Stay Ugly, Grow Old

Fiction - by K. A. Rochnik

The Chilla people are descended from the chillan, a fierce clawed omnivore covered in protective bristly fur. As our ancestors, we honor them; as our vicious modern day cousins, we sometimes kill them.

A female chillan spends the first part of its life in a state of rapacious hunger, an all-consuming hunt for sustenance. It views anything it can kill as food.

Once grown, some female chillan molt their forelegs' bristly fur and sharp claws. Thus begins a period of potential fertility called the q'uiescen.

Natti put down the quill, careful not to smudge the paper. She rubbed her downy hands together, marveling at the smooth silky texture. And the sheen, glistening like silver in the muted light of her den. She'd never known how fine-boned her wrists were. How long and delicate her fingers, ending in soft oval stubs with only a remnant of claw at the tips.

Then she scowled, braiding her fingers together in her lap. Useless hands. Although, easier to write. No wonder most women didn't. Her handwriting had definitely improved since her claws had fallen out.

She closed her eyes, stomach pinching from worry. When would the q'uiescen end, and her fur and claws return? It had been more than a fortnight. She hadn't been able to find any definitive answers in her admittedly meager library.

Two years ago, her sister Elan had gone from q'uiescen to complete molt—fertility—in a matter of days. She'd visited Elan once several months later. Although heavily pregnant, her sister had been impossibly sleek, her golden pelt nearly translucent. Stunningly beautiful. Seemingly happy. And ready to die.

Her eyes popped open at the bleating of her caprine in their aboveground pen. She scrambled for her gloves, panicking that she'd put them down across the room—no, they were on her desk. She jammed them on.

"Nattiiieeee!" Her name stretched out in a familiar sing song. Her heart fluttered once more, then calmed. Lonara. Not that Lon could ever know about her q'uiescen, but at least she was a friend. Sort of. The one who came closest since Elan.

Natti rose from her desk, her fake claws limp at the ends of her gloved fingers. But so far no one had noticed and why would they? Had any Chilla woman tried to disguise the q'uiescen before? If any had, she'd never heard.

Church law, the only law, was clear. Q'uiescen women must go to the manors to find out if their destiny was to be a mother.

"Come in, Lon." The older woman was already bounding down the short flight of stairs into Natti's den. Lon stopped short, lively eyes a shade darker than her tangled gray-streaked pelt. Her build had deepened with age, and Natti couldn't see her musculature underneath her fur, but she fairly rippled with strength and energy. Typical for an elder. A hunter. Lon had never suffered through q'uiescen. There'd never been a question about her destiny. Natti got a sour taste in her mouth, even as she friendly-flashed teeth.

Lon's teeth flashed back, then she mock-grimaced. "Twinn'd tarnation! Smells like goat even down here!" And waved her hands (generously furred and sharp-clawed) in front of her face. Natti winced. In addition to her own fur and fallen-out claws, she'd used caprine skin to make her gloves. Lucky she worked with the musky little beasts, so had an excuse why she smelled like them.

Lon clapped her on the back, then peered with interest at her desk, where ink gleamed on the paper. Under her fur, Natti's skin got hot. She flipped the paper over. "It's only a letter to Lord Alaron. He's interested in my breeding program for dairy caprine."

Lon didn't usually give her a hard time about her writing habit. Others did. Everyone was taught to read and write during childhood but hardly any women kept it up after moving out to the hunters' boroughs. The sight of paper and quill made them uneasy, as if Natti was shirking her hunter duties for an effete hobby suited to men.

Lon smacked her bristly lips. "Your sweetmilk is wonderful. We could never get it so fresh from the manors."

Natti's chest swelled. "Despite having dozens more caprine than I, he hasn't managed to breed one such as my Pala." Pala—a gnarly little beast with knock knees and a single twisted horn on her forehead. To say she was grumpy was generous, but her milk came out apple-flavored and thick as cream. Add some ground up spicenuts and the result was sublime. Lord Alaron wondered if the nutrient content was also unusually high. He wanted to send one of his eunuchs to fetch a sample.

Lon grew serious, her claw winding the beaded necklace hanging from her thick neck. The amber beads signified an elder on the church council, a position of great prestige. "Speaking of—some have complained to the council about your herd, saying they may be attracting chillan into our territory."

Natti frowned. "I've had my herd for three years. Why now?"

Lon shrugged. "Winter went long this year. The chillan are competing like mad for food in the moorlands. Getting bolder. We've evidence of encroachment and some sightings as well." At Natti's glare, she raised a hand. "I'm not saying it's because of your herd. Problem is, our borough abuts the spoke road leading to the manors. It makes the council extremely nervous to imagine . . ." She peeled back her lips.

Natti sputtered. "That—that's ridiculous—" Then stopped altogether at the horrifying image of the carnage even a single chillan could wreak on a manor with vulnerable men and children. Not to mention the ovine and caprine herds and food crops there. But even the hungriest crazed chillan couldn't penetrate the hunters' multiple defenses—patrols, traps and the thick-grown thorn hedges ringing the manors themselves. "Would the council really make me give up my caprine?"

Lon gleamed sympathetically. "Nothing's been decided. There's some who say raising captive beasts is for men, not hunters. On the other hand, there's no one who doesn't love your fresh sweetmilk. Though it would be helpful if you yourself were a bit more—well, popular. If you went on more hunts and made some other friends besides—" She patted her tough tangled hide. "—this old graypelt." She flashed her teeth to take away the sting of her words.

Natti sagged, wrapping her useless hands around her chest. She was proud of her fellow women—strong, boisterous, clever—but she'd never felt a part of them. Did that mean she was destined to be a mother instead? She blinked hard. Why'd it have to be one or the other?

Even Lon would say such a wish was nigh apostasy. Church law and Chilla tradition was clear—women were hunters or they were mothers.

She drew a deep steadying breath. First she had to make it through q'uiescen. Stay ugly, grow old, and the rest will work itself out.

She unwrapped herself and forced a toothy grin. "The spring boar hunt's in a fortnight. I'll be there." Her stomach twisted to think of hunting with her gloves, how anxious she'd be that they'd slip and someone would see—gah. It was a whole fortnight before the hunt. There was a chance, wasn't there, that her fur and claws would return?

Lon sniffed the air again, her twinkly good humor rushing back. "And the boar won't know you're coming for all that goat stink on you!"

