The Beasts of Barakhai

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Collins recalled that, until coming-of-age, children had the same switch-form as their mothers. “So your original switch-form . . . ?”

  Zylas obliged. “A mouse. My father was a blue jay.”

  Collins laughed, earning a glare from Zylas.

  “What’s funny?”

  Collins did not lie. “It’s an odd combination.”

  The rat’s mouth stretched into a grimace that Collins interpreted as a weary grin. “Not in human form.” He anticipated a question Collins had not even thought to ask. “And, yes, they were both albino.”

  Startled into silence, Collins took several moments to craft a coherent question. “Is . . . is . . . it common in . . . in your world?”

  “Albinism?”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I only know of two others.” Zylas licked at his fur. “I think that’s what brought my parents together. Something in common other than the usual shared switch-form.”

  “Hmmm.” The white mouse came easily to Collins’ imagination, the jay with more difficulty, though he had actually seen one at Algary’s science museum. He glanced at the passing scenery, mostly leaves and needles, trying to appear casual. The rain had stopped, but droplets still plopped irregularly from higher branches. “What about Falima’s parents?”

  Zylas continued cleaning himself. “A milk goat and a squirrel, I believe.”

  A Random. Collins had suspected as much from the start. When he learned Regulars kept switch-form longer, it had seemed nearly certain. He wondered why Falima had tried to deceive him. “And Ialin?”

  “Owl and shrew.”

  That combination did not surprise Collins at all. It seemed to fit the hostile, flighty young man. “So, you’re all Randoms?”

  Zylas stopped grooming. “Who told you about Randoms?”

  “Falima.”

  Zylas shuddered his fur back into place. “Yes. We’re all Randoms. Except the pup. Once she came of age as a horse, Falima got fostered to guards.”

  That seemed odd, though no more so than most of the other things Collins had learned here. “Why?”

  “All horses are guards.”

  “Oh.” Collins asked the logical follow-up. “And all rats?”

  “We’re vermin.”

  It sounded shocking from the mouth of a human rat. “Well, yes, but . . . I meant what job do rats do?”

  “Vermin were always discouraged from breeding, especially as Regulars. The only ones left come out of Random unions.”

  “So your . . . mouse . . . mother . . . ?”

  “Also a Random, yes. My father, too.” Though Zylas did not seem uncomfortable discussing these matters, as Falima had, he did change the subject. “So, tell me about your world. I’ve seen many things that confuse me. Like why do you keep your white rats in cages while the brown ones run free?”

  Chapter 7

  By the time they reached Vernon’s ramshackle cabin in the woods, Collins suspected he had raised more questions than he’d satisfied, which seemed only fair. He felt the same way about Barakhai. Falima grazed the clearing. Zylas pulled clothing over his pale human body. The dog romped around all of them, alternately begging pets from Collins and exploring every inch of their new surroundings. Collins did not see Ialin but suspected the hummingbird buzzed nearby, more cautious since being mistaken for an insect and clouted across the forest.

  Within moments, the door banged open and a man, apparently Vernon, appeared, britches hastily tied over thick legs, still pulling a coarse linen shirt over his broad, brown shoulders. Though Collins had seen dark-skinned people in this world before, Vernon was the first who closely resembled an African-American in his own world. He sported close-cropped curls, full lips, and shrewd eyes nearly as dark as the pupils. Tall, well-muscled, and bull-necked, he made a startling contrast to the slight albino, who disappeared into his welcoming embrace.

  Zylas and Vernon exchanged words briefly. Then, Vernon’s gaze shifted across Collins to settle alternately on Falima and the wagging-tailed dog. He shook his head and addressed Zylas with a challenging tone.

  Collins recognized “Falima” in a reply otherwise gibberish to him.

  Vernon nodded thoughtfully as he laced his shirt. He turned his attention fully on the dog and grunted something.

  Zylas merely shrugged.

  Collins looked at Falima. By the time he glanced back, Zylas was heading toward him.

  “It’s settled,” Zylas explained, drawing his hat down to shade his forehead. “You and Falima remain here with Vernon. Ialin and I should be back tomorrow.”

