Hoalina: Bonding

By Crisjen Opperman

Preoccupied with the events of the past nine dia, Moriah was oblivious to the scrutiny she was
receiving. She leaned her head wearily against the high back of her seat. Her face and its worried
expression were mirrored in the reflection of the small window. It was too much, happening too fast.
Her mind's energies were in need of rest and quiet. Behind the calm expression she wore, they searched
for a dark place to hide and curl their tendrils out of sight. For the minut space of two minutes, she
closed her eyes and allowed her mind the much need rest.
A sudden change in the shuttle's vibrations alerted her to a change in speed, and her eyes opened.....Tragon
leaned forward and strated to pop the lock on the belting that held her to the seat, but she slapped at his arm.
"Don't," she hissed through clenched teeth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465340986

Crisjen Opperman

My favorite two questions are “Why?” and “Why not?”. Where would we be today without them? Crisjen Opperman resides in Richardson,Texas with her spouse and his dog. She began writing at the age of ten when she needed something to read, but had already used her allotted amount of check-outs at the school library. She believes life is an adventure that can not be truly lived if you spend it sitting down.

Book preview

Copyright © 2011 by Crisjen Opperman.

ISBN:          Ebook                                      978-1-4653-4098-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

No part of the text or the illustrations may be reproduced in any form, or by any means electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the expressed permission in contract writing from the author.

Unpublished copyright: July 2009

Copyright : April 2010,

First Paperback Edition

Second Book to Guimenhi

Opperman, Crisjen, author-

Hoalina (Bonds) Crisjen Opperman

1st edition

1. Science fiction/ Fantasy-adult 2. American [1. Science fiction, American 2. Romance, American 3. Fantasy, American. 4. Sci-fi, hoalina/bonds]

This book was created in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

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103024

Chaos is a human alone

in the far reaches of the mind

Peace is the thread by which thee bind

Giving assurance of security blind

"One knows not one’s strength

until it is used to help another."

Crisjen O.

Contents

To the Reader

Poem

Story

To The READER

Glossary

To the Reader

Early morning sunlight filtered through the lacy curtains. What a night! I had awakened in the middle of the night with insomnia and a running recorder of endless questions in my head. I had spent several hours pacing the house, traveling between the living room, dining room and my den, like a train with its puffs of smoke trailing behind. It annoys my wife when I have nights like this because she says the house smells like a nasty ashtray when she wakes up. Eventually though, my body wore out and my brain gave up, and I settled on the old sofa in the den/office and drifted back to sleep.

The sunlight filtering through the window and warming my forehead and nose was my first indication that I had finally slept through the night. I wiggled my toes and threw up an arm to ward off the bothersome light. The sun rose a little higher, and my nose twitched. Grumpy at being awakened, I did a major shift in body position and landed myself unceremoniously on the floor with a surprised THUMP!

Uh . . . Wha . . . !!!! I stuttered at the rude awakening and fumbled about before finally leaning my back against the edge of the sofa. A grouchy yawn, a stretch, and then I pushed my way into a standing position. I’m sure I looked more like a lumbering overweight sloth trying to pick itself up after fallling from its perch in the trees than a decent replica of a human. What did it matter? I am most definitely not a morning person, and being out of sorts first thing in the morning wasn’t helping matters.

With the sofa blanket wrapped around my arm and waist, I stumbled through the quiet house like a drunk mummy losing its bandages until I made it to the kitchen. Some more one-eyed bumbling and I pressed a button on the coffeemaker.

Damn nightmares . . . I mumbled under my breath as I staggered to the sink and rinsed my face with cold water in an attempt wake myself up. As I stood there leaning on the counter, I looked out the window and watched my neighbor’s rose bushes wave in the heavy breeze. Reaching out, I raised the window to let the fresh air waft in. It smelled like rain and roses. I leaned forward and stared. Grey thunderheads were rolling across the sky. Thank god today was Sunday. I hate driving Dallas during the rain. The motorists were like idiots in search of their brains. Accidents everywhere and endless traffic jams. Don’t get me wrong, I love Dallas, but being a vendor and constantly on the road can destroy whatever sanity a person might have.

