by Amanda Milo
“I’m trying! But he looks like he still wants to take a bite—”
“I’m talking to the Narwari,” Bash says, shooting me a glance before catching the animal by its funny antler and giving the creature a quelling look. “You don’t eat this human.”
I hold up a concerned finger. “Has he eaten other humans?”
Bash ignores me, but the snake-horse rolls one eye in my direction and licks its fanged chops.
I shudder.
“Get on the bench, Isla,” Bash instructs, and with a wary look at the pair, particularly the horse, I clamber up the steps and take a seat.
Bash causes the wagon to tilt and rock as he joins me, plunking his butt down on the bench, his tailblade clunking to the floor at my feet. He flicks the reins and makes a distinctly alien click, producing the sound out of his hollow-sounding nose.
The three animals take this as an order to hoof it up the ramp.
We exit the quarry by way of the ramp, following the train of carts. We cross a bridge, the sound of hooves making me a little giddy. “This is fun!” I toss a happy grin in Bash’s direction, so lost in the strange joy of riding in this old fashioned method of transport that I miss the reaction Bash has to my smile.
He stomps his foot down hard on his tail, which makes me realize it was starting to wind its way around my foot.
“Sorry,” he says gruffly, reaching down and jerking it from me, tossing it to his side of the floorboards with all the concern the average person shows for a grass snake that’s snuck into the house.
I shrug. “It’s no problem.”
We seem to be moving a little slower than the other wagons, which is strange because our Narwari are tossing their heads (and looking back at me, and licking their chops) and acting like they’re raring to go. But the slightly more sedate pace allows me the chance to take in the scenery. Wagon wheels have left impressions in the soft sand that forms a path once we reach the end of the bridge. I stare at the dirt, examining the cloven hoof prints that tell the tale of many Narwari treading here. There are also three-toed soft-pad prints, which are from Rakhii. And there are boot prints, because hobs wear boots like humans.
On either side of the path, grass springs up. This grass is not like our grass from Earth. Sure, it’s long, stalk-y, and animals can probably eat it. But each strand of grass has a tiny round globe on the very tip. It makes it look decorative. Why that itty bitty addition should be significant, I can’t even explain, but it turns the field into a wonderland. “This is beautiful,” I breathe.
Bash grunts beside me. Agreement, as far as I can tell.
I’ve heard that the Narwari barn sits between the presently-worked quarry and the original quarry, on a wide swath of pasture land. The space between the quarries’ canyons has created a flat stretch, a sort of giant grass-topped mesa nestled on the rise between the rock-mined craters. We’re still traveling uphill though. We’re on an incline steep enough that I have to put considerable effort into breathing before I can manage to ask the questions that are popping into my mind. “The Narwari have to haul wagons up here? Every day?”
Bash glances down at me with a measuring stare. Probably wondering if the elevation is going to cause me to expire on him. To my delight, he looks a little worried at the possibility rather than relieved. “Mostly only empty ones. Their stable is on the rise.”
When we top it, I know. Because I lurch forward on the wagon bench, no longer glued to the bench’s back like I’m sitting in a theme park ride, for one thing.
For another, the land spreads out in front of us for as far as the eye can see. But the horse barn I was expecting is nowhere to be found. Instead, the Narwari have a stone palace.
It is to alien horses what the royal elephant stables in Hampi was for the Vijayanagara Empire. Impressive. Massive. Crazy.
A round building, it has tall arched doorways ringing what looks like all the way around. Ahead of us, Narwari are being led through these doorways, where they’re unhitched, brushed out, and stabled in domed chambers. Thick slabs of stone form the walls and from the wide open main door, I see the slabs were also used as stall divides.
The outside of the building is flanked by paddocks, which Narwari bustle in and out of.
The top of the building is covered with colorful tiles that stack one atop another, with layers of bright, mismatched color in places and swirling colors in others. It has a lot of flat roof between pitched areas. As I take it in, a massive swooping shadow lands—and it isn’t a bird. It’s a hob. He waves to Bash and I before he walks through a smaller ring of domed doors that sit on top of the tiered roof.
