Collins clipped his cell phone in place and stretched his watch back onto his wrist. It read six o’clock, which was clearly wrong. The sun lay directly overhead. He reset it for noon. Then, needing to relieve himself, he struggled into the weeds. Even as he walked, he realized the ludicrousness of his action. It hardly mattered where he chose to urinate in the depths of a forest. Only the horse would see him, yet he felt odd doing it in front of her, in case she was an intelligent alter ego of Falima. He walked just out of sight to perform his business, then studied the scene around him.
Trees and brush stretched in every direction as far as Collins could see. The intertwined branches emitted sunlight in patches, checkering the forest floor in patterns of gray and gold. In this area, oaks grew predominantly, their distinctive serrated leaves closely resembling the ones in Collins’ world. Deep layers of rotting brown leaves lay like foam beneath his feet. He took a long breath of air, savoring the clean dampness. A whiff of smoke entered with it, and he froze. He was an escaped murderer now; he had to assume he’d be pursued.
Whirling, Collins ran back to the horse. A root hooked his foot, sending him sprawling. He skidded through leaf mold and muck, coming to a stop near the saddlebags. Beyond the horse, a campfire burned a cheery, crackling dance. In front of it sat a middle-aged man with skin like milk. From beneath a broad-brimmed hat, white-blond hair fell to his shoulders; and his eyebrows and lashes became invisible in the sunlight. He wore black linens that resembled some of the clothing from the saddlebags. Collins stared, reviving his genetics lessons. Albinism accompanied certain syndromes, including some that dangerously weakened the immune system. But, he recalled, most albinos simply inherited a recessive gene from both parents that left them without melanin.
Shocked by the thought, Collins pushed it from his mind. He could not understand why he remained so calm when, likely, the other was hunting him. Caught, he would certainly be executed immediately. He whirled to run.
“Come!” the albino said in English. “No run.” He repeated, more emphatically. “No run.”
Curiosity warred with common sense. Collins turned carefully. “You speak English?”
“Little,” the man responded. “No hurt.” He rose and gestured toward the fire, seeming frustrated with his own limited ability to communicate. “Help you. Bringed here.” He shook his head in irritation. “Come.”
Still uncertain, Collins took a step toward the other man. A crock rested in the center of the fire, bubbling lazily.
“Me . . . Zylas,” the albino said, looking up. Pale blue eyes met Collins’ brown ones. “Zylas.” He pointed at himself. “Understand?”
Collins nodded vigorously. Then, realizing the action might not mean the same thing here, verbalized his answer. “Understand. I’m Ben. Benton Collins, actually; but you can call me Ben.” The horse moved nearer the fire and whinnied.
Zylas reached up and patted it reassuringly.
“Is that . . .” Collins started, wondering if the question might be improper. “Is that Falima’s switch-form?”
“Falima.” Zylas patted the horse again. “Yes, Falima.”
Collins made an intuitive leap. “And you’re . . . you’re that rat.” Hoping he had not offended the man, he softened the question. “Or aren’t you?”
“Rat, yes,” Zylas returned. “Me rat.” His pidgin English clashed with Falima’s fluency. Collins found himself wishing for her human form, even if she did seem to intensely dislike him.
“Did you . . . rescue me?”
Zylas nodded, glancing at the cooking food. “Chew rope off neck. Chew rope off hand.” He stirred the contents of the crock with a stick. “Falima catched.”
“Yes.” Collins glided nearer. “Falima caught me. Thanks. Thank you. Both of you.” He reached out to pet Falima, but her ears jerked flat to her head, and it seemed safer to remove his hand. “I don’t think she likes me.”
Zylas grinned. “She’ll . . . come around.”
It sounded funny to hear someone who barely knew the language using idioms. Collins guessed Zylas had learned English by example rather than textbooks. “I-I truly didn’t know about the animal . . . transformation thing. Honest. I would never have eaten—”
Zylas waved Collins silent. “I know. Haven’t talked into Falima . . . yet. I been there.” He made a throwaway gesture. “She no been.”
