Blind Fall Read online

  Definitely not. But he hasn’t once given me the impression that he’d do that. It’s difficult to explain how, why I feel safe with an alien stranger but I trust Breslin not to do anything that could hurt me. I feel marginally sure that nothing is going to happen tonight other than sleeping.

  Breslin speaks up from the other side of the room, his tone patient and I imagine he’s been watching me think things through. “Ignore what you heard about being a bride. I didn’t bring you home to breed on you.”

  A blush hits me at him using the word ‘breed.’ It helps to roll my eyes; my ridiculous blush fades and I manage to make it all the way to the bed, where I pull back the covers and climb in.

  I listen to the thud of boots, the rustling of fabric, the sound his clothes make as they hit the floor. I wait for the drawer of dry clothes to open again, but it doesn’t.

  When the covers lift and weight dips the mattress, I feel like I’m strung tighter than a recurve bow.

  I blurt, “I don’t want to make this weird, but I didn’t hear you…” My face is flaming.

  “Didn’t hear me what?”

  “You’re not wearing a shirt, are you?”

  He snorts. “I’m not wearing a stitch.”

  I sit up. “You’re naked?” I squeak.

  The mischief content in his words is 100-proof. “Woman, it’s not as if you can see anything.”

  I gasp and a quake of laughter attacks me. “You did not just say that!”

  The bed creaks under his bulk as he makes himself comfortable and it shudders when he falls back. “If you can hear that I didn’t dress for bed, you heard me tease you perfectly.” He pats the round of my blanket-covered hip. “Sleep, salk. The days here start early.”

  I thought I’d be wide awake, tense and waiting to be pounced on no matter what the alien who I was gifted to says, but I’m smiling as my head hits the soft pillow. The last thing I remember thinking is that my pillow smells nice. Piña colada and a fresh basket of chips at my favorite Mexican restaurant.

  It smells just like Breslin.

  CHAPTER 12

  BRESLIN

  “Crite, are you dead?” I pick up one of her hands and drop it, watching it flop bonelessly to the bed.

  I grab her smooth shoulder and shake her.

  Kota shoves against my leg, fur bristling. Her lips peel back to reveal an upper and lower set of sparkling, sharp teeth. Her eyes are a darker shade than her owner’s—which seems fitting because unlike Sanna’s sweet gaze, Kota’s focused glare promises me all sorts of pain if I dare to handle her mistress in such a way again.

  I give her a patient look. “I’m not hurting her.”

  Kota is unconvinced.

  I wiggle Sanna’s limp hand. “Is she always like this? What if you have an emergency? What happens when you need to go outside?” Not taking my eyes off of the animal staring me down, I call, “Sanna.”

  No response from the human. Has she fallen into some kind of coma?

  I shout, “SANNA.”

  Kota strongly disapproves of me shouting at her human. She demonstrates this fact by lunging at me with a roar.

  The sound of her pet is what sparks Sanna to regain consciousness. “K-kota?” Disoriented, still half asleep, her elbow buckles and she plants face-first into the bed on her first attempt to rise.

  Kota wheels her attention to her person, bumping her oddly-textured nose into the underside of Sanna’s hand.

  “Hey, Kota,” Sanna mumbles.

  “Good rising to you, Sanna.”

  Instantly, she stiffens. Heartbreaking dismay crosses her face a moment before she attempts a smile. She murmurs a hoarse, “Not just a dream, huh?”

  Tentatively, I stroke the back of her hand. “I didn’t mean to give you a rough waking, but I’ll be out to do chores and I could be gone for sticks if I have to go to the far pasture. I didn’t want you to wake and not be able to find me.”

  “Sorry you had to wait on me—I can’t believe I slept so hard. Thank you…” She slaps the side of her face three times, making me jolt.

  It must assist humans’ mandible function in the morning because her lips work better at making her words clear when she asks, “Can we go with you?”

