TITLE: Home
PAIRING: Astrid/Walter, Peter/Olivia, August/Christine, Amy/Nick, Nina/Broyles, A. Mathis/ William Ferguson
CHARACTERS: Olivia Dunham, Astrid Farnsworth, Walter Bishop, Peter Bishop, Christine Hollis, August, September, the Child, December, July, William Ferguson, A. Mathis, William Bell, Nick Lane, Amy Jessup, Rachel Dunham, Ella Dunham, Nina Sharp, Phillip Broyles, Krista Manning, Susan, Nancy
GENRE: Southern Gothic, Scifi, Fantasy, Alternate Universe
RATING: M
SUMMARY: Living in a mountain paradise called 'Home', isolated from the outside world, a handful of characters of the Fringeverse exist in perfect harmony. It is a primitive place without time or sin, where no one ages or dies, and no one has memories past the week before. The live by the unusual word of the Bible in their Church, warning them of the Wild Things that live in the Woods and of The Dreamlands past Lake Reiden.
However, Astrid is initiated into a dark secret about Home that the local recluse Walter has stumbled across, one that hints that the eden they all live in isn't their universe of origin. Faced with the temptation of knowing her previous life, Astrid is given the choice to remain blissfully unaware in their paradise or return to the universe she once belonged to.
Short stories featuring the other character's lives within Home are interwoven throughout the main story all leading up to Astrid's final decision and what it will cost everyone.
SONGS: "Big Rock Candy Mountain" by Bing Crosby, "Concerning the UFO Sightings Near Highland, Illinois" by Sufjan Stevens, "Say Darlin' Say" by Rising Appalachia, "Take Me to the Water" by Nina Simone
WARNINGS: Adult situations
SPOILERS: Season One, Season Two
Nick Lane's young audience stood captivated as they listened to him weave a story of local lore, their bare feet in the thick mud of the dirt walkway leading up to the church steps. The morning was slowly clearing as last night's rain clouds dissipated, the air smelling clean and new albeit slightly cool. The sun had just risen above the large impassible mountains that surrounded the land, filtering through the massive trees that reached towards the sky.
Nick was leaned down slightly to get closer to the eye level of the children listening to him. "Them Wild Things that go boogin' 'round the woods, them the ones y'all ought watch for. They come creepin' 'round, pale demons that want young'uns and weak'uns, to eat 'um and tear 'um up."
His fingers flittered around as he spoke, illustrating his words and the children squealed in fear, a few dancing around nervously as they listened to Mr Nick tell them of the Wild Things. It was a popular story among all of the residents and he told it well.
A young woman approached the cluster of little ones and she put her hands on her hips. Amy Jessup, the children's school teacher, gave the storyteller a very chastising look.
"Ooh, Mr Nick. You makin' the young'uns afeared before they hop along to Pastor Bell."
"Miss Amy, I is simply tellin' 'um about the Wild Things!" He punctuated the last part by lurching towards her with his fingers clawed.
"Mr Nick!" Amy shrieked as she stumbled backwards, her hand at her heart.
The children began to laugh and Nick smiled impishly at her, offering his arm to the redfaced teacher.
"That ain't a nice thing to be doin' to your sweetheart, Mr Nick," she scolded as they walked up to the church
"I's just story tellin'," he said innocently.
Two blonde sisters, one with a small child named Ella at her heels, walked along the path, talking to one another; they wore cream linen dresses, hems discoloured slightly from their walk through the wet grass. Ella broke away from her mother to join the other small children that had been listening to Nick's stories, skipping over to show them a handful of snail shells.
"I's plannin' on wanderin' o'er to Deep Holler after Church to find some potatoes," the taller of the two blondes said to the other.
Her name was Livia Dunham and her younger sister was Rachel, the mother of Ella. Rachel nodded, her eyes on a man walking up from the path that led from The Flat. She smiled at him, adjusting the tan vest she wore over her dress and fidgeting with her hair. He tipped his hat to both of them, adjusting the banjo he had strapped to his back and entered the Church.
"That Peter Bischoff," she tittered as Livia shook her head, the two following him in.
