“Yes.” Collins wholeheartedly agreed.
Another long silence followed. Collins thought Falima must have left as quietly as she had come. So when she spoke, he jumped, turning his tear-streaked face to her. “What were you doing to the dog?” She simulated stroking with her hands, then crouched beside him.
Collins blinked the last of the tears from his eyes. “You mean when I was petting and scratching?”
“Yes.”
The answer now seemed wholly obvious, but she seemed to expect one, so Collins reiterated. “Uh, I was, uh, petting. And . . . uh . . . scratching.”
“Yes.” The word emerged in an emotionless monotone that revealed nothing.
Sorrow gave way to sudden terror. “I always . . . I mean I never thought . . . it’s just . . .” Collins gathered his thoughts. “Did I do something terrible? Again?”
“No,” Falima reassured. “Not terrible. It is just . . . well, stroking someone. That is kind of . . . personal, do you not think?”
Collins patted the animal snuggled against him, and the dog’s tail thumped the ground. He tried to consider the beast as a human, and a strange thought eased into his mind. “Is this a boy dog or a girl dog?”
“Male.” The response held a hint of question.
Collins’ mind returned to the summer of his freshman year of college, just before his parents’ divorce. His best friend from high school, Bill Dusumter, had taken leave from the army at the same time. They had agreed to meet at Bobcat Den Park. When Collins arrived at the picnic grounds, he found several of the old gang sitting around talking. He waved to Diana Hostetler, with whom he had exchanged jokes and shared a love for the trombone. Dusumter had dated her for a time, their breakup messy; and Collins had avoided pressing for a relationship for fear of losing their friendship. She looked the same as he remembered: dark, shoulder-length hair that shimmered in the sunlight; eyes starkly blue in contrast; high-pitched, freckled cheeks; and a broad, wry mouth. Katie Tonn and Dave Hansen had become a couple, attending Cornell University together. Dusumter claimed to have lost his virginity with Tonn, but none of the three seemed to hold any ill will. Several other friends from high school played a lively game of frisbee. But Collins’ gaze fixed on Bill Dusumter, his tom-cat best buddy, and the stranger at his side.
Both wore the standard military haircut, matching brown hair buzzed to half-inch prickles. Both were skinny, with lean angular faces; and they both smelled of cigarettes. They wore Levis and T-shirts, Dusumter’s red with the name of a local bar and the newcomer’s plain black.
Collins’ brain worked overtime, trying to divine the relationship between the two. Before he could speak, Dusumter gestured him over, a delighted grin on his face. “Ben. Buddy. How’s it hanging?”
Still deep in thought, Collins had to force a smile and missed the opportunity for a snappy comeback. “It’s hanging fine. Army treating you okay?”
“Great!” Dusumter gestured toward his companion. “This is Gene.” He winked conspiratorially. “You’re going to be seeing a lot more of Gene around here.”
“Oh.” Something seemed wrong, and Collins could not put his uneasiness into words. “Is Gene . . . moving here?”
“Yup.”
“Ah.” Collins gazed into his friend’s eyes and read more there, something exciting and interesting that he would not reveal until asked. Collins felt too dense to find the proper question, whatever it might prove to be.
Dusumter retook his seat. As he did so, he placed a hand squarely on Gene’s thigh.
Collins’ breath caught in his throat. A million thoughts swirled through his mind in an instant. Bill’s gay? The thought bothered him deeply, and that troubled him. I’m for gay rights. I have gay friends. Am I just a hypocrite? Collins wanted to cry. Few things upset him more than people who preached values to others while cheating on their spouses, fanatics who sabotaged animal experiments then eagerly popped medications born of that research, fiends who labeled women who suffered through an abortion to save their own lives as murderers then encouraged their daughters to destroy the fetus of a man they did not like. It’s easy to cling strongly to morality when it doesn’t affect you. Collins analyzed his discomfort, delving to its source. I don’t have a problem with Bill being gay. It just came completely out of the blue, so opposite from the Bill I knew. I can and will deal with this. It’s my problem, not his.
