Siblings Bele and Hale, Black Lake Novel 7

Chapter One

~

We’ve always spoken Trollish at home, though I observed early visitin' my troll grandparents, Standish is prevalent with them and just about everyone else in the Hamlet. I’ve asked Papa on occasion, why. Mama too. Papa I think has only grunted. He does that a lot. Mama would give me her troll face and ask if I didn’t think it’s a beautiful language.

Our family is odd for a lot of reasons besides that. I’ve been in the homes of plenty of folk, and I can give ya a list of fifty quirks. It’s not just that my brother and I are mixed race, which is bizarre enough.

Not that I thought it was bizarre as a younglin’. But as the seasons passed and I became a tad more self-aware, I couldn’t help but notice all the other stuff. Papa and my brother Hale are autistic. Savants in their special ways. They’re the only two individuals I’ve met in the Range with the condition. Though I’ve read up on it—I’m in med school after all—why wouldn’t I. Autism is about twenty times more prevalent in humans than the giant races.

Noise from the Lake interrupted my thoughts. There were a dozen young folk, mostly human, with a mix of trolls and ogres kayakin’. Not very bright younglin’s, not to figger ya don’t have to shout on the water. Sound carries. Early in the season to be on the Lake in kayaks. There’s still a lot of ice blown up against the bank.

“Why didn’t ya tell me ya were goin’ to the inn. I woulda dropped ya here.”

I may have jerked a bit. Thought I was alone, strollin’ the boardwalk. My aunt gave me a wave and a big smile. She’s not much of a smiler. She and Uncle Ike are more likely to growl at just about anyone. Papa says Uncle gets it from his evil mate. Ma says they share enough stubbornness one can’t tell where it begins and ends.

I noted the tall go-cup in Aunt Nuel’s hand. Not really my aunt. But close enough in the real sense. “Ya didn’t tell me ya were makin’ a pitstop. I thought ya were headin’ d’rectly for the statehouse.”

“I take it ya’re here for the same reason.” Her smile sharpened again. I guess I love Aunt Nuel, but Papa grouches about her so much it’s hard not to feel a little jaundiced toward her. Besides. She treats Hale a bit like she does Pa. Like they’re responsible for the way they are.

We repeated the so-longs we’d shared minutes ago at the corner, but after givin’ her a last wave, my feet felt frozen for several beats, watching the tourist kayakers on Black Lake. After, my eyes followed the snow-covered peaks south of the Lake, across to the west, and studied Dragon Ledge for a bit. Aunt doesn’t believe in dragons. Another reason to find her a bit untrustworthy, despite bein’ my clan leader.

How can she not believe?

Born and raised among humans in the North. Had heard that explanation a dozen times. My and Hale’s education has always been priority one at home. Why we’ve traveled the South so much, taken trips overseas a number of times. Sad the North is verboten. I was shocked to learn in third grade that Southerners have to have a passport and visa to cross north of the North Plain. Been a fact as long as Hale and I have been alive. Seventeen years, still in a cold war. I shook my head.

Hale and I would fly West Monday to represent the Hamlet at the clan hoedown. We’d need to get prepared for the looks, that shouted, what are they, tall humans? Our features are too humanish for either ogre or troll, which is weird. We aren’t human-mixed. We’re ogre-troll-mixed for pete's-sake.

Not fair the only other mixed race I’ve ever met, our second cousins, favor their mama, an ogre. They’re really big ogres, thanks to their troll papa.

My mind turned back to my earlier thought, about our family’s use of Trollish. Since Mama nor Papa would explain, I asked Grandpa. That was a mistake.

Ya’d think an engineer, who teaches at the university these days to stay out of trouble—his words—would be less full of dragon pooh than the average Shmoe. My favorite story is that Papa had been cursed by a troll witch the year I was born, and he could never again speak any language but Trollish.

I’d told him, “Good one, Grand.” He was stricken I didn’t believe him.

I reached the Hamlet Inn and peered through the grand casement at the folk dottin’ the lobby. Not packed considered the daytime highs barely make it to the forties yet. The summer season is stinkin’ short here. But enough folk to make ya struggle to get yar favorite seat.

Inside I received a half-dozen welcome backs. I returned grins and a wave to each. Got a how-was-the-first-semester-of-med-school. Added a thumbs up to that cousin. Ordered a tall coffee which the orc hen wouldn’t let me pay for. Like the Birs clan can’t afford a coffee. Snort. Or is it because the clan owns the inn? Never occurred to me.

After snugglin’ into an overstuffed armchair for ten minutes readin’, I considered I should have gotten a small coffee. I’d be here a while. Couldn’t take the drink into the library. My thoughts returned to the essay I was readin’, but a pair of bare troll feet sidled in front of me. My eyes climbed the long, colorful pantaloons up, and up. Finally met the troll face studyin’ me.

Maybe I flicked my tongue at a tusk, to see if they were still there. Maybe on fire. I blinked a few times. Was she gonna tell me to get out of her seat? Did I have body odor? Did she want to borrow my tablet? No. She had one of her own wrapped inside a ginormous hand.

“Yes?”

She didn’t speak. For maybe a six count she just studied me. Then closed her eyes, and her free hand raised slowly, fingers extended, as though she used Braille on me, waist to the tip of my head. Was creepier than heck.

Her eyes finally opened, and she lowered her hand. Maybe she blushed a bit. “Sorry. May I join ya?”

No, freaky person. Pretty sure my jaw just dropped, prolly givin’ me a thirsty-fish gape. “Uh.” She wore a surgical smock with tiny colorful teddy bears swirlin’ every which way. Gray mingled in her dreads down to her shoulders, where her hair turned mostly shiny black, almost to her waist. Implied she was at least fifty-ish or so. The dark circles under her eyes implied she’d seen a couple more decades.

She only managed my loss of words for a moment before spiralin’ into the low armchair next to me. Her eyes never left mine. Creepy. I struggled to put a half-welcomin’ gesture on my face.

My ears might have started ringin’ from the extra beats my heart thundered. What was with her? I waited a good half-minute before she spoke.

“It’s strong in you,” she said.

Uh, excuse me.

~

Hale

~

Papa surely understood I’d rather be in my studio, than hikin’ the Lake’s North Slope. With him. In particular. We’re so much alike we can hardly stand each other’s company—it seems sometimes.

I’m on break. Much rather be working in granite, sketchin’ out a nighttime vision. And he’d surely prefer to be on a conference call explainin’ to some poor OW developer how big an idjit they are. Or warrin’ with Uncle Ike over some contract. Perhaps designin’ some new architecture.

Ma had given me a look at dinner last night. A photo may be worth a thousand words, but a troll hen’s glare can rewrite history, strip every inch of pride off ya—put ya in yar place statim. Papa was only askin’ for a few hours of my time. The rest of the summer was mine. Not really. Monday, Bele and I head for the hoedown.

Whose idea was it to send us to represent the Hamlet? Papa would slit his wrist first before he’d accept the responsibility. Wasn’t even a major Hoedown. Just an excuse for a few bulls to hang around a still—says Papa—and complain about their hens. My last trip, I was still considered too young for that. Ma had explained when she called us with the news, for us, seventeen was the right age.

We slid down a steep embankment, makin’ me wish I’d put on hikers. I’d opted to forgo them since Papa had. Bad choice. The gravel pricked and stung. We were both joggin’ to keep from face plantin’ by the time we reached the bottom, what turned into a broad, hidden dell covered by a dense canopy, not just another creek gushin’ with snow-melt. But considerin’ the gentle rumble, there was still one of those hidin’ in the dark ahead.

“About time ya got here.” The irritated, unexpected voice pinched my throat closed and every muscle north of my calves prepared for battle.

“Ya see yar younglin’ jolt?” It was Uncle Ike, chortlin’ his ogre butt off. Not really an uncle. Technically a cousin once removed, but, Ike and Papa are so close everyone thinks of ’em as brothers.

About time?

“Ya just got here too or ya’d have a fire goin’,” Papa snapped in Trollish.

Uncle sat in the leaves, back against a mighty pine, legs stretched out in front of him, hands clasped behind his neck. Looked relaxed enough to have been here a while. But Papa was prolly right. Can’t ever say I’d ever caught him in the wrong on any topic. Or maybe that’s just what Mama has instilled in me. Have to give it some thought.

“Welcome home, Hale. We’ve all missed ya.”

I gave him a nod, mind spiralin’ around why the three of us were here in the middle of the Lake’s North Slope. All secret like. I doubted anyone but Mama missed me in the slightest. Though the managers of the various Hamlet art galleries might be eager to see me back in my studio. Where I’m eager to be.

Papa disappeared in the underbrush to my left. Should I follow him? This meetin’ was confusin’. A moment later I heard the clunk of dead-fall rattlin’ together. He was collectin’ for that fire he spoke of.

“You ever feel more comfortable speakin’ Trollish, than Standish?” Uncle asked, stretchin’ out into a standin’ position. He held my eye. A moment later he shook his head. Like he deciphered the code—I would have nodded if he was makin’ any sense.

Why would I be more comfortable? True we speak Trollish in the family, but it wasn’t like Bele and I weren’t raised equally versed in Ogrish and Standish.

“Just askin’,” he said.

Nothin’ comin’ out of Uncle’s mouth is incidental. The man is an animal of purpose.

Papa returned and started snappin’ a five-inch-thick limb into eighteen inch chunks for a fire more purposeful than just heatin’ up coffee. He used an offshoot to whack Uncle Ike in the breadbasket. Ouch. That would leave a mark. Sometimes hard to believe the two cousins even like each other. Papa groused at him to make some kindlin’. Uncle grumbled somethin’ about usin’ Papa’s skull to heat the coffee. They’re like that a lot.

I hurried to help break up my own firewood before I got a wack across the forehead.

“Ya get taller every time I see ya,” Uncle said.

At seventeen, though there’s no precedence to guess when I’d stop growin’, but Mama says trolls edge up inches well into their twenties.

Papa froze and gave Uncle a hard glare. The second Uncle picked up on it he froze too, dropped his jaw, then wicked a look my way. “That was no crack. Ya and yar sister are like my own children. Ya know that.” He looked back at Papa. “How could ya—” He didn’t finish.

