Reap the Wild Wind

by Czerneda, Julie E

  “Cold is.” More real words, this time from the mouth of the stick-stranger. They were oddly slurred, as if its teeth weren’t quite right. “Back go. Back go!”

  It couldn’t mean into the water, Aryl hoped fervently.

  “No.” This from the Om’ray-who-wasn’t. He gestured to Aryl, a beckoning. “Come.” His tone and expression were kind.

  Like the flowers that lured biters close, she decided. The kind that snapped shut to devour their helpless prey. She rose to her feet and edged closer to the shell-stranger. She couldn’t take her eyes from the Om’ray-who-wasn’t. “What are you?”

  The stick-stranger rattled off a stream of angry-sounding syllables. The shell-stranger interrupted with more of the same, much louder and low enough to vibrate through the floor. Aryl quickly stepped away from them both, glancing with dismay at the nearness of the railing and the water beyond. She looked back at the Om’ray-who-wasn’t. “Om’ray,” she stated desperately. She put her hand on her chest as if to reassure herself. “Om’ray.” She thrust a finger at him. “Not.”

  His lips twisted up at one corner. Not quite a smile. “Om’ray, not.” He repeated her gesture, putting his own hand to his chest. “Human, me. Human.”

  Meaningless sounds. She shuddered as much from frustration as chill. Why didn’t they talk in words that made sense?

  He frowned and beckoned again, the gesture indicating she go to the building. The stick-stranger began shouting something incomprehensible, clearly unhappy with this decision. Aryl winced.

  “Responsibility, mine,” the Om’ray-who-wasn’t said firmly. This silenced the other. An inner lid closed over each of its eyes, giving it the look of something dead. As if this expressed some final opinion, the stick-stranger walked away, swaying from side to side like a tree that had forgotten to fall.

  Under any other circumstances, she’d have laughed.

  “Responsibility, yours,” agreed the shell-stranger, but Aryl thought it sounded amused. “Better, how?” it said with a sly swing of several eyes her way.

  “Better?” Belatedly, she realized it was asking her to help it speak. Which was ridiculous, since everyone knew how to talk from the moment they were old enough for their parents to give them words. Still. These obviously weren’t Om’ray. Maybe— Aryl took a wild guess— maybe for some reason they had to learn words, the way she had to learn the Tikitik’s writing. Why was another question. “It’s your responsibility.” This with the barest nod to the one calling himself Human as she said “your.”

  “It’s your responsibility, Marcus!” The shell-creature appeared to delight in adding emphasis to its words. And words of its own.

  Aryl rubbed her bare arms, starting to warm from the sun despite the breeze. Two could play the learning game, she decided. “ ‘Mar-cus?’ ” she echoed, making it a question.

  The Om’ray-who-wasn’t bowed his head to her and touched his finger to a line of small symbols on his shirt, reminding her of the Tikitik when he said, as if reading, “Marcus Bowman. Triad First.” Then he pointed to himself. “Marcus.” Then at her, his eyebrows rising as if in question. “Arylsarc?”

  “Aryl,” she corrected, unsure if she should fear her name in his mouth or not. But it was, she decided, civil behavior. As her mother would say, that was a start. “My name is Aryl.”

  “Welcome, Aryl,” boomed the shell-stranger. It tapped its bulbous head with a claw, producing a dull thud. “My name is Janet Jim-bo Bob. Triad Third.”

  “Your name not,” said Marcus quickly. He was, she noticed with astonishment, blushing. “Mistake was.”

  The shell-stranger patted Marcus on the back with its great claw, making the other stagger. “It’s your responsibility.” Then it gave its booming laugh.

  The two acted like friends, Aryl thought, despite their physical differences. Marcus made a face, just as Costa would have done when teased.

  Marcus wasn’t real, she reminded herself, aghast at how quickly she’d begun to ignore her inner sense.

  “My name is Janex Jymbobobii, Aryl.” This with another tap of claw to shell. “Janex.”

  They both seemed to be waiting for something. All she could think of was to copy Marcus’ bow and repeat their short names. “Marcus. Janex.” How peculiar, to move her lips around totally new words. She tried another. “Human. Both?” she asked, pointing to each.

  “Human, yes,” agreed Marcus, seeming pleased, then nodded at Janex. “Human, not. Carasian. Om’ray, you?”

  Aryl sagged with relief. Despite the awkward phrasing, the meaning was clear. She couldn’t sense this Marcus as an Om’ray because he wasn’t one. He was this “Human”— some other creature altogether. There were many mimics in the canopy; some so perfect only a knife could tell them apart. Perhaps, she told herself gleefully, his blood was blue instead of red.

  All she had to do was keep reminding herself he wasn’t what he appeared to be.

  “Aryl. Come, please. Cold, not.”

  The unexpected courtesy surprised her almost as much as Marcus’ worried frown. She took a step forward, a gesture he understood, for it brought a quick smile and wave toward the building.

