by Zaide Bishop
She realized, with a sudden jolt of clarity, that Fox was a better person than she was.
“Fox,” she breathed.
“Mm.” Her eyes flicked, and the snake gave a little jerk. Whiskey flinched, biting her lip until she tasted blood.
“Fox, snake,” she hissed.
Fox’s eyes opened, taking a long moment to focus, then she went rigid. The snake’s tongue brushed her face, touching her eyelids and lips.
Whiskey rose, stepping carefully over the snake’s middle to work her way down the trunk to tug free a fallen branch with a splintered, sharpened end. There was a ripping, snapping sound as it came loose, and the snake jerked, its diamond-shaped head whipping around to face Whiskey. She froze, paralyzed in that dead, unblinking gaze.
“Please,” Fox breathed.
“I’m coming,” she whispered. “Just don’t—”
Fox slid her hand to her waist, reaching for Whiskey’s knife in her belt. The snake whipped back around, jerking back into a sharp coil, and Whiskey threw herself forward, covering Fox with the leafy end of the branch as the snake struck. It smashed into Fox; its hooked teeth snagged on the twigs and leaves and ripped the branch from Whiskey’s grasp.
Fox rolled out from under it, scrambling and leaping to avoid the convulsive coils that tried to wrap around her. Whiskey held out her hand, dragged the Elikai free. She collided with Whiskey and her wounded leg gave, sending them sprawling against the snake’s side.
It flicked its head, dislocated jaw working in three directions as it spat the branch free. It reared back to strike again and the wave of stagnant water hit, putrid and black.
Fox was struggling against her, and for a moment she couldn’t see, blinded by the muddy water. She could feel Fox’s arm around her, though, keeping her from falling out of the tree and into the jaws she was certain were just below them.
When she wiped her arm across her face, clearing her vision, the reality was more horrible and awesome than she had imagined.
The leviathan crocodile was standing at the base of the fig, her fore claws on the roots, her long snout almost level with them in the tree. Grasped in her jaws was the fat middle of the snake, splitting and bloody where the crocodile’s teeth punctured its hide.
Another long coil of the snake was wrapped desperately around a branch as it tried to pull itself free, its tail coiling and uncoiling around the crocodile’s head. Deep in the wood of the fig there was a groan as the monolithic creatures began to rip it from its soggy mooring.
“Knife,” Whiskey demanded.
“Whiskey, don’t.” Fox’s eyes were wide and frantic. Whiskey took the blade from her, hoisting herself out of her grasp and scrambling up the trunk to the head of the snake. Its tongue was flicking in a desperate panic. She could see the way it strained, frantic, probably uncomprehending that there could be anything large enough to threaten it in this, its unparalleled domain.
Whiskey put her hands on its spine, where the coils doubled around the branch. She walked her fingers across the thick, scaled hide until she could feel the vertebra below. She raised the blade, paused, and then thrust it deep between the bones.
The snake gave a hiss, like the rush of a waterfall, the closest it could come to a scream, and with a great spasm it released the trunk. The crocodile dragged it down, still writhing, into the black water.
For several minutes spiny ridges, great coils and the flat yellow expanse of the crocodile’s belly rose and sank through the mire. Then there was nothing.
Whiskey clambered back to Fox’s side. The tree was listing, half toppling over the pool, its top branches resting on the egg mound.
The crocodile could reach them now if it wanted.
Whiskey huddled beside Fox, both of them sodden and her suddenly cold with the shock of it. Fox put a tentative arm around her shoulders. She relaxed against the Elikai.
“Any chance they’re both dead?” she murmured.
As if it heard her, the crocodile’s eyes and nose broke the surface. It looked at them, took a deep breath, and sank again.
“I will get us out,” Fox said with grim determination.
Whiskey looked at her, surprised. “Us? Why?”
“Because it would be cowardly to leave you here. You’re wounded. And I’m no coward.”
“I don’t need the protection of an Elikai.”
“No? Fine. But you saved me from the snake.”
“To repay you. So we were even.”
Fox was silent for a long moment, then she brushed Whiskey’s hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear.
“How about this? We have a better chance together. If we trust one another. If we...if we look out for one another.”
She nodded. “All right. A truce. And a promise.”
Fox leaned her head back and closed her eyes. Whiskey kept first watch.
* * *
Dawn came slowly, the sun hidden behind the mountain for hours after the sky turned blue. Whiskey was asleep against Fox’s side, filthy and bloody. However, filth and blood could be washed away. Sallow skin and the racing of their pulses could not. They were dehydrating.
They had no fresh water and they had not had anything to drink for close to thirty hours. Fox had almost paused in the stream as he fled, but fearing pursuit, he had promised himself a drink later, when he could afford to rest.
The first pounding beat of the headache at his temples was a clue to how serious it was. The tropical heat of the archipelago was sucking them dry. The next time the sun rose, they would be too weak to make it back to the creek; their organs would already be failing. He had already checked the fruit around them. There was no juice in them, and the sap of the tree tasted bitter and poisonous.
