Page 3 of Inceptive (Ingenious #3)

3

WILL

T he tunnel sloped down, and the ponies picked up the pace toward the light at the end. The tunnel, a perfectly drilled arch through stone created to resist mold and cracks, smelled like pony dung and axel grease. Zach explained that when water trickled steadily from the entrance to the exit, a lookout would close the massive gate at the end of the tunnel. The rising water level from the heavy rain inside the basin would prevent the gate from being opened for about six months, imprisoning everyone. If the gate failed to close in time, the extra flooding down the tunnel would result in higher water levels that would submerge the basin’s walkways, cabins, and lower tiers of cave dwellings.

Once the gate closed, any crew arriving late would drown in the tunnel.

It was assumed construction was interrupted before a gate was built at the beginning of the tunnel.

The wagon emerged from the tunnel before the water had begun trickling. Zach paused and allowed Will a long look at the basin spreading out for ten miles. The muddy miles of fields smelled earthy and sweet, as if he’d crossed a veil into a fairyland.

His first impression was immensity—it was broader and longer than the Island Federation. Miles of stilted walkways zigzagged the front half of the basin. The back half was unfarmed swamp with a canopy of trees half the height of the wall.

His second impression was anger at the lavish squandering of land. Islanders could clear the swamp, build a dam and residential towers, and use their sophisticated agri-platforms to grow plenty of food for all.

Overwhelming both impressions was the stark truth that Fort Hope would never change their way of life to accommodate starving Islanders who’d destroyed the forests and fishing. Now he understood why returning servants reported cramped space inside the basin. Under the influence of the drugged vapor in the steam lodge, the servants’ memories had been manipulated. They’d been tricked into perceiving a shortage of farmland existed.

Those selfish squatters carried a three-hundred-year-old grudge. And yeah, initially the reasons were justified, but the succeeding generations didn’t deserve to pay for the mistakes of their ancestors.

Belle left her cage, took one look, and scampered back inside, cowering with wide eyes and flattened crest. She behaved as if she’d flown over the basin and had been chased by a pteryox.

Zach clicked the reins, and the ponies turned right and followed a paved stone road around the wall built by the sanctuary’s engineers. Winding narrow roads—barely more than ledges—and pully systems accessed the tiers of cave dwellings.

They passed cane cabins on stilts, built generations ago and improved with shingled roofs, window planters, and porches that led to walkways of cane poles on stilts. Will smelled baking bread and roasting meat. Farmers rocked on their porches and waved, curious about the one servant with Zach and, thankfully, clueless about Will’s identity and Zach’s foiled marriage.

Zach pointed out that the cane bulbs would sprout soon, and the stalks would rapidly grow twenty feet by harvest. Bread, friendly farmers, fragrant rain warmed by the sunlight—the front half of the basin was rather welcoming.

Will pitied the farmers with land bordering the shadowy, tangled swamp that looked like it housed unspeakable terrors. “What’s over the wall behind the swamp?” he asked.

“Used to be a blue lake before your people arrived. The past couple of centuries, no one has been able to walk around the rim and see the lake without being bombarded by insects or sliding off the scummy rim. And now the… uh… river eagles are territorial. They nest in the swamp caves and perch on the rim, searching for prey. Humans are safe if they work in pairs. We aren’t their prey, but they won’t turn down an easy meal.”

Okay, avoid the rim. Stay close to Zach. “How much cane is planted?”

“Every three feet apart, in triple rows, each side of a walkway. Once the heavy rain starts, a stalk grows a foot a day. Before they’re tall as trees, farmers chop the top half of the cane for clothing fiber, then slice off the yellow crowns and press them for sap. Cane sap is kind of like honey and stores well. Every part of the cane is useful. The bulbs taste like sweet turnips. The lower half of the cane hardens with age, doesn’t burn, and is used to build more walkways and furniture. My pa made furniture and cabinets and built my portable cane cabin.”

“Portable sounds flimsy.”

“The frame interlocks. Pa was a master craftsman.”

