by Aubrey Cara
More water? “Well, thank you, Alogorian government, for keeping this place stocked.” I wonder if I could talk him into dumping one over my head. Slowly. I’m gritty and gross from dried sweat.
“Thank the farmers and the hunters. They are the ones who keep them supplied.”
“Oh.” Things are so different here. “We kind of have places like this on Earth. They’re called hostels, but you still have to pay to stay at most of them.”
“Come,” he says, his voice husky. “You do not appear well.” He’s shaken out the furs and waves me over.
With the first step I take, pain shoots up my leg from my foot. My breath hisses out. It seems my body knows it’s safe to shut down and is doing just that. Survivor mode has officially been turned off.
Oathar is at my side in two long strides and scoops me up in his arms. I don’t have the will to protest. Every muscle in my body aches, so when he settles me gently on the furs and starts checking my feet, I lie still for his inspection. He tsks over their state and grabs a clay jug of water and a leather they consider a cloth. He surprises me by slowly pouring water down one foot and then the next.
He gives my legs the same treatment, and grimy rivulets trail down them. He soaks the cloth in his hand and washes me.
“I’m not so tired that I can’t clean myself.” My words are somewhat slurred, even to my own ears, and I stay lying like a lump as he tends to me. When he starts stripping away what’s left of my makeshift clothes and the awful harness he made me wear, I’m not even embarrassed. It’s a testament to how exhausted I truly am.
I think I might be suffering from heat exhaustion, and dehydration.
By the time he gets to my hair, I’m drowsing in and out of consciousness. Is it possible to feel broken and pampered at the same time? Because that’s how I’m feeling right now. A couple hours in the Alogorian desert kicked my ass, but the gentle, soothing way Oathar treats me is better than any spa treatment I’ve ever received.
I groan when he pulls me up to stand on my wobbly legs and sore feet, but moan appreciatively when he starts pouring little bits of water out over me. I’m shivering by the time he has a new set of furs laid out. He places a blanket around my body before settling me back down. He grabs the wet furs and heads to the opening, my eyes already rolling closed.
“I will hang these to dry and then cook the gupa,” I hear him say as if from a distance. A dark haze is descending over me.
OATHAR
Bombee was right. I was not adequately prepared to bring a human home. Already, her body rejects Lehor. She has sores on her feet. Her beautiful lips are broken. Her skin stopped excreting, but the pungent odor I had to bathe from her body must be a sign of illness. How long will my yhar survive inside her if she does not thrive? My stomach clenches just thinking of anything happening to her, and it is not just my young I worry about.
I smooth her hair away from her face and study her features. She did not stir when I cooked the gupa and tried to wake her to eat, and she does not stir now. At least she has stopped shaking. She shook until her teeth clicked together, and I feared the worst. I could do nothing but hold her until she calmed.
Her pallid and weak state is my fault.
I do not know how to care for her. For the first time since becoming Yon Tor, I am powerless. Even if the Monrok do not ask for her, I will give her up to them. I must. They will know how to care for her, and be able to protect her in ways I cannot. I see that now.
From the moment she began showing signs of illness, a weight settled on my chest, and now it’s all but suffocating me. If she is not awake by sunrise, I will run to the village and collect a conveyance to bring her back. Once she’s settled in at my domicile, she will be safe and comfortable, and I can work on finding the Monrok.
I cannot keep her.
I’m not sure when I began thinking I would. The instinct to grow so attached to a mating partner is unnatural. Everything about this female is irrational, and her imprudence must be spreading to me.
I wrap my arms around her warm body and bury my face in the crook of her neck. My tongue flicks out, gathering her taste and scent to memory. As I savor the feel of her against me, a strange hollow ache has settled in my chest.
“I am sorry,” I tell my little human, but it’s more than just her being ill that causes my guilt and sorrow. I am sorry I have to let her go.
Disquietingly so.
Countless times, I have lectured my son for his behavior, but now feel as if I’m the young and foolish one. Unfit to be Yon Tor.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Earth Girl’s Guide to Surviving an Alien Abduction
Tip #71
Always try to learn your alien captor’s language.
