Books of Barakhai - The Beasts of BarakhaiThe horse made a sound deep in its throat but otherwise seemed to take no notice of the rudely fashioned tack. As panic receded, Collins considered his situation. He rode on a horse that might, at other times, be human, possibly even Falima. The animals he had thus far seen acted exactly like the creatures they resembled in his own world, except for the too-friendly rabbit. Joetha, he corrected, cringing. Apparently, while in "switch-form," they lost their human memories and fully became animals.
He wondered if all humans here had an animal-form, whether he might acquire one if he remained here too long, and how much control they had over the change.
Collins steered the buckskin around a thick, low-hanging branch. It ignored his gentle pull, so he increased the pressure, then drove his opposite heel into its flank.
The ears jerked backward. The horse reared with a sharp squeal, then followed Collins' instruction.
The horse's reaction flashed guilt through him. Perhaps the horse did retain at least some of its human understanding. Suddenly he remembered the dogs' unwillingness to share his feast in the field. They must have some crossover between human and animal time. Otherwise, the dogs would never know they could not eat meat.
Collins had acted from impulse, accustomed to steering horses with reins and heel strikes. The horses back home had always taken these techniques in stride, a standard and accepted form of communication.
Apparently, people here had a different way of making contact with their horses. He had tried talking to the rabbit and had received no response or indication that it understood. In the field, the guards had used a rope on Falima's horse-form, so she had to have some experience with being led. Nevertheless, he resolved not to kick her any more.
Something buzzed past Collins' head again. This time, he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a large b.u.mblebee or horsefly zipping past him. Human, too? he wondered, then dismissed the thought.
No world could support even a hundredth as many people as bugs.
Collins turned his attention back to the horse. "h.e.l.lo," he tried. "Are you Falima?"
The animal gave no indication it understood, though one ear did rise from its previous position, plastered angrily against its head.
The ride continued for hours, the horse ignoring every attempt by Collins to end it. Pulling back on the rope only made it raise and shake its head. Verbal explanations and, later, exhortations were met with nothing more than a few flicks of its ears. When he tensed to leap from its back, it quickened its pace dangerously, tossing him back into his seat. Eventually, Collins gave up, settling into the most comfortable position his sore thighs could find, flicking off the rope, and allowing the animal to take him where it would.
Finally, deep in some clearly unexplored part of the forest, the horse stopped. It dropped its head to graze at weeds poking around deadfalls and fallen clumps of leaves, then shook its entire body. The sudden movement caught Collins off guard; a grab at the flying mane barely rescued him from a fall. He slid down the horse's side, dislodging the saddlebags and clinging only by his hands. Mane hairs bit intohis fingers.
The horse responded with an abrupt toss of its head that tore his grip free, as well as several strands from its mane. Collins dropped to the ground, rolling, hands protecting his head from a chance movement of the animal's hooves. It placidly returned to grazing, paying him no attention at all. The saddlebags lay on the ground.
Carefully, gaze fixed on the animal, Collins eased the saddlebags to him. Made of some natural fiber, the saddlebags yielded easily to his grip, much lighter and flimsier than the leather bags he had used in high school. Its well-crafted shape and metal weights sewn into the central areas kept it in place despite the lack of a pommel. He unlatched one of the two buckles and peered at a bulge of fabric. Hoping for something to replace the sweatshirt he had left to block the door crack in Daubert Labs, he pulled free several pieces. He unfolded a brown dress wrapped around a braided rope halter and lead, followed by a royal blue tunic that looked child-sized. Three knives thumped to the dirt, then a canteen and a stoppered crock. He worked the stopper free and peered inside, discovering a moving ma.s.s of what appeared to be enormous bugs. Startled, he dropped the crock. Three black beetles rolled to the ground, bearing a striking resemblance to the round objects he had seen on his salad in the prison cell.
One opened its wings, then lifted soundlessly from the ground. The other two followed a moment later, and Collins recorked the crockery.
Collins discovered several more articles of clothing, in varying sizes, including a green tunic and cloak as well as a pair of brown britches that looked as if they might fit him. He pulled the tunic over his head, leaving the lacings undone. It felt odd, the fabric rough against his chest; and it was strangely tight in some places and loose in others. At least it kept him warm. The other pack contained more clothing, another canteen, a parcel of white paste resembling Play Doh, his cell phone and watch, and three pairs of wood-and-rope sandals. He also found a few hard rolls, wrinkled apples, and a wrapped packet of something that looked and smelled like the curds he had tasted on a field trip to the cheese factory in sixth grade.
Collins clipped his cell phone in place and stretched his watch back onto his wrist. It read six o'clock, which was clearly wrong. The sun lay directly overhead. He reset it for noon. Then, needing to relieve himself, he struggled into the weeds. Even as he walked, he realized the ludicrousness of his action. It hardly mattered where he chose to urinate in the depths of a forest. Only the horse would see him, yet he felt odd doing it in front of her, in case she was an intelligent alter ego of Falima. He walked just out of sight to perform his business, then studied the scene around him.
