Blacklake-Book4-1 Three Cousins

Chapter 8
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Lew’s musta been named for someone an epoch or so ago, but it’s gotten a lot of monikers, besides Lew’s, since. A bunch of my cousins just call it The Pub. Some of the older patrons call it The Roadhouse. In my mind I call it The Dump. I will not rest my elbows on a table at Lew’s. Might get rabies, or something worse. I always wipe the lip of my mug before I imbibe, not as though that will actually disinfect it.

Not that I actually imbibe, usually. Bein’ underage, in the Range, the average barmaid will give me a troll-look and point to the door. But sometimes if they’re busy, they’ll look the other way. Like tonight.

Lew’s is a rough place. Funny it’s Papa’s favorite for a sip of draft when he’s not in Mama’s company. He’s dragged me along, though he ensured I only ordered a sarsaparilla. Don’t think he ever brought my older bull siblings here. Bein’ the youngest means the threshold of appropriate behavior has long been eroded some. Ideology of right and wrong worn down, so to speak.

I shouldn’ta dragged Thomas along tonight. Yeah, humans, really rough humans, bikers fresh outa a Northern prison, or oil field workers with a desire to challenge death, fill the east side of the tavern. But a fresh-faced innocent from the plains should never even be told the place exists.

Yet, my cousins patted Thomas on the back and said silly things, like ya’re gonna love Lew’s. Yeah. If anything went wrong, they weren’t gonna worry about carryin’ him to the emergency room. Or from the constable’s office. Maybe I should feel guilty that the morgue is a possible future visitin’ place for Thomas, after tonight.

Being Friday night, it was pretty packed, even though it was still early. The five of us queued up at the bar to wait for a free table—as though one might likely open up. The cousins had their gallon mugs of ale and wandered off to watch a snooker match, as I edged up to the bar for my turn to order. Would I get carded? I estimated a two percent chance, even though my slighter ogre build doesn’t help declare me as past my minority—Range minority.

Didn’t recognize the ogre hen with the bustier barely coverin’ her business, so she likely wouldn’t know me from Cain. She didn’t even bother to nod when I ordered a mug for me and a pint for Thomas. After slidin’ the two across the bar at me, she didn’t even meet my eye when she snatched my Continental twenty.

I stepped away from the bar quickly before anyone on the other side recognized me, jarrin’ Thomas maybe a tad. But he didn’t seem to notice. He was lookin’ deeply into his ale, like maybe it held the decapitated head of a deer.

“Don’t sip it,” I said leanin’ into him to get over the noise of the joint. Sippin’ it might make him empty his stomach. Again. Lew’s ale has to be thrown back. “But don’t go too hard. Maybe a bit richer than ya’re used to.” Richer. Yeah. That’s a good description.

“Smells—”

Yeah. He didn’t have to finish his statement. With my ogre snout, I’m more sensitive to our low-caste ale than any wimpy human.

“Shouldn’t it be chilled?” he asked.

Don’t know how I kept from snortin’ in my own gallon of swill. Wait until he tastes it. I waved him toward the dart boards, as an earsplittin’ din erupted. A particularly large bet must have just transpired. Thomas jerked as though clipped with a cattle prod in the backside. Prolly spilt half of his pint.

“Where’d your cousins go?” He asked a long moment later.

Did he expect the five of us to stick together and tell stories from our college days? The three corralled me at Mama’s for the unadulterated scheme to get me and my guest in the most uncomfortable situation the Range offers. Yeah, I’ve ever only come to Lew’s as a dare. At least past sunset.

We hadn’t stood there five minutes watchin’ the lively competition when I found the two of us surrounded by seven bulls who I mildly recognized as belongin’ to the Birs clan. Second cousins maybe with a couple third and fourth.

“Ya were seen headin’ for the trails on the South Shore,” the apparent leader of this specific inebriated mob muttered, a thick ogre finger pointin’ at Thomas’ face, “with our cousin, Ezra. Whatcha think ya’re doin’ comin’ into the Range and philanderin’ with our hens?”

That sounded about as funny as the retellin’ of it some day in the future would imply. Only the expression on his face made it funnier. Philanderin’? Really? I searched my memory for this particular cousin’s name. Wouldn’t come to me. There are really too many of us. The clan maybe oughta be culled just a bit. Not in a permanent way—our numbers is how we Birs maintain control of the council—maybe culled in a migratory manner. They’d fit in well down in the Wildes outside of huntin’ season.