  Aryl walked between the two of them, the Carasian doing an excellent job of blocking what wind rose from the lake. It moved quietly on what looked more like balls than feet. When Janex noticed her interest, it paused and leaned to afford her a better view. “Rocks, good,” it informed her.

  She eyed its bulk, amazed it had managed to walk along the nekis branch.

  Did they recognize her? Could they?

  Aryl wondered about this only until they reached the door, which was like no door she’d ever seen. There was no spindle on which it could turn open, nor handle to grasp. She looked at Marcus questioningly and he indicated a light green square of metal on the wall. He laid his palm against it.

  The door moved itself out of the way.

  Startled, Aryl stepped back. As quickly she moved forward again, her hands exploring the exposed doorframe. The door hadn’t disappeared. It had gone inside the hollow wall.

  She flushed, angry with herself. Of course the strangers had unfamiliar technology. That was why she was here— to confirm whether they’d sent the device to disrupt the Harvest. The Tikitik were waiting for the answer.

  Her hosts didn’t appear in a hurry to deliver her back to them.

  Hopefully Thought Traveler would wait, she told herself, stepping through the strangers’ door.

  * * *

  “You’re not touching me.” Aryl kept her back to the wall as she glared at the stick-stranger.

  “Safe are!”

  She eyed the object in its twiggy hands— an object it had tried to press against her bare skin without permission— and shook her head. Hair tumbled into her eyes. She was a mess. And cold. And hungry.

  And this thing persistently got in her way. If she wasn’t afraid it would snap in two, she’d push past it and out of this odd little room where they’d left her. “Stay away from me,” she ordered.

  A stream of incensed babble issued from its lips. It tossed the object on the smooth white table that was the room’s only furnishing where it lay, blinking like a glow about to fail.

  She smiled in triumph. “I’m glad we understand one another.”

  “Aryl?” The Human, Marcus, stood in the doorway, one hand on the frame. After a look, he said some of their words to the stick-stranger, who answered with more of the same in a surly tone, giving an unmistakable glare at her in the midst of it.

  “Om’ray don’t touch one another without permission,” she said, knowing it wasn’t being fair. She waved at the object. “What is that anyway?”

  The Human eased to one side to let the stick-stranger leave, which it did with relieved speed. He came into the room and picked up the object.

  “No, you don’t,” Aryl said, ready to defend herself. But all he did was hold it out to her. When she reluctantly took it from him, he pushed up one sleeve and offered his arm.

/>   The object seemed harmless. There was no sharp edge to any of its flat sides, merely a play of rather lovely lights over one surface, the other— she turned it over— being featureless and polished. “Try,” Marcus said, standing quite still.

  Aryl brushed hair from her eyes, then used both hands to hold the object. She approached the Human as the stick-stranger had tried to approach her, stopping short of touching him.

  “Try,” he urged. “Safe, is.”

  What was he? This close, she wasn’t sure anymore. Aryl stared into eyes that lied with their familiarity, her nostrils flaring at a faint, not unpleasant new scent. She could feel the warmth of his body across the small distance between them. Not that she was wearing much.

  She watched with interest as he swallowed once, then again, color blooming on his cheeks. “Bioscanner,” Marcus said in an odd voice. “Try.”

  Of course. The object. She looked down at the smooth underside of his forearm. It was soft and rounded, like the palm of his hand. The Human, she realized with an inner shock, had probably never climbed a rope or stalk. Did he rely on machines for everything? She put her arm next to his. Muscle and veins wove like cords from wrist to elbow; over that, her tanned skin was patterned in white scars. Cuts, the deeper attentions of biters, nothing much of note.

  She wasn’t the only one comparing. “Strong are,” Marcus observed, his other hand reaching as if to touch her.

  Aryl jerked her arm away. “I’m Yena Om’ray,” she said proudly. “We don’t fall.”

  “Fall?” He frowned. “Means what?”

  To distract him, she took the object— the “bioscanner”— and put it on his arm.

  Two things happened.

  The first was that the lights changed position and became a flock of moving symbols. She was almost fascinated enough to miss the second.

  Almost.

  The second was that she inadvertently touched the side of her smallest finger to his skin. And through that tiny touch, slowly, then more quickly, she could see.

  His mind was real.

  Though the Human was not Om’ray to her inner sense, with contact she could hear incomprehensible words she somehow recognized as his thoughts. Nothing was shielded. Should she wish, Aryl realized, she could explore every level of his mind. Were she Adept, she might even understand what she found. Still, she tried, using her sense to chase tantalizing images. Memories. Vast dark spaces. Depths. Confusing mosaics of light and shapes. Places. Other beings.

  Emotions. Goodwill. Curiosity. Admiration. A growing discomfort— not pain yet, but its precursor. Her presence in his mind wasn’t sensed, but it was felt.

  Aryl pulled her inner self back. At the same time, she lifted her hand from his arm and gave the Human a real smile. “Bioscanner,” she repeated carefully, pretending to examine the symbols before passing it to him. “What does it do?”

  “Do?” Marcus repeated. He appeared to search for words, then nodded as if to himself. “Sick. Sick not. Food best. Food not. Bioscanner, all.”

