It’s similar to the process that occurs in the distillery. Honus calls it evaporation.”
Malora has no idea what he is talking about. “Who is this Honus you keep mentioning?” she asks.
“He is the Otherian who taught me and my brothers and who now teaches my little sister.”
“What is an
Otherian
?”
Orion pauses in his stride to pick a pebble from the boot on his right foreleg. “An Otherian,” he explains, “is someone who is not of us; therefore, an
other
and hence, an Otherian.”
Malora’s mind races. “You mean Honus is one of the People?”
“No, no,” he says hastily. “I mean that he isn’t a centaur.”
“What is he, then, if not of the People and not a centaur?” she asks.
“He calls himself a cloven-hoofed polymath, but, technically, he is of the faun hibe,” Orion says.
“What is a polymath?” Malora asks. She finds the complexity of Orion’s vocabulary both frustrating and fascinating.
“Someone who knows something of everything. He is very wise. This faun is wiser than all the centaurs in Mount Kheiron.”
Faun
sounds to Malora like some sort of animal, an impala, perhaps. Do the animals where they are going speak? she wonders. What will an entire city of centaurs be like? Inthis brief time, she has seen enough of the centaurs to know that while they might be part horse, they are much closer to humans. They have four hoofed feet and fur-covered flanks and tails. But, unlike horses, they don’t relieve themselves where they stand. They go off into the bushes and modestly attend to their needs. They eat with tools and drape their private parts and have complex thoughts and ideas, which they express in words rather than snorts and nickers and neighs.
Malora has lived with horses for so long that, in some ways, she had begun to think like them. In order to live among the centaurs, will she have to start thinking like a centaur? Then a new thought occurs to her. “Are Twani considered Otherians?” she asks.
“No. They are considered … Twani.”
Malora nods, oddly satisfied with Orion’s cryptic reply. “Tell me more about Mount Kheiron,” she requests.
“It is the Home of Beauty and Enlightenment,” says Orion.
Malora finds this description unhelpful, more of Orion’s fancy words for which she has no context. “Does this mean you all dress in finery? I, too, would very much like to be draped in finery.”
He glances at her leopard-skin tunic and then quickly looks away. “I imagine my mother and father will insist on your dressing appropriately.”
“What does this mean?” she asks.
He looks flustered and confused. “Like a centaur maiden, of course.”
Malora snorts. “Not unless I grow another set of legs.”
He laughs, enjoying her joke. “Honus is a two-legger, and our tailors and cobblers have managed to keep him sartorially satisfied. I imagine they can cut and stitch clothing to the contours of your body. And, of course, you’ll have to wear your hair in a cap, although I do hope you won’t have to cut it.”
“Why would I have to do that?”
“It’s an Edict. The Seventh Edict, guarding against inflammatory public displays. Females over twelve baring their heads in public amounts to what is known as an inflammatory display. This is solved by pinning the hair under a cap or covering of some sort. Among the Highlander maidens and ladies, the caps can be quite stylish, with feathers and beads and whatnot.”
In the brief silence that follows, Malora cocks her head at the sky; she tries to picture herself wearing a cap and fails. When they pause to watch a family of giraffes lope across the path, Malora asks, “And what of the horses? What will happen to them? Will they have to wear caps, too?”
Orion laughs, even though she has posed her question in all seriousness. “Only bridles and carriage harnesses. They will be treated exceedingly well, I should think. My father has the finest stable in all of Mount Kheiron.”
“Will they
Malora has no idea what he is talking about. “Who is this Honus you keep mentioning?” she asks.
“He is the Otherian who taught me and my brothers and who now teaches my little sister.”
“What is an
Otherian
?”
Orion pauses in his stride to pick a pebble from the boot on his right foreleg. “An Otherian,” he explains, “is someone who is not of us; therefore, an
other
and hence, an Otherian.”
Malora’s mind races. “You mean Honus is one of the People?”
“No, no,” he says hastily. “I mean that he isn’t a centaur.”
“What is he, then, if not of the People and not a centaur?” she asks.
“He calls himself a cloven-hoofed polymath, but, technically, he is of the faun hibe,” Orion says.
“What is a polymath?” Malora asks. She finds the complexity of Orion’s vocabulary both frustrating and fascinating.
“Someone who knows something of everything. He is very wise. This faun is wiser than all the centaurs in Mount Kheiron.”
Faun
sounds to Malora like some sort of animal, an impala, perhaps. Do the animals where they are going speak? she wonders. What will an entire city of centaurs be like? Inthis brief time, she has seen enough of the centaurs to know that while they might be part horse, they are much closer to humans. They have four hoofed feet and fur-covered flanks and tails. But, unlike horses, they don’t relieve themselves where they stand. They go off into the bushes and modestly attend to their needs. They eat with tools and drape their private parts and have complex thoughts and ideas, which they express in words rather than snorts and nickers and neighs.
Malora has lived with horses for so long that, in some ways, she had begun to think like them. In order to live among the centaurs, will she have to start thinking like a centaur? Then a new thought occurs to her. “Are Twani considered Otherians?” she asks.
“No. They are considered … Twani.”
Malora nods, oddly satisfied with Orion’s cryptic reply. “Tell me more about Mount Kheiron,” she requests.
“It is the Home of Beauty and Enlightenment,” says Orion.
Malora finds this description unhelpful, more of Orion’s fancy words for which she has no context. “Does this mean you all dress in finery? I, too, would very much like to be draped in finery.”
He glances at her leopard-skin tunic and then quickly looks away. “I imagine my mother and father will insist on your dressing appropriately.”
“What does this mean?” she asks.
He looks flustered and confused. “Like a centaur maiden, of course.”
Malora snorts. “Not unless I grow another set of legs.”
He laughs, enjoying her joke. “Honus is a two-legger, and our tailors and cobblers have managed to keep him sartorially satisfied. I imagine they can cut and stitch clothing to the contours of your body. And, of course, you’ll have to wear your hair in a cap, although I do hope you won’t have to cut it.”
“Why would I have to do that?”
“It’s an Edict. The Seventh Edict, guarding against inflammatory public displays. Females over twelve baring their heads in public amounts to what is known as an inflammatory display. This is solved by pinning the hair under a cap or covering of some sort. Among the Highlander maidens and ladies, the caps can be quite stylish, with feathers and beads and whatnot.”
In the brief silence that follows, Malora cocks her head at the sky; she tries to picture herself wearing a cap and fails. When they pause to watch a family of giraffes lope across the path, Malora asks, “And what of the horses? What will happen to them? Will they have to wear caps, too?”
Orion laughs, even though she has posed her question in all seriousness. “Only bridles and carriage harnesses. They will be treated exceedingly well, I should think. My father has the finest stable in all of Mount Kheiron.”
“Will they
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