Mort squatted on his heels with an unconscious grace, his eyes scanning the landscape for sign of the ratten he'd been tracking for most of the brightday. He could feel the heat of Sol Alphus, the larger of Chabar's two suns, beating down on the back of his neck, sending little rivulets of sweat down into his already sodden shirt. A small sardonic smile crept over his face. All this effort for a dinner that would have most people turning up their noses in disgust. Then again, most people didn't know just how tasty seared ratten filet was when it was rubbed down with just the right herbs and basted in butter sauce.

Mort's sharp gaze focused on a stunted ember bush nearby, gauging whether it had recently been disturbed. The peculiar balances struck by nature always fascinated him. For a ratten, the nocuous thorns and oily leaves of an ember bush provided shelter, but to nearly any other creature they were an agonizing burning experience that would never be forgotten.

Mort stood quietly and carefully, nocked arrow to bow, and slowly closed his eyes — bright blue eyes that would be too large in a human face. He inhaled deeply, filling his senses with scent and sound, and let the heat and any other distractions fall away from his awareness. He exhaled slowly, ever so slowly, until there was nothing but sound and scent. His oddly pointed ears quivered, swiveling slightly forward and back as his senses tested his surroundings. He continued like that for several moments, ears twitching and moving almost like a cat's — a peculiar trait that only half-bloods like himself possessed. It was also the trait that earned half-bloods the disparaging nickname "Sha'aroosh", or mongrel, by the full blood Chataraini.

The faintest rustling of leaves, a nearly imperceptible scrape of claw on sand, and then the thwip-hiss as Mort let the arrow fly. There was a brief chirp, abruptly cut off as the arrow took the ratten. Mort opened his eyes and spotted his target, and then counted paces as he stepped off the distance to the dead ratten. His arrow was buried just behind the ratten's head at twenty-seven paces. Mort allowed himself a little self-congratulatory grin — that was a new record for him. Even the full bloods couldn't blind hunt as well as the mongrels. Maybe it wasn't much, but it was still a source of pride for a half-blood like himself. Mort picked up the ratten gingerly by its prehensile tail, examining it carefully to ensure that none of the corrosive ember oil had gotten smeared on the armor. The creature had a narrow, beady-eyed face with a mouth full of sharp gnawing teeth, and a blunt, short body covered in a chitinous shell. It was certainly ugly by anyone's standards, but that thick body was full of sweet, succulent meat, if you knew how to prepare it. They'd eat well tonight!

Mort glanced up at the setting sun, just now beginning to sink below the World's Spine far off to the south. If he could see the outline of those jagged mountains at this distance, he could only imagine how tall they must truly be. He stuffed the ratten in his hunting pack and turned back to the north with a sigh. Sol Betus, the smaller of the binary suns, was just beginning to peek its dim blue-white face over the northern horizon. It would be gloaming soon, that time when it was neither fully bright nor completely dark, and it was generally not a great time to be out alone on the Arish plains. The damned ratten had drawn him out farther than he'd meant to go. He'd be home late, and there would be a lecture from his father waiting for him when he got there. Mort shook his head, gave another resigned sigh, and headed toward home.

It was full gloaming by the time Mort reached the house that he shared with his father, and the shadows had grown deep. It wasn't much of a house, really — more just a framework of rough-hewn boards held together by prayers and only the gods knew what else. He could see light flickering through the shutters in the gloom. His breath puffed steam in the swiftly cooling air. It always amazed Mort how very chilly it could get at gloaming out here on the plains, even with a sun up in the sky. He turned, looking around at the rocky terrain that had become his home, delaying for a few more moments before he had to go inside. By now, Pa would be well into the bottle and letting his memories swarm him again.

"Might as well get on with it," he muttered to the gloom.

Mort stepped up to the door and eased it open, making the old leather hinges creak faintly. As he'd expected, his father was where he nearly always was at this time of the gloaming, sitting with his chair facing the door, a bottle of homemade garja on the table next to him, and a glass in his hand. Garja was a type of cactus found in this area that made quite a flavorful and potent alcohol, and Mortigan senior had become a master distiller of it. People sent orders from all of the local villages for it. Lamentably, Mortigan senior was also his own best customer.

