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Authors: Michael Rubens

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BOOK: The Sheriff of Yrnameer
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He took a deep breath and said, “You know, I’m really not the right person to—,” just as she said, “I think it’s really great what you’re doing, Cole.”

He stopped.

“What?” he said.

“I feel much better knowing you’re around.”

“Ah,” he said, feeling much worse.

“What did you just say?” she asked.

“When?”

“Before. When I was talking.”

“Oh. Uh, I’m really not a night person.”

There was a big boulder near the gate with a flat, smooth top, the perfect spot to clamber up and lie down and watch the night sky. Which was what they were doing.

“What about the twins, Daric and Deron?” asked Cole.

“One became a minister. The other ended up in jail, I think,” said MaryAnn. “I’m not sure which did what.”

“Susan Parker?”

“Still on Longest Island,” said MaryAnn. “Married, two kids, that sort of thing.”

“Your folks?”

“Still there, too, wondering why I’m not there, and not married with two kids.”

“Why aren’t you?”

She turned her head to look at him.

“What?” he said innocently. “What happened to that guy? What was his name—Blark? Glerg? Blargh?”

“His name was Kent,” she said, “and he was very nice, thank you very much, and that was high school, Cole.”

Above them a meteor streaked across the sky.

“You see that?” he asked.

“I saw it.”

“You remember how we’d sit in Heights Park on the slide and watch the stars, wonder when we’d get out of Longest Island?”

“I remember. And I remember that when you left, you never said good-bye.”

“I didn’t say good-bye?”

She turned to look at him again.

“I guess I didn’t. Sorry. It was a long time ago,” he said. “So … you never found anyone else?”

“There was someone, for a while,” she said. “It ended … badly. I guess that’s one of the reasons I came here, to get away.”

“Can I ask what happened?”

“Let’s just say he was dishonest with me. It hurt me terribly. I’m still recovering, really. Don’t you think honesty is the most important thing in a relationship?”

“Oh, absolutely,” said Cole.

“Me, too. It’s vital. Lying destroys everything.”

“Yes. Terrible. Lying.” And at that moment he decided that from that point forward he would be completely honest with her, no matter what, and with that decision he felt a wave of relief wash over him, as if he’d finally relinquished a heavy load. No more lying. Honesty.

“So, all this time, you’ve been working with people like Nora and Philip?” she asked.

“Uh …,” he said.

“Because I think that’s wonderful, if that’s what you’ve been doing. Intergalactic relief work.”

“Well, it’s not really … I mean …”

“The dedication and hard work it must require.”

“I’m not sure that—”

“I just really respect you for it. It’s very … well, I guess there’s something very attractive about it,” she said, and smiled again.

“Well, it’s a calling, I guess.”

Honesty could wait.

They sat for a while longer, not talking much, until MaryAnn said, “Well, I should probably …”

“Right,” said Cole. “I’ll walk you home. Could be dangerous out here. Bandits. You know.”

They walked unhurriedly through the village to her home, a modest, two-story cottage on a side street. At the door there was a minor bout of awkward sentence fragments and confused, out-of-sync positioning for handshakes or hugs or cheek kisses, brought to a conclusion when she planted a loud, misaimed peck directly on his ear canal.

“Good night, Cole,” she said.

“Good night, MaryAnn.”

She gave a shy, girlish wave and smiled and shut the door. A moment later and the lights went off.

He stood for a full two minutes, rubbing his ear, thinking, then slowly raised his other hand, poised to knock on the door.

“Pushing your luck, don’t you think?”

Cole emitted a tiny, involuntary yipping noise, then took a moment to compose himself before turning around.

“You’re up late, Nora,” he said.

“Seems to be going around.”

She was leaning, arms crossed, in the open doorway of the cottage directly across the street. She gestured with her chin toward MaryAnn’s house.

“That was fast,” she said.

“Just doing my duty as sheriff, escorting a young lady home.”

“Mmm.”

“We’re old friends, Nora.”

“Mmm.” She seemed amused.

There was a gentle breeze. Crickets or something similar chirruped, a soft, pulsing aural layer. Any threat seemed unimaginably distant. Cole realized he’d barely spoken to Nora since … well, since their time together in the cargo hold.

“How have you been?” he asked.

“Good. You?”

“Good,” he said. “Nice night,” he said after a pause.

“Mmm.”

“Mmm,” echoed Cole. He carefully nudged a pebble a few inches to the left and then back a few inches to the right with the toe of his boot, still amazed that the soil didn’t try to sell him something.

“She seems like a very nice person,” said Nora after observing him for a bit.

He glanced up from his pebble adjusting. “… So what’s she doing being acquainted with me?”

Nora gave a small shrug and head shake, as if to say that wasn’t what she meant or didn’t care about the answer. He went back to repositioning the pebble. She snorted softly. “‘Acquainted,’” she said.

“Mmm,” grunted Cole, turning his attention to another pebble.

He had located a third pebble and united it with the other two when Nora spoke up again. “People are very excited that you’re here,” she said. “They’ve all been asking me about you.”

“Yeah? What do you tell them?”

“I tell them you’re full of surprises.”

He looked back up at her, trying unsuccessfully to determine the import of that statement. She smiled blandly at him, not offering any clues. He glanced back at MaryAnn’s cottage, then at Nora’s, the two structures nearly identical.

“You live here?” he asked.

“When I’m not on the farm.”

Cole nodded, silently filing that information under the category of Items Likely to Cause Problems in the Future.

“That’s where Joshua is, in case you’ve been wondering,” said Nora. “He’s too young to be your deputy, Cole.”

“Of course,” said Cole. “And where’s Philip?”

She paused.

“On the farm.”

Cole nodded again.

