“I appreciate that Vernon doesn’t want us to starve, but I would have packed a bit lighter.”
At the moment, Collins would have carried the pack the rest of the way if it meant a steady supply of Vernon’s peanut-buttery nut paste. He helped Zylas unpack enough food to satisfy them both: bread and nut paste, bugs and fruit, roots and berries. They ate well, then settled down to sleep on the grassy carpet.
Collins dreamed of a violent earthquake rocking him in wild, insistent motions. “What? Where?” He leaped to his feet. “Huh?” The world came into abrupt focus, despite his missing glasses. Falima stood beside him, still clutching the arm she had been shaking. Zylas stood near the pack, smiling slightly from beneath his hat brim as he watched the exchange. “Bit jumpy, are you?”
Still slightly disoriented, Collins glanced at his watch. “What time is it?” It read 6:15. Falima would have changed fifteen minutes ago, which would have just given her time to dress and wolf down some food before awakening him. He yawned.
Though Collins had found his own answer, Zylas gave him another. “Early evening. You’re a good sleeper.”
Collins yawned again. “Most grad students are.” He stretched, the pain in his thighs and buttocks even more pronounced. He was glad Falima had taken human form and they would have to walk for a while. “Now, if I could just get some coffee.”
Zylas laughed. “Don’t have that here. But you’re welcome to eat dirt. Tastes about the same to me.”
“Let me guess. Not a coffee fan?” Collins sprang forward and hefted the pack before his older and smaller companion could do so. It settled awkwardly across his neck, obviously constructed to balance across a horse’s unsaddled withers without sliding. Now, he had to agree with Zylas; fewer supplies would suit his shoulders better. “It’s an acquired taste.”
“Apparently.” Zylas did not fight Collins for the pack. “But why bother to acquire it?”
“For the caffeine.” Collins trailed his companions through the viny curtain and into sunlight that, though muted by evening, still burned his unadjusted eyes. “Helps you wake up.”
Zylas headed back up the slope. “Why not just take caffeine?”
Why not, indeed? Collins recalled a professor once telling the class that, in the name of avoiding hypocrisy, No-Doz was his morning beverage. It seemed more like an admission of drug addiction than the heroically honest statement the professor had clearly intended. “I actually like the taste of coffee.” Now. When he first started drinking it, he had diluted it more than halfway with milk. Gradually, the proportion had decreased until he had come to take it with only a splash of nondairy creamer.
“All . . . right,” Zylas said slowly. “If you say so.”
“It’s good.” Collins hopped after Falima, who had darted up the hill with a dexterity her horse form could never have matched. “Really. Coffee has a great—” Struck by the ridiculousness of the argument, Collins laughed. Why am I defending coffee to a man who eats bugs and calls them a delicacy? “—flavor,” he finished. “When it’s made right.” It seemed rude to leave Falima out of the conversation. Not wanting to lose the ground he had gained with her the previous day, he asked, “So how are things with you, Falima?”
At the sound of her name, Falima turned and shrugged.
“She can’t understand you,” Zylas reminded.
Oh, yeah. Disappointment flashed through Collins, gradually replaced by guarded relief. As much as he wanted to chat with her, at least, this way, he could not ruin their friendship by saying something stupid.
They continued through softly contoured mountains carpeted with weeds, wildflowers, and evergreen forests. Now, Zylas’ diversions became clearer to Collins, as they meandered down and sideways as often as upward, and he often forgot that they traveled through mountains at all. Occasionally, the vegetation gave way to barren rock faces, especially where the walk grew steeper. These proved a minor challenge that would bore a real climber, though Collins found himself guarding every step. A fall seemed unlikely, but it might result in serious injury; and he had taken more than a few missteps in his life on flat, solid ground.
The weather remained clear. That, and a comfortable sleep, vastly improved Collins’ mood. He could almost imagine himself on a youth group hike, scurrying up Mount Chockorua with a backpack, a canteen, and a bunch of rowdy boys. The fear of becoming trapped in a world that condemned him as a vicious murderer receded behind a wash of reckless hope.