Vulnerable without its foreclaws, the q'uiescen female retreats into a vast network of burrows dug by male chillan. There it waits for one of two outcomes. In one, it regrows its bristles and claws, then returns aboveground to resume its former existence.

In the other, it reaches fertility, molting completely, losing all the protective bristles that cover its body, revealing a soft smooth vulnerable pelt beneath. Upon meeting a fertile male, mating occurs. It is unknown why some females achieve fertility and some return to their infertile state.

What we do know, all too well, is that the cost of reproduction is high. After birthing a quadruplet or more of offspring, it uses up the last of its essential energy providing sustenance to its young.

It should be noted that female chillan are q'uiescen only once in their lives.

The male chillan, a gentler creature, raises the babies.

Natti hid by the massive tangled roots of a hardwood tree at the meadow's edge. The moorlands stretched around her and the other hunters in all directions. Every sense soared and threatened to overwhelm. She concentrated on the most important—the smells. Rich dank soil, fresh floral vegetation mixed with dying rotten ones, and a myriad of creatures big and small, harmless and not. A hunter had to be discerning. She parsed the scent threads until she found the pair of boar grazing the middle of the meadow. She couldn't see them through the tall grasses but their odor, acrid and tantalizing, tingled her nose. Three younger women in their first season as hunters—hungries they were called for their bloodlust—crouched behind her. Lon had been both surprised and pleased when Natti volunteered to lead, not knowing it behooved her to be with women so eager to kill, they wouldn't notice if her hands slipped off to reveal, well, her hands.

Natti whispered, "There's boar in the meadow. I've scented two of them."

The women clutched their knives and spears while breathing heavily, the long whiskers on their faces quivering.

One of them—Dariane—whispered back. "Me too. Let's take them. You said you'd herd for us." Her eyes shone. As did Kara's and Fria's. Natti had promised to let them make the kill.

"You kill one." Natti said firmly. "Not both. And yes, I'll circle around and come at them from the opposite side. You know the plan. Concentrate on getting one or you'll be disappointed."

Kara hissed, "We'll not be disappointed."

Natti wouldn't either, so long as they didn't question why she wasn't using her hands. She swallowed the bile in her mouth and told herself what she always did. You can do this. Even if you're not really a hunter you can fake it.

They spoke as much with their bright eyes as their mouths. "May the twinned goddess be with you!"

She mustered back, "And with you!"

Sometimes I think it miraculous that the Chilla people evolved from these brutish creatures. Somehow an offshoot of the species achieved intelligence, self-awareness, imagination, and its own offshoot—religion. Most Chilla, at least women, believe the divine intervention came first. To this I shrug. I cannot prove imagination created religion. And their religion promotes kindness and order and harmony amongst a natural fearsomeness of their nature, so who am I to say?

However there can be no doubt we are evolved from vicious hungry stock. Most women, just like our ancestors, are great hunters. Some achieve q'uiescen.

And none that become mothers survive after the birthing of their children.

Stinking of boar blood, the young women slapped Natti's back and flashed toothy grins. Despite her twist of fear, the hunt had gone perfectly. It helped that she had been the one to flush the boar. She might not be much of a hunter, but she could corral the beasts in the right direction. The hungries' spears had done the real work. Most importantly, her gloves had stayed on straight.

"The goddess smiled upon you today!" Lonara stepped into the clearing, trailed by her own pack of hunters.

The hungries answered her, with Natti following belatedly, "blessed be the goddess!" then crowded around to crow about their success. Lon sidled to Natti's side, nodding approvingly. "Well done, Natti! It's a fine kill indeed."

"The young ones made the kill."

Kara perked up. "Because of your keen nose and soft feet! You'll join us to roast it, won't you? We'll trade some of the meat for berry wine. A true celebration." She smacked her lips.

Natti felt a rush in her chest, loosening the tightness. "Oh! Thank you. But I should go home first to—to—check on a few things." Her caprine herd for one. And she desperately wanted to take the gloves off. The sweat was making her hands itch abominably. "Start without me. I'll join later." Kara flashed again, turning back to trussing up the boar for the journey back to the borough.

Lon was watching her with a narrow gaze. "Lonara, what?"

"If you must go home, I'll walk with you. Let the young ones carry the boar back. They're happy to do it."

She sighed though Lon wasn't bad company.

As they fell in step together on the trail back to her den, Lon said, "You remind me of Elan more and more these days."

She couldn't help it—her hackles bristled up and down her spine. Her hands prickled even more urgently. She didn't know what was more irritating, Lon or the gloves. She tried to respond reasonably but a coarseness in her tone belied the attempt. "What are you saying? Has the twinned one whispered in your ear about me? Am I to become a mother like Elan?" She waved her hands (carefully) at the older woman. "I'm not like Elan or I'd have reached q'uiescen. I'm nearly too old for it. Surely I'm not going to change now!"

Unperturbed, Lon dipped her chin. "Perhaps not. All I'm saying is that you were kind to those hungries, letting them take down the boar." She squeezed Natti's elbow. "Child, if I offended you I'm sorry. I meant a compliment. You did well today. I know you don't love the hunt. But you tried. You'll make friends that way. Elan would have been proud of you. I am."

Her hackles settled even as her skin flushed beneath them. She was content living alone and raising caprine. Couldn't that be enough?

Lon spoke as if she had voiced her thoughts aloud. "Most women do not seek solitude as you do. Most are not so individual. Your nature might seem a handicap at times, but you're still young. Perhaps one day you'll join the council. You could offer a unique perspective."

"Oh . . ." Natti faltered. She wanted to be generous in her response but joining the church council wasn't something she'd ever thought about. The elders were passionate about their belief in their beloved goddess. She was passionate about—well, goats. Dirty little beasts. She held back a bark of impolite laughter, and finished firmly with ". . . that's kind of you to say."

Chilla people largely eat a diet of meat from domesticated herds of ovine and caprine as well as wild game. Omnivorous as well, berries are favorite (often fermented as a dessert wine), and spicenuts.

The female hunters receive tribute from the males in the manors in the form of hardwood for their shrines and churches, meat jerky, as well as wool and spicenuts. They live in an outer ring of boroughs surrounding the inner ring of manors. The hunters protect the men and the children from the feral chillan and other vicious creatures who live in the moorlands beyond.

As they neared her den, Natti's nose twitched from a scent thread of something—

Wrong.