Collins exchanged pleasantries with his old friend, then headed off to see some of the others. He had taken fewer than half a dozen steps, prepared to step around their scattered purses and backpacks, when Dusumter came up beside him. Grinning, he asked, “So, what do you think of Gene?”
Still shocked, Collins did not know what to say. He barely knew the newcomer, who had not yet spoken a word. “Um,” he mumbled. “Seems nice.” Unable to meet Dusumter’s sparkling brown gaze, he glanced at the backpacks.
“Don’t tell anyone else; I wanted you to be the first to know . . .”
Collins braced himself, wishing he had had time to prepare, seeking the most supportive words he could muster in his own panicked moments of shock.
“ . . . Gene and I are getting married.”
Married? Collins whirled to face his friend. Even as he moved, his eyes registered a name on one of the backpacks: “JEAN.” Jean, Gene. It all came together in that moment. Just because Bill’s fiancée is too skinny to have boobs doesn’t mean she’s not a woman! Relief flooded him, not because Dusumter was not gay; that truly did not matter. Collins’ solace came from the realization that he did know the man who had been his best friend, that he had not missed signs of misery or need, had not been kept from a significant secret for lack of trust or closeness. “Congratulations.” He caught Dusumter into an embrace, not the least bit self-conscious.
Dusumter’s familiar voice hissed into his ear. “Way to keep a secret, buddy.”
Now, in an alien world with a dog who was also a man curled against him, Collins smiled at the memory. As weird as the situation had become, it seemed marginally preferable to having made what might have seemed like a sexual advance on some strange woman who, properly and without insult, could be better called a bitch.
Oblivious to Collins’ train of thought, Falima continued. “A young male, of course.”
Great, so now I’m a child molester. Collins cringed. That makes it much better.
Attuned to Collins’ discomfort, Falima continued, “It is all right, really. He is probably the closest thing to a dog of your world that you will find here. He clearly enjoys the attention, and he probably will not remember much of it in human form.”
Collins studied the dog’s brown-and-white patches.
“So go ahead and stroke him. If it makes him uncomfortable, he will let you know.”
Yeah. Collins glanced at his wound. Next time, he’ll bite my hand clean off. Tentatively, he petted the dog’s back. It sighed and snuggled more closely to him.
Falima smiled. “Actually, I like it when people stroke my nose.”
Collins gave Falima a strange look.
“In switch-form, of course.” Falima’s cheeks turned scarlet, to Collins’ surprise. She seemed too strong to let anything embarrass her. “And a scratch behind my ears now and then feels wonderful. Especially when the flies are biting.” Her features lapsed back into their tough demeanor. “But I do not like being kicked. In any form.”
“I’m sorry,” Collins said, meaning it. “It’s just that’s how we steer in—”
“—your world,” Falima finished.
“Yes. In my world. The only world I knew existed until yesterday. I’m very sorry I kicked you. It won’t happen again.”
A strained silence followed, into which Collins wanted to insert something clever that might finally bridge the gap between them. Instead, a question came to mind. He wanted to know why discussing her petting spots shamed her more than switching to human form buck naked. Wisely, he put aside that train of thought for a safer one. “I guess it’s just u
s till Zylas becomes a man again.”
Ialin strolled to them, crunching something between his teeth and carrying handfuls of leaves and stems. He turned Collins a withering, imperious look, then focused on Falima. He remained standing, the only position that allowed the tiny man to tower over his seated companions. He spoke in the language of Barakhai.
Falima’s reply took much longer as she, apparently, filled him in on the conversation to date.
With the memory of Bill and Jean Dusumter in his mind, Collins studied Ialin. The hummingbird/man, too, could pass for a slight, curveless woman. For an instant, the thought that he might have made the same mistake twice swept through Collins, banished by the memory of Zylas’ use of the pronoun “he” to refer to the hummingbird’s human form. Of course, Zylas’ English is rather primitive.
Falima addressed Collins again. “Zylas will not desert us just because he is in switch-form.”
