by Amanda Milo
“Well, San San, you’re here now, where no one will form a like or dislike of you based on the filaments that grow on your limbs.”
San San? I melt even as I snicker. “My limbs? As if I have so many. It’s just my legs.”
“No… there is hair growth along your arms too,” Breslin says carefully.
I full out laugh. “Yes but nobody cares about that. Under my arms though; that’s a different story.”
“Whoa.” He leans away a little and says the word in the way he uses it to halt his alienhorse. “You mean to tell this Garthmaw that you go to the trouble of shearing your leg hair, only to leave the hair intact on your arms—yet you worry about the fluff that stays hidden under your upper limbs which are covered under clothes?”
“It’s not as ridiculous as you make it sound.”
“I beg to differ,” his voice is almost faint amid his confusion. “Who will even know it’s there?”
“Well at home, other people would see.”
“Why would they care?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who are these people? Who has the time to notice?”
“I guess it’s noticeable? I get what you’re saying, and it’s not like I notice it on other women.”
“Then if it doesn’t bother you, why would you care if they care?”
“I don’t… I know it sounds nuts.” My fingertips catch on one of his cheek grooves. I’ve wondered about these things ever since he let me learn his face that first day. Maybe these grooves are common features on his people. Or he could be horribly, tragically disfigured—but all I feel is interesting texture. I haven’t asked him because I don’t care what he looks like. In all the ways that matter, Breslin is beautiful.
And evidently he doesn’t have leg hair. Or if he does, he sure doesn’t cut it.
His fingers close over mine, catching my hand over his face to capture my attention. “I know a little of shearing animals. How does a human shave?”
“I sit down so I don’t kill myself and I take a razor and—carefully—run it over my hairy spots.”
“If it would make you comfortable, I’ll fetch you a razor.”
Under his hand where he’s keeping me pressed to his face, I manage to pat his cheek. “You’re right; no one will care here. I’ll be fine.”
“I want you to be at ease. Let’s take the hair off.”
“Wait, ‘lets?’ Are we doing this together now?”
“You’ve piqued my curiosity. I confess I want to watch an alien shear her leg fur.”
My leg is still propped over his knee, and he’s sort of holding me as he admits this sudden desire. This is so strange.
But he’s done so much for me. Until this, he hasn’t gotten close to asking for anything and I find I want to give him something back—even if it is just letting him watch me shave. “Is the blade you’re familiar with basically a long, sharp, sharp knife?”
“Of course.”
“Like for man’s face?”
He leans away from me but unconsciously tightens our hands to his jaw. “For a man’s face?!”
I chortle at his reaction. “Where I’m from, men shave their faces.”
“Your kind sound like they have an obsession with cutting what grows naturally. Next you’ll tell me you cut your mane hair.”
“Well…”
He drops my hand. “Crite, I knew it.”
I scritch Kota behind the ears, feeling her raise her head higher when Breslin speaks then turning towards me when I talk. “Forget your horror at the oddness of human customs for just a moment, your alienfeelings aren’t important right now—”
“You sass-mouthed mite.”
He delivers this with no heat, and I’m grinning as I finish. “—I don’t know how to safely use a straight razor. Do you think you can do it without cutting me? You’d only have to do it up to my knees.”
He’s aghast. “You trust me to shear you?”
“Okay, I wasn’t going to say anything, but my people call it shaving.”
“Oh. When we take off a fur blanket without its hide skin we call it shearing.”
Now I’m aghast. “It’s a fur BLANKET?!”
“Well,” he stammers adorably, “Maybe more like small pelts—”
I wail.
Kota howls.
Breslin drops my foot, releasing me from my ‘hoof’-check. “Enough, enough: cease squalling—I’m getting the blade. Seat yourself and stop that loathsome noise.”
I snicker into Kota’s neck and she pants happily.
***
Legs shaved—no nicks, just one slightly stressed alien who for all his curiosity, could only bring the blade up to my mid-calf without balking (he said his nerves couldn’t take de-pelting and he’d heard about laser technologies being tested in his capital, and maybe they’d like to de-hair an alien leg or two)—we’re ready to roll out of the farm yard.
