Foreigner

  Morb made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Nonsense!” he shouted up from the waves. “You have been out to visit us. It is time we did the same!”

  Morb’s boat was bobbing on the waves alongside one of the Dasheter’s own shore boats; they’d been used for fishing while the Dasheter waited for Toroca. Morb had his hands on the rope ladder used to access these boats, a ladder that led up to the Dasheter’s foredeck.

  “It is not safe!” shouted Toroca.

  Morb’s tone was a bit sharper. “It is wrong for you to know all about us with us knowing almost nothing about you. I am coming aboard!” The Other began climbing. Toroca was near panic. In desperation, he brought his jaws down on the rope ends that tied the ladder to the gunwale. The rope was tougher than he’d expected. Some of his looser teeth popped out. He smashed his jaws together again, and this time did sever one of the two heavy lines. But Morb was already most of the way to the top.

  Suddenly a green arm shot out from the Dasheter’s side, gripping Morb’s ankle. Toroca leaned over the gunwale and saw an open porthole on the deck immediately below. Someone had been watching through a window, had seen this Other as he passed by.

  Morb twisted as the ladder, anchored now by only a single rope, swung madly to the left. He smashed his other foot down on the arm grabbing his ankle. Whoever was holding on screamed and let go. Morb took hold of the Dasheter’s gunwale just as Toroca brought his jaws together on the remaining rope anchoring the ladder. As before, two massive bites would be needed to sever the braided cord, but before Toroca could get his second bite in, Morb had hauled himself over the railing and was standing on the deck of the Dasheter.

  Suddenly old Biltog appeared at the top of the ramp, his right arm bloodied and hanging limply at his side, but the rest of his body moving up and down, up and down, bobbing in full dagamant.

  Toroca shouted, “Into the water, Morb! For your own safety, jump into the water.”

  Morb stared at Biltog for a moment, the murderous fury in the old sailor’s expression obvious to Toroca but apparently less clear to the Other. “What is wrong?” asked Morb.

  Toroca caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Something had sailed over the rear hull of the Dasheter. Ropes, metal hooks. The Others in the second boat had brought their own climbing equipment. Their ropes were pulled tight, and the hooks caught in the railing around the ship’s edge.

  What to do? Push Morb over the side? Try to draw Biltog’s attention away from the Other? Or run to the rear of the Dasheter and try to dislodge the Others’ rope ladder before more boarded the ship?

  And then, all at once—

  Biltog charged—

  Morb ran across the deck—

  An Other appeared at the top of the ladder on the Dasheter’s rear hull—

  And one more Other appeared at the top of the rope ladder adjacent to Toroca, anchored at only one side, half-severed but still holding.

  Captain Keenir emerged at the mouth of another access ramp—too proud, too stubborn, too foolish to not try to intervene in what was happening…

  Biltog intercepted Morb, leaping through the air, jaws split wide, landing on the Other’s back, the two of them smashing into the deck hard enough to rock the ship, Biltog’s jaws tearing into the Other’s spinal cord…

  Keenir caught sight of the Other at the top of the ladder near Toroca. The Other’s face was wide with terror and he quickly reversed himself, scrambling over the gunwale and grabbing at the damaged rope ladder. Keenir’s footfalls echoed like thunder. “Captain, no!” shouted Toroca, but Keenir was too deep in the bloodlust to heed any words.

  The Other on the rope ladder was having a hard time getting down. The rope twisted and—

  It snapped!

  The Other and the rope ladder went crashing toward the waves.

  Keenir, not to be deterred, leapt over the railing, diving down toward the water.

  The Other below was flailing about, trying to make it to the orange boat.

  Keenir sliced into the water. Toroca, gripping the railing, hoped that the impact would be enough to break the old mariner out of dagamant, but soon he was on the surface again, his muscular tail propelling him through the waves. Within moments he was upon the swimming Other, jaws digging into the Other’s neck, tearing it open. The water turned red.

  Toroca pivoted and saw Biltog, his muzzle covered in blood, still bobbing up and down. The sailor began running toward Toroca, toeclaws splintering the wooden deck.

