Foragers

by Charles Oberndorf

  In the morning he was still asleep. She played for him again, but it was hard to concentrate. He should not have tried to mate with Crooked. Now one woman or another would worry that he might try to mate with the healer, Flatface’s eldest daughter, or Flatface herself; now Flatface would have to ask one woman and another to help force him away from the river if he would not leave on his own. After she finished playing, she checked his hand. There was too much pus along the finger stumps, and she didn’t know if music and salve would be enough to save him.

  She went to gather more shortleaves‚ and her mind walked over the things she should do. It was good to think about healing and about nothing else. But when she returned with enough shortleaves‚ she found Squawker standing by the dark spot of her waiting fire and Flatface standing by the opening to her hut, looking in on her son.

  “I am here,” said the healer.

  Each woman turned to her.

  “I am here,” said Flatface. “I am sorry to walk where I have not been invited. It has been many days since I have seen him.”

  “I am here,” said Squawker. “I shared words with Flatface, and she said I should share the same words with you.”

  “I am listening.”

  “There is a strange person living by the river. He is an almost-a-man with patches on his neck. What is truly strange about him are the skins he wears. They are thin. They cover his entire body. All you see are his hands and his head.”

  The Stranger from the Many Huts had made it to Winding River. How had he found them? I asked, “Did you speak with him?”

  “I had no words to share. He was so strange that I hid until he passed by. Where is he from? What would he do here?”

  The healer looked in on Flatface’s son, who was breathing like one asleep, not like one taken by sickness. She looked to Flatface, who had taken several steps back out of respect, “The Stranger,” said the healer, “will be looking for the animal. I am going to the clearing.”

  “And my son?”

  The healer widened her eyes for Flatface. “He lost the first finger trying to mate Crooked. He can sleep with his pain.”

  She walked off, expecting one woman, then the other, to follow her. Flatface followed her first.

  Esoch had left the speech prosthesis on the workstation by the acceleration couch. He rinsed it off, placed it in his mouth. It pressed against the palate, rubbed the insides of his cheeks. Would the warrior understand a word Esoch said?

  The blue light above the screen still blinked; the slazan warrior still sat on the hillside. A green light above another screen blinked, but the slazan who had set off that alarm had remained hidden in the woods. Esoch placed soft palm against hard plastic; the pistol still hung there. He gripped, pulled, aimed, then, secure with the ease of the gesture, returned the pistol to the waisthook. He inhaled and exhaled several times. Controlling his breathing did not control his heart, which he could feel hammering away at the inside of his chest. He could die of fear here or face the enemy, and the thought calmed him. Thumb pressed against eyeplate.

  When the hatch slid open, the warrior did not stand. His face moved slightly, so that his eyes met Esoch’s. Was this a sign of trust or distrust? Esoch couldn’t remember. The stare made him uncomfortable. Was that from the experience, his training, or his upbringing? The warrior’s body had gone taut, as if he were readying himself to move. Esoch clasped his hands in front. He wanted the warrior to see the pistol; he wanted the warrior to see that he wasn’t anxious to use it.

  Esoch stepped down. The warrior remained seated. One bird called out, and another bird answered. Water in the tiny brook washed over rocks. The hatch slid shut behind Esoch. There was no place to hide. He should have reprogrammed it so the hatch remained open. The sun was unduly warm, and he began to sweat.

  The warrior had not spoken, only averted his eyes. A respectful gesture? Was he giving Esoch the opportunity to speak first?

  Whatever he said, Esoch wanted it routine, polite, customary. He said, his speech slow and halting, the speaking prosthesis rubbing against the roof of his mouth, “I am here.”

  The warrior looked at him differently; the lips turned downward, the eyes narrowed. The warrior didn’t trust what he’d just said; or was Esoch merely seeing human suspicion on a slazan face? “I am here,” the warrior said, but his next words made no sense. Several of the words sounded familiar, but there was no meaning at all.

