“Sho pakren uman,” he said. At that moment, I felt as stupid as I ever had.
Pakren. I even knew the words that made it up. Hren, I had at last learned, applied to sentient creatures: tupa, shokhung, okavi. I even knew the word pak. “Same”. I hadn’t realized it was a compound word. Pakren. Pak hren. Same sentient. That is why tupa had pakren tupa and okavi had pakren okavi.
The tupa had trouble explaining it to me because it was so obvious. They did not understand my confusion. Early in learning the language, I had interpreted pakren as something mysterious and mythical, and that misconception had colored every conversation we’d had about it since.
To the tupa, family and that connection was everything. They never traveled alone. Their distress over my lack of pakren was a deep empathy: a pity for a lost creature alone in an alien world without a similar face or form to comfort and encourage. And they had traveled with me to Augie Field and back, and all the way out here, away from their own pakren, to bring me to mine.
“Pouring out” still eluded me. An idiom, perhaps?
The okavi departed, Fotis walking on all six and pulling their cart. Khufir, Shuvo, and Fervi stayed a bit longer, unpacking provisions and distributing some to me. The hermit looked on impassively. Before they departed, Khufir slapped my shoulders in the shokhung greeting and parting gesture. Shuvo and Fervi placed hands on my shoulder and bumped my chest with their heads. I tried to duplicate it.
Shuvo said, “Diggs asa pakren.” (Diggs has pakren.) He stroked the air in my direction. “Diggs wa Ami. Diggs wa Wuheka”: I was part of their community, and family. I took it to mean I was welcome back there. Without further sentiment, they took their leave, and I was left alone with the hermit. He walked to the cottage and without a word beckoned over his shoulder for me to follow.
“My name is Diggory,” I called after him. “Or Diggs. Diggs is fine.” He glanced at me without speaking. “What should I call you?” His only response was to return inside with a brief beckoning gesture.
The interior of the cottage was cramped, most of the room being taken up by tools, furs, boxes, and a mishmash of things, stuff, and supplies. A small fireplace occupied one corner, and a small wood-framed cot sat along one wall. A bench and stool stood near the fireplace. Bundles of drying herbs hung from the ceiling. Most everything looked handmade. The windows had no covering other than wooden shutters. The hermit rearranged some of his belongings, stacking things to make more space.
“Do you speak English?” I asked.
He shrugged. “English small,” he said. His accent sounded Indian to me.
“Āpa hindī bōlatē haiṁ?” I asked. (Do you speak Hindi?)
He looked at me. “Hmm?” I thought maybe he’d be Indian. Just as well. I barely spoke any Hindi at all.
“Vy govorite po-russki?” (Do you speak Russian?)
He shrugged and shook his head.
“Nǐ huì shuō zhōngguó?” (Do you speak Chinese?) He merely grunted. “Chui Shikachui na?” (Do you speak Soup-talk?)
He grunted again. “Ulan ulan,” he said. (Very little.) Great. Here, at last, was a human, and I could speak better with the aliens than with him. I wondered what he did speak. I asked, in English, “What language do you speak?”
He squinted at me a moment, shrugged, and said “Banla?” He made it sound like a question. It was my turn to shrug. He gestured at my pack, then at a cleared space on the floor.
“Sekhane gumanora,” he said. I placed my pack on the indicated floor space. He said nothing, so I assumed I had followed his instruction. Without another word he exited and walked out to the garden. I followed in haste. He was sorting through some red gourd-like vegetables and selected a few. He plucked handfuls of berries from another plant.
“Can I help?” I asked. He looked up at me. I mimed plucking berries. He pulled a sack from his belt and tossed it to me.
“Nil,” he said, pointing to the bluer fruit on the bushes. “Sobuj na,” he said as he pointed to the greener berries, shaking his head. I watched him a moment to confirm he was picking only blue ones, then proceeded to do so myself. After we had cleaned the bushes of the ripe berries we washed them.
The hermit spoke little, and indeed, hardly looked my way. I wondered if years alone had left him poorly socialized, or had he always been like this? In fact, did he arrive alone at Wayworld, or did he arrive with a group that he later left? Or was he kicked out? If so, why? So many questions.
