“Mmm.”
“Mmm,” echoed Cole. He carefully nudged a pebble a few inches to the left and then back a few inches to the right with the toe of his boot, still amazed that the soil didn’t try to sell him something.
“She seems like a very nice person,” said Nora after observing him for a bit.
He glanced up from his pebble adjusting. “… So what’s she doing being acquainted with me?”
Nora gave a small shrug and head shake, as if to say that wasn’t what she meant or didn’t care about the answer. He went back to repositioning the pebble. She snorted softly. “‘Acquainted,’” she said.
“Mmm,” grunted Cole, turning his attention to another pebble.
He had located a third pebble and united it with the other two when Nora spoke up again. “People are very excited that you’re here,” she said. “They’ve all been asking me about you.”
“Yeah? What do you tell them?”
“I tell them you’re full of surprises.”
He looked back up at her, trying unsuccessfully to determine the import of that statement. She smiled blandly at him, not offering any clues. He glanced back at MaryAnn’s cottage, then at Nora’s, the two structures nearly identical.
“You live here?” he asked.
“When I’m not on the farm.”
Cole nodded, silently filing that information under the category of Items Likely to Cause Problems in the Future.
“That’s where Joshua is, in case you’ve been wondering,” said Nora. “He’s too young to be your deputy, Cole.”
“Of course,” said Cole. “And where’s Philip?”
She paused.
“On the farm.”
Cole nodded again.
He looked up at the stars and in- and exhaled a deep breath of night air, surprised by what he was feeling, and also thinking: I shouldn’t.
He was still thinking it as he kicked the carefully arranged pebbles away, and reiterating the thought as he meandered across the street toward her, Nora watching him take the eight or ten loose, relaxed strides that brought him to where he could rest his hand on the stuccoed wall next to her door.
He smiled at her, then checked MaryAnn’s cottage again. The lights were off, the curtains drawn.
He really shouldn’t.
“Speaking of pushing my luck …,” he said.
There was a long moment as he waited, listening to the insects thrumming, trying once again to read Nora’s expression. Then she stepped back wordlessly, her eyes locked on his, and he was so surprised that he was frozen for a moment, not daring to follow her inside.
Which was good, because what she did next was to reach back behind her for the doorknob and shut the door in his face. Not fast, but with a measured, deliberate motion, slowing even more for the last few inches as if to underline her point, still looking him in the eye as the pillar of light narrowed to a crack and then a sliver and then disappeared. The latch made a soft double click.
“I told you so,” muttered Cole.
Later, after he had walked away, Nora opened her door again slightly and peered through the crevice. Then she quietly closed it again.
Cole stayed in his bunk in the ship for what little remained of that night, tossing and turning in the heat, unable to get the aircon to function properly.
What had he been thinking? It was the night air, he decided, and the stars, and the moons. And the stupidity. He slapped himself around figuratively and a few times literally, and then fell into a restless half sleep, tormented by confused dreams where it was MaryAnn shutting the door on him, her expression full of wounded reproach.
He let Bacchi out of the cell the next day, after it became clear that not doing so would require Cole to empty a chamber pot. Kpotam, the artist who created the jail, had been delighted to have an actual occupant, and inquired politely but insistently as to whether or not it might be possible to keep Bacchi in for a little bit longer. When Cole raised the chamber-pot issue, Kpotam argued that not emptying it would be even better, as it would place in sharp relief the plight of the prisoner. When Cole suggested that perhaps Kpotam could share the cell with Bacchi to further accentuate that point, the hunched little creature decided that Bacchi’s short stay had likely been sufficient to achieve his artistic objectives and that it would be better to leave the audience clamoring for more. Cole agreed that seemed wise.
There wasn’t, however, any place available for Bacchi to stay, so Cole ended up giving him the keys to the jail cell and told him use the bathroom at one of the several coffee shops on Main Street—either that, or empty the chamber pot himself. Cole assumed Kpotam would be happy to at least have a part-time lodger in the cell, but Kpotam opined that this undercut the important message of the piece and stalked off muttering to himself.
Cole spent the rest of the day puttering around on the ship. The next morning he got up early and thought about going to visit MaryAnn, but decided that his luck had been pushed and poked and prodded enough for the time being. Instead he decided to use the day to explore the village, figuring that if he spotted MaryAnn, well, great; and if he spotted Nora, well, he could hide.
The streets of Yrnameer were cobbled and well maintained. Some were narrow and winding, the buildings close enough that you could hold hands across the street from wrought-iron balconies that were draped with flowers. There were rainspouts and rain barrels and handmade weather vanes on the roofs. Most of the buildings were one or two stories, except for a larger one at the end of a cul-de-sac that he found out belonged to the sembluk It looked somehow out of place—too big, too modern, too perfect.
He saw several bi-, tri- and quadricycles, including one whose rider necessitated six pedals. There were wagons and people riding baiyos. He did not see a single powered vehicle, nor evidence of any advertising.