Trees and brush stretched in every direction as far as Collins could see. The intertwined branches emitted sunlight in patches, checkering the forest floor in patterns of gray and gold. In this area, oaks grew predominantly, their distinctive serrated leaves closely resembling the ones in Collins' world. Deep layers of rotting brown leaves lay like foam beneath his feet. He took a long breath of air, savoring the clean dampness. A whiff of smoke entered with it, and he froze. He was an escaped murderer now; he had to a.s.sume he'd be pursued.
Whirling, Collins ran back to the horse. A root hooked his foot, sending him sprawling. He skidded through leaf mold and muck, coming to a stop near the saddlebags. Beyond the horse, a campfire burned a cheery, crackling dance. In front of it sat a middle-aged man with skin like milk. From beneath a broad-brimmed hat, white-blond hair fell to his shoulders; and his eyebrows and lashes became invisible in the sunlight. He wore black linens that resembled some of the clothing from the saddlebags. Collins stared, reviving his genetics lessons. Albinism accompanied certain syndromes, including some that dangerously weakened the immune system. But, he recalled, most albinos simply inherited a recessive gene from both parents that left them without melanin.
Shocked by the thought, Collins pushed it from his mind. He could not understand why he remained so calm when, likely, the other was hunting him. Caught, he would certainly be executed immediately. He whirled to run.
"Come!" the albino said in English. "No run." He repeated, more emphatically. "No run."
Curiosity warred with common sense. Collins turned carefully. "You speak English?"
"Little," the man responded. "No hurt." He rose and gestured toward the fire, seeming frustrated withhis own limited ability to communicate. "Help you. Bringed here." He shook his head in irritation. "Come."
Still uncertain, Collins took a step toward the other man. A crock rested in the center of the fire, bubbling lazily.
"Me . . . Zylas," the albino said, looking up. Pale blue eyes met Collins' brown ones. "Zylas." He pointed at himself. "Understand?"
Collins nodded vigorously. Then, realizing the action might not mean the same thing here, verbalized his answer. "Understand. I'm Ben. Benton Collins, actually; but you can call me Ben." The horse moved nearer the fire and whinnied.
Zylas reached up and patted it rea.s.suringly.
"Is that..." Collins started, wondering if the question might be improper. "Is that Falima's switch-form?"
"Falima." Zylas patted the horse again. "Yes, Falima."
Collins made an intuitive leap. "And you're . . . you're that rat." Hoping he had not offended the man, he softened the question. "Or aren't you?"
"Rat, yes," Zylas returned. "Me rat." His pidgin English clashed with Falima's fluency. Collins found himself wishing for her human form, even if she did seem to intensely dislike him.
"Did you . . . rescue me?"
Zylas nodded, glancing at the cooking food. "Chew rope off neck. Chew rope off hand." He stirred the contents of the crock with a stick. "Falima catched."
"Yes." Collins glided nearer. "Falima caught me. Thanks.
Thank you. Both of you." He reached out to pet Falima, but her ears jerked flat to her head, and it seemed safer to remove his hand. "I don't think she likes me."
Zylas grinned. "She'll . . . come around."
It sounded funny to hear someone who barely knew the language using idioms. Collins guessed Zylas had learned English by example rather than textbooks. "I-I truly didn't know about the animal . . .
transformation thing. Honest. I would never have eaten-"
Zylas waved Collins silent. "I know. Haven't talked into Falima . . . yet. I been there." He made a throwaway gesture. "She no been."
Collins filled in the missing words. "You've been to my world."
"Yes." Zylas wrinkled his nose.
Hope soared, and Collins smiled. "So you can get me home from here."
A light flickered in Zylas' soft eyes, and he shrugged. "Try."
"All right," Collins said carefully. "Try." He reminded Zylas of the obvious, "Because, if you don't, I'm dead."
"Yes." Zylas went back to stirring.
Expecting something a bit stronger, Collins chewed his lower lip. "I really appreciate your saving me."
"Mmmm."
"And your taking me back to the . . . the way back to my world."
"All right."
Collins glanced at the crock, recognizing it as the same one from which he had poured the beetles.
"Um, are those . . . um . . . bugs you're cooking?"
Zylas followed the direction of Collins' gaze. "Fraharas." He translated. "Bugs, yes. Big, hard-sh.e.l.l bugs." He added, as if it might matter, "They clean."
Collins had not eaten since the rabbit. Terror had kept hunger at bay, but now he realized he would like a bite. Not bugs, "Is that what you eat?"
