Blacklake-Book4-1 Three Cousins

Chapter 37
~

Mama chortle-growled, drawin’ me out of my slumber. She held her chin southward, peering at her phone, of course—which I’m not allowed to do. When did she replace Papa?

I asked what time it was, and when she got here. She claimed it was close to six. Ignored part B of my query. By the tiny slit of light makin’ it through the window blinds, had to be AM, since my room faced east. When ya lay in a bed with no distractions for a while ya kinda lose track of—call it reality.

“What’s so hilarious?” I asked.

“Fool clan leaders called a session to discuss the social crisis.”

“Social crisis,” I mumbled. “That’s what they’re callin’ it, out loud? Called a stinkin’ council session, to discuss it. Like it’s any of their business.”

“Fools will be fools,” she said. “Yar papa refused to attend, so if the idjits come to some kind of idjit agreement, there will be no teeth in it.”

“So Aunt Tizir’s conversation with Ezra got out?” I asked. Kriz—no—he’s socially ignernt, but not an idjit. He wouldn’ta told no one.

Mama jerked her head up. “What conversation?” Her growl inferred an irritation no bull wants to hear. “And why are ya aware of it and I’m not?”

Maybe my chin allowed my tusks to float a bit toward my chest. There was no good answer, to either of her questions. Insane, I’m stuck in a hospital when there’s so much drama searin’ the Hamlet—the entire Valley. Maybe the entire Range. Trolls are prolly rollin’ in their caverns grippin’ their sides in laughter.

“I asked ya a question,” Mama growled.

Her growl was a little like the one I got when I punched the bully in fifth grade, who was teasin’ the grade four bully, uh, youngling—ya would think we would have come up with a better word for an overbearing hooligan. Bulligan. That would work. Maybe I’ll suggest it for the dictionary folk. But we’d have to use henigan too. There are plenty of hens willing to browbeat a weaker sort.

“I’m waitin’,” Mama growled.

Woah. Mama’s in the browbeatin’ mood. Henigan gear. Guess I wasn’t gettin’ out of this one. I could try. “Was in confidence.”

“I’ll confidently beat ya into a pulp,” she growled.

I emptied my lungs a bit, maybe in case, if she clubbed me in the chest it wouldn’t hurt so much. “Concerned, Thomas settin’ for dinner with the cousins the other night.”

She blinked hard. “Duh. Like I couldn’t figger that out on my own. And what did Tizir have to say about it?”

“Please, Mama. It was private. She didn’t even want Kriz to hear, but he wouldn’t leave the room.”

“I can beat ya to a bloody pulp, or I can beat Kriz into mush. Which ya want?”

“Kriz?” I maybe whined.

She stood, which wasn’t a good sign. I think her shoulders broadened a bit tightenin’ her smock. I thought that was a wise tale to warn younglings from irritatin’ a hen.

I have a concussion. She wouldn’t hit me in the head, at least hard, right? And I don’t think she would truly go all henigan on Kriz. Decided to be brave, brave-ish. “If ya wanna know, ya need to speak to Aunt.”

My sweet, nurturing mama—chortle—shared another growl, before turnin’ around for the door, stormin’ off. I’d call it, in a huff. I like that word. Think I’ve heard David use the word huff.

I had to smile. No parent watchin’ over me for the first time in three days. I didn’t have to use the mini-barrel-thing to urinate. I could actually get out of bed and visit the porcelain. I listened closely—nurses can be a bit stealthy, when they aren’t rumblin’ from room to room. No flutter of feet.

I pulled back the sheet and carefully drew my legs over the side of the bed, realizin’ for the first time how tall these stinkin’ hospital beds are—my feet dangled a foot above the floor. Hmm. For about ten seconds my head swam.

When it lessened, I grabbed the rollin’-hangin’ thing holdin’ the saline bag, the guilty party that’s encouragin’ me to try the bathroom on my own. Gave it a test tug. If I teetered, that thing wasn’t gonna save me. I reconsidered for a moment.

Seven seconds later I found myself flat on the floor, the medal pole-thingy clobberin’ me hard in the chest. Maybe my brain case bounced off the marble tile a bit. Ouch.

~ Ezra ~

The door of the smokehouse wrenched open, and a voice gritched, “Ya in there?”

I short-stepped it between the hangin’ carcasses to see who was so obnoxious so early in the morning. Took a second to focus on the face against the morning glare filterin’ behind the dreadlocks.

“Aunt? What are ya doin’ here?”

“How can ya breathe in there?” she growled. “Get out here. We need to talk.”

