Chapter 7

The middle forests of Anshar were a wonderland of trees that soared high into the sky on thick tall trunks and then shot in all directions with branches creating thin canopies of rustling leaves. Often thick purple vines with white four petal flowers that drooped like rain droplets encircled the trees. The floor of the forest had ferns in the deep shadows alongside bushes that snagged at a person from his ankles to his shoulders. The cries and calls of the forest creatures were often loud and raucous. Long-limbed creatures swung in the trees, and all sorts of four legged creatures from lizards to mammals made noise in the dry leaves on the ground. Strange birds flapped at the periphery of Porter’s vision and he was warned every day to keep an eye out for snakes.

As the captain had said, “Anshar likes fangs – on everything.” To the far south of these forests, the reptiles were quite large and were the dominant hunters but here in the ‘cooler climes’ mammals and semi-sentient plants were the top of the food chain.

Porter puzzled over those facts as he wiped the sweat from his face, wondering if he even wanted to know what a semi-sentient plant was. Meat eating plants were a new paranoia to add to his collection, especially when he was seeking a new trigger for his hysteria. The job title “spaceman” sounded so noble; too bad he was an accountant whose wildest days were spent sitting at a desk followed by drinks and greasy food.

Each morning on the trail, Harlan would wake up the troop, take a piss and drag Porter off to the side for sword and bow practice. The second in command was strict and businesslike when he had a weapon in hand. He had no tolerance for weakness or for slacking either. Often others would join them as they practiced and honed their skills, even the captain. When a free moment emerged as they practiced, Porter would watch Captain Tyver take his opponent without mercy; the man’s sustained barrages were calculated attacks that left the unwary unable to do anything other than react.

Porter would look at his sword grip, the awkwardness of the weight confirming he was a pretender. As an engaged novice, Porter was able to recognize great swordsmanship when he watched the practice match. He marveled at the captain’s skill. The others had expertise as well, but they seemed to lack that extra dab of elegance that made the captain’s sword deadly accurate. As he watched the captain duel with Leeza, Harlan nudged him in the side with his elbow to get his attention. Porter shook his head and lifted his sword in preparation.

“Such grace,” Porter said absently. “I will never have such skill.”

“Yeah,” Harlan agreed, “But women don’t like it when you stare at them and make comments.”

Porter was startled. “I was not talking about Leeza; I was talking about the captain’s skill with the sword.”

Harlan raised an eyebrow, “Are you trying to tell me that you don’t like Leeza or that you don’t fancy females.”

“No, no, no,” Porter shook both hands as if he was vigorously erasing a chalkboard double handed. “If I were to be so moved, I like women. Women don’t like me. Er, well, they did not like me, before, um.” His words failed him.

“Before when you were a fat, uncouth slob,” Harlan finished his sentence for him.

“Yes. NO! I’ve always had good manners,” Porter said, trying to sort it all out.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky on your new planet, spaceman. Until you get the chance to romance the ladies, we had better do all we can to keep you from losing your fool head. Prepare to defend yourself, you potbellied slob!”

Harlan was on him in an instant and Porter had no time to protest his attacker’s last insult. The pain continued as shock after shock traveled up his arm and through his body as he parried and deflected the merciless blade. Porter knew better than to complain or beg for relief. Not only would a break not be forthcoming, but the fury of the attack would increase. He had learned the hard way. His swordsmanship stank, yet this teacher was determined to raise his skills.

Then they rode the hamox all day and he suffered. The hamox is a curious beast, mostly docile but with a nasty habit of biting anything that gets close to its mouth. The coarse hair of the beast is oily and not particularly pleasant to pet. The horns are thick, coming out of the side of the head and then curving up to a wicked point. To Porter, riding a hamox was reminiscent of the mechanical rides his parents placed him on when he was a little boy. For a credit or two, they got a few minutes of relaxation while the rocket ship vibrated under their little boy. On a hamox, his legs splayed the same way as his childhood rocket ride because its back was so broad. Tilden had told him that hamox were fantastic for trick riding because it was easy to stand on their backs, if one avoided the sharp points up front. Porter was certain he would avoid attempting that sort of riding adventure.

