Jorendon
Jorendon is, in my mind, generally comparable to late 17th century London or Paris.
Granted, there are notable differences.
In the Rootstock Saga world, windwheels and waterwheels power household mechanics. Steam engines are little more than a novelty. Oil and coal are relegated to stoking hearths and lighting lanterns. The pre-industrial fossil fuel dependency is averted.
Why? Because Rootstock is a future incarnation of our contemporary world. Whispers of our memories linger and echo from its shadows. We remember the toxic air and rising tides. We nudge our future selves off that dirty path.
Instead, imagine ubiquitous rows of small windmills, windwheels, or turbines line every roof peak. Waterwheels of every shape and size capture the power of rivers, streams, creeks, canals, and sluices.
Though the description didn’t make it into the books, I also imagined our Rootstock Saga folks harnessing solar energy in water-warming troughs of black-coated glass on rooftops, terraces, and courtyards. The Veridians and Este would have been quite skilled designing at such collectors.
Jorendon is cleaner than late 17th century London would have been, too. Our collective consciousness carried an awareness of waste disposal and the connection between sanitation and basic health and well-being.
As Lamochatee notes in his errand to Buchanwick,
Buchanwick was much nicer than the few Innish trade towns Lamochatee had visited. It certainly smelled better. It had deepwells and drains that fed ponds where a Nunyaehi tea made the water clear again.
And, of course, these folks bathe. Perhaps not as often as we do, but more often than their historical counterparts. Several of the Seth chapters mention him bathing, and describe the bathing room at Glenayre as one of the first comforts of home he enjoys after returning from months on a cattle drove.
Issy had given him a proper welcome home. She drew him a hot bath and scrubbed trail dirt off his back while Nate crawled on the tile in the bathing room.
Although the simplest homes might lack a privy or bathing room, most have and awareness of and make accommodations for hygiene.
Mouse climbed down the pegs and reached for the pail. It was her chore, every morning, to empty the night waste from the chamber pot and take it outside. Old Mona didn’t have a proper privy. Only the silvery ones had privies that made night waste disappear without a smell.
Jorendon is cleaner than old London, but not immune to the social stratification the disparity of wealth brings. Cabbagetown is one of the poorer districts, though it has an appeal all its own.
Nigel wore a plain brown cloak, his long white hair hidden, and his tweed cap’s brim pulled down low. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and walked the three blocks that took him to the vibrant, irreverent, and deliciously perilous district known as Cabbagetown.
For decades, the seedy slum had drawn immigrants with its cheap housing and proximity to work in the busy harbor. Over time, a few ambitious entrepreneurs began rising from Cabbagetown’s colorful patchwork of cultures. Some chose to stay amongst their own rather than leave for the nicer parts of town.
On the opposite end of the wealth spectrum, Chambord is a nice approximation of Jorendon Palace. Imagine it in the middle of a bustling Jorendon instead of set off to itself.
And the carriages. The carriages, street lanterns, and cobbles of Jorendon. My inspiration images are pinned on Pinterest. Nigel is out late, his carriage driven to some secretive meeting by grizzled old Pawley.
Jorendon Harbor is the beating heart of the city. Ships coming and going. Bustling, busy, and opportunistic. A walk down the wharf is an invigorating reminder of how wonderful it is to be alive.
