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.
~
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