Papa ignored the past moment, draggin’ rocks together for the fire. Unlike Papa to be overly sensitive about my and Bele’s—condition. Though we’ve lived the mix of confusion and shadow of prejudice our entire lives.

My two elders shifted quickly into shop talk. I half listened. Mostly because the snark about the OW—Ogreware—workplace is more often titillatin’ than real business-talk. I may be working on an MBA to placate Papa and Grand, but there’s nothing more borin’ to me than business. I’d much rather be finished with education with my BA in Art and be ensconced in my studio, than traipsing to TIT—Troll Institute of Technology—for more studyin’. I’ve proven I can support myself with my art. Completely ignernt that I need a backup.

I had zoned off until Papa interrupted Uncle Ike with the question on my mind—why are we here. But Papa worded it as, “When are ya gonna get to the skinny, what ya needed forest quiet for, when we could be in any comfortable conference room on the North Slope?”

“I don’t even trust my own office security when it comes to what I wanna talk about,” he said.

Papa studied Ike hard. If impatience had a name, it was spelled on his face. Papa isn’t much for games.

We both waited a bit for the watershed moment. And waited.

“First,” he said. “Let’s talk about our Northern problem.”

We have a Northern problem?

“Don’t even start schemin’ with me,” Papa groused, which sounded a lot harsher in Trollish than Standish. “I have no interest in anythin’ ya have to say about the North. So the subject is over.” A rumble vibrated in his ogre chest, which got Ike’s hands in the air like he was pushin’ off from a sticky opponent on the basketball court. Ike loves his basketball. Got to say I enjoy watchin’ him play, maybe not so much if he’s mismatched against a human. For an old ogre, he’s still nimble—ish.

“Hear me out.” Ike switched to Trollish, which I found odd. “We’ve lost our intelligence edge. The North is like a locked safe. We can’t continue ignorin’ them.”

“You know who ya need to talk to about that. She’s the leadin’ dove on the Greater Council.”

Uncle’s face blanched a tinge, and he cleared his throat. There’d been rumor that he and Aunt Nuel—not my real aunt, Ike’s mate—were in their own cold war lately. And it wasn’t very cold.

Ike cleared his throat again. “I’ve managed an educational visa.” His voice turned gravel. “For two to study in the North for two semesters.”

My jaw dropped open. My chest tightened. I’m autistic, but I’m not stupid.

“Ya almost got me killed on multiple occasions in the last conflagration and now ya want to put the lives of my dearest in danger?” Papa’s voice boomed louder than I’d ever heard in my life. His fists clenched, lips stretched against his tusks, muscles in his shoulders arched. He’s an ogre of modest stature, but he looked ready to kill Uncle Ike.

“It isn’t like they’d be on a battlefield,” Uncle hissed. “Be on a college campus where they could just feel the pulse of the North.”

The rumble turnin’ in Papa’s chest was enough to crack the glass in nearby windows. Good thin’ we stood ten miles away from the Hamlet. He flung down a shard of wood that nearly caught uncle in the face on ricochet, turned and stormed away. Not toward home. West. Deeper into the North Slope.

I swallowed hard, figurin’ he wouldn’t want my company, so I stood still. Except for Papa’s hard footsteps fadin’ away, the forest turned silent.

“He’ll come around,” Ike said, still in Trollish. Oddly, it occurred to me to ask about the thin’ that drives Bele nuts. Why does Papa only speak Trollish? In the hamlet, even Mama speaks Standish, her first language, despite being a Troll.

I must have stood lost in my thoughts for some time because when I looked down, Uncle was blowin’ kindlin’ into a blaze. I guess he still expected to share that cup of coffee. He invited me to have a seat. Said there was the other topic he needed to speak to me about. Considerin’ the first one, was pretty sure I didn’t want to hear the second.

~

Chapter Two

~

She sat in her chair wedged in my direction. I worked not to study her like she studied me. Her eyes flicked, as though memorizing every feature, every pore of my face. People look at Hale and me differently, but this wasn’t like that.

I realized there was an aire of exhaustion about her. I’ve always been able to read folk well, maybe that’s why I’ve been driven to be a doctor for as long as I can remember. I asked her if she was all right. She blinked a couple times, as though interrupted formin’ a chemical equation.

“Yar empathetic?” she asked.

That struck me odd. Or creepy.

“That’s yar gift?” Wasn’t sure if that was a question or a statement.

Yep. My mouth gaped open. I clopped it closed. Tried to look away from her, but found I couldn’t.

She held out her ginormous troll hand. “I’m Tie. Doctor Tie. Healer Tie.”

I took her hand. She didn’t shake mine, merely held on. After a good ten-count, it was obvious she claimed it for the time bein’. She mumbled somethin’ about “it bein’ very strong.”

“Not to be rude,” I said, “but ya’re freakin’ me out.”

After a pause she smiled. I hoped she’d let go of my hand, but she didn’t. I sensed more than a little pain resonatin’ about her. But another kind of energy pushed against it. The thought rang weird in my head. Yeah. It didn’t make any sense.

She let go of her tablet and lay that hand across our enmeshed mitts.

“I must seem a little loony,” she suggested.

I nodded.

Her smile broadened. “It’s gonna take a few moments to explain.”

I nodded, and waited. I’m good at pickin’ up anger, irritation, frustration, fear. Embarrassment more than anythin’. Those are frequent emotions I get from Hale. And Papa. I guess those on the spectrum never get comfortable in their own skins.

My point bein’, yep, empathy is a strength of mine. But I rattled-confused what washed over this troll healer.

“I’ve come across others in the Range. In my practice, I’ve tended every troll between the North and South Slopes. But never felt anyone with the touch like you.”

“Uh. Touch?”

“With the ethereal,” she said.

Whoa. What did she say? “The—the—”

“It’s believed most of them joined the majical kind who returned to the other side generations ago. Definitely not many of us left.”

“Many— Uh—”

“Ya never considered—”

“I haven’t a clue what yar talkin’ ’bout, ma’am.”

“I’m upsettin’ ya. I’m sorry. Maybe the shock meetin’ ya here sent my discretion to the winds. Ya don’t believe?”

“Believe?” That may have come out as five syllables. My cheeks warmed. Warmer than they had been.

“That ya can touch the ethereal,” she said.

Considerin’ the context, I truly knew that’s what she meant, but Hale and I weren’t raised in a home of the old beliefs. I mean, Papa holds a deep reverence for the Earth and her creatures. Talks of the gods’ blessin’s. But it isn’t like the clan dances before altars and makes sacrifices for good tidin’s.

“I know you must be aware of the witches up in the hollers,” she said.

“Witches—” I hissed. Yeah. Papa definitely dismissed the concept of witches. More a term to refer to the uneducated who live in the past.

“The term may be thrown around loosely,” she said softly. “Many who are just ardent believers are tagged with the—near pejorative.”

I nodded. “May I—have my hand back?”

Smilin’, she allowed me to pull away and my vision turned blurry, my skin tingled as though still wishing to touch the troll. I jerked, and she smiled tighter. Blinkin’ away the fog I asked her what that was.

“It’s the natural connection, that draws us together,” she said.

I shook a bit more of the daze away, and took a deep gulp of my coolin’ coffee to grasp a bit of rational space.

“This must be difficult for ya,” she suggested.

How I kept from doublin’ over in a guffaw was a testament to my mama’s respectful upbringin’. I told her it was unlikely the ethereal chose me considerin’ there’s no history of—I struggled callin’ it a talent—the ethereal in my bloodline.

“It’s true the lore implies the ability traversed from mother to daughter, father to son. But no one in my line—” She hefted her shoulder.

“But I’ve never—how old were ya when—”

“I’ve never not known,” she said. “Ya’ve never—really?”

I shook my head.

She tilted her head to the right, eyes searchin’ a world I couldn’t see. After a long pause she spoke of how the touch is more readily accepted by her people. She chuckled—what we call the vibration deep in a troll's chest. “First time I met a non-believer was at university. Since returnin’ to the mines, my people, never met a soul—” She stopped, and smiled again, her eyes in the past. “Years ago an arrogant ogre ended up in my infirmary. An autistic bull.”

My entire body shivered, temperature soared a good number of Kelvins.

~

Hale

~

“If ya ever speak of this to another, it would be devastatin’ to me, so if ya respect me at all, agree it’s between ya and me. No one else, but of course yar papa and sister.” Uncle Ike exhaled hard. “Certainly no one else in the family.”

He didn’t say clan, but it clicked, that was a given. I offered him a shrug.

He nodded. Must have been all the assurance he needed. After all, Ike is more than almost an uncle. More like an older brother. I guess, since he and Nuel were never blessed with their own passel of rug farts.

“Yar papa was behind Nuel takin’ the leadership of the Council,” he began. Seemed a bit of anger seeped out of his eyes. “For the most part she’s done an excellent job.” He glanced up as though searchin’ for the approval of the gods. “Her ties to the North eased our kind to accept the armistice, two decades ago.”

There was no good reason for him to be speakin’ these thin’s with me. Nearly a youngling still. I waited while he reloaded his thoughts.

“Not an accident that ya and yar sister were selected to represent the Hamlet in the comin’ West hoedown.”

Oh. It was all his fault. I could poke him in the eye with a pitchfork.

“Get that ire out of yar eye,” he said. “Hear me out.”

Where’s a pitchfork when ya need one?

“No one on this Earth I care about more than yar papa, but he’s a bit emotional, if ya follow me. Despite bein’ the smartest individual I’ve ever met by miles and miles. Ya’re a synapse of the same mentality, ya and yar sister.”

So here was the flattery. I didn’t look forward to the old boot landin’.

“I won’t ever manipulate ya. My intent today is to recruit ya into a long plan. It ties to ya studyin’ in the North for a year, but begins with the hoedown. For ya to lead our folk into the comin’ decades. That kind of long game.”

This was gettin’ more convoluted by the second.

“Odder than a dull owl, bein’ the clan leader but not the Range Council leader, nor the newer Greater Council leader.”

Oh, I so did not want to go where Uncle was leadin’ me. Could I somehow stop him here? I looked into the woods. Where could I find a pitchfork?

“I wasn’t two years old when the assumption that I’d be the clan wonder solidified into granite.”

He paused. “I’m not startin’ this right. Ya know how yar aunt came to be the Greater Council lead.”