Collins filled in the missing words. “You’ve been to my world.”
“Yes.” Zylas wrinkled his nose.
Hope soared, and Collins smiled. “So you can get me home from here.”
A light flickered in Zylas’ soft eyes, and he shrugged. “Try.”
“All right,” Collins said carefully. “Try.” He reminded Zylas of the obvious, “Because, if you don’t, I’m dead.”
“Yes.” Zylas went back to stirring.
Expecting something a bit stronger, Collins chewed his lower lip. “I really appreciate your saving me.”
“Mmmm.”
“And your taking me back to the . . . the way back to my world.”
“All right.”
Collins glanced at the crock, recognizing it as the same one from which he had poured the beetles. “Um, are those . . . um . . . bugs you’re cooking?”
Zylas followed the direction of Collins’ gaze. “Fraharas .” He translated. “Bugs, yes. Big, hard-shell bugs.” He added, as if it might matter, “They clean.”
Collins had not eaten since the rabbit. Terror had kept hunger at bay, but now he realized he would like a bite. Not bugs. “Is that what you eat?”
Zylas bobbed his head. “Bug. Fruit. Vegetable.” He said the latter with an extra syllable and an improper emphasis, so it emerged like vejahtahbull. “Fish. Milk. Cheese. Egg—but not with baby in.” He tossed the parcel of curds. “These better?”
“Much, thank you.” Collins popped one into his mouth. It squeaked as he chewed it, but it tasted at least as good as any cheese in his world. He ate three more pieces before speaking again. “Do all people here become animals?”
“Not opernes.” He considered the translation. “King . . . and . . . such like . . .”
“Royalty?” Collins tried.
“Royalty.” Zylas rolled his eyes as if tasting the word, then bobbed his head. “Royalty. Others all yes.”
“And all animals?”
“Become person.”
“All?” Collins put more cheese into his mouth, talking as he chewed.
“All.”
Collins found the contradiction. “But you said you eat fish.”
Zylas scooped a liquid spoonful of beetles from the crock and slurped it into his mouth. “Fish not animal.”
Collins’ gut churned, and he looked away to keep himself from vomiting. The logic seemed maddeningly circular. All animals became humans, but “animal” was, apparently, defined by the ability to transform to human form. “Anything else living not considered animal?”
The beetles crunched in Zylas’ mouth. “Bug. Plant. Fish.” He shrugged. “That all.” He eased the crock fully from the fire.
Falima wandered off for better grazing, still well within earshot.
“And when you’re an animal.” Collins downed more cheese, keeping his gaze averted. “Do you remember and understand . . . people stuff?”
“Stuff?”
Collins tried to explain. “Speech, hands, manners.”
Zylas scooped and ate more beetles. “Some.” He clearly fought for words. “Depend on want. Age. Ex . . . ex . . .” The word would not come.
“Experience,” Collins supplied.
“Experience,” Zylas repeated. “Experience.”
“So the more times you become a rat . . .” Collins trailed off.
“Better . . . overlap.”
“Between human and animal forms?” Collins supplied
“Right.”
Collins ate more cheese, then asserted. “I think I’d spend half my childhood in switch-form, or even more. Get the hang of it as soon as
possible.” Feeling Zylas’ intent gaze upon him, Collins met the pallid eyes.
“No choice.”
“What?”
Zylas used wild hand gestures to punctuate his words, as if this might aid the translation. “Spend half time people, half animal. Change at time, same time, always. No choice.”
“Every day?”
“Every day,” Zylas confirmed.
Collins tried to understand. “So, half the day you’re a rat and half a guy?”
Zylas nodded.
“Do you get to choose which half at least?”
“No choice,” Zylas replied again. “No choice at all.”
A million more questions occurred to Collins as they rode Falima, for hours, through the woodlands; but he remained silent as Zylas had requested. Sunlight sliced intermittently through breaks in the forest canopy, alternately covered by clouds and branches. Although Collins did not recognize the pathways they took, he had little choice but to trust his new companion. The rat/man had rescued him from execution and did appear to diligently check their route. At irregular intervals, he slid down from his position behind Collins to scout. Some things, Collins could figure out for himself. For example, clearly each person had an individual change time. Otherwise, Falima would have become human at noon, as Zylas had.