"What in twinn'd heaven," Lon frowned next to her. "I smell blood. Too much. No, wait." She gripped Natti's shoulder hard, wrenching her down.

Natti twisted away. "Let me go! There's a chillan. It's killing them!"

"Yes." Lon whispered grimly. "It's too late for your herd." She drew her long hunter's knife from her belt. "It is a good thing they don't hunt in packs as we do. Take out your spear and stay behind me. I've faced chillan before. It'll be sluggish, so stuffed with meat."

Natti's head pounded, but she set her jaw and followed Lon.

They crept towards the bend in the trail that would open up to the caprine pen. Natti could tell even as she screamed inside to deny it—too quiet. No frantic bleating. Only the sound of cracking bones and the smacking grunts of a gorging chillan.

She peeked through the wrecked hedge shrub that enclosed the pen to find the bristled chillan facing away from them. A big one, powerful hindquarters with lean forelegs, ending in wicked long claws. But still only half their size and so consumed with its slaughter it hadn't scented them yet. She hesitated but Lon didn't—raising her knife and charging forward.

Natti followed, spear clenched in one slippery hand.

The beast turned too late to strike first. Lon's knife went into its chest, sank deep. The chillan's scream was indistinguishable from a person's. So was the long drawn out gurgle it made as it collapsed and died.

Lon panted. The smell of gore thickened by the heat of the day made Natti's throat swell; her nose burn. After a moment she became aware of flies buzzing ecstatically. Suddenly she couldn't breathe.

The carnage was complete. Her herd had been twelve. Nothing left but tangled limbs and torn bodies.

Lon's startled exclamation. From within the pile of dead caprine, something moved. Natti sucked up air, gasping wildly, then launched herself at the pile. She shoved aside limbs and heads and horns to find buried in the gore—

Pala's wide brown eyes staring up at her, full of shock. The tiny goat was terrified into silence but alive. Natti sank to her knees, pulling the blood-soaked animal onto her chest. She couldn't stop a sob of relief. "Pala!" She started to thank the goddess but then she caught Lon's astonished stare.

Not at Natti. At her hands—

Ah. Natti looked down at the shimmery nearly translucent pelt of her hands and their distinct lack of claws. She'd flung her gloves off to get to Pala. They lay to one side, ruined by the blood.

She lurched up, still clinging onto Pala, whose legs dangled midair. "Lon, please listen to me. I don't want to be a mother. I want to stay in the boroughs. I shouldn't be forced to go to the manors even if I'm in q'uiescen!"

Lon's expression changed to bewilderment. "Apostasy—"

"No! No, it's not!"

Lon growled. "I'm a church elder. You pretend to know more than me?"

Natti shook frantically. "Of course not. But it can't be that." To be found an apostate meant banishment from all of Chilla society. It meant going to the moorlands with its killer chillan. She'd be lucky to last a fortnight. Tears stung. Was she doomed to die one way or the other?

Lon glowered, disappointment in every line of her face. "You have the potential to be a mother. Mothers are venerated. They go to the goddess after they die."

"But I don't want to die! I'm not Elan, and I'm not a great hunter but I can do better. Try harder. My caprine are dead except this one." She tightened her grip on Pala. "I won't start a new herd. Pala can go to Lord Alaron's manor. Please let me stay in the borough until my fur and claws return."

Lon's lips curled. "You must go to the manors. Letting you stay means lying for you. I won't do it."

Natti wanted to beg. She wanted to wrap her arms around Lon's legs and let her tears flow—

It wouldn't work. Lon would only pity her. Or think her weak. A sour taste filled her mouth. What else could she do? There was still a chance she wouldn't molt on a manor, even near a fertile male. No one knew what triggered fertility. If it was attitude or if it was an innate worthiness, then her claws and fur would still return.

Natti set Pala on the ground. As she straightened to face the other woman, something inside her uncurled, perhaps the tension she'd lived under these long weeks of hiding her hands. A small relief to be forced to face her fear. "I haven't always shown it, but I appreciate your friendship, Lon. I've depended on it. I'm sorry if you are hurt. I didn't know what else to do."

After a moment, Lon nodded stiffly.

Natti released her breath. "I don't want to make trouble for you. I'll go to the manors. Tell the council about my q'uiescen if you must but I only ask that you let me leave without celebration. I'll take Pala and go to Lord Alaron's manor. If he won't take me as a potential mother, then some other manor lord will. But I couldn't bear the fuss. Moreover, I don't deserve it."

"Ah," Lon relented sorrowfully. "You split open my heart, Natti. Maybe this surprises you but I love you as much as I did Elan. Ever since she died, I've tried to look after you. You never made it easy . . ." She grimaced, her bristles still puffed out all over from the shock of the chillan and now this. "I'm unsure of what the goddess wants. I will pray but in the meantime I won't speak of your q'uiescen. Go and seek shelter from Lord Alaron. I'll tell the council the truth. A chillan killed your herd except for one. You left to take the survivor to the manors. For now I won't say more."

"They won't come looking me?" But as she spoke, she knew they wouldn't, not unless Lon insisted. She wasn't a good hunter. She wasn't an elder. She'd never managed to muster up much enthusiasm for the twinned goddess and the rituals of their religion. She lived on her own and raised caprine. They'd been generous to put up with her for so long.

Even as Lon's bristles relaxed, the whole of her muscled thick body quivered from tension. Or grief. "I will pray that you find peace, Natti. And that your q'uiescen ends soon one way or the other, so you may know your destiny."

Most Chilla men, like women, are not fertile, and therefore not destined to be fathers. These eunuchs perform a variety of tasks including child care, field work, agriculture, glass-making, metal-working, animal husbandry and so on.

At the heavy carved gate signifying Alaron's manor, Natti sniffed the dewy air. Nigh dawn. The scents of night-blooming flowers like lavender ivy and sweet maple were fading. Likewise the coppery light of the two crescent-shaped moons.

Her nostrils flared as she took another whiff, this one directed at her gloves, which hung limply on her belt. Still damp and smelling even more like caprine than usual. But the shivering Pala, pressed against her leg, was equally smelly so her usual excuse held. A goatherd smells like goat.

She'd walked all night, first the spoke road, and then the ring road around the manors until she came to Alaron's gate, with the little beast trailing behind, morosely, not even perking up when Natti let her lick honey biscuit crumbs from her palm. She checked Pala's distended belly—the little doe had another month before her baby would come.

