by Amanda Milo
Kota finishes her business and we head back to the barn with Breslin saying, “I need to untack Meesahrand get her settled for the night.”
“Can I help? Or if there’s nothing I can do, tell us where to stand.”
“Right here,” he directs me with a hand lightly guiding me at my back again. “You can pace straight ahead if you feel the need to stretch your legs some more. This will take a bit. I need to check Meesahrah’s hooves for stones and packed mud.”
“That’s fine,” I assure him. His actions have shown him to be a considerate owner, and I admire him for it. Since he essentially owns me just as much as he does Meesahrah, it’s also reassuring.
Breslin hums a little as he unstraps pieces of gear from off of our ride. When the sound of bells and buckles stop ringing, he addresses his animal. “Give me your hoof.”
Then: “Do you want it cleaned out or not?”
Then: “Kick at me like that a second time, and I’ll leave you to go lame. You’ll be lucky if you’re good enough for stew. I’ve my misgivings that this head of yours will be worth anything—what is between these ears? Fluff?”
Meesahrah sighs and I hear her hooves stomping the dirt as she dances a little before everything settles, and a soft scraping noise starts.
“Can I chatter to you while you work?” I ask him.
“Chatter?”
“Talk.”
“Certainly. With the way her ears are twitching, it seems Meesahrah here likes your voice. Shame it’ll strain my beast’s cognitive abilities to keep up. Be sure to use large words.”
I grin in Meesahrah’s direction. “How long have you had her?”
“Three long, long, trying, difficult, stubborn, challenging laps around the sun.”
I’m silently laughing at the way he’s saying the words. “What makes up a lap?”
“Six seasons turn over a lap here. How many seasons make up your world’s span of time?”
“Wow, six, huh? We have four in a year.”
He grunts. “Interesting. Do the seasons make for good planting and harvesting?”
“Two of them do in the part of the world I’m from. So what do you do here? As a job, I mean.” I smile brightly. “Basically, pretend I’m an alien from another planet who has no concept of your planet’s culture.”
He chuckles. “I’ll do my best to imagine such an unlikely scenario.” The scraping stops and there’s a shuffling sound, followed by a thump like something kicks out, and Breslin hisses, “I will boil that fluff!” before everything calms and the scraping takes up again. Easily, like his temper hasn’t so much as twitched despite Meesahrah’s testing it, he answers me. “I’m the Garthmaw. The breaker.”
But trainer is the word my translator supplies for Garthmaw. “Like breaking… animals?”
His voice is unhurried and pleasantly relaxing as he takes the time to explain. “I break beasts. And don’t judge my talents by Meesahrah, she’s a special exception. An especially taxing, special exception. Get your teeth out of my face,” he adds in the same tone, and I laugh because he delivers it so fluidly.
His voice holds laughter too when he continues. “In this culture, on this planet—let’s say if you were an alien who was entirely unfamiliar with it,” he teases, “we’re largely settlements of farms and hunting plots. To traverse this planet and to haul supplies on this planet—same as many other planets—we use docile, gentle, obedient, mostly intelligent individuals—”
There’s another thumping sound and lots of shuffling, and I have to cover my mouth to stifle my laughter now.
Breslin’s words come out evenly—perhaps a touch playfully—as everything settles down and he sets to scraping again, “As I was saying. We round up beasts to perform the incredibly important job of conveying goods and persons across vast distances.”
“And it’s your job to train these beasts.”
He snorts. “Doesn’t seem like I do well at it, does it?” There’s a clap of rough hand on fleshy hind. “Even this thickskull can do a day’s worth of work well. Don’t let her fool you.”
The smell has been intensifying the more he scrapes. It’s probably much like a horse I suppose: all the dirt and grass and waste that collects inside a scoop-shaped hoof sort of ferments as it sits there and it has a particularly distinct, strong odor—not bad, just different. “She seemed to get us here just fine.”
Again I hear the contact of his massive hand clapping in praise against Meesahrah’s skin. “Credit where credit is due: Meesahrah here handled herself well in the storm, as always.”