His butt hurt and his thighs were rubbed raw. He was a rank amateur in the world of stinky riding beasts, but he did not complain among the squad who had ridden these animals for years. In an attempt to ignore the pain, Porter tried to keep his mind busy. He knew how many arrows were in each person’s quiver; he studied the various forms of stitchery used to close holes and tears, and he even considered extrapolating the possible count of hair on his hamox but gave up when the number crunching went beyond 10⁸. Meditation helped at various points during the day although one or another soldier would assume he had fallen asleep and poked him in the side until he acknowledged them.

Kanji would slip in and out of his sight throughout the day and would emerge wherever they bivouacked. He assumed she was hunting, and he was rather envious of her freedom. When they stopped for the day, she would insist upon her shared time with Porter and so he had no choice but to give into her pleading; he never learned how one says “no” to that many kilos of teeth, claws, and tail. She had learned the joys of the belly rub and would not allow him to eat dinner until she had been subdued into a purring mass of cat melt. Such was his day and his duties.

At night Porter practiced the Blue. At least he was able to work the kinks out of his muscles, which was a good way to redirect his feelings of self-conscious insecurity as others watched from a distance. A prudent person stayed far away from a neophyte student who demonstrated little control.

Leeza woke him the next morning much to his surprise. Porter had not spoken more than three words to her at one time during the entire trip. He had not been trying to avoid her deliberately, but he had never taken the initiative to speak to her. ‘Who am I fooling?’ he kicked himself, ‘certainly I’m avoiding her as much as possible.’

As he had tried to explain to Harlan yesterday, women made him uncomfortable. Women were an unobtainable promise of joy and fulfillment that he had always been denied. Since experience had taught him to stop even considering the idea of having female companionship in his life, he had simply avoided Leeza as he had avoided all other single or potentially available women in his adult life. Intellectually he knew better but the lessons of a lifetime of heartbreak were a page of the gospel of his life.

“Harlan ordered me to teach you today,” she gruffly explained.

If this was Harlan’s attempt to help him in the female department, Porter was not appreciative. He made his toilet and met her on the designated practice field. He tried to make decent conversation, “I watched you spar with Captain Tyver yesterday. The intensity of your battle made an impression on me.”

Awkward, he knew he sounded wooden and clumsy. He pummeled himself mentally.

Leeza did not respond; instead, she put herself in position with her sword aimed forward and called out “on guard”. She swung at him from every angle and pushed at him with unrelenting strikes. Porter felt himself being forced back unable to raise a counterattack of any sort. After many minutes of painful uncertainty on his part, she called for a break.

Porter dropped his sword with weakness in his arm and fatigue in his legs. He failed to notice that the rest of the field was silent as every other man quietly weighed their opinion of the mock battle. Even if he had noticed, he would have been unable to penetrate their grey thoughts.

“On guard!” Leeza called before Porter had even caught his breath.

“I beg your pardon but I’m not able,” Porter explained with humility.

“Put up your sword and fight!” she snarled.

Porter was leaning on his sword with his head down. The sweat was dripping from his forehead and into his eyes. Without warning Leeza swung her blade and took out his sword from underneath him. He took a step sideways trying to regain his balance as he stared into her angry eyes with incredulity. She swung again and with the flat of her blade slapped him solidly on his rump. Porter flew face first into the dirt. The humiliation burned fiercely in his skull, excruciatingly more painful than the stinging on his butt.

“Get up you coward!” she yelled at him from above. He felt a foot shove his hip and roll him over. Dirt was clinging to his face.

“Stand down, Private!” Captain Tyver barked and the woman snorted and walked away two paces.

Porter rolled up on his aching buttocks before someone could try to assist him; such an act would only add embarrassment on top of his indignity. He wiped the dirt from his face and took a good long look at his assailant. It was the longest look he had ever given her, and his gut twisted at what he saw. The disgust on her face matched the clear loathing he felt enveloping himself.

A man’s voice spoke some words to Porter but he did not hear them for his mind was furiously buzzing. ‘Why? Why does this crap always happen to me? What do women see in me that grant them permission to spit in my face, throw me in the dirt, or stomp on my dignity?’

He wanted to add more to his unvoiced cry for self-pity. There was the indignity of being an adult who was a novice at everything. He was alone on a strange world. His body was inhabited with strange tingling and everything he had ever known, even though he had despised it, had been stripped from him without his consent. His pity party was rocketing.