When we returned to the medical room, Sanvi was gone. Nuna was still there, keeping Luppa company, and was quick to tell us Sanvi was moved to her room. The girls and I sat where Wren’s helpers indicated, and then they started applying aromatic pastes to our cuts.
Wren and a handful of other lamia were preoccupied with Luppa. They all joined hands in a chain with Wren at the end, holding with her left hand, while her right rested on Luppa. Fell informed that in cases where mages’ reserves dip too low, they had channeled magic fed into them. The women helping Wren were the other novice mages. While their talents varied, their skills were even lower than Luppa’s; however, they were competent enough to collect their essence for Wren to regulate and transfer.
Witnessing something as metaphysical as magic operate under strict principles like a science was jarring. Then again, any sufficiently advanced science is indistinguishable from magic.
Wren looked so focused on the unconscious priestess that we gave Nuna a silent goodbye and went on our way. I wanted Luppa to get the best attention possible.
The event played back, and the weight of guilt settled on my shoulders as I followed Meriel and Fell. I know I should man up and not feel sorry for myself, but it was a bitch not to assume responsibility since my intervention set off the sequence of events that almost ended in six casualties. The death toll was already too high.
My stormy thoughts scattered when the girls came to a stop in front of a room. The only difference between this room and mine was that each of the six bedrolls were occupied. My eyes locked onto the bed holding the exotic, mocha-skinned warrioress. The lamia who were giving her a light bed bath pulled away their rags and bowls of water. They parted at our approach and Sanvi’s full lips curled like a child who won the biggest stuffed animal from the fair.
“Oh, wonderful,” she bubbled lazily, “keeping my eyes open was getting hard.” She held out her arms; her left arm heavily bounded. Despite every inch of her rich skin being on display, Sanvi was bold as brass.
My circadian rhythm hasn’t adjusted for the plan, and we were only at it for a little over an hour before the accident. The day had barely started, and it felt as though I’ve been awake for two days straight. Seeing everyone injured had taken its toll, and recalling Sanvi’s scream still makes my skin crawl.
I managed a smile and went to the foot of her bed. Like a python snatching a mouse, Sanvi’s tail constricted around me in the blink of an eye, and then she hauled me closer until my face was between her cleavage with her chin on my head.
“Hmm, I was looking forward to this,” she practically purred.
Fell, Meriel, and the other lamia in the room giggled at my expense. Getting manhandled was embarrassing, but it made my smile more genuine. And it felt bizarre to admit, but being wrapped up by a lamia was very cozy. Sanvi’s scales were pleasantly smooth to my skin, and the powerful muscles underneath were the perfect balance of squishy and firm. The fleshy support suspended the aches and pains from crawling along great lengths of rough stone.
To let their injured sister rest, the lamia started to turn off the lights and retreat to their respective beds or rooms. Fell and Meriel each grabbed part of the blanket and drew it over as they got comfortable on either side built snake-woman.
Sanvi hummed again as they settled in. “So warm…”
The air from her nose tickling my scalp slowed and deepened. With one last squeeze of her tail, she slipped into dreamland. Shooting glances to the left and right, the girls gave amused expressions at the sight of me in bondage. Seeing their eyes with the twinkle of joy despite what happened instilled admiration, the same applying to the Isusi— especially to the woman holding me like a teddy bear. They’re all so strong to remain hopeful and lively in the face of death.
When the last light faded out, I adjusted myself until the uninjured side of my head rested comfortably. The scaly appendage pressed around me slightly, then the muscles relaxed, almost as if Sanvi subconsciously checked if I was still there. The affectionate squeeze was nice, as was the company of everyone else. The comforting company and the unusual ever-present scent of incense was enough to get me drifting.
Frustration still made my temples pulse through the strain of trying not to feel hopeless, but it persisted like a festering splinter.
I don’t know what to do.
