I Was An Alien Cat Toy (10 page)

enough to deal with them, and he was still a captive.

Xexe chirruped, insistently this time. Temin looked at him. “What?”

Xexe seemed to be waiting until he had Temin’s full attention. “All right, I’m listening. Don’t tell me,

you want to fuck me too.” His own joke made his stomach roil. He could feel he was damaged. He didn’t

dare think of how badly. Maybe he was dying. He felt tired enough to be dying. “Xexe, hurry up and leave

me alone, will you?”

Xexe tilted his head, as if puzzled, though Temin doubted that was what he really felt. He raised his

hand, and Temin flinched, expecting a blow to land—it did, but not on him. Xexe thumped his chest, and

made a strange sound, a ‘grar’. Temin frowned. Xexe did it again. And again. “Xexe...what?”

Xexe repeated the gesture, but more slowly, the sound more...like a two syllable word. Then he

pointed at Temin and made another sound which sounded like...’Meen’.

Temin blinked. He raised a shaking hand and pointed at Xexe. “Grar?”

“Grredaaar.”

“Gr’dar?”

Xexe—no, ‘Gr’dar’—touched his own chest. “Gre-dar. Gredar.” Then he laid his hand carefully on

Temin’s leg. “Meen?”

“Temin. Te-min.”

“T’meen?”

“Close enough,” Temin said, and laughed, though he felt more hysterical than happy. It had only

taken abuse and rape and starvation and illness before these idiots had worked out he had a name. Easy,

really.

Xe...Gredar was watching him, clearly waiting for a proper confirmation. “Temin,” he said firmly,

and patted Gredar’s arm, before pointing at him. “Gredar.”

“Gredar. T’meen.” Gredar’s tail flicked happily.

“Great,” Temin muttered, rolling his eyes.

He was thirsty, desperately thirsty, but as soon as he had formed the thought, Gredar was leaning

towards him with a large cup. Temin was too tired to repress the flinch—Gredar stopped. He said something

Temin chose to interpret as ‘May I?’

“Yes,” Temin said with an exaggerated nod.

“‘sss?’”

“Ye-ess. Yes.”

“Ye-ess,” Gredar repeated passably well. He made a sound that was suspiciously like a ‘miaou’,

which would have been hilarious coming from that enormous mouth, if Temin wasn’t so pissed off with him,

his race and this entire shefting planet. But Temin dutifully repeated it until Gredar was happy, and now they

each knew the word ‘yes’ in the other’s language. If Temin could just teach them ‘No’ and ‘Fuck off’, he’d

be doing well.

He struggled to sit up. He was in Gredar’s bed again—still. Gredar was sitting next to the bed on a

leather cushion. There was no sign of the litter tray or his own bed. What was going on?

He propped himself up against the headboard, and Gredar offered him the drink again. It was

probably a child’s cup, he realised, dark blue earthenware half full of water, but it was the size of a small

bucket and he wasn’t up to holding anything as heavy as that. Reluctantly he had to let Gredar help him—the

water was so good on his sore, dry throat.

He pushed the cup away. “Thank you.”

Gredar waited, not understanding, so Temin waved him away. That, he understood. Ironic it was only

because he and Gredar had spent so much time as master and pet, learning each other’s nonverbal cues, that

they might have any hope of communicating now. He wasn’t sure why Gredar had worked out there was any

point in trying to talk to him, but it was an improvement that had come at too high a price.

Gredar sat back on his haunches, closely watching Temin. Temin ignored him as he started to do his

own personal systems check. He felt weak and trembly, hungry but with no real desire for food. How long

had it been? His sense of time was all whacked out anyway with the different day lengths, and being

confined for so long in this room. His last clear memory was being attacked by a huge angry monkey

creature who’d slashed at him with long black claws—the second one they’d brought to him, and definitely

the meaner of the two. Fortunately it’d been muzzled or it would have killed him, but it’d managed to do a

number on him anyway. He’d already been weak, sick.... He shuddered, not wanting to go down the path of

those memories.