The last hoof is set on the floor and the little cracks and pops I hear remind me of the sounds my body makes after I’ve been sitting hunched over something. “Done!” Breslin declares, his voice an unintentional boom that has Kota startling a little right along with me.
“Feeling adventuresome?” he calls out, putting away his hoof-cleaning instruments from the sound of it.
“That depends. I’m currently on an unplanned space mission where I’m acting as a freelance ambassador—what else can we tackle in a day?”
He chuckles. “Ready to enter an alien’s home?”
CHAPTER 10
BRESLIN
It doesn’t take long for her to pace out my dwelling with me. My heart sinks as I realize that for as much as I take pride in my family home, I’d be clawing my way through the walls if I had to stay in this box all day. And that’s what it has to seem like to her: four small walls with nothing more than a bed, a stove, a sink, a cupboard, and a relieving station in the corner.
Much to my discomfort, there’s no door to the relieving station, just a flimsy curtain. That’s all I’ve ever needed. I grew up using the outhouse, which still stands out back. But I don’t want Sanna to have to attempt to navigate the overgrown path to the old insect-infested outhouse. And although she won’t be able to see me in here, if she fails to seal the curtain around herself perfectly, I’ll be able to see her and it’s plain this fact makes her uncomfortable.
I rub the back of my neck, and wonder if I have the materials here to build a lightweight door. If I can build it on a sliding track we won’t have to worry about the distance it will swing open—and that is a problem in a room of this size, which is why all I’ve ever fussed with is a curtain.
“It’s a head game,” she explains. “It shouldn’t be any different to pull the curtain shut than it is to swing a door shut, but I can’t see to be sure there isn’t a gap in the curtain. I’ll be fine, but I’m not going to lie: I’ll be holding it in until you leave every day.” She smiles up at me.
I tip my chin as something occurs to me. “From time to time, for various reasons, I’ll see discomfort in my hooved companions, and it disturbs me if I can’t determine why they feel it. With you, you can actually tell me. It’s quite novel.”
“I bet,” she laughs softly.
Straightening, I drag my hand over my neck. “I’m sorry about this elimination situation. Do you need to relieve yourself right now?” I assume she must. I certainly do, but I believe I’ll visit the outhouse and find out for myself what sort of shape it’s in and what repairs it needs just in case Sanna uses it during her stay here.
She grimaces. “If you wouldn’t mind…”
I pat her shoulder. “I’ll be outside. I have a couple of animals to bed down for the evening and a few things I need to check on, so you’ll have plenty of privacy.” I move to leave, but seeing the puddle of water that’s accumulated at my feet reminds me. “Before I forget, Ekan provided me a few sets of clothing he thought might fit you.” I’d set the wax-paper wrapped bundle on my bed without a thought earlier, and now I cross to it and hand it to Sanna. “You’ll have time to change into something dry while I’m gone too.”
Her fingers touch my wrist cuff and skim my arm just above it. “Thank you, Breslin.”
“You’re welcome,” I manage before I pull away from her warmth and drive myself out into the rain.
CHAPTER 11
> SANNA
Breslin’s muffled voice is cautious as he calls through the door, “Are you decent?”
Kota growls to warn me someone is talking to us through the door, as if I didn’t know—but I have to admire her restraint. Normally she goes berserk and barks like someone is trying to use a battering ram instead of knocking. It’d be a little bit overkill for her to go nuts here when this isn’t our house and the owner is in fact being nothing but extra polite. “You can come in!”
The door no more than shuts behind him when Breslin starts cursing. I catch a hissed, “Ekan, you waste-stirring meddler!”
“What?” My hand fumbles Kota’s harness handle. “What’s the matter?”
Instead of answering, Breslin mutters, “Let me change out of these wets and I’ll fetch you a shirt of mine.”
I look down at myself as if I can see what’s wrong. “What am I wearing?” The outfit I’d picked out had fabric that felt like it would be comfortable enough to sleep in. The blousey top has a band that fits tighter around my chest so that it feels like a relaxed bra. Dread fills my stomach. I hate feeling stupid, or helpless, and I feel both of those things now as I wonder what I’m dressed in. I went to public school where kids with sight had no compunction about teasing the blind girl for the ugly style or color of her clothes. Some baggage never quite unpacks does it? The backs of my eyes start stinging.