As Mama often claimed, Papa demanded Ike withdraw from politics, spend his time running Ogreware and not the business of the South. Put his foot down. Had the support he needed to have Ike dumped as the Ogreware CEO and from the Ogre Industries board. And put Nuel forth for the position Ike pretty much created durin’ the short war with the North.

“I can’t go against Nuel. I care for my life.”

It was all I could do not to snort.

“And for now she’s got wide enough support it would serve no purpose—other than to ensure I wake up dead one morning. But ya know I worry about the North. In the years to come the clan has to have developed a replacement that won’t be blind to the dangers of the humans’ bigotry.”

Okay, so I was now more confused than ever. I’m a youngling. An artist. How in the world could I possibly fit into this schemin’? I’m no better a politician than Papa.

“A year livin’ in the North would set ya and yar sister in a better position than anyone livin’.”

Pretty sure my head was shakin’ hard, which explained why I began to feel a bit dizzy.

“Representin’ the Hamlet next week will be the first, little taste, for the two of ya to sense yar place in the clan.”

Ya’re an idiot. The words simmered in the front of my noggin. No idea why they didn’t cross my lips. And since when do two people represent the Greater Council leadership?

“It’s the long game. It’s the long game.”

I’m an artist. Bele is gonna be a physician.

“Ya weren’t an artist over night,” Uncle said. “Ya developed yar skills over the last two decades.”

Pretty sure he’d forgotten how old I am. Uncle has about ten thousand cousins he could choose from for this idiotic endeavor. What had I ever done in my life to give him the idea I had interest in runnin’ anythin’ besides my own studio?

He continued talkin’ but the words no longer penetrated my thoughts. I stood and tossed the dregs of my coffee into the fire, handed him his cup, and turned for the Hamlet. Uncle has lost his mind. Maybe I’d mention to Papa that his favorite cousin might not be the best person to sit at the helm of Ogreware.

As bombastic as Aunt Nuel is, I couldn’t imagine anyone else chairin’ the Greater Council. She’s been in the position my whole life.

~

Chapter Three

~

No way I could concentrate on the content of the text in my lap. My fingers caressed the slim, cool edge of my tablet, eyes danced across the luxurious trappin’s of the library’s hall I had selected for its view of the Lake. Most every over-stuffed armchair turned that way. Thirty-foot ceilin’s. Gold plated dockin’ stations for the dozens of tablets available for visitors, preloaded with the particular hall’s offerin’s. Folk could of course access any other text, from another hall. A library without a book in sight. Ancient texts were stored in the five lower basement levels, which I’ve only visited out of curiosity, maybe when I was four.

Nothin’ but the gentle snaps from the scattered fireplaces. Maybe the occasional clack of a human or goblin boot. Even the orc librarians wear slippers to assure the tranquility. The mirror-like shine of the granite floors is enough for any barefoot troll or ogre to visit the place just for the creamy, luxurious smooth sense against tough soles.

I love this place. Always have. Peace envelopes me here. The Birs Memorial Range Library was the vision of Aunt Nuel, in her first administration, Mama told me. Understand every single soul from the South balked about the cost. But the pride this place created among our people can’t be overstated.

A place of enrichment. Learnin’.

The callin’ card that Healer Tie gave me teased my hand to draw it out of my front pocket. The ethereal. Don’t think I’ve ever heard an ogre clan member utter the word. Probably wouldn’t know of it if the many, spiritual orcs in the Hamlet weren’t so enamored in the—religion?

No. Not a religion. Belief. Social structure? Orcs love their mysticism.

If the senses that broil about me sometimes are truly threads of the ethereal, shouldn’t I want to learn to—cope, deal, use them? If I could heal, like Tie? That would be a good thin’, yes?

She promised to help me—learn. There was a day folk didn’t want to learn the Earth rotated the Sun not vice versa. Tie wouldn’t be indoctrinatin’ me, into a religion. Why did her offer frighten—at least discomfort me?

Movement to my right caught my attention. As soon as Hale noted my eye, he wrenched a look over his shoulder. To follow him to the atrium no doubt, where conversation is allowed. Not healthy to get an angry orc after ya for disruptin’ the silence here.

For Hale to want to talk was odd enough. I could usually feel what he wanted, thought. Ethereal? Or a remnant of sharin’ a womb for ten months? He’s not a bull of many words. A look with those rich dark eyes, an arch of his bushy brow, is a conversation for him.

I caught up to him as we crossed the first of the double doors. As the second glass slider whooshed together silently behind us, I asked him how his hike with Papa went. He turned sharply left, away from the administrative desks—folk who might listen in.

But before he spoke, I reached out, slid my hand up along his muscular arm.

It was there. The tingle. Not my imagination.

~

Hale

~

I quirked my brow into a what’s-that-for. Her cheeks blanched, eyes seemed to lose focus for several moments. I sensed her confusion. Maybe unease. But her color returned, she dropped her hand to her side, and her normal angelic smile crafted her face.

Ogres don’t find the two of us particularly attractive. Neither do trolls, Mama and the grands excluded. Our ogre relatives remain silent on the matter, instead of bein’ their normal honest and open selves. Mostly because we aren’t blessed with five-inch tusks. I beared a lot of teasin’ for my lack of tusk even in grade school, my itty-bitty nubs. Politely, we’re said to be a bit borin’ on the eyes, like humans. But I have always considered Bele the most beautiful creature on Earth. I’ve used her for inspiration for almost every sculpture I’ve worked. Folk ask me why so much of my work displays the homely human form. Since no one is used to me answerin’ a question, I easily ignore the blather.

My mind had wandered, considerin’ Bele hadn’t inundated me with words. She is a half-ogre hen, after all. Lordy, can ogre hens go on. And on.

Bele pressed her hand in her front pocket and withdrew a biz card. After studyin’ it for a moment, she handed it to me. From a doctor. Probably ogre, considerin’ the single syllable name, maybe an ogre. Tie MD. Family Practice. Healer. Her email address reflected a troll domain. So not an ogre.

I must have exuded a flood of concern, since she rushed to explain she had nothin’ goin’ on with her health. “Met her at the inn,” she said.

I waited.

“She told me somethin’, maybe it’s a hoax. Maybe she’s nuts. I don’t know.”

I waited.

“Ya saw, her card says healer?” she asked.

Yeah. I read that. But of course my eyes went back to the card. We’ve spent half of our lives hikin’ up the hollers within a day’s hike of the Hamlet. Come across plenty of those spiritual folk, homesteads marked with the healer’s sigel, an extended hand, fingers stretched out. As a youngling, creeped me out. They always looked a tad dismembered.

“In high school we read about the ethereal,” she said. I nodded. “Mama and Papa have never—ya know, said much about it.”

I waited.

“So, healers are supposed to have a connection to ethereal threads,” she said.

Had never given it any thought, but that sounded consistent. If ya believe in such thin’s.

“Ya feel the tingle, when we touch, huh?” she asked.

I thought back to her odd grip on my arm. She asked if I ever felt that when I touched anyone else. Ick. Why would I touch anyone else? Other than pettin’ a hound or a horse I was preparin’ to mount, I hate anyone touchin’ me. Ick. Don’t even like folk lookin’ overly hard at me. Orcs don’t require a breadth of personal space. Very touchy feely. Maybe why I avoid them if I can. Never had thought much about it.

“There was the same sensation when she touched me,” she said. “The troll header. She said it was our connection to the ethereal.”

I had to smile.

“Ya don’t believe.”

I allowed my smile to slowly soften.

She growled. Not much different than the vibration an ogre or troll emits when they’re irritated. We share that with them. “So. Yar hike.” Good. She was done talkin’ about mysticism and hokum.

“It was Uncle Ike,” I said.

Her brows wrenched down. Then recognition lit. “The hoedown?”

I nodded.

“I knew there was a good reason to hate that no good, lowdown ogre.”

My face must have given somethin’ up.

“What else?”

I told her about wantin’ us to go North. To spy on the humans. Which is what it was. Ike lies better than most ogres. No way the ogre was thinkin’ decades in the future. Uncle’s a checker player, not a chess player like Papa. So wait and see was better on the other matter. I’d see if the whole replacin’ Aunt Nuel thin’ ever came up again.

~

Chapter Four

~

Didn’t expect to get home with Aunt. Wasn’t surprised from her text that she was stuck in a late conference call, despite the council bein’ out of session. As the shuttle pulled up, my chest tightened not to be ridin’ home with Hale. Perhaps I should be gettin’ used to bein’ around him less. This past year, me at the medical school, Hale burrowed in at the business college, I’d experienced way too many bouts of—not depression. Loss.

Bein’ a Birs, I had to return a redundant half-dozen smiles as we qued for the shuttle. Hale never caught anyone’s eye. How did he get away with ignorin’ folk? We’re treated as royalty, as stupid as that is. Mama would rip my head off if I didn’t play my part. She took the whole near-pageantry to heart more than most cousins directly in the Birs bloodline. She’s awfully proud to have a Birs mate. A most-beloved Birs. More so than even Ike, though Mama says it wasn’t always like that. In truth, Uncle has enough personality to impress the average snake. Bein’ clan leader, suppose every decision likely to tick off as many as it makes happy.

Why couldn’t I appreciate Mama’s sentiment for my lineage?

Aunt Ezra, another not-really an aunt, has told me it’s because I haven’t spent enough time on Great-Great Grand’s ranch. Somethin’ about not soakin’ in the ancient ogre’s wisdom.

The floor lightin’ softened a three-count after the doors closed. As folk settled in their seats, the gentle tone from the ceilin’ speakers eased more noticeable. An acoustical version of a troll dirge. Pleasant white noise, I guess. Though Hale has turned me into a Blues lover.

The sun had already angled below the western peaks, though it was long to evenin’. Days are so short in the cradle of the Range, especially along the Lake’s slopes, not that I miss the much warmer days on the East Slope facin’ the Plain. But the calmin’ sky kept the voices on the shuttle muted.

We were snuggled into ancient pines within seconds, losin’ sight of the Lake. Ten minutes later we arched around East Bay and purple and orange volleyed off the water as She came in sight moments at a time.

Most riders exited at the near villages, and the shuttle seemed to sigh in relief. Or maybe that was just me. Hale’s preference for solitude influences me, I’m not ashamed to admit. Probably not a good trait for a future physician. But it isn’t like I hate folk. Maybe, I should admit I get tired of how folk look at Hale and me. Their expressions shout, “do they look more ogre, troll, or human?”

