CHAPTER 32

 

TAC’MOT

 

Grake’s wing colors are just starting to subdue by the time we reach my quarters.  He remains outside the door, not following me in as I cross through.  “I didn’t expect her to collapse.  Only the academy males get to train and hone their skills to gain effectiveness.”  He doesn’t sound bitter; simply matter-of-fact.  Perhaps even a little proud.

After I place her on the bed, I turn to eye him.  “Ever wonder if they’re wrong?”

He’s quiet a moment, before his lips thin and he shakes his head.  “They’re not.  I’m not fit for service.  I could never manage what you and…”

He trails off, but I’m confused.  “What I and… who?  And managing what?”

Grake’s jaw drops a fraction, before he’s looking over his shoulder, shifting his wings in order to see past them.  I attempt to focus on him until Tara makes a noise that absorbs my attention from him completely.

In her slumbering state, she moans words that sound like names in a forlorn, pleading tone that tears at my heart.

I think that Grake must offer to stay, but all I remember is waving him off.  There’s nothing he can do for her right now: a hob’s purr should comfort a Gryfala and that his isn’t, despite the fact he managed to tranquilize her...  I don’t see how having him purr more at her will help.

I check to be sure she’s wearing her own blouse under my shirt; she is, which is luck, because I have to remove this top layer.  It smells like she’s rolled on Brax today.  I leave her briefly to forcefully feed it into the nanocleanser’s hatch.

Ugh.  Good riddance!

I have to wash my hands twice before I can no longer scent his musk transference on my skin.  It’s with a much lighter heart that I hop back to my room.

For the first time in rotations, when I stretch out on the bed, we are finally reunited in our special form of embrace: she’s warm in my arms and freezing the tevek out of my legs. Ahhh.  I missed her.

I sigh gratefully into her mane, and wonder what I will do when I have to say goodbye to her.  I will be happy for her, be happy that she is once again at home among her, and Grake, and Brax’s people.  But I will miss this—her—to a most painful degree.  I’ve never known such a soft feeling of contentment.  It makes me feel so… so warm towards her.  She turns in my arms, eyes still closed, features still pinched and showing distress.  I gather her closer.

I grimace as I adjust one of her feet to a warmer spot on my top leg.  “You’re almost perfect,” I mutter into her mane.  “Despite your horrible excuse for a circulatory system...”  Without any thought, my lips brush her temple, and almost in answer, my chest constricts in an exquisitely painful spasm.  My whisper is hoarse when I finish, “And I like you very much.”

When I pull back to gauge her unconscious expression, I am heartened that she looks less upset.

 

***

 

I believe I wake up because she leaves my arms.

And when I open my eyes, my body rising to a sitting position with a start—worried about her state, worried about her—she gives me a facsimile of a smile.

It would pass for one if it didn’t lack her usual bounce and brightness.  “Ohh ghood, yewr awake.  Wee haff too tawk.  Sumhoww.  Eetz eemporteent!”

I nod to what sounds to me like statements that require an affirmative reaction.  Then I look down at what she is holding.

And dread trickles into my stomachs.

She’s collected a branch from my belongings.  She holds it up, both of us examining it.  “Theyyre ees nowt won stufft toy on thees shiip!  Yoo gyyys!” she then settles the branch across her arms, laughing once as she looks down at it, then she’s shaking her head.  “Preetend eets a baybee, okaay?”

I don’t know what she’s saying.

But I can see what she is asking for.

My branch.

She wants sticks.

She continues to talk but even if I could understand her, the implications rushing through my mind would still likely drown out every word she’s attempting to relay to me.

She wants to build a nest.  SHE IS NEEDING TO NEST!

“—neeed yore hellp!  Pleese, pleese, Tac!  Kahn yoo hellp me geht bak to myy baybees?”

I leap to my feet and bound off the bed.  I have to duck in order to avoid crashing my skull into the ceiling.  That was a little more bounce than I was prepared for.  Calm yourself!  “I’ll be back!”  I tell her, and my heart lifts when I see the hope on her face.

Yes, Tara!  I can make you happy again.  I don’t know how yet: but I know what you need now!

I head for my compartment on bay five.  There is a little cubbyhole where I have totes of stored belongings.  When I was young, Brax noticed I—true to my kind’s nature—have a habit of collecting organic matter.  Though there was no overt show of it, in small ways, he fostered my cravings and impulses by making brief, unscheduled stops on planets with seaside coasts where I could rummage through empty shells and a selection of interesting driftwoods.  Ever since, my collections have found their way to stowage, saved for whenever I’d want to revisit them.  A kindness then, and maybe a useful bit of luck now.