Natti's own stomach curled. The death of her other caprine had to be more than random occurrence. There was a reason she was here at this manor. She didn't believe in the goddess exactly, but a Chilla's life must be more significant than a chillan's short brutish one.

She wiped her eyes. The softness of her fingers made her pause. She flexed them, then reached out to trace the elaborate carving on Alaron's gate, recalling the dreamy skyscape from her visit with Elan two years ago. Would Alaron remember her without the reminder of their letters? She didn't think so. She had met him so briefly—and all women look the same covered head-to-toe in bristly hide. He'd had eyes only for her beautiful sleek sister.

He might remember if he saw the delicate structure of her hands and wrists and the silver pelt shining in the early morning light. She laughed at herself, then slipped her gloves on. Lon hadn't forbidden the disguise, exactly, thinking it unlikely a manor lord would give Natti a job. Alaron was Natti's best chance. His last letter about Pala's rich milk had been especially enthusiastic. And he'd truly loved her sister. If her disguise slipped, maybe he'd feel some obligation . . . But if he rejected her, she'd have to reveal her q'uiescen or risk the council's wrath and banishment.

When the sun had fully risen, she rang the gate bell. Pala bleated, pulling backwards at the unexpectedly loud clanging, and the lead slipped out of Natti's grip. Pala darted off the road into some feathery shrubs and disappeared.

Natti swore under her breath but followed easily, her thick hide more than enough protection. The little beast wouldn't get far. The perimeter vegetation formed a ring around the manors, made up of tall thorny hedges and hardwood trees with massive tangled roots.

A few minutes later she found a droopy Pala picking at the moss on the roots of one such tree. She caught the little doe by the single horn on her forehead and gave her a gentle shake. "Come on, silly. This is going to be your new home no matter what. Let's try and make a good impression."

All of a sudden, her nostrils flared at an unexpected scent—a sliver of decay amidst the vibrant summer growth. She inspected the tree's thick trunk, noting it was pockmarked in some spots and bulgy in others. She pulled off a glove and poked one of the gnarled roots. Too soft, its protective bark loosening. This tree had caught a pestilence—

"Helllllooooo!" A high-pitched voice called out, reverberating as sharply as the bell had. Just enough time to jam on her glove before a young Chilla burst into view. He—an adolescent male—pulled up short and stared, sucking in his cheeks either humorously or because he lacked any awareness of his facial muscles. "I heard the bell. Who are you and what's a hunter doing with a goat with one horn. Also—" He stuck out his tongue. "—you smell exactly like it."

Gawky, sharp-kneed, sharp-elbowed with a lazy left eye, wandering slightly off course, he was past the age when children were automatically considered cute. Too old to be one of Elan's litter, thank the goddess. She didn't have to like the child.

She flashed a cool smile. "My name is Natti. Goat is the vernacular term." She wasn't sure why she felt the need to correct him. "This is my caprine, a doe called Pala. And the reason I'm here is to speak with Lord Alaron about a job."

If anything his cheeks sucked in and his eyes bulged even more. He bounced from one foot to another. "Oh! I see. My name is Brax. Follow me." He spun, disappearing quickly up the lane.

She sighed, not sure if she was bemused or annoyed or simply weary. She closed the gate behind her, and rushed to catch the boy at the hill crest, atop the long winding road leading to the manor house. Lining the road at precise intervals were beautiful willows with long feathered branches waving in the breeze; beyond was a groomed grassy rolling landscape. Trails sprouting from the main road led to either the ovine and caprine herds, or the orchards of spicenut trees on the other side of the manor. The breeze carried a pleasing floral fragrance with faint threads of animal musk.

The manor house rose into view, with bleached white columns to frame the entrance. The lords lived above ground, preferring big ornate homes to quiet dark dens.

Brax pointed to a post. She tied up Pala, then followed him in.

Through the parlor room stacked with books.

Through the banquet hall with high painted ceilings.

Then to a room Elan hadn't shown her. She pinched her nose shut against the tangled scent-threads—chemical mostly but also soil, flowers, the sharp odor of litter from some small animal's cage. The floor was sloppy with rugs, the walls crowded with paintings and mirrors. Tables laden with scientific instruments, measuring containers, dried preserved leaves and pinned preserved insects. A bewildering room, frantic and slovenly.

Brax announced, "This is where I work! What do you think?"

"You work here?" Brax had his own room in the manor house? Children had separate dens. They didn't live in the manor house unless—

Unless he was Alaron's heir, the only fertile male child. "Are you the young lord?"

His nose wrinkled peevishly. "You don't remember me from when you visited Elan?"

Natti gulped the air. She didn't. She did recall a small herd of children bumping against Elan, chattering, flashing toothy grins. Alaron's other children had loved Elan. Natti hadn't paid attention, and girls and boys that age had same-looking pelts. It wasn't until adolescence that the boys' changed to some beautiful hue, while the girls got thicker and grayer. Brax's pelt gleamed a coppery color.

A deeper realization swept down her spine. "You know who I am?"

He shrugged, but she detected a certain prideful puffing. "You're Natti, Elan's sister." He pointed to one of the tables. "I have a microscope. Do you want to see samples? I have hair, insects, blood." He beamed.

It did sound interesting, if a tad gruesome. "Not now. Perhaps later. I need to talk to your father. Can you take me to see him?"

Brax's good eye flicked away, his lazy one following. His shoulders hunched, then he snatched up a pair of glasses. One lens was blacked out, covering up his good eye, giving him the appearance of a tiny miserable old man, his bad eye trying hard to focus on her. "You can wait in his office. I'll go find him."

After childhood, young women go live in the boroughs surrounding the manors, taking their place as hunters and protectors. The eunuchs take apprenticeships to learn a trade. They may stay on the manor of their birth or seek employment elsewhere. The lord of the manor is the lone fertile male and father of all children who reside there.

Alaron's office was a less odorous space than Brax's, although the flowers in the pretty glass vase on the huge hardwood desk were on the verge of rotting. Otherwise the office was a welcoming space, and it was all she could do not to collapse onto the ovine-skin sofa with plush wool-stuffed pillows. Instead she occupied herself with the map of Chilla-occupied land pinned to one wall. It showed all thirteen hundred manors in the inner circle, the middle circle of hunter boroughs, and finally the outermost wild moorlands, a thin circle which faded quickly to nothingness. It was the most detailed map she'd ever seen.

The door creaked open. She turned to find Brax and Alaron, a tall man whose dusky red pelt wasn't thick enough to hide his impressive musculature.

