~

Chapter Thirty-six

~

The alarm I set to remind me to head to the inn for lunch ripped me from my thoughts. At least tried to. I had so many emails backed up in my inbox. So many service requests to review. I had no idea what the heck my computer was tellin’ me for two minutes.

I got it turned off and went to the john to shave. We ogres don’t have a lot of whiskers, not like daemons who look like a walkin’ hair pile. They’re hair manufacturin’ machines. But I felt it the week I should wipe off what I had.

Troll bulls, the older ones, often allow the five or six hairs on their chins to go uncut until they die. I’ll admit I don’t think it’s becomin’.

I nicked myself twice. Had to shuffle through every drawer to find that sep—somethin’ stick to stop the bleedin’.

I put on a fresh shirt. Why stop there? I changed into crisp khakis. No. Didn’t look right for the Range. Summer maybe. Not fall. Changed the dress shirt for a flannel and opted for jeans. Slipped on my favorite leather vest and headed for the door, but my phone rang. I hate that. Text me, people!

Oh. But I can’t tell my ma that.

“And how’s yar pa’s advice settlin’ in yar head?” she asked.

“How ’bout a hey back, first?”

“Don’t go correctin’ yar ma,” she said. “I’ll smack ya. Ya goin’ to the inn for lunch?”

Why would she ask me that? She’s speakin’ Trollish, as though I might not understand her Standish. Most folk consider her a bit odd. “Ya never have wondered where I’m gonna eat before.”

“Today’s special,” she said.

I asked her, “Why’s that?”

“Don’t talk stupid to me. I know ya’re not stupid. So don’t do it.”

“Uh—”

“There won’t be a single soul in the Range that hasn’t already heard ya’re sweet on a troll hen. So don’t let the excitement and drama get to ya.”

“Drama? Excitement?”

“Ya’ll be more popular than a Christian fightin’ a lion in the whatyacallit. Forum. Or maybe it’s the other way around.”

I think I know what side of the family I got my autism from.

“So, when are ya goin’?” she asked.

“Not sure I’m gonna, now.”

She cackled. “Good to see ya’re developin’ a sense of humor. ’Bout time.”

I didn’t see any humor in what I said. I waited for more upliftin’ words.

“Dinin’ room prolly be packed. Wish I could be there. Be like a clan hoedown. Give the family hugs for me. Watch out for yar aunt Liez. That hen has the worst breath. And Uncle Riz will step on yar toes. Has no sense of personal space.”

I may have whimpered. Sounded like a whimper. I didn’t know ogres could even make that sound.

~

Nuel

~

I’m certain the dinin’ room holds a hundred folk, the lobby twice as many. And both areas were close to packed. It’s off season. A new front had floated in. Heavy fluttery snow continued to collect on the terrace’s banister and walkway in bulk. Orcs gathered every hour to shovel it off.

Might have been ten ice fishermen and a couple loony winter photographers booked in the inn. I heard a famous writer skulked about. So where did everyone else come from? A good representation of the entire Hamlet was here. At least many of the members of a specific clan.

By the din of the greetin’s, they had to be kin. They all certainly knew who I was, and I have no idea how. Ike told me he only knows one out of twenty of his extended cousins. May have sounded relieved about lackin’ that knowledge.

I looked around for Bliar. He couldn’t have pointed me out to this many folk—he said he was headin’ home this mornin’ as soon as he got someone to put chains on his truck for him. Never would’ve thunk that an engineer would need help puttin’ on chains. Maybe like Ike, he doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.

I settled with my mug of coffee near the entrance, unfortunately, where the cold penetrated the windows and wafted in every time the door opened. I exchanged greetin’s with everyone within a shout’s distance.

Surely this isn’t all because—no. No way.

Maybe I should be glad I’ve lived outside the clan hierarchy.

I tried to get comfy in my sway-back arm-chair.

Got about three articles read on my tablet when the entrance opened and the lobby turned absolutely, stone-dead silent, followed by the dinin’ room. I turned. Yep. Poor Kriz. Poor? What am I thinkin’? He strode briskly for the dinin’ room with his head down but didn’t make it ten feet before a bull reached him.

I noted that the din returned twofold in the lobby and dinin’ room.

That first encounter didn’t look unfriendly. Then a couple oldish hens joined the pack. Think Kriz was back trackin’ now—tryin’ to escape. Until a new hen busted into the multitude and gripped Kriz in what looked like an agonizin’ hug.

Don’t know what I expected, but this wasn’t it.