After doctoring my mug with a heavy hand on the Splenda (wife’s idea) and burning my throat from the first swig, I wandered back to my office and sequestered myself in the quiet to muse over my day. A quick search found a cigarette butt long enough to smoke. I would get some more when I went to get the paper.

Yep, I said aloud to myself. You gotta be careful about what you dream, it’s starting to affect you during the day. Yesterday in the late afternoon, I was depressed and bored. This morning I felt wound tighter than the recoil spring on my lawnmower. As if to taunt me, the scent of the neighbor’s roses drifted into the room, and yesterday came back with a rush. The journal, the blue-skinned girl, the story, everything rushed into memory as clear as freshly wiped crystal.

I set the coffee mug on the desk top just hard enough to slosh the liquid over the rim and make a small puddle.

Crap!

Grabbing a handful of kleenex from the box, I dabbed at the mess in a vain attempt to wipe it up while my other hand frantically searched the desktop for the leather journal. Finally, the coffee was cleaned up, and I began a more thorough search. Nothing.

Damn, where did I put it, I muttered. I looked across the room to the cluttered coffee table and saw it. It sat atop a stack of old magazines I really needed to throw away. I grabbed my coffee cup and started across the room, only to stop in mid stride. Turning around, I went back to the desk, yanked opened the top right hand drawer and pulled out the second journal.

Plopping onto the couch, I picked up the first journal and set the two books side by side on the low table in front of me. The first, that I had read yesterday, had papers sticking out of it. Loose hurriedly written notes and scribbles, maps and notations, and it was wrapped with a thin leather cord. I frowned, I don’t remember there being a leather cord on it. Mentally, I shrugged, what did it matter? Compared to all the other strange happenings from yesterday, what was a leather cord?

The second one had a few loose papers in neat stacks scattered throughout the book; however, it looked just as old and worn as the first journal. Carefully, I opened them both and flipped the pages slowly. The same two writers wrote the second one, but the loose papers of the second book were written in a third handwriting. The other noticeable difference in the writings was the smoothness of them. The first brown journal had a rushed, nervous script, as if the writer were afraid to say anything or even write it down. It had been hard to read because I had had to mentally organize the story into a smooth flow. Many of the loose pages held a crisp easy to read script, possibly a masculine handwriting. I scrutinized the second book. The writing appeared in more complete sentences and was not as hurried, as if the authors were more thoughtful, wanting to convey the whole spectre of ideas and feelings.

I leaned back and rested my head against the sofa and contemplated the ceiling. If it weren’t for the two books and the uneasy feeling of people popping out of nowhere, I would truly believe yesterday was an interesting dream. But I knew it wasn’t because of the obvious evidence and the fact that Mandy, my wife, had also seen the first book.

My nicotine urgings forced me to reach a decision. First order of business was cigarettes, newspaper and more coffee. Then a good breakfast of eggs, bacon and wifely dessert. After that, I’d start on the mystery of the two journals. Just as soon as I completely woke up.

Salua, Ian.

Hi, Lalia. I replied. A light bulb sputtered in my brain. Lalia!! I exclaimed as I sat up and stared at the wavering appartion sitting on my couch. Wha . . . Where . . . . did you come from? . . . no . . . wait don’t answer that!

Perhaps, I should have waited to come, she murmured, her eyes downcast.

What? Why? I asked, a stupified expression on my face. Be careful what you think about, too! I mentally told myself.

You are not ready to receive guests. A long creamy pale blue finger flickered in my direction.

I glanced down at myself. Oh, yeah, right . . . I’ll be right back. I stood up in a rush, and made a beeline for the closest room. I don’t know which was redder, my face or my butt cheeks. Physique wise, I am by no means a slouch, but I’m no macho either, however being caught off guard can sap the confidence of even the boldest.

In the laundry room, I grabbed a pair of shorts and a tee shirt from the rack, slipped them on and hurried back to the den. I breathed a sign of relief when I entered the room and she was not there, but a quick scan found her standing before a shelf in the back part of the room.

I have a question about the journals?

Yeah. She answered absently, her attention caught by something on the shelf.

Why are they written in third person?

She turned and glided back to the sofa. Because there are three peoples. she replied.