Chapter 18
My heavy eyes parted, and I sucked in a long breath through my nose. From the sound of all the deep breathing, everyone was still asleep. That being the case, I must not have slept very long. And sinking back into Sanvi’s pillowy bosom to sleep like a log was all I wanted, but nature was calling. Her coils had loosened over the night, technically morning, and I was able to carefully worm myself out.
Looking down, I saw that Meriel snoozed on her side with Sanvi’s right arm hugged to her chest; Fell slept perfectly flat on her back, Sanvi’s banged arm supported over her belly. How we came to this… relationship was still unclear to me. The time together has been brief, but we’re not strangers. Not anymore. Maybe it was all just selfish desire to keep the weight of everything away. I couldn’t deny how they kept my sanity in check.
At least I’m past the anger. I think. Even after all the insight they’ve provided to their world, or worlds, how they go about organizing their forces, assisting invaded worlds, or attempting to make allies with new worlds just sounded like a tangled mess. The whole deal with The One seemed like the result of an acid trip from a struggling poet. To condense all the scattered lines of thought: I’m mad at what happened to home, not why it happened.
It’s like the economy, or homeless people, or starving children, or war. Everyone wants a solution, but no one has one. Problems like that have layers, each infinitely complex with their own sub-problems, and simple solutions don’t exist for them. Not like I’m on some moral high ground myself. America was home, it was all I knew, and I wanted to protect it by serving. I’m just a guy who wanted to keep the bad people away from my countrymen and innocent people who just wanted to live out their lives quietly. My world had its complicated grey area of morality and ethics that I won’t pretend to comprehend fully.
The hefty thoughts were dropped at the uncomfortable pressure in my bladder.
The room didn’t feel so big now that it had six slumbering lamia. As their human halves remained under their covers, their snakes halves had weaved all across the floor and congregated in the center. A horrifying sight to anyone else, but a sight that has grown familiar. Since accidentally stepping on a few tails the past several days, I was more mindful of my steps and crept into the hall.
I padded along to the “bathroom” built in the room near the pool. One lazy Sunday at home as a tween, I lounged on the couch and watched the history network. One hour-long documentary was the history of toilets, and I saw the remains of old Roman lavatories, which were just big rooms with benches that had holes in them. This room wasn’t all that different, just minus the bench part, instead of having a little ledge to rest over with water rushing one way to whisk away waste— more like the troughs at Wiggly Field. Archaic by my standards, but sanitary. Especially since they had a pot of wood ash to use as hand sanitizer.
A fog hung clouded my eyes as I mindlessly whipped my hands while stepping back out into the hall. I rounded the corner and bumped into someone.
Remy let out a yelp and dropped the little sack she was carrying.
“Shit, sorry,” I said quickly, then picked up the sack.
“Oh, no, no, it’s fine. I should’ve been moving slower.” She put on a flustered smile, which diminished once she had a decent look at my face. “It’s still really early. You should continue resting.”
So I looked as tired as I felt. Curling up with the girls sounded nice, but I was past the point of sleep.
“What were you doing with this?” I asked, giving the bag a little hoist.
“Some of us were going to get breakfast started. I can take care of it, don’t worry.”
S
he reached for the sack, then I asked, “Can I help?”
Her young and gentle face looked lost. “Oh, uh… It’s fine, don’t—”
“I’d like to help.” A distraction was always good; idle hands are the devil’s hands or something like that.
Remy played with her braided bang, still unsure, but she murmured, “If that’s what you want.”
Ever since accidentally dropping Judge’s bible in the fire, Remy has been incredibly meek and mousy around me. I told her we were good, but she still felt ashamed about it. She carried herself a lot differently to the older members of the Isusi, who were all respectful and decent, but tended to be more raucous than not. Turned out that Remy, as well as the other handful of young lamia, recently became full-fledged women by braving the dark labyrinth, which was only weeks before the initial invasion. She was still being trained under Sanvi, which certainly meant she was capable in a fight, but there was still a lot growing to be done.
“Lead the way, Remy,” I told her, managing a half-smile.
