Olan Thorensen - Cast Under an Alien Sun

Yozef and Cadwulf left them with suspicion in Brak’s eyes and a hint of moisture in Elian’s. The couple walked hand-in-hand back toward the village, with the promise to return later that day with their belongings and start to work on the property. Yozef was briefly tempted to offer to find a wagon to help them move, then decided they probably didn’t have all that much to transfer and wasn’t sure how much help to offer and stay within the bounds of their self-respect.

True to their word, when Yozef returned to the property the next afternoon, the Faughns had moved into the hut, and both structures already appeared transformed, debris cleared away, and the inside of the main cottage swept, wiped of dust, and scrubbed.

Christ , marveled Yozef, they must have only stopped to sleep—I hope.

Yozef’s move took longer. His room at the abbey was cluttered with clothes, books, papers, writing materials, and even a few decorations. He was inclined to move by wagon, but the image of the Faughns walking all of their worldly possessions in one trip made him reticent, so he bought a pack in the village and, during the next two sixdays, gradually made his own move. The decision gave him a chance to discard items he couldn’t remember the reason he had and gave the Faughns time to make the property more pleasant. And that it was. He still had a few things to move when he formally “moved into” the cottage, sleeping there and eating morning and evening meals. By then, the cottage was spotless, if somewhat bare. A new roof was on. Exactly how Brak had done it by himself, Yozef couldn’t envision and thought it maybe a good thing he didn’t know. He checked out their hut, ostensibly to be sure his workers had appropriate quarters to maximize their work. He pretended some annoyance that their roof was not as complete as his, and he chastised Brak. This seemed to satisfy the brusque man that the employer wasn’t providing charity.

Meals by Elian might not be haute cuisine, though, like most island food, they were hearty and plentiful. He allowed Elian to expose him to some local fare he hadn’t experienced before, and he, in turn, let them try dishes from California, or at least those that could be reasonably duplicated on Caedellium. The morning meal, still breakfast to Yozef, was where differences were greatest. Chickens hadn’t made the transplantations to Anyar, though ducks had and were a source of eggs. Yozef had never eaten a duck egg, and the first time they seemed a little too gamey, although he got used to the taste. The Anyar version of birds, murvors, provided a second common source of eggs. The ruktor was a kiwi-shaped, flightless, murvor with black and purple feathers and a parrot-like beak for digging roots and cracking nuts. Ruktor eggs were blue-shelled, with a lighter blue interior, and to Yozef, the eggs tasted like something needing disappearance down a disposal. He made several attempts at eating them before giving up and sticking to duck eggs.

As for preparation, eggs were boil, scrambled, or used as an ingredient in dishes. Fried or poached eggs grossed out the Faughns. Uncooked yolks! Elian made valiant efforts to learn the intricacies of “over-easy,” but eventually Yozef, to her relief, took over the preparation on those mornings when such a disgusting dish made the menu.

Other breakfast options to remind Yozef of home included the ubiquitous oatmeal-like porridge, pancakes, and French toast. Pancakes weren’t a problem, since they already common on Caedellium, and were accompanied by butter and fruit preserves, but French toast was a novelty that both Brak and Elian took to with enthusiasm. Yozef was surprised many months later to find that French toast had spread to most of Caedellium.

The cottage became more furnished, as Yozef spotted items he fancied in Abersford shops. Although he wasn’t a knick-knack person, the bare walls and surfaces cried out for decorations. A first such addition was when Yozef spotted a colorful shawl in a weaver’s shop in Abersford. It was patterned, and the blues and greens seemed to match the ocean view. He tacked it to a bare wall and immediately gave the room more life.

Yozef also couldn’t resist a present for Elian but had to figure out how to get away with it, without offending Brak. He complained to the Faughns that during the bargaining, he was “tricked” by the shopkeeper into buying two shawls. The other one was also colorful, with reds and yellows. Those being colors “he” didn’t particularly like, and since he didn’t want the purchase to go to waste, he insisted that the Faughn’s tack it to one of their walls. Brak reluctantly did so, and Yozef suspected Elian thought a treasure had fallen to them. By “coincidence,” Yozef had noted Elian wore a tattered red-and-yellow scarf most days.

I actually think I’m starting to accept this new life , Yozef realized one day, as he walked to his shops in Abersford. The cottage had begun to feel like home. He had his routine of breakfast; walking to the village or the abbey, depending on his plans for that day; returning to the evening meal Elian had waiting; and spending occasional evenings at the pubs. He had friends—some, to his surprise, better than any he’d ever had before. He was making a difference and hoped to do more. Life could be worse .

Most days, Culich Keelan and his wife, Breda, talked during their entire morning meal, but not this day. Only the distant sounds of animals and workers on the Keelan Manor grounds broke the silence. This time together was an inviolate routine to their lives, a time for just the two of them. Rarely did they eat mid-day meal together—Culich in meetings or traveling, Breda managing the household and the surrounding estate and attending meetings of her own with clanswomen and others. Evening meal was eaten with the family or, on formal occasions, with clan members, visitors—followed occasionally by more meetings. Morning meal was their time. Time to talk of the small things keeping them bound to each other, talk of important family matters, and talk of weighty issues of broader scope. Breda also served as Culich’s sounding board for when he needed to unload worries and doubts he couldn’t express to anyone else. That he spoke so little this morning told her something weighed on his mind.

Being hetman was a never-ending task few could appreciate without experiencing the weight themselves. It would be different if he felt less responsibility for the sixty thousand clan members. He knew hetmen of other clans who didn’t feel the weight, and he thought the well-being of those clans suffered because of it. Culich’s father had felt the burden of leadership, and although he had imbued his son and heir with the same mind-set, he also taught that there was a need for time to be yourself, to admit doubts, if he had them, and for those moments not to be the hetman . These morning meals were one such time. Usually.

Breda was patient. After twenty-five years of marriage, she knew he had something important to discuss, something he was not comfortable with, something he would get to in his own time.

She watched him with a slight smile when he glanced up from finishing his latest biscuit lathered with butter, and his thoughtful expression morphed into a grin.

“Yes, yes. Something we need to talk about.”

“I assumed so. Either that, or you lost your voice overnight.”

He laughed. “No, I managed to keep it.” The laughter fled. “It’s about Maera. I’ve been thinking about her again, and . . . ”

Breda’s face became somber to match her husband’s. “You think it’s time for her to marry.”