Page 16 of Pulled By the Tail
The wrought-iron frame of the conservatory had badly rusted and needed to be replaced. For one harrowing day, the entire structure swayed in the wind and Talen thought it would collapse. Fortunately, the glass panes added necessary stability and they avoided disaster.
They used the same material for the windows in the library. Talen packed away the contents and sent them away to be restored, if possible. His gut told him that most of the books were beyond saving, but he let the professionals make that call. Every single book went, no matter how swollen with water or chewed by vermin.
Talen sold the ship. Paying for docking fees at a station seemed ludicrous; it was better to sell and sink that money into the house. Surprisingly, he didn’t miss the ship. He missed the noise of the engines and the rattle of the air vents, but he didn’t miss stooping for the low doorways, squeezing into the tiny cleansing stalls, or rationing water. He had lived in the ship since leaving the Navy, but it wasn’t his home.
Quil, Bright, and even Charl were his home.
He had not lived on a planet for years.
After the first week, he felt the itch to leave. As a kit, they never stayed in one location for long, always one step ahead of those who might want to do them harm. As time passed, when they had not been murdered in their bed, the sense of urgency faded but they still continued the pattern of never staying in one place for long. He had never questioned that urge before.
Quil had arrived at the need for a planetside house in a roundabout way, but he had been correct. The house was what their little family needed. Talen found he took an inordinate amount of pride in making the building habitable for his family. Under an inch-thick layer of dirt in the foyer, he discovered a mosaic floor with dark navy stars embedded in a creamy field, which reflected the vaulted ceiling of navy with painted gold stars. He enjoyed uncovering the house’s secret treasures.
The roof, though, was a special kind of hell. Badly damaged, little could be salvaged of the traditional slate tiles. Whole sections of the roof had rotted away. If Talen did not step carefully, he could put a foot through it. Steeply pitched, the roof required athleticism and an unfailing sense of balance. Morning dew made the tiles slippery and treacherous but after a day of soaking up the heat of the sun, the tiles were hotter than a supernova.
Talen mopped his brow with a cloth. The summer sun beat down and the roof offered no shade. “I hate this roof.”
“You’ll like not having the rain on your head,” Charl replied.
They had been lucky with a lack of summer storms, but their luck could not hold. One day, a storm would roll over the horizon, steal the sun for days, and bring down a fury of hail and cold rain. Talen and Charl worked day in and day out on the massive structure. The project would have been finished by now if the roof had a uniform design. Each section was unique, and each gable had its own measurements. Each new area required measuring and custom cutting tiles to fit.
“If we were smart, we could have just put on a flat roof and be down with it,” Talen muttered.
Charl sat down next to Talen and handed him a cold bottle of water. “I remember someone insisting on traditional aesthetics.”
“That someone was an idiot,” Talen said.
“That was you, yes?”
Talen growled, ignoring his friend. Charl chuckled into his bottle. He had insisted on replicating the original roof out of a misguided idea that if they were going to do something, they would do it properly. He had been so naive then, unaware of how much a complete pain-in-the-ass working with the tile would be.
“Next roof,” he said, “is tar paper.”
“This roof will last a hundred years, so I don’t think it’ll be your problem,” Charl said.
“So practical. I knew there was a reason I liked you.” Talen stretched out on the roof, letting the heat of the tiles soak into his tired muscles. That morning, Quil had left on a supply run while they used the last of the boxes of tiles. Talen and Charl had done as much as they could until Quil returned. He should climb down, clean up, and see if Bright needed any assistance, but his bones did not want to move.
His stomach decided for him and rumbled.
After stowing away the tools, he took a frigid shower and followed an enticing aroma into the kitchen. Bright set a plate of sautéed vegetables in a creamy yogurt sauce over rice in front of him. The meal was too heavy for the summer heat, but Talen scraped his plate clean, using thick slices of bread to gather up the last bits of sauce.
“Don’t eat too much. You’ll make yourself ill in this heat, Talent,” Bright cautioned.
“Yeah, Talent,” Charl added, barely pausing as he shoveled food in his maw.
“What about Charl? He ate twice as much,” Talen complained in a masculine and not childish at all tone.
“If I get sick, I’ll just use my other stomach.”
“You’re making that up.”
Charl shrugged, his massive shoulders heaving. “Am I?”
“How many stomachs do you have then?” Talen challenged. Charl forever made outlandish claims about his innate Gyer abilities. True, the male had remarkable hand-eye coordination. He’d need to with four hands, but a fair majority of the boasting was just a male stroking his own ego.
“Three. One for everyday consumption, one for toxins and poisons, and another for dessert.”
See? He couldn’t expect Talen to take him seriously.
