Blacklake-Book4-1 Three Cousins

Chapter 59
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Was hard talkin’ her into not leavin’ til sunrise. The highway across the Range is a series of curlicues, black as pitch. But she didn’t get any sleep anyway. We sat, then lay together across her bed, holdin’ hands, talkin’ until the sky began to brighten.

Relived a lot of things. Laughed, and groaned. We’ve been to a lot of places. Done some amazin’ things in our two-plus decades. Lived among amazin’ folks.

Grandpapa Klow lived large in a lot of our stories. Especially that first trip the three of us made to the eastern beaches. The parents thought two ten-year-olds were too young to escort a seven-year-old autistic. Go figger Grandpapa Klow would step forward. He was still the council lead, back then, I think.

That old ogre got us in more mischief than any of the three of us could have managed on our own. Face burned when we talked about that casino he took us to, and staked Kriz against the ugliest goblin I’d ever met—a professional gambler, if what grandpapa said was true.

The three of us sat among some rough types for four hours, slurpin’ down way too many sarsaparillas that coulda given us sugar overdoses, hens with their gifts hangin’ out of their tops. Bulls drinkin’ and swearin’. Uncomfortable, at the time. Has given me more smiles in the last decade than I could have ever expected. I’ll bet grandpapa designed it that way.

Kriz held his own that night. Won more pots than he lost. Grandpapa called it a night finally, when Kriz’ face planted on the table. Sent his chips flyin’ everywhere.

Way too funny.

~ Ezra ~

There had to be thirty Birs relatives in the kitchen and dining room this morning, with another thirty hangin’ out in the drive. I’m not anyone’s favorite hen in the Valley, excludin’ Kriz and Ike of course. So don’t know why they were all here.

Prolly haven’t had a conversation with 59 of em in ten years. Even countin’ hoedowns. Not that I’m selective in who I converse with—well, maybe I am. But just ’cause a bull or hen claims to be a Birs, doesn’t mean I have to act like I have anything in common with em.

Woulda helped if they’d kept their rude whisperin’ to emselves until I’d driven away. Like I’m not humiliated enough, and a centerpoint for ridicule and unkind talk.

Had found Kriz leanin’ against my truck. Wasn’t even holdin’ his laptop. Didn’t look up, make eye contact. A rare sadness lay about his eyes. He gave me the shortest hug on record. He doesn’t like physical contact, but there was something else behind the abruptness. Walked away from me briskly. That—interaction—almost killed me.

Once deep into the Range, my mind settled a bit, and I was able to enjoy the unendin’ repetition of peaks and valleys. Yeah. Even if I make a life for myself in the Wildes, I’ll be sneakin’ back into the Range to enjoy her offerings.

Late morning, I stopped at one of the few places to refuel. Nice opportunity to stretch my legs, get the blood flowin’ in my butt again.

At the local ogre place, got a passable Ogre Tray. No less than five folk, includin’ an orc hen, addressed me by name, wished me well. I’ll admit. That drew an unexpected revistin’ of tears. Not in a bad way. Hundreds of miles from the Hamlet, and folk—

Kindness. Just kindness. Is what they expressed. None of the whispers and sly looks I’d gotten the last three weeks in the Valley. Why? Why are so many folks of the Valley ready to leverage their jealousy and meanness? So much gossipin’. Like there’s nothing else to do in the Valley.

Hard to be a Birs, often days, in the direct fraternal branch. Like I have intentions of bein’ better than anyone else. Don’t know how Ike does it. Maybe why he left the valley to go to school. As did Kriz—but nothing around him bothers that bull—he’s so inwardly wound. Still, I’d miss him.

Uncle Bliar is amazin’. Usin’ his position for good, steppin’ on toes without drawin’ blood, as Grandpapa Klow once remarked. Quietly drawin’ the ogre community almost unsuspectin’ into the current century—not screamin’ and scrappin’.

Maybe I’ll miss Uncle, along with Ike and Kriz. Okay, maybe even Aunt Dorig. She’s taken me aside and had everyone of those hen-to-hen talks a youngling should have with their mama.

She’s such a hoot.

No wonder Ike has so much personality.

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The End
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