In the middle of the basin were dome-shaped tents on stilted platforms. Each platform had walkways that connected to a maze of other walkways.

“I rent those tents to farmers,” Zach boasted. “They’re safer than cabins and have room dividers and better insulation. Because the canvas is bug resistant and talons can’t slice it, farmers pay me a higher rent.”

“But… why are we living in a cabin… and not in a tent?”

“Fort Hope pays every farmer clearing swampland an allowance for living quarters. I dismantle my cabin and reassemble it on my next farm. I use the allowance to buy another tent and rent it to farmers choosing to live close to each other. That way, I collect rents and a portion of the crops.”

“Bartley charges a small fortune for those tents. How’d you pay for them without access to your trust fund?”

“I used to smuggle sacks of soil beneath the wagon bed and trade them.”

Soil was like proverbial gold. Bartley would have drooled. Will gave a mock gasp. “You chastise me for admitting I washed seed from my briefs, yet you’ve smuggled soil?”

“All farmers smuggle a sack of dirt, despite the council’s ban. Otherwise, they couldn’t afford the price of batteries on the Trading Post. When I was twenty, and my refusal to marry upset the mayor, Riley overheard that Mayor Astrid was personally searching my wagon for illegal soil. Sure did upset her when nothing was found. I owe Riley for the warning. It would’ve cost me everything. That’s why I couldn’t let him die. Not letting you die on my watch either,” he added softly.

Zach was honorable, with trustworthy brown eyes, a deep, rich drawl, and muscles. Will slammed the door on those thoughts. “How do you know which fields are yours?”

“All walkways from one-thirty to one-forty-three painted on the posts are mine. The farms closest to the swamp have the highest number. Heed what I say now. Red numbers mean you’re entering the danger zone, where you’re right by the swamp and without a neighbor nearby.”

“What’s the highest number?”

“One-forty-three is our farm.”

“And our color?”

“Painted it red before I left to meet Riley.”

Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuck. Screwed from ass to tonsils .

The ponies turned off the stone road onto a bumpy cane walkway. Straight ahead, still miles away, was the swamp.

Will gripped the edge of his seat, waiting for the walkway—barely wider than the wagon—to collapse from the weight of the wagon and ponies. “I don’t see any tents or cabins near this section.”

“Farmers and their crews prefer to live closer to the caves and walk extra miles to work the farms bordering the swamp. Clearing swampland is dangerous, and I’m the only farmer willing to take the risks. To own new land, a farmer must clear five swampy acres, then plow and plant cane. That’s why I move my cabin every year and how I’ve increased land votes. No one else risks clearing swampland. What’s important is that Riley and I have already cleared, plowed, and planted cane on my new farm, and a harvest isn’t necessary to claim new land votes. I just have to live on my farm.”

The wagon jolted as the ponies reared and brayed. Zach grasped the reins in one hand and swung his arm out to stop Will from pitching forward.

A pair of sleek furry bodies on the walkway were eating what looked like a snake that could swallow Belle whole. They snarled at the ponies for interrupting their still-writhing meal. The ponies pawed and brayed until the creatures dived off the walkway.

Will wheezed from Zach’s arm slamming his chest. “Wh-wh-what?”

“Those are slinks. Worthless eating. But they prey on eels, snakes, and rats. They don’t attack humans unless hunting in a pack of young males during mating season.”

Will pulled his arms and legs tight to his body, wincing as the ponies resumed their pace and the wheels bumped over the snake. “When’s mating season?”

“In a month. Slinks give birth during the peak of flooding, when fish gather to spawn in the cane. Kits learn to swim and hunt within a week. Never pet any cute stray kit. It’ll bite off your fingers while its siblings jump out and climb for your throat.”

The don’t list kept growing. “Got it. Never wander off alone. Stay near the cabin. Carry rope. Don’t pet. Anything else? Like always carry a spear?” And wear body armor.

“Walk tall. Never kneel and look under a walkway. Never reach into the water for something you’ve dropped.”

Will wasn’t leaving the cabin except to do laundry once a month.

