{Night 03: Mother}

"So who won?"

"I think I did. Master Alban came and took Zaria and Hassan away before we could actually decide anything." I replied as my mom grabbed the water-skin.

Rotters don't question when their roommates come home covered in mud and crap. Partially because we as a people aren't the cleanest, and partially because we all play sludge-ball, and that's a messy game. So when I pushed open the curtain that serves as our hut-door covered in sludge, my mother simply wanted to know how the game went.

Zahara, my mom, is considered one of our most beautiful. She's finely proportioned, with a lithe hourglass-shape and slight muscle-tone on tanned skin. Her eyes are a bloody maroon sort of color, her hair falling to her waist in a neat braid. Her hair is deep red, fading into black at the tips. Her bangs frame her face in a way that draws attention to her. She has two beauty-marks under her right eye, as if she's perpetually crying. On her left-side collarbone is a tattoo of a rose done in black, standing out against her skin. There's a whitish scar on her throat. She wears a red halter-top with black accents and harem-pants with long slits up the side to reveal her legs, and the fabric rides low on her hips. Like me, she wears simple wooden sandals, but while mine have rope for the straps, hers have black braided stuff. On her wrists is a collection of copper bangles that my dad found near the border. She's a little taller than average height for a Rotter-woman, though it's widely agreed that a lot of her height is in her legs.

I'm told I don't really look like either of them, since my dad was one of the only pale-skinned Rotters, with amber eyes and harvest-gold hair that turned dark brown. It's hard to get light blonde that goes orangey from red and brownish. At the same time, I'm told I take after my father.

Since I didn't really get the chance to actually meet him, I wouldn't know.

"Come on. We need more water in the skin and you're a mess."

I nodded, following her back out of the hut and trailing after her as she headed for our village's well.

Wells and rainwater were the cleanest water we could get around here. The well-water was an underground spring filtered naturally by the rocky tunnels, uncontaminated by the trashy surface, and only two of the four Rotter villages had them, ours being one of them. Most Rotter-homes have water-skins in their huts, which they fill up at wells. When it rains, clean hides are hung up outside to catch the fresh, clean water as it falls.

As my mother and I walked, I tucked my hands behind my head. Since I was dirty even by Rotter standards, I was gonna be splashed with water three or four times, so I was gonna be freezing my ass off for an hour or two. I stuck my lip out in a bit of a pout. I had no problems with either wet or cold, but unless I was the one initiating them I was wholeheartedly against either touching me.

"Was Chaya there?"

"Nope." I huffed.

"Did you and Chaya fight?"

"Hassan's plannin' t' ask her out."

"Are you jealous?"

"Of Chaya?! No way!" I snapped.

Chaya was a fifteen-year-old from one of the other villages. I suppose she qualifies as one of our friends, but I think she's too much of a straight in my personal opinion. She has skin a little lighter than Hassan's, the same height as me, and a figure ready to develop into one like my mother's. Her cheeks are always rosy, her eyelashes thick even for a Rot. Her eyes are lime-green with true-blue spokes, her hair light green fading into navy blue. It falls halfway down her back, and she wears it in a high, tight pony held in place with a pretty golden piece she found in the sea. She wears a pale yellow tube-top and harem-pants, with a bright green leafy-like scarf around her waist. Around her neck is always a bright brass collar with a cracked emerald centerpiece over her throat. She wears faded blue slipper-like shoes. She's really sweet and playful in a childish manner, but is way too shy and well-behaved for a Rotter. Hassan's been making eyes at her ever since they first met. I don't like her, but I don't hate her.

"I think you are, aren't you? Not that they're becoming close and you feel they'll take each other away, but that they're going into a relationship and you haven't found anyone you want to be your first yet."

"H-huh?!" How'd she know that?!

"You act tough and like you don't care, but you're actually quite a romantic yourself, aren't you?" my mother smiled, reaching out to ruffle my muddy hair. I could feel clumps of it sticking up in weird spikes, cemented there thanks to the sludge. Unable to respond properly, I huffed, turning my head away from her with an indignant look.