Collins met Falima’s gaze on several occasions, exchanging short nervous smiles whenever they did so. The strange and silent flirtation passed time otherwise measured only by the slow downward creep of the sun. At length, it touched the far horizon, pitching up broad bands of color that blurred and mingled at the edges, cleared to vivid extremes, then dulled into the next. Bold spikes of pink interrupted the pattern at intervals, radiating in majestic lines.
Collins paused on a crest, staring. Evening breezes chilled the sweat spangling his forehead, and he could not tear his gaze from the beauty of the vast panorama stretching out in front of him. He had never seen anything so grand. The few clear sunsets of his camping days he had viewed through forests of skeletal branches that blotted the grandeur with shadows. City lights blunted the epic, almost violent, hues that now paraded before his eyes. In recent years, he had forgotten to look, his evenings gobbled up by essays and lab work, indoor dinners and rented movies.
“What’s the matter?”
Zylas’ now-familiar voice startled Collins. He jumped, slammed his foot down on a loose stone, twisted his ankle, and toppled. Before the rat/man could move to assist, Collins lay on the ground. His ankle throbbed, but he still managed to say, “What’s the matter? The matter is some guy who calls himself a friend scaring me and dumping me on my face.”
Zylas drew back, feigning affront. “I never touched you. You dumped yourself on your own face.”
“With incredible grace, I might add.” Collins rose gingerly and found he could already put most of his weight on his leg. He was not badly hurt. “Don’t sell me short, now. I’m excellent at dumping myself on my face.”
Zylas agreed, “A real professional.” He offered a hand, though Collins had already stood.
“Mind telling Falima it was your fault? She already thinks I’m a clod.”
Zylas glanced toward his flank. “I’d do that, but she does have . . . um . . . eyes.”
Collins looked around Zylas, only then noticing Falima nearby. She had probably witnessed the entire exchange. He tried to remember which parts of the conversation he had spoken. She could not understand him, but Zylas could come across plainly to both of them. Much like listening to one end of a telephone conversation, she could surely infer much merely from what Zylas had said. But why the hell do I care what she thinks? Collins could not explain it; but, somehow, he did. He looked back at the horizon, but the sky’s exquisite light show had dulled toward flat black and the first stars had appeared. He rounded on Zylas. “If you must know, I was enjoying that gorgeous sunset. You made me miss the last of it.”
Zylas turned his attention westward, with the air of a man so accustomed to seeing radiance, he no longer notices it.
Of course, Collins surmised. They get sunsets like that every day. In that moment, he grew less fascinated by the life of a models’ photographer. It seemed impossible that staring at beautiful women for a living gradually sapped it of all thrill, yet surely it must. Does a man ever tire of looking at an attractive wife? An answer popped swiftly into Collins’ mind, though he had never intended to address his own unspoken question. I don’t stare at Marlys the way I used to, and she’s only grown more lovely. In fact, it surprised him to discover that, of all the things he missed most, she barely made the list. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, then either I don’t have a heart or she was never really there.
Falima followed the direction of Zylas’ stare to the now-blunted sunset. She said something, the slight up-tick at the end Collins’ only hi
nt that she had asked a question.
Zylas responded in their lilting language, leaving her nodding thoughtfully.
The albino turned his attention back to Collins. “Ready?”
“To go on?” Collins guessed. “Sure.”
Zylas adjusted his breeks. “To meet the elder.”
Collins blinked. “Tonight? But I thought . . .”
Zylas shrugged. “You requested; I asked.” He held out a hand, and the hummingbird alighted, tiny talons gripping his index finger. “Ialin says we’ve lost the guards. The elder thinks we’ve muddled the trail enough.”