  Biltog was substantially older than Toroca, much too strong for Toroca to fight. Toroca looked left and right, but he was trapped against the railing; Biltog could alter his course to intercept him no matter which way he decided to run. But suddenly Biltog was airborne, a giant leap pushing him up off the deck. It turned out that he wasn’t after Toroca, but rather had decided to join his captain. Biltog sailed over the edge of the ship, his red cap flying off, the tip of his tail slapping into Toroca’s head as it passed him. Toroca swung around. Biltog was in the water now, swimming toward the orange boat, which was trying to escape, the three remaining Others aboard it rowing with all their might.

  Biltog chomped through an oar and then, grabbing the little boat’s side and pulling hard, he capsized the ship, tossing its occupants into the water.

  Suddenly a large red stain began spreading across the waves. Keenir was out of sight; he must have come up on one of the Others from underneath, jaws tearing into its body. Biltog had another’s tail in his mouth. His jaws worked, muscles bulging, and the tail sheared off.

  Pounding on the deck behind him.

  Toroca swung around—

  A ball of limbs and tails, some green, some yellow, locked in mortal combat. More Quintaglios had come up from below.

  Toroca watched, helpless to intervene. Sounds of splitting bone and smashing teeth filled the air, punctuated by screams from both Others and Quintaglios.

  He thought again of the story of the Galadoreter, blown aimlessly by the wind, its decks covered with the dead…

  “Toroca!”

  Deep, gravelly—Keenir’s voice, from over the side. Toroca looked over the edge. “Are you all right, Captain?”

  Keenir was moving up and down, but with the bobbing of the waves, not in territorial display. “They’re all dead down here,” he called, his tone aghast.

  Biltog was floating next to him in the red water. And next to the two of them, five yellow carcasses bobbed up and down, in death returning the challenge.

  “Stay down there!” Toroca shouted. “It’ll be safer!”

  Behind him, the battle raged on, the planks of the deck slick with blood.

  Looking over the gunwale, Toroca saw the second orange boat, off in the distance. Only two of its crew were still aboard, but they were already a good part of the way back to their island, where doubtless they’d report that their eight comrades had been torn limb from limb by the strange green visitors.

  Toroca wondered if the Others had a word for war.

  Chapter 14

  An endless beach of sand, spreading to every horizon. No waves were visible, but their pounding against the shore formed a constant background, a steady, rhythmic pulse like the beating of many hearts.

  Lying on the sand were several large broken eggshells. Each egg had opened and was cracked roughly in half. The halves were all sitting in the sand, rounded ends down, like beige bowls. Afsan walked over to the nearest shell half and looked inside. The edge was clearly visible, with a fringe of shell fragments still adhering to a tough white membrane. He couldn’t quite make out what was inside, though. He tipped forward from the waist, his tail lifting from the ground, and picked up the egg, cradling it in both hands. It was surprisingly heavy.

  He tipped back, letting his weight rest on his tail, and looked down into the egg.

  It was full of thick, dark liquid, bowing upward slightly into a meniscus. He rocked the egg gently back and forth, watching the liquid move inside the shell.

  And
then it hit him.

  Blood.

  The liquid was blood.

  Afsan’s claws leapt out in alarm, piercing the eggshell in ten places.

  Blood flowed onto Afsan’s hands.

  He should have thrown the shell aside, but somehow he couldn’t, not until the dark red liquid had completely drained through the holes. He felt it begin to crust along the edges of his fingers, along the backs of his hands.

  At last the egg was empty. He put the fragment back down on the sand.

  He knew he shouldn’t look, but he had to. He moved a few paces over, found the next egg half, prodded it with his middle toeclaw. The egg tipped over, blood pouring out onto the ground.

  Afsan’s heart was racing. He hurried over to another bowl-shaped egg half. It, too, was filled with crimson blood. He ran across the sands to a fourth egg-bowl. This one was so full that the vibrations caused by Afsan’s movement made blood slosh over the ragged edges.