  Collins’ gaze rolled to the dog. “What about him?”

  Zylas did not bother to follow Collins’ gesture. “The dog stays with you. Do what you must to keep us safe.”

  Collins froze, hoping those words did not mean what he thought they did. He would not murder again, especially a child. He opened his mouth to say so, only to find Zylas watching him with distinct discomfort.

  The rat/man held out his hand, fingers clenched to a bloodless fist. Collins watched each finger winch open, finally revealing the rose quartz stone. “You’ll need this.”

  Collins stared at the translation stone. It made sense that he should carry it, as the others could all understand one another, at least in human form. Without reaching for it, he looked at Zylas.

  The rat/man’s lips pursed to lines as white as his flesh, and he dodged Collins’ gaze. His fingers quivered, as if he battled the urge to close them safely around the stone again.

  “This is hard for you, isn’t it?”

  Zylas nodded. “I’ve rarely let anyone use it, and then only in my presence.” He glanced at the stone, and it held his stare. “It’s unique and irreplaceable.” He finally managed to tear his gaze free, to turn a worried look toward Collins. “It’s also illegal.”

  Collins’ brow furrowed. “Illegal?”

  “Magic of any kind. The royals hate it.”

  The words shocked Collins. Shunning such a powerful tool seemed as absurd as locking away the secrets that science revealed. Yet, he realized, his world had done just that for many years now known as the Dark Ages. Despite himself, he found some logic in the realization that technology had brought the atomic bomb as well as computers, pollution along with transportation, thalidomide in addition to penicillin. With the good came the bad, and common sense could dictate none as easily as both. “But, you’re all magic—”

  “Except the royals,” Zylas reminded. “They don’t switch forms.”

  “Right.” Collins recalled his companion telling him that, though it seemed ages ago. “Well . . .” Running out of things to say, he reached for the translation stone. “. . . I’ll take good care of it. I promise.” It seemed ridiculous to vow to protect a rock when he could not keep his own life safe, but he knew Zylas needed the words. “One way or another, no matter what happens, I’ll get it back to you.”

  “Thank you.” The lines dropped from Zylas’ face, and he managed a slight smile. “I’m sure you will.”

  Collins took the stone, oddly warmed by Zylas’ trust. He wondered if he could ever win it from his other companions.

  Zylas made a broad wave toward Vernon, who returned it with a grudging movement of his hand that looked more dismissive than friendly. Ialin zipped out of nowhere to hover at Zylas’ left shoulder, then the two headed into the woods. Collins watched them until they disappeared among the trees. When he finally turned back, he saw Vernon leading Falima toward the cottage, the dog trotting at her hooves.

  Certain Vernon’s cottage would lack indoor plumbing, Collins thought it best to relieve himself before getting to know Zylas’ friend. He dropped the rose quartz into a pocket of his jeans. As he walked to a secluded spot, he allowed his thoughts free rein. His limbs felt heavy, world-weary, and uncertain. He went through the motions of preparing to urinate, thoughts caught up in the realization that he had stumbled into something quite impossible. It amazed h
im how quickly he accepted companions who spent half or more of their lives as animals, his own transformation from mild-mannered graduate student to hunted fugitive under sentence of death, his need to find some magical doorway back to the world he had once thought alone in the universe. It seemed unbelievable that people spent their lives searching for creatures from other planets when a whole other world existed through a storage room in Daubert Labs.

  Collins’ urine pattered against dried weeds.

  A distant, high-pitched sound touched Collins’ hearing suddenly, and he froze. For a moment he heard nothing but the wind rustling through branches and his own urine splattering against dried weeds. A howling bark wafted over those sounds, sharp as a knife cut and followed by another.

  Startled, Collins jerked, wetting his left shoe. Staccato words soft as whispers came to him. “This way, this way.” “No, over here.” “Smell . . . smell target.” “Smell.” “Smell.” “Smell.” “Here!” Then a loud, trumpeting voice sounded over the rest, “Hate wood-ground. Go home!”