Seriously, how had she known? I don't act lovesick or overly jealous. I don't really stare longingly at couples with babies or whatnot. But it was the truth. I really did want to find someone special to call mine. I am admittedly that sort of person, who longs and needs for contact with others. Hassan says that's a good quality to have, since it means I value life even more than other people do.

I huffed again.

By that time, we'd reached the well. Setting the skin down on the edge of the well, my mother turned to me. "Do you want me to wash you first, or fill up the skin?"

"Douse me. I'll have more time to dry off." I grumbled.

"Alright, stand by to beat the shit out of the gears if they don't behave."

I nodded, picking up the communal gear-bludgeon-club. The well tends to stick a lot, so fetching water is a two-person job. One has to hold onto the crank, and the other has to beat the gears into moving again. Once the gears loosen with the percussive maintenance, the crank jerks, the bucket trying to plummet down. You have to have someone there to hold the crank for you.

So my mom began turning the crank, drawing up the bucket. I leaned against the wall of the well, watching the gears with an evil eye. I was a big supporter of percussive maintenance when it came to the well-gears and I was sporting a bad mood. That wasn't to say I was cranky right then, but I was a little irritated that my mom had seen through me so easily...

The first time she was drawing water up, the gears didn't stick. I squeezed my eyes shut and tensed up, curling my toes. A gasp was forced out of me all the same as the first bucket was dumped over my head.

"You're already looking cleaner— Doesn't that feel better than being caked with shit?"

"Maybe I like being caked with shit! Hurry up and finish dousing me, bitch!" I snapped.

I know that in other cultures, no kid would ever get away with calling his mother that. But bad language is pretty much encouraged by Rotters, just like violence. Bottling it all up inside isn't healthy, and we know it, so we get everything out in the open to avoid problems. Bad language and rowdiness are totally normal.

And there's an old saying about asking and receiving.

I think I just fit it perfectly as I was soaked again. Some of the sludge-laced water snuck into my mouth, and I spat it out fast.

"Still like being caked with shit?"

I glowered up at my mother as she tossed the bucket back into the well.

"One more bucket, and then we'll fill up the skin and go home. Do you feel like eating tonight? Did playing sludge-ball and treasure-diving wear you out enough for that?" she asked.

"Eh. I guess." I shrugged, not meeting her gaze. I wasn't able to stay angry at her when she was smiling like that...

"Well, I know you don't like it, but right now all we have is salted kelp and smoked fish. If you want something else, you'll have to go out and find it yourself."

"'S fine..."

"Malik."

I blinked in surprise as she turned my head to look at her.

"What's wrong? You normally act grumpy until we get home when I soak your ass."

"... Mom, how big of a hero was Dad?"

She didn't react, blinking.

"I mean, this world is filthy and rotten, and we're treated like trash. I don't like that. I wanna change it. But I'm just one smarmy-ass little brat who can't do jack-shit on his own... Dad coulda done somethin', couldn't he?"

"Oh, Mal..." Her eyes crinkled with laughter as she smiled. "You are just a snot-nosed brat who can't do squat on his own. But that's why you have friends. Do you think your father did everything on his own? He often ran to Master Alban to cover his ass. We may only hear about the heroes, but no hero accomplishes anything on their own. Every single one of them is backed up by their friends. And you have Zaria, Hassan and Chaya. I'm sure that together you four will do magnificent things."

Now it was my turn again to blink in surprise.

"And have I ever told you about how you came about your name? Malik?"

"I know that it means 'great ruler,' just like Zaria's means 'rose' and Hassan's means 'handsome.'"

"Right. And I'm 'flower' while Master Alban is 'white one.' Your father was 'smiling one.' Kadar decided to name you Malik because he said that you would grow up to be someone's king. He said you didn't cry, and you looked too smart for a baby, and he was positive that you would become etched into history as one of the greatest rulers."

"... Mom..."

"Now, help me crank up your last bucket so we can get our water and go home, yeah, my little king?"