Brush rustled. Zylas reached around Collins to lay a pale hand on the left side of Falima’s neck. Instantly, she swerved to the right, then went still.
Collins turned to look at his companion. The other man shook his head, gestured at Collins to remain in place, and made a motion near his mouth that Collins took as a plea for quiet. Worried about unseen dangers, he felt his heart rate quicken.
A squirrel appeared on the trail, an acorn clutched between its paws. It gnawed at the nut, flicking its tail in jerky bursts, then continued on its way.
Falima glided back onto the path. Collins smiled at Zylas’ paranoia, which seemed oddly stronger than his own. Then he remembered. That squirrel could be the local police. As they continued on their way, Collins had to ask, “That squirrel. Was that someone you know?”
“No.” Zylas replied into Collins’ ear. “Durithrin.”
Collins shook his head at the unfamiliar word. “What?”
“Durithrin,” Zylas repeated, the word no more comprehensible the second time. “A . . . a . . .” He sighed. “Not . . . city . . . people.”
Collins nodded, letting Zylas off the hook, though he still did not really understand. He guessed it was a concept his world did not need, something that applied only to human/beast interfaces.
Collins missed the signal that brought Falima to a stop. Zylas dismounted and disappeared into the brush. Collins remained in place, finger combing the horse’s mane and laying the strands in their proper position. Falima stood stock-still, giving no sign she noticed his ministrations. Shortly, Zylas returned. “The ruins.” He pointed ahead. “Not far.” He flung a hand from Collins to himself, then jabbed it toward the ground.
Taking it as a signal to dismount, Collins slid to the ground. The movement revealed a tightness through the muscles of his thighs and buttocks that would likely become an ache by morning. His wrists had stopped bleeding, but they still dribbled clear fluid and throbbed with every beat of his heart. Both shoulders felt bruised. He looked at his watch. If correct, they had ridden for more than two hours.
Zylas talked softly to Falima and stroked her nose. The horse pawed the ground and snorted. A large insect buzzed past Collins’ face.
“Ready?”
Collins looked up, only then realizing Zylas had addressed him. The blue-white eyes lay unsettlingly upon him.
Collins’ gaze shifted unconsciously to Falima.
“She not come,” Zylas explained, stepping around Collins and heading in the direction he had scouted. “No need.”
Collins continued to study the horse, who had lowered her head to graze and seemed to take no notice of the humans’ conversation. He hardly knew her; yet, for reasons he could not explain, he would miss her. “Tell her I said ‘good-bye.’ “
“I will,” Zylas assured without looking back.
Collins turned and followed the rat/man through the brush, excitement building with every step. Soon, he would return to the mundane world of troubles that no longer seemed so significant. Staring death in the face, he might not have found courage, but he had found new perspective. Nothing less would ever seem formidable again.
The forest broke gradually to the familiar field of wildflowers and weeds. On the hill, the broken fortress looked positively welcoming. Collins raced toward it.
“Wait.” Zylas charged after his impetuous companion. “Wait!” He dove on Collins.
Abruptly driven to the ground, breath dashed from his lungs, Collins twisted to glare at Zylas. “What the hell did you do that for?”
Zylas’ answer was an inclination of his head.
Collins followed his companion’s gesture. Just ahead, a ragged line of arrows scored the ground. They had not been there when he had started his run.
“Damn.” The expletive left Collins’ mouth without intention.
Zylas seized Collins’ hand and wriggled back toward the forest.
“Damn,” Collins repeated, following. “Guards?”
“Would guess,” Zylas returned.
More attuned, Collins heard the second round of bowstrings singing, the rattle and thunk of the arrows landing. He lunged for the forest, Zylas at his side.
