Pariah
Page 50
Third Orange now crept through the aquajade and scrub mundo, each step placed warily. His flared collar picked up the morning sounds of chime, of the distant scarlet fliers, and the whisper of breeze in the leaves. Most of all, it absorbed the gentle laughter, the rising and falling of the bipeds’ curious vocalizations. It seemed to be such a limited means of communication.
The alien bipeds amazed Third Orange. Since entering the forest, they’d remained unaware of his presence. Heedless of how close such a large predator could stalk.
It’s so easy. Charge from behind. Snap the jaws shut on one, stun the other with a blow from the tail.
The bipeds had entered the clearing now. This was the place.
Third Orange—flashing all the patterns that insisted he was not a threat—stepped out into the clearing where the yellow girl and Brown Boy had caught a crest in a snare.
“’Bout time you got here,” the golden-haired girl said, turning and staring right at Third Orange. “You following us for a reason?”
Third Orange stopped short, a flash of blue tinged with yellow and black slipping down his hide before he could cover it with a shade of black that betrayed frustration.
Brown Boy watched him with unconcerned eyes, and then went back to removing the crest from the snare.
The yellow-haired youngster stepped forward, apparently unconcerned, and then, to Third Orange’s total surprise, she bowed low, extended her arms, and let out an incomprehensible squawk. Awkward, clumsy, and impossible as it seemed, she was imitating the nonthreatening posture of a young quetzal.
Third Orange couldn’t help the violet, mauve, and orange flash of curiosity.
The yellow-haired girl giggled and cried out, “Way ahead of you.” Then she straightened, walked up to Third Orange, and pointed at her chest. “Kylee.”
She pointed at the Brown Boy who was watching from where he’d finished with the snare. “Tip.”
Third Orange knew the sounds associated with the boy from years of observing the bipeds.
It was impulsive. He flashed his name.
“Orange Three?”
Her vocalizations meant nothing to him. Out of frustration he flashed a momentary black and vented his irritation and confusion. How could she understand him, and he hadn’t a clue of what her uttered noises meant?
“You sound like a flute,” she said. “That’s what we’ll call you.” She pointed at herself again. “Kylee.” Then the brown boy. “Tip.” And at Third Orange. “Flute.”
For once the ancestral memories and knowledge had nothing to offer. Only Fourth Elder, who had once tasted One Quetzal Woman, had been this intimate with one of the bipeds before.
Which was when Kylee stepped right up to Third Orange and said, “Let’s see just who you really are.”
And with that she opened her mouth, her two curious blue eyes challenging and twinkling in the light.
Third Orange’s reaction was instinctive. His tongue shot out, was probing her mouth. The softness of the biped’s tongue and cheeks, and the tiny line of her teeth surprised him. To his amazement her fluids teemed with information.
To absorb it would take time. To understand it, even longer. But to Third Orange’s surprise, he had done the unimaginable. Even more to his amazement, the bipeds were more than just clever animals.
Kylee walked over, took the crest from Brown Boy’s hands, and laid it before Third Orange. He would remember the vocalizations, would eventually know what they meant.
“Only members of a lineage share food. You eat this. And from this moment on, Tip and me, we’re part of your lineage.”
“You sure about this?” Brown Boy—Tip in his own language— asked.
“I’m sure. He won’t be Rocket, but I’m willing to share him. You’ll see. We’ll be great friends. But I got to get back now. Dya’s coming. And I don’t know how I’m going to do this.”
Third Orange watched Kylee and Tip as they vanished down the trail back toward the settlement.
He stared down at the crest, and in one quick gulp, swallowed it.
Even as the flood of quetzal knowledge was absorbed by Third Orange’s brain, the images were stunning. Beyond anything his ancestors or lineage could have expected.
Memories of quetzal and biped. Miraculous visions. Curious new emotions no quetzal had ever experienced.
And there, down deep, much to Third Orange’s horror, he suddenly lived the black darkness of pain, grief, guilt, and an abiding rage.
The question was begged: What kind of terrible creature has come among us?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
W. Michael Gear is the author of fifty-seven published novels, many of which are co-authored with his beloved wife, Kathleen O'Neal Gear. He is a New York Times, USA Today, and international bestselling author whose work has been translated into 29 languages and has over 17 million copies in print worldwide. Both an anthropologist and archaeologist, he brings extraordinary depth and complexity to his characters and settings.
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