No, no. I mean, why are they not written like ‘My name is Moriah, I am telling my story . . .’ Do you understand?

Yeah. She nodded. Elder Padro Zorchov instructed Elder Mari to write down the history of her arrival into our world. When she finished he asked her why she had written a story that was not told in her words. Her reply was, ‘It’s not about me, it’s about us.’ She refused to change it, so he added his own story, as did Elder Padro Dracur. She stopped speaking for a moment and sat with a far away look in her eyes.

So why bring these to me? I asked, tapping a finger on one of the opened journals.

She stared at me as if I had grown two-heads. It is your famlia story, yea?

I suppose . . . I mumbled mesmerized by her gaze.

Her image wavered then blinked. I must go. She touched the stone on her wrist.

I hurriedly reached out and grabbed her wrist, but my fingers only touched air.

Why me? It came out desperate sounding, not as I had intended.

In time . . . her voice faded, but she was already gone.

I sat and stared at the empty space. Three visits in barely two days. I was having a serious case of hallucination viratisis. At least that’s the name I gave this new problem. And I had barely smoked a half a cigarette yet. Who in the world would possibly believe I was having serious issues with a blue-skinned girl from outer space? A lifetime at Bellvue is not what I want.

I wandered to the kitchen, filled up my coffee mug, grabbed the car keys off the counter, and left the house. The journals would wait till I got back.

When I returned and had settled once again on the couch, I picked up the second book. The smell of frying bacon wafted through the house, and the thundercaps outside opened up and poured their dirge onto the dry yard. And, I read . . .

Knotted roots turned to runners

Leafy be the ceiling

Dia and niete

Niete and dia

Always one and the same

Grow free and full of life

Ladito

For time too shall pass

And send thee into

The beyond

Thy return be not as the nebulous one

but

the suns and moons

Knotted roots turned to runners

Leafy be the ceiling

Dia and niete

Niete and dia

Always one and the same

writ: Vechern Illea Marcan Grand

Elder Mari Illea to Bron Zorchov

. . . . found in Bron Zorchov’s belongings upon his entry into the De Dracur family . . . . aged 6 yerz 5442A

 . . . I’ve lost track of the days. The last journal entry at home that I made was July 28th. This I remember. I have tried to keep up, but I got off track somewhere. I’m so confused . . . . It’s probably about August 7th now . . . Hell, I don’t know . . . It’s been ten days since I was taken from Earth by Bron. At least I haven’t been killed yet . . . That’s good sign . . . I’ve just been rescued again . . . Where are we going? . . . I don’t know . . . I just have to keep mentally writing this down until I can find some paper . . . . I wonder if they even have paper? . . . I wonder if I’ll be alive tomorrow . . .

One

TRIO and SAFETY

It’s flight pattern as straight as a crow flies across the skies to the Regalum, the scout shuttle blasted its way across space at ten-pulse speed to avoid the burning, exploding outlander vessel, the Wanderer. Inside the shuttle, blonde haired Tragon kept a watchful eye on the Hydrian alien ladia, Moriah. He had moved from the back of the shuttle, where his lados were, to the front and now sat almost directly across from her. Moriah’s quiet withdrawal worried him.

Preoccupied with the events of the past nine dia, Moriah was oblivious to the scrutiny she was receiving. She leaned her head wearily against the high back of her seat. Her face and its worried yet pensive expression were mirrored in the reflection of the small window. It was too much, happening too fast. Her mind’s energies were in need of rest and quiet. Behind the calm expression she wore, they searched for a dark place to hide and curl their tendrils out of sight. For the minut space of two minutes, she closed her eyes and allowed her mind the much needed rest.

A sudden change in the shuttle’s vibrations alerted her to the shift in speed, and her eyes opened. Her blue-eyed gaze slid with disembodied interest to the pilot’s window. The scout was on landing approach to the Battlecruiser Regalum. Her stomach fluttered and her hands started to tremble as she watched their approach to the floating cruiser. In a sudden flare of unexplainable panic, her hands gripped the seat cushion under her thighs.

A slight tug and the clacking sound of the locking mechanisms informed the pilot and navigator of the shuttle’s safe landing on the docking bay.

Peticha.

Moriah didn’t hear the address.

