I had cuts and bruises in several places on my legs and back, my left thigh taking the worst of the damage. It was badly gashed. I thought about how lucky I had been the first time I met one. If it had not been satisfied with my bag of hodo, it would have killed me, as this one would have, had Thashingi not heard my shouts and come to my aid. I rested and tried to ignore the pain as best I could, and waited until the team came back with the meat from the thornwolf and the mini-griffin.
Breakfast was late because of our misadventure, and they took time to cook the fresh kills, so we did not get on the road until late morning. I rode in the cart due to my injuries, but I think limping along on my wounded legs would have been less painful than the jostling I received in the wagon. We pushed through mid-day, stopping only briefly for a quick meal in the afternoon. Shuvo helped me out of the wagon and let me lean on him to move about a little.
I spied a long, forked branch nearby and hobbled over to pick it up. I spent the next session of our journey cutting the branch down to form a rudimentary crutch. Some cloth bags formed padding. On our next stop I tried it out. The shokhung looked on with interest. I hobbled about slowly, looking for another crutch. I held up my prosthesis, telling the others “Asa i. Harafa em.” (Have one. Want two.) They helped me find a second and I worked on it after a dinner of mini-griffin (stringy) and thornwolf (surprisingly tasty). I slept fitfully, finding every position painful.
In the morning they inspected my wounds, cleaned them with the stinging fluid again, and changed the bandages. I lurched about on my new crutches, eliciting chuffs from the tupa. “Gumu shokone,” they said. (Like shokhung.) I laughed. The shokhung either did not get the joke or did not appreciate it. Or else I didn’t know how they laughed.
That day I tried out riding the mongmoth instead of the cart. There was no saddle and I kept tipping to one side or the other, holding on tightly to the yoke that connected them to the wagon. Halfway through the day, my hands were too tired to continue, and I was forced to endure the bouncing wagon.
The afternoon was very hot, even though the sun was partially hidden by clouds. I drank lots of water, but had no appetite come dinner. That evening when my wounds were examined, they were very tender, the skin very red. I suspected the heat was really a fever. I made a point of drinking lots of water.
The next morning, I could barely walk. My legs ached. I was exhausted and feverish. My companions forced foul tasting fluids down my throat and packed me in wet cloths. I was loaded into the wagon amidst piled up fern leaves covered in blankets. I half-slept, half-woke throughout the next part of the journey. The day (or days) became a blur. I was shivering and they took away the cloths and packed me in fresh ones. Periodically, I was given water or nasty potions.
The fever was beginning to break when we rolled back into the tupa village. I was alarmed at the condition of my left leg. It was red and puffy, and my foot and toes swollen. I was taken to the an elder’s homes, instead of Wuheka’s farm, and entrusted to the care of a tupa I’d met but didn’t really know. She applied poultices and bandages to my wounds and had me drinking broths and potions. Wuheka and others from the farm came and visited regularly, as did Khufir.
It was several days before I was able to get about mostly on my own. My legs still hurt, and I used the crutches extensively. The little ones began calling me shokone nope, or “shaved shokhung”. I remained weak, having little appetite or energy. The redness receded. Eventually I was shuffled back off to Wuheka’s farm with a packet of herbs and a few bottles of nasty tasting drinks. The shokhung had left, leaving only Khufir. Had they left without pouring me a big steaming mug of pakren?
After another several days, Khufir met with Wuheka, Chuicha, Shuvo, and myself. Khufir’s announced “We go pour human’s pakren.” I was deemed healthy enough to proceed. Shuvo stated that tupa would also go. They discussed who would go but I was more concerned with the going part. Where were we going? Did I have to leave again, so soon into my recovery? The village was safe. The wilderness, on the other hand, had nearly killed me. Again.
Shuvo and Fervi (an older son of Chuicha and good friend of his uncle Shuvo) would accompany Thashingi and me on the journey. We spent the rest of the day loading up provisions, and departed the following morning.
We headed east out of the village. The road led through forests of rust-colored fern-like trees, standing thirty feet or more in height. Gently rolling hills appeared. Khufir and I carried backpacks (mine very light) and the tupa carried large bundles on their backs.