The Church was an old building, older than anyone in the land where it was located; whitewashed walls made of large split logs, roofing made from fallen redwood bark, rough and frayed from wind, sun, and rain. It was able to fit all the inhabitants of Home quite comfortably, the exact number of seats needed, save for an empty one at the far front row of the pews, but its missing person had all but been forgotten.
At the head of the room was a large pulpit, as old as the church itself and made from a rich red wood. A tree was carved into the front, the Tree of Life and Knowledge, carefully buffed and polished with a smooth cloth and a small vial of oil every morning. Balanced on the edge of the pulpit was a small pewter bell with a wooden handle; the metal had a muted shine in the dim light of the church but could be plainly seen by everyone who was inside.
Behind the pulpit stood a tall, lanky man with a warm smile as he watched his congregation slowly filtering into the small church house. Pastor William Bell wore a tired, once black suit and a clerical collar that had long since become a pale, pale grey. He nodded at his flock, making eye contact with each individual member so as to let them know that he was thankful that they were there to be saved.
The pews were hewn from timbers long since fallen, aged grey and worn from daily usage, faint impressions where backs had been rubbed against. Burlap sacks dyed burgundy from the mulberry trees that grew outside the church and stuffed with grass from the Pastures and bullrush velvet from Lake Reiden formed cushions for the parishioners.
In the front pew to the right of Pastor Bell's pulpit sat the three men who played the instruments for the hymns the parishioners would sing later in the service. Peter Bischoff, Bill Ferguson, and James Carson tuned their guitar and banjos in preparation for the morning ceremony, softly strumming together to find the right notes to play.
Bearing large boughs of woven white flowers called 'White Claudia', a young woman named Astrid approached the front of the church, draping them over the pulpit and alter behind. The Twins, Susan and Nancy, were candle makers and their craft illuminated the entirety of the church, thick smoke creating tendrils through the air, twisting into the rafters high above. The honeycombed wax's pattern was repeated in the single stained glass mosaic above the pulpit, a giant golden hexagon with individual panes replicated hundreds of times over. As they continued lighting the last of the hundreds of candles that burned, the ground cinnamon rolled into the wax and wick began to heat, filling the small house of God with a heady scent of the soft earthy perfume of the White Claudia and the spice, immediately bringing the parishioners into the mindset of the Holy Word.
Annabelle Mathis and Krista Manning passed out the baskets full of folded fans that would later be used to fight the stifling heat that formed in the church house. Hands happily grabbed the folded paper, their fingers grasping the same familiar folds and worn creases of the fans they had day after day.
When everyone was seated, Pastor Bell lifted the small pewter bell off the pulpit and rang it three times to signal the beginning of the service; its sound was sharp and suddenly their minds were clear, united. The congregation as well as Pastor Bell opened their bibles, the sound of their pages turning the only noise in the small room.
"Our people came here a long, long time ago," Pastor Bell started the way he did every morning.
"Long, long time ago," the parishioners agreed in unison.
He nodded, looking down at the woodcutting image in his bible, one of trees and mountains. "We has lived off this land since before we can remember. These mountains of Home has been our home forever. The green grass, the moss, the air, the water-it were all created for us. A paradise for the Lord's children."
"This land is the Garden of Eden," the parishioners said.
"We has been safe here, protected from the outside world. We has been protected from the sin and the darkness."
"We is all born innocent and kept innocent," the congregation agreed, a small note of pride in their voices. "We is all Adam and Eve."
Pastor Bell slammed his hand down on the pulpit. "Man was offered the fruit of knowledge!"
"He said no," they recited.
His hand hit atop the wood again. "Woman was offered the fruit of knowledge!"
"She said no," they recited again.
His arms rose towards the ceiling, fingers swirling through the candles' smoke. "The Lord allowed us eternal paradise!"
"Praise Him!" they shouted.
The parishioners turned the pages of their bibles, glancing down at the woodcutting of The Woods, a lone black silhouette standing among the trees ominously. Instinctively and unconsciously they looked away from the foreboding image, looking to their pastor for comfort. He could feel their unease and he nodded knowingly.
"Now if you's ever met our Mr Nick—" the congregation laughed softly and he smiled, "you's heard the stories of the Wild Things. Them Wild Things, they look like us. They be havin' faces and bodies like us, but they's different. Now we ain't know where they come from, though our legends tell us that they growed in the ground like potatoes, deep in the dark black earth."