“What is your name?” I asked slowly. He looked at me, a puzzled expression on his face. “Name? Uh, me Diggs, you…?” No response. “I can’t just call you ‘Hermit’.” An eyebrow perked up. “Umm, vohe vohe na?” I asked in Soup-talk. He thought a second.
“Vohe…” he murmured thoughtfully. “Ah! Hermes!” he said, brightening a little. Hermes? Really? Hermes the Hermit? Priceless.
We worked the garden a while longer, then he brought out bowls for processing food. He produced a bronze knife and began cutting the red flesh of the gourd, as I mashed berries with a wooden mortar and pestle. Then there were hand-size seed-pods to split open, full of legume-like seeds.
The gourds and legumes were cooked as our dinner, the mashed berries left to simmer in an earthenware pot in the fireplace. The red gourds tasted like the vegetables you don’t want to eat as a child. The legumes tasted herby with a hint of citrus. We washed it down with water from jugs. By the time dinner was over, it was getting late. Hermes went about shutting up the cabin windows and door and curled up on his cot. I put down my mat in the clearing he had made on the floor near the bench and slept poorly.
I woke early, the sun lighting up the east, but not yet above the horizon. Hermes was absent. An earthen pot of legumes bubbled on the fireplace. I did not see him around the cottage or in the garden. I ate a little bit of the food from my pack in the growing light, then wandered off into the woods to perform my morning business.
I heard the sound of running water and followed it to find a stream, slightly wider than the one that ran near Augie Field. Perhaps I would be able to earn my keep by fishing. When I returned to the cottage Hermes was eating a breakfast of legume porridge and held out an empty wooden bowl and brass spoon, motioning with his head toward the pot by the fireplace. I joined him and brought out a few boiled eggs I had left over from the trip, offering him one. He nodded his thanks and took the egg. We ate in silence. Afterwards he led me into the garden for some more picking.
Later Hermes took me into the woods. He picked leaves and plants along the way, saying “Eat”, pointing to some others saying “No eat.” We brought back plenty of food: bulbs, fruit, and leaves, which we washed and ate as lunch.
After lunch Hermes took me along trails in the woods where he had set traps for small animals. One had caught a medium-sized hodo he dispatched with a knife. We carried it to the cottage where Hermes skinned it, gesturing for me to watch the process. It brought back memories of my father skinning rabbits. I had skinned animals, but not in a way that would preserve the hides. Hermes’ work took it off in one piece (head and feet excluded). The carcass was cut up and put into a pot with some vegetable to form a stew. Meanwhile, we returned outside to continue cleaning the skin.
In the days that followed, Hermes gave me mostly wordless lessons on building snares, foraging, and preserving the meats and skins. It was a lot to absorb. I would often fish in the morning at the nearby brook, bringing back lousters, fan-finned eels, and assorted fish-like animals.
We harvested a bulb-root from the garden, that when baked, had soft, starchy, yellow flesh that tasted remarkably like potatoes. It was heaven! They could be boiled, fried, baked. And they tasted like potatoes! Well, not exactly. They had a tangy hint behind the sweetness, and a touch of milkiness to the flavor. I asked what they were. Once I had finally made my question clear, he responded “Brai-alu.” Whatever language that was, brai-alu was my new favorite word on Wayworld.
Hermes never tried to engage me in conversation. He would speak a few
words of English or Soup-talk when necessary, and would sometimes speak at greater length in whatever language he spoke, giving me instructions he knew I wouldn’t understand—just thinking out loud, I suppose. Language barrier notwithstanding, he was a good teacher: patient despite his obvious distaste for the job. I didn’t take it personally, assuming he was simply accustomed to the solitary life. Perhaps he had always preferred it. I talked to him to pass the time, but I was really talking to myself. He rarely even looked at me when I was talking.
“Did you come here alone?” I said, then tried to translate it into my broken Soup-talk, which probably came out as “You come one you?” I followed this by an elaborate game of charades to get the idea across. All without success. I used Thashingi’s bottle analogy. A rock. “Hermes.” A bottle. I had it fall to the ground. He nodded. I put other rocks in the bottle and dropped it. He shook his head. “Do you know other humans?” No response. “Bori kuru uman na?” He must have understood, since he shook his head.
