bucket, two per person, four per trip that Tim and Tabitha made. They would rather be doing anything else because it was grueling work and with only a small visible reward per trip, it was hard to argue the benefit versus the cost while lugging two heavy pails of water up a hill.
After four complete trips and one full barrel, Tim and Tabitha collapsed at the base of the hill on the grassy bank of the stream. Exhausted, they lay there looking up at the pure blue sky, watching the birds zip about under lazy clouds. The sounds of busy wildlife and fresh air hushing through the grass felt wonderful. Their sweat dried as their breathing returned to normal and more relaxing thoughts took over their young minds.
Tabitha rolled her body sideways to sit up into a slouch leaning over her knees. She looked down at the stream and began pulling her boots off. Tim opened his eyes from a near nap and glanced her way. "Tab, what are you up to?" Tim asked, pretty much knowing the answer. "I am going to wash off" was Tabitha's prepared reply.
"You just want to go swimming. The water's still cold." Tim argued as he was beginning to kick his shoes off, too. "We can't be too long, or it will take all day to get the barrels filled." He added truthfully as his shirt went over his head.
'Tab' didn't feel the need to reply as she wiggled out of her work dress and stepped out onto the smooth stones at the edge of the stream. Tim caught his breath for a moment as he looked at the scene in front of him. The lime green grassy banks, the rickety bridge, the forested hills in the background and Tab's bare body standing in the middle of it dipping her toe into the water. Her butt, which he had seen as many times as his own midsection, seemed to take on a different quality. There was more shape to it than he remembered, in fact there was more shape in other places although logical thought was not materializing at the moment. These were more feelings than thoughts, like realizing you are thirsty and instinctively look for water.
Tim was halfway through taking his pants off. His eyes were locked on Tabitha as she began descending into the stream, when he noticed he was hard.
This was not embarrassing to him. He was not shy of his body or what it did, and neither was Tab at her own body. They grew up together, they slept in the same bed, bathed together, worked together, played together, and explored together. Burping, farting, nakedness and the natural things of body and togetherness were as normal as the stream flowing in front of him. Tab has seen him flaccid and standing tall nearly as many times as he had.
Tim kicked off his pants which stubbornly held his legs, hopped up and stepped toward the stream with renewed vigor. Tab, now belly deep, was getting used to the cold. "The surface is warmer than the bottom." She chattered as Tim reconsidered jumping in to splash her.
Tabitha had turned and gazed at Tim, forgetting about the cold for a minute. His little man was at full attention and she knew what that meant. A boy gets hard when he is stimulated by touch or thought, although sometimes it just does at it wants. She wondered what Tim was thinking and why he was hard. She did not think that she had anything to do with it, that thought did not cross her mind.
Tim entered the water the same way Tabitha had and now looked directly at her breasts. Goosebumps all over, pert and cold tight nipples stared straight at him.