"Made like Mandrakes," the congregation recited.
"They's tall and pale, havin' no hair on them. They make no faces of happy or sad. If you be findin' one, they will guide you back to where you ought be. They speak quietly."
"We must listen," the congregation acknowledged.
He glanced down at the woodcut in his own bible, staring at the small blue glow off eyes before returning his attention back to the people who watched him.
"Everhow, them Wild Things, they also creatures of God. He done made us all in his form an' thusly they look like him, too. They has a duty, to protect us, to protect Home. They watch the Woods, they keep the Outsiders from coming in."
"The Outsiders must stay out," the congregation agreed in unison.
Another page was turned, this time showing a woodcut of a jagged, but familiar mountain. It was part of the Forbidden Lands beyond Lake Reiden and it towered over everything in Home. Pastor Bell's fingers traced over the black, rich ink.
"Our stories tell us that they have been here since forever, that they was here before me and you's, that they come from The Dreamlands."
"On Big Rock Candy Mountain," they replied, the hair on their arms standing up at the mention of the Forbidden Lands of their world.
"On Big Rock Candy Mountain, there's a land that's dark as night. Where the hands grow out of branches and you hardly got any sight. Where the ghosts is always wanderin' an' there ain't no such thing as day. No birds, no bees, an' the Giant Trees, where Lake Reiden springs an' the fog done sing," he recited, his words slow and practiced.
"On the Big Rock Candy Mountain," they repeated.
"On the Big Rock Candy Mountain, the Dreamlands wait for them who pray. It the place that take you to the Otherside, but full of temptation all the way. The old trees is full of fruit an' the air is thick an' grey. Oh, you ain't wantin' to go where them Wild Things grow, where the rain don't fall and the wind don't blow," he said sombrely.
"On the Big Rock Candy Mountain."
More pages were turned, images noted and commented on until they drew closer to the end of their bibles. One woodcutting in particular drew their attention: three brilliant stars bursting in unison above an open field while people stared up at them. The parishioners looked at the page, studying into with portentous interest.
Pastor Bell closed his eyes and slowly began to sing softly, the acoustics of the small building magnifying and lifting his voice. "When the revenant come down, we couldn't imagine what it were."
The parishioners stood up and the three men in the front pew began to play along as they all joined in.
"In the spirit of three stars, the alien thing that took it'd form. Then to the sky, oh, God…" They breathed in unison, sounding almost as if a soft breeze had entered the church. "The flashin' at night, the bell chime growed and growed…Oh, history involved itself, mysterious shade that took it'd form. Or what it were! Incarnation—three stars! Deliverin' signs and dustin' from them's eyes…"
For a moment, the briefest flicker of hopelessness passed through the people, but then it was gone, most of the parishioners hardly registering it in the first place. Pastor Bell quickly spoke, insuring no one dwelled on the unpleasant sensation.
"Them Wild Things was watchin' the night there was the mighty Flashin' in the Night Sky, waiting to protect us. They seen the things for us the Lord don't want us to see. They be servin' the best interest of Home and our Lord," he reminded them.
"The Night Sky lit up like a million suns, but we knew not to be afeared. The Lord was with us," the congregation remembered aloud.
He nodded. "The Lord gave us this world to protect us. We belongs to it and it ain't belongin' to us."
The parishioners nodded; they were honoured to know that they had been the ones chosen to be part of Home, that they were the ones who lived here.
The sun had finally risen enough past the tree line that it started to shine through the single window in the back, the small panes of amber-coloured stained glass glowing. They'd reached the last page of their holy book, come to the final, but simple image that represented hope: the outline of a flower.
The pastor was unable to hold back the giddy grin and he looked out at his congregation, prompting them to smile as well.
"Lord will give us a sign if we be askin' for one!" he called out passionately.
"The White Tulip!" the congregation cried out, their hearts and spirits lifting.
"Lord, we is waitin' for our White Tulip!" he shouted to the sky.
"Praise Him!" they shouted in return, each one wishing that their Lord could hear their voices.
"We be askin' and the Lord will give us the White Tulip!" the pastor promised.
A handful of of the congregation stood up, throwing their hands high. "Praise Him! Praise Him!"
Pastor Bell smiled, whipping his people into a frenzy of happy shouting. "Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord!"