Chapter Fourteen
~
We hadn’t been in the local leader’s home five minutes when he groused about us bein’ held up on the turnpike. He went on a bit, about how uppity they were on the other side of the Ridge.
Hale’s emotions popped. The elation at the views west as we hit the pullout was in the past. At least he got fifteen minutes takin’ a hundred photos in every direction. It was pretty, but really didn’t get what the big deal was.
He had blabbered about the geology, how this platonic plate rammed up and onto that oceanic shelf sixty-somethin’ million years ago. If it doesn’t have a heartbeat, doesn’t entertain me much. Who knew Hale had studied somethin’ besides art at TIT.
I turned to study him. Was he gonna light into our elder? He’d been pretty open with that council leader, and with Uncle. I got a tickle in my chest, thinkin’ about him callin’ Uncle a liar. Awesome.
I waited, as our host blasted his neighbor a bunch more.
But Hale appeared as emotionless as usual, usual prior to, say the past three days.
Maybe our council host’s hen noted the two of us weren’t grinnin’ and layerin’ additional insults on the neighbor, and she grabbed hold of the situation and guided us into their sittin’ room, usherin’ her mate and his second-guy off to prepare coffee—somethin’ a troll hen would never do, but most ogre bulls, in my experience, know it isn’t wise to ignore the admonitions of his mate.
Hale and I aren’t coffee drinkers, has to be Mama’s influence since tea is a more appropriate troll social drink, but neither interrupted our hostess to nix the coffee threat.
“My mate can go on and on,” she half-wispered, “and as a proud bull isn’t about to closely monitor his mouth around someone he considers—” She paused.
As though I didn’t know where she was goin’. “Lower standin’?” I suggested.
“As good a way to say it as any,” she admitted. “Not to insult ya.” She squirmed in her seat a tad. “Ya two are Birs stock, after all.”
I offered a smile to thank her for her attempted, if not successful tact. I took the interruption in the conversation to address the elephant. “So we aren’t likely to meet many folk around here interested in forcin’ the Northerners to change their ways before we—” I’m already gettin’ tired of what’s obviously a popular cliché, but I didn’t know a better term. “Normalize relations.”
“Goodness. Of course ya would, if ya worked hard enough. But honestly, the party line lies in one direction, and a lot of folk feel uncomfortable takin’ an opinion opposite those—in charge.”
“Seems like that’s the only hot button,” Hale said.
She stared at him a long bit. Surprised he could actually speak? Hale and Papa’s condition has been discussed a bit in the news, maybe. “We ogres are emotional folk,” she finally said. “As the joke goes, we’ll argue the day of the week just to have somethin’ to chat about.”
Our host’s number two strode in with a tray of cups, sugar and cream doodads, and our hostess settled back in her chair, lips tight. The bull glanced at her, an edge in his expression, like he expected her to leap up and settle up the servin’. Good for her, leavin’ it up to the bulls. I’d vote for her, if I had a chance.
The next hour dragged. I intentionally allowed my yawns to linger, but our host didn’t get the hint. I almost broke into hysterical laughter when my trustworthy siblin’ took thin’s into his own hands.
~
Hale
~
I stood. Had enough of the meanin’less blatherin’. Maybe I’m used to Papa. Takes a crowbar and a blowtorch to get a peep out of him on most occasions. Maybe why I like to avoid Uncle Ike. He’s a bit of a blowhard too—besides bein’ a lowdown lyin’ snake in the grass. He’s nothin’ like Aunt Nuel. But the average ogre hen is pretty hard to shut up in general.
Yep. If I have a choice, I’ll fall in love with a troll hen, not an ogre. With that thought, I imagined Beky. Not as though that made sense. She weighs sixty pounds to my three hundred. Ogre muscle and troll height may curse me to look into daemon hens, for a better physical cohesion. Shame they don’t have a more dramatic presence in the Hamlet. Very family, communal type of folk, it seems. They home school their younglings, so no excuse to see them on a day to day basis, growin’ up.
“Gotta check in at the Hilton,” I said, walkin’ toward the front door. I left the rest of ’em to recover. I can do abrupt thin’s like this. It’s expected. I appreciate Papa explainin’ that to me, a couple summers ago.
I left Bele to say our good nights. She’s good at blah blah blah.
Outside, I ripped my stinkin’ phone out of my pocket. Dang-blasted thin’ probably vibrated fifteen-hundred times in the last hour. It had started to warm up good as we neared the local village. A lot of reporters up the West Coast were requestin’ interviews. The one thin’ Ike had suggested to us, allow the council to schedule those. So I’d simply been deletin’ all the texts and messages.
