Shattered Bonds (continued)

Baula could feel the fierceness of Paim’s gaze, but neither faced it nor reacted to it.

“But Morah is young, strong . . .”

Baula reached out and placed a hand on the elder priest’s shoulder.

“. . . and the young often make foolish mistakes that those with age and wisdom can use to triumph.” Baula completed for him, although knowing that was not the statement that the elder priest had intended to make.

“It may not be enough,” Paim snorted.

“And yet it may be,” Baula countered gently. He straightened, taking on a more serious posture. “The challenge should be held before the storm comes.”

Paim’s eyes betrayed his surprise.

“It would be wise to settle it now,” Baula stated. “Delaying it will provide nothing but more uncertainty.”

“But Braith could change her mind while the storm passes,” Paim protested.

Baula studied the elder priest. “Is that likely?”

Paim stared back and then his shoulders sagged. “It may be,” he answered softly. “I do not know.”

“Speak to Braith, if you wish,” Baula told him. “If she so requests it, I will honor a delay.” His expression became stern now. “If not, the challenge will begin tomorrow after the dawn prayers.”

Something like despair played across the elder priest’s expression. Slowly, he tilted his head in acknowledged agreement.

A long silence followed. Baula finally broke it.

“Is there anything else that you wish to speak of?”

Paim looked sad and almost defeated. His eyes had lost most of their clarity and his mouth worked several times before he answered.

“No, naha,” he admitted, almost too quietly for Baula to hear.

Baula placed his hand lightly on Paim’s shoulder. “Then go,” he told the elder priest gently. “There are other who need our guidance as well.”

Paim tilted his head respectfully and shuffled slowly from the room.

Baula watched him go, draining the last of the hava juice from the cup. The challenge had troubled him as well, but it was clearly covered in their doctrines, even if rarely used. Staring into the now-empty hallway, Baula wondered if the next day he might be conducting two rituals: one for a new Rite of Bonding and another for the departure of a gisa.

#

Trenton sat at the small dining table while Georgia bustled about his kitchen preparing tea. She was doing something with his cabinets as well, but he did not look over to find out what it was.

Probably going to try to get me to eat again, he guessed sourly. Good luck to her with that.

He heard Georgia take down two plates that sounded too large to be used for teacup saucers. Now, he looked, unable to keep his curiosity under rein only longer.

Georgia was laying out thin strips of cheese onto each of the plates. She added a half dozen flatbread slices and divided up the slices of a large tangerine between the two plates. Walking over to the table, she placed one of the plates before him, while putting the other in front of the seat across from him. Before he could protest, she turned away and headed back for the tiny kitchen, just as Trenton heard the hiss of the water beginning to boil.

There was at least only one type of tea, he knew. Or was there? There was only one variety that he really cared for. He tried to remember, though, if there might still be some spearmint-infused blend left over from when he had suffered from that bout of bronchitis more than a year ago. Despite Georgia’s firm assurances, he had become silently convinced that he was going to die. He had recovered, albeit slowly, grateful that Georgia was never too smug about it.

She placed the tea before him. He watched as steam rose from the mug. Cautiously, he sniffed, and then relaxed, smelling nothing more than the aromas of his favorite tea. Without even noticing that he had done so, he picked up a slice of cheese from the plate and began to nibble on it. It was only when he spied the hint of a smile on Georgia’s lips that he realized what he had done. Feeling as if returning the uneaten portion to his plate might be perceived as petty retaliation, he finished eating it instead, but resolved to take nothing else from his plate.

Georgia, though, was apparently not to be deterred.

“You need to build up your strength if you’re going back out there to pick lemons all afternoon,” she told him, trying unsuccessfully to hide her smile behind the rim of her mug.

Trenton responded with a non-committal noise, testing the freshness of the flatbread with the tip of his forefinger. It rebounded only slightly, telling him that it was just barely stale—just the way he liked it. He knew that Georgia was watching him and tried to decide whether or not to simply surrender. He really had not been eating much and, she was right, he would be ravenous later if he did not eat something now. He went for the tangerine slice instead, feeling that in some small way he had still achieved some kind of victory over her.

“What are you going to be doing?” he asked, finishing the tangerine slice. His fingers strayed near the edge of the plate without actually touching it.

“I’m not sure yet,” she said. “Karla told me to come to the kitchen when I’m ready and she’d fine me something to do.”

“What aren’t you there now?” Trenton asked her gruffly, trying not to look at the slice of cheese that taunted him from the plate.

“Because I’m not ready,” she grinned. “Once I know you’ve eaten something and on your way . . . I’ll be ready.”

“I’ve eaten something,” he insisted, although not too firmly.

“Yes, you have,” Georgia said, smiling sweetly at Trenton in a manner that did not fool him for a moment. “And when you’ve eaten the rest, we’ll be off.”

Trenton studied Georgia’s expression, knowing full well that she was unlikely to budge from that chair until he acquiesced. He knew that he could wait her out. Probably. Maybe. After all, it was his house.

Looking away from her with barely disguised annoyance, he picked up the thin slab of flat bread, placed a single slice of cheese on it, and bit into it.

“Trying to fatten me up like a prize pig,” he murmured around the mouthful.

“Don’t mumble when you eat,” Georgia scolded him lightly-heartedly. “It’s not good for your digestion.”

Chewing slowly, Trenton tried very hard to ignore her smug and triumphant smirk.