I required frequent breaks. My legs ached and I fatigued very easily. I couldn’t imagine why they were so insistent to leave now. Fervi offered to let me sit astride him as I had the mongmoth, but despite their resemblance to earthly beasts of burden, the tupa were not built to be ridden upon, and this became very obvious to all very rapidly, and the plan was abandoned just as rapidly. Khufir was impatient with the frequent breaks but tolerated them. He busied himself sharpening knives, collecting wood and whittling it. The tupa were content to sit with me and chat, or forage for edible plants.
That night we camped in a clearing off the road. I slept poorly—every position hurt my legs or back. As I lay awake gazing at the moons, suddenly both Shuvo and Fervi’s head bolted upright on the long necks, their cheek fur fanned out, their ears erect, both gazing in the same direction. I looked and listened, but saw and heard nothing.
Slowly the tupa stood and walked over to the other side of the clearing, obviously alert. Did they have some sixth sense? Or very good hearing? I heard a rustling in the brush when the tupa plucked branches out of the fire and approached the edge of the clearing, waving their torches menacingly. The rustling intensified, then faded. Somehow they had sensed something coming, woke, and were ready to confront it. I no longer wondered why they didn’t post a watch. I slept better after that.
It was several days journey through varying territories of fern forests and rolling hills. We traveled slowly due to my weakness. We came to a cross road and went north, where the territory grew flatter and covered with tendril shrubs and low standing trees. We drank the fermented sap of the chimney trees. I didn’t care too much for the taste, but it eased the pain. On our second day going northward, we came to a fort.
The walls were of sturdy logs, and solidly built, with guard towers at every corner. The front wall was probably about four or five hundred feet long, and stood about twenty feet high. It was far larger, and far more military looking, than anything I’d seen in the tupa village.
Assuming we had arrived at the shokhung home, I was surprised to see a pale, round head with large dark eyes watching us from a tower. (How many species were there on this planet?) It called something out and immediately there were similar heads peering at us from every corner. Khufir held up both his open hands and called out to the nearest guard. All I understood of his speech were names and species. The guard called back and waved us over toward the center of the front wall, where one half of a huge double door swung open enough for us to enter. We were confronted there by four guards.
It bothers me to describe everything in terms of Earthly animals. The tupa did not look like blue-grey llamas. The shokhung did not look like pig-faced apes. But I can’t think of a better way to describe either. These new aliens, however didn’t match anything I’d seen on Earth.
They stood about five foot tall. They had six limbs: a second set of thick arms extended from the middle of their sides, but I also saw others in the background walking about on four limbs, so I couldn’t be sure that the center limbs were proper arms at all. They wore no shoes, and each limb terminated in a flat round pad surrounded by four fingers or toes. Their skin was a pale tan color and very smooth. They had large bulbous heads with large round eyes, very dark, and a three orifices on each side of the head that looked like they might be ears. There was no sign of nostrils on their flat, round faces. Their mouths were straight and showed no sign of lips. Next to the mouth, on each side, foot-long fleshy tendrils
dangled, reminding me of catfish whiskers. The guards wore dark green jumpsuits covering them from neck to wrists and ankles and carried what were surely guns.
They weren’t built like Earth guns, shaped instead for their arms. The barrels were about a half-inch in diameter, a foot and a half long, and encased in smooth shiny housing. The guards aimed their weapons at us. What had I walked into?
My companions showed no concerned. They proffered their packs and on this cue, so did I. One of the guards gave each pack a precursory search and returned them to us. After this their weapons were lowered, but kept on slings rather than holsters. Clearly, these six-limbed creatures were very security-conscious.
My fears allayed, I took a moment to look around at the fort. Numerous aliens scurried about on two, four, or six limbs. There were low-lying buildings fashioned of wooden logs, stone, or in a few cases, bricks. Aside from the weapons of the guards, however, I saw little evidence of advanced technology, as though the creatures were dropped out of an alien spaceship into a sixteenth century American colony.
