Or maybe they would eat me alive in order to preserve their village from the wrath of evil demon-gods.
This was getting me nowhere. Ending my pointless reverie I took once more to the road. Animals in the anemone forest spoke to each other in chirps, hoots, and whistles. I saw more of the miniature waybeast, uncertain whether they were young ones or a different species. The bat-birds of this area tended to be a bit more colorful than most of the ones I’d seen around Augie Field. I also saw “birds” with pterodactyl wings and long, thin beaks, drilling holes in anemone trees and thrusting the beaks into them like woodpeckers.
That evening I stopped in a small clearing next to the road, early enough to light a fire with my water bottle. Wood was scarce enough, since there were few actual trees around, but I had a little. I wandered down to the river and commenced fishing. I caught something I’d never seen at my old site. It did not much resemble a fish, being a purple, oblong, cucumber-shaped body with huge frilled fins jutting out on all sides. It looked very unappetizing once caught, limp and slimy-looking, but I cut off the fins and roasted it anyway. It was nearly all meat, with no bones and little innards. The meat proved to be tasty, if somewhat rubbery in texture. Building up my fire as best I could, I settled down for the night, my feet throbbing and legs, weary, and dreamed of walking.
I woke feeling as though I hadn’t slept at all. The rocks poking into my back stuck there as I stood up and gathered my things. My fire had died out. I gathered some cooled cinders in a pocket and resumed my journey.
By midmorning, the anemone forest gave way to a small plain. The road ran straight and wide within a short distance of the river. Here I saw more of the smaller waybeasts, and managed to stun one with a throwing stick. I finished it off with my spear and set about roasting it right away instead of waiting for lunchtime. The fire was much easier start using charcoal among the tinder. The animals skin was a mottled in green and grey; it’s horns were longer, proportionately, than a waybeast’s, and its tail much longer, as well. It was several meal’s worth.
I visited the river and retrieved water to boil. After cooking I ate a leg of whatever-it-was to discover that its taste was only a little bit like the waybeast. The meat was drier and not so rich tasting. Still, it wasn’t bad.
I resumed my journey, the road straight and always near enough the river to see the brush that grew up around it. I came around a bend in the river to see a nightmare: the green-grey spiked form of a thorn-wolf on the riverside, its bullet-shaped head bent low, its shark’s mouth submerged in the water. Drinking, I supposed. Maybe it was fishing. The important thing is that it wasn’t eating me. Yet.
I backed up and took a wide detour north of the road. The wind was coming from the south, so I hoped it wouldn’t smell my food. I quickly lost sight of the creature.
Of course, I paid a price for my detour. Now I had to plow through brush and the feather ferns grew considerably higher here than Augie Field. I stumbled as I stepped into a hole, since, of course, I was looking over my shoulder rather than where I was going. I went crashing down, crying out as a jutting root stabbed hard at my chest. My shout was echoed by a sudden rustling in the brush ahead of me, and I started as a small herd of waybeasts that had apparently been lying down in the ferns, leapt to their feet and began running across the field. They burst forth, and sprinted some twenty or thirty yards away, toward the river.
That drew the notice of the thorn-wolf, which immediately came sprinting up from the river bank and straight at them. They darted away, their ridiculous heads thrust forward, their powerful long legs pumping, their clawed feet kicking up clods of soil as they went. I stared, having never seen these creatures moving at their top speed. As fast as I knew the thorn-wolf to be, I doubted it would catch them.
I did not stare long enough to find out. I rushed back in the direction of the road. My ribs hurt where they’d been poked, but at least I hadn’t been punctured. I traveled till evening and bedded down in another road-side camp site.
That night I woke to the sound of something big rustling through the brush nearby. Fearing another thorn-wolf, I scrambled to my feet. My fire was little more than embers by this point, providing a dim orange glow. Something rustled again, perhaps more distant this time.
I hastened to rekindle one stick of the fire as a torch, all the while trying to turn and watch in every direction at once. I heard a crashing of branches a ways off. By the time my torch was operational, the noises had died down. Still, I built my fire back up and sat upright, trying to stay awake until dawn, meeting with little success.
