Free Haydn of Mars by Al Sarrantonio Page B

gave you was laced with maroot.   There was enough to kill two men.   But the brunt of it went to the kits, who died as I watched them.   Myra delivered them and I watched while they died cradled in her arms.   I cried!   They will be buried in the morning, if you will allow my own ceremonies instead of your own.   I am told it will be two days before you can rise.”
    He covered his eyes and wept.   “ I am so ashamed .”
    I could feel myself slipping back down into unconsciousness, but I managed to get out, “Don’t be...”
    He walked away without acknowledging my words, and then Hera was awake beside me, putting a wet cloth to my brow as I went back to blackness and dreams of dead children.

Eight
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    Months passed, and winter was gone.
    The moderate equator temperatures were beginning to flee, leaving a dry, blistering heat during the day and little relief at night.   The caravan was packing, readying for the spring trip south and dispersal.   In the end, after the various families of the clan had peeled off to their various ancestral homes, the Mighty would be left with the small band of family and harem he had ruled when I first met him.
    He had become distant in the preceding months, praying much, aloof at other times.   His attitude toward me had not cooled, but it was as if a part of him, out of shame or honor or something else, had been shut off the day I lost my kits.   In the beginning he stayed away out of respect, but after a while I felt there was something else, more deeply rooted, that kept him distant.
    But I had not spent my time looking at the past.   Each day I set aside a time for grief, and indulged myself.   But I found that, as the weeks went on, the time I needed became less and less.   The kits I had never known would always hold a place in my heart, but it was as if that hollow hole was mending, leaving a tight, hard scar behind.
    The rest of my time was well spent, also.   I learned all I could about the ways of these nomads.   Myra and I had grown as close as sisters, and I learned much about cooking from her and a fellow lately arrived named Hermes who, of all the clan, might be considered a chef.   There were spices he used, gathered in his trips to the north, that were unknown even to Myra, and I watched with much amusement as she tried to glean these secrets from him with everything from flattery to threats of force.   All the while Hermes would laugh, shaking his ample belly (he did like his own cooking) and waggle a claw-bitten finger at her.
    â€œNever!   Ne- ver will you find that out!   Disguise yourself, Myra!   Sneak up north like I did!”   And then he would throw back his head and laugh as she hurled curses at him.
    My body healed slowly, but well.   In the end I became hard and strong, my face weathered and my muscles taut.   I learned to ride much better, and I learned how to use weapons, and how to fight with my claws and my teeth if need be.   I immersed myself in these things in the beginning to forget – but, after a while, when my heart began to heal also, I found that I gained a new strength from them.
    When the Mighty and I did talk during dinner, it was not the same as before.   I found that I missed these exchanges, and tried to re-ignite their fervor, but always he seemed to have his mind on other things.   In the end I decided that we had become like a couple married too long.   There was nothing left to say.
    I didn’t really believe this, of course.
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    We had our first real discussion since the loss of my kits on the evening before departure.   The wagons were loaded, the horses weighted with booty and foodstuffs, the tents packed.   We would sleep this night under the stars.   The sun had just set, leaving a deep purple mantle across the west.   It was a beautiful twilight.   Overhead Phobos moved like a slow tiny beacon.