He considered catching the spiders that were swarming in the tree around them, but they would not contain enough fluid to keep them alive. They needed to escape today. Today or never.
As he watched, the crocodile hauled himself from the water onto the grassy rise. He paused, eyeing Toyota’s rancid corpse, then bolted it down in two huge bites.
He showed no signs of injury from his battle with the python, though his eyes were more irritated than before, swollen and weeping. Fox wondered how well he could see; in the water it would sense every tiny movement, from little fish and crabs to other giant crocodiles. Perhaps on land it was blind now.
Whiskey shifted, his eyes flickering open. Fox glanced down at him, feeling an odd surge of tension, his diaphragm and throat tightening, and he was unsure if it was apprehension or protectiveness. He’d had no time to think about what had gone on between them, strange, horrible and wonderful as it was. Whiskey’s chest was still bare and Fox could see his breasts and nipples. He remembered how they had felt on his hands and tongue. But it was hard to find him attractive right now. Whiskey’s leg wound had torn open in the struggle during the night, and Fox could smell the blood on him, unpleasantly stale where it was clotted on the leather. His skin was not swollen or red, though, not yet. While both tribes were resistant to infection, being regularly painted in filthy slurry with no water or food was going to take its toll. Of course, they were going to die of dehydration first anyway.
He couldn’t let that happen. What if Whiskey was carrying young? Fox’s young? Keeping him alive might mean protecting the lives of Fox’s own pups.
“We need to go,” Fox said softly.
Whiskey’s eyes wandered over the pool and came to rest on the crocodile. The vast length of its tail was still in the water, but it was the first time they’d seen the creature whole.
“She’s so big,” Whiskey muttered. “We don’t have anything to kill her.”
“We don’t need to kill him, just get past him.”
“She has eggs. She is a girl.”
“‘She,’ then.” He rolled his eyes.
“Yes, I’m sure if this monster was one of us it would be a Varekai.”
Whiskey glared at him and he sighed. “We don’t have time to argue. We need to work out how we’re going to get past him. He won’t leave the nest. He’s too big to fight. If we try and climb out, through the branches, he can reach us.”
Whiskey pulled away from him, moving awkwardly down the trunk. “I’m going to swim.”
“What?” he hissed. He glanced at the crocodile still dozing on the bank. It wasn’t reacting to them yet. “You’re insane. Whiskey, come back here!”
“I’ll dive to the bottom and swim to the other side of the pool.”
“And come out a few feet from his head!”
“She’s half blind. Maybe completely blind.”
“You smell like blood.”
Whiskey untied the leather binding on her leg and left it on a branch. Fox grabbed his shoulder, but he batted his hand away and then they both froze, watching the crocodile. It did not move.
Before Fox could grab him again, Whiskey scrambled down the roots and dipped his legs into the water. The sight made Fox sick.
“Whiskey, you can’t swim across a mangrove pool! For every crocodile you can see, there is ten you can’t! And I see one huge one!”
“Do you really think there is anything in this pool larger than a stonefish? She’s killed everything else.” Whiskey slid off the roots. Soundlessly and without causing a ripple, he sank down until his head was the only thing above the surface.
“Please, Whiskey,” Fox whispered.
He met Fox’s gaze a moment, then took a long, silent breath and sank slowly down. There was nothing. No ripple, no sign of his movement on the water. But the pool was long. There was no way he could make it all the way across without another breath.
Desperate, Fox scrambled back up the tree, looking for a branch he could break and use as a weapon. He snapped one off, as long as his body and as thick as his arm. He wondered, even if he had a spearhead, if it would be strong enough to pierce the hide of the massive crocodile. Probably not.
Movement in the water made him whip back around, and he saw Whiskey break the surface in the middle of the pool. He was still moving carefully, silently, but this time there were ripples. He sank again and the crocodile turned its head.
Fox’s gorge rose as it took a step, then another, sliding its bulk across the grassy tussocks toward the water.
“No,” he breathed, then as it prepared to slide into the water, “No!”
He ran out across the longest of the fig’s branches, leaping wildly from the tree to the edge of the grassy rise. Spiders and flies seemed to explode under him, flying into his mouth or scrambling up his legs with hundreds of hooked, hairy feet. He ignored them, his second leap finding hard, hot scales and a foot of ridges rising up either side of him.
His weight on its tail caused the crocodile to pause, his head twisting around. Fox scrambled forward on his hands and knees, crawling up its tail to its hips. The broad, lumpy back was not difficult to hang on to while the beast was still, but...
On the eastern side of the pool, Whiskey hauled himself up onto the mud.
He looked back, his eyes widening.
“Run!” Fox yelled, and he brought the stick down as hard as he could across the crocodile’s back. The world lurched as it opened its mouth, lunging at him. The jaws snapped closed three feet from his head, and he dropped to his knees, gripping nodules on its back as the world slid past him, bouncing and shaking.
“Fox!” He couldn’t see the Varekai, but he sounded close.
“Run, Whiskey!”