But he remembered the monkey slicing him up bad on the arms—blood everywhere, with the

boyfriend and DopeyBoy panicking, trying to bind him up with leather bandages, mopping up the mess while

he lay on the floor and bled near to death. Those cuts were now more than half-healed, though without

treatment from a modern medical facility, he was going to have some horrible scars for a long time.

“T’meen?”

Temin looked up warily. Gredar was staring at the cuts on his arm. “What?”

Gredar pointed at the injuries—very carefully not attempting to touch them, Temin noted—then he

did something which astonished Temin. He bent low, his face to the ground, his tail drooping. He said

something Temin couldn’t understand. “What?” Temin repeated.

Gredar sat up, said the word again, then bowed low. “You’re saying ‘sorry’?” Temin whispered,

boggled.

He had no way of confirming it, but he couldn’t see what else Gredar could be doing. “You think

that’s
enough
?” he snarled. “After what those bastards did to me?”

Gredar looked at him unblinking, but he reached out a careful hand and touched Temin’s leg as he

repeated the apology. His tail curled around him so that the tip lay next to Temin’s hand. He was waiting for

Temin to answer.

What was he supposed to do? Just...let it go? Pretend it did matter he’d been beaten up and raped

and.... Temin covered his mouth, suddenly nauseated, choking on his hate and anger towards the ones who’d

hurt him. But this male...Gredar...had never hurt him. Was, to be truthful, the only thing close to a friend he

had here. His only ally, certainly. If Gredar turned against him, Temin would be dead very soon after,

because there would be nothing stopping the others continuing the abuse.

So, for selfish reasons he should make a show of forgiveness, but...sheft it! Gredar had left him at the

mercy of the other two! And he could have tried to talk to him earlier—they all could have. Temin had tried

and tried to make them understand, and none of them had been able to work out the obvious signs that he

wasn’t just some stupid pet!

Anger was making him breathless, and Gredar made a chirrup of concern, leaning forward. Temin

held his hand up and Gredar retreated at once. So...this respect, this regret was genuine. And he
had
missed

Gredar.

He made a decision, and laid his hand on Gredar’s tail tip, stroking it. Sheft it, it was such a beautiful

thing to touch. They were all so beautiful, but so cruel with it.

Gredar tugged his tail out from under Temin’s hand—but as Temin looked up and frowned, Gredar

flicked his hand with it again. Gently. Playfully. Wanting...to mend their friendship and having no other

language to do it with. It was in Temin’s hands, literally.

He caught the tail tip and pulled carefully. Gredar chirruped, and tugged his tail away again. Temin

gave him a look, and wagged his finger at him. At once, Gredar lay his tail across Temin’s leg as if to say,

‘here it is, all yours.’ More submission—more apology. So he did understand this was no small thing, and

maybe he also realised that Temin was in a vulnerable situation where forgiveness was always going to be

based a little on expediency. Who knew?

He petted Gredar’s lovely tail for a while longer, letting the familiar action calm him. He wasn’t safe,

and he wasn’t home. This was all he had for now. It either had to be enough or he’d end up going crazy. He

