Shalia's Diary Omnibus

by Tracy St. John

  Seot and I stepped out, with Larten and Cifa carrying Anrel, close behind. Hatzeg brought up the rear and warned off the ronka nearby. “I wouldn’t mind some steak, so back off until I stow this deathtrap.”

  Ronka are as dumb as the day is long, but that furry mountain was smart enough to decipher the Nobek’s tone, if not his words. It lumbered off.

  “Lead on,” Seot invited Larten. I thought he was being nice to let Larten greet his parents first until he added, “Mind the landmines.”

  “Shit mountain, dead ahead,” Tiron reported cheerfully. “As far as the eye can see, piles of shit, shit, and more shit.”

  “Language!” Cifa barked. The next instant, Anrel yelled, “Shit!” Loud and clear. Plain as day.

  Tiron slapped his hand over his mouth, staring horrified at my glaring Imdiko. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—I’m so very sorry.”

  All at once, I was hit by the goofy stick. The stress of the last few days…our secret flight to get away…the idea that we were going to be living as scavengers, scrounging for our food, wearing skins for clothes—boom. At least my emotions swung to the hilarious rather than depression or more of the helpless outrage that had been dogging me.

  Ancestors and prophets, did I laugh at my daughter’s sweet, cheerful voice calling out that profanity. A moment later, Seot, Larten, and Hatzeg joined in. Cifa was last after a short war between anger and surprise. He started to chuckle, then howl. We all did, except for Tiron, who seemed ready to crawl under a rock. Or a pile of dung. He was embarrassed to have inspired my baby’s descent into potty mouth.

  Fortunately, Anrel had no idea what had us in stitches, so there wasn’t a repeat performance. She laughed along with us, as she always did.

  The sight of four people rounding the house and heading for us stilled my guffaws. I’d met Larten’s parent clan via vid com, so they were familiar to me by sight.

  Dramok Denkar led the group, as was typical for the leader of the clan. He was the eldest, but not really that old. There was no sign of gray in his hair, and the only creases I saw on his face were those that came from smiling and perhaps squinting. He and the rest wore their hair pulled back, though his coarse wavy tresses had rebelled. Quite a few tendrils had escaped to frame his heavy-jawed features.

  Matara Gilsa was the female version of Larten. She had a tinge of his dangerous aura, a woman with a Nobek attitude. I’d heard she could outdrink her clanmates and was as handy with a blaster as a war veteran. She’d been delighted to learn I had trained to fight. At a distance, I could sense her strength and will.

  Imdiko Iramas was the low-key, hippie type I thought someone who lived in touch with nature should be. His whole demeanor was so laid back, even his eyelids drooped sleepily. He approached at the rear of the clan, his slow steps leaving him farther and farther behind. He smiled dreamily, as if the whole world was a pleasant interlude. I couldn’t imagine him getting angry. Larten said he witnessed only two occasions when he saw any temper from Iramas, and it had been shocking. “It’s so out of place for him, that I could never forget it.”

  Nobek Barun was the exact opposite, the reason I half-expected our visit to be a survivalist nightmare. He was in habit of leaving his clan’s almost-zero consumption lifestyle for a month each year to live rough in the wild, eating only what he could hunt or forage and building shelter from whatever he found in his natural habitat. Hardcore, that guy. Larten had stories of Barun returning home half-starved because of poor game or wounded from encounters with fierce predators.

  Yet Barun, like the rest, was simply but decently dressed. In all our coms he’d been the vision of civilization, clean and polite. Handsome, his eyes lit with the same spark of humor Larten often had. It was he who ran ahead of the rest of his clan to claim Anrel from Cifa.

  “Forget the son. I’ve had to look at Larten for decades. Let me at this baby!” he growled, kissing her chubby cheeks and swinging her about to make her scream with laughter.

  “How nice of you to bring someone for Barun to play with, someone he can relate to,” Gilsa deadpanned. She gave Larten the warm greeting his father denied, a hug which he returned.

