Collins shook his head, tired of trying to find rhyme and reason in a world that either had none or, at least, none that he could logically and rationally fathom without the assistance of those who lived it daily. At that moment, he found Ialin returning his gaze with steady yellow-brown eyes. The man said something to Falima, and she looked at Collins as well. For a while, they all simply stared, saying nothing. Finally, Falima’s face broke into a cautious, weary half-smile. “Good, you are awake. Come join us.”
Collins gave back a genuine grin, glad Falima had actually welcomed him, though it hardly mattered. Soon enough, he would return to his own world and these people would fade into the blurred uncertainty between reality and dream. He had read enough fantasy as a child to know that others, and maybe eventually he, would dismiss whatever adventures he had in this world as the product of distraught imagination. Assuming I make it out of here alive. He stood, rearranging his jeans to cover his dwindling excitement. He could taste his morning breath but could think of no way to remedy the problem. He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging wilted petals, twigs, and curled leaves. His appearance and hygiene, he knew, should not bother him; but it did. At least I probably look better without my glasses. He squinted, surprised at how easily he found himself getting along without them. He could see better than he remembered, and it sent his mind into another round of unusual thought. Do I not need them as much as I believe? Am I simply getting used to not having them? Or is it just another part of the magic of Barakhai?
Using a stick, Ialin eased the crock from the fire.
The dog rolled to its feet, yawned, and stretched. Its tongue uncurled, and the mouth spread wide to reveal rows of surprisingly blunt teeth. Then, finished, it followed Collins to his companions near the fire.
Falima glanced upward, though interwoven branches blocked the sky. “I was about to wake you. I wanted you up before my switch.”
“Your switch?” Collins rolled a panic-stricken gaze to Ialin. Please. Don’t leave me alone with . . . him. He did not voice the concern. He had grown accustomed to Falima’s animosity, had even managed to crack it somewhat. The idea of spending time with only Ialin chilled him, colored by his experiences with Jean. He liked Jean, but she also liked him. With Ialin, he could imagine that rattlesnake “accidentally” winding up in his bed. The analogy did not carry well, since any snake here would also be human and, presumably, barred by law and convention from harming others.
“It is coming soon.” Falima used an edge of her cloak to ease the crock toward her. Ialin said something to which Falima replied. This time, she deigned to translate. “He wants me to wait until it cools. But I do not get gahiri often and do not eat it in switch-form.”
“Gahiri?” Collins repeated, surprised to hear a Barakhain word during an English rendition. She had never mixed the two before. Then, he realized the word probably had no equivalent in his language.
Using a stick, Falima ladled a gloppy brown mixture onto a leaf as dark as spinach. It steamed in her hand as she offered it to Collins.
Collins hesitated. Then, worried it might burn her palm if she held it too long, he accepted it. It warmed his grip, its aroma a cross between pecan and currant pie, with a bit of baking potato.
Without seeing if Collins ate it, Falima made similar packets for Ialin and herself. They ate them like tacos, one hand folding the contents together, the other perched below to catch any runoff. He took a delicate bite of just the filling. It burned his tongue, and it took an effort of will not to spit it out. Instead, he swirled it around his mouth, never letting it settle in one place long enough to singe until it grew cool enough to swallow without hurting his throat. Only then, he allowed himself to assess the flavor, sweetly spicy with a subtle crunch he hoped had nothing to do with insects. It tasted sinfully good, like doughnuts for breakfast. He blew on it carefully before daring another bite. This time, he took a chunk of leaf along with the filling; and, to his surprise, it only enhanced the flavor. “Delicious,” he said around a heated mouthful.
“The best,” Falima agreed. “Most of the ingredients are quite common, but you have to get the vilegro seed at the right time. When you can even find it. It is valuable, too, so we can sell what we do not eat. A worthy find, Ialin had. That is the advantage of a small flying switch-form with a good sense for finding sweet things.”
Falima’s description sparked an idea. “Perhaps,” Collins started thoughtfully. “Perhaps Ialin could distract the guards, fly around their . . .”