For goodness sake. We haven’t a drop of human in us. So our tusks are meager. Get over it. If only Hale wore his hair in dreads. He says it bothers him when he works. But wearin’ it in the human fashion—lordy, doesn’t help. Yeah, I’m guilty too. I prefer braids over dreads. Enjoy relaxin’ in the evenin’ drawin’ a brush through my long hair. It’s a crucial part of my ritual.

The shuttle pulled under the station cover of one of OW’s satellite buildin’s. The driver stopped short, lowered his window, and a friendly back and forth erupted. I twisted and caught sight of Uncle Ike standin’ on the sidewalk with Darshee and Wizper, another set of near-aunts, without a drop of Birs blood.

The three wore leathers, carried helmets and rich-lookin’ courier bags over their shoulders. Their ginormous two-wheel OMs—Ogre Motors—leaned twenty feet away.

That low down stinkin’ ogre. I was on my feet without a thought, struck the exit chord, and raced to get off the shuttle. I could catch the next one home. The driver interrupted his conversation to offer me a, “Have a great evenin’.”

I rounded the back of the shuttle as it loomed forward. I shouted somethin’, don’t know what, pointed a threatenin’ finger at Uncle Ike. Why was my dander so ruffled?

The three OW executives turned my way, confusion turnin’ to smiles quickly. Darshee shouted a loud, “Hey.” Wizper had her arms extended for a hug already. But I wanted to punch Uncle between the tusks before my anger disappeared.

My expression must have warned Uncle, because he raised his hands up, free palm flat open. Maybe a plea not to kill him. His extended brain bucket a good buffer to his pendin’ demise.

“Ya can’t keep yar snout out of our business, can ya?” I shouted.

Pretty sure Darshee and Wizper ripped looks at Uncle. “Now, whatcha do?” Wizper hissed.

“Hardly anythin’,” he groused at his dear friends and colleagues.

I shouted, “Hale and I aren’t yar stinkin’ personal checker tiles, ya buffoon. Ya fix this or so help me, I’ll have Papa disown ya. Ya’re already off my birthday card list.” Maybe I needed a harsher scourge.

“Whoa,” Darshee and Wizper hissed together.

“Ya’re gonna love the hoedown,” Uncle tried.

I pushed aside his helmet so I could glare into his face. “Papa puts up with way too much of yar shenanigans. Ya stop manipulatin’ me and Hale now and forever or I’ll take a baseball bat to yar handsome face.

Don’t know why I suggested he might be handsome. But, yeah, he is.

“I suspected ya’d be angrier about studyin’ up North,” he said.

“Up North?” Darshee and Wizper muttered.

“I’m just gettin’ started, ya big ape.” I turned to my sweet almost-aunts. “The idiot wants to make spies of us.”

“Shh,” Uncle hissed, the open palm flutterin’. “Bring the volume down. Didn’t yar brother explain the—”

“He didn’t have to explain anythin’ to me.” His eyes said everythin’ that mattered.

“Spies?” Darshee and Wizper chirped.

Uncle twisted a look their way. “Shh.” Then looked about, but everyone exitin’ the buildin’ appeared happy just to get to their vehicles and get home. “Let’s talk about this in private.”

“As though we aren’t family?” Darshee and Wizper said.

Even though my anger was levelin’ off, I didn’t snort about that. Though the two spinsters are more aunt-like to me than Mama or Papa’s sisters. Despite officially livin’ on the North Plain, they’ve always gone out of their way to help raise Hale and me more than the blood-aunts livin’ here in the Range.

“Do ya ever learn?” Wizper hissed at Uncle.

“Ya want me to beat him up?” Darshee asked.

Didn’t need no one fightin’ my battles. I slugged Uncle in the chest. Hard. Hurt my fist a bunch. I came away shakin’ my hand. Ouch.

“There ya go, hen,” Darshee crowed.

“Yar mama’s gonna hear about that,” Uncle said, rubbin’ the spot. His face tinted a tad pained. But I was sure it hurt me more than it hurt him. Still, felt good. His agony was embarrassment.

~

Hale

~

“Go home,” Ekor mumbled, “so I can close the lot.”

Not that there was a gate or fence around the quarry’s display yard. I continued strokin’ the face of the multi-ton slab of granite, which could become so many thin’s. Sure, half a dozen busts, though I imagined this block formin’ a pair of gargoyles at the entrance of one of the Range’s villages.

Oh. Imagine a single dragon, accentin’ the lobby of one of the newer high rises—well, not high-high. The council still maintains a twelve-story limit throughout the Range. But there were many office-residential towers with a dozen basement floors. The trolls love those underground levels. Even many of the high-earners moved here from the North. “Ya wanna that I set that aside for ya?” the bent-over troll asked.

Before I decided, I needed to see it in full-light. Follow the deep veins to ensure its viability for whatever project I threw myself into next. Not like anyone else would bid on the block. Builders don’t sink that kind of money into this quality of quartz. More willin’ to pay more for granite already cut to the size they need, where an artist can still benefit from a hammer’s catastrophe.

“How are ya, Ekor?”

“The youngling can speak,” he mumbled. “Welcome back home. Not that I’ve missed ya, ya pain in the keister.”

Despite myself, I smiled. Yep, he didn’t rely on artists to keep food on his extended family’s table. “The arthritis?” I asked.

He closed one eye studyin’ me, lowered his chin. “Sucks gettin’ old. May be better than the alternative, but don’t let anyone tell ya age is just a number.” He asked about Mama and Bele.

“Good, and good. Thank ya.”

“I may have gotten more words out of ya this afternoon than the last two seasons.”

We both looked into the sky. The sun had sunken south of Dragon’s Ledge a bit ago. The old troll was probably indeed eager to head home.

“I’ll see ya when I return from the West Slope,” I said.

“Heard ya’d been corralled to represent the clan for this mid-cycle hoedown. Raised more than a couple brows, let me tell ya. What bull too young to imbibe on the offerin’s of the local still would care to deal with all the complainin’ and bickerin’ from the old farts for no reward. If ya want—” he gave me a grin gracin’ a couple missin’ teeth between his tusks. “I’d be happy to take yar place.”

I’m sure the ogre cousins would love to see a Range troll representing our clan. Almost as bad as one of the four half-breeds the Hamlet has bred. And they’re gettin’ two for the price of one with our visit.

I shook the old geezer’s hand, slapped the square of granite goodbye as I strode away. Must be my troll side, that gives me such a love of stone. The troll’s old wolfhound escorted me to the ancient truck Ike’s papa handed down to me. I gave him, the dog not the truck, a long scratch before climbin’ in. Perfect vehicle, if I could just keep the stinkin’ ogre from improvin’ upon it. The dings and gashes give it character. As did the rough idle. The fool put leather seats in the thing this past semester while I was away, electronic doodads no forty-year-old truck needs.

Clean rumble answered a light key twist. No key fob required thank ya very much. Almost didn’t hear the tone of my phone. Not a text. I hate talkin’ on the phone. Don’t know how Papa does it. He pretty much lives under a headset. He’d prefer to be lost in design docs, but he’s taken on more of the administrative side of OW, with Ike’s continued overindulgence with his Range Council duties.

Papa says he hates the business nonsense. But in truth, I doubt it. After fifty years of system architecture, that has to have become old.

Imagine. The call’s from my new nemesis.

“What?” I barked.

“Whoa,” Uncle Ike answered. “Now I know why yar sister wanted to tear my head off.”

What? Bele’s the most gentle creature on the planet.

“I thought ya trudgin’ off without a so-long was ya just bein’ ya this mornin’. Didn’t know I irked ya off so bad.”

I waited.

“Ya there?” he asked.

He expected a yeah or somethin’?

“Ya might wanna call yar sister,” he said.

Hm. Why? I just thought it, didn’t ask him. He’d know.

“She strode away from the shuttle stop. I tried to get her on the back of my bike but she just kept walkin’. It turns dark in a bit. She won’t make it home, before.”

Gets black in the mountains when the sun sets if there’s no moon. What’d he say to her to make her storm away?

“I didn’t say anythin’. I promise.”

The liar.

“She hopped off the shuttle and let into me about, ya know, this and that. Clubbed me in the chest. I think she hurt her fist.”

I asked him why he didn’t call Mama.

“I don’t want that hen upset with me too. Oh no. Fix this for me, will ya? Ya know ya’re my favorite cousin.”

The schemin’ liar.

I disconnected. Didn’t need to tell that low down ogre goodbye. Dialed Bele. She didn’t answer until the fifth ring. Probably ensurin’ it wasn’t Uncle.

“He called ya.”

Wasn’t sure if that was a question or a statement, so I just waited.

“He made me mad,” she said.

I waited.

“Where are ya?” she asked.

I told her I was just leavin’ the quarry. She’d know I meant the display yard west of the Hamlet. “You?”

“Hidin’ in the woods.”

“Uh.”

“Uncle wouldn’t leave me alone.”

I waited.

“I’m gonna miss the next shuttle if he doesn’t leave.”

I considered askin’ where she was. No tellin’ where she got off the shuttle. Instead asked her if she wanted me to call Uncle.

“I’m embarrassed,” she said.

Didn’t see what she had to be embarrassed over.

“Never should’a got off the shuttle.” After a pause she whimpered, “I think I wrenched my wrist.”

In my mind’s eye, I imagined her poppin’ him between the tusks. “If he tells Mama, she’ll light into ya.”

“He tell ya I hit him?”

I said, “Couldn’t see how else ya could’a wrenched yar wrist. But ya won’t have to worry about him tellin’ on ya. He don’t want us tellin’ her about his schemin’.”

She laughed. I disconnected and called Uncle back. He answered, so he wasn’t on the road. Doubted he’d Bluetooth his helmet just to get to our village.

“Yeah.”

“Leave. She’ll head back to the shuttle stop.”

“Okay,” he said. “This’ll stay between us best friends, huh?”

“Ya’re just an irritatin’ neighbor.” I disconnected, and backed up the truck hurried-like. Pretty much could guess where Bele crossed paths with Uncle. The next shuttle would arrive before I could get there, but I’d hurry just for somethin’ to do.