My companions were discussing something or another with our hosts, the okavi. After a time, a guard motioned to the south side of the complex and our party headed in that direction. As we left, I asked Shuvo “Okavi wa kwe shangamo na?” ( Okavi fall from sky?)
“Vom, vom,” he replied. (Of course.)
“Okavi ia shokone chui tupa chui na?” I asked. ( Okavi and shokhung talk tupa talk?)
“Kaha,” was the response. “Okavi ia tupa ia shokone chui shikachui.” (No, okavi, tupa, and shokhung talk Soup-talk.) I laughed. Soup-talk!? That’s what their language was called? It wasn’t the tupa language. They had developed a trade language. And called it Soup-talk.
“Okavi hren na na?” (Okavi are/have hren, right?)
“Vom, vom.” (Of course)
“Okavi asa pakren na?” ( Okavi have pakren? )
“Vom.” So, yes, but not “of course”. Hmm.
“Okavi preta pakren Diggs na?” ( Okavi give Diggs pakren?)
“Kaha!” he replied. “Okavi ka asa pakren uman. Okavi asa pakren okavi. Tupa asa pakren tupa.” (No, okavi don’t have human pakren; okavi have okavi pakren.) It sounded like pakren was species-specific.
“Uman asa pakren uman na na?” I asked. (Human have human pakren, right?)
He waggled his ears in a gesture I’d learned was their way of shrugging. “Vomka.” (Maybe).
Many of the okavi we passed carried guns like those of the guards. They all seemed alert to our presence, but not quite paranoid. I wondered if this was a military outpost, with civilian okavi living elsewhere.
Khufir led us across the compound to a log structure with an open porch area in front. An okavi crouched out front on four limbs, using his other two to sort through a pile of animal skins. A noxious odor permeated the area, and the tupa narrowed their nostrils and blinked a lot, but neither okavi nor shokhung showed offense at the foul aroma.
The okavi looked up at us as we approached and spoke. Khufir answered and the okavi beckoned us inside, where the stench was even worse. Shuvo spoke up and moments later we were led back outside. The okavi shuffled back and forth from the inside and brought out several mats and bottles, spreading the mats out on the porch, where we sat down, and distributed the bottles among us. Then he squatted down like an alien centaur, opened his own bottle, and drank. My comrades did likewise, so I followed suit. The drink was sweet and fizzy with just a hint of fermentation. Once everyone had their drink and a place to sit, the conversation began.
Khufir led the discussion with the okavi, named Fotis. Khufir and Fotis spoke quickly, not slowing things down for me as the tupa often did. I recognized a word or two of the Soup-talk, but not enough to follow. Pakren was mentioned; there was much pointing and gesturing, and drawing in the dirt. Fotis examined my face, my build, and my hands. Khufir pointed out features and the two discussed them. I noticed, meanwhile, the okavi rarely blinked, and when they did, it was sideways. Fotis gestured with two hands toward one side, and talked at some length as he did so. He drew lines in the dirt. Was this some mystic ritual designed to “pour out” my pakren?
After a while, Khufir unpacked some goods from one of the packs. It included a small bag of dull grey metal ingots, bottles of yellow, brown, and white powders, and various small electronic doodads—probably salvaged from my augie. There was much discussion between the two as Fotis examined and fidgeted with the items. He set aside some and spoke with Khufir, who closed his hand over them, and moved some around. This went on for some time.
Eventually, some agreement was made, and Fotis scooped up several items, Khufir packing up the rest. We were directed to a building with a large common room with bunk-beds. The tupa and I unpacked and rested. Khufir left with a full backpack, returning an hour or so later. He dumped the pack on a bunk and the contents were not those he had packed earlier. He must have been trading. We ate a small meal on our own and slept the night. A handful of other okavi, a few dressed in the guard jumpsuits, bedded down as well after some brief introductions and apparently idle chitchat.
The next morning we met Fotis and another okavi, introduced as Akikomas, at the front gate. They had with them a very small, two wheeled cart. This the tupa fitted with some blankets and loaded with provision. We all left together. I gathered that my pakren had not yet been “poured out”, since our journey took us further from Ami.