Before Collins could stop her, Falima translated. Ialin’s reply was accompanied by a spark of anger.
Falima laughed. “Ialin suggests we distract you instead so the guards can catch you easier.”
Collins brows rose, and the look he gave Falima was similar to Ialin’s own.
All mirth disappeared. “He was only kidding,” she said defensively. She and Ialin feigned sudden, inordinate interest in their gahiri.
Collins reached for his own half-eaten breakfast, only to find a large white rat devouring it. Startled, he skittered backward, then realized who had stolen his food. “Zylas!”
Falima laughed again, and even Ialin could not suppress a snicker. Zylas turned Collins as innocent a look as a rat could muster, then returned to eating.
Falima made three more gahiri, handing one to each of her human companions and eating the third. Abandoning his booty, Zylas crawled up Falima’s arm to her shoulder, placed both paws on her ear, and squeaked emphatically.
Falima listened for a long time, nodding occasionally with her mouth full of food. She replied in their regular language, stuffed the rest of the gahiri into her mouth, then rose. Placing her hand inside her bodice, she plucked a cherry-sized piece of rose quartz from between her breasts and thrust it toward Zylas. The rat took the stone between his teeth, skittered from his perch, and dropped it on the ground near his food. Placing one paw on the rock, he commenced eating.
Collins looked at Falima. “What was that about?”
In response, Falima only shrugged.
“She can’t understand you.” Zylas’ squeaks now formed high-pitched English words. “She passed the translation stone, and now I have it.”
Knowing Falima had swallowed the stone, Collins did not want “pass” defined. “And you understand me?”
“Yes. But the others do not.”
Torn between relief that he would not have to make conversation with two people who disliked him and worry that he might have to find other ways to make himself understood, Collins nodded his comprehension. If he could only communicate with one of his companions, he preferred it to be Zylas, even if he was a rat.
Collins glanced at his watch. It read a few minutes till six a.m. “So, what do we do now?”
Falima rose, brushed crumbs from her shift and cloak, and spoke a few words to Ialin, who nodded. She headed into the woods. The dog trotted after her, tail waving like a flag. With a few crisp words and a jab toward the men, she ordered it back. It obeyed, tail low, only the tip still twitching.
“Come here, boy!” Collins used a happy tone, and the dog bounded to him, tail again whipping broadly. He petted it, and it wiggled and circled in excitement. Zylas grabbed up the translation stone in his teeth and scuttled out of the way of the prancing paws. “Falima is switching?” Collins guessed.
Zylas’ reply was barely audible. “Yeth.” He dodged between the dog’s feet to reach Collins and started clawing his way up Collins’ jeans. The denim bunched under his claws and weight, dragging them down.
Worried Zylas might pants him, Collins bent, offering a hand to the rat. “Where are you trying to go?”
“ ’our thoulder, ith ’ou peathe.”
Thinking he understood, Collins hoisted Zylas to his left shoulder.
The rat scrabbled off, settling into the hollow between Collins’ neck and shoulder. He spat out the stone and clapped it in place with a paw. “Can you hear me better now?”
It suddenly occurred to Collins that
Zylas’ speech had gone from halting and uncertain to grindingly clear since he had become rat. Though Collins knew it had to do with the magical stone rather than the transformation, the irony made him laugh.
Zylas’ claws sank into Collins’ flesh. “What’s so funny?”
Collins went still, and the nails loosened. Resolved not to laugh or stumble again, to spare himself a gouging, he dismissed the thought. “Nothing important. So,” he repeated his earlier, unanswered question. “What do we do now? Try the ruins again? Hope the guards have gone?”
“They’re not gone,” Zylas replied emphatically. His whiskers tickled Collins’ ear.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” Not a bit of hesitation entered Zylas’ reply.
Collins frowned. “So we have to get past them.”
“Can’t.” The grim certainty remained in Zylas’ voice.
“So you’re saying it’s impossible?”
Zylas did not waver. “Yes.”
It went against every self-esteem-building encouragement Collins had received since infancy. “But nothing is really impossible.”
“For us,” Zylas said, “this is.”