You never known when it will come in handy.
BAMBI
My eyes aren’t even open, and my head is pounding. I’m hungover without the benefit of getting to party the night before. I haven’t suffered heat exhaustion and dehydration like this since my first trip to Cancun on spring break, my freshman year of college.
Hesitantly, I crack one lid open and then the other. Faint light through the opening of our dugout casts everything in a soft glow, so I know it must be early. Hopefully, not all the suns are up, and we can travel before it gets too hot.
Oathar’s leg and arm are pressed against mine, so I know he’s there without looking. I’m kind of surprised he’s not up yet. I roll to my side before sitting up, but every muscle in my body still protests. Sleeping on the ground two nights in a row is really making me wonder why people choose to camp.
I’m a big fan of comfy beds and fluffy pillows. Down comforters and Egyptian cotton sheets, I want a bed. And a pillow. Groan. Earth. I want Earth. My tried and true planet of green and blue with iTunes and cafes and grocery stories and underwear. If I were there, I’d tell all the dudes at NASA to cut it out with all that “wanting to explore new worlds” and focus on protecting the one we got. Or at least all the hapless fems like me who are literally getting shipped off to make alien babies.
I gaze down at my abdomen. Tan and slightly pudgy it looks the same and it always has and wonder if I’m really growing alien eggs in there. With any luck, this carrier-of-life gig affords me some luxuries. Hell, I hope there are some luxuries here to be afforded.
Beast Boy keeps telling me we’re heading to his house, but I haven’t thought to ask for details. From the corner of my eye, I swear I see fleas jumping around the furs covering us, and I fling them back.
Ugh, I’m not sure how much more Alogorian living I can take.
The Green Acres theme song plays in my head as I stand up and stretch then notice some left over scorpzilla meat. My stomach rumbles loudly, reminding me I haven’t eaten in forever. I take a small bite off one of the strips to test if it’s still good, but I’m too hungry to care. I rip off a good chunk with my teeth and shove it all in my mouth, trying not to think about how good bacon, eggs, croissants, and a café au lait would be right now.
Chocolate. Sweet goodness, I need some chocolate.
Glancing over my shoulder at Oathar, I reach my toe out and give his foot a wiggle through the furs. “Come on sleepyhead. Time to get your bent cabbage to ye domicile before the three suns have risen to the sky,” I say in Shakespearean voice then internally wince. My head aches so bad even talking hurts.
It’s going to be a long day.
Some alien Tylenol would be super awesome.
Oathar doesn’t even twitch. Alien man is sleeping hard.
“Come on, big guy.” I plop down on the furs next to Oathar and shake his shoulder. The furs fall away, and I get my first good look at Oathar this morning. His usual healthy honey-toned scales are a pallid green. When I spot how dark-purple and swollen the gash on his shoulder is, my breath seizes. Dark veins of purplish-black under his skin shootout from the gash.
Alien or not, that’s gotta mean infection, right? Oh Mother Mary full of grace…
“Oathar.” I pat his cheek
a little harder than I intended to, praying he wakes up. I want to shake him and demand he open his eyes this instant, but I continue to pat his cheek and chest. “Oathar, please, please, please wake up.”
His lids finally flutter open, but his usually bright-golden eyes are as murky as a scummy pond. He gazes at me through his hazy eyes like he doesn’t recognize me.
“Oathar? Are you okay?” It’s a stupid question. He’s obviously not.
“Bombee?” He reaches a hand out as if searching for me, and I grab it in mine.
“I’m here.”
“We must get you back to my domicile. You’re not well.” His words make me pause. I’m not well?
“Oathar, I think the cut on your shoulder is infected.”
“I should not have brought you here,” he mumbles. “You must go to the Monrok. They will know how to care for you.” With that, his eyes roll closed, and his hand goes limp in mine.
“Oathar?” I shake his good shoulder. “Oathar! Wake. Up.” He cannot just say shit like that and die.