With every breeze leaves would rustle, with every tiny bird or animal scurrying a twig would drop, and I would bolt awake with images of little green men hiding outside the sheltering light of the fire, then settle back down and drift off to dreams of the same little green men. The inhabitants of Wayworld were stalking me, perhaps trying to decide what I was. They weren’t showing themselves, so they were either being cautious or plotting. At last, I called out to them.
“Hello?” As though they would speak English. “Privet. Nǐ hǎo.” Or Russian or Mandarin. There was no response. “Are you still there? What do you want? I—AM—NOT—A—THREAT. I—MEAN—YOU—NO—HARM.” Still nothing. Long I stared into the shadows, trying to make out any shape or movement. I held my breath, listening for the faintest sound. I stood up, spear in one hand, torch in the other. I paced a little further out from the fire, extending the radius of the light with the torch.
Was that a face in the brush? Two dark, pit-like eyes, broad hairy cheeks, and a gaping grin? I stared at it, the faint color fading in and out as I tried to make out details. Slowly I walked closer, spear held ready. Another step, my heart pounding in anticipation. The face wavered, but otherwise did not move. I stalked slowly onward, my light drawing ever closer to the broad face in the shadow. Closer still, until…
I saw that it was nothing. A trick of the light—or more accurately, the shadows—just gaps in a clump of feather ferns. Feeling both foolish and relieved, I returned to the camp fire. The adrenaline rush left my body abruptly, and I sank down and, against my better judgment, fell asleep.
I woke to a rosy glow on the edge of the horizon, telling me dawn was not far off. I gathered my sparse supplies and, as soon as there was enough light to see, started down the road. The path stayed close to the river at this point and I could hear the waters playing over the stones. I darted my eyes about me, still mindful of last night’s visitation, unsure whether it was beast or people.
The morning air was cool and breezy, prompting me to don my poncho. The land rose as the day went on, the road climbing and the banks of the river becoming a sort of canyon. There was no vegetation to speak of between the river on my right and the road, but tendril bushes grew thick on my left. The wind from the west brought chirps and buzzings, and—
Something new. A squeak or squeal—I stopped to listen, but it was drowned out by the rustling of the wind through the tendril bushes. I walked slowly, stopping often to look and listen. The ambient buzzes, chirps, and rustling tendril bushes blotted out what I was trying to hear. Walk. Squeak. Stop and listen. Rustle. Walk. Rustle. Chirp. Squeak. Stop and listen. Squeak. Rustle. I topped a ridge that afforded a good view of the road behind me. There were travelers on the road.
I could not make out much detail. There was a wagon of some sort, being pulled by two fuzzy grey lumps. Two more fuzzy lumps trailed behind them. I stared long and hard, edging my way to the brushy area north of the road. If they noticed me it did not show. I hunkered down in the brush and observed as they approached.
The creatures drawing the cart were quadrupeds, and as they drew closer they proved to be covered with blue-grey hair. Their general build reminded me of llamas. I saw no driver on the wagon. What had happened to him/her/it? Had their master been injured, falling out of the wagon, lying unconscious, needing help? Lying dead, its side pierced by arrows of some nearby hostile savages? Savages that might soon be chasing the
ir booty, running into a lone and tasty-looking earthling along the way?
The wagon was closer. The beasts’ resemblance to llamas faded some. They were fairly large quadrupeds with longish necks (not so long as llamas). The bodies were much smaller and the heads larger than a llama’s. Their muzzles were stouter and squarer, jutted forward less and sloped down more. Broad triangular ears adorned the upper corners of the ears. I crept slowly through the brush, but kept rustling despite my caution. I stopped moving. The brush kept rustling. The rustling noise was coming closer. I turned to see enormous jaws opening in the scrub behind me.
Crying out, I leapt back to escape the snapping jaw of a large reptilian head that darted out at me with a snarl. I lost my footing and tumbled backwards down the hillock I had recently mounted, down onto the road below. The monster lost no time in crawling down the hillside to get at me—its long snake-like body carried by several sets of legs—maybe four—I wasn’t exactly in a counting mood.