~

Chapter Five

~

Our home is an odd design. As much an office buildin’ as a residence, two wings split by a palatial, what the family calls the lobby. Not a livin’ room. More a free, grand space to gather, greet, dine. Though there are private nooks in the bay windows lookin’ out over the village lake. One in particular is a favorite of mine. I have a dandy, private bedroom of my own in the residential wing of course. But I’ve spent more of my life curled in that nook readin’ than anythin’ else.

Enterin’, I headed for that nook, but opted to check in. Not truly late, but—okay, maybe I just needed to look at someone who loves me, would never manipulate or use me.

Oddly, Papa sat at the kitchen work table five feet away from Mama. Wore a dark power suit, jacket still flowin’ over his ogre-thick shoulders, nose pointed at the tablet layin’ in front of him. Must have entertained foreign dignitaries in the other wing today. Maybe why Uncle was here, instead of on the North Plain.

Papa just doesn’t look like Papa when he’s not wearin’ his traditional khakis and bright red OW polo.

“Hey,” Mama called. “Hope ya’re hungry.”

My eyes teared a bit, my chest tightened. My sweet, sweet Chez Zia. She had only glanced up, was facin’ down again at whatever sizzled in her enormous friar, so I hurried to blink the tears away.

Papa didn’t look up, but raised his hand shoulder height for me to grab. He gripped my hand tight. Ouch. Should I tell him I had a war injury? I leaned into him, pressed my nub of a tusk into his forehead. A new threat of tears erupted—for missin’ the ogre-troll tusks our kind use for familiar greetin’s.

Some thin’s just can’t be gotten over.

He gave me another hearty grip, before twistin’ to give me a peck on the cheek.

“What’s wrong,” Mama gushed.

Uh oh. She caught my ragin’ emotions in that catchers mitt of hers.

“Nothin’,” I chirped.

“Watch the pan,” she commanded, obtusely at Papa, and waved me to follow her. Back down the hall and into the lobby, I followed Mama as though I’m still her four-year-old toddler. She led me directly to my favorite cubby. Oh she knows me so well. How to set me at ease, where to take me where I can’t avoid sincerity, my rock.

After we both plunked down on the comfy bench seat, she grabbed both of my hands in hers, captured my eyes with hers.

“Ya can relax,” I told her. “Just in my emotional cycle.” That has always effectively worked about forty-percent in the average settin’. Bein’ a hen is a great excuse. Most times.

“Wish both of yall had gone to school here,” she said in her soft voice. “I miss ya so much. Ya’re growin’ up way too fast. Seventeen. Blast a dozen dragons, wish ya two weren’t so stinkin’ bright. Don’t want ya growin’ up at all. Ya should still be in high school. Not graduate school.”

Tears washed down her cheeks. Maybe this was more about her than me. What a relief. ’Cause suddenly I couldn’t imagine why my emotions had skyrocketed the last hour. I shook my hands out of her grip and reached out for a hug. We pulled each other hard together, our faces pressed into each other’s shoulder. Maybe even a sob snuck out of her.

I told her to shut up. “Ya’re annoyin’ me. Are ya sure ya’re not really ogrish?”

“Poor thin’. Daughter of a practical troll with the emotions of an ogre.”

“It’s true. Hard bein’ yar daughter,” I said.

Neither of us had to laugh at the old joke. We just pulled the other a little tighter. This time she allowed me the refrain. “Ya’re gonna break me in two, hen.”

We sat up and studied each other. I love her green eyes. Match Papa’s. Why did Hale and I get our smoldering coal irises? At least I got her rich, golden mane. Her dreads did well camouflagin’ her growin’ gray hue.

Mama cleared her throat. “Anythin’ ya need to tell me?”

I thought about it. No explain’ where my emotions came from. So, “No. Not really. Just bein’ yar emotional daughter.”

“That’s always been such a bane,” she said.

I couldn’t help but smile, despite us bein’ a broken record.

“Ya good now?” She asked.

My mind was blank for an answer. I wanted to ignore our traditional, cliche-filled banter. But nothin’ better came to me. “Been reminded I’ve got the bestest mama in the whole world.”

“Second best,” she chimed. “I’ve got that honor.”

Geez. We could just record one of these and replay it, never have to relive the turmoil. But the routine is so right for us. Maybe because Papa’s a complete ass when it comes to displayin’ emotion, sharin’ heartfelt thoughts. With him and Hale, we developed an odd sense of fortification against their cold stone cliff faces.

She cleared her throat again. And waited.

“It’s supposed to be a secret,” I said.

“If it comes out,” she said, “I might want to kill yar uncle.”

My chest tightened. Or was it my throat.

“I know,” she said. “I startle ya with my observation skills.”

She let my mind spin a twenty-count before she continued.

“But. Consider ya might actually enjoy yar trip west. It’s truly an honor. Good experience. And will give a lot of cousins a chance to look at the beauty that can come from a troll-ogre romance.”

My face had to be flamin’.

The term village idiots struck me. We’re the village—somethin’s. But even thinkin’ of ourselves as the village half-breeds felt like a knife in the ribs.

~

Hale

~

After parkin’ my old truck in the garage, I was stridin’ toward the lobby when another vehicle turned off the circle, into our long drive. I stopped and waited. Despite the gatherin’ gloom of early evenin’, I didn’t have to get a good look at the vehicle, I could hear it was an EV. Ogre Motors hasn’t built many of the blasted thin’s, thankfully, so I could guess who it was.

Aunt Nuel struggled out of the tight thin’ a five-count after the headlights switched off. I was still shakin’ my head as she neared.

“I don’t need any of yar comments,” she said, and grinned.

Grandpa Bliar would love to trade her EV in for a hydrogen. He’s been buildin’ them in his garage the last ten years. Half out of spite, I think.

“Ya wanna know why I’m here, huh?” she asked.

Yeah. And of course she knew I wouldn’t ask.

“As though I didn’t hear.”

I waited.

“Both Darshee and Wizper called me, gritchin’ about my stupid bull.” She giggled, what we call a giggle. It’s a rumble a human can’t replicate, which doesn’t sound a bit like a real, human giggle.

I waited.

“I can’t stop that bull from his schemes,” she said. “But in truth, I think the hoedown will be good for ya two. Ya’re both more mature, intellectual than any bull and hen three times yar age. And ya know everyone wants to meet ya, for obvious reasons.”

I considered shruggin’, but didn’t. I couldn’t actually appreciate the obvious reasons. We aren’t zoo critters. After she held me in a tight gaze for a moment, I motioned toward the front door. Figgered she’d get the invitation.

“Thanks, but I don’t need yar papa’s negative vibes this evenin’. I’ve had a bad enough afternoon as it is.” They are so opposite in every thought and desire.

So why was she here? Really to sell the hoedown? No. I waited.

She pressed her hand to her chest, then gestured my way. “We all love ya. Tell yar sister that.” She turned and strode back to her silly car. Someone needed to talk her into a real vehicle.

After its hum continued out on the circle, I turned for the door. Bele would want to talk about it. How could I avoid that? Never will understand her need to express her feelin’s. Gag me. I don’t need to express myself. Takes no extra synapses to analyze my own emotions. Why can’t everyone else do a little internalizin’? Why do they have to wear everythin’ on their sleeve? Papa and I are the only two reasonable folk in the world.

The automatic lights had dimmed in the lobby, and the hall toward the offices was even darker. So there were no evenin’ emergencies energizin’ the local IT nerds. Lights directly above me simmered up as I stepped away from the door, headin’ for the residential side, but Bele’s, “Hey,” from her safe place made me stop abruptly.

“That was Aunt Nuel?” she continued.

I nodded. Could she tell that, in this light?

“Mama will be glad ya made it home for dinner.”

It smelled as though I was very timely. Mama loves spices. Her concession. The hen’s an angel for shiftin’ to the ogre diet, not forcin’ a troll one on us. She’s insisted we taste her bugs and centipedes, but I’ll take a grilled hunk of beef any day over that.

“Papa’s still in a tie,” she said.

Gave that some thought. Wasn’t sure what she intended with the statement. So he wore a suit today. Not entertainin’ his regular gaggle. Did that mean he’d be a bit stressed out? In a mood?

Papa’s always in a mood. Irritation is his normal self. I smiled. Most everyone would probably say the same thin’ about me. Despite—I’m the most emotionally free bull I’ve ever met. Don’t know why my face seems so snarly. Puts folk off so much.

“Are ya truly against goin’ to the hoedown?” she asked.

I had strode across the dark lobby and sat down softly next to her. Think I startled her just a tad. We big-ole ogres, trolls, don’t make a lot of noise in our bare feet. I took her right hand which lay in her lap, and bent it slowly up and down. Felt a little stiff, so maybe a little swollen, but no vibration suggestin’ a break. She gave me the tiniest ouch-face.

“If ya are, I’ll raise a fuss. I’ll drive Uncle nuts until he gets us out of it. But for my part—Mama implies we ought to go.”

“What do ya think a year in the North would be like?”

She sucked in a hard breath, choked a bit on spit, I think. I can occasionally startle a person, openin’ my mouth.

“I’ve made a couple friends at the medical school,” she said softly after she recovered.

So. Was that enough to draw her back to TIT next semester?

“Not sayin’ I can’t make friends up North,” she said. “Aunt Nuel has told me a lot about what it was like livin’ up North.” She paused a long bit. “Her sorority days at university were her best years. Still has fast friends.” She paused again. “Ya suppose ya’d be willin’ to try a fraternity?”

If I was much for laughin’, I would have.

“That made ya smile,” she said.

It did? Hm.

“I’ve read there are a lot of humans on the spectrum,” she said.

Psh.

“There are actually support groups, in the universities.”

Really? We need support groups? I don’t know why I’d need support from anyone like me. Or anyone else. Imagine a gaggle of autistics sittin’ in a circle, no one sayin’ a word. Be hilarious.

“Might be nice steppin’ away from a block of granite now and then.”

My mind spun. What could possibly be nice about that?

“Aunt Nuel says a week doesn’t go by she doesn’t speak to her closest sorority sister, who finagled her introduction to Uncle Ike.”

I snorted. Don’t know why. Was not holdin’ in a laugh. I don’t laugh.

~

Chapter Six

~

A heavy knock raised me out of a reoccurrin’ dream about strugglin’ with the names of muscle groups. As dreams go, that isn’t one I mind gettin’ interrupted. I counted. One. Two—got to the standard six and my door opened. Mama’s good about givin’ us just enough time to cover up if we aren’t decent.

