Page 174 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Endzoh

M y Carrie draws three big circles on the wall, some distance apart from each other. On the first, she draws two little figures. On the second, a single figure with a tail, holding a spear. She points to the first circle and then to herself. Points to the second and then points to me.

These circles are our worlds then, the home she has come from, and Lina’s forests. I nod my understanding, shuffling closer as I settle in to watch, to learn what it is she is trying to tell me.

It is difficult to focus on the lines she creates on the wall, though.

My headspace still buzzes with the memory of her skin against mine.

The taste of her flesh against my tongue.

My cock is as hard as rocks in my leathers still, despite the constant reminder of her sadness that is the damp patch at my chest.

It is strange, the mixture of feelings her tears inspire in my heartspace.

There is the gladness I expressed to my Carrie - the gratitude I feel that she is comfortable to show me her sadness.

That she trusts me to comfort her and respect her feelings.

And there is a flush of heat that comes with that trust, the burn of desire.

It is the trust, not the tears, but I am not sure it would be easy to convey that to my Carrie if she noticed the bulge in my leathers, so I shift how I am sitting, try to shield it, to will it to deflate.

Then there is the rage that she has cause to feel sad.

I do not wish for my female to carry hurts in her heartspace, and if they were physical things I could destroy, then I would.

But I have listened to my brothers talk of their linashas’ hurts.

I know that there is probably little I can do to help my Carrie with hers.

It is why I have asked her if there is something I can do, for I would do anything. Willingly. Every day, if required.

But I must be patient. Let her draw out the things she wishes to show me. If I cannot yet understand how these circle worlds relate to her unhappiness, I am sure it will become clear in time.

Next, my Carrie draws an arrow from her home world to the third circle that has no figures on, then rubs out one of the two figures, redrawing it on the third circle. She points to the figure and points to herself once again.

Her people have travelled across the stars, I know that. And their strange, egg-shaped vessel crashed here in Lina’s forests. But perhaps it was not supposed to, perhaps it was another world they travelled to.

I come closer to her drawings, sitting beside her, squinting at the pictures.

“ You…go…here? ” I say, drawing on all my knowledge of the human tongue as I point from her world to the one her image now stands on.

My Carrie nods, then draws a little hut, and some trees with fruits, and some plants growing in the ground beside it.

Above the world, she draws those fruits and plants again, circling them, then drawing an arrow back to her home.

Next, she circles the other figure, drawing an arrow over to the third world.

Using her fingers, she repeats the movements.

Fruits and foods back to her home world. A person from her home world to the new one.

“A trade,” I say, understanding starting to creep into my headspace.

My Carrie gives me a confused little shrug.

I look round the space, then reach for the knife on my belt.

I point to her, then to the knife, then point to myself and to her chalks.

I hold the knife out on one hand, holding my other hand out empty.

Carrie hesitates a moment, then takes the knife and hands me the chalks.

“Trade,” I repeat, then point to the foods and to the figure. “Trade.”

My Carrie nods. I hand her back her chalks, taking my knife from her and slotting it back into my belt.

Using her fingers, she smudges out the lines showing the trade, going back to the line that shows her moving from her home world to the new one, smudging most of that one out, also.

Where the line passes over my world, she draws a new path - angling the arrow downwards so it comes to my world.

Then she draws herself again, standing next to the raskarran figure.

She points to herself, points to the figure left on her world, then shakes her head.

Her message is as clear as any she could have spoken with words.

There is no trade she can make to bring this person to her anymore.

Lina’s forests are abundant in their gifts, but we have no means of travelling across the stars to her home.

Even if we gathered the necessary supplies, we could not send them, and we could not bring whoever it is back to her.

My heartspace pinches. Sadness for her, discomfort that her being here in these trees - here with me - causes her pain. But mostly with an anxious need to know who this person is that she wants to have with her. Family? A friend? A mate?

I point to the figure left behind, because I have to know.

“Who?” I say, and I do not know the human word for it.

I think my Carrie understands what I am asking, for when she frowns it is not in confusion, but in thought.

She turns to the wall, drawing out the figure on her homeworld a little bigger, this time with a youngling cradled in its arms. My heartspace hammers, and I wonder if she has left not only a mate, but younglings behind.

What cruelties on her world would force a female to leave their family, then grow foods to trade to get them back?

But then she points to the youngling and points to herself. I see her taking sips of air as she so often does when trying to force a word out, so I point to the figure holding the youngling.

“ Mama? ” I use the word Jassal uses for her mother. Not a raskarran word. I hope it is a human one.

My Carrie nods, then, with great effort, she points to the figure and says, “My.”

I survey the markings on the wall, the explanation for her heartspace’s hurts. She wished to trade to bring her mother to join her, but now she never can. She can never see her again.

It is a powerful hurt, losing a parent before their time.

I reach for one of her chalks, taking it from her.

Shuffling down to a clear patch of wall, I raise the chalk and start to draw.

I have none of her skill or expressiveness, but I scratch the shape of a youngling onto the stone, giving it a grumpy slash of a mouth so that she knows it is me.

When I point to the picture and point to myself, she gives a small laugh, and my heartspace thunders at the sound.

I draw the shapes of two grown raskarrans, then a third that is bent over, stooped. An exaggerated impression of an elder.

“My mama ,” I say, pointing to the first. “My father.”

I point to the elder, then back to my father. “Father.” Between my father and myself. “Father.”

My Carrie nods her understanding. I set the chalk down, then place my palm against the stone. With a heartspace much heavier than it has felt in many seasons, I wipe my palm over the impression of my parents, smudging them away. Then I point to the elder, my grandfather.

“Father,” I say. “And mama.”

I feel a brush of heat against my hand and look down in time to see her wrap her little fingers between mine.

It is only a small touch, one she has given me before.

But this time it feels far more intimate than a touching of hands ought to.

Because of the memory I now have of the taste of her skin?

Or because of these sadnesses we share with each other on the drawing wall?

I lift our hands, studying the way her fingers interlink with mine.

So much smaller, so much more delicate, and yet I take so much strength from her touch.

My Carrie gestures to her mother, then rubs away the chalk markings that are her eyes.

She raises a hand to her face, covering her own eyes, then shakes her head.

I nod my understanding. Blindness is an affliction that some of our elders suffer from.

Some of our younglings, also, though it is very rare for one of Lina’s forests to be born without their sight.

I do not know of anyone personally, but then there are not so many of us as there once were.

My Carrie has similar numbers of seasons to me, and I assume her mother would be of a similar number to mine, if mine had yet lived.

Close in age to Harton - no longer young, but not yet an elder.

I wonder if it was an accident that stole her sight, or if it is some affliction caused by the hard world my Carrie lived in.

Either way, I understand more why the loss of a chance to see her mother again pains her so.

Her mother would have relied on my Carrie’s aid. She cannot be there to help her now.

There is no comfort I can offer her for this.

Nothing I can say or do that will make the hurt of it go away.

It is something that she will always carry - as my brothers and I have carried our own losses.

The weight of them lessens over time, or our shoulders simply grow stronger for bearing them.

But that is a long path to walk. The best I can do is make everything else easier, so the only burden she has to bear is this one.