There, beyond range of the bowmen, they stopped to study the ruins. Collins saw only the stone building, sunlight flashing from chips of quartz in the crumbling construction. “How did you know?”
“Didn’t.” Zylas also studied the ruins. “Sense. Smell . . . guess.”
Sensed and smelled. It seemed logical to Collins that some of the animal instincts would permeate into the human phase as well. Thank God. Now relatively safe, he started to shake, terrified in a way he had not felt when the arrows directly menaced him. I almost died. Again. He looked at Zylas, skin white as paper and hair the nearly colorless blond most men loved and many women sought in a bottle. As they retreated back to Falima, he tried to lighten a mood wound as tensely as a spring. “Got any friends who change into rhinoceroses?”
Zylas blinked. “What?”
“Never mind.” A dinosaur or an army tank might do it.
Falima made a soft, snorting nicker, then pawed the ground.
Zylas spoke to her gently in his own language. He turned his attention back to Collins. “We go.” He leaped onto Falima’s back, sliding toward her hindquarters to make room for Collins.
Collins’ heart felt as if it were sinking into his toes. “Go? But . . .” But . . . what? What do I expect him to do? Clearly, approaching directly and in broad daylight could lead only to their deaths. Apparently, at midnight, Zylas would resume his rat form. Then, he could slip past the bowmen. And do what? Give them all bubonic plague? He stifled a hysterical chuckle. With a sigh of resignation, he clambered onto a rock and, from there, to Falima. The horse took off, going back the way they had come.
Chapter 4
Benton Collins mulled the situation over as they rode silently into a deeper part of the forest. Trees glided past in a silken green blur, and Zylas’ scouting became a remote background to Collins’ thoughts. The fluid motion of the horse also lost significance, though the growing aches in thighs, buttocks, and groin gradually grew too prominent to ignore. His watch read almost 5:55 when they finally stopped in a clearing surrounded by scraggly junipers and scrub pines. Clouds raked across the sky, a gray accompaniment to Collins’ dispirited mood. He dismounted beside Zylas. Falima lowered her head and snorted. Zylas stripped off the pack and tossed it to the ground. He unhitched the lead rope/halter from her head and let it fall.
“Now what?” Collins asked, kicking a deadfall at one edge of the camp site. Bark flew amid a spray of rotted wood. A large black beetle with angry-looking pincers scrambled from the carnage.
> “Dinner?” Zylas suggested, catching the bug with a swift grab.
“Dinner,” Collins repeated. He shook his head and turned to sit on the deadfall. The scream of leg muscles changed his mind in mid-movement, and he struggled back to a stand. Pain made him irritable. “I just lost my appetite.” He wrinkled his nose at the beetle kicking madly in Zylas’ grip and attempting to twist its pincers to meet the restraining fingers. “Besides, I’m more worried about my neck than my stomach.”
Zylas stepped closer, gazing at Collins’ throat. “Hurt neck? Sorry. Me tried get rope not with—”
Collins interrupted. “That’s not what I meant. I . . . if . . . I have to get out of this . . . this place. My life—”
Zylas frowned and threw his hands in the air. Before he could speak, Collins caught an unexpected movement out of the corner of his eye. He whirled toward it. A naked woman stood where the horse had once grazed. Black hair fell in a satin cascade that formed soft curls around ample breasts. Though not thin, the body looked toned and well-muscled, the curves delicate and in exquisite proportion. Pale eyes made a radiant contrast to the golden/tan skin. She said something Collins did not understand, then snatched the beetle from Zylas, crushed it, and tossed it into her mouth.
Revulsion broke the spell. Flushed from the roots of his hair to his chin, Collins averted his gaze.
The beetle crunched between Falima’s teeth, then she said something else to Zylas. He knelt beside the pack, pulled out the linen dress, a pair of something that looked like shorts, and two of the wood-and-cloth sandals. He tossed them to Falima.
Collins heard the rustle of fabric. He focused fanatically on the other man. “Are you always . . . like that . . . when you change?”
“Like what?” Zylas looked from Falima to Collins.
The Beasts of Barakhai Page 5