They zigzagged until the walkway widened to form a turnaround for the wagon in front of the porch of a cane pole cabin on stilts. Tightly fitted poles formed the frame, and a gabled thatch roof overhung the wraparound porch. The porch held stacked tubs and a bench, and rain barrels lined the sides. The front window was shuttered with its awning rolled back, exposing a planter overflowing with vine pods. The pods were bioengineered on the Islands and were the first item that Fort Hope had opened trading rights to own. The thumb-sized pods contained an edible odorless oil with a high burn temperature. They were a staple in all kitchens and provided slick in bedrooms. Men bit off the end and squeezed the oil where needed. Students carried them and tapped their fingers against their pockets when looking for sex.

Miles of cleared fields with winding walkways separated the cabin from the nearest dwelling, which was well out of shouting distance. The closest neighbors were the swamp creatures.

“Here’s home until the tunnel reopens. Too late for regrets. Make the best of it.”

Will stared at the swamp. Oh, damn, when the cane grew, the lone cabin offered a free buffet to hungry predators. “Do slinks attack anyone on the porch?”

“Slinks avoid a human’s living quarters. Pissing off the porch and walkway warns them away.”

If Will survived, he was pissing on Elliston.

The ponies stopped and looked over their shoulders, pawing impatiently.

Belle emerged from her cage and stretched her wings before hopping on the porch. A chorus of insects silenced as she ran around, trilling her dominance. A triangle bell hung on the porch. She perched on it, swinging as if she owned the cabin.

Zach explained that ringing the triangle was a summons to eat and to scare away pests. “Use the metal rod attached to the triangle and ring a ling, ring a ling, ring a ling . The sound scares off critters.”

“ Ring a ling, ring a ling, ring a ling ,” Belle sang out.

“I say we hang her cage on the porch,” Zach drawled after five repeats.

“Forget it. If you lock her out of the cabin by barring the door, she’ll just screech until you let her inside.”

The ponies inched the wagon closer to the porch, then Zach removed their harnesses. “Go home, boys, thanks.” They trotted away, familiar with the routine and eager for months of rest in the town’s stable. “Marsh ponies have incredible stamina and night vision. They’ll stop briefly to feed at a rest station, then pick up the pace and arrive at their stable by tomorrow night.” Zach toted a hundred-pound sack of grain to the porch. “Don’t just sit there. Start unloading before dark.”

Will dragged a sack to the lowered rear of the wagon, threw all his muscle into lifting it, and fell back on the walkway with the sack sitting atop his chest, squishing the breath out of him.

Zach lifted it off with one arm around the sack and the other hauling Will to his feet as if both were featherlight. “We’ll work on building you some muscle while we’re cooped up.”

Will glared. First, he had to survive the next few months with barely enough food to live, much less to pack on extra muscle. He toted a light crate of batteries, thinking of wrestling Elliston for dominance in bed. He bet Elliston would hate his pretty boy muscled up. Oh, he’d still marry Will for political advantages but with less interest in sex.

The cabin was a single room with a smooth plank floor and adjustable, well-crafted shelves on the light brown cane walls. Zach had told him the cabin was constructed with an outer frame and an inner frame that interlocked when lined up and were tightened by rope at the corners. The walls were solid, letting in no light. A ladder led to a sleeping loft that was merely a wide shelf with a brown-checked curtain and upper shelves for storage.

A battery lantern hung from the rafter. Will turned it on, and the walls reflected a soft golden glow. They’d been treated with a special luminescent varnish—another secret product that wasn’t traded to Islanders.

Zach’s pa had crafted a remarkable portable cabin.

The stove had an oven and a large reservoir for heated water. A battery pack heated the stove, and a vent in the wall opened to release the cooking smoke. After days of the stove being turned off, the reservoir was cold.

