Blacklake-Book4-1 Three Cousins

Chapter 33
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They’d decided they needed to go back and suck more stuff out of my skull bucket about two in the morning after widgets and dingbats alerted em to stuff I could only imagine. All I knew was that my skull was about to burst, and I couldn’t stop hurlin’. Think by spine screamed from the tip, wherever it connects, to my shiny ogre butt.

The sun was up now, though Papa kept the blinds closed for me because the glare was a killer on my headache. I couldn’t remember Papa not bein’ in my sight since I woke up yesterday in Recovery. He’d even surprised me in the operatin’ room, come to think about it, holdin’ my hand. They gave him scrubs and he stood next to me the entire time the doctors played around behind that drape they covered the top of my head with. That machine the one quiet surgeon stood behind was a little terrifyin’, if I chose to be honest. Reminded me of those giant wrap-around robots ya see in sci-fi movies.

“Hey.” My voice sounded like gravel.

Papa stood quickly and had a bendy straw at my lips before I swallowed away my hey. Didn’t really want to sip anything. Gave my stomach something else to spit up. But I think Papa wanted me to drink something, so I did.

“Have ya had anything to eat since breakfast yesterday?” I asked him.

“Proves ogres can survive a few hours without eatin’, huh?” he said.

“Why don’t ya go home. Mama prolly misses ya.”

“She’s comin’ to relieve me in about an hour,” he said.

“What,” I said. “I need a minute by minute caregiver now?”

“We’d be bored otherwise,” he said. “Yar siblings never been much for givin’ us any excitement. We’d be disappointed if ya up and kicked the bucket without watchin’ ya go.”

“That sounded a little weird,” I mumbled.

~ Ezra ~

I’d carted a dozen beef quarters from the cold cellar to hang in the smokehouse, shoveled about five hundred pounds of hickory chips into the coop, a good truckload of oak wood for the rack, and sat to catch my breath. The smoky scent wafted off of me, givin’ me a smile. It’s been said folk smell my jalapeno and oak before they see me comin’. I should bottle the scent. Been told it’s wonderful to breathe in.

The side entrance to the kitchen clattered, and Zarade exited. She held two troll-sized tea mugs. She must be up for another hen talk.

“Ya’re the boss,” I greeted her. “Ya don’t have to show up until the morning rush. What are ya doin’ here so early?”

“To learn what brings ya in hours before the sun rises,” she said.

“Ya so old and decrepid ya forgot how the smokehouse works?” I asked.

She handed me one of the mugs, sat on the bench next to me, and we both spent a half-minute settlin’ our skirts out nicely. Maybe we futz with our skirts too much.

She asked me about Ike. I shared my latest report from Uncle Bliar. She cursed. Unlike her. Our kind are better at insinuatin’ emotion with our growls. Thomas still isn’t aware some of our growls are laughs, chuckles, and wordless disagreements, not just a warnin’ we might be ready to shred a fool.

“I get my hands on the—” she used a word my mama threatened never to let visit my mouth. “Who hurt that silly cousin of yars, I’ll—”

“Clearly, he never shoulda walked into that crowd. We ogres get a little rambunctiously insane when a forest tract gets felled.”

My mind went back to the oak and hickory I’d stacked the past hour. How do these idjits think we manage our bark-covered barbecue? Bet none of those fools would forgo a single plate of barbecue, much less see the end of fire-brazed food for the rest of their lives.

“Ya doin’ okay?” she asked.

“Thomas asked me that yesterday. Took me some time to figger out he worried about my mental state. Ya turnin’ into a human on me, not realizin’?” I asked.

“Ya sayin’ we hens can’t be sympathetic?” she asked.

“Maybe ya were raised differently in yar clan,” I said.

“Don’t go gettin’ insultin’,” she growled.

I thought about all the family folk fillin’ the waitin’ room yesterday. Was that sympathy? Have I been raised so cynical to believe folk watch Birs folk like they watch a train wreck? For the entertainment value?

“First year of high school or so, maybe before that,” I started slowly, “Ike was prolly the most liked ogre in school. Then the younglings turned evermore jealous of his and Kriz’ success. As though the gods treated em special, that it had nothing to do with hard work and dedication. And half those younglings began to hate him.” Kriz was hated for different reasons. A lot of em.

Suddenly I wasn’t motivated to continue with that thread of thought.

We sat quietly a half-minute. Zarade took a hard sip from her mug, and turned an intense look my way—brows arched a bit like humans’ do. Was she confused where my train of thought had wandered? I guess we were on two different tracks.

“Can ya explain,” I thought I’d try anew. “How Ike and Uncle Bliar are both the most respected and hated in the Range? Even among those with d Birs followin’ their given names.”

Zarade blew out a big breath. I waited. Think it was her turn. I waited a bit more.

Finally. “I’m a bit of a simple hen. My life has always been about our kitchen, supportin’ the management of the Inn. My folk weren’t advantaged by generations of livin’ in the Range. My mate manages the mental energy to keep up with the goings on in the Valley. I allow him to post our votes for whatever the thing is. I feel blessed by the gods I managed to get my baby hen raised right, mated off to a good bull.”

I waited some more.

“Never had a hen sibling of my own,” she said after such a long pause I felt like she coulda taken a nap. “The gods also blessed me to have ya standin’ inches off my hip for almost a decade.”

This wasn’t the conversation I had expected. “Ya call me yar mentor,” she continued. “But I think ya have actually been mine. With yar quiet perseverance. Overabundance of love.”

My time to blow out a lung-full of air. And to admit I was confused.

“Really,” she said softly. “The way ya manage orders and deliveries, seem to know exactly what supplies and the amount of food we’ll need from meal to meal. I stand amazed every day.” She sniffed. “I just growl at ya all like the play-yard bully—to pretend I’m in charge.” She sniffed a bit harder.

I snuck in a long, deep breath. “Ya’re the best school-yard bully I’ve ever known.”

She growled a heady laugh. “Good to know. Now what are ya gonna do with the human boy?”

That was more what I expected. “Not gonna do—” I gushed the word, anything. “With the boy. He’s here for another few weeks to play with Ike. Learn what he can about ogres and trolls, I guess is what he’s after. Fill his curiosity, as it is. I’ll be happy just to lead him in his journey a bit.”

“If some idjit bull doesn’t bash in his brain,” she said softly.

~