As we roll into a wagon-unhitching area, I look up to find perches and cutouts for the roof entry-using employees. It’s like what a barn would look like if it employed gargoyles.
Speaking of the gargoyles here, their colorful likenesses adorn the place in breathtaking surface-detailing. Etching or engraving or relief sculpting, I’m not sure, but designs of what look a lot like them, their wings, their wing patterns—and flowers and landscapes and horses with far too many teeth and scary eyes—cover every inch of the walls. It’s pretty and really ornate for an animal barn.
“This is different,” I say to no one.
Because Bash is beside me though, he hears. He takes a moment to assess me, then he turns his attention to the building, I think trying to see it as an offworlder would see it for the first time. If he’s only ever lived here, I wonder if he knows what a regular barn looks like. Then again, ‘regular’ is a relative term when we’re talking about alien galaxies. “Gryfala appreciate impressive things. There are hundreds more structures like this all around the planet.”
The air is thinner than I’m used to, enough of a change that I begin to pant for oxygen. “I’ve heard the Narwari aren’t from here. How do the animals get used to this?” I flap my hand. “The change in atmosphere?”
One of Bash’s ears lift and drop in a type of ear-shrug. “They adapt.” He gestures to the ginormous building. “Give yourself a moment and you will too. Would you like to see inside? Gryfala,” he says, his voice going a little harder on this word, “tend to collect the most colorful Narwari. The collection here is a sight to see.”
“You bet,” I gasp. “This is like visiting some sort of zoo.”
He sends me a glance. “This is a good thing?”
It’s my turn to shrug, although I use my shoulders instead of my ears to do it. “Whew,” I suck in a breath. “Basically. Earth-people pay to see exotic animals. A free tour of alien critters? I’m so for this. I just… need… to breathe...”
Looking a little perplexed by me and maybe, maybe a little amused, Bash leads the way into the barn.
Turns out, there’s not much difference in raising alien horses from Earth horses. The floor is the same quarry-derived stone that I know so well and is abundant in this area. Stalls have straw or shavings on the floors. There’s a fountain in the middle of the barn that spills into a wide basin. Raceways take the water to each stall to provide the Narwari a drink.
Unlike horse barns, even the ceilings in this place are all-out decorated. If there weren’t animals in here, you’d never know this wasn’t some institute for artists or a church or a museum. It’s incredible.
But once you get past the surface, it’s a regular horse barn, I think to myself—until I see the menu.
Bash basically told me before that Narwari don’t eat hay. But it’s one thing to know that and another to see Narwari lunging at carcasses hanging from meat hooks in each stall.
“Creeepy ponies,” I mutter. But colorful ones, just like he said. Every shade you can imagine, with vibrant bioluminescent markings on their gleaming scaly coats.
“I’d offer to let you ride one,” Bash says, “but we have enough of a struggle obtaining trustworthy cart animals. There are some Gryfala who keep riding animals in their collection, but there’s no point training them as riding animals here when their purpose is to pull.”
“That’s
okay, really.” My voice is a little weak, but I absolutely mean it. “I have zero interest in climbing on anything that jumps up and tears it’s food right off of something else’s hoof, you know?”
CHAPTER 19
ISLA
We head back outside.
“Back to my question from before. The horses have to haul wagons up to this?”
“Not stone, like you’re thinking. That goes elsewhere. They only have to haul their feed and bedding up the rise, otherwise, the walk up the hill with emptied wagons is the last work they do before they rest.”
“‘Hill?’ That, sir, is a small mountain.”
“And this is a canyon.”
I realize he’s turned. I look to see he’s sweeping out his arm to indicate everything now below us.
He’s led me to a canyon drop off.
I stare at the fall-away of the whole world, awed. And I cry, “Oh my land this is where you shove me off, isn't it?”
“You believe I’d waste time luring you all the way here to rid myself of a nuisance? I could have ended you a dozen different ways right in the quarry if I’d wanted you gone.”
