Марта Уэллс: From a Certain Point of View

Before she was captured, Murra would’ve spit in the rebel’s face, but that night, weak from giving birth, she gently lipped clumps of fungus from her salty hands and didn’t fight when the rebel stroked the fur down her neck. When Murra pushed her head against the rebel’s shoulder, she was rewarded with a good scratch around her itchy horns.

“I know how you feel,” the rebel said softly, right by her ear. “Always busy, always pushed this way and that. I think this is the first time I’ve been alone in months.” A soft chuckle. “Not that I’m alone, with you and the babies.” When the rebel reached down to caress the new, sleeping taunlets, Murra allowed it.

Those taunlets are sturdy and strong now, and the rebel female sometimes visits the pens in the quiet part of night, alone, when only Murra is half awake and keeping watch over her herd. Murra is always pleased to have her horns scratched, and the rebel seems glad to have someone to talk to.

So, yes, it was a good morning running with Riba, but their time together in the snow was all too brief. Now Murra is back in the caves and unsettled. She wouldn’t usually fret over her strong daughter being outside where she belongs, but the air tells her it’s going to be an unusually cold night, and Riba should be back by now. Riba is pregnant, although it’s early, and these will be Murra’s first granddaughters. She opens all her nostrils, scents the air, paces nervously.

There’s no sign of Riba, but the female rebel is nearby. And even for one of her kind, she smells…disturbed. Anxious. Uneasy. Just like Murra feels. She wonders if perhaps the female rebel is worried about someone she cares for—maybe the male rebel riding Riba? Are rebels capable of such feelings? They certainly don’t rub and touch and snort like tauntauns, and the way they wrap their own bodies completely in straps and smelly cloth suggests they’re too primitive to read scents.

Murra is at the edge of the makeshift fence, watching the rebel and puzzling at the strangeness in the air, when an unwelcome odor makes her snort. She spins, head already down, presenting her horns.

Keelak faces her, horns ready, and squeals a challenge.

Murra softly sighs. Keelak is the sort of upstart cow she would’ve driven away from the herd, if they were outside, where they belong. Keelak has nerve but no wisdom, belligerence without care. Her taunlets are strong but poorly behaved. She is a leader for a wilder time, but here, in the caves, the tauntauns must show restraint, or else…they simply disappear.

The younger cow charges, and Murra is ready. She’s weathered such threats before. Their horns crash with an intensity that jars Murra’s old bones.

They both rear back, eyeing each other.

Keelak hit hard—harder than expected.

So this is real, then.

Keelak isn’t playing, isn’t testing her.

Keelak wants to usurp her and take control of the herd, and she’s taken Murra’s worry for weakness.

With a toss of her head to check the big open door one last time for any sign of Riba, Murra snorts her own rage, letting her affront and anger seep out her pores, drowning Keelak’s scent. The older cow circles with her challenger, her senses taking in every minute sniff and sound that might help her best the younger, smaller, but more motivated beast.

Murra is the matriarch. She was the matriarch before this cave and she plans to be the matriarch long afterward, to midwife her granddaughters and great-granddaughters into the icy world outside without the strange, hot lights of the murmuring rebels and their scents of panic and fear. Keelak has no battle scars, has never made tough decisions to keep her herd safe; she only wants domination. Murra has never trusted her.

Normally, that lack of trust would be bad for the herd, because tauntauns are bound by smell and touch.

Now it’s good because Murra has no qualms about destroying her rival. They share neither love nor blood.

Keelak throws back her head to bellow, and that’s when Murra attacks, ramming her horns into the smaller cow’s throat and throwing her onto her back. She saw that trick once when her own mother ruled, a bachelor challenging the lead bull, so perhaps Keelak didn’t know to be careful. Horns are to be butted, but horns have other uses.

Twisting in the air, Keelak lands on the meat of her hip with a cry of pain and scrabbles awkwardly, trying to stand. The other tauntauns have all stepped back, forming a circle, watching the fight with intense curiosity. Their most sensitive language is one of odor, and Murra smells the crowd: concern, excitement, indignation, ferocity. Some would like to see her go; others pulse with their love for her and their need for her leadership. Empowered by their support—and enraged by those who would betray her—Murra bugles her superiority and runs for the struggling, vulnerable Keelak. Tauntauns don’t do well on their backs, especially not on the slick floors of the warm cave, with no thick, soft snow to provide cushion and grip.

A spurt of rage emboldens her, and she lunges for the smaller cow’s exposed belly, her strong, yellow teeth bared. But before her teeth can close on that blubbery skin, a hot splash of Keelak’s saliva slashes across her eyes, blinding her. Murra paws at her face, but her claws can’t quite reach her eyes. She knows that if she turns to wipe her eyes on her haunch, she’ll leave her other side open for Keelak’s attack, and she can’t risk it. With a taunlet’s mew of desperation, she blindly lumbers into the circle of her herd, begging for help. Pombo steps back uneasily, but then a warm body swings toward her, offering fur that no longer carries the scent of snow but still smells like home. Her old friend Tova. Murra gratefully rubs her face against the familiar flank until the saliva is gone, gives a purring nuzzle of appreciation, and spins to charge Keelak, snaking her head to avoid another wad of spit.

“Hey, now. What’s this? Murra, you’ve got more sense than that.”

Her favorite female rebel is there, ducking under the makeshift fence as if she’s completely forgotten she’s surrounded by an entire herd of huge, upset beasts, any of whom could easily snap her in half with one hard thwack of a tail. The rebel hurries up to Murra, who’s gone still at the sound of her name. There could be food involved.

“Keelak, cut that out. Ugh, what a smell. I swear, what is it that gets into you tauntauns? Lieutenant, put a halter on Keelak and put her in a private pen, would you? She looks like she wants to spit.”

The female rebel has her useless little paws up, and Murra snuffles at them, hoping for some hidden tidbit. She sighs to find them empty, but then they’re rubbing her long neck, scratching around her horns and ears. It’s calming, like a mother’s barbed tongue, and Murra’s earlier rage melts at the touch. Keelak is led away, and the tension breaks, the tauntaun herd milling around as if they’ve forgotten they nearly watched a fight to the death.

“Are you worried, big girl? Your daughter is out there with Luke. He’ll keep her safe. And she’ll keep him safe, won’t she? Riba is just like you. Strong. Capable. Careful.”

Murra lowers her head for more scratches. She doesn’t know what the language means, but there’s something pleasant about it, something comforting. Her name and her daughter’s name, murmured together like the wind’s song. She purrs, deep in her throat, and delicately rubs her head against the rebel’s fingers. The rebel leans in, head down, her voice soft, a secret just between them.

“Oh, Murra. Luke’s taking too long, and Han is leaving. Why can’t they both be in the same place at the same time, where I can keep an eye on them?” The rebel looks around at the other tauntauns and smiles. “I wonder if that’s how you feel when Arno and Boz are out. Like your taunlets are full-grown and you trust them, but you’d feel a lot better if you were personally watching over them?”