by Robert Brady
In fact they hadn’t seen Angron again, but the female, whose name they learned was, ‘Glynn,’ had become their constant companion. She directed Uman servants to make them clothing, a set of dresses with billowy skirts with hems down to her ankles for Melissa. They preferred tight waists and uplifting bodices that flattered her figure. Bill was measured for pants and long robes of red, blue and green, and blousy shirts that opened at the chest.
Glynn arrived early the following morning, knocking at their door after they’d finished their breakfast. They didn’t have coffee here (this bothered Bill but Melissa could live without it) but they did have a very heady tea with caffeine in it. They were drinking that when the Uman-Chi girl walked in.
“Good morning to you, my lord and lady,” Glynn said, smiling brightly to both of them. She’d dressed in the single white robe she always wore—Bill had guessed that it marked her station, but they hadn’t asked how.
“And to you, my Lady,” Bill said to her, smiling, in the language of Men. “May I pour some tea on you?”
Glynn smiled and corrected his grammar. In the language of Men, you could change the meaning of a sentence just by your inflection, and Bill was having trouble getting it right.
She accepted some tea from him and sipped it, sitting with them. She gazed out the window for a moment, clearly collecting her thoughts, and then without looking at either of them said, “I received a rather disturbing report that you invited your servants to eat with you.”
Melissa frowned. “Is that not allowed?” she asked in the Uman language. Bill shot her a warning look but she ignored it, focused on Glynn.
“It isn’t fair to the Uman,” Glynn said, gently chiding her. “They are not—” and then some word she didn’t understand.
Melissa repeated the word. Glynn tried again—this could be very frustrating some times, especially in a case like this when there wasn’t something to point to and say, “That thing right there—this is a word for that.”
Glynn patiently pointed out words to them at every opportunity, both in the languages of Man and Uman. She never became frustrated, she never seemed to mind repeating herself. Melissa couldn’t imagine how a girl who couldn’t be more than fifteen could be so even-tempered and patient, but apparently that was a big part of being an Uman-Chi.
“Today we do something good,” Glynn informed them, abandoning the word she’d been trying to teach Melissa. “I have horses for us to ride.”
The grin that split Bill’s face took thirty years off of him, Melissa thought. She’d seen him staring longingly after the horses they’d seen from their window. He hadn’t said anything to her, but she’d have to be blind to miss it.
“Where we ride?” he asked her.
“Where do we ride?” she corrected him. “There is a
Normally Bill would be all over learning the word he didn’t know—now he clearly didn’t care. Glynn stood and asked them to dress, and Bill was already tearing his clothes off.
That was another thing about the Fovean—they had about zero modesty. Glynn would stand right there while they changed, and she wouldn’t think twice about shucking her robe and squatting over a chamber pot if she needed to. Melissa hailed from New England, where it was unheard of to wear jeans to work.
They kept their clothes in an armoire—a big, wooden container with intricately-carved doors that opened out into the room. She pulled those open and stepped within their confines, dropping her robes and her simple dress and looking for something more appropriate for riding.
They’d made her high-topped boots as soft as leather could be, but no pants at all. She thought to ask Glynn but felt she knew what the answer would be: ladies do not wear pants here. She sighed and pulled out the lightest dress she could find.
Bill was already dressed out in chocolate brown leather pants, boots and a white pull-over cotton shirt that was open at his neck, with a wide black belt around his middle, by the time Melissa was ready. Glynn approached her and turned her around, cinched up the laces in the dress’ back and then turned her around, smiling.
Melissa painted on a smile. It could sometimes suck to be a girl.
* * *
Melissa hadn’t sat on horseback for ten years. Bill had apparently ridden for a big part of his life but hadn’t done so recently. They put him up on a big bay gelding, and found her a gentle palfrey with a sidesaddle.