  “I have words to share,” Esoch said. What he really had were questions, but he didn’t know how to say that. “I share words slowly.” He looked to the warrior. Would his words mean what he wanted them to mean?

  The warrior averted his eyes again, directing his gaze up into the forest. Why had he said nothing? What was he waiting for Esoch to say?

  Esoch tried again. “I share words as well as a boy who is only as high as his mother’s knee.”

  The warrior focused his attention on Esoch. He opened his mouth as if to speak; then he stopped. A branch snapped, followed by the sounds of running feet. Esoch looked to where the warrior was watching. A slazan had taken several steps down the hill and had stopped. He was staring right at Esoch, his head tilted. Esoch almost had the sense that the slazan had expected to see something else. It took a moment, but Esoch recognized him. It was the one who had pounded on the shuttle craft hull the other night, the one who had touched Pauline’s breast.

  Then he was running down the hill, his feet pounding and sliding a bit on the hillside soil. His running was awkward; no, rather, it was the way he held his hand. One hand, his left, he was holding away from his body. There was something metallic in the hand, but Esoch could not make out what. It was clear now that the slazan was running toward Esoch, but Esoch could not understand why. He could make out the metal thing now: it was a knife. While he stepped back to find the shuttle’s hatch shut, he wondered where the slazan had got a metal knife; at the same time he couldn’t help but see the warrior stand up, reach behind his back, his hand returning to view with some kind of pistol.

  The word Esoch heard in his mind was trap even though a conspiracy between these two slazans made no sense at all, and training took over, his hand gripped his own pistol, the warrior fired a round, the sound like a sharp clap of hands, and, too late, Esoch realized that it was the slazan with the knife who had been struck, who was falling to the ground, because Esoch’s pistol was already aimed, his finger already pulling the trigger. A harsh whisper, and the warrior’s leg fell out from under him, his body dropped to the ground. The warrior cried out. He shifted his body on the ground, tried to move so the hand that held his weapon was freed from the weight of his body. Esoch knew what he was thinking. He swung around, his thumb hit the eyeplate‚ but the hatch was opening too slowly. The warrior by now had turned enough to free his hand from under his fallen body and raise the gun. The hatch was open now, but he had no time to hide. Esoch aimed his pistol and pulled the trigger and he heard the sudden quick explosion, the clap of hands, something hard against a leg, his body falling, the hull of the ship cracking against his back, his back sliding down against the metal, the ground rising hard up against him. Everything flashed white. He tried to sit up, but his eyes closed instead. The last things he felt were the ground against his back and the pistol in his hand. The last thing he heard was the door above him sliding shut.

  When I, Flatface, and Squawker reached the hillside, each woman saw something horrifying. Squawker saw Hugger’s body lying in the middle of the clearing. His chest looked like someone had started a fire there and then had wiped everything away but the ashes. I saw the Stranger lying almost curled up, in the strangest of positions; she didn’t know if he was alive or dead. Flatface saw for the first time the second animal and the destruction that surrounded her. The sunlight made everything look so clear.

  Flatface and Squawker didn’t know what to do. There were Clever Fingers’ remains in the clearing and the possibility that his true body could still be there. I couldn’t stay with them. She
ran to Hugger first, but speed had not mattered. He no longer breathed. There was a dark hole in his chest, and a few speckles of blood had broken through. It was as if his chest had been baked the same way as the ground. What could have done that to him? In Hugger’s left hand was the knife that had killed Huggable.

  She crouched by the second animal, who was still breathing, a slow, raspy breath that came out in different lengths, more like a musical pattern than like breathing. I looked for a moment at the dark lines cut into her forehead and between her eyebrows, much like the scars the women from the river’s mouth wore on their arms or chest. The second animal’s leg was twisted, the legging had been burned, and the skin had been burned, the same way as Hugger’s chest. In her hand was something hard, made out of the same material as the surface of the boulder. I removed it and placed it in her carry bag.