“It’s very pretty.”
I blink my eyes until the stinging stops. “Then why…?”
I hear the wet plop of soaked clothes hitting the floor and I half turn out of courtesy even though I know he knows I can’t see him.
“Let’s just say what he gave you is… alluring.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek and offer, “Let me look for something else.”
“Don’t bother,” Breslin says. “I don’t trust that Ekan provided you with anything that wasn’t designed to make a man lose his mind.”
Now I’m blinking for a whole different reason.
Breslin digs around in a drawer before he presses a soft shirt into my hands. I wonder if I should turn, or sit on the toilet and pull the curtain for privacy, but in the end decide to put his shirt on right here, right over my alluring, pretty clothes.
I’m in the middle of berating myself for being oddly relieved that Breslin doesn’t see me as sexless, so it takes him two tries to get my attention. “Sorry,” I say. “Try again.”
“What does Kota need?”
I like that he cares enough to ask. “She eats meat and drinks water. And do you have something soft she can sleep on? Although she gets hot so she might choose the floor anyway…” I trail off as I consider again where I’m expected to sleep.
I’ve felt my way around the cabin twice. I’m very, very familiar with it: it’s not very big. I know for a fact that there’s only one bed.
Breslin moves around me, and I hear something with soft mass hit the floor with a hefty puff. “Bed,” he says to himself more than us, “and I can put water in this,” I hear the squeak of old hinges and the scrape of a dish being dragged out of the cupboard before the sound of running water reaches my ears. “Just need meat,” he muses. “Will she eat stew?”
I worry my lip. “Let’s try that, thank you.”
I don’t say anything more, and when he doesn't either, I wonder what he’s waiting for.
Heat nears my skin and holds there a second, signalling his intention before his hand cups my elbow. “Sanna, I’m used to animals. Something seems to be nipping at you but I can’t even begin to guess what you need. I like that you can talk to me, remember? So tell me: what’s wrong?”
Something inside me loosens slightly. “You’re absolutely right—and same for you. You’ll have to be clear with what you… expect,” I rush on, “but I was just thinking that no matter what we try to feed Kota, if it’s too different from what she’s used to, it could make her sick. I wasn’t going to say that though since we unfortunately have no choice.”
He gives my elbow a squeeze and it’s ridiculously reassuring. “One step at a time. We’ll see how she does on a small portion and hopefully she’ll adjust just fine.”
Another bowl is pulled out of the cupboard and I feel a rush of cool air before he says, “Ice box. There’s always leftover food in here if you need it, although everything is bound to be quite a surprise for your system. We’ll have to go easy with you too.”
I hear a small hissp and I recognize the scent of flame. “Stove’s heating our food…you drink water and eat stew too, yes?”
I grin. “Yes.”
He exhales pure relief. “Good. Let me know what you think of the taste.”
“Just as long as it’s not Meesahrah,” I tease.
He makes a dismissive noise but it’s weighted with amusement. “No, no, for tonight I’ve decided she’s all wrong for stew.”
“Benevolent of you.”
There’s nowhere to sit. This is going to be tricky because I rarely stand while eating. It’s too easy for me to tilt or drop my bowl or my cup. I suppose I could eat on the bed but I hate to drop crumbs or potentially spill things in places I’m intending to sleep so I stand at the stove with Breslin, listening to him stir.
I’m pleasantly surprised to reach out and find the counter is taller than the ones at home—it stands at nearly my elbow-height. This is good: I can work with this.
Breslin’s quiet in a relaxed way that makes me think he’s used to being alone. Instead of filling the time with nervous chatter, I focus on absorbing the sounds and smell and feel of things around me.
Something scrapes and from the motion of the sound I know Breslin is transferring our food to bowls. He warns, “This will be hot.” Metallic clinks give me the impression he just plunked down spoons or the space-equivalent.
He asks, “Do you have a custom before we begin? Words of grace to your Creator?”
I’m surprised he thought to ask. “I do, actually, but I take care of my thanks inside my head. Do you have words you want to say out loud?”
