[Barsoom] A Boy And His Thoatling, Part The Second

[we_dont_fly]

It's just before nightfall when the Thark hunting party returns to the ancient ruins known as the Old City. The settlement, once full of grand buildings with huge columns and broad paved plazas, was now home to the Thark Clan of Barsoom's green men. Since the war between Helium and Zodanga had ended, the Thark had taken their place as the biggest, most stable clan in the South under the guidance of the strongest tactician and most feared warrior in the entire Warhoon.

Tars Tarkas paces the stones in front of his encampment. The women have tried to bring him water, to bring him food. He will have none of it. If Dejah Thoris thinks he kidnapped one of her people, she will raze this place to the sand to get him back. The boy must be returned home and in one piece.

How in the seven hells they got separated, he has no idea. One moment he was riding and that stupid magical pocket universe opened up and swallowed him. The thoatling followed them through, and the crechemate* that had bonded to the little one almost stomped the boy into a grease stain. When they'd ran, Tars had watched the sky open up and swallow both boy and thoatling.

It had taken him half a day to make it back here, and the moment he did, he'd sent out riders. If he didn't return soon, he was going to have to swallow his pride and contact Helium. They would lend flyers to the search. Hopefully the boy had survived the night.

Alone. On the Warhoon. With only a thoatling to keep him company.


The cry goes up from the perimeter and ripples through the settlement. One of his lieutenants comes running through the crowd.

"Riders! And they have the boy! He's alive!"

"Praise Issus. Bring him here to me. He is to be treated with respect. Else Helium will see us ended."

"As you will it, my Jeddak! Right away!"


*Thark have words for mother and father. They just don't use them in polite company.

Comments

[hate_gettin_older]

"Well, it was that or let it get its stupid self killed every five fuckin minutes," Edgar snarks, "would that have been better? I mean I hate to think I overstepped myself here."

[we_dont_fly]

The Jeddak's laugh is rich, if somewhat graveled. "They can be hard to keep alive, it's true. But you managed. The Clan owes you a debt."

[hate_gettin_older]

"... yeah?" That manages to sound part intrigued and part uneasy. "What kind of a debt? I mean, I don't know fuckin anything about how you do things here."

[we_dont_fly]

"It means you should still talk less and listen more, at least when there are others around," Tars says, "and keep your eyes open, always. I may be Jeddak, but I can't protect you if you -- how would your friend put it? 'Fuck up.'"

[hate_gettin_older]

"Okay," he says slowly, "fair. What happens now? And can you get me back to -- where we met?"

[we_dont_fly]

"Now? We sit. We eat and drink. We rest. And we consider our next steps."

It's clear from the tone of his voice, Tars has no idea how to answer Edgar's question.

[hate_gettin_older]

And that causes a twist of definite unease in Edgar's stomach. What if he can't get back? What if he's stuck here?

(Could they find Dejah, so at least she could tell Curtis?)

"All right," he says, very low.

[we_dont_fly]

"Do not be concerned, Sark-Iljat. If there is a way, we will find it. Come. Have something to eat. You must be starving by now."

He gestures to Edgar to follow and he leads him through the encampment. There are probably a couple hundred Thark men and women going about their evening duties. The women are lighting the torches and the men are cleaning a multitude of weapons, from swords to strange looking long guns. They walk passed a cooking fire, and there's an animal roasting on a spit. It looks like it might have been a smaller thoat, but it's already blackened from the heat and whatever the woman cooking it is ladling over it. Another camp seems to be bustling with women tending to injured warriors.

When they pass the thoat pens, there's a familiar wonk from somewhere in the paddock. There's some grunting and a few of the larger thoats seem to be confused as the thoatling pushes under and through them, muttering under its breath.

WONK! Nitwit finally manages to get to the fenceline and is dancing on four front feet, clearly trying to get Edgar's attention.

[hate_gettin_older]

It takes Edgar a moment to realize what he's watching, when they pass the cooking fire -- he's heard of the process, but never actually seen anyone cook something before. It's the smell of roasting meat that makes the association click in his head, and abruptly he's ravenous.

But not so much as to ignore the familiar wonk up ahead. He breaks into a smile and jogs the few steps toward the fence, reaching through to pat Nitwit behind the horn nubs.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars watches as he goes, unable to keep the tiny smile from turning up the corner of his mouth. Dotar Sojat would be proud.

Nitwit grumbles and head butts Edgar through the fence. A few of the older throats crowd in to see if Edgar has food.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Yeah, yeah, good to see you too, you great ugly beast." His tone is unmistakably fond, as he scratches the tough hide behind the horns.

He's not sure what to do when the bigger ones crowd in, though. They're only a little less intimidating when they're not actively trying to trample him.

[we_dont_fly]

"Best you don't coddle them all. Then none of them will want to work."

Nitwit buries its face in Edgar's chest. One of the grown thoats lips at Edgar's hair. It smells like moss and dust and big animal.

Tars comes over and leans on one of the rocks they've strung the fence lines between. "They like you."

[hate_gettin_older]

"Yeah?" he says, looking up. "Because Nitwit likes me, or what?"

[we_dont_fly]

"Because you don't beat them with sticks. You are like John Carter. You treat them like, what did he call them? 'Dogs.' Friends of men, not beasts of burden."

[hate_gettin_older]

"The rest of you beat them with sticks?" he says indignantly.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars shrugs. "Or the butt of a sword. If you hit them with your fists, you only break your fingers."

[hate_gettin_older]

"Why d'you need to fuckin hit them at all? They listen just fine if you talk to them enough --"

[we_dont_fly]

The Jeddak crosses his arms across his chest, a look of oh so now you're an expert, hmm? on his face.

"How long is enough, hmm? Should I ask them nicely to please ride in a straight line and do not stop to eat every bite of moss? Should I stand around and tell them to be quiet while the banth stalks us from across the valley? Hmm?" Tars throws up his hands in exasperation. Humans.

"Do not question what you do not understand, Sark-Iljat. Come now, it's time to eat."

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar swallows his retort and follows Tars, pausing only to give Nitwit one last headscratch, and grumbling almost-silently as he goes.

[we_dont_fly]

One of the encampments they pass has a similar fence drawn around it, and there seems to be a great deal of activity inside. Or at least voices. There are several women around and they look up wearily and smile at their Jeddak as he approaches.

"We jah ne tim kaht. Te meel lemket Barsoom?" Tars asks one of the women. She glances at Edgar, clearly wondering if she heard him right.

"Sark-Iljat?"

He nods, putting one huge hand on Edgar's shoulder. "Tah, mek Dotar Sojat."

[hate_gettin_older]

Under his breath and between his teeth: "What are you saying?"

[we_dont_fly]

Tars holds up one of his lower hands in a fist in front of Edgar's face. The universal sign for 'be silent'.

The woman gives her Jeddak a strange look but nods and disappears into one of buildings. It was obviously a grand structure at one point, but now there were thoat hides over the doorways. She emerges a moment later and holds out what appears to be a waterskin to Edgar.

[hate_gettin_older]

With another glance up at Tars, Edgar takes it.

"Do I drink this or what?"

[we_dont_fly]

He gives Edgar a Look.

"This is the Voice of Barsoom. If you want to understand what anyone else is saying around here, then yes, you drink it."

[hate_gettin_older]

"Oh," he says, "excellent, much appreciated, thanks for saying so," and promptly tips up the waterskin for a gulp.