non-threatening. Didn’t mean much. I had
seen him fight; he was very, very fast.
Coming to a decision, I dropped the dish
towel and moved to the front entryway, pausing to get the shotgun.
Grabbing my house keys, I glanced out the window to make sure he
was still there, armed the house alarm, unlocked the door, and
stepped out, relocking the door behind me. The house alarm would
kick on after twenty seconds. If tripped it would ring to the alarm
company, who had instructions to call the police, then my
father.
He hadn’t moved an inch, staying eerily
motionless as I glanced around to make sure nothing was sneaking up
on me from either side.
I stayed on the porch, shotgun in both hands,
barrels pointing at the sandstone block at his feet.
His eyes, which were an icy blue, catalogued
my every motion, and his head moved ever so slightly in what might
have been a nod of…..respect?
His right hand came up, palm facing me, his
other hand open by his left leg. A black heavy bracelet was wrapped
around his right forearm, a carved animalistic head near the back
of his hand.
“I am Greer,” he said in an even tone, his
sharpish teeth flashing white against his dark skin. His accent was
a soft burr, something between Irish and Scottish.
“What do you want?” I asked.
He nodded again, acknowledging my abrupt
manner.
“You intervened – in the forest – when you
had no need to,” he commented. It was almost a question.
I shrugged, but kept the gun centered on the
walkway in front of him.
“Seemed the thing to do,” I replied.
His head tilted to one side, his expression
quizzical, as if trying to understand something foreign to him.
Greer was a shade over six feet, lean, but
not skinny. The term ‘whipcord’ popped into my head as I
automatically evaluated him as a fighter. Dangerous and deadly
fast. His face was angular, with high cheek bones, and when he
suddenly shifted weight from one foot to the other, his pony tail
swung into view, hanging to the middle of his back.
“It was not a logical thing to do,” he said,
even closer to a question.
Part of me was getting angry that he was
questioning my intelligence in helping him.
“Not logical to help a person in trouble?” I
questioned.
He smiled suddenly, a real smile, making him
slightly less menacing.
“Oh, don’t be thinking I’m not happy you did,
because I am! It’s just not something my people would be likely to
do,” he said.
The way he mentioned ‘his people’ was odd, as
though he spoke of a separate race. Then he flicked his hair
absently with one hand and a pointed ear poked through. Separate
race indeed.
“I find myself in dettis onach ,” he
said, his tone and expression a mixture of disbelief and
resentment.
“What?” I asked.
“It is a concept of my people – a life debt
of sorts. You risked your life for mine without a logical reason to
do so. We are not related, we do not work together and we have no
prior obligation to each other,” he said.
“Yeah well, ‘my people’ call it lending a
hand. But who are your people?” I asked.
He smiled a little at that, then paused to
look at the security light, the car in the driveway and back to the
gun in my hands.
“There have been many changes since I was
here last,” he commented, continuing to sweep the house with his
gaze. “Not here , actually, I’ve never been here . I
mean here on this world.”
“Ooookay, I’ll play this game. If I had’t
seen the green ape things I’d figure you for a Lord of the Rings
wannabe or maybe a Mr. Spock impersonator,” I said. “So I’ll throw
it out there…..you’re an elf?”
His eyes widened momentarily, then he laughed
a short sharp laugh.
“Your people remember us!” he said.
“We have legends, but nobody really believes
them. I’m not sure I buy it even now. The ape-lizards could just be
genetic experiments and you could just be a dozen cards shy of a
full deck.”
“Your ancestors would have called
seen him fight; he was very, very fast.
Coming to a decision, I dropped the dish
towel and moved to the front entryway, pausing to get the shotgun.
Grabbing my house keys, I glanced out the window to make sure he
was still there, armed the house alarm, unlocked the door, and
stepped out, relocking the door behind me. The house alarm would
kick on after twenty seconds. If tripped it would ring to the alarm
company, who had instructions to call the police, then my
father.
He hadn’t moved an inch, staying eerily
motionless as I glanced around to make sure nothing was sneaking up
on me from either side.
I stayed on the porch, shotgun in both hands,
barrels pointing at the sandstone block at his feet.
His eyes, which were an icy blue, catalogued
my every motion, and his head moved ever so slightly in what might
have been a nod of…..respect?
His right hand came up, palm facing me, his
other hand open by his left leg. A black heavy bracelet was wrapped
around his right forearm, a carved animalistic head near the back
of his hand.
“I am Greer,” he said in an even tone, his
sharpish teeth flashing white against his dark skin. His accent was
a soft burr, something between Irish and Scottish.
“What do you want?” I asked.
He nodded again, acknowledging my abrupt
manner.
“You intervened – in the forest – when you
had no need to,” he commented. It was almost a question.
I shrugged, but kept the gun centered on the
walkway in front of him.
“Seemed the thing to do,” I replied.
His head tilted to one side, his expression
quizzical, as if trying to understand something foreign to him.
Greer was a shade over six feet, lean, but
not skinny. The term ‘whipcord’ popped into my head as I
automatically evaluated him as a fighter. Dangerous and deadly
fast. His face was angular, with high cheek bones, and when he
suddenly shifted weight from one foot to the other, his pony tail
swung into view, hanging to the middle of his back.
“It was not a logical thing to do,” he said,
even closer to a question.
Part of me was getting angry that he was
questioning my intelligence in helping him.
“Not logical to help a person in trouble?” I
questioned.
He smiled suddenly, a real smile, making him
slightly less menacing.
“Oh, don’t be thinking I’m not happy you did,
because I am! It’s just not something my people would be likely to
do,” he said.
The way he mentioned ‘his people’ was odd, as
though he spoke of a separate race. Then he flicked his hair
absently with one hand and a pointed ear poked through. Separate
race indeed.
“I find myself in dettis onach ,” he
said, his tone and expression a mixture of disbelief and
resentment.
“What?” I asked.
“It is a concept of my people – a life debt
of sorts. You risked your life for mine without a logical reason to
do so. We are not related, we do not work together and we have no
prior obligation to each other,” he said.
“Yeah well, ‘my people’ call it lending a
hand. But who are your people?” I asked.
He smiled a little at that, then paused to
look at the security light, the car in the driveway and back to the
gun in my hands.
“There have been many changes since I was
here last,” he commented, continuing to sweep the house with his
gaze. “Not here , actually, I’ve never been here . I
mean here on this world.”
“Ooookay, I’ll play this game. If I had’t
seen the green ape things I’d figure you for a Lord of the Rings
wannabe or maybe a Mr. Spock impersonator,” I said. “So I’ll throw
it out there…..you’re an elf?”
His eyes widened momentarily, then he laughed
a short sharp laugh.
“Your people remember us!” he said.
“We have legends, but nobody really believes
them. I’m not sure I buy it even now. The ape-lizards could just be
genetic experiments and you could just be a dozen cards shy of a
full deck.”
“Your ancestors would have called
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