The black water rushed up to meet him as the creature submerged, and the force of the contact knocked him loose. He scrambled for the bank, his feet sinking in mud, tangling in roots. He couldn’t get his grip. He sank under the water, hands still clawing at the bank. Something struck him with the force of a cannon, and his air left him in a puff of bubbles. A tail, a limb—the crocodile was coming after him.
His lungs screamed for air, but he dove until he hit the bottom, feeling his way in the darkness. He had to get back to the fig. He had to get up, put the branches and trunk between it and him.
His hand closed on something huge and round, and he used it to drag himself forward. Under the water, the roots of the fig created a huge tangled cage of branches. Many were snapped and jagged. He broke the surface, gasping for air amid the tangle of wood.
Behind him, the water was churning as the crocodile turned, maw opening as he lunged. Fox dragged himself deeper between the roots, ducking under the surface again and wriggling through the tight spaces like a fish.
The world roared around him as the crocodile’s jaws snapped, held open by the mess of roots. Even underwater the sound was horrible, the screaming, cracking rent of wood. There was nothing to see but black mud, and Fox knew he was about to die, to drown or be crushed. The wood was pressing into him, roots wrapping around him, forcing him down and crushing his chest.
Something grabbed his hair—the pain sharp, like a knife—and with one free hand he flailed for it. He felt fingers, a wrist. He grasped, and a hard yank almost pulled his arm from its socket. Bright flashes were exploding in his vision. There was nothing but the pain in his lungs.
The world became a bright white light.
It took Fox a moment to realize he was gasping in air. His legs were trapped, tangled in roots, but his chest was free. The world was bright, too bright. The canopy had been ripped open. The massive fig had toppled over, falling across the black pool.
Under its massive trunk and network of branches, the crocodile was thrashing, caught up in the mess and trying to work himself free.
Whiskey was still tugging on Fox, his hands in Fox’s armpits, trying to drag him free. He kicked and wriggled and whatever was holding him gave. He struggled into the mire of mud and salt water where the tree had been.
“Come on,” Whiskey said.
Fox scrambled to his feet, leading the way across the island, east toward freshwater and safety.
It took him a moment to realize Whiskey was lagging. While coming back for him, Whiskey’s leg had split open again. He was bleeding and had been reduced to a painful limp. Fox padded back to him.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he said.
“What?”
He took Whiskey’s hands and placed them on his shoulders, then he scooped the Varekai up, holding him in against his chest.
“You can’t carry me all the way home,” he muttered, as Fox began to pick his way through the mudflats.
“No, but I can carry you far enough...”
* * *
They were in terrible condition when the Elikai found them, Whiskey feverish and pale, Fox with lacerations on her back and chest she had never felt. They were weak, but the tribe found them clean and hydrated, curled up together beside a bonfire so large the smoke could probably be seen from the mainland.
Sugar had carried Whiskey into the Varekai camp herself and laid her out in her own bed. She had been muttering about a crocodile, saying the tribe had to go back, but for now, Charlie was just glad her sister was alive and whole. She was sick and weak, but India insisted she would live, and that was all that mattered.
“So they’re back,” Charlie said, following Sugar back down the path to the beach where the Elikai had docked their canoes. “They’re both safe. And you brought my sister back to me.”
“Safe,” Sugar huffed. “Perhaps. But they would never have been in danger if Whiskey...” She trailed off, expression sour.
Charlie sighed. Sugar was angry, she could see that. It had been a trying few days, for all of them. But Charlie wanted the Elikai to know that she had been wrong. That she was sorry. She needed to know that before she went home and heard Fox’s side of the story, whatever that was.
Sugar turned to glare at her. “I’m surprised. Here was me thinking you wanted some kind of breeder.”
Charlie stepped up close to her and looked into Sugar’s eyes. The nearby Elikai were silent, though Charlie secretly wished they didn’t have an audience.
“I was wrong. It was stupid. But you did the right thing. You brought Whiskey back. It’s all okay now. Isn’t it?”
Sugar said nothing, studying her with those ocean-green eyes. Charlie wanted to say a lot of other things, things about them working together. Things about that day Sugar had saved her from the crocodile and how she’d wanted to spend more time with her, even then. She didn’t want to say it in front of the other Elikai, though.
Instead, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed Sugar. Her lips were warm, soft and salty. She heard Sugar draw in a startled breath, then Charlie felt the tip of her tongue against her own.
Sugar shoved her backward and she lost her balance, falling into the sand, hard. Her yelp was more from surprise than pain, and she stared up at Sugar, bewildered.
“Don’t touch me,” she said coldly. “It’s not okay, Varekai. You betrayed the goodwill we’ve been fostering. I’ve been tolerating your games far too long. The next time you kidnap one of my brothers, I will take it to be a declaration of war. There will be no more negotiations. There will be no more trades. There will be no more discussions. The truce is over.”
She turned on her heel, stalking to the canoe and pushing off without even checking the water for danger. Charlie was too startled to even get to her feet. She watched as the Elikai paddled away, vanishing between the islands.
She was too stunned to cry. Numbness stole into her like the morning heat.
She got up, dusted herself off and padded back to camp.