It’s too early to even think of that kind of commitment.
Shut your big mouth, Otis Cane.
I pin my lips, my tusks tight on either side of my mouth, and focus on driving. The road starts to wind between high rock walls as we leave the main trading area of level one.
After a moment, her hand sneaks across and lands on my thigh, and her fingers give a little squeeze.
I look down at her pretty human fingers on the rough material of my jeans. It feels like she isn’t rejecting my words,that maybe, with that silent squeeze, she’s telling me she might like the thought of marrying a monster.
I curl my big fingers over hers, and we drive like this, in companionable silence, her little white hand resting on my leg, my big green orc hand engulfing it, and my mind buzzing with the possibilities of what the future could hold for us both.
CLEM.
When Otis draws up the jeep, I look out the window and gasp.
There is an oasis of greenery in front of us.
Trees. Fields. Flowers.
Looking upward, the rock wall is barely visible, covered as it is in trailing grapevines.
“Welcome to the orchards.” Otis lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it.
“They look like they go for miles.”
“They do. This area has to feed all ten levels of the Labyrinth with fresh fruit and vegetables.”
“And berries,” I add.
“Yeah, at this time of year there are loads of berries.”
“How do the berries know what time of year it is?”
Otis scratches a tusk. “I dunno. Vibrations from Earth’s crust, maybe? No-one really knows for sure, we’re just happy to have berries.”
We hop out of the jeep and walk along a gravel pathway.
The air is full of the heady scent of flowers and ripening fruit. I hear buzzing.
“Bees!” I exclaim.
“Stripys, we call them. You’ll see why,” Otis replies.
I do see, as one lands on a flower nearby. I go over and gaze at it in awe. Yes, it’s stripy, but the stripes are a bright iridescent turquoise interspersed with black, except at the neck, where the little critter sports a golden ruff. They are far more beautiful than the cultivated bees we have back in Sparkle, which live in plastic hives.
The stripy takes off and hovers near my face, its little gossamer wings fluttering fast, and the bags on its legs stuffed full of pollen. It has a cute snub-nosed face, and huge dark blue eyes.
“Oh, you are so cute.” I turn to Otis. “Do they sting?”
“No, they’re totally harmless, and their honey is delicious.”
I smile as the stripy zooms away to another flower, and we continue to wind our way through the fields. Monsters carrying baskets pass us, their mouths stained dark red from eating berries.
“Folks come and pick fruit here on weekends,” Otis explains. “Or if they don’t feel like doing the work, they can buy them at the stalls.”
As if to prove the point, he strides over to a stall and buys us a punnet of mixed blueberries and strawberries from the vendor, a little mouse-like critter with big papery ears.
“What species are they?” I ask him when he returns.