She returned the gesture, and I followed behind her slithering tail of black with swirling yellows. While admiring the latticework of her scales, I wondered how traits carried over from parents to child. I didn’t pry further on their tradition of bringing in men, but I had to wonder if they were all regular men; human, I mean. Whatever biological processes are going under their skin and scales, lamia genes must be dominant or something.
Asking how they give birth or go to the bathroom was too weird of a talk; I’ve had enough weird for the rest of my life. Sudoku or some Legos would be perfect. Remedial work would have to do.
We came out into the common room where a few lamia were already toiling away. Looked like fish head soup for breakfast.
I bid Tru a friendly nod first, then greeted Fia and Gayle with a simple, “Morning.”
I’ve only shared a handful of words with the other two, but Tru had been a part of the group who were infatuated with army life. When I talked about the Abrams, she was one of the few who actually believed me, and her eyes glittered with child-like wonderment.
“You up awfully early,” Tru said after adding what looked like spices to the boiling water. Her eyes roamed over the bruises on the exposed part of my shoulder and arm. “You should rest.”
“I’m good. I’ve had enough shuteye, and I figured I try to make myself useful.”
“You’ve been very useful,” Gayle added. “You’ve braved the outside for our sake and still go out of your way to help out.”
Fia nodded. “Don’t go out of your way.”
I scoffed and set the sack down before taking a seat on the ground. “I like keeping busy. Besides, it’s just breakfast; not like anyone’s going to break their backs over that.”
The girls took on thoughtful looks for a moment, but it wasn’t like they were going to argue.
“Remy, why don’t you show Oliver how to make the bread,” Gayle instructed. Her rosy eyes widened and she uncoiled her tail. “Oh, I almost forgot. I’ll be right back.” Then she hastily slithered away through one of the stone archways.
Remy coiled herself next to me and pulled over a bowl of water, then splashed a bit of it on a dome-like griddle resting on the hearth’s coals. The weather hissed, and she gave an affirmed hum. Next, she pulled open the sack, which contained brown flour, then poured a healthy portion of that into the water bowl.
“It’s simple,” Remy said while she mixed the mush with her fingers. “Just grab a handful, flatten with your palms, then press the dough onto the cooking iron.” She prepared as she spoke, then grabbed another handful. “By the time you set on the second one, you flip the other, then pull it off when you get a third down.”
I repeated the actions to the T and got my own little batch going. Remy gave an approving smile, and we slipped into a comfortable silence while Tru and Fia continued tending to the soup and picking apart the fish.
The Prowling Terror’s carrion was like super bait, and the fishing parties have been able to secure a lot more fish in less time. Most of it was dried and pickled, but they kept some alive in pots of water to keep them fresh. The meat and heads would go into the soup, the entrails became more bait, and the bones are saved to make stock later. Their industriousness never ceased to amaze me.
Gayle returned and presented my clothes, freshly cleaned. She traded spots with me so I could change. My shirt, pants, underwear, and jacket were starchy and smelled like a campfire. Tears and rips were mended with crude stitching and everything overall looked ratty, but it was my uniform, my second skin.
“You wear some of the strangest clothes I’ve ever seen,” Gayle commented as I came back. “The material is like nothing I've felt and the stitching is so intricate.”
My eyes wandered to the blue strip of fabric over her supple chest and the matching skirt covering her decency. Then I gave glances to the other scantily clad women. Remy had a similar top and skirt; Tru and Fia wore low-cut tank tops, which covered a little more skin but didn’t leave much up to the imagination. Their clothes were simple, but they weren’t wearing rough hides like Neanderthals.
“Did you guys trade for your clothes, or did you make them?” I asked.
“Yes, we make a majority of our clothing. Some we’ve acquired through trading, like the shirt we gifted Fell, but they are only worn for visits to Elesrora.” Gayle pouted. “We’ve been shamed on occasions for our traditional wear. Insufferable. Not as though we judge our neighbors for their attire, but we endure for respect’s sake.”
I slapped down another flattened piece and pulled the ready one to set aside in the growing stack, then tugged at my collar. “It’s not that crazy. You guys make some intricate stuff with the patterns on some skirts and all the blankets.”