Collins opened his mouth, but remembrance of Falima’s tirade choked off his words. Is it not enough that we will probably die for saving a cold-blooded cannibal? Do you want more innocents to sacrifice their lives for you? He did not want to die, did not want any of his companions to lose their lives, either, especially not for him. “All right.” He tried to keep disappointment from his tone, without success.
Zylas clearly read beyond the words. “The guards will not allow us near the ruins. They will patrol now.” He shook his head. “You cannot escape through that portal.”
That portal. Fresh hope flared. “Could we . . . could we maybe . . . find another portal?” Collins looked up, remembering his companions for the first time since he had asked about Falima’s transformation. The buckskin grazed placidly at a patch of weeds, her golden coat glimmering in the patch of sunlight penetrating the forest canopy. Ialin was stuffing Falima’s garments into the pack, and the dog lay curled on the ground at his feet.
Zylas paced a circle on Collins’ shoulder, clearly vexed. His gaze played over the party as well, lingering longest on the dog. “I don’t know of any other portals . . .”
Anticipating a “but,” Collins remained silent. “ . . . I know someone who might . . .” Zylas went suddenly still. “But . . .” He fell into a long hush.
When Collins’ patience ran out, he pressed. “But?” Zylas skittered down Collins’ side, stone in mouth, then leaped to the ground. He darted to Falima’s lowered head, dropped the crystal, stepped on it, and commenced squeaking loudly.
The horse pranced backward, trumpeting out a whinny, then another.
Slower now, more thoughtfully, Zylas approached Ialin. Their conversation lasted no longer than the previous one. Finally, he returned to Collins.
Wanting to forgo more scratches, Collins crouched, anticipating Zylas’ need. He scooped up the rat and replaced it on his shoulder. “So?”
Zylas spat out the translation stone. “Falima only has a partial overlap, so she’s difficult to converse with in this form. Ialin . . . well, Ialin will come around.” He made an abrupt motion, as if shaking water from his coat. “Come on.”
Having no idea what direction Zylas meant, Collins raised his brows. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going,” Zylas said thoughtfully, “to visit a good friend of mine.”
They rode Falima, Ialin leading from the ground, Collins astride, Zylas sitting in the V formed by his legs. The dog trotted obediently at the horse’s heels, apparently used to walking in that particular position. A gentle rain pattered on the leaves overhead, occasional droplets winding through the foliage to land as cold pinpricks against Collins’ skin. He did not pressure his companions. Quite literally, they held his life in their hands. Or rather, Collins corrected, in their claws, talons, and hooves.
Zylas explained as they rode, “Vernon’s a good guy. A longtime friend. You and Falima will be safe with him while Ialin and I go . . . elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?”
“To see someone older. Wiser.” Zylas shook his pointy-nosed head. “That’s all I can tell you.”
“Can’t I go?”
“No.” Even for a rat, Zylas sounded emphatic.
Feeling like a sulky child, Collins grumbled. “Why not?”
“Too dangerous.”
Collins looked at the dog who still followed them, tail waving. “For me? Or the elder?”
“Both.”
“Oh.” Collins considered that answer for several moments in a silence broken only by the swish and crackle of branches, the song of the drizzle on the canopy. “How so?”
“Vernon’s a good guy,” Zylas repeated, and Collins knew he would get no reply to his previous question. “A longtime friend.”
Collins dropped the subject. They rode onward, brushing through wet foliage that left streaks of water across his tunic, jeans, and sneakers. Zylas wandered the length of Falima, pausing to guide her with whispered commands in her ear or to exchange a conversation with Ialin. Collins’ watch read ten minutes to nine when Zylas called a halt. He spoke soothingly to Falima; and she slowed, snorting and pawing divots from the ground. Ialin stopped, patting her neck reassuringly. Collins slid from her back. He offered his hands to Zylas, who clambered aboard, little feet warm against Collins’ palms. Images of his guinea pig rose to mind, its brown-and-white fur soft as down, its enormous black eyes studying him, and its loud “week, week, week,” when it heard his mother making salad. He had named the animal George, which had become Georgie-girl several years later, when he learned how to differentiate gender.