wasn’t going to let the ones who’d attacked him have that satisfaction.

~~~~~~~~

Gredar nodded at Karwa as he left the bedroom. “He’s asleep. I’m going to call in at the workshop

and also Martek’s house. If he wants something, you’ll have to find me.”

His nephew agreed, though it would be a nuisance for him. It was the only compromise that worked

—T’meen refused to have another male come near him. If his paznit former grooming mate ever showed his

cowardly face again, Gredar was going to inflict some necessary pain in revenge for the mess he’d made. But

Filwui was lying low, and Gredar’s mother had decided to leave the question of reparation until T’meen was

recovered and Gredar could be spared from his side. That time was fast approaching. T’meen was healing

quickly, and apparently determined not to be helpless any longer than he needed to be.

He had been neglecting his work for nearly ten sun passes—three since T’meen had woken properly,

his fever gone, though he was still weak and tired. Gredar only felt a little guilty for avoiding the pottery—

not much was going on there. Deep winter, when firewood was needed for heating and could not be spared

for the kilns, was their quiet season, fortunately. The flurry of gatherings that came after snow melt, would

see them frantic, but that was some time away. There was always work, but now was the time for designing

new patterns, trying out ideas for new pieces. His constant attendance wasn’t needed. He stopped long

enough to see Larat’s plan for a household pattern, intended as trade goods, and made some minor

suggestions, then he trudged through the new snow down to Martek’s house.

Their historian greeted him with surprise as Gredar shook his fur clean and wiped his feet at the door.

“I expected you some time ago, young Gredar.” Gredar smiled at the ‘young’—still, Martek was fourteen

cycles older, he was entitled. “I’ve heard strange things about your pet jopa—I assume you’ve come to talk

to me about him, or are you finally ready to plan the singing?”

“The singing has to wait, Martek, and he’s no jopa. Can we sit?”

Since he’d been a kitling, he’d always loved this house with its many books and curious artefacts. It

had been the house of the clan’s historians for more than two hundred cycles, and was nearly the oldest

building in the settlement, the work of many hands, the treasury of many memories. Gredar had known

Martek all his life, had been his grooming mate at times when other company had not been tempting—

Martek was an undemanding lover, but for his age, still sprightly and satisfying.

Martek served them hot pkite in mugs of Gredar’s own making, a subtle compliment that was typical

of him. “Jilen told me what happened while you were away. A sad business, though I suppose it doesn’t

surprise me. Filwui has been ruled by his appetite since he was born. She...ah...said that your jopa...speaks?”

“He’s not a jopa. I don’t know what he is, but yes, he speaks. He and I have already learned a few

words of each other’s tongue, just in three sun passes.” Martek sat back on his haunches in surprise. “That’s

why I need your help. I can barely pronounce his words, or him, mine. But he can write, so I presume he can

read.”

Martek shook his head. “Read? Write? An animal? Are you sure you’re not letting your fancy run

away with you?”

Gredar growled. “No, I’m not.”

“Perhaps I should come examine him myself.”

“Yes, eventually. Right now, he won’t allow it. Filwui and Buhi have terrorised him too thoroughly.

He’ll let me assist him, a little, and he’ll allow Jilen to tend him—no one else.”

“I see,” Martek said, sounding slightly offended. “And what of Kadit?”

“She’s leaving it to me. She’s aware the situation needs careful handling. Martek, you can believe me

or not, but all I was after was some paper, a slate, and some instructional books, if you can spare them.”

“I’m not sure I should let a jopa....”

Tired and distressed from days of watching T’meen suffer, Gredar lost his ability to stay calm. His

ears flattened in real anger and he barely stopped himself from hissing. “Does he look like any jopa you’ve

ever seen? He doesn’t have a tail or a taeng, or fur—he doesn’t even sound like them!”

Martek’s ears flattened a little as well. “Respect me, kitling.”

His tail tapped angrily, waiting. Gredar pulled in his temper. “I apologise. I’m...tired. Martek, I’ll

happily let you speak to him but he’s still unwell. I promise you he won’t harm the books,” he said, hoping

T’meen wouldn’t decide to take out his anger on them as he had Gredar’s table.

“Hmmm. I’ll hold you to that. Wait there.” Martek left the room, presumably to the small classroom

where Gredar had himself learned his writings, as had generations of daiyne before and after him. Gredar

sipped his pkite and wondered how he could convince Martek that he wasn’t deluded. Jilen still doubted,

even though T’meen had gravely introduced himself and repeated her name after she said it. Some jopas had

a gift for mimicry, and she thought that was all it was. But she hadn’t seen T’meen as much as Gredar had,

seen him intelligently and logically deal with his present situation and illness, and how he had tried to talk to

Gredar in his own tongue. A frustrating business for both of them, but worse for T’meen since he was just

one and Gredar had his whole clan to support him.

Martek was away some time, and Gredar had drunk another mug of pkite before he returned, laden

with items he set on the table before Gredar. “I had to search for chalks small enough for your jopa...oh,

don’t look at me like that, what shall I call him? He’s not a daiyne.”

“His name is T’meen. I don’t know what he calls his race.”