I’m full of curiosity during our first foray together to a training and hoof trimming appointment. It officially kicks off with Meesahrah jostling Cohrah out of the way for the privilege of pulling our wagon, and Breslin oversees more driving practice for me as he directs me to our destination.
I love driving. It’s second only to walking Kota.
When we pull up at an area that changes from gravel crunching under our tires—ah, make that wagon wheels—to softer grass that lets the wheels sink a little, Breslin tells me to call a stop to Meesahrah.
I’m taking in the smells (more Narwari) and sounds (honking Narwari) when I hear Meesahrah start snapping her teeth.
Breslin quietly warns, “Don’t you dare.”
A new voice calls, “Ah, Meesahrah. Being pleasant as alway—krit, is that a woman?”
The wagon edges forward and the reins go taut in my hands and when Meesahrah’s fangs scissor together again, Breslin brings his hand down heavily on the seat, making it vibrate under us as he growls, “Bite him and I will fashion your teeth into jewelry for Sanna to wear.”
“Don’t bring me into this. Hi,” I wave to the stranger. Kota shifts beside my leg and I can tell she’s waving her paw too.
“Well hello, beauty,” he pauses in that way people do when they’re regarding someone, “And beasts. Something the matter, Breslin?” he says by way of greeting.
Breslin doesn’t say anything back.
The stranger doesn’t seem to notice. His attention seems to be caught up in other things. “If I didn’t know better, she almost looks like a Gryfala. I’ve heard a Garthmaw attracts rare treasures, but crite! What can you tell me about the lovelies you’ve brought?”
“Sanna?” Breslin says slowly. “This was Fellmoor.”
...Was?
Breslin does not extend the greeting Fellmoor, this is Sanna, like I expect. Maybe his culture doesn’t add this particular nicety.
Or maybe Breslin’s beyond the ability to be polite. His words sound like they have fangs longer than Meesahrah’s. “Sanna, hold my trimmers.” Something heavy shudders as he drags it from where it rested near my feet before it’s weight is laid across my lap. “I just sharpened the blades on these. We should all be careful. They’ll cut clean through anything that dares to stick out.” Another heavy item is dragged past my foot. “And here’s the emasculator. Any salkell needing to be controlled around salks can be fixed right with these. Will they be needed this visit, Fellmoor?”
I set my hand on the bench between us, my little finger brushing Breslin’s thigh. His voice sounds warning-tense, no teasing—he’s not fondly annoyed like he was with Meesahrah. Not fond at all.
Two of Breslin’s big fingers tap the back of my hand twice, and it’s mostly reassuring. Nobody’s died yet.
Fellmoor sounds like he shuffles back and his voice turns flat. “What the krit crawled in your boot? If anyone needs controlling it’s not me. Crite! You’ve been in the business of intimidating poor beasts too long; next you’ll pull out the hoofrasp and warn me that it works on stones.”
There’s a metallic snap. The emasculator?
Fellmoor sighs gustily. “Message received. You can quit swinging around your kritted tool.”
Breslin relaxes, and despite the somewhat inauspicious start, Breslin’s humor returns as he works on the first Narwari. Listening to him is a treat; he’s got a really nice, smooth voice and eventually even though his words and commands are meant for an animal, I have to fan myself when he rumbles, “Don’t panic love; I’m mounting up now. Goood, there’s a good salk, yes.”
I shift on the seat and Kota who had been panting up at me goes abruptly silent, her breath-puffs no longer hitting my arm. I ghost my fingertips over her muzzle, and find she’s biting her lip; that’s what cut off her breathing. This is her quizzical look. It’s like she’s wondering what the heck is going on with me.
That makes two of us. This alienman is just trying to do his job and I have no business reacting to him, geez.
Without warning, the wagon rolls forward.
“MEESAHRAH, STAY.”
Even I don’t move. My ears are ringing—my stars Breslin can be loud.
“Sanna?”