I scrambled to my feet as the creature’s clawed feet grasped the rocky side of the hillock and ran away as quickly as I could manage. Some part of my brain that I was only dimly aware of told me that maybe the llamoids, harnessed to a cart, would be an easier and more tempting prey than I.
I heard the bellow of the legged serpent close behind me. I swiveled around, spear in hand, confirming that it was gaining on me, with no chance of escape. I planted the butt of the spear in the dirt road, hoping the monster was stupid enough to impale itself.
A whizzing sounded beside my ear and suddenly a slender wooden stick sprouted from the right shoulder of the beast. The creature roared and spun about to the right and off path from me. I darted a glance over my left shoulder to see the llamoids leaping into the fray, the cart abandoned. The creatures had long, thorn-like spurs jutting forward from the their front legs, and sideways on their hind limbs. Three of them began running around the legged serpent, darting in and out, one or the other drawing its attack, while the other two would dash in, kicking with all fours, slashing with the spurs, then dashing back out.
I pulled back and tried to add to their tactics. I was nowhere near as fast or nimble as the others. But when I saw an opening, I would lunge in and try to thrust with my spear, usually missing or glancing off its scaly hide, but wounding it occasionally. Another whizzing noise, accompanied by another sprouting stick.
Someone was shooting arrows. Another glance over my shoulder and I saw one remaining llamoid sitting up on its haunches, clutching another arrow in one paw, and a large slingshot in the other. That was no dumb pack animal!
The battle carried on, the llamoids doing most of the damage. I saw now that their attacks were thought out and coordinated. The best I could do was to stay out of the way and add an attack when something was wide open. The leg-serpent snapped its jaws on the hind leg of a llamoid, which responded with a sound like an angry cat. The serpent roared and released, shaking its head, greenish goo flicking from it mouth and staining the spur on the llamoid’s legs. It stumbled a little and the remaining llamoids dashed in and kicked and slashed wildly with their spurs.
I dove forward and stabbed repeatedly the exposed flank of the legged serpent. It thrashed and writhed, hitting me and knocking me over and rolling over on top of me. I found myself pinned beneath the monster with one of its clawed feet scratching at me. I had managed to grab the foot in both hands, when a mighty spasms racked the body of the monster; it screamed and gurgled as another series of spasms shook its body. It crushed against my chest as it writhed, forcing air from my lungs. I tried to pry my arms out from underneath, without success. My heart pounded through my whole body. My vision dimmed, then went black. I heard only the pounding of my heart. I could not breathe. Soon I knew nothing at all.
I woke looking up at furry grey-blue faces. They peered at me with deep indigo eyes. The fur around their faces was sticking out and forward, looking almost more like strange feathers than fur, their ears perked. One spoke up in a voice like a talking cat: “Hwi hren na. Na.” Nothing in its inflection told me if it was a statement, a question, a greeting, a threat, or magic incantation. I slowly pulled myself to a sitting position.
“Uh, I come in peace? Uhm, take me to your leader?” The one who’d spoke looked to its fellows, its fur falling back into place along its jowls. “Sho hren. Vio o.” The others backed away and went to look after the bitten llamoid. The speaker stood/sat back on its haunches and tilted its head, looking at me. “Po chui shikachui mohe mohe.” It paused. “Hwi. Chui. Shi ka chui. Na.”
I could only stare at it. “I don’t understand you. I don’t suppose you speak English?” It tilted its head the other way.
“I klesha na.”
“English?”
“Iklesha.”
“English.” I nodded.
“Iklesha.” The llamoid waved its forelimb at me in a stroking motion. “Hwi vome o iklesha na.” It reminded me of some sort of priest invoking a blessing. I just stared at it. Its head tilted one way then another, a ripple traveling along the long feather-like furs of its cheeks.
“Um. Yes? My name is Diggory.” Head tilt. “Um… me,” patting my chest, “Diggory.” Head tilt. Again it stroked the air in my direction.