  I’ve already drawn on my boots and am tugging my coat off its hook, well able to hear the Narwari impatiently hollering for me to bring them their breakfast. “I’m afraid we have to hurry, but I’d be glad to have your company,” I tell her.

  Sanna pushes up from the bed and feels her way to the relieving station. I step outside to wait, and at her call of, “Done!” I reenter, and dig about for daywear clothes and a coat for her while she washes her hands. Then I find us something to take the edge off early hunger on our way to the barn.

  The set of Sanna’s brows and the purse of her lips as she dries off her hands gives me pause. “What does this human expression mean?” I ask, and take her fingers.

  Soap is harsh here. It’s got enough grit in it to scrub the belly off a gremhoc—or a Garthmaw’s hands clean. Farm life has a way of making soap with this potency frequently necessary. But it’s scoured Sanna’s skin raw, and at most she’s used it twice. “That won’t do,” I murmur, and keep hold of her hand as I step backwards and pull moisturizing salve off the one shelf I have in this place. “This will be good for your skin. We’ll need to make you more suitable soap.”

  “Thank you,” she says, coating her hands before she slips into her shoes, and fits Kota with her harness.

  I wonder if skin like hers will need frequent applications of salve all over. It’s so soft; it must take a great deal to keep it hydrated. Sanna might enjoy helping me make more. After chores will be the time to bathe, and after that perhaps we can spend time at the stove. Might as well make our meal at that time too.

  I find I’m looking forward to spending time with her.

  I press the fruit I’ve been holding for Sanna into her hand with a grunted, “Food,” and help her into her coat.

  With that, we set off for the barn. I gaze around at the gently rolling hills that surround us and at the peaceful scene that a pack of Narwari work so hard to project. I don’t know what Sanna’s land is like, but I’ve no doubt she’s as rooted to hers as I am to mine and it would be difficult to be ripped away from it all.

  I can’t reverse her capture, but I can do my best to be a good host and make her stay pleasant. I want Sanna to be happy while she’s here. “Chatter to me,” I tell her.

  “What?” Sanna asks before a laugh bells from her, causing Kota to look up at her sharply. “Yeah, I can do that.”

  “It’s good to see you smiling,” I tell her. “I thought I all but had a corpse in my bed. I was rearranging my day, thinking as soon as you stopped breathing, I was going to have to drop everything and bury you.”

  She laughs again. “I said I was sorry! I don’t normally sleep that hard, I swear!”

  “So you say, so you say; eat your fruit.” I hide my grin as I bite into mine.

  “I’m not awake enough to deal with you,” she vows as she sniffs her food. “Smells good. What is this?”

  “It grows from the trees here. It has sweet flesh and it’s filling. You just crunch through the skin. Yes, like that,” I coach.

  “Do I eat the skin too?” she asks, her cheek puffing out with her mouthful.

  “You do, and when you find the part that feels a bit like a jelly?”

  “Scared here, but listening. What do I do with it?”

  “Eat that. It’s good for you.”

  “Yes, boss,” she answers dutifully. “Is there a way I can help you with chores?”

  Boss? My translator supplies foreman, which is confusing as I have no authority over a worksite. “I’ve been wondering the same,” I tell her. “Each Narwari gets a measure of extruded pellet. You can measure out the scoops and fill their buckets for me.”

  “I can do that,” she confirms, and the relief smoothing across her features tells me this is important to her. Either sh
e desires to earn her keep or desires to keep herself far from boredom, I’m not sure, but I can imagine I’d feel much the same if I were in her place. I turn over various chore possibilities in my mind as we make our way to the barn.

  Meesahrah is the first of the Narwari to greet Sanna—she greets Kota too, though Kota looks wary despite Meesahrah’s welcoming warble-calls.

  The rest of the pack appears startled at the newcomers, but that doesn’t stop the lot of them from assembling themselves in a stalking formation. A sharp hiss from me breaks them up.

  It also spooks Sanna and Kota, both of whom jump.

  “My apologies,” I say quickly. “They were starting to get a little brazen and I didn’t want them to hurt you.”