I looked at my bedroom windows. Not a slick slice of light peakin’ in the shutters. “Mama,” I whined. “It’s not even the ogre’s butt crack of dawn. I’m on stinkin’ vacation.”

“Get yar lazy ogre-troll butt out of bed. We’re goin’ to the gym to support yar Uncle Ike.”

“Since when does that lowdown stinkin’ ogre need my support? At the gym?” That last part probably came out in a confused screech.

“Several of Ike’s old buddies, played in the COBL—” That would be the Continental Ogre Basketball League. “Tippin’ the ball up early this morn. Should be a bunch of fun watchin’ yar uncle slam into a concrete pick.”

And she thought that would be somethin’ I would want to see? I worked at the most disgustin’ expression I could come up with, which shoulda been a pretty good one considerin’ the sun was far from teasin’ the Eastern Slope.

“Now get up. We’re goin’ as a family.”

“Papa bought into this?” I asked. Surely not.

“And pack a gym bag. Ya know ya’ll wanna get in a pickup game after seein’ yar Uncle Ike get woefully clubbed half to death.”

“Complete death, would be worth goin’ to see,” I said.

Mama growled a troll chuckle. “Wouldn’t that be grand.”

“This’ll be all ogres?” I asked.

She grinned, lips stretchin’ high across her tusks.

Ike has mostly played in mixed league for years on the North Plain where human refs blow a whistle faster than snot on an ogre drawin’ blood from a poor, little human. Despite the devastation soundin’ fun, I felt my head droop back into my pillow. “You guys go on. I’ll catch up with ya.”

Mama crossed from the door and ripped my sheet off the bed. Anticipatin’, I’d gripped it tight, but havin’ a troll mama has its disadvantages. I nearly lost a good four fingers, at least. “Up. Oh. Those are cute pajamas. I see the troll influence at TIT is servin’ ya well.”

I looked down to note what I’d climbed into last night. More modest than the typical ogre tank and wongo panties. Long sleeves. Ankle-length pantaloons. Bright colors that could blind an elf in good light. A whimsical unicorn and dragon motif. A gift from my troll roommate.

“Yar papa buys me nothin’ but ogre sleepin’ wear for gifts. Says troll modesty is the only thin’ he’d change about me.” A tad of color flowed across her cheeks. Her mouth opened, but whatever thought niggled in her brain, she decided not to share it. Thankfully.

My mind screamed back to the evenin’ she’d decided she needed to tell me about the fairies and flowers, since I was gonna be livin’ away from home in a dorm soon. She used descriptions and examples that were way too personal, to broaden my awareness and appreciation for the male-female relationship.

Goodness. I’d already taken AP Physiology and Anatomy. I’d gotten more realistic overviews from sleepovers when I was in the seventh grade. Well, maybe. Teenyboppers may hold ideas that aren’t all that realistic. Makin’ it to TIT at thirteen years old, has probably kept me from gettin’ the experience most young hens get at college.

Mama’s mouth opened again, cheeks turnin’ ever redder.

“Ya’re not gonna talk about sex are ya?” I rolled out of bed so I didn’t have to look her directly in the eyes. Besides, I wondered if I’d ever meet a bull interested in a half troll, half ogre, who looks more like an over-sized human.

Didn’t help that throughout my entire life the younglings I attended school with have always been much older than me. Shoulda failed a few exams, maybe.

“Ya’re not the first youngling that’s wanted to grow up too fast,” she said. “Yar Aunt Ezra never thought she’d meet the right bull. She was well into her forties, but ya won’t ever lay eyes on a happier ogre.”

Uncle Jam is hilarious. Hard to believe he’s the Range’s lead law officer. His dreads had been turnin’ white when Hale and I were still in diapers. Already retired from a career up North. He’s almost loved as much as Uncle Ike, and that’s sayin’ a lot for a troll. Those folk aren’t usually that outgoin’.

“Is that a tear?” Mama asked.

I rushed to wipe my cheek, and barked an awkward laugh. “Fond memories, those two babysittin’ us at the inn, puttin’ us to work peelin’ potatoes or stirrin’ stew. I can remember Hale even showin’ interest, ridin’ patrol with Uncle Jam.”

“Jam loves yar fool papa,” she half whispered. “Drivin’ ’round the neighborhood wasn’t much of a patrol.”

Just like Papa and Ike talkin’ at each other as though long-time enemies. Jam had more troll, derogatory remarks for Papa than a calculator could count. All said with a straight face. The bull never scared me though. His eyes would light up when he’d see me.

I sighed, deep inside. Ezra and Jam. Reverse of Mama and Papa. And both given fraternal twins to raise, also a male and female, the Hamlet’s other half breeds. Whatever came between Hale and me, and Woriz and Izig—

“Ya’re thinkin’ about yar cousins,” Mama said.

I hurried to wipe both cheeks this time.

“I’ve seen them both in the Hamlet. Work in shops in the afternoon, after school. If ya wanna—”

I wrenched a look at her. She better not try to get us together. The pain gripped me as though fresh. Izig had spoken so meanly. That last time had been enough. Woriz never had, ever, been kind to Hale. How did I ever forgive him for that, year in, year out?

“It’s been a long time,” Mama said softly. “They’ve matured.”

I burned her a look. Could they have really been so judgmental, all superior about gettin’ the better troll genes? Our break, had finally driven a last spike between Papa and the parents. Uncle Jam had tried to fix it. Always willin’ to smile and shake Papa’s hand when we crossed paths. And Mama’s continued to be a good friend with Ezra. But it was never again like it was.

Maybe I should have worked harder to make it work.

~

Hale

~

When we clamored into the back of Papa’s old truck, I gave Bele a look she knew would mean, what’s up.

She just tightened her lips and turned to look out her window, as though there was a lot to see in the driveway.

I looked up front at Mama. She returned a meanin’ful expression, raised one brow. Maybe a warnin’ not to make a thin’ about it. But if there was somethin’ goin’ on with Bele, I wanted to know.

I’m good at waitin’, though.

Papa backed us around, slow like he does, Mama does most of the family drivin’, and I caught maybe a hint that the eastern sky blushed just a tiny shade. Papa and I had sat in the kitchen for an hour already finishin’ off a mountain of flapjacks Mama had prepared for, I assume the four of us, and emptyin’ a carafe of coffee. Papa and I had shared an eye, the hens not makin’ an appearance. There was somethin’ up, and he wasn’t in the loop either.

No one spoke a word the twenty-minute drive up the road to our nearest neighborin’ village. While not unusual for Papa and I not to say a word, it kept my eyes goin’ back and forth between Mama and Bele. Yeah, Mama’s a troll hen, but she’s still a hen. Never before heard a hen go twenty minutes without sayin’ a word.

Parkin’ in the gym’s lot, Bele got out quickly, leavin’ her bag behind. Hm. I grabbed it for her, though I figgered her leavin’ it behind had more to do with the quiet than forgetfulness. Though, she had donned a pair of basketball shoes for the occasion, and clothes she could wear on the court, if not her regular.

Between the two of us, Bele has followed Uncle’s favorite pastime, ignorin’ that ignert two-wheel one, with significantly more energy than me. If it wasn’t for Uncle’s annoyin’, unendin’ encouragment to play, no one would ever see me on the court. It involves way too much comradery and emotion for my taste. And way too much touchin’. And sweatin’.

As an eight-year-old, he’d convinced me the hand-eye coordination I’d learn in the game would be great for my art. Psh. Lowdown lyin’ ogre.

Bele dragged in front of the three of us. To have the opportunity to play with Mama and Papa watchin’, Bele’s apparent disinterest this mornin’ rang eerily wrong.

Despite it bein’ early on a Saturday, there were an abundance of cars in the lot, and a scrabble of us queuin’ at the front door to enter. Most folk looked like regulars, a bunch of cousins, but there were enough strange faces to surprise me. Then I heard the PA rumble inside. PA? Had I missed somethin’? The only time I’d ever heard an announcer in one of the community gyms had been durin’ end-of-summer championship tourneys.

Small-steppin’ our way inside behind the odd crowd, the stands were already way fuller than I expected. Mostly they’d be empty, and the attendees would be millin’ under the irons waitin’ to grab a rebound, warmin’ up for the comin’ pickup games. But the near, full court wasn’t divided into shorter east-west ones for pickup. And several stern-lookin’ troll refs gathered at the scorer’s table. Like a real game.

Papa dragged me out of bed, not Mama, or I would’ve been in the know.

All the bulls on the court wore colors, dreads tied back out of the way, ogres to a one. I caught sight of Uncle Ike. He gave me a grin and a wave. I found myself wavin’ back at the lowdown lyin’ ogre.

As we worked our way to a sorta open area around the tenth row close to mid court, Bele jerked to a stop. I followed the path of her glare. Found Uncle Jam first, then noted the shorter Ezra beyond him. And then—Woriz and Izig. Hadn’t seen those two since Bele and I headed for high school, leavin’ them back in what, the fourth, fifth grade. Maybe even third. And they loved to rub it in that they were older than us by six months.

Mama’s hands reached up and cradled Bele’s shoulders. Papa worked to get around the two of them, and headed directly toward Uncle Jam, whose face twisted into his characteristic troll grin.

A couple of folks cleared their throats behind me, and I pressed against Mama to get on down the row. As we staggered forward, it occurred odd to me that Mama didn’t join Papa to give Ezra a hug. And as oddly, she remained almost attached to Bele.

I’m autistic but not a fool. I know Bele had exploded with some kind of drama about the time we headed for high school. Not that I cared, then. Before I became the world-wise bull I am—snort. Maybe I shoulda encouraged her to talk about it. ’Cause, for it to be a big deal today, almost a decade later, I wasn’t the supportive brother I ought to have been.

~

Chapter Seven

~

I did everything in my power not to look over my shoulder at Jam and his folk. Felt like an invisible fist tugged at me to do so. The ball was tipped up at mid-court, and within five seconds Uncle Ike struck the floor. Too funny. If he ever face planted, I might be able to forget that evil hen Izig lounged a few rows up lordin’ the gym over me.

