Olan Thorensen - Cast Under an Alien Sun

Yozef awoke with sunlight flooding his bed through a window. He stretched his limbs and noticed he . . . felt good . A warm lassitude faded, as his surroundings jolted him fully awake, but he still felt more alive since waking on this planet. How many hours had he slept? Ten, twelve hours? Hours? However they measured time here, the day was well along.

His bladder’s urgent signals interrupted his wondering about time. He pulled on clothes and hustled to the outhouse. He would later learn it was called a voiding house. The building was more formal than the classic shed with the crescent moon on the wooden door on Earth. This one was the size of a house, with common areas for washing, and two classes of closable compartments, one for showers and sponge-baths and another for the activities that gave the building its name. The facility was unisex, with the compartments providing privacy. He was consternated the first time he defecated by himself and intuited the purpose of baskets of moss-like material next to the hole in the floor. Then, surprise and momentary embarrassment resulted when he exited his compartment at the same moment a woman entered a neighboring one.

This morning, his bladder satisfied, his stomach announced food as the next priority. He had missed the morning meal.

“So, what are the rules here?” he spoke aloud to himself. If you missed the mealtime, were you shit out of luck until the next one? Only one way to find out—go over to the dining hall and look hungry.

As he walked the gravel paths, he noticed he “hustled,” as he had on the way to the voiding house. That he could hustle was notable. Not running or even what anyone would call quick, but with movements faster than days before.

He lifted the latch on the dining hall main door, leaned in to open the door, and walked in. As expected, no one sat and ate at the tables. He stood for perhaps a minute, wondering what to do next, when a girl carrying a box came out of the kitchen area, saw him, and started jabbering.

He assumed she said something notable, like, “Dining Hall is closed until mid-day meal,” or “You missed breakfast, dumb-ass,” or some such. Of course, she could be reciting local poetry or asking him to come by her room this evening, and he wouldn’t know the difference.

After more vocalizations, the woman either recognized him as the strange man or got tired of getting no response. She huffed, set the box on one table, pulled out a chair at another, and motioned for him to sit. He did, and she went into the kitchen area, returning with a bowl, a large slice of the standard heavy, dark bread, and a steaming mug of something.

He gave her his best smile. “Thank you. Sorry I’m late.”

She scowled and stomped away.

The bowl held a porridge resembling dark oatmeal, supplemented with small chunks that appeared to be nuts and berries. The bread was split down the middle with a hunk of yellowish cheese stuck in the crevice. The contents of the mug looked like coffee but smelled like moist earth. He had drunk the brownish liquid before, though didn’t recall the taste. He sipped gingerly, blowing to cool off the surface.

It definitely wasn’t coffee and had a faint root beer flavor to go along with the pungent aroma. Probably some kind of extract from a local plant root. After another sip, his head cleared of sleep’s residues, and he eyed the mug with respect. Maybe not from a bean like coffee, but wherever it came from it must have similar alkaloids to caffeine, by the way it hit him.

The mug’s contents, the bowl’s, and the bread and cheese disappeared, while he mused over the botanical origin of the drink. He took the empty dishes and the spoon to the kitchen door, called out, “Hello,” and the same young woman appeared. She took the dishes from him, he thanked her, and she jabbered back.

He expected she said, “Okay, get out of here and stop bothering us.” He somehow doubted it was, “You’re more than welcome and come in anytime for anything you want to eat.” Also probably not, “My room, 8 o’clock, be there.”

He smiled, chuckled, and bustled out the main door.

Once outside, he stood in the light and felt warmth against his face. He looked up and, for the first time since his arrival, consciously noticed the sun. That he could look at the sun for a few seconds without having to avert his eyes was one more clue he wasn’t on Earth. The orb was larger than Sol, and the color had more of an orange tint than the yellow of Earth’s sun.

If he remembered his astronomy, this must still be a Class G sun, like Sol, though a little smaller and cooler. It probably looked larger because this planet’s orbit must be closer to its sun than Earth. Whatever the sun’s characteristics, the colors he saw around him appeared “normal”: the sky was robin’s egg blue, the nearby flowers red and yellow, the foliage a mix familiar greens and darker-hues.

He walked the paths of the formal garden behind the cathedral, his mind clearer than since arriving to this place. He’d shit and eaten. Normally, he’d say he needed a shower and a shave to finish out the morning rituals, although perhaps in a different order. Shaving didn’t seem to be in the cards here. Every man Yozef had seen since he’d awakened here sported a beard. The lengths, shapes, and degree of grooming seemed left to individual preferences, and the only smooth-faced males were boys still too young to have developed fuzz. Even if he had a razor, to fit in he would have to get accustomed to a beard. He had had one in college as an undergrad, back in his “Look at me, I’m adult and an intellectual,” phase. He hadn’t cared much for the beard then, and the one he was currently growing felt scruffy after a couple of weeks’ growth. He was just going to have to get used to it.

As for the last of the four rituals—bathing remained. His nose had already noted that daily showers or baths were not the norm here. Although the BO levels were much higher than he was accustomed to, it surprised him it wasn’t worse. Maybe it was the clothing, constructed from some natural fibers like wool, cotton, flax, or bandersnatchi. He already knew he got more odoriferous if wearing shirts made of synthetics, compared to cotton. Still, it got pretty earthy at evening mealtimes when the dining hall fills with bodies who had been working all day.

He sniffed his left armpit and grimaced. He needed a shower, but not now. Later, before evening meal. For now, he needed to think.

He continued a slow walk around the gardens and the grounds. An occasional local passed him, giving what he assumed to be a greeting, although for all he knew they were incantations to ward off the weird stranger who might be a demon. He only partly noticed them. He was deep into thoughts about where he was, how he got here, and most important . . . what was he going to do?

The same thoughts dominated his mind all day and the next. He was here. Not wanting to be here was meaningless. He was here. Simply sleeping in the small room they provided, eating three meals, shitting, and walking around agonizing over what had happened wouldn’t work. What was he actually going to do ?

The immediate answer was obvious. He didn’t know.

Though he didn’t have a long-term plan, he needed to act on the proverbial advice “Don’t just stand there, do something!” Since he didn’t know what he was going to do long term, at least he needed to do something, if only to get ready for when he did have a plan.

He stopped in the middle of a garden path and spoke aloud, oblivious to his surroundings and an approaching man.