  “Ah,” Sanna says, and raises her bucket. “Just tell me where to stand with this then and I’ll—”

  The pack zeroes in on the fact that their would-be prey is actually a meatgrain-giver, and their behavior melts to that of orphans, all beginning to bawl at her like she’s their long lost mother.

  “Beggars,” I mutter and shoo them back. “Where’s your manners? Line up.”

  Begrudgingly, they all do, and Sanna holds up the first bucket.

  I tell her, “Cohrah is approaching you, she’s the salk leader of this pack—”

  Meesahrah shoves her way up from the end of the line. In three laps of the sun, she’s never shown a flicker of interest in interacting with the pack, but now she is bolder than even the leader salk. She knows who Sanna and Kota are, but even so—it’s unusual. “I retract that. Meesahrah is claiming the right to feast first.”

  “Good morning, Meesahrah,” Sanna coos, and Kota tilts her head first one way, then the other, before she emits a sharp sound of protest.

  The Narwari scatter—except for Meesahrah, who buries her snout in the bucket.

  “You’re still my best girl, Kota,” Sanna says. “Don’t scare them away from their food.”

  Kota sits and I could be imagining it but her eyes seem to narrow thoughtfully as she watches the pack reassemble themselves behind Meesahrah.

  Sanna sends an apologetic smile in my direction, only a little off center of me as she explains, “Kota isn’t a classically trained guide dog. Certified schools produce excellent animals but my family raises this breed,” she nods down to the animal with its unique pattern and angular features, “And I was there when Kota’s litter was born. Kota was the pup I wanted so we trained her ourselves. We did all the research and worked through years of training together but… she’s very much got her own mind.”

  My brow flattens as I look at the animal of mine that’s leaning hard against the fence, mannerlessly shoving her muzzle into the bucket Sanna’s clutching. “I can assure you I sympathize,” and I say this in such a forbearing, flat tone that Sanna snickers.

  “If you reach out,” I tell Sanna, “and feel along Meesahrah’s neck—”

  Sanna adjusts the bucket so she can hold it in one hand, and places her other on Meesahrah’s neck crest. “Okay…”

  “Feel the tassels?”

  Sanna takes hold of the strings of tassels. “Yes.”

  “All the trained Narwari wear them. You can catch any of the trained ones and ride them if you have to.”

  Sanna drops her hand back to the bucket, gripping it. “Ride them? I don’t know how to ride!”

  “I think you might learn,” I muse.

  “I think you might be crazy,” she informs me. “They seem kind of tall.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I’m kind of not good with heights!” Sanna half-wails, and Kota sends me a scathing look and her fur puffs out just as it did when she thought I was harming her mistress. I reach down to offer her a reassuring pat, but she bares her teeth at me.

  I raise my eyes skyward. Save me from temperamental females.

  Meesahrah finishes her bucket and promptly reaches down to Sanna’s feet to nip out of the next one.

  “Enough for you before you catch gut bloat,” I warn, and motion for Cohrah to step forward.

  Eyes slitted at Meesahrah, Cohrah makes her way for her bucket as Sanna raises it and waits. When Cohrah’s nose dives into the food, Sanna reaches out and brushes her hand along Cohrah’s tassels.

  “These feel pretty,” she remarks.

  “Just imagine how they’ll feel under your hands as you ride.”

  “It’s the falling part I don’t think I’ll like,” she complains.

  “Bah. That’s what everybody says.”

  Sanna gapes at me. “Maybe that should tell you something!”

  I laugh. “That’s what everybody says at first.”

  “And then what? After you fall you suddenly change your mind?” she asks in disbelief.

  She goes still as I lean in, cheek brushing hers. “Sometimes,” I whisper, “the ride is worth the fall.”

  CHAPTER 13

  SANNA

  “What’s next?” I ask Breslin as we stack the empty, rinsed buckets back in the barn.

  “Hold still,” he murmurs, and I do when I feel his fingers touch my hair, and something long and thin slides slowly along my scalp before he pulls it free.