I nudge him, which makes his spines flick upright. Implying that you don’t want me gone. “Good point.” I send him a cheeky grin. My attention wanders back to the landscape. We’re overlooking the quarry that I work in, although it’s on the far, far end. From here, it looks like a giant bowl has been carved into the earth, showing purple and red and yellow along the sides, chunks and slabs cut out of it. It’s literally a rock pit and it’s an amazing view from up here. Somehow, it looks even more massive. You just can’t get an appreciation for the dimensions when you’re standing in it. It’s magnificent. “What happens when you finally chisel all the rock out of this place?”
“We start a new place. The old quarry is not far from here.”
“The other side of this mesa will offer you another opportunity to shove me over the edge, right?”
Bash spares me a faint smile. “That’s right. What all have you seen of this place?”
“Not much.”
“That’s a shame.” He sweeps his tail out to indicate the rolling valley below. It looks like small towns ring around the quarry. Gryfala rookeries stand out tall and proud from everything else; they’re like bird aviaries built from stone and mortar. Each rookery houses one Gryfala and her service of hobs. Occasionally, a Rakhii guard is included in the setup too.
I squint, trying to bring a series of rookery-like buildings into focus. “Hey! Is that our village?”
Bash glances at me. “Yes. Each abode is a miniature of a Gryfala’s rookery, but built with more floors and stairs, taking up the tower space that would normally offer an open area for flight.” His tail rises, separates a blade from the others, and uses the flat of it to scratch along his bared forearm just under where he’s rolled up his sleeve. “Loads of stone are mortared into walls almost as fast as you humans can collect it. There are six abodes that should see themselves finished in the next handful of rotations, and the large one, your leader’s castle, that one’s frame should be done by the end of the season.”
“How cool!”
He grunts. “Hobs are being routed to work on the roofs of the first row of near-completed rookeries. They lay the tiles,” he explains. “And for aerial tasks such as that, their assistance is inordinately welcome. If they lose their balance and tumble off the roof, unlike a Rakhii, they won’t plummet to the hard ground below.”
“Hmm. Maybe you should stop shaking them then. You need their brains and wings in working order, and so do they.”
“If their brains were in working order in the first place, I likely wouldn’t have to shake them,” he points out as if this line of thinking is reasonable. “Beyond this area, there are agricultural plots—” he points to round-edged rectangles in various shades of purples and greens. The plots are purple because the soil here is a startling shade of violet. The greens are the plants themselves, as far as I can tell.
“Our coffee bean crops?” I ask.
“Mhmm, and your-world’s fruit trees. Vegetables from Earth of all kinds. So you have not seen the fields?”
“Nope. But I’ve heard about them.” Laura, a human, tends to spend her time growing our food rather than collecting rough housing materials in the quarry. She’s mated to a hob named Crispin. They seem nice, but beyond peeks at them, I haven’t interacted with them much.
“I will take you to see the fields. Perhaps tomorrow when we ‘break.’”
“Won’t it be too hot to walk?”
Bash shakes his head, a small movement, all things considered—but with the length of his ears and the size of his horns as they slice lazily through the air, it’s a much larger gesture. “The season is already turning. Today was likely our last warm day, or so they predict. It is tradition to hold a holiday.”
“Ahh, yeah. I’ve heard about that. The big party.”
“There will be much celebration,” he confirms. He leads me to the cliff drop off on the other side of the mesa. There’s a heavy iron gate with stone steps leading down into another quarry. The steps are very wide, and long. I know from watching the Narwari being moved back and forth that these sorts of steps are made for them—they can ascend and descend these. Although, when they’re hitched to a wagon, they’re driven on ramps and roads. The steps are just to get the animals in and out when they’re in harness.
And everything is redder here, the stone less of an eggplant-shade than I’m used to. I take in this unfamiliar quarry territory as we make our way down the stairs. “It’s weird that it’s so quiet. It’s like a ghost quarry. Or maybe, with all the red, this is more like the Quarry of the Underworld.”