As I dig, my thoughts are racing.  And I can’t explain my relief!  I could bound through the ship, trilling happily.  Tara and I—the relationship between us has felt so out of balance since our kiss.  I’d thought—and to an extent, still think—that she scared herself.  She’s just lost her guards.  She’s made it clear with Grake that she’s not yet ready to take on new hobs.  Thus her impromptu advance on me was more than she realized she was ready for.

I can understand that.

I shift my focus to the matter of her nesting.  If she could feel the instinct building, why didn’t she recruit the hob?  ...Unless the instinct wasn’t triggered until our kiss.  Maybe this is why she has avoided Grake: avoid attachments, avoid the urge?

I tear through each tote, until I’ve managed to collect an arm’s load that I hope will meet her needs.

“Why are you… no.”  Grake’s voice is alarmed.  “No, she isn’t—here?”

I shove my pile into his arms and start another.  “She brought me one of my sticks.”

Grake’s voice sounds worried and every word lacks confidence.  “It could be anything.”

“She was very specific in lining it up across her arms, like she was ready to receive a bundle of them.”

“Creator…” Grake breathes and his wings flap once, making him nearly lose his balance off his feet.  “Where are you going to stay?”

I feel like I should pat myself on the back.  I was so swift in reloading branches this time that I already have a perfectly balanced stack.  It would seem I have a knack for taking care of a Gryfala.

Finding a beautifully textured piece of wood I must add, I lift my jaw and fit it against my throat, using my chin to lock down the bundle.  Slowly I ask, “Stay?”

“If she’s nesting, she’s claimed the space.”  He blinks at me.  “She must feel comfortable in your quarters.  If she begins to build the nest in there, you won’t be going back in.”

I stare at him, uncomprehending.  “Can’t we… can’t we set her up in a spare room?  Those are my quarters.  Are you certain she won’t share?  Tara is very—”

“Female,” Grake finishes.  “Yes.  She is.  Haven’t you noticed how she’s already taken over your room?”

“I was going to say ‘reasonable,’” I murmur.  But I have noticed she’s been adding little things here and there.  I like this about her.  It reminds me of Wanbaroos; we line our homes with many interesting slivers of nature.  I had assumed Gryfala were the same and she was settling in.  “I thought she was adding personal touches.”

Grake nods rapidly.  “She is.  Her personal touches.  Your quarters became her quarters.  It’s the way of females.  Gryfala almost always own everything from the outset so she’ll see nothing amiss in claiming your former room.”

“Hmm.”  I let my back arch over as I leap past him, clutching Tara’s bundle and heading back to see her.

“Wait!  I need to discuss Brax with you.  It’s vital.”

I have a gravid Gryfala to attend to!  Anything having to do with Brax can wait.  “Let’s discuss later,” I tell him.  He might continue to try to speak to me.  I wouldn’t know.  In two kicks, I’m long gone.

 

***

 

I want to surprise her.  Against Grake’s protestations, I lay our collections in a small spare bay that had stored a shipment of yanak-soft rugs this time last solar.

This solar has by far been more interesting, and this space is about to house more excitement than it has ever seen.

I’ve only had half my ears tuned into Grake’s urgent whispering, “Brax—whuh whuh-whuh—temperament—whuh, whuh—maim—whuh whonded—aggressive!”

I shrug.  Brax, temper, threats of maiming, and aggressive is Brax.  Our resident disagreeable Rakhii.  But I do pay full attention to him when he says, “The Gryfala will prefer a selection of leaves for lining, and mud for building.”  I also catch that I’ll need a substantial amount of soft grasses.

Huh.  Where to get grass?

“—and his entire family!  ...Tac’Mot?”

Scratching at my back, my elbow bending oddly which, for some reason, always makes my face muscles contort, I spare him a glance.  “Yes?”

Grake’s fangs show when he drops his bottom lip and inhales harshly.  “Brax.  Serious danger.  Did you hear any of this?”

Finally!  I manage to drag my claws over the spot that’s been plaguing me and I groan in relief.  “Yes, maim, whonded—”

“Bonded!”

“Fine, bonded and aggression: got it.  Grake, I’ll agree to reconvene with you at a later date on this very important matter, agreed?”

Grake throws his hands up and his wings flare.  “Don’t say I didn’t try.”

I nod amiably.  “You gave it your all.  Now.  Have a wonderful rest of your rotation and thank you for your assistance.”

“Right.”  But he throws this over his shoulder, seeming to make an ‘I wash my hands of this’ motions as he goes.

I stare after him a moment.  The hob needs to learn to relax.