  Afsan spun around, terrified, and in so doing, his tail swept through a large arc, knocking over a trio of blood-filled eggshells, the dark fluid soaking the sands.

  Everywhere he looked there were eggshells filled with blood sticking out of the sand, balanced precariously on their rounded ends. Afsan spun around again, his tail knocking over more of the shells, more blood pouring out.

  The beach beneath him was saturated now. As he moved, his toeclaws sucked out of the wet sand, sounding like a dying gasp or like meat sliding down a gullet. Another step, another gasp.

  Blood was pouring in from everywhere now. The upended eggshells had become bottomless cups, an endless torrent of red liquid flowing out of them onto the sands, sands that were rapidly turning into a bloody quicksand. Afsan tried to run, tried to get away, but with each step his body sank deeper and deeper into the sodden ground. Soon only his head and neck were above the surface, and then just his head, his long green jaw resting briefly on the sand.

  Overhead, a giant wingfinger circled, its vast purple wings swirling about its body.

  As he slipped below the surface, his last sight, brought to eye level as he continued to descend, was the broken eggshells, now empty, lying on their sides, scattered across the surface of the bloodied sands.

  Afsan was growing progressively more annoyed with Mokleb. “Why don’t you say something?” he snapped.

  “What would you like me to say?” said Mokleb her voice calm, reasonable.

  “Anything. That you’re happy with my progress. That you’re unhappy with my progress. Anything at all.”

  “I don’t pass judgments,” said Mokleb gently.

  “Oh, yes you do,” Afsan said with a sneer. “You sit there day in and day out, and you judge me. You hear the intimate details of my life, and you judge them. I used to like you, Mokleb but I’m getting sick of you. Sick to death.”

  Silence.

  “No response, Mokleb? Surely that merits a reply.”

  “Why is it important that I reply to you?”

  Afsan’s tone was quarrelsome. “It’s just good manners that’s all.”

  “I see.”

  “‘I see,’” said Afsan, mocking. “‘I see.’ God, I’m getting tired of these sessions.”

  “I’ve never heard you so angry before, Afsan.”

  “Yeah? Well, things are changing, Mokleb. I’ve been going easy on you, but from now on, you’re going to hear exactly what I think.”

  Mokleb reached for a fresh pot of ink.

  Fra’toolar’s sky was leaden. It had been threatening to storm all day, but so far the clouds hadn’t given up their burden. When the sky was overcast like this, the material of the tower looked more gray than blue, the ladders like a column of vertebrae, the backbone of some giant creature that had come and gone before the Quintaglio race was born.

  “I’m going to go up the tower,” said Novato. “I’m going to get in one of those lifeboats and ride up.”

  Garios’s tail swished. “That could be dangerous,” he said. “It’s—you know the old children’s story from Mar’toolar? Rewdan and the Vine. It’s just like that. The little boy, Rewdan, gets some magic seeds and plants them in the ground. A vine grows from them, and it keeps growing and growing and growing, up and up into the sky.”

  “A child’s story,” said Novato. She waved her hand dismissively.

  Garios pressed on. “And do you remember what happens? Rewdan climbs the vine, up into the clouds. And there he’s confronted by the most gigantic blackdeath anyone has ever seen all fangs and rotten-smelling breath.”

  Novato clicked her teeth. “He also finds the wingfinger that lays eggs of gold, no? Maybe there is a giant beast up at the top, but if we’re to save our people we need the golden eggs—the knowledge that perhaps is waiting for us up there.”

  “I—I worry about you,” said Garios.

  “Thank you. But, as you know, we’ve tried putting cages containing lizards in the lifeboats, and they came back safe. Now we need to send somebody up who can come back down and describe what’s at the top.”

  “Very well,” said Garios, his close-together eyes seeking out Novato’s. “I will concede territory on the necessity of the trip. But should you be the one to go? You’re very important to the exodus.”

  “I am, in fact, in charge of the exodus, Garios. And that gives me no choice. I can’t order someone to do something I would not do myself.”

  Garios considered. Then: “I want to go with you.”

