Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75650 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
And…wait.
I glance back at the entrance, thoughtful. The not-potatoes were discovered after the humans arrived here on the ice planet we jokingly refer to as Not-Hoth. Prior to our arrival, the roots of the pink trees were just thought to be that—roots. The sa-khui are happy to eat raw meat, but we humans like a bit of variety. I don’t remember who it was that dug up the first not-potato, but I remember how excited we were.
If Pashov can’t remember anything about the last two years, how does he know what a not-potato is? I ponder this as I work on skinning the quill-beast and cutting the meat into chunks. I’m distracted, and not only by the fact that Pacy is trying to put whatever he can grab off the carcass into his mouth. I’m thinking about Pashov and trying not to hope. Does this mean his memory is coming back?
Don’t get too excited, I warn myself. Maybe he knew what it was. His mother’s the plant expert. She might have mentioned it.
I can’t help it, though; I’m practically quivering with anticipation of his return.
Pashov re-enters the cave after what feels like forever. He’s got one of the round, bulbous roots tucked under his arm and is covered in even more snow. He looks pleased with himself and brandishes the root proudly as he moves toward me. “Your not-potato.”
I take it with reverent hands. “How did you know what I meant?”
He has his back turned to me, putting the screen back in place. When he turns around, his smile is bright but a little puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, how did you know this was what I meant? If your memories are gone?” I’m trying to keep my voice even to hide how excited I am. “How did you know where to find this?”
Pashov studies me, and then his gaze focuses on the rounded turnip-like root in my hands. He rubs his forehead, his fingers moving over the broken stump of his horn. “I…am not sure.”
“Do you think you remembered something? Maybe if you concentrate you can remember more?”
He nods and closes his eyes, concentrating. I bite my lip as I watch him, eager. After a moment, though, he opens his eyes and shakes his head. “I am sorry. I do not have answers.” He rubs his forehead again.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. That little touch to his forehead worries me. I bustle to his side and take the fur cloak from his shoulders. “You sit down by the fire and relax. I’ll take care of you.”
“Let me help—” he begins.
“Nope,” I interrupt. “I’m good.” I take the not-potato from him and move to the far side of the cave. “If you want to help me, watch Pacy and make sure he doesn’t stick any organ meat into his mouth.”
“The organ meat is the best part,” Pashov says, but he sits by the fire and begins to play with his son.
I snort at that. “Says you.” I get my favorite bone cup and fill it with tea from the fire, then push it into Pashov’s hands. “Drink this.” It smells like it’s got Intisar in it, and that’s the closest thing that sa-khui have to aspirin.
He takes the cup and frowns, offering it to me. “I made this for you.”
“And yes, I had some,” I lie. I pat his shoulder again. “It would make me happy if you drank the rest.”
He nods firmly and puts the cup to his lips, drinking deep. I watch him for a worried moment to make sure that his expression doesn’t change and he’s not in pain. When I see nothing seems to be wrong, I can relax a little and go back to my task of making food.
While Pashov watches the baby, I busy myself in a whirlwind of chopping, roasting, and seasoning. I’m disappointed that he doesn’t remember anything, but at the same time, I’m hopeful. The knowledge of the not-potato had to come from somewhere. Maybe other small things will bubble up to the surface given time. All I can do is encourage them along the way…provided it doesn’t hurt his mind to do so.
I think I would rather have a happy, healthy Pashov with blanks in his mind than one that is in pain but has his memories.
The organ meat goes into the stewpot—well, stew pouch—along with a generous serving of chopped roots, a bit of not-potato, lots of peppery spices, and a couple of bones added in for brothy flavor. While that’s working, I chop up more of the not-potato and grind it using a bone as a pestle. With a bit of water and fat, it makes a doughy-like substance, and I’m going to use this for my meat pies. I watch Pashov and the baby as I work, and every time Pacy giggles at something Pashov does, my heart grows a little warmer.