  “Hello, my mother. It’s good to see you in person again. It’s been too long.”

  “Whose fault is that?” Gilsa swatted him and turned to me, holding her arms out. “Come here, Shalia. Let me undo all the horror stories he’s no doubt told you about digging up dirtbugs for dinner and walking twenty miles for water.”

  “He said thirty miles,” I joked, accepting the hug.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t raise him better.”

  “Hey!” Larten protested.

  After the initial greetings and hugs galore for Anrel, we went into the house. Yes, there was poop mines to be avoided along the way, but it wasn’t as bad as I’d been led to believe. “It’s picked up daily and added to the compost pile,” Iramas drawled in his relaxed way. “I’ll check the grounds three times a day so Anrel doesn’t fall into anything she shouldn’t.”

  “There is a containment field around the scrap piles too,” Denkar reassured me. “It’s there to keep the animals out. Anrel can’t walk or crawl through.”

  I gave Larten a bald stare. He gazed back with wide-eyed innocence, an expression no Nobek can pull off. He’d known all along the baby wouldn’t find trouble on his parent clan’s homestead.

  Inside the house, the last of my concerns disappeared. True, most of the stuff was handcrafted, repurposed items. The rugs had been woven from old clothing and other fabric scraps. Same with towels and washcloths. Jars and bottles and other containers held homemade soaps, detergents, and all manner of smaller items. The loungers had no doubt been re-upholstered often through the years. Many objects had been constructed from wood. Everywhere I looked, I was awed by the ingenuity that had turned what many might have deemed trash into useful pieces. I became conscious of my own wasteful tendencies.

  Though filled with recycled bits, the home’s interior was as beautiful as the outside, and not because the inner timbers were as elaborately carved. All the things were crafted to please the eye as well as the unwasteful heart.

  I was surprised to learn we were eating out that night at a local diner. “Is that safe?” I asked our minders.

  Tiron answered eagerly, as if to make up for teaching Anrel her first crude word. “This area is small and out of the way. The locals are tight-lipped.”

  Gilsa grinned. “The people of the area mind their own business and take it personally when others pry. If that Dramok Nang was to show up and ask about you, he’d get nothing but silent stares. Maybe a blaster in his face.”

  “What if he offered to pay for information?” I asked.

  Denkar snorted. “He’d find out how little the locals like that sort of thing. He might not be seen again.”

  Barun cleared his throat. “There are those who live nearby who might have had past issues with law enforcement. People who don’t want to be found. They and their families came here for anonymity. This region is perfect for such men and women to disappear into, and anyone who happens along asking for information, even if it doesn’t impact them, will pay a high price.”

  That was an eye-opener. No wonder Breft had thought it a good place for us to sneak off to. I decided to not ask probing questions of the locals.

  Gilsa looked at us brightly. “Who’s ready for a night on the town?”

  A couple hours later, we were. Showering in rain water collected in a cistern and routed into the house suited me perfectly fine, though I had to rush. “It rained all last week, so you can have seven whole minutes!” Iramas said with the air of someone handing out treats.

  Woohoo. Let the good times roll. But I wasn’t put out. The water was warm and the homemade soap smelled wonderful, like a bouquet of flowers. The guys used a different soap, the smell resembling pine. I guess the floral soap challenged their masculinity, which I did not fail to tease them about. The handsewn towels were soft and fluffy.

  I�
�d been warned to not bother with fancy duds, and on that account, Larten had been right. His parents wore their simple but hardy pants and shirts, Gilsa included. I have to admit, it was nice to be in the company of a Kalquorian woman who didn’t glide about in gowns. Since the casual skirts I’d brought along looked dressy in comparison, I opted for slacks too. My blouse might have been a tad frilly, but my clanmates had nicer outfits on too.

  “Will we city-folk be picked on?” I wondered out loud.