They left his dwelling about twenty minutes later. It had taken them that time to finish their mid-morning repast, clean the dishes, and return them to their proper places within his kitchen. Trenton had changed into a different tunic, one that he did mind getting dirty in. Georgia accused him of stalling, even offering to remove the previous one in order to speed things along. It had taken Trenton some unexpectedly limber dodging in order to avoid her making good on her threat.

Now, they walked together across the compound, each heading for their separate assignments. Reaching the line that led to the fruit orchards, Georgia suddenly took his hand and squeezed it gently.

“Try to stay out of trouble out there, Trenton,” she told him, her eyes gleaming with mischievously. “Play nice with the other children.”

Trenton narrowed his eyes in a glare that could have formed icicles on the sun. Georgia reacted as if it was the funniest thing she had ever seen. She released his hand and headed for the dining hall, pausing along the way to collect Teresa Williams, who, among other vocations, served as a music teacher for the children. Trenton’s eyes, though, remained on Georgia.

That woman . . .

His head shook in mystified bewilderment as he approached the table.

“Every okay, Trent?” the man there asked him.

The question broke Trenton from his reverie.

He nodded. “Sure,” he replied. He added a more sincere smile. “Any day I’m still breathing, you know.”

The man chuckled. Trenton knew him well. His name was Kiley Sutton. Much younger than Trenton, somewhere in his forties, he tended to act far older. Trenton tried not to imagine what he might be like by the time he reached eighty or ninety.

“Your cart’s over there,” he said, nodding toward the last one remaining. “I saved it just for you.”

Trenton glanced at it critically, and then smiled as he read its identification number.

Good ol’ Number Fourteen.

Trenton was not a superstitious man, but that particularly cart had never failed him. At one time or another, every other cart within the colony had failed to start, broken down, or, worst of all, left him stranded out in the crop fields. Although it had been endlessly repaired or upgraded, Number Fourteen never had.

Sure, it’s probably a statistical fluke. But why tempt fate?

He and the small cart had a mutual understanding. It never let him down, and he forgave it for occasionally slipping out of gear on low rises. He had mentioned it to the maintenance teams several times, but they had never been able to reproduce the problem. According to them, no one else had ever reported the same problem, even going so far as to subtly suggest that he might be riding the clutch a little too hard. After that, he had stopped mentioning it. That did not prevent it from still happening, though.

“Nolan’s supposed to be going with you,” Kiley said. “But he hasn’t shown up yet.” Kiley shrugged. “I guess he can walk if he does.”

Trenton flashed him a mildly wicked smile and headed for the cart. When he reached it, he stroked the exterior of its hood, feeling the scattered collection of nicks and missing paint chips. He patted it gently and slipped carefully into the seat, finding that his knees and hips moved a bit more stiffly than he would have liked.

Must be a heck of storm brewing out there, he mused, giving the matter no further thought after that.

He patted the cart again, this time lightly atop the steering console. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, and pressed the starter. For a moment, there was nothing, and then the engine hummed loudly to life. It seemed to need some timing adjustments. With a boyish grin, Trenton released the brake and headed off, humming softly to himself, into the orchard.

#

Shalene sat at the sorting table, enjoying the sensations of warmth on her face from the sun. It was rare for her to have the time to just sit and appreciate it, as there was always something that needed to be done: chores or classwork or . . . something. Not that her time was particularly free right then, either. There was fruit to be sorted, but at least she could do it outside and feel the sun.

One by one, she selected the pieces of fruit from the basket in front of her. By the texture of its peel, she could tell which of the containers lined up before her to place it in. Lemons went in the left one, limes in the one in the middle, and tangerines into the one on her right. Occasionally, by detecting strange imperfections in the peel, or the hint of an unusual odor, she would place it aside in a separate pile for a more thorough inspection later.

She sat at the far left end of the platform. On her right sat Farah. Farah came from almost pure Indian ancestry. Her father had been the first acknowledged member of her family to come from outside that heritage. If there had been previous, unsanctioned unions, they had not been spoken of in Farah’s presence. He had come from Scottish descent, but hardly from a bloodline anywhere near as untainted.

Shalene loved the way that Farah talked. Her accent was different from almost everyone else in the colony, outside of the members of Farah’s immediate family. She sounded perpetually happy and it had taken several months for Shalene to detect the subtle differences in her friend’s speaking tone when she was upset or uneasy. Excited and angry were an entirely different matter.

“He’s looking again,” Farah whispered to her.

Shalene picked a lime from the basket and inspected it quickly. She felt the brush of her friend’s long hair against her arm as Farah leaned over to report the observation.

“He is?” Shalene whispered back. “At who?”

The lime went into the center container and she picked up another piece of fruit.

There was surprised moment of silence and then Farah whispered again, this time more urgently. “At you, silly.”

Shalene smiled and laughed softly.

It was a nice dream to have . . .

The lemon in her hands felt almost perfect and went into the container on her left.

“No,” Shalene said. “Really. Who?”

Farah blew out a frustrated sigh. “I just told you,” she said. “He’s . . . oh, damn!”

Shalene paused, still holding the lemon she was inspecting in her hand. Farah very rarely used profanity. When she did, though, her accent made it sound almost charming and Shalene found it hard not to smile, after the initial surprise had worn off.

“What is it?” Shalene asked, her curiosity completely piqued now.