Tragon leaned forward and started to pop the lock on the belting that held her to the seat, but she slapped at his arm.

Don’t, she hissed through clenched teeth.

Still, Moriah. He caught her hand and finished releasing the lock. You are safe. He did not like the wild look in her eyes as she glared at him. "Come,’ he ordered, and pulled her from the chair and pushed her towards the exiting men. Then he gathered his equipment and followed the warrior troops out.

Complete the security checks. Bron, the acting pilot, ordered the navigator as he quickly followed Tragon out of the shuttle. He approached Moriah and grasped her by the elbow and escorted her across the flight deck.

Nothing was said between the two as they entered the turbo. She stared straight ahead at the metal door. Her blank weary gaze focused on nothing. However, her nerves, aware of the looming presence behind her, twitched with each rustle of movement from Bron.

When the door slid noiselessly shut, Bron relaxed a fraction and allowed Moriah’s wayward energies to brush hesitantly against his. The sharp searing loss of her energies’ connection from his at the Ceremony of Guimenhi two dia ago had almost been his undoing. Except for his and Tragon childhood bonding, he had never felt the true comfort of bonding. The intimate brother-friend bonding paled in comparison to the warmth and sensual comfort he felt at the whispering of her energies. Tentatively, he reached out to touch her arm, but the turbo stopped and the door slid open. Bron withdrew his hand and stood stiffly as he waited for her to step out.

As if shocked by the unfulfilled need of the touch, Moriah bounded out before the door completely opened. She was brought up short by the sudden and unexpected appearance of two guards in white and maroon.

Oh! she exclaimed. To avoid bumping into them, she slid to a tiptoed stop just inches from the tallest one’s broad chest.

Casually, Bron eased up beside the small alien ladia and clasped her elbow in a tight hold, forestalling any other sudden moves she wanted to make.

Sire. The taller guard said, as he snapped a stiff chin level salute.

Lieutenant. A slight dip of Bron’s dark head accompanied the returned acknowledgment.

Bron led the relucant Moriah to the immediate right, down several paces where they halted in front of the second door on the left. It had an engraved crest at eye level, she glanced up at Bron, at Bron’s eye level.

Naashon. He spoke quietly.

Her head turned slowly as her slightly dulled gaze slid over her shoulder and back down the hall at the two guards who still stood in stiff salute at the end of the corridor. Disinterestedly, she refocused her gaze on the door, but from the corner of her eye, she watched Bron. He gave a last quick salute and gently pushed her forward when the door slid open. Blinking against the sudden lighting, she stared in surprise. After the opulence of Outlander Marc’s cabin, the one in which she now stood was an absolute visual letdown. It was a small, cramped cabin compared to all the other rooms she had visited. It’s color scheme was the usual military sterile grey. Everything, the walls, shelf, floor, and ceiling were grey metal, and guessing from the girders framing the right hand wall, it was a bulkhead cabin. Pressed against the bulkhead was a small bed barely big enough to hold two people. Tilting her head, she peered through her wild curls at Bron. It would probably barely hold him.

The whoosh of the closing cabin door startled her, and she swung around in a panic.

Bron? she breathed, her heart in her throat.

I am here, he answered from behind her.

Her panicked gaze swung around and found him standing just beyond her left shoulder. He had not left her, she breathed an unconscious sigh of relief.

It’s all right. I am here. Bron set his equipment bag against the wall and then stepped to the bed.

Warmth filled her mind, the caress was felt on her skin as if she had really been touched.

Don’t, she whispered as she raised a hand to rub her temple.

He sat down and began removing his jacket tunic and his boots.

What are you doing?

Come. he said in response and patted the bed.

No, she shied away to the opposite side of the room. Though she was relieved that she had not been left alone, she was as of yet unwilling to be near him or Tragon. Nor would she openly admit that deep inside a tiny piece of her wished they had left her with the Outlander. She had figured out that Outlander Marc was a slave trader and a merchant, but he was still of her kind, therefore more familiar. Yet, she was bonded with both Bron and Tragon. A pensive, thoughtful look on her face, she frowned. She wasn’t quite sure what ‘being bonded’ entailed; she only knew that she was mentally and physically at the end of her strength. Her muscles and joints hurt whenever she moved; and her listlessness, she knew, was because she needed rest, sleep.