She’d never seen a side-saddle before—it bore two stirrups on the left, one shorter than the other, on an otherwise normal saddle with a saddle horn and a high back. The Uman servant in the stable, dressed in brown pants and a white shirt buttoned to his collarbone and a red ascot, his green hair loose around his shoulders, walked the gentle mare to a mounting block—three steps that would take her almost to the horse’s height.
She guessed she was supposed to plant her butt on that.
“Can I get…” she began, but she didn’t know how to say, ‘normal’ or ‘saddle.’
Glynn frowned. “Afraid?” she asked.
Melissa shook her head. She climbed to the top of the mounting block and tapped the saddle, and asked ‘What is the word for this?’ in Uman.
“Shedell,” Glynn informed her.
She pointed at the saddle on Bill’s horse. Bill was still playing around with the cinch that held the saddle to the horse’s back—he’d already adjusted the stirrups. The Uman who attended him, dressed the same but older and with white hair, was speaking to him in the language of Men.
“What is the word for this?” she asked.
Glynn gave her the word for horse, but she shook her head. She pointed at the saddle, said, “Shedell,” and then she pointed at Bill’s saddle and said “Shedell-na.”
‘Different saddle.’
Glynn nodded, and pointed to hers. “Agla-def,” she said.
“For women.”
Melissa pointed to Bill’s saddle and said, “Melissa-def.”
“For Melissa.”
Glynn frowned more deeply, and pointed at Melissa’s saddle. “A woman must protect her—” and then a word she didn’t know but could easily guess at.
Glynn knew they slept together, so it couldn’t be virginity. Waddaya think, sister? she couldn’t help thinking, “It’s gonna rub off?”
She sighed and planted her butt gently on the saddle. Her feet found the two stirrups and she would have pushed herself off backwards on the other side if she hadn’t been able to grab the saddle horn. The Uman raised a hand and lowered the stirrups for her, and that made balancing easier.
She wanted a cigarette so bad she was ready to bite someone’s head off. Still, she smiled at the Uman, who smiled back up at her and led her horse out of the stables into the bright, sunny day outside.
Bill trotted out behind her on the gelding. The air was brisk but not too horribly cold—it must be near the start of spring here, she thought. Another Uman opened a gate outside of the stable entryway and the two of them rode into a covered arena lined by a wooden fence. There were other Uman in there, working other horses, some with ropes and long-handled whips teaching the horses to walk or trot properly, others riding on soft sand that seemed a good four inches deep. Before the Uman at the gate could close it, Glynn charged out of the stable on a little white mare with pink, flaring nostrils and blue eyes, also riding a side-saddle.
Glynn held her reins in one hand and placed the other on her hip, keeping her back straight. She circled once around the arena while Melissa watched her.
Bill, of course, was right behind Glynn, a huge grin on his face. The horse trotted for about half the way, then Bill kicked him up into a canter, a three-step lope that was the horse’s travelling speed. The horse raised his black tail high and Bill straightened his back.
Glynn reined in beside Melissa, already breathing a little heavy. Riding wasn’t quite the horse doing all of the work, and balancing on a side-saddle wasn’t easy. The smile on Glynn’s face told Melissa she loved to do this.
“He is good,” Glynn said to her, in the Uman language. “He has a good,” and then some word she didn’t know.
Melissa repeated the unknown word.
Glynn frowned. She sat up very proper in her saddle and held the reins before her.
He has a good seat, Melissa thought, or something like it. She nodded.
“He’s good man,” Melissa said.
“You—some word—him?” Glynn asked.
Here, when they asked a question, they lowered their voice at the end of the sentence, not raised it. That took her two days to figure out. Bill said Europeans spoke the same way.
Melissa repeated the word as a question.
Glynn wrapped her arms around herself, laid her head to one side and rocked herself.
Love.
Mike had been her last love, and had done her so wrong. Bill treated her with a lot more caring. He far exceeded Mike as a lover—if not with enthusiasm then with caring. He always made sure she got hers, and that had been every night so far. More importantly to Melissa, he held her after. She would place a hand on his belly, he would wrap her in his bear arms, and he would give her little kisses on the top of her head, her forehead and her ears. Already, she couldn’t imagine falling asleep anywhere but in his arms.