He looked up at the stars and in- and exhaled a deep breath of night air, surprised by what he was feeling, and also thinking: I shouldn’t.

He was still thinking it as he kicked the carefully arranged pebbles away, and reiterating the thought as he meandered across the street toward her, Nora watching him take the eight or ten loose, relaxed strides that brought him to where he could rest his hand on the stuccoed wall next to her door.

He smiled at her, then checked MaryAnn’s cottage again. The lights were off, the curtains drawn.

He
really
shouldn’t.

“Speaking of pushing my luck …,” he said.

There was a long moment as he waited, listening to the insects thrumming, trying once again to read Nora’s expression. Then she stepped back wordlessly, her eyes locked on his, and he was so surprised that he was frozen for a moment, not daring to follow her inside.

Which was good, because what she did next was to reach back behind her for the doorknob and shut the door in his face. Not fast, but with a measured, deliberate motion, slowing even more for the last few inches as if to underline her point, still looking him in the eye as the pillar of light narrowed to a crack and then a sliver and then disappeared. The latch made a soft double click.

“I told you so,” muttered Cole.

Later, after he had walked away, Nora opened her door again slightly and peered through the crevice. Then she quietly closed it again.

Cole stayed in his bunk in the ship for what little remained of that night, tossing and turning in the heat, unable to get the aircon to function properly.

What had he been
thinking?
It was the night air, he decided, and
the stars, and the moons. And the stupidity. He slapped himself around figuratively and a few times literally, and then fell into a restless half sleep, tormented by confused dreams where it was MaryAnn shutting the door on him, her expression full of wounded reproach.

He let Bacchi out of the cell the next day, after it became clear that not doing so would require Cole to empty a chamber pot. Kpotam, the artist who created the jail, had been delighted to have an actual occupant, and inquired politely but insistently as to whether or not it might be possible to keep Bacchi in for a little bit longer. When Cole raised the chamber-pot issue, Kpotam argued that not emptying it would be even better, as it would place in sharp relief the plight of the prisoner. When Cole suggested that perhaps Kpotam could share the cell with Bacchi to further accentuate that point, the hunched little creature decided that Bacchi’s short stay had likely been sufficient to achieve his artistic objectives and that it would be better to leave the audience clamoring for more. Cole agreed that seemed wise.

There wasn’t, however, any place available for Bacchi to stay, so Cole ended up giving him the keys to the jail cell and told him use the bathroom at one of the several coffee shops on Main Street—either that, or empty the chamber pot himself. Cole assumed Kpotam would be happy to at least have a part-time lodger in the cell, but Kpotam opined that this undercut the important message of the piece and stalked off muttering to himself.

Cole spent the rest of the day puttering around on the ship. The next morning he got up early and thought about going to visit MaryAnn, but decided that his luck had been pushed and poked and prodded enough for the time being. Instead he decided to use the day to explore the village, figuring that if he spotted MaryAnn, well, great; and if he spotted Nora, well, he could hide.

The streets of Yrnameer were cobbled and well maintained. Some were narrow and winding, the buildings close enough that you could hold hands across the street from wrought-iron balconies that were draped with flowers. There were rainspouts and rain barrels and handmade weather vanes on the roofs. Most of the buildings were one or two stories, except for a larger one at the end of a cul-de-sac that he found out belonged to the sembluk It looked somehow out of place—too big, too modern, too perfect.

He saw several bi-, tri- and quadricycles, including one whose rider necessitated six pedals. There were wagons and people riding baiyos. He did not see a single powered vehicle, nor evidence of any advertising.

In addition to the coffee shops, there were, by his count, four used-book stores selling real books, twelve galleries, three jewelry stores, two studios offering pan-species yoga, and at least five places offering massage and the most alternative in alternative health care. There were several small restaurants whose menus either mystified or revolted him or both.

There was also a simple one-room diner that smelled encouragingly of greasy, comforting food and had a long white counter, stained and chipped in all the right places, lined with stools engineered to allow for a proper 360 degrees of rotation.

When Cole entered the place around midmorning, it seemed deserted. Then some sort of sensory organ extended itself up from behind the counter and a raspy voice asked what he’d be having.

“Can you do eggs?”

“Of course I can do eggs,” said the voice. “What kind?”

“Uh, over medium?”

Raspy sighed. “I mean, what
kind
of eggs? From what?”

After a short discussion Cole determined that Raspy Voice was the owner of the diner and had a name like a hiccup. Further investigation revealed that the diner did indeed serve eggs of the avian variety, that those eggs were delicious, and that Raspy was appropriately brusque and grumpy, which Cole found as comforting as the food. Cole decided he’d be returning on a daily basis.

Other than Raspy, the citizens of Yrnameer were the warmest, friendliest people he had ever met. They waved to him on the street and engaged him in conversation, and seemed genuinely interested in his replies. Not once did a chat end without an expression of gratitude for his presence. Everyone exuded an almost visible aura of tranquillity.

It was a pleasant, peaceful place. The air smelled good. Good in a natural way, not in the artificially scented manner of an advanced planet with an atmospheric cleaning system. Real birds chirped. When he smelled baiyo poop, it was genuine, not there to add character. It all made him feel very nervous.

˙  ˙  ˙

Late in the afternoon, the sun still hot, he wandered by a florist’s. The vegetation crowding the picture window was so dense that he could barely see the interior of the shop. As he marveled at the exotic plants, he was startled to see one of them beckoning to him.

A tiny bell dinged as he entered. The air smelled even better inside than out. It was very quiet. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes.

“Careful, Sheriff,” said an elderly but confident female voice. “There’s a reason they call some scents intoxicating.”

BOOK: The Sheriff of Yrnameer
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