“But the weave on your shirt is so tight, tighter than some of the finest tailored clothes I’ve seen in Elesrora. None of our weaving techniques compare.”
I chuckled. “You guys are more impressive. Machines made my clothes, so that’s cheating.”
“Machines?” the four women asked simultaneously.
Tru gasped and blurted excitedly, “Oh, like your tank?”
Her wonder and naiveté earned a real laugh.
“Yeah,” I said around my laughter, “but instead of blowing stuff up, it only makes shirts.”
“Oh, most bizarre,” Fia expressed with a thoughtful look. “Trying to conceiving such an idea leaves me lost.”
“Very,” Remy agreed as she wiped excess flour off her hands. “These machines you mention seem impossibly compli… comp…” Remy paused and looked as though a word was hanging from the tip of her tongue, but then snapped her head down with a loud sneeze right into the open flour sack. She coughed and waved her hands to clear away the little cloud she made around us. “Oh, I’m sorry!”
Her cheeks took on a rosy tint, and she looked more concerned about what I thought. I kept a calm face and just chuckled.
“Don’t sweat it. I sneezed and would knock over stuff all the time when—”
I froze and stared right through Remy as my brain hit a bump that sent everything into a violent standstill. Had an aneurysm popped, and this was my brain hemorrhaging? No. I was thinking. Or trying to.
It was like I had an idea, then suddenly forgot. I was following the little mental breadcrumbs.
Crumbs. Bread. Flour. Dust. Workshop. Dad.
“Oliver?” Remy asked in a slow, uneasy voice.
I blinked and was lucid again. The girls watched me anxiously, looking as though they were about ready to race for Wren.
“I’m fine…” I said. It didn’t sound genuine, but my brain was too jumbled for anything better.
No. It’s just desperation sinking into my head. But…
Distantly, I asked, “How much flour do you guys use a day?”
Brows scrunched, and they shared puzzled looks, then Fia answered, “We serve bread every other day, and when we, about twenty pounds. Ten pounds per meal gives everyone a piece of
bread.”
I rose to my feet. “I have to go.” I made it a few steps before turning back to thank the perturbed women.
I shambled back to my isolated, darkened room like a zombie, then ruffled through my rucksack for my cigar case. My last two cigars had grown a little dry since the humidifying sponge had gone dry, but they still passed. With a metallic flip of my Zippo, I lit up, savoring the flavorful Maduro as I began pacing wall to wall, thinking. Nicotine slowed down the world so I could unwind, but it also took off the burs in my brain, sharpening me and giving me clarity. The hope was to come to my senses and shake off this idea. But it just kept snowballing.
When Remy accidentally sneezed from the fine flour, I was about to share the time when Dad and I were cleaning up the workshop from way back when. I was sweeping sawdust off the drill press into a five-gallon bucket only for a sneeze to hit suddenly. The handle slipped from my fingers and all the sawdust spilled onto the floor and into the air. Dad got pissed and scolded me, saying carelessness like that could cause a dust explosion. He taught me something new that day.
A few years later, when I was thirteen, an entire milling facility blew up in the town over. Being in a small rural area, that was all everyone talked about for a week straight and every local newspaper had their own story. The factory stood alone around acres of farmland, so the big warehouse and stainless steel silos stood out to me whenever I passed while driving down route fifty-five. The pictures on the news showed that everything was decimated, leaving only the charred and twisted metal supports.
Over sixty thousand square feet of factory space destroyed because some dust caught a stray spark.
No fancy chemicals or plastic explosives are needed for an explosion. An explosion, by definition, was just a cloud of rapidly expanding gases. Many things that aren’t explosive in nature can do some serious damage, like a truck tire with too much air, or a pop bottle with dry ice and water. The grain silos blew to hell because they were confined, which stirred up more dust from the blast, and the initial inferno set off secondary explosions, and it just kept snowballing until there was nothing left to blow up.
Heart of the Resonant- the Soldier's Tale Page 25