“Ya’d think ya bein’ named after The Ike, ya’d take more care in protectin’ the clan name,” he said to me. Breath beat me in the face. His chin claimed he needed to stand closer to his razor in the morning, with maybe six dangly strands wavin’ about. He coulda stood a fresh shirt.

Smartly, Thomas edged behind me a bit. I looked about a little to see if there was anyone I could hide behind. But no one of any clan stature stepped forward. Not that a respected, honorable clan member would really want to be caught dead at Lew’s on a Friday night. Me included, come to think of it. Oh, this place stinks. It’s not all body odor.

My considerin’ of a comeback was interrupted by a fat ogre finger collidin’ with my chest. “Got nothin’ to say for yarself?” the maybe-cousin asked.

Of all the things comin’ to mind, not a one was less likely get me out of a flung fist. Seemed unfair I might have to spill a bit of the near-gallon of ale left in my mug. Papa has a reasonable if not imposin’ stature, if a few inches shorter than the average ogre. Mama looms over him. Scares most-any intelligent ogre bull. Why couldn’t I have taken after her side of the DNA?

That thought preceded the cousin’s ham fist swingin’ for my face. I’m an athlete, lithe for an ogre, if not a fighter. Thankfully I hadn’t swilled enough to have slowed me down. A dance at the hips and the fist flew past my face. Don’t know where the next intuitive reaction came from, but my ale emptied into my cousin’s face. That sure wouldn’t deescalate anything.

Wow. Did the mob surge into action. I felt like a rock inside a rattlin’ tin can in a flash. Be lucky to half-way keep Thomas from gettin’ splatted in the ugly boards of the floor like a cockroach. Where’s a troll bouncer when ya need one?

~ Ezra ~

Kriz and I sat on the terrace, both of us with our snouts embedded in our tablets. Kriz prolly read about the theory of relativity, or something at least as heady. I read a bodice-grippin’ piece set four hundred years ago. Complete idjitry, but the idjitry of that ilk keeps me from wishin’ there’s romance in my own life. If bulls and hens can be that ridiculous, I can be proud my life resolves around roastin’ carcasses and creatin’ beautiful platters at the Inn.

“Didn’t—take—long,” Kriz muttered when my phone pinged with a text.

“Can ya pick us up at the constable’s office? Prefer ya not mention this to Mama,” Ike’s message read.

I looked across at Kriz, who was thumbin’ his phone faster than my eyes could capture. How he does that, I’ll never figger.

“Emergency room? Or constable’s?” his text read.

I answered verbally—I can talk fine. “Constable. Go with?”

He sighed. I waited. He texted, “Got nothing better to do.” Don’t know if that shoulda insulted me. We were doin’ well keepin’ each other company.

“Spose it’s from ya bein’ seen with Thomas today?” his next text read.

What! Why would any nonsense Ike could have gotten himself into tonight be connected to that? Lew’s is a bad place to be when the sun’s up. I gave Kriz a long glare. He shrugged. Turned back to his phone. Conversations can drag a bit with Kriz.

Another ping. “Ya really didn’t imagine doin’ something romantic like a duo hike up Gladdie Trail wasn’t gonna raise a few eyebrows?”

“There was nothing romantic about it. Gladdie Trail is a beginner track and has one of the best overlooks of the Lake, outside Dragons Ledge.”

His next text read, “I didn’t imply it isn’t a marvelous trail. But it’s where every bull takes the hen he’s puttin the moves on.”

“Moves. Puttin? When did ya become a cad?” I asked. “It’s a beautiful, well-maintained trail. Easy enough a puny human female can manage it. No other reason for takin’ Thomas up there.”

“Cad?” he growled.

“Ya implied I have a design on a simple human. That’s rude. I should smack ya into next week, ya nimrod.” I so wanted to share with him that Thomas said I was beautiful. Karzy’s strict abolition, warmed my face.

“What else is going on?” Kriz texted.

“Whata ya mean?” I asked.

He texted, “Ya don’t think I didn’t hear about Mama fallin’ upon ya at the Inn?”

What! The bull hasn’t had a face-to-face conversation with anyone, prolly, in two years. How’d he hear Aunt Karzy—she didn’t fall upon me. Like a dragon on an elk. I maybe sighed. “Ya heard about that?”

“Telegraph, tell-a-cousin,” he texted.

There are no cousins in the Inn’s kitchen to snitch on me to Kriz. Though, in afterthought, plenty others work the dining room.

~