A wise Ka'andesi learns that his mother is not to be trifled with.
—The Collected Wisdom of the Ka'andesi Peoples, as told to Inalia Kenobi, Chronicler of the Ch'lliear.

I scrambled back on my knees and elbows for a few yards, making sure that I was well out of their sight before I got to my feet. As fast as I could, I ran back to the telba tree and scooped up my book. Then I bolted back to the compound and took the stairs two at a time up to my room. Once I got the doors shut, I threw myself down on my bed and buried my nose in the records I'd drawn.

A few minutes passed, and I began to hope that they wouldn't come looking for me. It wasn't that I was afraid of being punished. I hadn't been eavesdropping on purpose—or at least not because I wanted to catch them in a fight—but I didn't even know what to think of the things I'd heard. The last thing I wanted was for them to come in here and try to explain it to me, or tell me not to worry about Mom.

I didn't think I really wanted to run guns or glitterstim with Dad and Uncle Dannik, either. Until now, I always thought it was something he did for extra money. The shop didn't earn a steady living. What we did get was as likely to be bartered goods as it was to be hard cash, and although my mother made a little selling clan jewelry, we couldn't live on that either. We could hunt for the table, grow vegetables, and make most of what we needed, but there were still some things we had to buy outright.

Last year, we'd gotten stuck with a big load of high-powered blaster carbines and illegal explosives because some rich Core-worlder tried to pay us off in Republic credits. I guess things had been a little tight since then, but usually smuggling was enough to get us everything we needed, plus a little extra besides. I wasn't surprised to hear Dad say we needed the run. It would get us back to normal again—or it would have, if there wasn't going to be another kid around in three months. What surprised me was that he wanted to go. He didn't do it because it paid well. He did it because he was a smuggler. How could I tell him that I wasn't—that the only place I really wanted to be was here on the plains?

Unfortunately, just about the time that I decided no one was going to come looking for me, my mother knocked on the door. I sighed. Closing the record book, I swung my feet to the floor and sat up, but I kept the tan cover clutched close to my chest.

"Come in," I said reluctantly.

She pushed open the door and tried to slide inside, but it was really more like a waddle. I felt a moment of faint amusement until the door shut behind her. Then she came over and sat beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder.

"It's been a long day for you, hasn't it?" she asked sympathetically.

I grunted.

"Are you okay?"

I shrugged.

"Owen…" she began again, biting her lip. "It's not that I think you're not old enough to go with your father. I—"

"Mom, I don't care about smuggling," I interrupted.

She nodded and drew in a breath. "Well. Your father is only worried about the baby and I because we've tried to have another child for a long time. I don't think our two species are quite as alike as we look, and sometimes that makes things more difficult."

"Aunt Bee is worried too. Even Ierei understood," I glared up at her.

"Ierei is special, Owen. The Faorrins say that among them a Healer is born as much as made. But she's still young, and she has a lot of training to go through. She senses that there could be trouble. It doesn't mean there will be," she smoothed her hand over my back.

"You still could've told me," I grumbled.

"Told you what? That your father is worried? He's this baby's father too. And Aunt Bee is a Weaver. One of her jobs is to bring healthy babies into the Clan. I haven't been keeping anything from you. You're a Ka'andesi. Birth and death have been all around you since before you could even walk. Why would I treat my son as anything other than a fellow clansman? If I was sick, or the baby was not healthy, do you really believe I would keep that a secret?"

"Then why did you argue with Aunt Bee today? And why did you warn Dad to be quiet when you knew I was listening?" I challenged.

My mother's eyebrows rose, and a stern note came into her voice. "I could ask you what you were doing sneaking around in the grass listening. We'll let that drop for the moment, but I want you to remember this: when you make up your mind about something, be certain that you have all of the information."

I gulped and nodded.

"When someone is afraid, his fear can color everything he sees. Every shadow hides a threat. When I found out that I was going to have a baby, I told Dad and Aunt Bee that unless there was clear evidence of a medical problem, I didn't want anyone to act like there was one in front of you. Not because I thought I needed to protect you from the possibility that I could die, but because I know what it feels like to be afraid of losing your mother. I didn't want you to go through the same thing without a real reason."

"But you could. There was a trihorn one year who had nothing wrong with her and she died!" I cried, suddenly agitated as the import of what she was saying sunk in.

Mom pulled me closer to her and hugged me. "Birth and death are really two halves of the same thing, son. There's always some risk involved with having a child, but I have a Clan Weaver right here taking care of me. Not to mention you, and Ierei, and your father. I'm going to have the baby in the city where it's as safe as it possibly can be. I wouldn't have even tried to have another child if I thought it was that dangerous, Owen. I don't want to leave you any more than you want me to go."

"Okay," I nodded, leaning forward to rest my head on her belly. She ran her fingers lightly through my hair, and I closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of her wildflower perfume. We stayed like that for a few minutes, and I felt my tension and fears start to melt away. Then, abruptly, something in her stomach smacked against my cheek.

"Hey!" I jerked away, staring at it. Then I looked up at her worriedly. "Wh-what was that?"

"That's the baby," Mom winked.

I frowned. "What does he want?"

"Probably just saying hello," Mom replied.

"Oh…" I looked back at her stomach. "Well, hi…kid. Uh… Mom?"

"What?" she laughed.

"What are we going to call this kid?"

"That's a very good question," she said.

"You don't know yet?" I squinted one eye in surprise.

"Well, everybody seems to have some ideas, but Dad and I haven't decided on anything yet. What do you think?"

"Me?" I stared.

She raised her eyebrows. "Yes?"

"Well…uh…I don't know. Uh…" I pursed my lips, trying to look as serious and grown-up as I could, but I couldn't come up with a single idea. "Can I get back to you?"

"Sure," she nodded. "You've got three months."

"I'm sure I can come up with something by then," I promised.

"All right, good," she smiled, starting to get up.

As she did, my record book slid off the bed and landed by her feet. I bounded up to get it, then suddenly remembered the whole reason for starting it in the first place. I picked it up carefully and dusted it off.

"Um, Mom?" I called nervously.

She had almost reached the door but turned back to look at me. "Mmhm?"

"That—um—was why Dad wanted an omen, wasn't it?" I asked, feeling the heat of an embarrassed blush creep its way up my neck.

"What?" she frowned in confusion.

I swallowed. "When we found the hawk nest, remember? Dad asked Aunt Bee if it was a good omen. He wanted to know because he was scared that you…that you wouldn't live when the baby came."

"Oh…" understanding flashed over her face. "No, that wasn't the omen he was looking for, I don't think."

"What then?" I asked, my face growing warm.

"I—think that's something you'll have to ask your father, Owen."