“Pa sho pakren homi homi na.” It then stroked the air in a fanning motion down the road. I shook my head and shrugged. The creature stroked its long neck with a forelimb and said “Hren.” It stroked the air toward one of its fellows. “Pakren.” It stroked toward another. “Pakren.” Then the final. “Pakren.” It turned its head back to me, repeating the stroking motion. “Hren.” Back to the sweeping stroke down the road. “Pakren na.” Sweep to one side. “Pakren na.”
Of course, I couldn’t understand a word, and the creature’s gestures were equally meaningless. Added to that was the fact that even though the llama resemblance was minimal up close, the creature still looked like a talking animal sitting up on its haunches. I had only partly come to grips with the truth that I was living on an alien world, and now my mind was reeling from the fact that I was face to face with a thinking, talking, person from this other world.
The alien wore no clothes other than a harness that held a few tools. The spurs, I saw now, were fashioned of shaped bone or horn, and were strapped to its limbs. At first I’d thought it had hooves, but actually the hind feet had three toes that were broad with large, flat, black nails. The forelimbs ended in three long, thick fingers, one offset like a thumb, but shaped the same as the rest. When they walked, they bent their fingers and walked about on the middle knuckles, which had thick leathery pads.
The alien (okay, okay, I know—I was the alien—don’t interrupt) was sketching simple shapes in the dirt. It tapped a dark nail against a cluster of stick-drawn quadrupeds and stroked the air above them.
“Tupa,” it mewled. It tapped, then stroked the air above a stick-figure biped. “Vome vome o.” I stared. It repeated. Quadrupeds “Tupa.” Biped. “Vome vome.”
Then it clicked. I tapped the quadruped stick figures. “Tupa,” I said. I pointed at the creature. “You are tupa?” Its facial fur perked up momentarily, then it stroked its neck.
“Tupa,” it said. It waved a hand at its comrades. “Tupa tupa.” If I was following it right, the llamoids were called tupa. We continued on, the speaker confirming (I thought) that they were tupa. It went back to the stick figures. “Tupa tupa.” Biped (obviously me). “Vome vome o.” It waved a hand each of its comrades, calling them tupa in turn, then stroked its own own neck, saying “Tupa,” then stroked the air toward me, leaning in with its long neck, its feathery fur thrusting forward at me, with an air of expectancy.
I stroked my neck, mimicking the tupa. “Human,” I said, then tapped the stick figure biped. “Human.” The tupa bobbed its head and shook its ears, stroking the air toward me.
“Uman. Vome o uman na.”
I repeated, “Human.” A little more work went into confirming that I was an uman and they were tupa. It gestured at its team.
The conversation went nowhere. Was it trying to tell me to go somewhere? Was it trying to ask where I was going, or where I came from? Was it describing to me the beauty (or lack thereof) of the southern scenery? Was it suggesting that my innards would look good scattered there, there, and there?
If it was surprised to find a talking species other than itself, it didn’t show it in any way I could recognize. Were there other intelligent species here? Were the tupa simply so innocent that they just took it in stride, as Eve had been unfazed by a talking serpent? Or perhaps they were absolutely flabbergasted and showed it with the rippling and puffing and deflating of its cheek fur that went on during our conversation.
Meanwhile the others had joined us. The bitten tupa wasn’t bleeding anymore, and moved with no discernible difficulty, leading me to believe its injuries weren’t serious. They chattered amongst themselves while gesticulating toward me as well as down the road. Then two of them went about skinning the legged serpent while another started a fire and retrieved things from the wagon I could only assume were food.
As they did so, my language lesson continued. I learned only a few things. I did not know what hren was, but I gathered it was something important and something that the tupa and I shared (I thought perhaps speech) and it seemed closely related to pakren. It seemed to have nothing to do with wagons, legged serpents, or my tools. Vom seemed to be ‘yes’, (though it could signify agreement or simply “Hey, you’re not as dumb as you look.”) and kaha seemed to be either ‘no’, ‘wrong’, and maybe ‘zero’ (or perhaps “Oh, wait, you’re dumber than you look.”) I learned to count to four (i, em, hok, haf). If my teacher was frustrated or impatient, it hid this behind an alien visage devoid of human expression.
Diggory's World (Wayworld Book 1) Page 8