2
EIGHT YEARS AGO
MEGAN
T he stack of baskets in my arms wobbles precariously. I chew on my lip, studying how I can
possibly carry so much weight in my arms. Josie grabbed the furs, and is trotting the entire
unwieldy pile from the storage area over to Hemalo’s cave, just as requested. Me, I got stuck with the dye roots, and while it looked like an easy task, I’m quickly realizing I don’t have enough hands to carry all of this. My face burns and I fight a ripple of anxiety. Everyone’s watching us work, which makes me feel as if I’m on a stage and I’m being judged. Humans are thought of as puny and overly weak, and I’m constantly worried that those of us that aren’t pulling our weight are going to be culled from the tribe. That I’m going to somehow be seen as lacking and driven back out into the snow.
No one’s said anything like that at all, but I can’t help but think it.
After all, we’re strangers here. It doesn’t matter that we’ve been here for weeks now, or that Georgie mated with their chief. It doesn’t matter that Liz, Nora, Stacy, Ariana and Marlene all resonated immediately and were welcomed into the tribe. The sa-khui people are super nice but their tribe was dying out.
It’s very obvious that we’re wanted for the fact that we’re female and we can have babies.
And it feels like a ticking time bomb over the heads of those of us that haven’t resonated. It feels painfully obvious in so many ways. So some of us—Josie and myself in particular—do our best to be helpful. We volunteer for shitty chores, work long hours on scraping furs and helping with food, and we never say “no” to anything that’s asked of us.
We’re guests here. As long as we’re not mated to anyone, that’s all we are. Guests.
A guest can quickly overstay their welcome. I think about that all the time, and it makes me fling the baskets of roots on top of one another quickly, determined to carry them all. I know Farli could absolutely carry them, and she’s just a kid. I don’t want to be seen as more worthless than a child, so I need to suck it up.
I pick up the stack of baskets, and they immediately slide out of my arms and tumble to the ground, scattering their contents.
The cave goes silent, and it feels like everyone is staring at me.
Hot tears prick at the backs of my eyes and I freeze in place. Oh god. I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked up I’ve fucked up I’ve fucked up and I can see all the roots mixing with each other and they’re on the floor and someone’s going to get mad and yell at me and—
“Here. Let me help with that.” The voice is thickly accented, but kind, and one of the alien men crouches next to the mess I’ve made at the entrance to the storage cave. He picks up the roots with quick, easy motions, as if this is no big deal.
I look around the cave, and no one’s looking in our direction anymore. No one’s yelling. No one’s mad.
My body shuddering, I drop to a crouch and start to scoop up roots, as well. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I’m sorry. I just…”
“You have puny arms. I know.” The alien man chuckles.
I stop, staring at him in shock.
He glances up at me, a teasing sparkle in his strange, glowing blue eyes. The grin on his face is lighthearted and it’s clear he’s just playing around. I let out a tense breath and relax, just a little. “What, you mean this isn’t how you dye the cave floor?”
“It’s not,” he agrees, grinning. His teeth are bright white, his smile ready. “Besides, if you mix all these colors together, it does not come out like a rainbow.”
“Oh no?”
“It comes out the color of dung,” he says, tossing them haphazardly into baskets, regardless of where they go. “When I was a kit, I wanted to dye my insides. You can guess the results.”
I chuckle at that. “A raging case of food poisoning?”
“That, and the most disappointing dye project ever.” He makes a sad face and I can’t help but giggle again.
His smile grows. “You are Meh-gan, yes?”
I nod, feeling frozen once more. He’s flirting with me, and normally I’d flirt back and tease. But relationships are different here. There aren’t casual hookups. There aren’t bars to hit on strangers or dance floors to dance your cares away in the arms of a one-night stand. There’s just a cave that we all live in and a cootie that makes all the decisions, and so I feel like I can’t flirt with this man. I just can’t.
But he’s being so nice.
“It’s actually pronounced Meh- g an,” I correct, emphasizing the hard “g” in the middle that no one ever gets right. Then I immediately feel like an asshole, because why am I correcting him? He learned my language. I’m just the stinking guest. He belongs here. I don’t. I’m horrified at my own rudeness, and his expectant look just makes me feel worse. “Um, wh-what did you say your name was again?”
Is that a flicker of disappointment on his face? “I am Cashol.”
I feel like such an ass. “Cashol,” I repeat, even though I’m sure he’s told me his name at least twice. “It’s… a lot to learn. I’m sorry. I’m bad with names.”
“You only need to learn mine,” he says confidently.
I fight the urge to roll my eyes, but I smile at him as he takes the baskets in his arms, as if it was his choice to help me all along. I don’t mind the flirting if he helps me not look so pathetic in front of the rest of the tribe. I steal a few glances at him as he helps me stack a few of the baskets into my arms properly, and I assess his looks. He’s not the best looking of the barbarians. In fact…he might be the ugliest? Which is unfair, because they’re all ridiculously attractive by human standards. They all have fantastic bone structure and strong features, but Cashol also has a big nose that dominates his long face, and a slightly goofy smile that always seems to crease his cheeks. He’s appealing, yes, but he’s not handsome. His black hair is thick and full, but it’s tied back in a messy braid, as if he doesn’t give a shit about what he looks like.
He’s not my type, I decide. Even if I wanted to flirt, I usually go for pretty men. Somber men. Intense men.
Poets and musicians and emo boys who feel the world has failed them. I’m drawn to the drama. But Cashol is nice, and friendly, so I smile at him and thank him for his help.
“If you need anything else, let me know,” he says, lingering after he deposits the baskets. Josie’s busy leaning over Hemalo’s shoulder, trying to learn, so she doesn’t notice that Cashol is still here and flirting with me in that awkward, sa-khui way. “I can lift things all day and spare those puny arms.”
I arch an eyebrow at him. “Did you ever think that maybe telling me I have puny arms won’t get you very far?”
He grins, looking like an utter devil. “No.”
I snort with amusement despite myself. His teasing is a nice respite from the constant feeling of uncertainty that’s been accompanying me lately.
Cashol keeps standing there, and he rubs his chest. Immediately, my good humor vanishes. Of course he’s hoping for resonance, hoping that his khui will light up and start purring now that I’m standing next to him.
Inwardly, I cringe even as I keep smiling. Because just that little movement is enough to remind me that I’m valued for my womb above everything else. It’s not about Megan. It’s about Megan’s ability to carry a baby. My safety here depends on me being fertile, and it’s utterly terrifying and hurts at the same time.
Back on Earth, I was pregnant. Newly discovered, and newly excited. Sure, I’d be a single mom, but I’d take this on with enthusiasm and I’d love the hell out of my baby so much that it wouldn’t matter that there was no dad in the picture. But then the aliens kidnapped me and decided that I’d be more valuable without an occupied womb, and they got rid of my baby like it was nothing.
I still feel as if I’m processing that grief, even as I worry if I’ll be able to carry another. I haven’t resonated.
What if…what if something’s wrong with me? What if I never resonate?
Will they still take care of me, these aliens? Will they still share their food and blankets? Look at me with smiles? Or will I be a problem? A burden?
I need answers.
