Untamed Savage: A Science Fiction Romance

Chapter 1

Alaric

            “Wait, wait, wait…remember that time when you got so hopped up on gresom that you spent an hour trying to pronounce my name?”

I can barely get the words out; I’m laughing so hard. The memory is a well-trodden one, but never fails to make others laugh.

Most of my friends take up the ripple of laughter that starts with me and goes round the firepit. Most, but not all.

Perlos merely smiles – and it looks forced. Worry lines furrow his brow and fiddles with his hands, wringing them together as if they could make time move faster.

I am undeterred.

“You kept saying, ‘ALL-eric? Or Eee-leh-ric?’ and you were completely confused. The more you tried, the madder you got. And I was so drunk, I couldn’t even begin to correct you. Each one you said felt right to me!”

Another round of laughs and guffaws as we all share in the memory. Most of us were there: Perlos, Micerab, Nobi and Skyim. And me, of course.

We go way back, this crew of mine. From our early days as toddlers here in Janholt, when everything felt carefree – easy even. Food was plentiful, our parents didn’t walk around with stooped shoulders, burdened by worry and other cares.

Back when you were born, you lived and then you died, happy and secure you’d done your best to be a good Drokan, support your family and help improve your village.

Lately, however, that is not the case. Food is scarce, supplies are hard to come by and even the act of living has become hard.

That’s why Perlos can’t seem to focus on my silly story. Why he refuses to laugh like he always did in the past. No matter how many times I tell this story, he always laughed.

Not tonight. Can’t say I blame him. Only a few huts away, his beloved wife, Ibena, lies in agony, trying to give birth to their first child. Her muted groans and screams occasionally pierce our circle. We try not to notice, but I’ve clocked every single sound – even though I’ve been running my mouth for the last two hours.

Only the fire seems oblivious to it all. Happily dancing and weaving in front of us, illuminating our faces and picking out the glint of the various bottles of booze we clutch in our hands.

            For Drokan men, the birth of a baby means the men keep apart from the proceedings. We let the women cajole, nurse and coax a new life into the world. We men merely sit and wait. And crack jokes.

            And that’s where I come in. Though I can hunt and track with the best of them, my real talent lies in being a prankster. Call it a weakness or call it a skill, I can’t help but want to make people laugh and smile.

            Life is so bleak lately – why not inject some joy every once in a while?

            Why not distract those thoughts as well? My brain reliably – as if on cue – reminds me. We are in sync, my brain and I – always seeking a diversion. Distraction can be a side effect of my humor. It keeps the bad things at bay – if only temporarily.

            The swell of the laughter has died down now. For what seems like an eternity, we all stare into the flames, the booze pungent on the night air. Someone belches. A shuffle of feet.

            Then – like an exclamation point over the flames, an agonizing sound. Ibena doesn’t sound like Ibena – a quiet, shy woman who positively glowed throughout her pregnancy.

            As the baby grew inside her, she tried to hide it. Tried to hide her pride and excitement. Frankly, it was dangerous to show too much hope. So many babies lately had been---

            Don’t go there. This one will make it. This one will defy the odds.

            Perlos clears his throat and looks up at me, our eyes catching in the dancing firelight. It’s as if he is reading my thoughts. His hands twist and gnarl around each other, as if he could wring them from his wrists.

            Keep him busy. Keep his mind off whatever is happening…

            “She’s doing great,” I say, reaching over and giving Perlos a tight squeeze on his shoulder. The others murmur their agreement, nodding vigorously. Perlos looks at me, trying to summon up his courage and believe my words. His gaze hangs onto them, hoping that by merely listening, it will make them true.

            “Hey. Did you hear this one? When does a dad joke become a dad joke?”

            Perlos’ face freezes, as if trying to stop time. The others merely look at me, trying to summon up some frivolity to keep out the tension in the air.

            “Uh…when?” Nobi prompts, helpfully. Can always count on Nobi in a pinch.

            “When it becomes apparent.” I pause as the lameness of the joke sets in. It takes far longer than I want, but eventually, a chuckle or two ripples round the dying fire.

            “Good one,” Skyim utters, taking another swig.

            Perlos says nothing, but his face winces just a little. He’s on the brink of parenthood and even this dumb little one liner may have gone too far.

            This baby will make it. Ibena is strong. The baby has been growing normally. This one will live. Not like the others…

            “Perlos?”

            A different voice – a female one – breaks the aftermath of my attempt at keeping things light.

            It’s one of the midwives. I recognize her from the village square. Capable and quiet, always rushing about from hut to hut, tending to the women.

            “Perlos, may we speak?”

            Perlos looks up, as if coming back to the here and now. Wherever he just was seemed far away – possibly better than the present.

            “Uh…yeah…yes.”

            “It’s about…”

            The midwife’s face scans our faces and she stops speaking. Whatever she has to say shouldn’t be shared with us. At her gaze, we look down, as if ashamed. Of what, I do not know, but my next joke dies on my lips.

            Perlos stands up and follows the woman into the shadows near Ibena’s hut. As they leave, I catch the solemn expression on her face.

            Whatever she has to say to my best friend can’t be good.

            I return to staring at the fire.