For Love of Mother-Not - Alan Dean Foster [6]
Propped up against the far wall was a sturdy old cot. She touched a button on its side, and the device sprang to life, skittering about as it arranged itself on springy legs. Further excavation revealed a bag of support oil, which she plugged into the mattress. It was full and warm in minutes. Finally, she covered the cot with a thin thermosensitive blanket.
“This’ll be your room,” she told him. “’Tis no palace, but ’tis yours. I know the importance of having something ye can call your own. Ye can fix up this bower however ye like.”
The boy eyed her as if she had just bestowed all the treasures of Terra on him. “Thank you, Mother,” he said softly. “It’s wonderful.”
“I sell things,” she said, turning away from that radiant face. She gestured toward the storeroom out front. “The things ye saw on our way in.”
“I guessed that. Do you make much money?”
“Now ye sound like the government agent back there at the platform.” She smiled to show him she was teasing. “I get by. I’d much like to have a larger place than this, but at this point in my life”—she leaned her cane up against her bed as she strolled into the larger room—“it seems not likely I ever will. It does not bother me. I’ve had a good, full life and am content. You’ll soon discover that my growls and barks are mostly show. Though not always.” She patted him on the head and pointed toward the compact kitchen.
“Would ye like something hot to drink before we retire?”
“Yes, very much.” Carefully, he took off his slickertic, which was dry by then. He hung it on a wall hook in his bedroom.
“We’ll have to get ye some new clothes,” she commented, watching him from the kitchen.
“These are okay.”
“Maybe they are for ye, but they’re not for me.” She pinched her nose by way of explanation.
“Oh. I understand.”
“Now what would ye like to drink?”
His face brightened once again. “Tea. What kinds of tea do you have?”
“What kinds of tea do ye like?”
“All kinds.”
“Then I’ll choose ye one.” She found the cylinder and depressed the main switch on its side as she filled it with water from the tap. Then she searched her store of foodstuffs.
“This is Anar Black,” she told him, “all the way from Rhyinpine. Quite a journey for dead leaves to make. I think ’tis milder than Anar White, which comes from the same world but grows further down the mountain sides. I have some local honey if ye like your drink sweet. Expensive, it is. Moth’s flowers are scarce save where they’re grown in hothouses. This world belongs to the fungi and the trees; the bees, poor things, have a hard time of it, even those who’ve grown woolly coats thick enough to keep the damp and cold out. If honey’s too thick for ye, I’ve other sweeteners.”
Hearing no reply, she turned to find him lying still on the floor, a tawny, curled-up smudge of red hair and dirty old clothes. His hands were bunched beneath his cheek, cushioning his head.
She shook her head and pushed the cylinder’s off button. The pot sighed and ceased boiling. Bending, she got her wiry arms beneath him and lifted. Somehow she wrestled him onto the cot without waking him. Her hands pulled the thermal blanket up to his chin. It was programmed and would warm him quickly.
She stood there awhile, amazed at how much pleasure could be gained from so simple an activity as watching a child sleep. Then, still wondering what had come over her, she left him and made her way across to her own room, slowly removing her clothes as she walked. Before long, the last light in the rear of the little shop winked out, joining its neighbors in nightfall. Then there was only the light wind and the hiss of moisture evaporating from warm walls to break the silence of the mist-shrouded dark.
Chapter Two
The boy ate as if the previous night’s dinner had been no more substantial than a distant dream. She cooked him two full breakfasts and watched as he finished every bite. When the last pachnack was gone, and the final piece of bread wolfed