In addition to the coffee shops, there were, by his count, four used-book stores selling real books, twelve galleries, three jewelry stores, two studios offering pan-species yoga, and at least five places offering massage and the most alternative in alternative health care. There were several small restaurants whose menus either mystified or revolted him or both.
There was also a simple one-room diner that smelled encouragingly of greasy, comforting food and had a long white counter, stained and chipped in all the right places, lined with stools engineered to allow for a proper 360 degrees of rotation.
When Cole entered the place around midmorning, it seemed deserted. Then some sort of sensory organ extended itself up from behind the counter and a raspy voice asked what he’d be having.
“Can you do eggs?”
“Of course I can do eggs,” said the voice. “What kind?”
“Uh, over medium?”
Raspy sighed. “I mean, what kind of eggs? From what?”
After a short discussion Cole determined that Raspy Voice was the owner of the diner and had a name like a hiccup. Further investigation revealed that the diner did indeed serve eggs of the avian variety, that those eggs were delicious, and that Raspy was appropriately brusque and grumpy, which Cole found as comforting as the food. Cole decided he’d be returning on a daily basis.
Other than Raspy, the citizens of Yrnameer were the warmest, friendliest people he had ever met. They waved to him on the street and engaged him in conversation, and seemed genuinely interested in his replies. Not once did a chat end without an expression of gratitude for his presence. Everyone exuded an almost visible aura of tranquillity.
It was a pleasant, peaceful place. The air smelled good. Good in a natural way, not in the artificially scented manner of an advanced planet with an atmospheric cleaning system. Real birds chirped. When he smelled baiyo poop, it was genuine, not there to add character. It all made him feel very nervous.
˙ ˙ ˙
Late in the afternoon, the sun still hot, he wandered by a florist’s. The vegetation crowding the picture window was so dense that he could barely see the interior of the shop. As he marveled at the exotic plants,
he was startled to see one of them beckoning to him.
A tiny bell dinged as he entered. The air smelled even better inside than out. It was very quiet. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes.
“Careful, Sheriff,” said an elderly but confident female voice. “There’s a reason they call some scents intoxicating.”
When he opened his eyes he was looking at the plant who had gestured for him to enter. His vision blurred slightly and he blinked, and he realized she was a humanoid. She was smiling at him.
“I’m Daras Katim,” she said. “These are for you.”
She handed him a compact bouquet of flowers not much larger than two fists. His gaze drifted down to the miniature blossoms, a tight cluster of intense blues and reds and yellows, and stuck there.
“Hello?” she said after a while, amused.
“Hwuh? Oh, hi. Hello. I’m Cole.”
“The sheriff. Yes, I know.”
Sunlight filtered in through the greenhouse glass that began a few meters inside the store. Cole couldn’t tell how far back the greenhouse went. He had a vision of walking in that direction and discovering that there was no end, that the foliage thickened and grew into an infinite emerald world, vibrant and alive, surrounding and embracing him, conscious of his passage. There was a very slight and not unpleasant buzzing in his ears. He shook his head slightly.
“Wow, it sure smells good in here.”
“Thank you.”
A portion of the smell seemed to emanate from Daras Katim herself. Cole blinked. She looked like a plant again.
“Now,” she said, and she was humanoid once more, “what you’re going to do is give those flowers to that young woman, that MaryAnn.”
“MaryAnn? But how …”
“I see these things.”
“But …”
“She’ll like them.”
“But …”
“No, she won’t think you’re being too forward. I know how to select flowers better than that,” Daras said briskly.
“Oh,” said Cole. He wasn’t sure what else to say. He looked at the flowers again and giggled. Daras patted him on the shoulder.
“Good, then. It’s probably best if you continue on your way, now.”
“Right. Right,” said Cole, docilely allowing her to steer him out the door.
“Bye-bye,” she said.
“Bye-bye.”
The door shut behind him.
Cole wandered contentedly down the street, swaying a bit, pausing now and then to stick his nose into the flowers and take a deep whiff. These people were great. Let Runk come—Cole would put him in the ground himself. He paused to let pass an open wagon drawn by two slow-moving, patient baiyos, but the wagon instead came to a halt in front of him.
“Cole?”
He raised his head and discovered that he was on Main Street. MaryAnn was sitting in the passenger seat of the wagon, the sun creating a halo around her.
“MaryAnn!” he said, with a big warm smile. “Really great to see you!” He remembered the flowers. “Here,” he said, extending them toward her, “these are for you.”
She took the bouquet from him and gave a tiny gasp. “Oh, Cole, they’re beautiful! That’s so thoughtful of you!”
She spontaneously leaned over and gave him an awkward, one-armed hug, Cole standing on his tiptoes to reach her. The driver, an older man with a sun-weathered face, stared impassively ahead, giving no indication he was aware they existed.
“Where you going?” he said when she straightened up.
“The farm. I’m doing a story on the orphans, how they’re settling in.” She put her nose into the bouquet and took a deep breath. “Wow,” she said. Then she flopped over to hug him a second time.
“Okay, then,” she said, after she sat up again, straightening her hair.