  The Stranger’s side and his shin were both the color of blood, but the blood wasn’t flowing out the way it had from Clever Fingers’ thigh. The Stranger’s breath was hardly visible or audible. Had so slight a wound almost killed him? In his hand was something shaped very much like the thing she had taken from the second animal’s hand. She removed this one, too, and placed it in her carry bag.

  Flatface and Squawker’s curiosity must have overtaken their fear of breathing in a true body, because each woman was now making her way down the hill. I returned her attention to the Stranger and the second animal. She carefully looked at each of their wounds. She wanted each one at her hut and hearth, where she had her herbs, where she had her gzaet. She did not want to leave them here to breathe in Hugger’s true body.

  I stood up and said, “I will share a generous portion of the next lightfoot or nightnose that I kill to the one or other who will share their strength to carry each of these to where I sleep.”

  Squawker was still standing by Hugger, still looking down at the darkness of his chest. She exhaled loudly; she had been holding her breath. “Did the animal do this?” Her voice was soft, hard to hear, and she instantly closed her mouth so as not to take in a true body.

  “Look,” said Flatface, who stood there nervously, looking anxious, “this is a different animal. Its color and size is different. Only the shape is the same.”

  Squawker took a look at the second animal, then back to Hugger, as if there was nothing about the animal worth looking at. She exhaled. “Did this animal do this?” She firmly closed her mouth.

  “Of course,” said Flatface. “A person wouldn’t do this.”

  I was surprised by her own anger. “A person wouldn’t do this?” She walked, clean, hard strides, around Squawker and stopped at Hugger’s sprawled-out hand. She crouched down, pried open the fingers, and lifted the knife. The blade still had Huggable’s blood on it. “What was this doing in his hand? What do you think Hugger was trying to do?”

  Squawker looked away no. Flatface looked to the ground. “Hugger thinks the animal killed Huggable. Hugger wanted to put an end to the animal.”

  Squawker said, “Watches Everything may have angered each of you with his embraces. But he never harmed with words. He never harmed with blows.”

  “He remained by a dead woman’s body,” said Flatface. “He must have breathed in the true body. The true body wanted the animal dead, not Hugger.”

  “I will share my strength,” said Squawker. “I do not want another person to die. But I will not help move the animal.”

  “The animal,” said Flatface, “should be left here to die. Then there will be no more trouble.”

  “Yes,” said I, “there will. The first animal left. Not much later the second animal arrived. If this animal dies, there will be another. Then another. And then another. These animals are able to do things no person here can do. They wear things that disappear. The hilts of their knives change shape. They have rocks filled with drawings that move. I share this idea with you. I heal this animal. I don’t ask her to share food with me. I don’t ask her to give me a gift one of her mates has made. I ask her to go back to where she lives with others like her and to tell them not to come here. If we have one more here, we have more trouble and more death.”

  Flatface looked hard at I. “How can you talk of sharing gifts and food with an animal? You talk about this animal as if you were talking about a person.”

  “This is a person who is not a person. She has two legs. She has two arms. She has one head. And she has something that burned inside Hugger’s chest until he died. She is not like a lightfoot. She is not like a nightskin. If she dies, I and you and you will see more like her. Do you want that? Do you?”

  Squawker could only stare at Hugger’s dead body. She said nothing.

  Flatface looked away no, but she didn’t return her gaze to I. She kept looking far off into the woods. “We need another woman to help.”

  Esoch didn’t know how long he had been lying outside the shuttle, or if he was truly still alive. He opened his eyes for a moment. A slazan face looked down. Esoch closed his eyes, then opened them to look again. The slazan had bright-red hair, unlike any other. It was Slazan N!ai. Why was she looking down at him? Wasn’t there something wrong about staring so long into someone’s eyes? He averted his gaze, and the gesture caused pain to fill his entire head.

  Sleep was easier.

  So he slept, but it was the kind of sleep where the hard ground underneath could still be felt, where the direction of dreams slipped away from his control.