  “What is it?” I ask, ducking.

  “Bit of hay. No need to cower.”

  I straighten immediately and pretend to scowl. “Me? Cowering? Never.”

  “Hmm,” he says. “The storm knocked trees down. I need to ride the fenceline and repair any damage before we have a case of wandering Narwari, and the neighbor’s grazing thieves start disappearing.”

  I rub Kota’s ear. “What does the end part of that statement mean?”

  Another bucket clacks on the pile as Breslin takes the last one from my other hand. “Closest neighbor is three sticks away.”

  “Okay. Let’s pretend I understand that.” Then I shake my head. “Actually, no. I need help. ‘Three sticks away’ sounds like distance, but you use ‘stick’ like it’s… like it’s a way to tell actual time, like a few minutes or something. What IS a stick?”

  He sounds like he’s smiling. “A stick.”

  “That’s great. Thanks.”

  His answer is a rumbling chuckle. It’s nice. “You haven’t known all this time?”

  Kota brushes against me as she adjusts her stance. A guide dog learns to be patient but alert during people-conversation, and she’s settling in. “I was too entertained by your alien ways to actually find out.”

  “That’s it. Now you have to try a stick for sure.”

  “Try a stick…?” I’m so confused.

  Breslin’s finger and thumb tap my mouth. “Open.” He waits until I stop pulling back from the surprise of it—and he presses something that feels like a thin chopstick between my teeth. It tastes a little like licorice.

  “This,” he guides my chin down a little at the same time he tugs my jaw so that I’m craning my neck up for him, “Is a timestick.” His breath fans across my face as he gets closer. “And it looks like your teeth are much like mine, with flat molars.”

  Did he just check my teeth? “Yethsss…” I manage to say around the stick.

  “Very good—now bite down. On a being of my size, the length from our back molar to our lips is a nick of a stick, or stick for short.”

  “O-okay…”

  “As time passes, you come to half a stick, then to three quarters of a stick, and finally, you gnaw away until you reach an end of a stick.” His hand closes around my arm and he brushes his thumb over my skin reassuringly, like See?

  I’m not quite sure I do. “How long does it take until you’re through with a stick?”

  “A length of a stick.”

  “But… how long is that?”

  He slides another chopstick along my hand. “That long.”

  Consternation fills me.

  I grasp the chopstick in my palm so we’re both holding it. “Where does the stick go? Are you ingesting it? A stick?”

  “Your kind don’t gnaw on anything?”

  “We
ll, only, like gum or something. Not sticks—”

  Toothpicks.

  “Okay,” I correct, “I’ve heard some people chew on something like this but where I’m from, products made from wood aren’t edible.”

  “Not all of our trees are. This variety is.”

  This variety is also tasty and it goes a long way towards explaining why this has remained a method of telling time. I’d eat candy to measure time too. Is gnawing on a stick bad for teeth here? Surely not. “What if someone chews fast?”

  “You can’t chew fast. It’s a stick.”

  “It seems imprecise…” I shrug.

  “What method do your people use for measuring time?”

  “Hours. Those are made up of sixty minutes. Minutes are made up of sixty seconds.”

  He seems thoughtful. “And they’re uniform then?”

  “Like clockwork… ha—Earthens would get that pun. It’s precise and we keep time on clocks. But if we don’t have our phones or watches we can count one Mississippi, two Mississippi, and so on, and each time you finish saying Mississippi, a second has passed.”

  “Does every Earthen speak at the same speed?”

  I grin. “I get where you’re going with this question. I mean, ours isn’t the same, but I get it: everyone’s got their ways.” I motion towards him with my hand. “I interrupted. You were saying you needed to check fences before your grazing thieves disappear?”

  He makes a humor-filled noise of assent even as he says, “Not mine. The neighbor's herd of llarrolla roam far and wide and lean right up against my fences to eat up everything green they can reach. A good fence keeps us good neighbors, but if it’s down and his llarolla wander over… you can see where that would cause bad blood.”