Father pinned son with a watery gaze. "I'd rather you got in before gloaming… you know it's not safe out there when Alphus is down. Prowlers come out then."

"I know Pa, the ratten took me farther out than I thought." He held up the dead ratten, as though it might vouch for him. “I didn't notice how late it was 'til I had him in my pack.”

The senior Mortigan dropped his gaze and took a sip of garja. "I know you can take care of yourself, boy, I just worry. I don't need you ending up as prowler shit." He took another sip. "We have a delivery tomorrow. Old man Tinkson is having his eldest daughter's wedding, and he wants a dozen bottles. That's gonna clean me out."

Mort looked at the bottle on the table at his father's elbow. “Almost,” he thought sadly.

Mortigan senior swallowed the last of the drink in his glass with a toss of his head. "I have a feeling most of it's for the groom. You remember what Zala looks like, you know what I mean. Gods be merciful! I never thought a man would get so desperate for a woman's company that he'd marry that girl. Got her mother’s disposition, and..." He shuddered dramatically as he poured from the bottle and took another drink. "I hope he's handsome enough, or it'll be two ugly people thumping up a whole new generation of ugly people. It could end up being an endless cycle."

Mort scowled and gave a disapproving shake of his head. "I'd better get this ratten cooking," he said shortly. He walked past the table and tossed the ratten down on the small counter in what passed for the kitchen area.

"I'll give you a hand." Mort heard the chair scraping behind him, and a brief curse as his father nearly fell over backwards in his chair.

"I got it, Pa. I'll have it cooking in no time. You just sit still."

"Plenty of butter sauce?" The old man's tone seemed to brighten. "It's always best with lots of butter sauce!"

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"As much as I can whip up, Pa." Which made Mort wonder how much longer their old nanny goat would be giving milk. Buttervine was pretty tasty, sure, but there was just no substitute for the real thing sometimes. Maybe he could get old man Tinkson to give up a kid as partial payment for the liquor. He ought to be in an expansive mood after all, with the wedding going on.

Mort tested the edge of his boning knife with his thumb, then stropped it a few times on a rough leather strap hanging nearby. His hands worked quickly and deftly, with the surety of much practice, and the ratten's armor began to come apart as he worked.

He stopped and stared speculatively at his hands for a moment. The fingers were long, like those of a full blood, nearly half again as long as a human's. But unlike the full bloods, whose hands were slender and graceful, his fingers were thick and heavy like a human's. His lip curled imperceptibly. Just another trait of the Sha'aroosh. He'd had to wrap extra leather around the handles of all the knives just so he could maintain a better grip. He clenched his hands into tight fists, until they looked almost like heavy, bone-knuckled hammers. Quite a few would-be bullies had learned not to call him "mongrel" to his face, or those hammers would be put to very good use.

"Mort, be home before gloaming next time." Mort could hear the slur in his father’s speech. "I couldn't stand to lose you, too. Promise me."

He stolidly went back to work on the ratten, clenching his teeth. "I promise, Pa. I promise."

--

Mort cleared the dishes and cutlery from the table and put them in the wash bucket. His father already had his head down on his arm on the table, and was snoring gently. Mort took the empty cup and garja bottle from his Pa's hand and put them in the wash bucket with the rest. He went to the fireplace and swung the pot with the last of the day's stew away from the fire. It looked like there was enough left to last Pa for the brightday it would take Mort to deliver the garja shipment to the Tinkson homestead.

Mort sighed and leaned his head against his arm on the mantle, letting weariness and melancholy wash over him for a moment. Sometimes he felt like each day was just the same as the one before it, which blended into the one following it, and life just droned on. The suns rose and sank, the heat came and went, the garja was made and drank. Every day, every week, every month, and every season. Mort vented another sigh and straightened, chastising himself. He took a lantern, his pipe, and his chertweed pouch off the mantle, and walked silently past his sleeping father and out the door into the cool air of gloaming. Stepping off the porch, he breathed deep of the fragrant air, then went to the well and drew up a bucket of water. He removed his shirt and pants, and splashed the chilly water over himself to wash away the day's grime. Finally, he dunked his head in the bucket and scrubbed his thick brown hair. He heard his father's oft-repeated admonition in his head, "We might be poor, but by the gods we don't have to be dirty!"