For a second they stared at each other. Natti felt a creeping blush, thankfully disguised. "Lord Alaron, your map is very impressive."

Alaron's gaze dropped to her hands. She successfully fought the urge to put them behind her back.

Finally he nodded. "Thank you. Are you familiar with the far moorlands by chance? Some elder hunters have gone out more than hundred kilometers and I've only drawn up to fifty or so."

"I'm sorry, no. For what it's worth, your map seems accurate to where I have been."

"That's well. Please have a seat." He indicated the sofa.

"If you don't mind, I travelled here all night. I'm afraid sitting on such softness is too appealing at the moment."

He flashed a smile. "Then let's get to the reason you're here. Brax didn't tell me much. That is your caprine outside?"

"Yes. That's Pala." She waited for the gleam of recognition but got nothing. "The one that gives such rich milk?" Only blank politeness as if he had never heard of the animal they had discussed so enthusiastically in their letters. Next to him, Brax bounced from foot to foot, his wandering eye gone huge.

Alaron looked as confused as she felt. "Brax said you are called Natti and you wanted to speak to me. How can I help you?"

Even her name didn't jog his memory? She stammered for an awkward minute about the chillan attack and concluded, "So you see, since Pala was the only one to survive and the council doesn't want me to breed any more—that's why I've come. To bring you Pala. You said in your letters—" She faltered again at the perplexion creasing his forehead. "— that you wanted a sample of Pala's rich milk."

A sample. She sucked in her breath and locked eyes on Brax, who'd stopped bouncing and wrapped his arms around his chest instead. The anxious scent of his sweat was abruptly obvious.

She stifled a horrified laugh. "My apologies for the confusion, Lord Alaron. I understand now. I haven't been writing to the current lord but his young one." Alaron had no idea who she was.

The father flared his nostrils at his son. "Brax?"

Instead of shrinking further under that baleful gaze, the boy unwrapped himself, his eye, miraculously focused, sparked a deeper red than his pelt. "She breeds fine dairy go—caprine, Pa. I used your stationary. I can't help that she assumed it was you."

Natti choked back you little sheepshit.

Alaron said with admirable restraint, “You were wrong to let her assume. Apologize to this hunter so she may be on her way."

"She's not a hunter! She's come to ask for a job with our herds."

His brow raised again as he turned to Natti. "I apologize on behalf of my son. His manners leave much to be desired."

She bent her head. "However, he is correct."

A grappling in his face, followed by a deep inhalation. "I remember now—Natti. You're Elan's sister, aren't you? I remember meeting a sister with a gift for animals. An odd gift for a hunter."

"Not so odd. Hunters must understand the beasts they kill. But yes, Elan was my sister." She flashed him a hesitant smile. It was reputed that manor lords had a naturally stoic nature and set aside their personal feelings for the fertile women that arrived, bore their children, and died. Alaron seemed more sensitive than that.

Her smile faltered as his expression turned stern and implacable. "There is no job for you here."

She clutched her gloved hands, the skin underneath slippery with sweat, but it was Brax who protested. "Pa, please! Who cares if she's a hunter? Let her stay and work here."

He ignored the outburst. "If Brax gave you some expectation of a job, then I'm doubly sorry. Please help yourself to our kitchen, then the boy will take you to an empty den near the caprine herd so you may sleep before returning to the boroughs. We will add your beast to our herd if you don't wish to keep her."

The remembrance of the rotten tree flared into her consciousness, the odor of her despair. She replied stiffly, "Thank you for your hospitality. There is a big hardwood tree near your gate, smells ancient. Unfortunately it also smells of rot. Soon, chillan may be able to burrow through it. Please cut it down so the security of your manor is not compromised."

Alaron gaped as she stalked past him, the boy following at her heels.

Outside the manor house, she caught sight of the little caprine laying on her side. "Oh no!" Pala was gasping, her single horn stabbing at the air. "It's too soon!"

Brax flung off his glasses. "What's happening?" He bent over, touching Pala's hardened heaving belly. "Is she having her baby?"

"The shock of the attack. She's going to have this baby whether we like it or not. Can you help?" She untied Pala from the post, sliding the animal into a more comfortable position. "Clean rags, hot water."

Pala squealed and kicked the air. Brax disappeared, presumably seeking for what she asked. She spoke to the animal soothingly, rubbing her belly. Pala craned around and nipped her finger, pulling at the glove. Natti felt a burst of affection. "You ungrateful beast!"

Brax returned, breathless, lugging a pail, pockets stuffed with cloth. "Very good. Now you're going to do exactly what I say and maybe we can save Pala's baby."

Lords are often involved in scientific endeavors. Astronomy and zoology are especially popular, but recently great strides have been made in microbiology and hematology.

Twin babies as it turned out. The first, a male, came out in a gush of watery blood, staining the green lawn. He was impossibly tiny but well-formed and breathing, fragile legs already pinwheeling. The second wasn't coming. Her gloves would be ruined. Well, Alaron had rejected her, so she would have to reveal her q'uiescen to another lord. She sat back on her heels, clenching with despair.

Brax picked that moment to tug her cloak. "Tell me what to do, Natti. I can help."

And so the boy pulled out the second baby with Natti's coaching. Female, not breathing at first, but he cleared its throat and pressed a thumb into its tiny chest. A minute later, it sputtered and its eyes flicked open.

"Will they nurse?" Brax gave off a whiff of anxiety.

"I think so. They've got Pala's spirit and she's fierce as a chillan for all her size." She found herself ruffling the boy's furry head. "I appreciate the help." Brax froze at the touch, then flashed an uncertain grin. A tall shadow fell across him. They both blinked up at Alaron.

The man said gruffly, "That was well-done, you two." He kneeled, rubbing Pala's ears. "And you, little mama." Thankfully Pala was too tired to bite. "She'll live?"

"Oh yes, this is her third birth, and first with twins. It's a good omen."

"Pa?"

"Yes, Brax?"

"Can Natti stay for awhile to take care of them?"

Natti's chest clutched. "Brax, don't bother your father—"

But Alaron was nodding, slowly. "I was just thinking that she should. Until they're perfectly all right. Natti, what do you say?"

She sank down to the smooth green lawn, catching Brax's double wink, first his good eye, then the lazy one, following behind leisurely. "Yes, I can do that."