It would be up to me to build any communication. Another day I tried to establish time measurements. I drew pictures of a sun in the dirt with a line around a circle to represent the day, which was a lot of work for nothing: he already knew the English word “day”. I drew circles and planets and a sun, trying to establish the word “year”, which he called bachara, but he understood me. I pursued this line further in an attempt to establish how long he had been on Wayworld, but without success.
Hermes rarely made eye contact. He avoided any interaction that wasn’t necessary to teach me something or prepare a meal. I learned that if he wandered off without motioning for me to follow (a frequent event) that I was to leave him alone. If I was absent for any period of time, he showed little recognition of my return. I made him uncomfortable, though I’m not sure why. I wondered about his mental health. I’d heard that long periods of isolation could damage your mind. Hermes didn’t seem dangerous or violent, but he didn’t seem quite right, either. I continued my attempts to communicate. Hermes ignored some of my efforts altogether. Some agitated him, and he’d departed suddenly.
While living amongst the tupa I had taken to wearing my telak tooth on a leather cord like a necklace. Hermes noticed it one day and examined it at length. I said, “Telak. Do you know telak? Bori telak na?” He shook his head. I held up the tooth. “Tupa chui Diggs iorta cha.”
Hermes cocked an eyebrow at me (still not looking me in the eye). “Hermes iorta,” he said. I looked at him, puzzled. He gestured to a pile of animal skins, then to the animal roasting on the fire. “Iorta,” he said. He mimed shooting a bow and arrow. “Iorta.” Iorta meant “hunter”, or something like it. I had already discerned that cha was some sort of superlative. So I was a great hunter? Dad would love the hear that.
Over the next few days, Hermes helped me to fashion a proper bow. It was primitive, but far better made than my own had been. He made the fletching on arrows from leaves. Had Hermes not found feathers on Wayworld, either? I showed no great aptitude for archery, but I was sure that with practice it would make for better hunting than my throwing stick.
Tailoring lessons followed. Using cloth I’d received from tupa and shokhung, Hermes showed me how to fashion a simple sleeveless tunic and breeches. He had metal sewing needles, and a few bone ones. The clothes fit better than my ridiculous kilt and poncho, but wouldn’t be winning any fashion contests on Earth. He examined my boots and apparently decided they were in good enough shape.
Tanning hides, I discovered, was disgusting and stinky. That was the stench we had encountered at Fotis’s home. Perhaps Hermes had supplied Fotis with skins and leather at some point. Maybe he didn’t speak Soup-talk because he spoke the okavi language?
When I received a nasty cut extracting an animal from a trap, Hermes treated it with a poultice of moss and herbs, and my lessons turned to medicinal herbs. He communicated a little more during these lessons, through broken English and Soup-talk, and drawing in dirt or on a slate. The lessons were simple—get cut: use this; get burnt: use that; vomit: use the other.
The weeks were full and I was active: learning, hunting, foraging, gardening, eating, making tools, building. I felt healthier than I had since arriving on Wayworld. The improvements in my diet gave me more strength and energy. I had been distressed to leave the tupa, but now I saw it really was for the best. Hermes had obviously been living on Wayworld a long time, and had learned how to provide food for humans. The others had been restricted to giving me only what they knew just about any species could eat.
I discovered a broken trap on one my rounds. It had been utterly demolished. I took the broken pieces back to Hermes, who looked at them without expression. Then he set out to the place the trap had been, beckoning me to follow. Once there, he examined the area. He pointed out the large section of trampled plants nearby. Something big had come through the area. Whatever it was had found prey in our snare and torn it apart for a meal. Something big and strong was encroaching on our hunting grounds—Hermes’ hunting grounds. (I assumed my living there was temporary.)
Hermes tracked the path of broken and trampled vegetation until it led down to rocky ground near the banks of the stream. I determined not to go fishing for the time being. Then we turned back to the cottage.
We found another demolished trap several days later. Hermes set new traps in the woods on the opposite side of the cottage. Every rustling in the brush alerted me. I longed for the tupa sixth sense. We found the garden raided. Our mystery monster was omnivorous. We’d lost a lost of food. Several times I woke to find Hermes peering out a partially shuttered window, keeping watch, or roused by some noise. By unspoken arrangement, Hermes and I always checked the snares and traps together, and neither left the company of other except to relieve ourselves.