How to obtain grass?  I wonder if she will be able to accept substitutes.  Even if we had a way to obtain mud, the presence of unwashed, non-sterilized particulate matter on this ship will find Lem having a conniption of epic proportions.  Unlike my driftwood pieces, he won’t be able to heat-treat her mud unless she would consider a nest of terra cotta shards an acceptable alternative.

Somehow… I doubt it.

Unconsciously, my hands mimic Grake’s ‘I wash my hands of this’ movement—and I do, for now.  I’ll jump over ideas in my mind, see if anything kicks loose.  Once I adjust a pile, I grab out my favorite from the towering bundle and hop my way to Tara.

She greets me enthusiastically when I enter—not irritably, not aggressively, thus proving my supposition that she’s not overclaiming territory, as far as I can see—but she seems confused why I’m guiding her back to the bed until I hand her the prettiest branch I own, similar in size to the one she has already claimed, which was also yellow.  This one I am gifting her now has yellow bark that feels spongy and is raised up in a textured, vastly interesting pattern but she essentially has two matching branches.

I’ve never had to share my collection before.  I feel the most miniscule twinge of regret, giving up two of my prized possessions.

That is, until I get to experience her reaction.

She releases an extremely high-pitched burst of elation—and my heart leaps.  So does she: she bounces to her knees then hops up and down, shrieking pleased-sounding words and adding my name liberally and with great affection.

She fits the two sticks across her arms and rocks herself in such a joyous manner that I am slightly confused when her eyes begin to produce tears.  She chokes on what certainly sounds like laughter when I carefully cup her jaw and examine her sweet face, and attractive spots.  Nothing appears amiss...  She’s running a rapid, excited dialogue that I simply enjoy hearing because her voice is so lovely.  I have to conclude that her tear production in this context must be a Gryfala-oddity, because her happiness cannot be mistaken.

She is so excited to have materials to nest with!

So I gape when she lets her new sticks fall—seemingly forgotten—and her small hands are gripping onto the muscles of my forearms and she’s leaning in, her gaze locked on mine with a focus that makes my tail thwap against the floor.  “Tac, wheyn?  Wheyn weel wee bee theer?  Wheyn?!”

I stare into her eyes, which have very, very pretty striations of color.  It’s like the beach sand on the Cor’ranaq planet—but the relief and affection in her eyes rivals the warmth of even that majestic seaside.  “I don’t… are you asking when you can start?”

She tilts her head, and her flat top teeth are revealed as she sinks them onto the pillow of her bottom one.  I don’t know why, but seeing this up close makes me feel as if that lip is beckoning to me.  I lift up my ears and try to refocus.  Her body has started tremoring.  Creator… anxious?

My claws are bothering me so I drag them along the tops of my thighs.  “Of course you’re anxious.  If I had eggs forming inside me I’d be keen to start too,” I give a low croak at the mental picture and she blinks.

Wanting to make her happy, hoping to assuage the worst of the intensity that has her in thrall, I vow I’ll forego sleep if I must in order to ready the nesting space.  I hold up one finger.  “One.  I should have your nesting site set up in one day!”

Another burst of exultant sound, and she’s throwing herself on my person.  I can’t say I’m regretting her reception to this news: I’m not.  I’m so far beyond my expectations with this turn of events.  My throat vibrates with my exclamation of “Hoorassa!” and she laughs.  Ha!  And Grake said she’d grow standoffish!

“Tac!  Yoo are TEH BEST!  Eye kipt tryying too teyl yoo, and teyl yoo: eye neeed tem.  They need meh.  Tank yew, tank yew, tank yew, Tac! Tank yoo—!”  With this, she bursts into true tears—not the silent leaking but the messy, loud stormfall—and none of her unfathomable words get any easier to understand.

I hug her to me, and gently sifting my claws into her mane, I apply pressure until her face fits perfectly at the hollow near my throat.  “Vsshhp,” I soothe as I move to stroke my hand down her back.  “Vssshhp.”

She laughs into my neck.

The collection of tears coupled with the puffs of her warm breath over my dampened skin makes me shiver.

What a pleasant feeling.

She pulls away a little, and now, she’s neither laughing, nor actively sobbing.  Her face is serious, and intent, and on top of her relief she looks…

Sad. And… soft.

My eyes dart over the features of her face, trying to read what this means.  Beautiful blotchy coloration, brows drawn in a bittersweet meeting, lips parting with a wistful-sounding breath...

Her gaze flits over my features now, and I’ve no doubt she’s trying to read me too.

I don’t know what she finds.

But I do know, that this time, when her lips cover mine, she doesn’t pull away.