It seemed Zach had mastered the art of unpacking and organizing over the years. He hung cured meats on wall hooks and stacked sacks of dried tomatoes, beans, grain, noodle packets, and meal in the corner nearest the stove. A half keg of oily nutrient gravy, an Island staple, was all Zach could afford to supplement the food. The gravy’s base was dead marine life washed ashore on the sandy side of the Island Federation. The food lab added vital metabolites and processed the gravy in vats until smooth. It was dished out in cups to the poor who were forced to live on two derelict cargo ships that had drifted to the Island. Farmers added it to enrich stews when food supplies ran low due to a longer rainy season.

“Is there enough gravy for an emergency?” Will asked, thinking there was enough for two large men, but Zach equaled three large men by himself.

“Honestly, no. Fish traps will have to supplement our supplies.”

Will’s dream of packing muscle vanished, replaced by an emaciated version of himself with a toothless grin, offering Elliston a blowjob. “Have farmers run out of food before?”

“Not in my time. If it should happen, our law allows farmers to play a game of chess, with the winner eating the loser without being convicted for murder.” Zach looked Will up and down. “I might get two days off your bones.” The smile in his eyes said this was a standard joke for all new servants.

“I play a mean game of chess.” He eyed Zach up and down. “I’d feast a week off your bones.”

While Zach dismantled the wagon frame and leaned the sections against the back of the cabin, Will hooked up the batteries and heated the reservoir and stovetop. There were no communal dining halls in the basin. No street vendors selling grain bowls, parfaits, and grilled skewers like he’d bought on the Trading Post. In fact, he’d never gone hungry a day in his life.

How odd, living without desalination tanks with purifiers and piped water at the turn of a faucet. Will lugged pails of water from a rain barrel to the stove’s reservoir. The stovetop was ceramic, and the oven had one rack with thermal stones to measure temperature. Baking was a science, so tonight was skillet bread.

Farmers seemed to love their beverages, and he found canisters of teas on shelves above the stove. He recognized sassafras, mint, spice, and citrus, but the rest were labeled with the complaints they treated—insomnia, fatigue, low spirits, sluggish bowels, loose bowels, ague, nerves, and fidget fever. What the fuck was fidget fever?

Will kneaded meal with the remaining buttermilk to make skillet bread, which wasn’t sliced bread but delicious drizzled with aged first batch sap—a treat seldom traded to Islanders. Zach had stored a barrel of it on the porch. If he’d brought that barrel to Bartley, he could have traded for a season of noodle packets and sausages.

While Zach finished unloading, Will brought the water in the kettle to boil for tea, greased a skillet with a vine pod, and started supper. He fried twelve pones to a golden crisp outside and soft crumb inside and stewed dried fish nuggets with seasoned greens.

Zach removed his boots, hung his rainwear on a peg, then warmed his hands over the stove and inhaled. “Smells good.” He unfolded a shelf to serve as a table and unhooked two chairs from wall pegs.

Zach stacked nine pones in a bowl and poured stew over it. Will would have to adjust the portions and cook for four people—and serve himself first. Damn . Belle just might be roasted before they escaped.

Belle perched on the table and begged for a chunk of pone from Zach’s heaped bowl.

Zach shooed her away. “No dipping your beak. Not after all the bugs and snails you’ve eaten. Damn, girl, you eat like you’re about to lay eggs.”

Her crest stiffened. Her faded tail feathers snapped tight.

Will offered her a chunk of his pone before she kicked Zach’s bowl into his lap. She nibbled the crust, pausing to say, “Love my Will. Hunt for my Will. Let hairy beast starve.”

Zach set his spoon down, and Will quickly said, “Be nice, my pretty bird, and I’ll give you a fish nugget.”

“Belle is pretty, yes.” She preened and accepted a nugget, then showed her range of warbles and whistles. In the middle of her tune, Belle’s whistle cracked. “Poop time,” she announced.

Zach covered his bowl and mug. “Are there leaves in her cage?”

“Oh, she’s trained to fertilize window planters.” Will opened the shutter, and she flew outside, scratching the dirt and vines aside. “Um… speaking of poop times, where’s the trapdoor?”

Zach pointed to a corner. “A shelf with a cut-out unfolds over the trap door. Lift the door’s handle, have a seat, and let the water flowing below carry away waste. Wipe your ass with cane leaves in the basket. The house rule is to never let the basket go empty.”

