12: Farmhouse Afternoon
HUMANS were far from the only otherwise-intelligent species with members who longed for a simpler time. Most defined this as before technology you couldn’t fix with a hammer, aliens dropped in without an invitation, and definitely before the woeful lack of appreciation for work done with your hands or equivalent appendage.
Or, as Ersh put it, the time when futures were short, ignorance rampant, and the only thing cheaper than life was death. Mind you, Ersh also marked the onset of civilization by reliable civic waste disposal, so she’d her prejudices, too.
That said, sometimes you had to look back to go forward.
Botharis had been settled by Humans who’d thought more like Ersh. They’d followed the usual pattern: plan to recreate the lifestyle they’d enjoyed on their homeworlds, bigger, better, and shinier, only to slam up against the brutal truth. They were a finite community on an alien planet and forget city building. The first generations would be lucky to survive.
There were options, of course. Go home. Bind yourselves to neighbors, like the Kraal, who could supply what you lacked, for a price you’d regret later.
Or, as on Botharis?
You worked with what you had. Knowledge from a simpler time, coupled with careful alliances and sheer bloody determination. Fourteen generations later, give or take a couple, the Botharans were justifiably proud of themselves—regardless of what my Lishcyn-self thought of their fashion sense. They’d a widespread network of rural communities who knew how to live with the land and didn’t need any newfangled tech to do it, thank you, though no one wanted to go back too far; a small but robust industrial base beginning to produce exports, and a peaceful population who’d grown up within a culture of stubborn “get it done.” Botharans didn’t resist invasion. They ignored it, too busy to bother.
It made them a distinct nuisance to govern, as the Kraal knew well, having come and gone from this world several times.
Botharans, particularly rural ones, were stubbornly practical, too. Why tear down a building when it was still useful? I suspected a factor to be the Human longing to keep a “simpler time” of their own in plain sight. The result was a landscape peppered with buildings of logs, mud plaster, and stone that refused to fall down unless you made them.
Such as the Ragem family farmhouse, barn, and that now-abandoned outbuilding in the back corner of a field through which grew what Botharans called an oak tree, really more a giant fern with a thick woody stalk, but you couldn’t cut it down now because a great-great-great Ragem had begun the tradition of carving initials in the bark, and that was that.
It was clear Evan Gooseberry had never been in a farmhouse before, especially not the Botharan “well-used and rustic” version. I watched him sidestep to avoid the braided rug on the front porch, admittedly worn by a few generations of Ragems but clean other than the rust spots, edge his way, hands raised, past the bucket of dirt-covered gardening tools I’d brought in to keep from the afternoon rain, and once inside, upon passing the open door to what Paul called my “lair,” start sneezing.
At a guess, our tender Evan hadn’t been exposed in childhood to any loose organics, let alone the dried sweet grass and feathers belonging to my very comfortable beds.
“What is this place?” he demanded, a tissue pressed to his nose.
“Our home.” I couldn’t help myself. “Don’t worry. We installed indoor plumbing.”
I almost felt guilty at his shocked expression. Almost. Not a bad lesson, to know what shouldn’t be taken for granted. “There’s food in the kitchen,” I assured him.
Which would have been fine, except when we entered the kitchen, he spotted the tiny brown mousel running across the table—
I’d missed one.
—and spun around to push by me, heading for the Library and civilization.
“Oh, no, you don’t!”
Evan’s green eyes locked on the plate. On it was Paul’s favorite sandwich, made before he’d left for the Library this morning and not to be touched by anyone else. Namely me.
This was an emergency. Until the sandwich, Evan had been darting worried looks everywhere, tensed to bolt again. I could have told him there wouldn’t be another mousel sighting while I was around. The tasty little bites avoided this me. Somehow, I didn’t think he’d enjoy the explanation.
“What is it?”
I eyed the tower of carbohydrates and protein, unsure of the nomenclature, and settled for, “Paul’s lunch.”
A startled flash of those eyes, then he grabbed the sandwich in both hands and took a huge bite. He made a moaning sound I took for bliss, given how his eyes half closed. That hungry, was he? I already didn’t like the criminals who’d made Evan afraid and prompted the alarm. Now I wanted them hungry.
He’d need fluids. I put a tumbler of water in reach, then went to put the kettle on what looked like the farmhouse’s original wood-burning stove but was, thanks to Paul, safer for paws to operate. A sensor detected the arrival of a full kettle of water on the marked spot, the heat activated below, and all would whistle a summons when ready.
Now to wait. I sighed to myself, well aware consumption of this food item prevented a Human from any conversational gambits beyond nods, head shakes, and grunts. I could have started packing; even for me, that seemed premature without knowing more than “Mysterious Elves at Risk on Dokeci-Na.”
On the other hand, the sandwich also prevented a Human from interrupting me. I pulled up my stool and regarded Evan fondly. Not that he’d have any notion why. Oh, well. “Your name sounds familiar, Evan. Are you the one Paul met on Urgia Prime?”
A nod.
“He said you’d saved the Popeakans.”
A self-deprecating shrug.
“He also said you were very brave.”
Another unreadable look—or was it hope?—then a repeat of the shrug.
How fun! Summoned by the kettle, I chose the tea I’d observed Paul had with this sandwich on the assumption he’d know best, then put the mug in front of Evan. He nodded his thanks, which is when I said, “It’s been quite a while since Paul’s copulated.”
Evan erupted, partially chewed sandwich bits flying across the table and floor, sure to attract mousels later. Done, he gasped and sputtered, taking the napkin I offered with a furious swipe of his hand.
No problem reading his expression now.
I may have gone too far.
Still, an informative reaction. I put on my most innocent look, the one Paul distrusted on sight. “Do try the tea.”