Zylas leaped to Collins’ shoulder. Falima dipped her head, nosing for grass amid tiny trees and mulch. Ialin turned his back, perhaps surveying the forest, more likely relieving himself. Three hours bouncing around on horseback had given Collins a similar urge. Working around the rough material of a tunic now as soiled as his jeans, he urinated on a mushy pile of leaves.
“He’s getting smaller.” Zylas’ sudden voice in his ear startled Collins, who jumped. Then, he sounded out the words and grew even more alarmed.
“Wha-what?” Collins stammered, stashing his manhood safely behind his zipper.
“Ialin,” Zylas explained. “He’s getting smaller. Switching.”
Collins whirled to see, finding only an empty pile of clothing which the puppy snuffled eagerly.
Zylas continued, “You’ll have to pack his things.”
Collins nodded dully, now the only human. With a shock, he realized nearly twenty-four hours had passed since his aborted hanging. Then, too, all his companions had taken animal form, working together to rescue him from death. Approaching the shed clothing, he bent. Zylas scampered down his arm to the ground. Collins gathered the crudely sewn garments, approached Falima, and stuffed them into her saddlebags. He turned to find the pup crouched with its front legs extended, bottom high, and tail wagging cautiously as it urged Zylas to play. Realization glided into his mind. When Ialin appeared as a human, the dog was already in switch-form. Now, Ialin had become a bird again, but the dog remained a dog. “Zylas?”
The rat disengaged from the dog and approached.
“Shouldn’t our . . . um . . . unexpected companion have become human by now?”
Zylas twisted his head to look over one shoulder at the puppy. “Not necessarily. Regulars spend more time in animal form than Randoms.” He turned back to Collins. “If he just entered switch-form when he found us, I could even change before he does.”
“Really,” Collins said thoughtfully.
“We need to get going again.” Zylas headed toward Falima. “I only stopped to give Ialin some dignity during his switch.”
Collins trotted after his companion.
Zylas stopped by the grazing horse. “A boost, please? I can climb, but it makes her ner
vous.”
Glad to help, Collins hefted Zylas to Falima’s back, then mounted himself. Falima’s head rose with obvious reluctance. Zylas clambered along her mane and thrust his muzzle into her ear. Falima snorted but resumed her walk through the forest.
Collins recalled that he had set his watch for noon about the time Zylas had become human, and Zylas had switched to rat form around midnight. Falima had turned into a horse at six in the morning and a human at six at night. Ialin changed at nine. That understanding brought a realization: Falima had lied. Aware his companions could and had exchanged information he could not understand, he prodded with utmost caution. “Regulars, like the pup, spend more time in animal form?”
Zylas returned to his steadiest position, planted between Collins’ thighs. “That’s right. And, on average, gain overlap at a younger age.”
“Overlap meaning shared understanding and memory between forms.”
“Right.”
“Hmmm.”
“What?”
Collins studied the white rat, suddenly feeling insane. If any of his colleagues had caught him talking to a laboratory animal like this, they would deem him certifiable. Thirty-six hours in Barakhai, less than a day with animal companions, and it already feels natural to converse with a rat. “It’s just that you seem to have an exceptional amount of overlap.”
“I do. Nearly perfect, in fact.”
“Why is that?”
Zylas turned a circle, then settled against Collins. “First, I’m older than the others. I apparently have a natural talent for it. And I practice. A lot.”
“Practice?” It seemed ludicrous. Practice what?
“Rats don’t eat much, and any old garbage serves me fine in this form. I pay attention. I have no job. I’m not married. No . . . children.” The last word emerged in a pained squeak, and he paused. He turned away for a moment, curling his hairless pink tail around his legs, then regained his composure and continued without missing a beat. “I’ve concentrated most of my life on enhancing my overlap, with good success.” He added, “And it doesn’t hurt that I spent my childhood in a similar enough form that I could use most of that training at adolescence rather than starting over. More like a Regular without the disadvantages.”
The Beasts of Barakhai Page 9