A lord's temperament is typically sensitive, contemplative and mild. I say typically except when a fertile woman is in proximity, he is roused to a fervent passion.

She is, too.

"Pa, try this hot milk!" The mug steamed in the boy's hands. He set it carefully on Alaron's desk. The man made a show of sniffing it, then took a sip. "Mm. Lovely."

A fortnight later, and Pala's twins were still tiny but monstrously hungry for their size. The delicate male was sweet as a ripe apple but the female had taken after her mother, prone to nip and kick. Brax had named the male Juice and the female Sting.

"The milk is delicious." Alaron flashed a smile. "Brax, leave us for a moment? I'd like to talk to Natti alone."

As Brax skipped out, she breathed deep to quell the twist in her guts. Pala was doing fine, the babies too. Alaron had no reason to keep her anymore.

The man seemed nervous as well. "When we first met—" He frowned. "No, we met when Elan was here."

"Briefly, but I'm surprised you remember at all."

"Of course I do. Elan was special to me. I miss her."

"So do I."

His chin dipped. "When you asked for a job, I was caught off guard. I thought having you here would be too much a reminder of Elan. And Brax is a difficult child. Distracted and willful. If he's going to be manor lord, he must show discipline and obedience. Instead he goes off on his own tangents."

She raised a brow. "Like his interest in dairy caprine?"

"I must warn you that his interest wanes as quickly as the twinned moons. But lately he's been trying harder. He doesn't say why but I think it's because he wants you to stay. I'm inclined to allow it. And—" He took another sip of milk. "—this is extraordinary. As it happens we have too few dairy beasts. Brax is many things—" He flashed a weary smile. "—but he is correct about that. If you could breed more like your beast, it would help."

She pressed a hand to her chest. "You would let me stay?"

He nodded. "As well you noticed the rotting hardwood on our perimeter. I'm grateful to you. Moreover as a hunter, you have knowledge of the moorlands and its creatures."

Her forehead wrinkled. "For your maps, yes.."

"I have one concern. You are still young enough to be at risk for q'uiescen."

He had no idea. "But I've no desire for it."

"You speak with confidence, but q'uiescen is something we know very little about. Who's to say why it happens?"

She started to protest, but he raised a hand. "I require that if you enter q'uiescen, you'll leave immediately. I'm not accepting fertile women to my manor."

"Really? You're barely middle-aged." She smelled his abrupt agitation. "Apologies, it's not my business. Of course I will do as you say."

The instant she lied, her hidden pelt began itching. She twinned her gloved fingers together carefully and tried not to wince.

Chilla women are more religious than Chilla men, believing in a deity who uplifted them from the brutal chillan, giving them both intelligence and imagination. They find solace in their warrior bonds, hunting wild boar and other game in the moorlands, and protecting the men in the manors.

The deity of the Chilla people is a twinned goddess, which exists simultaneously as both mother and hunter. According to their religion, mortal Chilla women cannot be both, but one or the other.

"Hold her horn for me, please. Brax, are you listening?" The boy stared moodily off in the distance, through the slats of the milking barn. It smelled of hay and honey grain, her bribes to Pala. Dust motes sparkled in the rays of sunlight. She didn't think he was really looking outside, but sunk deep in his inner world. However, better distracted help than no help at all. She didn't have to worry about some sharp-eyed eunuch noticing how ratty her hands were looking these days, her silver pelt peeking through.

She pulled on Pala's teats and the milk streamed out, pinging into the pail. Pala aimed a sharp hoof at Natti's knee. "You always miss, silly. I'm smarter than you." Brax sniffed. "Something to add, child?"

He gave the question more consideration than was due, then flashed what she had come to call his sheepshit grin, when he was being especially perplexing. "No. But I do need something from you."

He sidestepped Pala's nippy jaws, removing a glass vial from his tunic. "A sample of your blood."

"My blood? Don't you have enough samples to study without mine?" She pulled the pail from underneath the little doe, then threw some honey grain. Pala started munching.

"I don't need caprine blood anymore, I need yours." He continued to grin like a berry-drunk maniac, unwavering. "Your hide is awfully thick. It would be a lot easier if you took your gloves off."

Her hackles rose. She must have misheard. "What did you say?"

He repeated loudly, "Why don't you take your smelly old sweaty gloves off?"

She rocked back on her heels. "How long have you known?"

"Since before you came. It was your handwriting. At first it was terrible and then it got better. The opposite of the girls in my litter. When they got their thick hide, they could barely write anymore."

"Why didn't you tell your father? He's not accepting q'uiescen women. It's—it's a lie of omission." Of which she was guiltier than he.

He shrugged. "You can't help it."

Her skin tingled from a fresh new heat. Slowly she pulled off the gloves. And sighed. "That does feel better." She leveled her gaze back at the boy. "You're really not going to tell?"

"No. I wrote to you in the first place because I liked Elan. When you came here with those gloves I figured you didn't want to be a mother. That's good. You won't die like she did."

Maybe Brax wasn't so much distracted, as focused on something else. "Why do you want my blood? Don't be vague. What exactly are you trying to do?"

His shoulders hunched in his old man pose. "Pa thinks I don't want to be the manor lord."

"Do you?"

"That's not it." He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I only wish . . ."

"What?"

"That mothers didn't have to die." The skin beneath the coppery fur on his face flushed fiercely. "They shouldn't have to die. Why hasn't anyone tried to save their lives?"

Natti bristled with bewilderment. "How could they? The mothers' bodies give up everything for their children. Besides, mothers are selfless, that's why they become mothers, why they become fertile in the first place. My q'uiescen is a mistake, and will pass. But mothers like Elan want to sacrifice themselves for their children."

Brax's nose twitched. "Except that Elan didn't want to die."

Something shivered up her spine. "What are you talking about? I was her sister and she never told me that. And even if it were true, she wouldn't tell you—" She spat the words. "—a child!"

"I often hid to listen to Elan and my pa when I was tiny. I was a good sneak, so they never caught me. One time I heard her tell Pa how scared she was. That she wasn't sure she believed in the goddess at all. You don't. Why is it so strange that she didn't either?"

Natti's gasping breath hurt. "You're lying."

He didn't blanch as she expected. He growled back, "I'm not. I want to save the lives of mothers. That's what I've been working on ever since Elan died. I think it's something in their blood that's lacking. But no one will help me. Pa won't, and now you."

"You told your father about this . . . idea?"

"He found some of my research. He told me to stop."

