Submitted for the November 2023 prompt: Feasts with the Beasts

"Well, it can't be any colder inside," I told Linda, and knocked.

The door opened wide enough to reveal one peering eye. A nasty stink wafted out.

"Excuse me, sir. We've just crashed nearby and could use some help."

The eye widened. "Carek?" he asked.

"I'm sorry; I don't—"

"Yabinina carek?" Seeing only incomprehension on our faces, he sighed, disgusted, and spat the word "Turris." It sounded like a terrible insult, but he opened the door wide.

The smell was much worse, but the cold weather drove us in, breathing through our mouths as best we could. It was apparent we had a language barrier, but our host was welcoming enough, if surly.

"Needa mekka kal?"

I smiled ruefully. "I'm sorry, but—"

"No, Mark!" interrupted Linda. "He's asking if we need to call someone."

"You understand him?!"

Our host looked down his nose. "I'm speakin' English, ain't I?"

His thick accent had entirely flummoxed me. "Oh, I am sorry," I stammered. "The crash, you know."

As excuses went it wasn't much, but he nodded, mollified. "Ayuh, at'll happen. Carek?"

It took me a moment. "Oh! Car wreck! No, escape pod from an orbital power station. We lost atmo, had to jettison."

"Ah. Be wanting to make a call, then."

Now that I knew what to listen for, he was almost understandable. "If it's not too big an imposition," I said.

He nodded. "Right heah," he said, waving his hand at what I'd first taken for an antique adding machine. Evidently not.

"Oh! A telephone!" exclaimed Linda delightedly. "I've heard of those! I don't know how to use it, though. Is it like a radio?"

He laughed grimly. "Nope. Ain't got onea them heah," he said. "Guess I best call Shayrf."

This turned out to be local law enforcement, who said he'd get in touch with our people once the storm let up. We relaxed a bit.

"Thank you, sir," said my companion. "I'm Linda, and this is Mark."

"Linder," he greeted her, and named me "Mak". I could live with that. He was Hall.

He made us comfortable by the fire, then busied himself in the kitchenette. It was a small cabin and primitive, and the smells were overwhelming — wood fires smoke badly — but it was cozy and warm. He brought tea and cookies, and afterward let us rest.

It was past midnight when I woke, terribly cramped. Linda was curled up catlike in her armchair, but I was far too tall for mine. I took blankets and cushions and arranged a pallet on the wood floor. It was far from soft, and high gravity made it worse. Eventually I slept again.

The lovely smells of coffee and synthabacon roused me the next morning, but I was so stiff I could hardly move. Linda helped me to the table, where she nibbled daintily on toast.

The old man passed me a plate of the oddest looking synth I'd ever seen. His Synth-e-sizer must be on the blink, I thought, but I kept it to myself. Hall was eating, so it was healthy, just malformed. I shrugged and dug in. The textures were crazy, but I chewed and made polite noises.

"Shayrf says ya people's slowed by the stoahm," the old man said. "Some wicked out." This I understood to indicate the weather was causing delay. I thanked him for his hospitality and he nodded.

I finished eating and he pointed me to the bathroom. It was a curious water-driven affair, but I figured things out easily enough. No shells, though. Some luxuries we take for granted until they're gone.

The hours passed slowly. Our host wasn't talkative by nature, and after a bit our company drove him outside. The chill breeze had freshened into a driving blizzard, and I heard him messing about with a shovel.

Linda sat and read (A hardcopy bound book!) while I went to find his kitchen Synth-e-sizer. I'm a dab hand at electronics and figured a quick repair would be the least I could do. Oddly, though, I couldn't find it, just a frankly redundant cold storage unit. Perhaps he'd taken it away for repair. I built up the fire instead.

Hall came in, stamped, peeled off his outer garments, and hung them near the fireplace. Then he took a closer look at the blaze, squinted at me accusingly, and spent the next five minutes playing with poker and tongs (making it smokier!) Linda tried conversing, but he only grunted. Eventually, he tired of fiddling and plunked himself down in a chair.

An uncomfortable silence ensued.

I cracked first. "Boy, that's some weather out there!"

"Ayuh," said Hall.

Another minute passed.

"Wicked nasty," he added.

Half an hour later, he asked, "How was sleeping onna floah?"

I figured I'd get into the spirit of things. "Wicked had," I said, carefully not pronouncing the R.

Hall looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

That was it for conversation.

Lunch was sandwiches. The old man puttered in the kitchen, returning with three plates. We were getting settled when the phone rang; it was the Sheriff (Aha!) letting us know the roads were back open, and our people would be along to pick us up in an hour or so.

"It was awful nice of you to put us up overnight, Mr. Hall," Linda said. He grunted.

I thought I'd add my bit. "Delicious sandwiches. Never had anything quite like them before. I'll have to get some recipes from your Synth-e-sizer."

"Ain't got none," he said. "That there's roast beef."

It took me a moment to process his remark. No Synth-e-sizer... That meant this was real bread, real lettuce... Oh, my God, that was real meat, not extruded protein. An actual slice cut from a dead animal's muscle—

I barely made it to the bathroom in time.

If I'd known how primitive life is on Earth, I might have stayed to take my chances with the station. They've really got it hard down here.

Wicked hard.