  Seot chuckled. “No more than a comment or two. If they accept you.”

  Larten had brought mostly training shorts to wear. “My fathers always lend us their clothes. I don’t think you’ll fit into my mother’s things though.”

  No kidding. Gilsa was almost a foot taller than me, and broader to boot. Her clothes would fall off me. I had training outfits of my own, and I was certain I’d be living in them for the next few weeks. I had every intention on helping out, in whatever small ways I was capable.

  I’d never been to dive bars on Earth, but I imagined they would have resembled the diner Clan Denkar took us to. Tiron came along, with Hatzeg remaining at the homestead to repair new gaps in the containment field and guard the property. Tiron promised to bring him a ronka roast.

  But about this ‘restaurant’. It was rough and tumble, the way I’d imagined Clan Denkar’s home would be. The building was constructed of the same wood, but not with anything approaching an eye for aesthetics. Nope, it was four long walls and a roof constructed of crude logs. There were gaps that ensured if people came in during a rainstorm, they would get drenched. It didn’t have a floor. Just leveled dirt underfoot, with a layer of dried leaves scattered over to protect it from turning to mud.

  It was as if I’d stumbled into a medieval inn. An entire ronka—well, minus the head, hooves, and fur—was spitted and set to turn over a fire in the rear of the place. The tables were sturdy, and the chairs had long legs, similar to those on Earth. Keeping floor seating cushions clean would have been an impossibility.

  There was a long bar with booze aplenty. Most of the patrons stood at the bar with huge mugs and cups. Many had plates piled high with meat. Few veggies. Their mothers would have been so disappointed.

  A big guy with fewer teeth than Hatzeg came over. His deep voice was pitched low as he dipped his head. “Clans Denkar and Seot. Nice to have you here tonight.” His gaze lingered on me and Anrel for a moment. He sniffed and returned his attention to Denkar.

  “Good to see you again, Utel,” Seot greeted him. That was it for the pleasantries. As I’d been told—these people minded their own business.

  Ordering was simple. Denkar said, “Full plates for all of us. Bring us some bottles of the best bohut and kloq.” We’d brought our own juice for Anrel.

  “I take it you want clean cups too.” Utel spoke with such seriousness, it took everyone else’s chuckles to make me realize he’d been joking.

  “Only the best,” Gilsa snickered.

  Utel gave her an actual bow, his gap-grin creasing a sun-worn face. “My ladies, for you, anything.” He chuckled when Anrel clapped her hands together, as if applauding.

  “What do you think of our high life, Shalia?” Nobek Barun asked when Utel left us to get our order.

  “I wished I’d brought my gown for the occasion. Larten said it would be lowkey. He didn’t tell me I was going to a fancy restaurant,” I sighed. “They even cook the food here.”

  They laughed at my joke. Okay, it was more down-to-earth than I’d expected an eating establishment to be. Waaay down to earth. A couple of Nobeks threw knives at targets on at the other side of the room. I swear the guys in the corner were buying and selling blasters, though I took my cue from the rest of the patrons and avoided staring at the transactions. There was a roped-off pit, in which I learned the locals had fighting contests. Many of those ended with broken bones or permanent damage.

  A place for people to hide, where law enforcement didn’t intervene. Yeah, Nang would be off his rocker to come here in pursuit of me.

  Yet when our food and drink arrived, there was no fault to be found. The dishes, utensils, and cups were plain, but they gleamed and sparkled where they weren’t in contact with our meal. It’s as if brand-new dinnerware had been unpacked for us.

  And the food! That ronka was fall-apart tender, practically melting on my tongue. I’ve eaten at some high-end establishments since coming to the empire, and none came close to open-fire roasting. The vegetables…yes, there were some despite the apparent lack of enthusiasm most of the other patrons had for them…were crisp-crunchy, herbed to perfection, and undoubtedly freshly picked that day. Anrel was delighted to test out her new teeth on a few stalks. With the ronka shredded so fine, she was able to eat that too, and did so with great appetite.