I drop my hands from where I’m covering Kota’s ears. “Yeah?”
“Are you alright?”
“We’re fine. No worries; it just startled me.”
“The wagon taking off or my shout?” he ask knowingly.
I chuckle. “Let’s just say I wasn’t expecting either.” I’m quiet for a moment. Breslin’s voice sounds like far-off thunder as he murmurs soft commands to the animal he’s training. “Will it interrupt you if I ask questions while you work?”
“Not at all. I need to show more than speak at the moment; communication for this part is mostly done with the body. Leg commands and guiding with the rein.”
Very cool. “Will Meesahrah be having little Meesahrahs?”
“A terrifying thought.”
“Oh please. You make it sound like she’s a terror.”
“She is.”
“You’d love her babies.” As if she’s agreeing with me, Meesahrah chooses this moment to moo.
I can hear Breslin smiling even though I think I detect that his words sound a little bit sad. “Meesahrah hasn’t settled with a pair of salkells, and she’s a bit advanced in age for breeding; if she hasn’t chosen her males by now, she likely never will.”
“Wait, girls pick two boys?”
“Salks pick two salkells.”
“How… how does that even work?”
“Both keep her company in the manner you’d expect in order for there to result in offspring, but in nature, one salkell is left to raise the offspring while the other salkell and the salk do the hunting. In captivity, fed well in their paddock or no, they still require a trio before they’ll breed.”
“Sounds complicated.”
“Keeps prices driven up; Narwari are tricky to multiply and that works well and fair for me. Unless you want to break a wild Narwari you buy a captive bred one, and not many attempt it. Even fewer are successful. Even so, there are only so many farms that manage to raise offspring.”
“Does your farm?”
“When the Creator smiles on me.” He clucks to the Narwari he’s riding. “Hup, hup. Gooood. Aren’t you a treasure? Look how well you’re doing.”
My lips curve, listening to him. “I’ve wondered how dog trainers part with their guide dog pupils.” My hand finds Kota’s neck and I sink my fingers into her ruff. “It’s like, how do you manage without getting attached? Well, you’d know: what’s your secret?”
“Keep in mind I can't speak for dog trainers...” He murmurs something to the Narwari-in-training before the sound of him sliding off her back reaches my ears. He praises her lavishly and even Kota wags her tail. Even though they aren’t aimed at us his affirmations of worthiness feel good. “What's my secret? I always get attached. I just cut a little bit of my heart away when I send them off.”
“That’s so sad.”
“Ah, that's the nature of the business. The gift is in connecting with great souls, making my living by leaving them a little better than I found them; I'm not meant to keep them.”
He moves to his next pupil. “This is the smallest salkell I’ve ever seen. My heels will touch the ground when I ride him, krit.”
“Really?”
“No, but… nearly.”
“Does that mean he’s too small to do work?”
“Oh he’ll do fine; Narwari are strong. A three day old could carry you, and in a season, any weanling could carry me. Smaller does not equate to weaker, not in this species.”
Puttering around us is Fellmoor, who’s been cleaning Narwari tack while he waits for Breslin’s training sessions to end. I ask Fellmoor if I can help, and that’s how I end up confirming the source of Breslin’s de facto cologne: he smells like Narwari, salty island chips—and Iechydmaw saddle soap. It seems like we should be eating the paste instead of rubbing it into leather. This stuff smells good enough to lick. While my hands keep busy, Fellmoor is actually nice company, telling interesting stories from when he and Breslin were boys and Breslin was following his father and grandfather out on training Comms.
Supposedly there was a time when Breslin was small—difficult to picture—and because he had nerves of steel and could cling like a... some sort of tree dwelling creature? My translator keeps popping in a mental idea of a person singing—anyway, Breslin was often the first one to ride newly-broke Narwari. Apparently, there were times his job could get rather harrowing.
Fellmoor’s stories are so outrageous I’m laughing and Breslin is letting his legend build by not uttering a word of protest which only makes the stories funnier until finally he breaks and belly laughs so loud Kota barks happily.