“Yeah,” said Cole, realizing they were both giggling like school-kids. The driver chewed contemplatively on the stalk of wheat sticking out of the corner of his mouth.
“I guess we should …,” she said. The driver didn’t need any more encouragement, immediately clucking at the baiyos and tapping them with a long quirt.
She twisted in her seat as they trundled off. “I’ll be back in a few days,” she said. “Will you still be here?”
“I … yes! Yessirree!” Had he ever said yessiree in his life? What was wrong with him? She waved. He waved. He watched her take another deep hit from the flowers.
“She doesn’t know a thing about you, does she,” said Nora, standing at his elbow.
He took another deep breath. “Air smells good here, huh?” he said, and walked away, bouncing a bit as he went.
Late that night Cole was awakened by crashing sounds and swearing coming from the escape pod. He groggily trudged down the hallway from his cabin and climbed the ladder. He stuck his head up through the hatch, finding exactly what he had expected.
“I already tried it,” he said to Bacchi. “Can’t get the engines to fire,” and went back to bed.
Cole had assumed that the citizens would see the Benedict as an eyesore and want it removed as quickly as possible, but when he woke up the next morning he noticed a small text panel affixed to the exterior. It was identical in appearance to the one in the jail-house except for the content, which stated:
Spaceship is a piece of found art that comments directly and incisively on the nature of our relationship with …
… and there went Cole’s eyes out of focus again. All Cole knew is that no one complained about the spacecraft, only referring now and then to the “new installation” just outside of the gate.
Cole spent the rest of the day walking around again, trying to visualize how to protect the town. At one point he spotted the sembluk in the distance and felt the same elusive flash of familiarity, but the enormity of the task at hand quickly pushed the subject out of his mind. He’d come to a conclusion about Yrnameer: the village was easily defensible. That is, if every single person in the town was heavily armed and knew what they were doing, and if none of the bandits had weapons and didn’t know what they were doing.
That evening Mayor Kimber suggested a planning session, a small gathering of what he termed the “village elders.” Cole agreed, hoping they’d have some ideas. He certainly didn’t.
They originally intended to hold the gathering in the mayor’s small office, but just before the meeting Mayor Kimber informed him that they’d moved it to the town hall again—”A few more folks might be interested in attending.”
A few more folks, as it turned out, was more or less identical to the population of the town.
First there was a discussion of how, exactly, the meeting should be run; the method by which participants would be chosen to voice their opinion so that no one felt excluded; what the process would be for resolving differences of opinion—an issue whose resolution everyone finally agreed should be postponed to a future meeting; where and when that and other future meetings should take place and the manner in which members should be chosen to participate in said future meetings; and what snacks should be served. Those items settled, it was time to go to bed.
Nora attended the meeting but stayed in a back corner, expressionless, avoiding his gaze.
As everyone filed out of the hall—Nora without so much as a sideways glance—Cole pulled Mayor Kimber aside.
“I just want to run down a quick checklist with you, if that’s all right,” said Cole.
“Of course, of course.”
“Do you happen to have any heavy weaponry?”
“Oh, heavens no.”
“Right. Didn’t think so. Explosives?”
“No.”
“Okay. Skimmers?”
“No.”
“Other flying craft?”
“Uh … no.”
“How about the guy in there with the wings. He can fly, right?”
“Benny? He’s a terranian. He refuses to fly to protest the dominance of—”
“Okay. Got it. Anyone with any military train
ing?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you have any fast wheeled vehicles?”
“Fast vehicles … fast vehicles … Yes!”
“Oh, that’s goo—”
“No, wait. No.”
“Ah.”
“Would tractors from the farm count?”
“Probably not.”
“Right.”
Cole was silent, nodding to himself.
“So, how do things look?” said the mayor.
“Great,” said Cole. “Things look great.”
There was one subject on which everyone at the meeting had been in agreement: they didn’t want outside help. The cure, went the consensus, would be worse than the disease: outside help would mean outside attention, which would initiate a chain of events that would inevitably lead to the destruction of the soul of Yrnameer. Better they should all die before that happened. Right, Cole? Of course, he answered, he couldn’t agree more. No outside help.
The instant he got back to the ship that night, he fired up the communication system and broadcast a general Mayday on the law enforcement band. Just like a ship, the communication had to go through bendspace, and it was more than two hours before he was able to raise any sort of response from a Control substation.
Cole, overwhelmed with relief, described the situation in detail. When he was done, the voice on the other end explained to him that there was no such place as Yrnameer.
Yes, there is, said Cole.
No, there’s not, said the voice.
Yes, there is.
No, there’s not.
“Yes, there farging well is, because I’m on the farging planet right now,” said Cole, nearly shouting. “I should farging know whether or not it exists.”
“Okay, first? There’s no need for language like that.”
“Look, please, Runk is here. Runk! Check out your Most Wanted list. He’s way up there!”
“Do you know the fine for filing a false report?”
“Well, farging come and get me, then! Fine me!”
“Again with the language.”
The Sheriff of Yrnameer Page 18