“I give my words of appreciation inside my mind also, then I eat.”
“Don’t wait on me to start. It’s going to take me a second to get oriented.” I place my hands on the lip of the counter, my fingers almost relax-curled so that I can sense my space around me without accidentally knocking anything over. I begin exploring, slowly pushing my hands forward, careful to keep my palms resting on the counter surface, and when the fingers of my right hand bump into a utensil, I find and identify my spoon. My big, big spoon. I feel like a Goldilocks that settled in at the first cabin she came to. It’s a silly thought that makes me smile, and I’m not worried: I can make do with big cutlery.
The glazed, round edge I encounter with the thumb of my left hand is the rim of my bowl—warm with the stew it contains—and when I go seeking a little further, the bottom edge of my cup nudges my right pinkie.
Unless cups are more animated here than they are at home, it had help. My lips curve up. “Thank you,” I say to my silent observer.
“You’re welcome,” Breslin says quietly. Easily. He doesn’t sound uncomfortable in way that watching a blind person can cause some sighted people to grow apprehensive. Instead, in two words he manages to convey a tranquil sort of I’m-in-no-rush-observing-your-process as I learn my surroundings.
I trace my fingers up the cup’s side to find it’s more of a mug, which is even better. “Have you interacted with anyone like me before?” He’s very easy to be around; his presence so laid back I don’t feel self-conscious or on edge. I slip my hands through the very large handle, and bring it up to get a drink. When was the last time I had water? I don’t know, but I am thirsty. So thirsty that despite noticing the giant’s handle, I don’t give the size of the mug a thought—and I should have. It’s huge compared to what I’m used to, and the thicker edge clinks against my teeth.
“With the exception of the occasional Gryfala—how they manage to pick out the lookest Narwari yet overlook their sh
ockingly bad attitudes I’ll never question, because it keeps me flush in jobs but krit—you’re the first real alien I’ve entertained here. Unless Na’riths count, but I’ve known Ekan for an age and more moons than we have in our solar system.”
I’m waiting for the word ‘blind’ to come up but… it doesn’t.
Breslin took my question at face value: he sees me as an alien.
Not a blind alien.
Just… an alien.
Feeling refreshed to a degree that’s surprising considering everything exhausting that’s happened today—I dip my spoon into my soup, and take a taste. My tongue basically slathers around my bite and my stomach jumps in anticipation of my meal making it down. “This is great.”
“Good. I’m relieved you enjoy it.” Breslin sounds pensive. “I was wondering what else would be to your liking. I’m afraid I have no reference; we’ll have to do a bit of testing.”
I’m three bites in before I can force myself to slow down enough to answer. “If it tastes like this, count me in for testing anything.”
Breslin chuckles. “Excellent attitude.”
More like excellent food. And a really, really nice host.
When we’re done eating, Breslin asks if we want to brave the rain one last time to give Kota a chance to do her business.
He dons a slicker and gallantly helps me into mine, we squelch back into soggy footwear sans socks and the entire time I pace with Kota, I’m freezing up a little. Not from the temperature outside, but my nerves.
When we step back inside, Kota shakes herself off before Breslin can bring me a towel, but thankfully he’s only stunned—not bothered. He’s never cared for a furry being before, he tells me as he mops up the frigid spray of water. I apologize profusely, he brushes my apologies away, I unharness Kota and she lays down on the bed Breslin provided her.
I hang up my slicker, and try to fortify myself to approach the bed Breslin and I are going to share. I’m telling myself I have nothing to worry about, and I remind myself of some facts. Like, for example, how I wasn’t aware of my outfit, but Breslin was—and with no prompting from me he chose to cover me in his shirt. It doesn’t seem like the action of an alien who expects me to have sex with him. But sleeping in the same bed with a stranger—an alien stranger—it’s an entirely different thing. At least, it could be. With Breslin… I might be way off, but I don’t think he’d force me. I haven’t gotten a danger vibe from him at all, and not a pushy one either. Does he have expectations he just hasn’t voiced? Am I strong enough to stop him if he tries to force me?