The shelf was in plain view. “Is there a fold-out screen or a curtain?”

Zach stared, amused. “It’s the one time I won’t watch out for you.”

Later, Will was shifting crates around to shield the corner before it was needed when Belle’s squawking frightened him. He rushed outside and found her rolling on the porch, her eyes wild. His eyes watered. “Phewwww! What did you wallow in, fish guts?”

Zach covered his nose. “She tangled with a spitting frog. Those little fellows can spray twenty feet. Nothing to do but roll her in mud, let it dry and soak up the odor, then rinse it off.”

The remaining dye flaked off with the dried mud, and the stink vanished after dunking her in a bucket and then rubbing her with a towel. She squalled the whole time. When done, Will carried her inside, where she quietly sulked until she peered back at her tail feathers, which were their natural greenish-gray and beige. She shrieked like a wife caught bare-assed in bed with another man.

He petted her plain feathers. “Hush, Belle. You’re still my pretty bird. Yes, you are.”

The cries intensified. “Ug-ly. Ug-ly. Ug—” Will shoved a seed bar in her mouth, her special favorite with nuts and chopped fruit. She cooed and carried it to the rafter.

Zach bristled as she pecked her seed bar. “You wasted credits on a seed bar instead of nutrient gravy to keep us alive!”

“She earned a good half of the tips you spent for supplies.” He sniffed his hands and pits, and he wrinkled his nose at the combination of toad and days of travel. “Um… I need to take a shower.”

“Wait until morning when the rain’s warmer.”

“No! We’re filthy and risk diseases.”

Zach shrugged. “I’m immune to diseases.”

“You stink.”

“All right. All right. But hurry up and grab a towel. The rain’s colder and harder at night.” Zach stripped at the door. “Soap dispensers and brushes are outside. Drop your clothes in the laundry barrel and let them soak.”

Will kept his eyes above Zach’s naked waist. When he’d lived at home, he’d enjoyed a private bathroom with piped water. The Trading Post had gravity showers by appointment, with curtains separating the stalls. A bouncer had protected Miss Glorianna’s privacy. “I’ll wait inside for my turn.”

“Pfft. We’re men. Unless you’ve got two dicks, there’s nothing I haven’t seen—scrawny, hairy, meaty, or saggy. We can’t see trouble with soap in our eyes, so we take turns watching while the other showers.”

Will leered. “Won’t it bother you knowing I prefer men?”

“You planning on fondling my man parts?”

“No!”

“Then what’s your problem?”

“What I meant was that keeping watch means I can’t help but notice your nudity, and I don’t want to offend you.” The real problem was sporting a boner. But next time, not now. Because now he was exhausted.

Zach dropped his clothes in the laundry barrel and held a lantern up, scanning the porch and walkway. “All clear. You hold the lantern while I wash first. Look for reflected eyes. Reflected eyes belong to heads with teeth, and I’m not immune to teeth.”

His back to the porch, Zach lathered up and rinsed off on the walkway.

Will spent a few moments ogling an ass sculpted to lick-worthy perfection before watching for reflected eyes. He hoped his boss scrubbed the stinky beard.

Zach finished within two minutes, swiped the towel over his body, and took the lantern. “Your turn. Hurry up. The rain’s like cold needles.”

Will stripped, dropped his clothes in the laundry barrel, then gritted his teeth and darted from the porch. A cold sheet of rain blinded his eyes and whooshed the breath out of him, or he’d have yelled his lungs out. It felt like teeth sinking into his flesh. But the sudsy soap smelled grassy and gently cleansed his face and his sensitive—and very shriveled—man parts. Farmers sure saved the quality stuff for themselves.

His teeth clacked by the time he dashed inside the cabin to dry off. His skin was blue and goose-bumped, his dick shrunken, and his hair was in wet strings.

The miserable cold lasted as long as a raw egg cracked over a hot skillet.

Holy Crapoly.

