Alone. With babies.
Dalan burped. Orval shifted him to his other shoulder. “At least now, I am wise to your tricks, young man,” Orval said as he patted Dalan’s back and waited for the child to burp again.
He started pacing back and forth; the rhythm of his limp always seemed to help rock the babes. As he walked, he looked around his kitchen.
Had it only been weeks? The changes Amari had made had been rather amazing. Gone from the kitchen were his piles of books and scrolls. Room had been found for them elsewhere. Clean linens and crockery—all of which had been there before, in a jumble—were now placed where they could be seen and used. The pantry shelves held more than just his pease porridge.
On the hearth mantel, above the oven, Amari had created a small shrine to the Harmony of the Hearth. It wasn’t much, really. Amari had taken a blank piece of parchment and with a quick and steady hand, had drawn two hands with their fingers intertwined.
“You can draw?” he’d asked, and she’d blushed and denied it. But he suspected she had more skill than the simple sketch showed.
She’d propped the parchment up with one of his smaller copper lanterns. Every morning, she’d light the lantern, recite a prayer, and then extinguish the flame. Orval smiled. Sometimes she was fairly rushed doing it, as one child or another cried. But even in a harried state, she was always lovely.
Dalan burped, loud and long.
“Finally,” Orval started back toward the privy. “Not much time. A clean-up and then a nice nap, if the skies allow.”
He peeked in on Lara, sleeping peacefully in her basket, then gathered fresh nappies and swaddling blanket and started to work.
“Now, remember, you have to do your share of the work,” Orval said as he stripped off the dirty nappy, covering Dalan to prevent getting pissed on.
Dalan chortled, then yawned, waving his arms.
“You need to go to sleep, just like we told your momma you would,” Orval said. “There’s a bit of research I want to do, back in my shelves. But first,” he took each tiny foot in his hands and started to pump those baby legs. “Let’s see if you—”
Dalan chortled and messily farted.
“Whew,” Orval leaned back, waving his hand in front of his face. “There we go,” he said, and started over with fresh cloths.
Dalan focused on him, his tiny arms moving as he yawned. They had started weaning him from the swaddling.Wean him.“Who knew of such a thing?” Orval asked as he scooped Dalan up. “But your momma does, so now we’re to leave your arms free. Isn’t that something?”
Dalan yawned, a good sign.
The babies grew so fast, every day something new. Skies above, both Dalan and Lara were growing like weeds. They’d soon outgrow those baskets, that was sure. It gave Orval the oddest sense of pride and yet…
He carried Dalan into the bedroom. His sister Lara had talked of her pending child and Orval had looked forward to having a niece or nephew to spoil. But the Sweat had taken that away.
There were times when the babies made him want to retreat into the comfort of his shelves, his books and scrolls. He wanted to hide from the crying, the screaming, the various bodily fluids that came from every orifice.
But he’d miss them when they were gone.
Dalan’s face wrinkled as Orval set him in his basket. He started to fuss.
“Well, I know what will settle you.” Orval cast an anxious glance at Lara. He reached under Dalan, pulling out the old, tattered copy of theEpic of Xysonfrom below the cushion.
“I will have you know thatThe Epic of Xysonis the most boring epic poem ever written, in the entire history of Xy.” Orval settled in the chair beside the baskets. “Scholars have argued for years over its translation from the archaic Xyian.” He opened the book with a fond smile. “My father gave me this when I was very young. See, it still has my notes, tracing back our family blood line.” Orval shook his head at his childish writing. “He was furious that I wrote in it, but he forgave me when he saw the depth of my research.”
Dalan stared at him.
“And look, here is the most boring section. ‘On the Preparations for Marching.’” Orval started to read in the softest, most boring tone he could manage.
Dalan’s eyes kept opening, and closing, and opening, and closing. At last, with a soft yawn, he drifted off.
“And…three…ton…of…blackstone…for…the…smiths.” Orval droned to a stop and waited.
Dalan’s eyes popped open and his face wrinkled up.
“Oh, no,” Orval said softly, quickly tucking the book back into Dalan’s basket, careful to cover it well. “Don’t you dare wake your sister.” He swept the boy back up into his arms. “We’re running out of time. You’ll just have to help me.”