“It is called Quarry One, Region Eleven,” Bash answers mildly, “but I call it home.”
I glance up at him. “Literally?”
One side of his mouth curves up. “Quite. My den is here.”
I take in the vast, barren-looking rock as it stretches on and on. This canyon is longer than wide, and smaller than the canyon I’ve been working in. But it’s still huge. The ground is uneven—not choppy, but the stone ‘floor’ has been harvested—cut—at a grade, so that everything on the right is lower than the land on the left. “Bet you never walk home drunk,” I comment.
Bash’s eyes seek mine. “Can’t say I have. Why do you declare this though?”
“Because you’d break an ankle.” I wave my hand to mimic the lay of the ground. “It feels like we’re stuck in a giant funhouse.”
He squints a little, struggling, I think, to translate what I mean.
“A funhouse is a place designed for kids to play in, and it has all these built-in effects. One of them is an unsteady walking surface, and a tilted surface, that sort of thing. This definitely has the tilted surface going on,” I explain.
“Clay is harvested at the farthest end, just like the quarry we currently operate in. And it evens out up ahead by the falls.”
“Like… waterfalls?”
His smile is faint but openly amused. “Just so.”
“I don’t hear water.”
“You will when we get near.”
He’s right. We walk another half of forever, and the rush of falls is suddenly filling my ears. Up ahead is a gorgeous crash of H2O.
“Behind the falls is my cave,” Bash says all easy, like this isn’t the coolest thing ever.
“THIS IS THE COOLEST THING EVER!” I exclaim. I peer behind the falls, or try to, before dashing a look over my shoulder at him. “Come on, even you as Mr. Grumpiness Personified has to admit your place kicks ass.”
Wrinkles actually form despite his face having scales as he mulls my words over. “I believe kicking rumps means something very different here.”
I shake my head, certain. “No, it doesn’t. This is so neat. It kicks ass because it is so neat, see?”
“No.”
Exasperated, I wave my hand to shush him. I turn my stare back to the spot behind the
falls where I can just make out a sturdy-looking wooden door. It’s got long black hinges that swirl and loop like Rakhii horns—they’re the coolest hinges ever and add a huge smack of whimsy to the whole spot. “Okay, thank you for showing me my new place. You’re going to have to find your own and I wish you all the luck with that, but this is mine now. I’m moving in.”
“Are you,” he drawls, thankfully sounding amused rather than stomp-happy.
I pat myself on the shoulder, enjoying the way that, when I glance back at him, Bash watches me do it with some consternation. “Totally. You better hurry on finding your new home because it feels like the temperature has dropped some. I’d hate for you to get stuck outside in the cold.”
His eyes shift from my shoulder to my face, and he’s wearing a nonplussed sort of expression. “You’re bold. I’ll give you that.”
“And you’ll give me a couple of lumps?” I say with a wince.
Again, my idiom throws him but he only needs a second before he dips his chin. “You should be thankful I’m not beating you. Impertinence is not an attractive trait.”
“Says who? Friends can be impertinent with friends.”
“Hm,” is all Bash grunts, sounding noncommittal.
I don't ask to see the inside of his cave, because Bash never hints at an offer. Bash strikes me as a forthright kinda guy. If he wanted to show me his space he’d just take me inside, I think. So I figure we’re not that kind of friends. Which is fine. It’d be weird if I invited him to my room at the preserve.
Which he walks me to like a gentleman after I’ve had my fill of looking around the old quarry. It’s a healthy hike back, and it's well dark when he drops me off at my door with a gruff, “Fair eve, Isla.”
“...Fair eve back,” I test out, and decide it’s a nice parting.
To my delight, Bash doesn’t freeze me out the next day. Oh, he’s not bounding over to me handing out monogrammed Besties Forever bracelets or anything, but he basically picks right up where we left off by working somewhat close to me, putting me on more tool-polishing duty, letting me chatter to him until he gets called away to see to other things. Sometimes he takes me with him to be his gopher, running back and forth. But then he brings me wood.