A few moments later Ike took a hard shoulder and stumbled back several steps, leavin’ the paint wide open for their guard to layup a freebie. Maybe this wasn’t goin’ to be so fun after all. He’s only a year older than Papa, and Papa is, what, sixty-five now? Maybe Ike shouldn’t be shoulderin’ up against ogres thirty years his junior.

The visitors jumped out to a fast ten point lead, but Ike’s old fogie friends got their game together and kept the lead from getting’ out of hand. At the first timeout, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I knew Aunt Ezra was givin’ me a glare. I couldn’t not look up. And she was. She gave me a smile, and blew me a kiss. I felt Mama’s approval on my face. Which I hated. Didn’t need no one judgin’ me.

Peripherally, I couldn’t help catch Izig turn a look to her mama, and follow her gaze down to me. Her face didn’t crack evil, but I turned away quickly. Flames may have washed over my entire body. The evil witch had caught me lookin’ her way. Ick. I am not curious about that shrew. Don’t care. Don’t care.

I jolted as the horn sounded, and the players wandered off the bench, the visitors lookin’ a bit more energetic. Must suck to get old, Uncle Ike. A grin pinched my cheek. Lowdown lyin’ ogre.

By the half—yeah, I was kinda shocked they were following COBL rules and not the amateur playbook—Ike and his older buddies only had a fifteen point deficit. But while his guys fell on the bench suckin’ air, the other guys mingled onto the court shootin’ around, joggin’ through layups to stay warm.

Uncle Ike hadn’t face planted yet.

For the uninitiated, ogre basketball doesn’t look a lot like what the humans play. No twenty-four second clock. The rim is at the giant, fourteen foot, which is dumb, ’cause I’ve never seen an ogre that could jump high enough their loose laces couldn’t still drag the ground. Four-man teams. Yeah, fillin’ a court with the shoulders of ten ogres wouldn’t leave much room to run around. And never, never have I ever seen a fast break. It’s chess to the human checkers version. Maybe not as athletic lookin’, but barrel-chested bulls almost grapplin’ Sumo-like, has its own beauty.

Not that it's any semblance to how I play the game. Besides, trolls do have a fast break. I got some of that in my blood.

Hale returned—I hadn’t even noticed he disappeared I was so wrapped in my own head—with a carton of four ogre-sized orange juices. Papa’s not into sugary drinks, raised us accordin’ly. I guess natural, out of the fruit fructose doesn’t kill a folk. Made me wish I’d had some breakfast. At a night game, Papa and Mama would probably be imbibin’ on an adult beverage. Hale and I had another four years before we could join them. Seems, if I could go to college at thirteen, I should get to try that stuff at seventeen.

Must have been thirsty. I slurped the bottom of my cup as the horn sounded for the third period. Mama shouted a, “Go get’em, Ike,” which got me gigglin’. Over half an hour and Papa hadn’t been flippin’ on his phone, hadn’t pulled out a tablet to check messages or work on a network design. A miracle. Even through timeouts and the half break.

The older of the older farts brought in the ball and the entire assemblage stood and greeted them with a huge round of applause. Bein’ mostly ogres and trolls in here, wasn’t hard to sound like a jet plane takin’ off. We giant-folk have a mean larynx.

Despite the younger old farts slowly tickin’ the score up ever higher, the game was fun to watch. The sympathy quotient kept us all smilin’, shoutin’, and cheerin’. When the horn sounded again, I was oddly ready to join Hale on the court, and I had for the most part put Izig out of my mind.

As I rose with Hale, Mama gave me a chuck on the shoulder that hurt. I think she forgets we aren’t trolls. Full trolls. I snarled her a cross-eyed look, which got her laughin’, and I darted a more patient look at Papa. Was he really up for waitin’ on us? After the tiniest pause he gave me a wink and pointed down at the court. I sensed a, “Get to it,” from him.

Small steppin’ it across the row, the PA guy was congratulatin’ our visitors and wishin’ the, “local old and decrepid farts a better shot next year.” Then he announced the amount collected for charity, and the gym rose in a din again. I had read about the satellite health centers in the South Papa and the locals were raisin’ funds for—not that Papa would raise a conversation at the dinin’ table.

I might be travelin’ to those village centers in a few years. Be cool to see the Birs name over the door of some of them.

~

Hale

~

I left Bele in the center of the floor to continue stretchin’ and strode over to the power box to lower the boards for the short courts. I was lowerin’ a fourth to the twelve-foot compromise height when a voice over my shoulder irritated my ears.

“Didn’t know ya little guys played basketball.”

Been years, but there was no one else it could be, so I ignored him.

“Been a long time,” Woriz said.

Yeah. Be longer, much longer if I had my say. The board clicked in place and I turned to rejoin Bele. But Woriz stepped in front of me.

“Mama’s puttin’ a lot of pressure to clear things up between us.”

That was too bad. Bele givin’ up on the two of them ever turnin’ nice was one of the best things to happen in my life. I met his eyes. Dark green like Aunt Ezra. Though she’s not my aunt. Papa’s cousin, actually. I gave my old nemesis a nod and stepped to get around him, but he shifted to block me.

“It’s been over a decade,” he said. “Papa has told me he’s gonna disown Izig and me. Misses the relationship he had with yar Papa. Mama with yar mama.”

Words weren’t gonna do anythin’ to make us family again. Action over words, an expression Papa had used in one of his very-rare papa-younglin’ talks. My memory interrupted my thoughts, of our many Saturday early AM strolls through the near hollers. Mostly wordless. Didn’t appreciate them, until the middle of my first semester at TIT. And there was no assigned hike loomin’ over my shoulder. Loomin’. That’s how I thought of them, back when. Papa’s not one for talkin’ on the phone. So I think Mama would call me twice as often, to make up for it.

“I know yar not much for talkin’,” Woriz said.

I waited. This guy hadn’t grown into a profound thinker. If all he could get out is the obvious. Duh. Yar autistic, and can’t communicate. What a dunce.

“Uh—”

My eyes wandered. Oh jeez. This gump’s sister was botherin’ Bele. No. I extended my arm to keep Woriz from stoppin’ me again as I rushed to get to Bele. But a fist grabbed my forearm. I tried to fling it off, but Woriz is more troll than ogre, and I wasn’t gettin’ around him unless he wanted me to. Wrenchin’ around, I thrust my other hand against his chest, but he easily slapped it away.

We did a painful dance for maybe five seconds, when an arm extended around Woriz’ neck and pulled him away from me.

“Stop,” Papa hissed, the three Trollish syllables harsh. Where’d he come from?

A din of runnin’ steps approached. The buzz I get when I’m too close to too many folk danced over my synapses, every inch of my skin. I tried to shiver it away but I felt the need to crouch into a fetal position. No. No. I don’t do that. Anymore. There must have been thirty folk pressin’ in on us. Shouts roared, turned angrier. Finally Woriz’ fist released me and I backed away, into other bulls’ chests. Felt like a ping pong ball rattlin' in a small box.

Arms clasped around me. Didn’t have to open my eyes to know they belonged to Bele. She would be here for me. She’s always been there for me. Her hand clasped my head and pulled me into her chest as she led me away, the whole time whispering, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Maybe I could breathe now. I pulled away, sucked in a deep gulp of air.

“Ya okay?” Bele asked, an arm still around my back as we continued for the exit.

She wouldn’t expect an answer. That’s what’s so great about Bele. The noise behind us hadn’t softened. Didn’t sound like two sides arguin’. More like one group harassin’ maybe two lone bulls. So Jam had gotten to his youngling. Good. Even when we’re wrong, good to have a bull standin’ up for us.

“Ya’ll go to such lengths to get out of playin’ hoops,” Bele said.

Yeah. That’s me. How might she have made out with Izig? Her grip around my side relaxed and her hand shifted to my shoulder, as the embarrassment began to sink in. Why do I have to fall apart like that?

“Jam sure is givin’ his stupid younglin’ a rash of grief,” she said.

Jam?

“Papa had to pull him off the stupid idjit,” she said.

What?

“Ike is ticked Papa got between them.”

Between them? Between Jam and Woriz? I stopped in my tracks and turned around, lettin’ Bele’s hand drop. I had to see this for myself. Papa, Woriz at his back, worked toward the far side of the gym, Jam still shoutin’ but pretty sure not at Papa. At his youngling. Maybe Ike was shoutin’ at Papa.

Funny.

I looked to the left. Izig still stood where she’d been when I caught her loomin’ over Bele where she’d been stretchin. A few hens peered at her from a dozen feet, mostly with their arms crossed, judgmental-like. Oh, I hate that body language. I’m not good at understandin’ facial features, but I get crossed arms. Might as well use a baseball bat, pretty stinkin’ obvious. So why were our neighbors so upset with Izig?

I gave Bele a curious look.

“She didn’t say anythin’ hateful, or even aggressive. Think it’s just a residual of her brother upsettin’ ya.”

Folk love Papa, for what he’s done for our people. Didn’t know Bele and I would enjoy the benefit second hand. Okay, third, fourth, and fifth hand. We’re progeny of some well-respected ogres.

“Folk don’t like bullies,” Bele said.

Other than Woriz’ old taunt about bein’ short, he hadn’t really bullied me. In his own untactful way he was probably tryin’, what? Make up for past sins?

“Everyone remembers both of them bullyin’ us.” Bele smiled. “Not like we’re special or nothin’, otherwise.”

Papa turned around, pretty sure lookin’ for us. When he caught my eye he gave me a nod. He’s a good guy, my papa is. I nodded back to let him know I was good. He even smiled a bit. Not a superior weapon in his armory. Our home relies more on the laughter and hugs from Mama. Is that hard for a troll hen? Bele is sterner than the garden variety ogre hen. How much of that is because of me? Does she discourage glib for me, for fear I don’t understand it, or because it makes me uncomfortable?

Probably both. All three.

Thankfully the noise was settlin’, more so maybe because the three trolls who had reffed the charity game were urgin’ the crowd to disperse. Funny that their boss was the center of it. Not a single ogre worked as one of Jam’s constables. Law enforcement is definitely in the troll realm in the Range. Used to be the same up North. Before they immigrated South in mass.

“Ya wanna go?” Bele asked.

I searched the stands for Mama, found her sittin’ just behind the home bench, eyes locked on her bull. Her expression changed, and I turned to see what was up. Papa was walkin’ her way. I looked back, and enjoyed the warmth, maybe peace that spread across Mama’s face. Not like I’m good definin’ that kind of thin’. Ah. The past five years, I’d kinda forgotten how much love hangs between Mama and Papa.