Zylas bobbed his head. "Bug. Fruit. Vegetable." He said the latter with an extra syllable and an improper emphasis, so it emerged like vejahtahbull. "Fish. Milk. Cheese. Egg-but not with baby in." He tossed the parcel of curds. "These better?"
"Much, thank you." Collins popped one into his mouth. It squeaked as he chewed it, but it tasted at least as good as any cheese in his world. He ate three more pieces before speaking again. "Do all people here become animals."
"Not opernes." He considered the translation. "King . . . and . . . such like . . .""Royalty?" Collins tried.
"Royalty." Zylas rolled his eyes as if tasting the word, then bobbed his head. "Royalty. Others all yes."
"And all animals?"
"Become person."
"All?" Collins put more cheese into his mouth, talking as he chewed.
"All."
Collins found the contradiction. "But you said you eat fish."
Zylas scooped a liquid spoonful of beetles from the crock and slurped it into his mouth. "Fish not animal."
Collins' gut churned, and he looked away to keep himself from vomiting. The logic seemed maddeningly circular. All animals became humans, but "animal" was, apparently, defined by the ability to transform to human form. "Anything else living not considered animal?"
The beetles crunched in Zylas' mouth. "Bug. Plant. Fish." He shrugged. "That all." He eased the crock fully from the fire.
Falima wandered off for better grazing, still well within earshot.
"And when you're an animal." Collins downed more cheese, keeping his gaze averted. "Do you remember and understand . . . people stuff?"
"Stuff?"
Collins tried to explain. "Speech, hands, manners."
Zylas scooped and ate more beetles. "Some." He clearly fought for words. "Depend on want. Age.
Ex ... ex ..." The word would not come.
"Experience," Collins supplied.
"Experience," Zylas repeated. "Experience."
"So the more times you become a rat. . ." Collins trailed off.
"Better . . . overlap."
"Between human and animal forms?" Collins supplied "Right."
Collins ate more cheese, then a.s.serted. "I think I'd spend half my childhood in switch-form, or even more. Get the hang of it as soon as possible." Feeling Zylas' intent gaze upon him, Collins met the pallid eyes.
"No choice."
"What?"
Zylas used wild hand gestures to punctuate his words, as if this might aid the translation. "Spend half time people, half animal. Change at time, same time, always. No choice."
"Every day?"
"Every day," Zylas confirmed.
Collins tried to understand. "So, half the day you're a rat and half a guy?"
Zylas nodded.
"Do you get to choose which half at least?"
"No choice," Zylas replied again. "No choice at all."
A million more questions occurred to Collins as they rode Falima, for hours, through the woodlands; but he remained silent as Zylas had requested. Sunlight sliced intermittently through breaks in the forest canopy, alternately covered by clouds and branches. Although Collins did not recognize the pathways they took, he had little choice but to trust his new companion. The rat/man had rescued him from execution and did appear to diligently check their route. At irregular intervals, he slid down from his position behind Collins to scout. Some things, Collins could figure out for himself. For example, clearly each person had an individual change time. Otherwise, Falima would have become human at noon, as Zylas had.
Brush rustled. Zylas reached around Collins to lay a pale hand on the left side of Falima's neck.
Instantly, she swerved to the right, then went still.
Collins turned to look at his companion. The other man shook his head, gestured at Collins to remainin place, and made a motion near his mouth that Collins took as a plea for quiet. Worried about unseen dangers, he felt his heart rate quicken.
A squirrel appeared on the trail, an acorn clutched between its paws. It gnawed at the nut, flicking its tail in jerky bursts, then continued on its way.
Falima glided back onto the path. Collins smiled at Zylas' paranoia, which seemed oddly stronger than his own. Then he remembered. That squirrel could be the local police. As they continued on their way, Collins had to ask, "That squirrel. Was that someone you know?"
"No." Zylas replied into Collins' ear. "Durithrin."
Collins shook his head at the unfamiliar word. "What?"
"Durithrin," Zylas repeated, the word no more comprehensible the second time. "A ... a ..." He sighed. "Not . . . city . . . people."
Collins nodded, letting Zylas off the hook, though he still did not really understand. He guessed it was a concept his world did not need, something that applied only to human/beast interfaces.
Collins missed the signal that brought Falima to a stop. Zylas dismounted and disappeared into the brush. Collins remained in place, finger combing the horse's mane and laying the strands in their proper position. Falima stood stock-still, giving no sign she noticed his ministrations. Shortly, Zylas returned.
"The ruins." He pointed ahead. "Not far." He flung a hand from Collins to himself, then jabbed it toward the ground.
Taking it as a signal to dismount, Collins slid to the ground. The movement revealed a tightness through the muscles of his thighs and b.u.t.tocks that would likely become an ache by morning. His wrists had stopped bleeding, but they still dribbled clear fluid and throbbed with every beat of his heart. Both shoulders felt bruised. He looked at his watch. If correct, they had ridden for more than two hours.