Blacklake-Book4-1 Three Cousins

Chapter 54
~

Drivin’ home, a funny image breathed a bit of life in my thoughts—again with my meanderin’ mind. But as clear as any Range day I saw our kitchen breakfast counter—saw, as, between my ears. Thomas’ folks looked very uncomfortable sittin’ at the counter, designed for the bulk, height of an ogre. They wore pretty much the same sour countenances they’d worn all afternoon and evening, but the comedy of the bar top cuttin’ just below their chins made me chuckle.

Very inappropriate of me to be mentally ridiculin’ them in my head box. Wasn’t intentional.

I’d have to sit with my elders to be polite. Though all I wanted to do was get on my laptop and catch up a little.

Odd, Mama wouldn’t put em in the formal dining room. Maybe forcin’ em to watch her glaze half a cow carcass, as though they’d engage in conversation they avoided for five plus hours or so—didn’t see any new rapport gettin’ built.

I might be the reason Thomas was in the Valley, but he invited himself. I wouldn’t mention that. Prolly wouldn’t come across well.

~ Ezra ~

The bull raised the tree limb high when he got within a short-car-length from me. The hand with the shiny, ten-inch long huntin’ knife edged backward for a mean thrust too. Two weapons—seemed a little greedy. Personally, I think I woulda preferred to concentrate on just one.

Whether one or two, I wasn’t gonna stand here and let him have his way. While we ogres aren’t fleet footed, he wasn’t expectin’ me to lurch toward him. No one ever told me, stay inside of the weapon’s prime strikin’ distance, but a length of tree wasn’t gonna connect with my head if I was less than arm’s length away.

The scent from the air belchin’ out of his face when I connected about seven fast fists into his breadbasket, coulda made me puke if maybe I’d been thinkin’ about it.

Prolly the surprise of my attack kept that stinkin’ huntin’ knife from splittin’ my spleen in two. Maybe one day I’d pull a Mama and visit a shrine and thank the gods for that gift.

A delayed pain worked through my fist, though he was still staggerin’ backward, true shock twistin’ his face. Not a homely face. Strong features. Bull stood a good twelve inches taller than me, and we hens usually lean over our bulls. So this guy’s a freak.

Should I attack again, while he wheezed for breath?

Maybe I thought about it too much, ’cause he roared—kinda weakly, ’cause he hadn’t yet filled his lungs good, yet. And reversed his backward motion.

Unlikely I’d get such a clean openin’ salvo again. My mind focused, more clearly than I woulda expected, on keepin’ that club from connectin’ cleanly with my head. That would be bad. The knife was dangerous too. But—

Have to get that knife out of his hand. I’ve been butcherin’ carcasses that weigh twice as much as me since middle school, when I first went to work for Zarade on weekends. I’d be able to slice him up ready for a platter without givin’ it a smidgen of thought—all muscle memory. But no good method of extractin’ that knife from his fist came to mind.

I noted he remained slumped a bit still. Still struggled gettin’ a good breath. Almost got me grinnin’, but I had a long way before this mutt wasn’t a problem.

As he approached, I moved to his right to keep that stinkin’ tree so any swingin’ he did, I would be on the weaker side of the arc. We ogres aren’t baseball lovers—we break too many bats, feet are a bit too slow—but I was raised watchin’ goblins play the game—they love baseball, are naturals—attended a bunch of games with Ike and his papa over the years, so know the power is way into the forward side of the swing. Plus, that kept me away from that blade. He’d have to cross his body to reach me with it, which would get in the way of his club swingin’.

So didn’t take long to realize we were dancin’ in a circle.

“Be still,” he hissed.

I laughed. Think that ticked him off, because he tried to rush me again. I managed to get well under the bat swing, got him in the side ribs with a pair of, maybe four, combination punches, before the tree connected across my lower shoulder and back. Pain exploded across my entire body. If I had fillings in my teeth, they woulda vibrated right out. I’d check later if my tusks hadn’t been loosened. Maybe the breezeway light went out for a moment.

Then it was on, and I was stumblin’ backward, but Bruno, don’t know why I gave him that name in my head, but Bruno was down on one knee suckin’ air, and his tusks hovered a foot from the ground.

Couldn’t see where the stinkin’ knife was. But the grippy, narrow part of the club lay a few inches from his hand. Musta broken half of his ribs in two, shocked the life out of his lungs, maybe. I did good. But, oh, I paid for it. I hurt something awful.

Stars sprung out here and there. But I had a chance, had to ignore lights I knew weren’t real. Gettin’ my feet settled, I sprinted at him. He didn’t respond, or at least too late, ’cause I got my hand on the tree, reared back, swung down for the back of his neck.

Must not have connected where I intended. ’Cause it didn’t feel right, not quite solid enough. Once, I dropped a really ripe watermelon in the kitchen. The splatter was amazin’. But what impressed me even more, was that it made a louder, squashin’ sound than I expected. A little drumish. That similar sound rang in the dark now.

~