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.
~
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