Heart pounding, I search the dugout for something that could help him, my frantic gaze finally landing on the awful harness and leash he made me wear. I snatch it off the ground and slide the strip under his shoulder. Great goodness, he’s heavy. Tying a tourniquet on his shoulder above his gash isn’t easy.
I stand to tighten it, using my foot on his chest as leverage. He groans lightly, and I take that as a good sign. “Sorry, Beast Boy. This has to be done.”
My eyes keep going to the opening of the dugout. I swear I can hear movement out there, and I try not to hyperventilate at the thought of another huzzah scouting for food. I never asked where they lived. Do they burrow? Why didn’t I ask these things on our million mile hike through the desert?
Spotting Oathar’s harness, with his weapons—no leash attachment to his harness—I throw it on over my shoulders with an umph. It’s too big and much heavier than I thought it would be, but, with a few adjustments to get the straps to stay on my shoulders, it works.
Slowly, I move toward the opening. There is no stone slab covering it, but it tunnels about a foot and a half back, so I can’t see anything that’s not ground level from my vantage point. I’m going to have to climb out.
I so don’t want to climb out there.
I have no idea what I’ll find...or what will find me.
I’m never going to survive in an alien desert.
Hell, I wouldn’t survive an Earth desert.
And I’m naked.
No good things have come from wandering a desert naked!
What’s my plan?
As pep talks go, I’m really sucking the life out of my rescue efforts before they’ve even begun. I’ve gotta get a grip. I stare at Oathar’s sickly form, worry knotting my stomach. He already looks half dead. I have to get him help. I’m his only hope. I’m his mother-freakin-Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Rolling my shoulders, I hop in place a little to get my blood flowing and psych myself up. I’m Obi-Wan. I’ve got this. I’m going to save the day.
This.
Is.
Happening.
Wait…didn’t Obi-Wan die?
Dude. Yes. He totally died.
But with honor.
He went out fighting, cause he’s a badass. And so am I.
I scoot back as far as I can to give myself a little bit of a running start, and… jump straight into the wall below the opening.
Shit. That hurt.
There’s throbbing points where weapon handles smashed into my chest. It takes a second to catch my breath. I think I nicked myself with one of the knives. Am I bleeding? I look down. Shit. I’m bleeding. I underestimated the weight of the harness.
Taking off the damned weapon-laden fetwear, I toss it up onto the ledge of the opening. I can put that on once I’m on the other side. Let’s try this again.
This time, I don’t take the running start. Instead I do a pull hop, as if I’m getting out of a pool without a ladder. My arms scream, and I have to scrape my poor, abused toes along the wall for leverage, but I finally get my upper body and one leg up, and then the other.
Holy crap, this place needs ladders. I’d like to say I’m totally out of shape because of finals and summer vacay, but, honestly, I don’t think I was ever in pull-myself-out-of-a-giant-hole-in-the-ground shape. I roll onto my back and scoot out of the opening, into the sun. The rays aren’t scorching hot just yet, which is a good sign. Catching my breath, I brush the sand and dirt off my face. I open my eyes and scream.
A spear is in my face.
Whoops, there’s another one.
Okay, I was not expecting that.
I jerk my hands up, palms wide in surrender. Two Alogorians in loincloths are standing over me in a not-so-friendly manner—as I mentioned, their spears are in my face. They eye me from my naked head to naked feet curiously. Only one deems me not a threat enough to draw back his weapon. The other…I’m not sure if he’s a stab first, ask questions later kind of alien, or in shock because he’s never seen a human, but he’s not backing down.
“Who are you?” the hostile one asks.
It takes me a second to remember this is a good thing. These are Oathar’s people. They will help him. “I’m Bambi Rodriguez, and I come in peace. Your Yon Tor is very sick, and you need to help him.”
Both the Alogorians seem confused. They start speaking rabidly to each other. My translator is going nuts picking up every other word, but I’m getting the gist they do not have super-neato translators in their heads like I do.
Great.
Getting up slowly, I wave my hands to get their attention again and try to think of what I can say.
Mr. Spear Happy shoves the pointy end in my face once again, and I put my hands back up and try to remain calm. Or at least calm-ish.