We have a few dexa before we reach Jentax. Rest will be beneficial for both of us.

Are you reading my mind again? she asked sharply.

A dark brow rose and he watched her. It is not necessary. You are exhausted, it shows in your actions.

Where’s Prince Tragon? she asked, changing the subject.

He is on the Bridge Control with the Kalin.

Is he coming back here?

No. He is attending to duties. With a tug on the leathers binding his hair, Bron released the long dark pony braid and it fell like a silky curtain down between his shoulder blades. On a low tired sigh, he leaned back, stretched his long length on the bed and folded his arms under his head. His eyelids slowly closed over bloodshot eyes.

Awed by the actual length and shine of his hair, she warily watched him. What are you doing? she asked.

Without opening his eyes, he sighed like a parent answering a petulant child. I am resting. You may stand over there if you so desire. He cracked one eye and watched her fidgeting movements. Or, you may come over here and rest.

With you? There’s only one bed. She scanned the small area and saw no where else suitable to sit or lie down.

Silence met her question.

Bron closed his eyes and breathed several deep breaths, all the while listening for movement. Finally, after several quiet seconds, he heard her ease towards the bed. The dropping of something lightweight told him that she had removed her sandals. He felt the bed where it touched the bulkhead dip. It vibrated as she tried to nonchalantly ease into a lying down position. He waited until she had settled on her back and was still, then he murmured quietly.

Roll towards the wall.

Moriah rolled into a semi comfortable position, her back to Bron and her gaze on the grey wall. Being so close to him by choice was very unsettling and unable to lie completely still, she shifted nervously. The longer she lay there, the more upset she became, and her body began to shake with tiny tremors.

Though he gave the appearance of sleeping, Bron was sensitive to her every thought and movement.

Settle, peticha. He rolled on his side and spoke softly in her ear. For the moment, all is well.

I can’t, she choked out and started crying. No sound, just large waterdrops of raw emotion. Deep inside the whorls of her mind energies, fear lurked, and she admitted to herself she was scared. She knew from the strange Giumenhi ceremony that she had spent time with him and had been intimate, but not always by her choice or her awareness. Any other involvement with him and the other blue-skinned alien, Tragon, had ended badly and with intense pain involved. So she knew this big alien man, but now-now she felt truly lost and alone.

Bron slid a large pale blue hand over the silky material of the crying ladia’s garments and wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her into the warmth of his body, so they lay spooned.

You will not be harmed. Your body and spirit need rest. His warm breath ruffled the hair at the nape of her neck.

Moriah pressed her hand to her mouth and bit down hard to stop herself from crying out. When she felt she could speak without sobbing, she asked in a low whisper. What’s happening to me? I’m so scared.

You are not the only one, peticha, who cannot go back. We must take our fate into our own hands and map out our destiny. Many things have changed.

What if I wake up and I’m somewhere different again? Her voice quivered.

The hand bracing her stomach slid up over her waistline and calmly, soothingly rubbed her back and hip before returning to its previous position. Gently, he pulled her tight into his embrace.

I will be here when you wake.

So calm and familiar was he at that moment, just like the long ago night dreams, that she sighed and relaxed into the comfort of his cocoon.

It’s safe here?" She whispered.

We are safe. He comforted her.

She wiggled one last time as exhaustion reigned and overtook her lingering trepidations. Within moments, her eyelids drooped and her breathing fell into a regular rhythm.

Bron rested his chin lightly on the bent red-gold head and contemplated the journey that had brought them to this point. In the nine dia since her arrival into his world, the very fabric of their lives had been torn asunder. So many laws and taboos had been broken that he wondered if the three of them, he, Moriah and Tragon, would live long enough to fulfill what fate and the Guardians proposed. He, who lived by order and knowledge, was lost. He, the soul keeper of the Trio, had plunged so deep into uncharted waters that he felt as if he were drowning. As well, he was fast reaching the point where he could not accept her energies to bolster the loss of his. Until she gained control of herself, the three of them were not safe. Eventually, the rising tide of exhaustion caught up with him as well, and all thoughts were put aside as heavy lids lowered over bloodshot