  Uncertainty held Collins in place. Only then, he realized he had wormed a hand into his pocket and clamped it over the worn-smooth rose quartz. Oh, my God! It’s translating barks and whinnies. A worse understanding penetrated. They’ve come for us. Whirling, he sprinted toward the cabin, securing his fly as he ran.

  Vernon met Collins at the door. “Come,” he said in rough English. “Hide you.”

  Collins careened inside. The cottage had no windows. Thatch poked through the mud plastered between the logs. A crooked table surrounded by crudely fashioned chairs took up most of the space. Straw piled on a wooden frame filled one corner and, beside it, stood a chest of drawers. Near that, a trapdoor broke the otherwise solid floor.

  Vernon thrust the dog at Collins with a force that sent man and animal staggering. He fell to one knee, arms, chest, and face filled with fur, managing to catch his balance, though awkwardly. Vernon shoved aside the dresser to reveal what seemed to be plain wall until he caught at something Collins had not noticed. Lashed logs that appeared as part of the structure glided open on unseen hinges, and Vernon gestured frantically at the darkness beyond it.

  Still holding the dog, Collins dragged himself into the hidden room. Almost immediately, his nose slammed against solid wall, and wood slivered into his right cheek. He barely managed to turn before Vernon smashed the panel closed, and Collins heard the grind of the dresser moving back into position. Worried its claws might make scrabbling noises, Collins continued supporting the dog, one hand wrapped around its muzzle, the other grasping the translation stone.

  For several moments that seemed more like hours, Collins stood in the silent darkness. Gradually, his heart rate returned to normal, and worse thoughts descended upon him. What if they find us? What if they take Vernon away? What if we’re walled in here to die? The tomblike hush of his hiding place seemed to crush in on him, airless and boring, and he stifled an abrupt urge to pound on the door in a mindless frenzy. If the guards caught him, death went from “what if” to stark and graphic certainty.

  Shortly, Collins heard footsteps clomping down nearby stairs and realized several people had passed through the trapdoor he had seen, likely into a root cellar. He had heard nothing of whatever exchange occurred in the cottage, but here their voices wafted to him in muffled bursts.

  “Why is it that every time we’re hunting fugitives, the trail always ends here?” The voice contained clear exasperation.

  Vernon’s reply sounded gruff. “Why is it that every time you’re hunting fugitives, you chase them toward me? I’d thank you to stop. Puts me in danger. Would you like it if I started sending thieves and killers to your—”

  The dog shifted, and Collins tightened his hold. If he could hear the men, likely they would hear any noise from him also.

  “Cut the crap, Vernon.” A loud, irritable voice joined the others. “What did you do with them?”

  Vernon’s answer dripped sarcasm. “I ate them.”

  The dog went limp in Collins’ arms. The sudden dead weight made it seem twice as heavy, and it took all his strength to lower it soundlessly to the ground. What the . . . ?

  The first speaker huffed out a laugh. “You’re a mouse, Vern. You can barely eat a hallowin seed before you fill up.”

  Worried he might have strangled the dog in an overzealous attempt to keep it quiet, Collins continued to bolster some of its weight. It felt liquid in his arms, all fur and limbs, and he fought for orientation. He no longer had its mouth, which put them at serious risk. He groped for it, swearing silently, overwhelmed by heat. All of the oxygen seemed to drain from the room. His heart rate trebled.

  “I’ll have you know I can eat three hallowin seeds before I fill up.”

  “Not funny,” came the gruff voice again. “This guy we’re hunting actually did eat someone. Cannibal. Try and hide him here, he’ll probably eat you, too.”

  “Cannibal?” Vernon sounded shocked. “You’re right. That’s not funny.”

  Collins thought his heart might pound out of his throat. The dog became even harder to support, squirming into positions he could not fathom in the darkness. He no longer felt fur beneath his grasp, and that proved the final clue. God, no. He’s switching. He gripped harder, now seeking a human shape among the movement. Not now, dog. Please, not now. He held his breath, awaiting the scream that revealed them.