  Dessert was a gooey, berry concoction that I’d sell my soul to eat every day. From start to finish, it was an incredible meal. Who needs fancy dishes and tablecloths when there was such food to eat? Or a real floor, for that matter?

  Only one thing kept me from perfect enjoyment of our night out. Well, two. The blood was off-putting. A couple Nobeks got into a violent argument about kurble and were sent to settle their differences in the fight pit. Anrel squealed, as if cheering the violence on. Barun cheered with her. You’d have thought they watched puppies at play instead of men beating the hell out of each other. Meanwhile, Cifa glanced at me and rolled his eyes. In the end, the combatants staggered out of the roped-off area with their arms slung around each other and bellied up to the bar to drink together. I couldn’t watch the one stitching his own chest up, first washing the flapping skin in the eatery’s cheapest kloq.

  The other issue I had was when I caught myself examining the dozen people eating and boozing. I searched the crowd, a part of me positive I would spy Nang’s leer. I knew he wasn’t there, that he was a dead man if he showed his face in these parts, but I couldn’t convince the hunted animal inside me. Each time I realized I was scanning for trouble, I made myself stop.

  Fear will not rule my life. I won’t let it.

  All in all, however, it was a fun night out. People stopped by the table when they recognized the two clans and said hello. Nobody gave out my or Anrel’s names, and nobody asked for them. Not that it would have been hard to discover who the Earther and child were who had joined Clan Seot. Still, I appreciated the lack of nosiness. They smiled, said they hoped we enjoyed our visit, and told me what a cutie the baby was. When Gilsa asked if any other strangers had been sighted in the vicinity, she was assured nobody had—but if such people did show up, we would be apprised of it. Nang’s picture was shown with the warning he was bad news. Heads nodded.

  Signal given and received, apparently. No further information was required.

  I returned to Clan Denkar’s home feeling reassured. That rush of freedom I’d felt after we’d left Kalquor returned. I could relax. Anrel and I were safe for the moment.

  Safe enough that my thoughts turned in an amorous direction. I was impatient for Anrel to go to sleep in the small room off ours. We’d taken the crib Breft had offered for our use, along with the plushies our daughter had fallen in love with. She cooed and mouthed her toys, her eyes getting heavier and heavier until her little body went lax and her breathing deepened.

  Then I had the next hour to get through with Larten’s parents in the common room. Ugh, it sounds as if I didn’t enjoy their company in the least, when the opposite was true. We sipped some of the smoothest bohut I’ve ever had while the family updated Larten on friends and neighbors he knew. I learned Larten had not gone to training camp like most Nobek boys.

  Barun snorted. “Why should he? There was nothing here he could have broken that mattered more than him. He had all the woods to run wild in, to learn survival. Denkar, Gilsa, and I taught him to fight as well as any camp trainer would.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised that Gilsa would have been Larten’s fight instructor. Old notions die as hard as old habits do. Gilsa grinned
when I shot her a glance.

  “If my son had raised his hand to me, he would have gotten it back broken.”

  “I knew it too,” Larten laughed as he looked at his mother with unguarded affection. “I have every intention of raising Anrel to be as strong.”

  No wonder he’d never been threatened by my need to learn to fight. His mother had taught him well.

  I still had romance in mind when we retired for the night, but I was curious to ask Larten a few more questions. “Did you feel you missed out because you didn’t go to training camp?”

  “Not really. Dramoks and Imdikos don’t go to them, and no one questions that.”

  “I thought it was a law that Nobek boys had to go.”

  “It’s usually safer for everyone,” Larten chuckled as he shoved Cifa to make room on the hand-sewn quilt that covered the sleeping mat. “My breed is destructive as hell until we get a handle on ourselves. In families who aren’t as tough and self-reliant as mine, it can be dangerous. In my case, any of my parents could have beaten me simple.”