"You have to tell me the truth. Do you truly think it's possible?"

He looked at her then, both eyes aligned and gleaming crimson. It was the bright hope in them that cleaved her heart in two. "I think mothers' lives could be saved. But the better question is, why am I the first one to try?"

Because the Chilla people learned to work together, they can defeat the vicious chillan, an apex predator. Thus they have taken its place at the top of the food chain. But in face-to-face combat a chillan can sometimes overcome even a trained hunter, not to mention a defenseless man or child.

Deep in the night, the smell of the kerosene lamp thick in her nostrils, Natti carefully clipped off pelt from her thigh. She threaded the thick fur through a new patch of caprine skin. It was when she took up her needle to sew the patch onto her fraying glove, that she saw the gray stubble pushing its way through the smooth silver pelt. Her finger, still delicate, still silver, pushed at the tough tiny new bristles. She shivered.

She should be overjoyed, and she was, but this proof that her q'uiescen was ending brought a strange thought. I will miss my lovely silver pelt. She found herself remembering how Alaron had looked at Elan. But in this false memory, he was looking at her.

She banished the image, and resumed sewing. Brax's words had sunk in deep. Her q'uiescen ending on the same day the strange child had taken a sample of her blood, and told her he was going to save the mothers, well, if that wasn't a divine sign, she didn't know what was. She curled her lips and showed her teeth because she was going to stay ugly. She was going to get old.

Even so she couldn't stop thinking, what if mothers could be saved? And if they could, although such a world seemed very strange indeed, would she have made a different choice?

"This one, Natti. It's perfect." From behind his desk, Alaron's teeth flashed at her. He licked the milk moustache off his upper lip. "Mmmm!"

She rolled her eyes. "You've said that about every flavor combination you've tried. You're no help at all."

"Make all of them. Spicenut, maple leaf, mint, and lavender. My manor's milk will be the talk of the hunter's solstice."

It was coming upon the annual celebration of the last day of autumn, when the two moons shone full at the same time, and night lit up nearly as bright as day. Alaron's manor had been honored with hosting the church elders. It would be the first time she'd seen Lonara since she'd left. Everyone on the manor was buzzing with excitement. And Brax intended to ask the hunters for, well, samples. She still didn't know how he planned to accomplish that.

"It's in less than a fortnight, Alar! Even if Pala could make enough, I'd have to milk her day and night."

He pursed his lips as if milking Pala was though considering a matter of life or death. "We'll use thimble-sized mugs."

She chuckled along with him. "As Brax would say, a sample, my lord."

He returned drily, "Indeed, my lady!" Then added. "Speaking of, where is the boy? I've given him some tasks for the celebration."

Which Brax wasn't likely to be working on. "I'll check on him. He's been helping me with the caprine." She flashed her teeth to cover the lie.

He waved her off. She had to force herself not to scamper out of his office, down the hall and into Brax's workroom.

Why are people surprised to hear of how resourceful and clever a chillan is, in its quest to find prey? It is my strong opinion that not just women, but men too should learn how to defend themselves against these fearsome beasts. I personally have observed a dangerous assumption of safety on the manors.

Brax was peering into his microscope, as usual. She called his name as she entered.

He looked up, eyes blinking and unfocused. "Oh, Natti, come see. There's a pattern in your blood that doesn't match up with Elan's."

"But your father's coming to check—" Her spine tingled at movement behind her; she whirled around.

Alaron stood frowning. "Your blood, Natti? You've given him your blood? And you've found what exactly, Brax? Please don't tell me you are still working on your—" He sputtered. "Delusion."

Her mouth had gone dry. "Alaron, let him explain."

His eyes widened, appalled. "Are you helping him?"

"Have you taken any time at all to see what he's doing? He's trying something so—so bold. Something no Chilla has tried to do."

"And did either of you," he spoke as if his throat were swollen and aching, "consider why that is? It is the mother's nature to sacrifice herself. It is one of the tenets of our society and the goddess religion. Clearly I've given this child too much freedom."

"Freedom?" It must be her waning q'uiescen that emboldened her. "Do you mean neglect? Because it's apparent to me that this boy has barely gotten the time of day from you ever since Elan died."

"I think," he growled. "You have overstayed your welcome at my manor."

Brax burst out, "Just because you don't care doesn't mean you get to mess up my life, Pa! And Natti's. If I'm going to be your heir then she gets to stay. Or you'll have to bring more q'uiescen women, until you get another fertile son. Imagine how long it will take, how many dead mothers you will watch shrivel and die to give you litter after litter after litter!"

Alaron shouted, "Stop! Stop talking."

Brax's voice slowed and dripped venomously. "I know what's really going on. You want me to grow up and take over as quickly as I can, because you want to leave the manor, go out into the moorlands and—" The boy spat. "—die."

"I don't want to die . . ." Alaron trailed off, panting, his pelt spiking in distress. "Brax, I will speak to you later. I need to talk with Natti alone."

Brax snarled and bounded past them, fur standing out all over his body.

Alaron caught his breath. "I am trying to mold Brax into a manor lord. He is certainly intelligent enough. He is kind too, at least with those goats of yours. I thought he only lacked discipline and focus. I see now he's cleverer than that, covering up his one true interest by pretending he has none at all."

"What if he's right to question our assumption that because mothers have always died, it means they always have to?"

He said disbelievingly, "But you're a hunter. You believe in the goddess."

"A hunter? I'm a goatherd. I like caprine better than people. Why is that wrong?" Her words sounded as bitter as they tasted.

He thought for a long moment. "It's unusual. Most people don't think there are any other choices, because they never desire anything other than what is expected of them. You really think Brax . . ." He knotted his fingers, peering at her anxiously.

She breathed out, slowly. "Take a look at what he's accomplished. He needs your help. Maybe the real reason you're upset with Brax is because you didn't think of it first."

He sucked in his cheeks, a deep uneasy consideration. "If he was to succeed, the change to our society would be profound. Would people even accept it?"

"Perhaps we should worry about that later. We don't even know if it is possible, yet." She reached out to him, ready to pull back if he winced. He didn't. She patted the soft pelt of his forearm and slowly, his fingers unknotted and relaxed.

I don't know why q'uiescen isn't studied more openly. It seems to me the reasons for it are among the most important of a Chilla woman's life. What makes it happen? How long does it last? Why does it sometimes simply go away?