As she watched him, his head came up, he scanned the faces around him until he found her, and he smiled. His whole face lit up, then he went back to his riding once she smiled at him.
He did that. He’d be doing what he was doing, then realize he hadn’t seen her in a while. He’d make sure of Melissa’s safety, make eye contact, and then go back to what he was doing.
She was his girl. He was her guardian protector.
She got that little glow back again.
“Yes,” she informed Glynn. “Love him.”
Between the nic-fit and the saddle and the whole, “I’m not on my home planet anymore” loneliness, she felt herself wanting to tear up, and she shook the reins for the palfrey to move forward.
It obliged her at a fast walk. She started around the inside of the wooden arena fence. It wasn’t long before Bill was approaching her from behind, getting ready to pass her.
“Take a firm hold on her,” he said in English.
She half-turned in the saddle, almost lost her balance and then righted herself. “What?” she asked.
Bill slowed to a trot. Already the horse and he seemed to have reached some understanding. “Take a hold of her,” he said. “I’m going to pass you and some horses will go charging after another if they—”
By then Bill was trotting past her, and didn’t that gentle palfrey get it into her head that she should trot right behind the gelding?
A trot is bouncy and actually more work for the horse than a canter. If she’d had a leg on either side of the mare, she’d have been able to stay on, but instead her first instinct was to grab for the saddle horn and dig in her feet. That propelled her right off of the horse’s side and head first into the fence.
Her world exploded in an aurora of stars, and she faintly heard Bill call her name.
* * *
She found herself back in Augusta, Maine, in front of that diner she’d gone to for breakfast when she could afford it.
This wasn’t right, she couldn’t help thinking. She’d left this place years ago. She’d gotten a cleaning job and she’d pocketed her money until she could afford to move to Florida.
The smell of breakfast—waffles and eggs and coffee—poured out of the glass front door to the place. She could see inside to the white counter with stainless-steel bar stools and red cushions, the sugar jars and menu-holders lined up neatly in front of them. There was only one person at the counter, her back to the door.
Melissa walked up to the door and opened it. A bell jingled on the door’s corner. A few heads turned but the woman at the counter remained still, smoking a cigarette.
She wore a yellow dress and had white hair, done up in some old-lady style. Melissa walked past her and sat on one of the stools at the counter.
She smelled Sunflowers perfume. No one wore that anymore.
The old woman turned to her at the counter and smiled, then nodded in greeting. Melissa smiled back.
“You were a long time coming,” the old woman said.
“Wh—what?” Melissa stammered.
The woman took a drag off of her cigarette, then stubbed it out in an ash tray in front of her.
“Wish I had another one,” she said, then turned again and looked Melissa in the eye, “but I gaved you my pack.”
Melissa felt her heart constrict in her chest. She knew who this woman was!
* * *
Bill paced alongside the giant bed in their rooms, where Uman servants had carried Melissa on a litter.
An Uman-Chi whom they called Lord Roo was seeing to the tiny girl’s limp body. Glynn was standing behind him, her one hand holding the other before her at her waist, looking as concerned as someone with pure-silver eyes can look.
Dammit, he swore to himself. His fault. He hadn’t ridden in more than a decade, and he’d been so excited to get a horse between his legs that he’d simply not cared that maybe Melissa didn’t have his experience. He’d grown up around Appaloosas when he’d been a kid, but the ones here were so well trained he could just think of doing something, and they did it.
Apparently that little sorrel they’d given to Melissa had thought about trotting, but had forgot to tell her rider.
Roo said something to Glynn, who smiled, looked across the bed at Bill and nodded. “She’s only sleeping,” Glynn said in the language of Men. “She will arise when she’s ready—there is no real injury and no—some word he didn’t know—broken.”