Council lawyers hadn’t yet reached out with an official interview invitation. Most of ’em, if not all of ’em would be fluff pieces. The famous—gag me—twins who went to TIT. Makes sense, not like they’d expect seventeen-year-olds, art and premed majors, to be very schooled in public policy. Blast Uncle Ike for getting’ us in this.
I swallowed hard to see I had a text from Beky. From two hours earlier. “You two get in safely?” I leaned against Mama’s car, irritated I couldn’t get in until Bele clicked the doodad, and reread the short question four times. A hen asked if I was good. A hen reached out to me. Pretty sure that’s a first. What should I reply? Usually just send Mama a smiley emoji. Didn’t want to go blah blah. Not like we’re all—uh, well-known to each other yet.
“What’s wrong?” Bele gushed, makin’ me jerk. Hadn’t noticed her creepin’ up on me. Oh. Then I noticed the throng on the stoop shoutin’ their good nights, and stuff like see ya in the mornin’. Think it’s about mornin’ now.
I looked back at Bele. Her face was scrunched up. Maybe serious-like. I hate not understandin’ facial emotions.
“What happened?”
I pointed at the door, and she tooted us in. Seated, she hissed a, “Well?” at me.
I held my phone out to her. After a half second, the emotion that had wrapped her face melted a bit. Whatever that meant.
“Oh? So why are ya so stressed out?”
I rotated a finger at the dash, to rush her gettin’ us out of here. Those folks were still standin’ there, as though they could see through the dark glass. I think she used the fob to start up the car, and she shifted it into gear. Smooth-like. I don’t know if I could do that as nonchalant. I’m more—measured.
She pulled up the preloaded address to the Hilton on the navigator, and had us in the village lane before she hissed at me again.
“Like ya get a ton of messages from bulls that might like ya,” I hissed back at her.
“I get my share,” she said.
Liar.
“I’m not a liar. A couple, maybe.”
Like twenty-five-year-old med students are reachin’ out to my nerdy, seventeen-year-old siblin’.
“Have too.”
For study groups.
“I’ve been known to go out on the town.”
To attend talks in the auditorium.
“And pretty much everyone in med school is a nerd,” she said.
Don’t doubt that. I hate my peers work overtime to be cool—the arty peers. Gag me. Maybe not in the business college now. They’re big into their cliques, rubbernecking at the Rathskeller to split pitchers of beer.
That’s my imagination. Not as though I’ve experienced it firsthand.
Hm. New thought struck me. If we studied up North, I’d get an excuse not to work on my MBA, since the reason I’m bein’ invited, outside of Uncle’s schemin’, is to give the North a chance to be judgmental about my work. Art.
“What?” Bele asked.
Does she get tired of askin’ me that?
“Ya were stressed out about one thin’, now all squeamish about somethin’ else.”
Stinks bein’ a witch’s siblin’.
“Don’t call me a witch.”
We could talk about school later. “What do I tell Beky?”
“That we’re good.”
That’s too simple. Wouldn’t she expect more?
“She’s just bein’ polite anyway. Doesn’t expect a monologue about the turnpike, yar million pictures ya clicked on the Ridge, or our coffee with arrogant politicians.”
“Ya think they’re arrogant?” I asked.
She snorted.
I waited for more. What in the heck did a snort mean?
“What?” she asked.
Hm. I stared at Beky’s text. Maybe I’d think about it and answer her tomorrow.
“Don’t put off answerin’ her,” Bele said. “Ya’ll overthink it. Plus, she’ll think ya’re blowin’ her off.”
How does one overthink somethin’? Don’t want her to think I don’t care.
“Consider an ogre hen. They’ll blah blah the first thin’ comes into their brain case.”
“Ya’re quite the racist,” I said.
She laughed. And continued to laugh. Finally she managed, “We sit between two dramatic folk. We can’t tiptoe a line. We see both sides better than any other on the continent.
I thought about that. By the time I was measurin’ it some, she pulled into the Hilton. Bele had collected her duffle and headed for the hotel when I thought back to the text. I clicked the mic and said. “Great. Beautiful drive. Thanks.”
I hurried to click send, as pain ricocheted from shoulder to shoulder. I probably answered in the dumbest manner possible. I don’t understand folk. I shouldn’t ever have to answer a question. It’s like someone holdin’ a gun on me, tellin’ me to hurry, holdin’ hostages that are hangin’ over a vat of acid.
~
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