Though he had suspected it, Collins barely dared to believe Zylas had dragged out their journey so much that they could chop off an entire day and not even notice it. “Definitely. I’m ready.” Finally, he would find out how to get home. Home to professors furious that I ruined all their experiments. He doubted anyone could believe his reason for not taking care of the animals. Each rat had enough water to last several days, and they could go without eating for weeks, if necessary. He wondered if he could get back to Daubert Laboratories before vacation ended; if he cleaned all the cages thoroughly, supplied fresh food sticks and water, no one would know he had gone. The deceit bothered him. It might change the results of some of the analyses, but it seemed preferable to him sacrificing the future he had gone into hock for. A bad relationship, a sundered family, student loans—these all seemed minor inconveniences compared to remaining always a jump ahead of a local constabulary fixated on executing him.
As Zylas headed across a ridge swarming with leafy vines, Collins finally found the argument that might have gotten him to the elder sooner. “You know, Zylas.” He tried to keep his voice casual. “I’m the only one taking care of those rats back at the lab for four days.”
Zylas continued walking, a stiffening of his back the only clue that he had heard the pronouncement. At length, he spoke. “Are they . . . are they going to . . .” It took a real effort to squeeze out the last word. “. . . die?”
Well, yes. After an experiment, they all die. Collins kept that realization to himself, suddenly wishing he had not raised the topic at all. It seemed cruel to leave Zylas believing he had had a hand in the deaths of a roomful of creatures he considered kin. Initially planning to use the information to help speed things along, Collins suddenly found himself in the position of comforter. “I don’t think so. I gave them enough water for at least three days. They might get a bit hungry before the others get back, but they should survive all right.” Great. That accomplished a lot.
Zylas’ movements became jerky, agitated. Falima glided up and gently placed an arm across his shoulders, speaking calmly.
Collins slammed the heel of his palm against his forehead. Blew that one big time. He tried to simultaneously rescue his point and Zylas, though the two goals seemed entirely at odds. “They certainly won’t die. Certainly not. But the sooner I get back, the sooner I can attend to them. Clean cages, feed. You know, make them comfortable.”
Zylas and Falima made a sudden turn, disappearing behind a crag.
Collins jogged to catch up, then slammed into his companions who had come to a halt just beyond the angle. Driven forward a step, Zylas whirled, while Falima just shook her head and continued studying the cliff wall in front of her. Ialin buzzed into flight.
“Sorry,” Collins muttered, then realized the ivy-covered stone in front of him had a central area darker than the surrounding stone. He stared, trying to visually carve clear the outline of the cave mouth that he guessed lay there. “We’re here?”
“Yes.” Zylas placed a hand on Collins’ arm and ushered him forward. “Please, be polite.” His tone fairly pleaded, and Collins found it impossible to take offense from the implication. “Respectful. Not . . .” He trailed off, looking more nervous than Collins had ever seen him.
“Not rude?” Collins supplied, with just a hint of indignation.
Zylas finally glanced directly into Collins’ face and smiled. “I’m sorry I’m treating you like a child. It’s just that . . . well . . . sometimes your people . . . don’t handle elders . . . um . . .”
Collins thought he understood. Americans did tend to value youth and vigor more than wisdom. “With appropriate esteem?”
Zylas let out a pent-up breath. “Right.”
Falima spoke through gritted teeth, and Zylas translated.
“She says that would be a big mistake here.”
“I understand.” Though tired of reassurances, Collins said and did nothing more. The more impatience he showed, the longer the likely delay. It made sense that the people here showed a deference bordering on awe toward their elders. Given their lifestyle, they likely had few who lasted all that long.
A gravelly voice emerged from the cave scarcely louder than the whisper of windblown vines against stone. “Zylas, Falima, Ialin, please come in. And bring your guest.”
No longer able to delay, Zylas executed a bow the elder surely could not see. “At once, Lady Prinivere.” He tugged at Collins’ arm.
Lady? Collins had to adjust his entire image as he trotted into the cave at Zylas’ side. Ialin fluttered ahead, and Falima followed them.
The darkness seemed to swallow them, and Collins blinked several times, seeking some small source of light on which to focus his vision. Afraid to move for fear of knocking into people or furniture, he turned in place to catch the lingering grayness at the opening.