Zach had hung his towel to dry and was slicking his hair behind his ears, unconsciously striking a pose that emphasized his biceps and hairy armpits. The man had no modesty after spending years with work crews in a one-room cabin.

Will’s gaze dipped lower. Oh, sweet heavenly chimes. Zach wasn’t nicknamed Treetop for having a twig between his legs. His body was a triumph of masculinity, with defined abs and a vee to the groin. Will dripped on the floor, the towel covering his groin.

“You need meat on your frame, Will. No farmer would have bid on you during the auction.” Zach’s flat words jolted him. Will didn’t realize how closely he was being observed in return… except with… disappointment? “You got nice shoulders. There’s work in them if you practice chin-ups on the rafter. But the rest… scrawny.” With that, Zach slid a striped nightshirt over his head, and the material clung to his damp skin.

Will pulled his nightshirt over his head. It hung loosely. “Do farmers feel up servants on the auction block?”

“Sure. Desperate men often bulk up with clothes to get a higher bid. My harvests break records because I pay high bids for the strongest and most experienced servants.”

“Would I have fetched any bid?” Will was curious.

“You would’ve been laughed off the auction block.” His voice softened. “I’m glad you didn’t laugh at my bid. I wouldn’t be here without you.” He hooked a ladder over the side of the loft. “I’ll shake out the mattress in the loft while you brew us a pot of tea.”

“Which blend?” Will asked.

“Night tea. Served straight.”

Belle perched on the rafter with her eyes beaded on Zach. Her crest stiffened as he walked beneath her. She’d waited for this moment after Zach had yelled at Will for giving her a seed bar. Will recognized the lump in her throat and cried, “Noooooo—bad Belle!”

Too late. She spat a wad of soggy seeds at Zach’s head, and he roared, believing she’d pooped on him.

“Hee. Hee. Hee.” She flew circles around Zach’s head, easily avoiding his swats.

Will sat atop a rain barrel and watched the show that had played nightly on gullible newcomers to the saloon. Belle would sleep through the night from the exercise, and Zach would learn the futility of chasing her. You couldn’t catch her. You bribed her with praise and treats.

Zach stopped swatting at her with his hands and chased her with a long-handled paddle. Belle lit on the floor and ran circles and figure eights around his legs. Her x-shaped feet sped faster than a pony.

Zach’s swats banged his shins instead of Belle, and his frustrated shouting escalated. “I will catch you. I will pluck you. I will serve you roasted on a platter.”

“Hee-hee- heeeee !”

When Zach’s next swing grazed her tail, Belle soared to the ceiling. Game over, she spread her feet and lifted her tail feathers.

Oh fuck. She could aim poop like a spitting frog. “Zach, stop swinging. Those were seeds she spat at your head, not—” Will oooofffed as the paddle swung back and knocked him off the barrel.

Both Zach and Belle froze as Will lay sprawled on his back with the breath knocked out of him.

Will relaxed his shoulders and chest and took deep even breaths. “No. More. Fighting.”

Zach dropped the paddle. “Yes, Will,” he meekly said.

“I kissie, kissie, my Will. Make better,” Belle offered in a tiny voice.

“In your cage,” he bit out.

She flew inside and closed the door with her beak. She folded her long orange legs and tucked her head beneath her wing.

Zach offered him a hand up. “Can you walk?”

Will tested a few steps, rubbed his ass, and rolled his shoulders. “Just the breath knocked out of me. Belle spat seeds in your hair. Bend down, and I’ll clean them off.” He wiped, noting how soft Zach’s hair was after being washed. “All gone.”

Zach inspected the towel as if doubting the glob was seeds.

Will snickered. “We earned lots of tips for her stunt, especially from men who’d seen it. They’d tipped extra for her to play jokes on their unsuspecting friends.”

“Not funny,” Zach mumbled.

“You can apologize for knocking me down by brewing a pot of night tea while I check out my loft. We’ll get a good night’s sleep and start fresh tomorrow. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Will stored his satchel, flute, and clothes on the shelves in the loft. The sheet and heavy blankets were good quality. The mattress was Island-made, firm and adjusting to weight. He had to stoop, or his head brushed the unglazed underside of the thatch roof—a great haven for bugs. He wished he hadn’t sent Belle inside her cage.