“What?” Bele asked me.

I turned back to her, only then realizin’ we were holdin’ hands. Never noticed when that happened. Oddly, a thought I wouldn’t expect struck me, I knew that I’d never know the love of a hen like the love Mama has for Papa, or the love Bele has for me.

I’m not destined for romance.

~

Chapter Eight

~

The text didn’t connect to a name in my contacts, but it couldn’t have been from anyone but Izig. Sorry. Didn’t mean it to go like that.

So they had tried to reach out. Not like I care. Was only because of pressure from their mama. I wouldn’t respond to somethin’ that wasn’t sincere. Or otherwise. Their character is defined. Were mean then. Would be mean today. To forgive them today, would mean gettin’ dumped on in the future. And I’m not goin’ to let them hurt Hale again. Or me, either.

He looked over, and I turned my phone so he couldn’t read it. But the flat look as he caught my eye, he knew what the text was about. I told him it was a friend from TIT. He nodded, but that expression showed he knew. My chest tightened a tad, more than a little, lyin’ to him. I exhaled hard.

“Yeah. It was from Izig.”

He nodded.

“Ya recovered?” I asked. Back years ago, he’d remain a shell of himself for days after an episode.

The sound of the road, the hint of Country comin’ over Papa’s ancient FM receiver, was the only input into my empty head for a five-count. Hale hunched a shoulder. I wish the bull could smile. But I sensed his absence of malaise, and my chest welled.

“Papa,” Hale said, surprisin’ the dragon pooh out of me, “how’d ya get yar arm around the stinkin’ troll’s throat?”

The two up front were completely quiet for a good three breaths, before Mama began cacklin’. Papa maybe darted an irritated eye her way, which got Mama’s cackle goin’ harder.

Yeah. How did my pint-sized papa wrangle a half-troll like that? Papa ain’t exactly a tall ogre. Mama’s laughter leveled off, and she twisted hard to check on Hale. Her eyes tinted a bit with tears. Hale gave her a nod, and her smile returned, and she settled back in her seat.

“My super hero,” she said softly.

That gave me a grin, which I shared with Hale, but he was busy lookin’ through the windshield as though we were in a part of the Range he’d never seen before. Not that there was interest on his face. The only time that happens is when he has a chisel and mallet in his hands.

“Jam asked me about ya two goin’ up North,” Papa said, out of the blue. Him talkin’ at all surprisin’ me as much as Jam bein’ aware of that lowdown snake’s proposition.

Mama wrenched him an enormous, what-the-hell face. Was this new to her, or had they agreed there would be no talk about such a ridiculous idea?

I waited. Figgered if Mama was an ogre hen, her maw would be workin’ good at this point—’cause, well, I’ve been around plenty of my ogre friends’ mamas. Troll hens are a bit more reserved, but I figger she’d morphed to fill in the need for a strong maternal presence, considerin’ Papa—

“And what’d ya tell him?” Hale asked.

I maybe choked a little, Hale conversin’ out loud.

Papa remained quiet a long length of moments, with Mama still glarin’ at him.

She finally asked, “Yeah, what’d ya tell him?”

So the two of them have had a conversation about it. In my mind, I was decidin’ the timin’ of this threat of a conversation was more what irritated Mama, only because she would have planned on havin’ a mama-youngling conversation with me this evenin’ before it went more public among us.

After all, Mama made the family decisions in our household, despite bein’ a troll hen.

Ha. Except about our home-home. Uncle Ike had told me years ago she hated the design of the place. Too ostentatious for her. Too uppity a neighborhood. Too exclusive. Way so. But Papa had wanted to set her up in a place fittin’ their position. Not that he cared for himself. He’d still be livin’ in his two-bedroom cabin overlookin’ the Lake if it weren’t for his beloved hen.

Funny my mind had wandered so, considerin’ the enormous element hangin’ in the air. But I was romanticizin’ about livin’ in the Hamlet, in that little cabin. Not humble anymore. I’ve traipsed through it a few times with Papa when he’d check to ensure it was still up to standard for the OW employees that got to vacation there. By lottery. The Lake is the getaway destination, right up there with the tropical islands off the East Coast.

Papa’s answer drew me back to the real world. “I gave him a shrug. Wasn’t the time, place for that kind of discussion.”

Mama ripped back with somethin’ in Trollish I couldn’t follow. Hale and I are fluent, but her accent of anger, and the speed she spoke it was like a brush with a tornado. Whoa.

But then it struck me. If not the time, why’d he bring it up now? Oh. Now is the time.

I needed to get the obvious off my chest. “I dislike the manipulative manner that lowdown ogre developed the stinkin’ scheme.” That, and the pompous bull thought it was a manner first discussed among the bulls. The stinkin’ ogre. Like we hens are a second thought. He should’ve face-planted in that game.

“He can send his own youngling North,” Mama hissed. “Oh, wait. He doesn’t have any younglings.”

Oh. That was pretty low for Mama.

Papa tilted his head forward a tad. Eyes were probably closed. Hope they didn’t stay closed long, ’cause the turn into our village approached.

Papa took in a hard intake of air. “Benefit to goin’. Benefit to not goin’.”

“And let’s not talk about,” Mama groused, “the danger of them humans pullin’ somethin’.”

Pullin’ somethin’?

“Like what?” Hale asked.

Ya go bull.

But the somethin’ wasn’t hard to imagine. Mama has teared up before talkin’ about Papa nearly dyin’ up North. He’d gone as an ambassador, and they’d stabbed us, the South, in the back. I’d studied about the Troubles—it’s part of Civics. But the history didn’t get too personal about who did what to whom, except for Uncle Ike bein’ head of the Southern Coalition.

“Give me one benefit,” Mama demanded.

Papa paused to allow traffic to pass, then slowly pulled into the village. Was he gonna ignore the question? The moments passed.

“Every bit of experience adds to the character of a soul,” Papa said slowly in Trollish. To be honest, it sounded kinda profound the way he said it, like a long-dead troll philosopher had memorialized it.

“Dyin’, bein’ incarcerated doesn’t add to no one’s soul,” Mama replied.

“Exposure to human style will build upon Hale’s art. And Bele will see how medicine is practiced outside of the Range.”

“I don’t trust them humans,” Mama half-shouted.

The cab of the truck had darkened as we entered the narrow corridor, ancient pine loomin’ overhead, maybe added to the dread of Mama’s tone.

Papa said next, somethin’ I never could have anticipated. “Ya want to go with them, if they choose to go?”

Nothin’ but the flicker of the midday sun sneakin’ through the canopy changed the sense inside the truck for long enough for me to realize I needed oxygen. I took a deep couple of breaths.

We’d moved into dorms many-hundreds of miles away when we were thirteen. Livin’ with Mama again—that would almost be worth goin’ North for the year. A tinglin’ sensation started low in my spine and radiated upward.

“Who’d make sure ya ate, fool?” Mama answered.

I laughed out loud. That was the truth. Papa’s bad about gettin’ involved in work and not eatin’.

~

Hale

~

I struggled with all the shoutin’. Involved a bit of physical pain. I don’t really deal with conflict well. Mama’s anger was dialed up enough for me to easily recognize it, but otherwise, what could have been goin’ through their hearts? Didn’t help I barely saw any of Mama’s face, from sittin’ directly behind her. And it isn’t as though Papa ever shows anythin’ on his face other than irritation. I think I could have described Bele’s emotions as—rapt.

She’d yak and yak about her thoughts with me tonight. Didn’t need to hear it now. Papa was the surprise. Made me smile a bit, thinkin’ about the anger Papa displayed the other mornin’ for Ike’s schemin’. Was not happy with the lowdown stinkin’ ogre.

Either way, I’ve never been really involved in the decisions impactin’ my life. Other than followin’ Bele to TIT, I’ve just gone along. Then again, TIT was just goin’ along. Couldn’t hardly think about not bein’ close to Hale. She’s like the majority of my heart. I keep only a sliver for my art. The rest she manages as she feels fit. And she’s always been a good manager of my heart.

As though I would know what to do with it.

When she finds some bull to love her, my world won’t collapse, but a big part of it will end. I’ve only got that sliver for my own use.

Despite that thought a smile tingled in my chest. Maybe she’ll meet a nice structural engineer, who’d be willin’ to help me figger if my ideas will work in granite. I’ve never been destroyed like the time that wing fell off that dragon I created two years ago. Still have nightmares about that. Months of work. At least it happened in the semi-rough shapin’.

So, TIT isn’t an enormous consideration for me. I don’t like bein’ ’round folk much, whether they’re human or whatever. So studyin’ at a human university for a couple semesters means nothin’ to me. I can ignore anyone. Giant or human. I kinda favor orcs though. Their souls are almost effervescent to me. So much spirit. I think Papa and I share that.

Maybe I’m not smart enough to figger the dangers of goin’ up North.

Not excited to be Uncle’s spy. If I thought much about that, it might not be good for that sliver I keep for my own sanity. Stress and I are not good friends.

If it would help my folk. The clan. I would be willin’. The Birs ogres have been good for all giantkind. My mind flitted to a favorite carvin’ my Great Granddad has of our original Ike. The one our Ike is named for. S’posed to be of Ike aback his slate-colored dragon, Taiz’lin.

Some folk today don’t believe in dragons. They should study that carvin’. They’d believe.

Mama’ and Papa at this point were sharin’ a lot more words than I’m used to, and nothin’ made an impression on me, so I continued lookin’ into the trees. I love trees. About as much as I love granite. I wanted to imagine Taiz’lin some more anyway. Imagine, soaring across the continent aback a dragon. Taiz’lin isn’t as famous, oddly, considering he was Ike’s bonded mate, as the preeminent golden dragon, Iza’loch.

Why did they all chose to return to their realm? It isn’t fair.

The world could be well-served by a thunder of dragons. Papa and I’ve managed the hike to the peak on the North Slope a couple times, where Taiz’lin and Ike lived. An amazin’ museum today. Too bad it’s only open days out of the year. But then, ya almost have to get there via dragon. Quite the precipice. View of the North Plain can’t be beat. Especially at twilight.

A soul can almost see all the way to the Plain Hamlet.

~