And then there is the question of why a woman molts completely, becoming fertile. Does becoming fertile change her nature to make her want children, even at the cost of her life?

Or does she become fertile because that desire was there all along?

Natti stood next to Lon on the balcony outside the banquet hall, inhaling the fresh night air. Many hunters from Natti's borough had attended, including the young hungries she'd led on the boar hunt. Now they streamed out, laughing, hooting, calling to each other, waving goodbye to the men and children who laughed, hooted, and waved in return, leaving to return home. Part of the thrill of the hunter's solstice was the trek back at night, enjoying the moonlit wilderness, singing boisterously with friends. Natti was glad to see them so happy, stuffed with meats and nuts and berry wine. She was equally glad to be staying behind. Lon was staying a little longer.

"This place suits you, Natti." Even Lon's thick gray hide had a lovely sheen in the white light of the two full moons.

"Yes." Especially since Alaron had made a tentative peace with Brax, had looked over his research, genuinely pleased by how committed the boy was.

Lon said musingly, "It's a gentler life here."

Natti flashed a smirk at her oldest friend. "You think it's boring."

The tough older woman chortled. "I suppose I do, but you're you, Natti. You don't like hunting and you're not much for the goddess either."

"I respect both. But you're right that I hope to stay."

"The q'uiescen?" Lon cocked her brow.

Natti peeled a corner of her glove. "Waning. For that I will thank the goddess."

Relief crossed Lon's face. "Well then. You made the right choice to come here. I have to say yours was the longest q'uiescen I've heard of, and even now your bristles only reluctantly return. I always felt there was something of a mother in you, a kindness, and something of a hunter, too. Tenacity."

An odd thought, but not, Natti realized, wrong. "I like that I have both, and also more."

Lon laughed again. "Those goats of yours!"

A deep male voice intervened, "It's true the woman loves her goats!"

Natti made a show of rolling her eyes. "Such wit! Anything else you'd like to comment on? My odor perhaps?"

Alar and Lon made a show of sniffing her. "Musk of caprine."

"Berry wine breath as well."

She gripped her stomach, shaking with laughter. At that moment Brax popped up wanting to know what they were going on about and she had to endure it all over again, the warm flush evoked by their teasing attention. An embarrassment to be savored.

Finally Brax asked if Lon wanted to see the full moons through the telescope. The two went off to the high hill behind the manor. No doubt the child had a glass vial hidden in his pocket.

She turned to Alaron, her sides aching. She had a wonderful taste in her mouth, like sweet browned butter. "Brax is happier these days."

"Thanks to you."

"Because of you."

Alaron sighed. "I wasn't much of a father before you arrived. Either too strict or, as you said, neglectful." He flashed a wan smile. "I've been thinking a lot about why. Men are supposed to be accepting and stoic about maternal death. But the mothers' deaths affected me more than I realized. I'm not fit to be a manor lord. I'm weak."

"Weak? Not at all." She moved closer to him, with a conviction that burned as bright as the moonlight. "You're strong because you know yourself. Death should affect you. Instead we venerate it, enshrine it in our religion, assume it's inevitable, and tell ourselves that mothers want to sacrifice themselves. We shouldn't pretend their deaths aren't tragic. They are, all of them. And if we can figure out how to prevent it, we should."

His eyes gleamed. "I am ashamed it didn't occur to me to try. I can make up for it now. To prove Brax's theory will be a great challenge. It will take many years and even if there is a way, will the Chilla people accept it? But my son is bold. He is brave. And I am proud of him."

"Have you told him?"

"I have and I will again."

Her throat swelled. "Alar, where will you go when Brax comes of age and takes over the manor?"

He looked away; a tremble at his lips. "I've rarely ventured past the manors. I've seen so little of our world. I'd like to explore the moorlands. I won't last long, no doubt some fearsome creature will tear me apart. But I want to see things no one else has seen." He turned back to her, with a puzzled huff. "Does that make sense?"

He wanted something more than a gentle life, which had been perversely so full of death.

Her shoulders lifted; so light, unburdened. "Aren't we odd. You, me and Brax."

Startled, he nodded. "It's true, you have a fiercer nature than Elan but neither are you a hunter. You want to go your own way. Like I do. And Brax."

She wanted to confess that she lied to him about her q'uiescen, but bit back the words. Instead, they stood together in companionable silence, as though wrapped up in one single glorious pelt. It didn't matter that hers was gray and ugly and his soft and beautiful. They might have stood for the whole night, happily, but then Brax and Lon came back, with Brax begging to show his pa the moons.

"After Pa, you're next, Natti! But Lonnie wants you to walk her to gate first. Bye Lon! Thanks for the—" He fairly twinkled in the moonlight. "Sample!"

Natti watched the father and the son leave together, nudging each other joyfully. She thought, I will stay here and grow old. Together the three of them, this odd little family, would discover how to save the mothers so that no one would have to suffer their loss again. Neither the fathers nor the children nor the sisters. She did not worry about Alaron leaving. Not now.

And then, in the distant future, in this other strange world they had created, the two of them would go into the moorlands together.

The Chilla people have been stuck in their traditions far too long. They believe their way of life, and their natures, are inevitable. I no longer believe this.

There was a woman who came to my manor wishing to be a goatherd, because she didn't want to be a hunter. I had never heard of such a thing. But Natti showed me that you could imagine something different for yourself. And imagining is the first step to becoming.

In the few short months she lived on my manor, I grew to know her, and discovered I could love a woman who was not my mate and the mother of my children.

On the night of the hunter's solstice, after all the hunters except one had gone back to their boroughs, a ravenous chillan lay in wait just outside the gate.

Natti was walking with the last hunter, when the murderous beast took them by surprise, attacking and wounding Lonara before rushing inside the manor, drawn by the lingering scent of the feast. Without hesitation, Natti took Lon's hunting knife and gave chase.

She caught up with the chillan at the bottom of the hill where my son and I were looking up at the full moons. As we watched helplessly from above, she battled it silently, while it screamed in fury. And though it had her on the ground, rending her terribly, she slit its throat.

She wasn't a hunter but she slew the beast to save us, Brax and I.

Her wounds were too severe. As I held her in my arms, dying, her bristles began to fall, raining down all around, revealing a soft silver pelt beneath.

When Lonara limped up, she bore witness. Natti's story won't be forgotten. It speaks to the inevitability of our nature, which is not so inevitable after all.

Natti died both as mother and hunter, and neither.

She died as herself.

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