CHAPTER 23
One day, I woke up and realized I was happy.
It had been eight months, give or take, since I landed on Ptekennan.
I had a lovely home, full of trinkets that I found in the market or the Capital.
I had close friendships with Kashtinela and Camavel, and had been developing friendships with several other young women in the village.
I completely adored M’Pak, my huge furry companion who followed me everywhere.
I had developed a keener interest in cooking, largely driven by my desire to find foods on Ptekennan that I actually liked.
Camavel was also showing me a form of weaving that I enjoyed.
The vegetables and ovinas in my gardens were thriving.
I enjoyed my visits to the palace. The King was unfailingly kind and courteous, and most of the guards knew me by name and gave me friendly nods when I came by.
I had even developed a friendly relationship with the palace chef, who was also an offworlder, an intimidating blob with tentacles called a Septure.
The first time I saw her, I barely contained the scream bubbling up from my gut.
She came into the receiving room one day after lunch with the King and Princess to inquire if I liked the food, and if there was anything else she could prepare for me.
I spent many afternoons in the Palace kitchens with Selica the Septure, learning about Ptexari and offworld dishes.
Watching her use her tentacles to chop vegetables, pull down ingredients from shelves, and stir sauces simultaneously was both dizzying and inspiring.
In the evenings, I practiced the flute Kashtinela had gifted to me. I also found some offworlder music that I could play through the comms panel. I learned a few songs well enough to sing along, so it was Alien Karaoke in my cottage almost every night. It felt good to sing again.
And that’s when I realized I was happy.
My nightmares were few and far between. I can’t say that I had fully worked through what happened to me, but I hadn’t let it stop me from moving forward. I had made a beautiful life on Ptekennan for myself. It may not have been what I had planned, but for the moment, I was content.
“Miravel and Canticor are going to be mated!” Camavel told me gleefully one morning over Oonag.
“That’s wonderful!” I said. “Do you give wedding presents? Is that a thing here?” I asked.
Miravel made jewelry that she sold in the village market, and Canticor was a young male who I’d seen hanging around her booth for several months.
He was a hunter by trade who lived outside the village.
I didn’t know him well, but I had bought several bracelets and pairs of earrings from Miravel.
She was always nice to me and put out a bowl of water for M’Pak whenever she saw us coming to market.
“Yes,” Camavel answered. “Traditional gifts usually include ovina hatchlings, vegetable seedlings, or animal hides. Although, since Canticor is a hunter, he probably has enough animal hides. In the city, it is common to simply gift credits, but that is frowned upon in the villages. The idea is to give the couple things they need to start their new home.”
That made sense. “When is the wedding?” I asked. I wondered if I would have some hatchlings available in time.
“Next month, during the alignment of Collel and Chanika. It is considered most auspicious to wed when all three moons are in alignment, but that is not expected for another two years, and I am certain that Miravel and Canticor do not wish to wait so long.”
I had reprogrammed my translator to equate “rotation” with day, “Collel’s revolution” with month, and “solar revolution” with year.
It made my understanding of time a lot faster, even if it wasn’t entirely accurate.
The Ptekennan year was about 400 days. Days were shorter - about 9 hours of daylight and 9 hours of night.
A month was around 36 days, and there were 11 of them.
Sadly, my period hadn’t gotten the message about the longer month, and I was still cycling every 28 days. Le sigh.
“Will I be able to go? I haven’t been invited.
” I said. As far as I could tell, the Ptexari didn’t celebrate birthdays or anniversaries or have many commemorative holidays.
Weddings, baby births, and harvest festivals seemed to be their major events, and I had yet to experience any of them.
“Everyone in the village is invited,” Camavel said.
“Anyone can go. It will take place in the Bowl outside the village.”
The Bowl was a natural depression that was vaguely round. The gently sloping hill made for natural seating to view whatever spectacle was taking place below. It was a natural amphitheater, and I confess I may have snuck down there once or twice to sing an aria just for the acoustical value.
“Lovely!” I said. “I can’t wait.”