The dog stretched its legs, pressing its back against Collins, groaned, and dropped back off to sleep.
Collins nodded, certain Falima spoke the truth. “I just meant we won’t have a way to talk to him until he’s . . . until he’s human.”
“I will.” Falima patted her tummy and tossed her black hair, highlights of scarlet, purple, and green shifting through her tresses.
“You will?” Hope rose in a wild rush. “You can . . . you can . . .” Collins barely dared to believe. “. . . talk to each other in animal form?”
Falima held a brief exchange with Ialin that left the man snickering before replying, “Not usually. But Zylas is older. He has good, solid overlap between his forms; I know of no one with more. And I still have his translation stone.” Her blue gaze hardened. “Thanks to you.”
Collins stroked the dog’s side, and its tail thumped in gratitude. In addition to a near-flawless grasp of English, Falima had clearly mastered sarcasm. “I’m sorry.” He wondered how many times he would have to apologize before Falima would forgive him, hoping she would not prove as difficult to appease as Marlys. Maybe it’s a woman thing.
Apparently mistaking Collins’ attention to the dog for an unspoken question, Falima said, “No, I cannot talk to him. He has little or no overlap. He might not even have reached coming-of-age yet.”
“Coming-of-age?” Collins repeated. That brought to mind David Fein’s bar mitzvah, expanding lip disks, and quests to kill wild boars and leopards.
Ialin made a grunted comment to which Falima responded before switching back to English. “When a child is born, he assumes the same switch-form and at the same times as his mother. He has no overlap at all. On his thirteenth birthday, he gets a party. His switch time melds with his personality, overlap begins, and, if he is a Random, he transmutes.”
Collins put up a hand to stay Falima. “Hold it. I was with you up until the thirteenth birthday party. Randoms. Transmuting.” He shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
Falima eased to a cross-legged sitting position. She spoke painfully slowly, as if to an idiot. “At thirteen, all right?”
Collins did not grace the question with so much as a nod. If he did, he felt certain she would drag a simple explanation into next week.
“A child becomes a man or woman. He gets a switch time . . .” Falima glanced at Collins to see if he still followed her description.
Collins bobbed his head. He knew about switch times from Zylas. “Does some person assign each teen a switching time? Or is it random?”
Falima conversed with Ialin before answering. “Neither. It seems to have more to do with the . . .” She used Collins’ word, “. . . teen’s personality. It just happens, and it seems to suit the person. Overlap between human and animal form begins. Regulars tend to learn control faster than Randoms, but they also spend more time in animal form.”
Collins frowned, shaking his head. “You’ve lost me again.” He considered the problem. “Maybe if you explain what you mean by Regulars and Randoms.” He looked up at the sky. The moon had risen higher, a crescent that scarcely grazed the darkness. Stars spread across the darkness, remarkably similar to the spring pattern of his own world.
“Regulars occur when animals of like type mate, whether in human or animal form. A man who becomes a bull, for example, marries a woman whose switch-form is a cow.” Falima studied Collins’ reaction, and he gave her what he hoped was an encouraging look. This made sense to him. “Since animals can only mate within their type, and they tend not to worry about or understand human conventions when it comes to marriage, Regulars outnumber Randoms by about three hundred to one.”
Collins reasoned, “So a Random would come of a union between two humans with different types of switch-forms.”
“Right.” Apparently impressed by his reasoning, Falima passed it on to Ialin.
Ialin came back with something that sounded gruff, almost warning.
Beaming, Collins struggled to continue. Falima’s opinion of him mattered more than he could explain. “Until thirteen, Randoms become the animal of their mother. Then, they become . . .” He did not know how to proceed. Logic dictated that boys might follow the father and girls the mother, but the opposite could prove equally true. What am I doing seeking logic in magic? Sticking with what the name implied, he tried, “. . . something random?”
“Exactly,” Falima crowed. “Though maybe not totally random. It probably has something to do with the physical or emotional makeup of the person. Or maybe the animal-type influences those things. It would be hard to ever know for sure.”
“Which are you?”