But then his laughter cuts off abruptly. I wonder why until his hand lands on my lower back and he murmurs, “Hurts?”
It does ache but the fact that he noticed? “How…?”
“Look at your nose wrinkle,” he laughs under his breath, and I hear what he doesn’t say: you’re a strange little alien, but I’m fond of you. “I saw you grimace even as you were attempting to smile,” he explains. “You tried to rub right here,” he murmurs, one of his knuckles hitting the spot better than I was able to manage. “Is it the seat? It isn’t the most forgiving. Do you want to try walking it out?”
“In just a minute,” I confirm. “Please don’t let me keep you from whatever magic you’re working. On me, not the Narwari—you just keep massaging in case that wasn’t clear.”
“Ha, the Narwari act like they believe it’s magic too.” He thinks he’s making a joke, but I’m not so sure his Narwari are wrong about this ability he has. Some of my muscles loosen like he’s ordering them to do it, and when they don’t all listen, he digs his thumb and fingers into them until everything submits under his ministrations.
I basically melt into a useless puddle of goo.
“There,” he croons, digits giving one last tender massage before he drops his hand. “Let me help you both down and you can stretch your legs a bit before we trek to the homestead.”
By the time we leave Fellmoor’s farm, none of the weirdness that we came in with remains, and Breslin seems much more relaxed, parting ways with his client/friend in an upbeat mood.
I’m so relieved that I fail to take notice of the little signs my body was trying to give me.
***
I’m normally a prepared person. But yesterday there was the thing with Fellmoore and Breslin and I got distracted. Then there was Breslin talking to Fellmoor’s Narwari and I got distracted.
You could say I really like it when Breslin uses his trainer voice—a smooth, low weapon of sound that hypnotizes beasts with an ease rivaled only by how well it works on me. I started asking him questions while he was in work-voice mode just to give myself a thrill.
He was telling me what everyone does to prepare for each of this planet’s seasons, what crops need planting or pruning or harvesting. With so much to do and an e
ver-changing array of tasks, he doesn’t have much time to get bored. With my arrival in his life, he’s really not going to get bored. That becomes obvious about five seconds after we wake up.
Breslin’s just rolling out of bed—and we’ve well established this routine where he gets up, does the bathroom, dressing, and bite-of-breakfast thing and heads for the barn—and on a normal day, once I hear him rummaging in the kitchen that’s my cue.
I crawl out from under the cooling (formerly Breslin-heated) covers, promise Kota I’ll be just a few minutes, and by the time Breslin tells me he’ll see me at the barn before he shuts the door behind him, I’ll be doing my morning routine in privacy just like I prefer to.
But this morning, when Breslin moves off the bed, he doesn’t have to cup my shoulder and ask me if I’m alive—because I’m awake. So awake. I’m experiencing that odd snap to consciousness where I go from completely vampire-dead to fully risen and I’m instantly aware of exactly why. It’s care of my instantly angry uterus who has a blatant disregard for the fact we’re stranded on an alien planet where Kotex is not a thing and our temporarily adopted alienman can’t make a quick run to the store for us even if he wanted to.
The signs were there: the backache yesterday that came out of nowhere, the tightness in my head—just a light headache but lurking like the warning it was trying to be. I missed it, and I missed my chance to bring this up to Breslin before I started oozing blood on his bed.
It feels like my uterus has been on a complete a rampage while I tried to innocently snooze away. Achey, sloppy, bloating; ugh. I’m careful not to shift so as not to upset the fragile balance: I feel a trickle between my legs but this can easily become a red Niagara falls. My voice comes out rusty but alert: “Do you have something that will mop up blood?”
Breslin’s voice comes out gravelly and attractively deep—and more alert than even mine. “Blood?”
I’ve got to hand it to this alien, he rolls with anything. He’s instantly in action.
“Don’t move,” he orders. His feet thud softly to the floor. “Where are you bleeding? Why? And why don’t you sound alarmed?”
“It’s my—”
“Here,” he’s already back and pressing something soft against my hand.