Not again. I told her I’d meet her outside in thirty seconds, and finished movin’ the five pig carcasses nearer the fire, to give em a good bark for this afternoon. After slatherin’ em good with new sauce, turned on the rotisseries. Slathered em good with a bit more sauce as they turned.

That done, I almost thought I’d hang out a little longer, hindin’ in here. But I’d soon have as good a bark on me as the quarters hangin’ behind me.

I stepped into the freezin’ air—in contrast—and gave my arms a good shake to adjust.

Aunt Dorig sat on my bench, holdin’ a tall go-cup, which she took a loud sip from. Could almost get high on the caffeine from where I stood. So that’s where she gets her immeasurable energy.

“Really,” she said. “How do ya breathe in there?”

“Once ya get acclimated, ya don’t notice it,” I said.

“I think all yar brain cells have been smoked to smithereens,” she growled.

“That how this gonna go?” I asked, maybe my irritation risin’, in preparation.

She gave me a more intense look. “Sit,” she ordered.

I’m raised to bide by my elders, but I didn’t care for her attitude. So I hesitated, before sittin’ and slidin’ off my smokehouse flip flops. She snuffed at me, then leaned down a bit and repeated her sniff. She worried she smelled of smoke and carcass like me I guess. But then, she wore a fancy silk-blend skirt and smock, that maybe had to be drycleaned.

She waited while I spread out my modest cotton-variety skirt. Why do we fuss so much over our skirts? She apologized for not bringin’ me a coffee. Maybe tryin’ to make up for—whatever.

“Yar ignernt cousin wouldn’t tell me the skinny of yar conversation, but he did let it out that ya and yar mama had an intentional conversation, that maybe—”

“It’s none of yar business,” I interrupted her. “And ya’re not gonna browbeat me. If Mama wants to share what she had to say, ya can get it from her.”

“Well why didn’t I think of that.” She growled deep.

Like that was gonna make me waiver. I growled back at her. She jerked a hard, surprised look at me.

“Well, look at quiet Ezra, all grown up,” she said.

Was pretty sure that wasn’t meant as a compliment but I told her thank ya, anyway. Hopefully that would irritate her.

We sat without speakin’ for a moment. Aunt musta been burnin’ up her synapses, because I think she even forgot about the cup of caffeine in her hand. I smiled, inwardly, when she took a big hit.

“Ya and I used to share things,” she said.

“Ya’ve been a good aunt,” I said, “If a bit on the heavy handed.”

“That’s hurtful.”

I growled up a good laugh for her. The toughest, strongest willed ogre I know is Grandpapa Klow, and if a stranger spied upon my cousin’s household, he woulda assume Aunt is his youngling hen, and not his youngling’s mate. Not that Bliar is a pushover.

“This Thomas thing—”

“Is none of yar business,” I repeated, I think.

She growled unhappily again. “Affects the family, the clan, and everyone in the Valley.”

“Because they’re all busybodies with nothing better to do with their time,” I said.

Aunt held her tongue a moment. I sensed there was a sharp opinion waitin’ to come out though. “Well.” I waited some more. “At least ya didn’t call em all racists.”

“Coulda. Woulda fit,” I said.

“That isn’t really fair,” she said more softly than I woulda expected. “We’re a conservative folk. Change is hard for us. Our kind has flourished in the Range because of our homogeneity.” Which I wasn’t really sure what that meant. “The severity of our values.” Nor that.

“And block-headed stubbornness,” I added for her. Have no idea how she can lump ogres, trolls, orcs, and goblins together as a homogeneous gathering—if I was guessin’ the meanin’ of that word correctly.

She tilted her head down, I think tryin’ to hide a smile.

“So why are ya here” I asked. “Ya just used to bein’ everyone’s boss. Ya irritated that a youngling not born to the great Bliar is a focal point in the Valley, involved in the shiftin’ breeze? Ya wanna ensure yar whims and fancy are the laws of the land?”

She sucked in a bit of air. “Well. Aren’t ya tryin’ to get an old hen irritated. Provocative, much?”

“Ya came on a little strong,” I said. Rethinkin’ it though, maybe I was just anticipatin’ her to be.

“Did I?” she asked.

“It’s yar way. Ya’re Bliar’s mate. Ya run the Valley, afterall. And ensure Bliar runs the Range as ya see fit.”

“My Bliar doesn’t need anyone leadin’ him by his tusks. And if I impact the Valley in anyway, it’s because I love it and the folk who live here like I swooshed em out my own loins.”

“Yar’e talkin’ all elegant, aren’t ya?” I worked to keep the sneer out of my voice.

“Maybe that was a bit over the top.”

We both laughed.

~