Falima’s open excitement disappeared. Her features lapsed into a mask, and her movements looked calculatedly casual. “What?”
“Which are you?” Collins repeated carefully. “Regular or Random?”
“All horses are guards,” Falima said in a not-quite-indifferent tone. “Senior to dogs. Ours is a respected position, nearly always bred on purpose.”
“And you?” Collins pressed.
Falima blinked, now clearly annoyed. “You heard me. You may assume me a Regular.”
It was not a direct answer, but Collins accepted it. Though he had clearly stepped into dangerous territory, he could not keep himself from asking. “And Zylas?” He glanced toward his companion as he spoke, only to find a set of empty clothing. “He’s changed!”
“A few moments ago,” Falima confirmed.
Collins studied the britches. He rose with a caution designed not to disturb the dog, drawing nearer to where Zylas had fallen asleep until he found the rat-sized lump stirring regularly beneath linen. “Is he a Random or a Regular?”
“Random,” Falima said with a wide yawn. “Do you think we breed rats on purpose?”
Collins thought of the lab. We do. “And Ialin?”
This time, Falima dodged the question. “I’m getting tired. We really should sleep.” Without awaiting a reply from Collins, she headed away to curl up on a pile of leaves. Ialin went with her.
Put off by Falima’s sudden detachment, Collins lay back down beside the dog. Its warmth soothed him, even as he worried for the propriety of his action. At least he could explain it away as a means to keep watch over an animal that might sneak off and report them to the authorities. He wondered about the information Falima had given him and why discussion of the origins of self and friends made her so uncomfortable. He vowed not to press the question the next day. To do so might lose him what little trust of hers he had managed to gain or leave him in the bleak loneliness he had dreaded only an hour ago.
With these thoughts buzzing through his mind, it surprised Collins how swiftly he found sleep.
Chapter 6
Benton Collins awakened to a sweet but unrecognizable aroma that sent his stomach into a ferocious growl. It reminded him of his mother’s freshly baked cinnamon rolls, yet was different in a way he could not quite define. He opened his eyes to a subdued fire surrounding a crock blackened by charcoal. Ialin and Falima spoke in hushed tones, their shadows flickering through the
brush at their backs. The sun had not yet penetrated the dense cover of leaves and branches. The two chatted like old friends. Though Collins could not understand a word of it, he noticed that neither wore the tense expression of hostile distrust that had become so familiar to him.
The dog rolled its head to look at Collins. It wagged its tail in greeting, tip stirring the leaves. Ialin and Falima took no notice, so Collins continued to study them in the scarlet-and-amber strobe of the fire. Her golden skin looked beautifully exotic. She had braided her mane of black hair away from her face, though a few strands lay damply against her cheeks. Apparently, she had washed and combed it out earlier that morning. Though lost beneath an overlarge cloak, the curves of her naked body remained vividly in Collins’ memory. His mind’s eyes conjured the generous breasts, the fine curves, and the well-toned body with an ease that made him flush. He felt himself responding to the image, which abruptly heightened his embarrassment. He tried to quell desire by turning his attention to his other companion.
Ialin rose and walked to the fire, movements odd though never awkward. The words that came to Collins’ mind in description: flitty, quick, birdlike fit best, though he found none of them quite adequate. The man reminded him most of Jean, who had become a dependable, almost supernaturally daring, friend over the years. Though small to the point of scrawny, she never hesitated to face off with the largest man. They had once stopped to examine a snake on the road. None of the men in the car would touch it, but Jean had picked it up without a second thought. And, upon discovering that she held a rattlesnake, she had attempted to keep it for a pet. On two occasions, he had watched women leaving a public restroom that Jean had just entered whispering angrily about the man who had dared to walk boldly into their haven.
There was something equally androgynous about the hummingbird/man, and Collins wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that bird gender was difficult to read at a glance. Or is it? When he thought about it more carefully, he realized that in many species of birds, like peacocks, blue jays, and chickens, the male and female looked phenomenally different, far more so than, say, horses. Or rats.
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