Mort drew up some more water to wash out his shirt and pants, and then stretched them on the edge of the well to dry over the gloamday while he slept. He sat naked on the ground, disregarding the chill, and leaned back against the well's edge. He took up the pipe and pouch of chertweed, and stuffed the bowl full of the pungent and spicy herb. He used a twig lit from the lantern to ignite his pipe. He pulled in a deep slow draw of the aromatic and slightly acrid smoke, followed by a gradual exhalation. Another long puff, and Mort could begin to feel the effects of the chertweed creep across his limbs, relaxing him, calming his tensed up muscles bit by bit. Some people considered chertweed a bad habit, but Mort saw no harm in it. It did little more than relax the body and relieve some of the aches of the day. He even knew of healers that used it on their patients to help them combat pain.

Another draw, then he leaned his head back and exhaled into the twilight above his head. He watched the smoke dissipate as he scanned the stars in the gloaming sky. Mort had always wondered if there was someone out there in those little pinpricks of light studying the sky like he so often did. Did they too dream of worlds far away? Of lives different than scraping out a bare living in the scrubs?

Draw and exhale. Drifting smoke formed tiny, writhing serpent battles in the air.

Mort hoped whoever might be out there dreaming would have their dreams come true. A fine home, a fine wife, a fine family. He wished them all the best, whomever and wherever they might be. His introspective gaze returned chabarward as he looked to his own house. Perhaps it wasn't the finest home, but it kept out the rain and wind well enough. A fine wife? It was possible. He secretly had his hopes set on Tinkson's middle daughter, Myana. She wasn't a queen, but then he was certainly no prince! And she was always kind to him when most others shunned him because of his blood. A fine family? Mort's mouth drew down to a frown, and his teeth clamped down on the pipe stem. A half-blood passing that curse, that hardship along to his children? That would never happen. No place for the tainted ones in this world! Mort looked down at his over-large hands and clenched them into giant fists again. He leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and drifted into reminiscence.

In his memory, Mort could see her standing on the porch of their house back in the village. He saw her big lavender eyes and shining black hair framing a faintly feline face, with soft, smooth olive skin stretched across long delicate bones. He could see her moving with that uncanny grace that made even the most mundane tasks look like an elegant dance. He also remembered getting angry so often as a child, clenching his hands into tight fists when the others would make fun of him and call him bad names. But she would take his big hands into her slender ones and gently pull the fists back open, kissing each palm.

"So much anger in my little man," she would say as she pulled him up to her lap and kissed his brow. "A fist destroys things, my love, it is a hammer that breaks."

"I didn't break anything Momma! I swear, Momma!" Mort looked at his mother with wide eyes. She smiled a smile made of sunshine, then laughed lightly with her deep, throaty laugh. Mort loved that sound, it always made him feel safe. It made him feel... accepted.

"No, my little darling boy, you didn't break anything. But a fist is made for breaking, Mort, it is for anger and causing harm. And a fist on one so young breaks your Momma's heart. An open hand is used for creating, and that makes your Momma's heart sing!"

Mort thought about that as he leaned his head on his mother's chest, listening to the heartbeat there. She began to rock him gently.

"Why am I different Momma? Why can't I be like you or Poppa?"

She ceased rocking for a moment, then started back again. Mort couldn't see her eyes with his head against her breast.

"How many plants are there out in the fields, Morty?"

"I don't know, Momma, maybe a ba-jillion!" He turned his big eyes to the field outside, where the growing season was in full bloom.

"Are all of them the same?"

"No, Momma, there must be a zillion different ones."

"Which is your favorite?"

Mort thought long and hard. "The blue creeper vine, Momma! It makes good berries."

Shashara smiled down at her son. "And what about all the others? The buttervine or the yryt bush? Without those, we'd have no butter sauce or the tea you like so much."

"Yah! I like them too!"

"You see, Mort? Everything is special in its own way, and needed just the way it is. You are the best parts of your Poppa and me. You are a special little man, and one day you'll be a special big man!" She smiled again and hugged him tight. Mort thought about what she’d said. He liked the thought of being special. He didn't know why the villagers hated him or his Momma so much, but maybe it didn't matter, because they were just who they were supposed to be.