One night a shout from Hermes woke me. I stumbled up from the floor and half-fell outside, to find Hermes chasing after a shadowed entity by the pale light of the lesser moon, swinging his ax. I leapt to my spear and ran after him. Sticks jabbed my bare feet, and I fell to the ground, splitting my lip. I scurried to my feet and kept after Hermes. I caught up to him as he was returning from the edge of the glade, glaring angrily.
“Did you see it?” I asked, breathless. “What was it?”
“Big,” he said.
My world became dominated by the shadow predator, and I suspected that taciturn Hermes felt likewise. The creature now not only had intruded on the hunting trail, but now the garden, and had approached the cottage while we slept. I built snares to place at trailheads leading from the glen to the forest. Hermes nodded approvingly.
One afternoon we returned from chores to find the garden raided again. I checked the snares to find them unperturbed. Hermes and I searched the edge of the clearing but found no evidence of the creature’s entry. The hunting trail around the demolished traps had shown plenty of crushed vegetation. Here our thief was far sneakier. I slept little that night, waking at every noise to peer out a window or the door. The moons were absent most of the night, and I could see nothing. Hermes woke often, as well.
Our lessons abated as we spent a much of our time patrolling the trails for signs of mischief. We still found game in some of the smaller traps, but the larger ones were either emptied or destroyed. We stopped rebuilding the large ones, since it was wasted time. Hermes kept a barely glowing lantern (fashioned from a small tank, presumably salvaged from wreckage) handy at night and took it with him outside to survey the property after dark.
We came across another wrecked trap one morning. A nearby mossy log suddenly jetted off into the woods as we approached. Our thief had a tail! Hermes darted off after it, bow and arrow ready. He stopped, loosed an arrow, then continued his pursuit.
I followed as best I could, but even allowing for his extra thirty or forty years, Hermes was far faster than I. I soon lost sight of him in the ferny underbrush. I followed the sound of crashing branches, and the occasional shout from Hermes. The shouts were becoming more frequent and less dista
nt. I pick up my pace as well as I could, but pinpointing the sound was tricky: the woods echoed and muffled simultaneously.
Then I found them. Hermes was dashing about a small clearing swinging his ax at a shaggy creature, easily twelve feet long and built somewhat like an alligator. Its fur was dark and long; its hairless paws and blunt-snouted face were green. It growled as it lunged at the hermit with snapping jaws. He let the creature charge, than spun out of the way at the last moment like a bullfighter, swinging his ax as it passed. But the furry-gator could turn quickly, and snaked its sinuous form about and snapped again at Hermes’ leg.
I leapt forward, thrusting my spear, but the monster whipped itself around before I could strike. Its tail slapped my shin hard, knocking me off balance. I waved my arms restore my balance as the beast raced toward the hermit again. Now he ran toward a tree, perhaps hoping to climb to safety, but he could not outpace the furrygator.
I tackled the tail, laying hold with both arms. It jerked me violently forward, then turned about to snap at me. I let go and rolled away. I retrieved my spear, and slammed the tip toward the advancing head. It was a glancing blow, but still slowed it momentarily. In an instant, Hermes stood over the furrygator and brought his axe down on its back in a mighty two-handed stroke. The growl became a throaty roar. It twisted about, knocking the axe out of his grasp, knocking him to the ground, and locking its jaws on Hermes’ right calf. He screamed and pounded the monster’s head with his fists.
I stabbed into the creature’s back, inches from the hack mark left by Hermes’ attack. That wound looked deep, but didn’t slow the furrygator. It released Hermes’ leg, only to snap again, biting down on Hermes’ ribs. Again and again I struck with my spear.
Hermes now had a knife in his hand and was slashing at the creature’s face, his own teeth clenched in pain. I landed a straight blow, sinking it between the animal’s ribs and leaned in with all my weight, pushing the spear further into the body of the beast. It growled and roared, thrashing it body about, throwing me loose, but releasing the hermit. It turned to me, but moved slowly and clumsily now, clearly hurting. Blood flowed from multiple gashes and punctures. I held my spear between myself and my antagonist.
Diggory's World (Wayworld Book 1) Page 13