  He saw N!ai. His N!ai. Her eyes were bright. She smiled coyly. Three scars angled across each cheek, giving her the beauty of the zebra. He reached up to trace each one. Above her head was the canopy of a //gxa grove. Beyond that was the bright light and hard heat. He remembered why they had come here, even though the grove had been well picked already. “We should go,” she said. “We have gathered so little. My sister and my brother will joke endlessly about this.”

  “You are my wife. Husbands and wives go away to do these kinds of things. What’s wrong if they joke? When your sister marries, you will joke with her about the same things.”

  “My sister will ask if I was getting food or making music. She will tell me music won’t fill my belly or end my hunger. I am tired of that joke. You should be tired of it, too.”

  Esoch felt the familiar feeling sink into him, the same sulky resentment. But N!ai hadn’t said that at the //gxa grove. Why was he remembering it wrong? N!ai had said that much later, during !gaa‚ when the sun burned away at everything, when he had whispered to her that they should find some food to eat together out in the brush. It was then N!ai had refused to go with him.

  Something grabbed hold of his shoulders, something grabbed hold of his thighs. He felt himself lifted off the ground. The pain in his leg was immense. It bore into him like something large and hard, expanding to take over every place where he felt nothing.

  He tried to open his eyes. He tried to cry out. He wanted to tell them to leave him here. There were things in the shuttle that would fix him up. There was a program counting down the time, and he had to turn it off. He was being carried. He knew that. Were they carrying him off to his death? Is this what they had done to Pauline? He tried to open his eyes again, and that was the last thing he remembered, except for the pain, which seemed to follow him into unconsciousness.

  The not-a-person—the second animal—was carried by the healer and Flatface, the Stranger by Squawker and Flatface’s eldest daughter. Wisdom followed carrying the eldest daughter’s infant. Following behind her were Flatface’s other daughter and her waist-high son.

  Flatface’s eldest daughter held the Stranger under the shoulders. Squawker held him by the thighs so as not to take hold of the wound on his calf. The eldest daughter observed that Squawker’s butt was so close to the Stranger’s crotch that she had better be careful that the Stranger didn’t think she was announcing her desire. “I’m still giving suck to my daughter,” said Squawker. “My teats are heavy and there is no desire.”

  The eldest daughter said more, but I didn’t
hear it. She had her arms under the not-a-person’s shoulders, and her weight was beginning to pull I down, the pressure of her head uncomfortable against I’s belly. Flatface held her by the thighs, and every step seemed to cause the not-a-person’s blackened leg to swing, her body to squirm. I could imagine the pain she felt.

  And while I watched the awkward leg, Flatface started to ask out loud the questions she must have carried in her mind. “This not-a-person is smaller than the other. Its skin is lighter. It wears different clothes. Is it the same kind of not-a-person? It has no teats. The other one had teats. Is it a woman? Maybe it would be better if it was a man. Maybe a woman not-a-person is more violent than a man.”

  “The woman not-a-person did nothing violent.”

  “She killed the woman you call Huggable.”

  “She had no reason to.”

  Flatface said nothing.

  “She had no reason to kill Huggable, did she?” I’s voice was louder, and Squawker and Flatface’s eldest daughter stopped talking in order to listen. Flatface still said nothing. All I could see was death. Hugger lying there, the knife in his hands, his chest the color of night, with spots of blood. The Stranger lying distant, a strange object in his hand. The not-a-person lying by the boulder, a strange object in her hand. Blood flowed from each body. What horrible thing had happened?

  No one said anything more. Each walked on, weight pulling down on arms.

  Flatface’s son was not there when the four reached I’s hut and hearth, nor had he left any gift behind. Several foodgrabbers could be heard scurrying away. I and Flatface laid the not-a-person down in the shelter. Her wounded leg slapped against the ground, and she groaned. I crouched low, reached out, and with fingertips touched the leg. Flatface had been watching, but seeing the healer touch the not-a-person like a mother touching a sleeping child, she could do nothing but leave the hut.