He repeated the word. Glynn ran her fingers down her arm.
Bones. No bones broken. Bill sighed his relief.
The door opened behind him and Roo and Glynn’s eyes widened, then both lowered their heads. Bill turned and found himself face-to-face once again with King Angron.
He lowered his head. “My Lord, your Majesty,” he said, as they’d taught him.
“Bill,” he said, meaning Bill could raise his head now. The two Uman-Chi did the same. “How is your lovely lady?”
“She’s well, my Lord,” he said. He didn’t like all of this deference to nobility. Some people thought nobles were impressive somehow, but Bill had always had the ‘we broke away from this’ attitude toward so-called royals that many Americans felt.
“Thank Adriam,” Angron said, “and, of course, Taffer Roo, Adriam’s priest.”
The old healer nodded in deference to the King’s praise and did something with his hands Bill didn’t understand. Glynn remained quiet.
“Sirrah,” Angron said, turning his attention back to Bill, “I need to speak with you.”
“I’m at your service, your Majesty,” Bill said.
Angron led Bill out of the room, his Uman guards joining them and one of them shutting the door behind them. They walked down a dimly lit hall past several wooden bound doors, to one no different than the others. Angron stood beside it and an Uman opened it for them.
Wow, Bill thought. He doesn’t even open his own doors when he’s standing right there. He walked through the door behind the King.
The room was like many others in the palace—stone walls, polished wood floors—this one had no windows and a round table at its center. Another Uman-Chi sat at it—a younger man by the look of him. His long green hair hung around his shoulders and he dressed in the white robes that some of them wore. His features were more aquiline and cunning than the King’s, the eyes were the same silver-on-silver but the pencil-thin eyebrows lowered over them in a discerning squint as Bill entered the room. He didn’t rise for the King, and that was strange.
The King sat and indicated a wooden chair with a cane seat and back, stained a deep walnut and polished to shining. The table between them also shone—Bill could see his reflection in the walnut finish.
“Bill,” King
Angron said, “this is Aniquen, a younger Uman-Chi but a trusted advisor of mine and a shining light amongst our people. He has some questions he would like to ask you.”
Bill nodded and turned his attention to Aniquen.
“Sirrah,” the younger Uman-Chi said, his voice almost an alto
and much more like a singer than the King’s, “I would like to ask you about chem-stree.”
He spoke in English, which Bill found strange. Angron had said he was the only one who knew this language here.
Bill frowned. The King had brought this up as well. “Chemistry,” he said. “The study of how the elements react.”
Aniquen may have looked sideways at Angron—it was impossible to tell with the eyes, but the King straightened and said, “The four elements, you mean?”
Bill shook his head. “There are hundreds of elements,” he informed them.
Aniquen snickered. It seemed almost contemptuous.
“There is Earth, Wind, Water and Fire,” he said. “Two of these are gods, one the province of the goddess Weather, and then Fire which is independent of the gods.”
“Ah, Okay,” Bill nodded. “Well, I guess those are elements, but I’m speaking of things like oxygen and iron, how they can mix to form ferrous-oxide, which you’d call rust.”
Aniquen shook his head. “I do not know your ‘oxygen,’” he said. “But it is water that makes iron rust.”
Bill had never been much of a student in school—which mostly explained why he’d gone into sales. He couldn’t explain why rust was called ferrous-oxide, he just knew it was. He tried to explain how water could have salt in it, and how the salt could be taken out, but that fell flat as well.
“We know the Emperor can do this,” Angron informed him, “but we believe this is with magic, not with your chem-stree.”
Bill chuckled. “You believe in magic?” he asked them. “Seriously?”
“You’ve seen us use our magic,” Aniquen said. “You were brought here with magic. I am a Caster—I am a man who manipulates the elements, who uses magic.”
Bill smiled. “If you say so,” he said.
Angron sighed. “You believe your chem-stree can remove the salt from water?” he said.