He joined Zach by the stove and stirred a bit of sap into the night tea. The aroma reminded him of the orchids and orange blossoms in the botanical museum. Zach had pulled two beautifully carved rocking chairs close to the stove. Braided rugs prevented the water flowing beneath the shack from chilling bare feet.

Will sipped the tea. “This is delicious. I’ve never tasted this blend.”

“Not traded. We reserve the high-grade tea for farmers.” Zach stretched out his legs and heaved a sigh. “Belle deserved the seed bar. I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” A beetle with wicked pincers scuttled under the stove. “Hey, Belle,” he called out. “Are you hungry for a crawlie?”

Her head popped through the cage door. “Hunt crawlies for my Will, yes?” She cocked her head, heard the skitter, then flushed the beetle from under the stove and gobbled it. She circled the room, listening for movement and inspecting the loft. “All gone.” Having made her Will happy, she settled back inside the cage.

Zach refilled their mugs. “Maybe you should have splurged on two seed bars.”

Will hid a smile. He’d bought four to bribe his pet.

After a lifetime surrounded by voices, humming machinery, the sound of ocean waves drifting through his balcony, and salty breezes everywhere, the silence unnerved him.

“What’s next for us?” Will’s voice slurred with fatigue.

“Cooking and cleaning up after ourselves. Sitting on the porch and watching the rain. Gathering driftwood and whittling pegs to trade in the shops. Playing checkers or chess.” Zach cleared his throat. “Carry a lantern when nature calls. Just be quick and quiet.”

A giggle slipped out. “Lantern in one hand, pissing dick in the other. Got it.”

Zach’s cheeks reddened.

Why the red face? They’d covered pissing. Oh. Oh! That call. “What was that euphemism for needing privacy on the porch?”

“What is a eupha …?”

“A nice way of announcing gotta jack off before my nuts strangle .”

“Oh. Going fishing .”

Yeah, right. His fuzzy mind remembered Zach had mentioned that at the rest station. Will imagined the slap of flesh and the cough of a climax when Zach caught a whopping big tuna. Will’s eyelids drooped, and his head buzzed like a flying beetle had crawled inside his ear. “I’m not ashamed to admit that I go fishing every night and morning.”

Zach frowned. “That often will weaken your mind and drain the vigor from your body. You’ll run out of bait before you’re forty.”

“Bait? Like in imagination or seed?”

“Seed. A man’s nature builds seed. When a man’s balls are swollen with seed, he rubs off to relieve the pressure. Swelling interferes with work. As does rubbing off strictly for pleasure.”

“I don’t think I heard right. You only rub off when your balls ache, not because it feels good?”

“Of course it feels good to rub off. Which is why men must not pursue pleasure. When the ache interferes with work, men seek relief. Frequent release is unhealthy and?—”

“—and drains a man’s bait before he’s forty.” Unable to find words to argue this ridiculous belief without rolling on his ass laughing, Will finished a third mug. “What do you think about when you rub off? Is there someone curvy with hair to her waist that you’ve secretly pined for?”

“Men don’t discuss their secret thoughts.”

“Riley talked to you.”

“He bragged about his encounter with a prostitute last year. And it led to him fishing often, slacking off on chores, seeking another encounter that got him assaulted, and us locked in this cabin with a talking bird. So don’t tell me pleasure is worth the price.”

“Aw, come on, confess his bragging got you hard, and you’re curious about a sweetheart.”

“I’ve never had time for a sweetheart.”

Will giggled. “My classmates called going fishing whittling wood . You have plenty to whittle. Probably takes a month to fill your balls.” He tilted on his seat. “Why’s the room spinning?”

Zach set aside their mugs. “You’ve got no head for night tea with aged sap. One’s your limit.”

“But I like head.” He wished he had some head. His thoughts drifted to a clumsy blowjob in the janitor’s closet with a fellow flutist. It was his last thought before falling asleep.