  A device to detect what food her body should have? If she was ill? Aryl looked at the small thing incredulously. How could it do that? She thrust out her arm, eager now to see it work.

  Marcus applied it. All she felt was the coolness of metal, quickly warmed by her flesh. His fingertips brushed her skin, but she restrained her curiosity. He meant no harm toward her— she owed him the same.

  The device blinked and produced symbols that looked, to Aryl’s disappointed judgment, to be exactly the same. But the Human made a pleased sound and tucked the device into a fold in his shirt. “Aryl good.”

  She laughed. It sounded like something a young child would say, though this was no such simple being. “Thank you.” She made the gesture of gratitude. He seemed to know it was important, and copied the movements of her hands. “Good,” she said, then got straight to what mattered.

  “What do you eat?”

  * * *

  “Good?”

  The scrutiny of those dancing black eyes was hard to ignore, but Aryl had done her best. The Carasian, Janex, was apparently fascinated with her. Or her eating habits, Aryl thought.

  “Good,” she agreed, though most of their food was bland by her standards. There was a dark, hot drink she liked, bold and bitter, as well as a tangy green froth within a bowl, though Janex had removed a bright red swirl from the top before handing it to Aryl. There was no dresel, nor did they appear to understand the word. If this food didn’t supply its equivalent to her body, she’d have to return home before too many days passed and she weakened.

  Aryl wasn’t in a hurry. The marvels of this place multiplied by the moment. After the bioscanner had been a very small room, no larger than her outstretched arms, called a fresher. She’d stood inside and first been sprayed with warm, fragrant foam that had tingled over her skin and through her hair. Then, a wind, warm and soft, blew the foam away, leaving her clean and as refreshed as if she’d slept. The rest of the facilities were disappointingly normal— she supposed sinks and toilets had practical limitations— though she couldn’t tell where water or wastes went.

  There had been clothes as well. She was now dressed like Marcus or the stick-stranger, though she’d doubted the pants at first. Once on, they’d proved softer and more comfortable than they looked. With luck, the garments would last until she was home. Yena weavers would be fascinated.

  Now this, an eating place with a window like those in the Cloisters, fitted with something hard and clear. Beams of sunlight passed easily, patterning the otherwise plain white floor with shadows. Through it, Aryl could see the glittering expanse of the Lake of Fire. No mysterious smoke now. Only hard reflection, hiding what might lie beneath. It filled the view, as if there was no other landscape in the world.

  She sat with her back to it at one of four round tables, on a comfortable-enough chair. The stick-stranger had its own, the seat designed for the challenge of its posterior, not hers. Food came on trays from a slot in an otherwise ordinary wall. She’d wanted to look though that, but the Carasian had been too quick to remove her tray and bring it to the table for her.

  The Carasian’s own repast had consisted of a bowl of the dark drink, consumed tidily, if noisily, by pouring large amounts into a cavity in its claw, then lifting that to a space between its eyes. The ensuing slurp made her smile.

  Aryl tucked her hair behind one ear— again. She’d been unable to explain the need for a hairnet and consoled herself that no one here knew about such necessities.

  “Better?”

  Janex was unrelenting in its efforts to improve. Aryl found it frustrating. The shell-stranger had an ample store of real words. Putting them together in a sane order— that was the problem. At least it learned quickly.

  “Your food,” she said carefully, using the utensil they’d given her as a pointer, “is good. Thank you.”

  “ ‘Your food is good.’ ”

  That wasn’t right. Aryl frowned in thought. “I say that,” she clarified, indicating herself. “You say: Our food is good.”

  Janex gave that booming laugh. “Our food is bad.”

  Making perfect sense. Aryl grinned and lifted her cup gesturing to Janex’s empty bowl. “Not all of it. I like this.”

  “Sombay. Our sombay is good, yes. Better is?”

  “Is this better?” she corrected, though suspicious she was being teased. “Yes, that’s better. You’re good with real words.”

  “Real.” The eyes settled, every one looking at her. The Carasian said, “Is this real?” and uttered a few of those incomprehensible sounds.

  Aryl shook her head. “No. These are real words.” She touched her own mouth, then gestured to the other. “Those are not real.”

  A moment of silence, then, “Your words, real you. Our words, real us.” This last with a sweep of a claw around the room. “All words, real both. Words,” a shrug that rattled its tools, “new. New words is good— are good. Is this better?”

  Aryl found herself on her
feet. Janex remained still, as if not to alarm her further. “Everyone uses the same words,” she insisted. “Everyone in the world speaks the same. Om’ray, Tikitik, Oud.”

  “Oud words, us,” Janex offered promptly, in a pleased tone. “Teach all. Expert, I. Aryl is Om’ray. Oud words, different pattern. Om’ray complex. More meaning. Good.”

  Strangers, the Tikitik called them. How strange, she hadn’t fully appreciated until this moment. Their food threatened to leave her stomach, and Aryl closed her mouth tightly, breathing through her nose.