“Yon Tor,” I begin, and point to the opening of the dugout, not taking my eyes off of the spear. Their gazes trail to the dugout and then back to me. Their eyes narrow, but I have their attention. “Yon Tor and huzzah.” I point in the distance. “Huzzah grrrrr—ahhh!” I put my hands into claws mimicking the huzzah. “Yon Tor, arrrggg.” I then playact Oathar fighting and getting his shoulder slashed, hoping it doesn’t appear as if I’m thrashing around.
I point to the dugout again and shout, “Yon Tor, Yon Tor, Yon Tor,” like an idiot.
They look at each other then, skeptically, one hunches down before entering. He calls out to his buddy for aid and the other guy gives me one glare before disappearing inside. I bend down, and am relieved to see they are lifting Oathar and carrying him over to the opening. They hop out and pick his limp form back up.
I wisely snatch up my nasty huzzah umbrella and trail behind them. The blisters on my feet are screaming in protest with every step I take, but I try to ignore them. The ground isn’t hot, but I know from experience it will be scorching by mid-morning.
For a minute, I want to weep, thinking I’m going to have to follow them as they carry him all the way back to wherever they came from, but then I notice a conveyance. I groan in relief and send up a thank you to whatever big guy in the sky reigns around these parts.
The conveyance the guys are heading to is nothing like the cool hovercraft, or a shuttle, that’s for sure. Technology need not apply here. Wagon would be a generous term. This is an old-school desert sleigh of some sort. There are no wheels, just runners, made from what, I don’t know. The box part is the strange purple wood material they have here, and it’s pulled by what I can only assume is a dinosaur.
The animal—and I use that term lightly—pulling it, is a cross between a stegosaurus, a rhino, and a water buffalo. Lehor has some serious Land Before Time wildlife. The closer we get, the more its stench singes my nose hairs. It stinks like the backside of a barn.
Lovely.
I’m having a sudden flashback to when Brianna was in 4H and dragged Brook and I to a county fair in August, because she was showing her cow. I eye the end of the stegorhinuffalo and hope we are out
of the splash zone if this thing decides to piss.
After they load up Oathar, I climb in and settle next to him. The Alogorians eye me speculatively. The aggressive one moves as if to pull me out. I kick out at him and growl.
“Leave it,” the other Alogorian tells him. “It seems harmless.”
“But we don’t even know what it is.”
Indignant that they keep calling me an it, I tell them, “I’m your Yon Tor’s bent cabbage yharrr.” I thump my chest. “Bent cabbage yharr. Yon Tor, bent cabbage yharr.”
Their eyes round in surprised understanding. “Bhnt ky’ab yhar?” says one.
I nod my head emphatically and point to myself. “Bent cabbage yhar. That’s me.”
Mr. Spear Happy makes a face. “You really think the Yon Tor mated with that thing?”
The other shrugs. “I find it somewhat appealing. Especially the lumps…have you ever seen the depictions of Umph Kaka?”
He shakes his head. “That is no Umph Kaka. It smells weird. And it has no tail!
“Don’t need a tail for mating. Plus, look, it has a maternal orifice,” the other points to my exposed bits.
I squeeze my legs closed, my cheeks burning. I give them a defiant snarl. “I’m your Yon Tor’s bent cabbage yhar, whether you think I smell good or not. And you”—I point to the one who obviously doesn’t like me—“you can go shove that spear up your tailless rear, Lizard Boy.”
“What do you think it’s saying?” Spear Boy asks.
“Don’t know, but I do not think she likes you.”
I snort. That’s right, I don’t.
“Let’s go. Yon Tor needs the healer. Bo’hob will know what to do with her once we get to the village.”
They both climb into the front of the rig and, and relief like I’ve never known swamps me as we start moving.
Out here in the full light of the sun, Oathar’s scales appear clammy. I want to get up and smack those two for not being more concerned over their Yon Tor’s state. I rest my hand on his chest, over his heart. I know it’s where his heart is because I can hear the strange rhythm of it each time I’m up against him.