  “I . . . didn’t know. I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  Collins could no longer concentrate on the conversation. He found a human ear beneath a wild mop of hair and lowered his mouth to it. “Please don’t make a sound. I’ll explain everything.”

  To Collins’ surprise and relief, the boy obeyed. Now he turned his attention back to the speakers, but the voices and footsteps faded away. Vernon’s revulsion had sounded sincere, concerned enough to reveal Collins to the guards. His chest clutched and ached. He doesn’t know me, has no loyalty to me. He cringed, prepared for the worst.

  The conversation grew uninterpretable, and Collins realized he had dropped the rose quartz in his struggle to maintain control of the dog. He pressed himself breathlessly to the wall, helpless, waiting for the guards to find him, for the dog/boy to shout, for Vernon to surrender him. Then, the voices faded away. Footsteps slammed up the steps, then disappeared.

  More time passed, immeasurable in the sightless, soundless prison. Then, Collins heard the creak of the moving dresser. The door sprang open, and the dull interior of Vernon’s cabin blinded him. “Thank you,” he gasped out in English. The boy tumbled onto the floor, blinking repeatedly and glancing wildly around the room.

  Vernon assisted the boy to his table, talking softly, while Collins fumbled around the hiding space until he found the quartz. He closed his hand firmly around it before shutting the panel. Now that he knew of the false wall’s existence, he could see the faint outline of its crack and the indentation that allowed Vernon to pull it open. He shoved the dresser back in place.

  Vernon approached Collins, enormous hands outspread. “Hi. Think him . . .” He gestured at the boy, who Collins saw for the first time. Blond hair fell around a heart-shaped, beige face, and brown eyes studied Collins with awed curiosity. Skinny, with long arms and legs, he could pass for a young American teenager if not for his completely unselfconscious nakedness. “. . . think you . . .” Vernon struggled for the word, his English not even as competent as Zylas’ pidgin speech.

  The boy dropped from his chair to his knees on the floor, head bowed. “Your Majesty.”

  Collins understood. “Opernes?” he supplied. It seemed absurd, and he wondered what about his humble self might give such a noble impression. My clothes? The simple homespun his companions had provided clashed with his battered jeans and grimy Nike knockoffs. My watch? It seemed more likely until he realized that the boy had made his assumption as a dog. My scent? “Why does he think . . . ?”

  Vernon’s features opened in surprise. “You—you speak . . .” He recovered swiftly, warn
ing in his undertone. “Why does he . . . ? Don’t you mean how? How does he know you’re royal, don’t you, Your Majesty?” His lips formed sounds that did not match his words at all, like a badly dubbed movie. Collins had not gained that impression from Falima when she had carried the stone, and he guessed it rendered the speaker immune from that effect.

  Clearly, Vernon expected him to play along. Though he did not understand why, Collins would not disappoint a man who had just saved his life. “Yes, of course.” He turned to the boy. “How did you know?”

  Apparently released by Collins’ direct questioning, the boy clambered back into his chair. “Only royals don’t switch.” He studied Collins through liquid eyes, as though the answer should have been obvious.

  It should have. Collins tried to cover. “I just didn’t know one so young could determine that in switch-form.”

  “And retain it,” Vernon added, almost hastily. “You must have good overlap.”

  The boy beamed, then blushed. “Not really. Not yet.”

  For Zylas’ sake, Collins did not glance at the translation stone, though he could not help clutching it like a treasure. He could understand Zylas’ reluctance to lend it; at the moment, he would not trade it for the Hope Diamond. As he and Vernon took the seats on either side of the boy, he could not help wondering if it proved as useful to Zylas. Nothing required him to visit Collins’ world; and, as far as he could tell, all citizens of Barakhai spoke the same language, at least in human form. But there’s more than a little advantage to learning how to communicate with animals, especially here. He wondered if that explained Zylas’ near-perfect overlap.

  Unlike Collins, Vernon did not become too lost in thought to remember his manners. “I’m Vernon.” He made an arching motion over the boy’s head to Collins. “BentonCollins.” He slurred it into one word.