  Novato shook her head. “You can’t. No one can. We’d kill each other in there.”

  “But maybe with the see-though hull, maybe the territorial instinct wouldn’t kick in. If we kept our backs to each other…”

  “I’d still know you were there, Garios. I’d be able to smell your pheromones, just as you could smell mine.”

  “But we’ve seen how air is somehow recirculated through the lifeboat—the gentle breeze that comes through the vents in its walls. Maybe our pheromones would be washed away.”

  “I doubt it, and even if they were, it’s just too small a space. The round trip takes twenty days, Garios. Oh, the things you mention might let us survive together for a few days, but not for twenty. Long before then just the sound of your breathing would be enough to put me in dagamant—and vice versa, of course.”

  Garios looked like he was going to make another objection, but apparently thought better of it. “Very well,” he said at last. “But—”

  “Yes?” said Novato.

  Garios dipped his long muzzle, looking at the ground. “Come back, Novato,” he said. “Be safe, and come back to us.” A pause, then he lifted his muzzle. “To me.”

  Novato turned away. “Help me start gathering supplies,” she said.

  Chapter 15

  Nav-Mokleb’s Casebook

  Afsan is proving to be quite a challenge. His mind is remarkable, but instead of his bad dreams abating as he undertakes the talking cure, he tells me they are getting worse. The dreams he describes are horrifying, full of blood and death, and yet they seem unrelated to each other, with no common theme. The only element that has repeated itself is an image of a wingfinger with purple wings flying above the scene. Offhand, I don’t know of any species of wingfinger that has purple wings, but I’ll research the matter as soon as I get some time.

  I got another letter today from Anakod, who is apparently vacationing on Boodskar. He’s pooh-poohing my theories again. Dreams have no meaning, he says, dismissing them as just random activity by a tired mind. Anakod is a fool; he’d seemed so promising as a student, but his rejection of my research shows him to be even blinder than Afsan. I’m sure I’ll be able to interpret Afsan’s dreams, if only I can decipher his symbolism.

  On another point, I’ve noticed an interesting effect lately. I’ve seen hints of it before in my dealings with other patients, but here it’s clear-cut: Afsan has been responding to me not as Mokleb, but as he used to respond to, or used to want to respond to, his old teaching master, Saleed. It’s as if he’s transferr
ed his feelings for Saleed onto me.

  I’m going to try something different, something I’ve always avoided, in our next session. If his repressed feelings toward Saleed are so strong, I have a hunch that there’s someone else for whom his feelings may be even stronger.

  Mokleb found a different rock for herself this time. Instead of straddling a boulder downwind of Afsan, she chose one upwind of him.

  “You’ve changed positions,” said Afsan abruptly.

  “Think nothing of it,” said Mokleb. “It’s of no importance.”

  “I thought everything was important,” said Afsan. More and more lately, he’d been starting their sessions in a snit, no doubt aggravated by his ongoing sleeping difficulties. “Time and again you’ve stressed that every action is significant.”

  Mokleb ignored that. “I want to talk today about one of the relationships in your life that we haven’t explored so far.”

  Afsan sighed. “Well, there is a fellow up in Chu’toolar who once helped me across a street. We haven’t beaten to death all the ins and outs of that relationship yet.”

  “I was thinking of someone closer to home,” said Mokleb patiently. “I was thinking of Novato.”

  “What about her?” said Afsan, suspicious.

  “Well, she has filled many different roles in your life. It was with her that you worked out the fact that the world was doomed.”

  “Yes.”

  “And she is the mother of your children.”

  “Biologically, the mother. Biologically, my children. Of course, all children are the children of the Pack.”

  “Of course,” said Mokleb. “Of course. Tell me about your relationship with Novato.”

  “We see each other frequently, perhaps every fifty days or so, when she’s not off working at the ark in Fra’toolar. I cherish the time we spend together.” Afsan lifted his muzzle. “Are there no clouds today? It’s awfully warm.”

  “There are some clouds,” said Mokleb. “There are almost always clouds.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Are there clouds in your relationship with Novato?”