I was more and more puzzled by this mysterious pakren. It was related to hren, was species—specific, could be poured out, and everyone around me seemed to have it, with the possible exception of myself. The shokhung acknowledged its importance, but tupa were particularly passionate about it—especially that mine be poured out, if it existed at all.
As we traveled a narrow dirt trail, Fotis led the way on his six limbs, his firearm slung across his back. Akikomas brought up the rear, walking on four and carrying his gun at the ready. We took only brief pauses to eat, sticking to pre-prepared foods eaten cold or raw
When I slowed (my legs still in pain and my endurance easily exhausted) the load of the cart was shifted to the tupa, and I was directed to sit in the cart on top of the blankets. The ride was uncomfortably bouncy, but the okavi were insistent that we keep moving as much as possible. I asked Shuvo about this, as well as I could. He seemed to understand my question, for his response was something like “They want to go home.” They wanted to this be over. Khufir was fine with the pace, but I knew the tupa preferred a more sedate life. I was with the tupa.
Our journey took us through more woods along trails I could barely discern. Fotis seemed to know his way fairly well. When we came to a branch, he rarely thought long before proceeding, though as we went further, his deliberations grew a little longer.
The okavi posted watch when we slept that night. They were either unfamiliar with the tupa’s keen senses, or not convinced they were enough to keep us safe.
The next day we started early after a short breakfast. I walked when I could, and rode when I needed a break. We traveled through a wooded valley, teaming with the sights and sounds of animal life, along what could barely be called a trail. We crossed a tiny brook at one point, and once on the either side the trail curved sharply enough that I could see that Fotis, as he traveled along on all sixes, was frequently brushing the ground with the fleshy tendrils that framed his mouth. Was he following the trail by touch? Taste?
By mid-afternoon, we came to a small sun-dappled glade, full of feather-ferns, with a small, homey-looking cottage that looked like something right out of ancient rural farm village. A tendril of smoke leaked from a small clay chimney. A small garden beside it boasted several types of vegetables and looked lovingly tended.
Fotis approached the wooden door of the cottage, about six and half foot tall, and knocked. He called out “Ele da sil va! Ele! Chui Fotis tro dagudar” Then he waited. After a moment, the door opened a little inward, but the interior was too dark for me to see what answered it. Fotis spoke a little to the occu
pant and gestured over his shoulder at the rest of us. A startled sounding voice responded “Shi na?”, followed by quietly murmured words between Fotis and the other.
I climbed out of the cart to see better. The silhouette in the doorway was too tall to be a okavi, too narrow and upright to be a shokhung, and far too bipedal to be a tupa. Perhaps I was about to meet a fourth new species.
The occupant took a few steps out of the door and glanced at our company a moment before eyeing me with a look that was both astonishment and displeasure. The expression was obvious to me, because the occupant of the cottage was human.
Chapter 7: The Hermit
He was a shortish man with brown skin and short-cropped hair and beard, both once dark but now mostly grey. He seemed to be in his sixties, and he carried himself upright and his arms were well-muscled and lean. He looked like he hailed from south Asia, perhaps India or nearby. He wore woven knee-length pants, a sleeveless shirt, and shoes like moccasins. He had a wild look in his brown eyes, and he stared at me in undisguised disbelief.
He murmured, “Apani ekhene katadina hayeche,” meaning nothing to me. He turned to Fotis and spoke quietly, gesticulating wildly. He made no move to address me, and seemed none too pleased. I was reeling from the sight of my first human contact in months, and it did not seem to be going in my favor. Soon Khufir and the tupa were in the conversation as well. The man seemed overwhelmed.
As the discussion continued, his demeanor softened. He sighed, shook his head, and nodded his acquiescence to something. The crowd parted and he looked at me.
Shuvo spoke. “Sho chui hwi iashok homi.” (He say you stay here.) What? I was stay here with the stranger?
Shuvo saw my hesitation. “Sho uman na na?” (He human, right?)
“Vom, vom,” I said. (Of course) Shuvo’s cheek fur rippled in a pleased expression.
Diggory's World (Wayworld Book 1) Page 12