“Forgive me,” a sweet but ancient voice said. “I forget that others need this.” A ball of light appeared, pulled apart like a chain of glowsticks, then diffused into a pale, sourceless glow. Collins saw a round face as brown as a berry and cast into extensive, deep wrinkles. Dressed only in a loincloth, the old woman left most of her withered flesh exposed. Her breasts hung so low they covered her slender abdomen. A thick, untidy mop of snowy hair sprouted from her freckled scalp, hanging to just below her ears. Though recessed into hollows, her eyes looked remarkably clear, green as a cat’s with the same slitted pupils and full of an ancient wisdom that the wateriness of age could not diminish. Her small nose seemed little more than a pair of slitty nostrils in a sea of pleats. Collins studied her in unbelieving fascination, certain he had never seen anyone quite this old. He barely noticed the furnishings, which consisted entirely of two large chests.
The elder smiled. “I am Prinivere.”
Wanting to introduce himself before Zylas could do so, to avoid forever becoming an amalgamation of his full name, Collins found his tongue. “Ben,” he said. Despite himself, he added, “Just Ben.” He caught himself at once. Great. Now she’s going to call me Justben. It sounded uncomfortably close to Dustbin, though still better than Bentoncollins or, worse, the Benton Zachary Collins his mother used whenever he got into trouble.
But Prinivere made no such mistake. “A pleasure to meet you, Ben.”
“Thank you,” Collins said politely, only then blurting a sudden realization. “You speak English.”
Unobtrusively, Zylas stepped on Collins’ foot.
“I speak all languages,” Prinivere explained. She folded her legs, sitting on the floor with surprising grace for one so frail in appearance. “Come join me, Ben.”
Without hesitation, Collins dropped to his haunches, then sat in front of the old woman. “Thank you,” he said again. Though perhaps not the most suitable response, they were the politest words he knew.
“You’re welcome.” Prinivere studied Collins in silence then. Her eyes looked tired but very alive, a discomforting contrast to a body that seemed long past its time.
Collins sat very still, feeling like a piece of steak at the meat counter. The long silence that followed made him even more restless. Wondering if it were his job to break it, he looked at Zylas.
The albino shook his head stiffly.
Like a hunter with prey, the movement caught Prinivere’s attention. “Who has the stone?”
Zylas crouched beside Collins. “I do, Lady.”
The stabbi
ng gaze went fully to the rat/man now, to Collins’ relief. “Don’t you think it would serve better in his hands?”
Zylas swallowed hard but remained adamant. “I can’t afford to lose it. I was hoping . . . can’t you . . . ?”
Prinivere leaned forward, and her breasts drooped into her lap. Collins found himself noting this matter-of-factly, the way he might view a fat, shirtless man’s stomach overflowing his pants at a sporting event. There was knowledge and venerability but nothing sexual about this primordial creature. “Maybe. After I’ve slept, switched.” She shook her head. “I think I might be able to.”
Able to what? Collins wondered, but he did not ask. He looked up, only to find the sharp, green eyes back on him.
“So,” she said. “What do you think of Barakhai?”
At home, it might have seemed a casual question, a polite query intended to illicit a stock response. Now, Collins sensed a much deeper quality that forced him to think in a way he had not since his companions had freed him from hanging. Driven by desperation, by terror, by need, he had not bothered to contemplate the world and its wonders per se. “I think,” he started, and his voice seemed to thunder into an intense and critical silence, “it’s a world with some simple beauty mine hasn’t known for some time.” Though the others nodded, Collins doubted they understood what he meant. “Clear sunsets, fresh air, water you can drink from its source and not worry about pollution and . . . germs.” He did not know for certain about the latter. Obviously, the inhabitants drank the water all the time, apparently with no harmful effects; but dogs lapped up muddy, worm-riddled puddles in his world, too. Perhaps the water here teemed with Giardia, amoeba, and other microbes that the animal part of them could tolerate; or they simply survived as long as they could with masses of intestinal parasites writhing inside them. So far, he had drunk the water without getting ill. Only time would tell for certain whether the better part of wisdom would have been to boil it first.
The Beasts of Barakhai Page 15