Books of Barakhai - The Beasts of Barakhai Part 6

HURL the dog at the man and run! Any action hero would pull it off, but the more rational portion of Collins' mind dismissed the idea immediately. Jackie Chan could outmaneuver a dog; Benton Collins would be lucky to manage two running steps before the animal's teeth sank into his b.u.t.tocks and the man's shouts brought armed companions to finish what the dog started.

Time seemed to move in slow motion. The stalemate dragged into that strange eternity mortal danger sometimes creates. The aroma of the tree flowers condensed into a cloying cloud, like the worst humidity Collins had ever encountered. His lungs felt thick with pollen.

Displaying none of Collins' caution, Falima and Zylas swung down beside him. A chaos of petals and sticks wound through the woman's thick, black hair. She addressed the newcomer in their musical tongue, and he responded in turn. Zylas placed a hand on the dog, and it resumed its struggles.

Clutching the dog's muzzle tightly, Collins braced himself against its sharp-nailed paws. Attention fully on the animal, he addressed his companions. "What did he say?"

Zylas helped support the dog's floundering weight. His first word eluded Collins, but the rest came through clearly, "... still angry you hit." He paused. "Falima not helping." He glared at her.

As the dog again sank into quiet despair, Collins glanced at the rat/man and tried to fathom his initial utterance. "Yah-linn?" It sounded Chinese to him.

Zylas enunciated, "Ialin. Ee-AH-lin. Other . . . friend."

Falima and the newcomer continued to converse.

"Friend?" Relief flooded Collins, followed by understanding. "He must be ... the hummingbird?"

Zylas considered, then smiled and nodded. "Ialin. Hummingbird. Yes."

Only then did Collins finally put everything together. He had a.s.sumed "Ialin" the Barakhain word for "friend," but it was, apparently, the hummingbird's name. "Ialin," he repeated, then slurred it as Zylas had the first time so it sounded more like, "Yahlin." Collins glanced at Falima, only to find Ialin's gaze pinned on him. Duh, Ben. You said his name. Twice. Cheeks heating, he addressed the other man. "h.e.l.lo and welcome."

Ialin's scowl remained, unchanged.

Falima said something in their tongue, Ialin replied in a sulky growl, then Zylas spoke in turn. The conversation proceeded, growing more heated. At length, even Zylas punctuated his statements with choppy hand gestures and rising volume.

Collins sat, drawing the dog securely into his lap. This time, it barely fought, settling itself in the hollow between his legs. Helplessly studying his companions' exchange, watching it ignite into clear argument, he found himself fondling one of the dog's silky ears. In careful increments, he eased his grip on its muzzle until he no longer pinned it closed. The dog loosed a ferocious howl so suddenly it seemed as if the sound had remained clamped inside, just waiting for him to release it. Collins wrapped his fingers around the slender snout again, choking off another whirlwind round of barking.

All sound disappeared in that moment. Then, leaves rustled in the breeze, and petals floated in a gentlewash. Collins realized what was missing. In addition to birdsong and the dog's cry, his companions'

discussion had abruptly ended. He glanced over to find three pairs of eyes directly and unwaveringly upon him.

Collins' face flared red, and he forced a sheepish grin. "Sorry about that." Aware that treating a human the way he had the dog practically defined a.s.sault and kidnapping, Collins attempted to mitigate his crimes, at least to his companions. "I'd let it go, but. . ."

Zylas nodded, expression serious. "Cannot." He stroked his chin, clearly pondering. Then, shaking his head, dislodging a storm of petals from the wide brim of his hat, he unraveled a ropy, green vine from a nearby trunk. Carrying it to where Collins sat, he expertly bound the dog's mouth shut. Zylas turned his gaze to Falima. "Know this dog?"

Collins eased away his hand.

The hound's nose crinkled menacingly and it jerked its head, but the vine held.

Falima responded in their language, and Zylas raised a warning hand. "You have stone. Not waste."

Falima glowered.

Zylas' look turned pleading, weary.

"I'd rather Ialin understood than . . . him."

Collins ignored the loathing in Falima's voice and supplied, "Ben."

Falima grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a snarly teen's "whatever." She switched to English, "We had best move on."

Zylas studied the skeletal shapes of trees against the growing darkness, the crescent moon overhead.

"Quickly. I have to sleep soon."

Falima pushed through the trees, Ialin following. The hummingbird/man moved with a flitty grace, individual movements quick and jerky, yet the whole merging into a smooth and agile pattern. Only Zylas remained, frowning at the problem that remained in Collins' lap. Collins elucidated, "He can't bark if we let him go, but he also can't eat or drink if he doesn't find his way home quickly."

"Still think like your world." Zylas grinned. "When he switch ..."

Collins imagined trying to tie a man's mouth closed and shared Zylas' amus.e.m.e.nt. "... the vine will fall off."

"Right."

Collins rose, dumping the dog from his lap. "Shoo. Go home." Other thoughts dispelled his smile. "But won't he go back and tell everyone who we are and where?"

Zylas' smile also wilted. "Falima say he . . . he . . ."he fumbled for the right word, then supplied one questioningly, "little?"

"Young?" Collins tried, remembering how he, too, had a.s.sessed it as a partially grown pup.

Zylas nodded. "Like . . . teenager."

The dog watched them, tail waving uncertainly.

"Probable very dog. Very very dog. Not. . . not retain . . . ?" He looked to Collins to confirm the appropriateness of his word choice.

Collins made an encouraging gesture.

"... what see in switch-form, not same."

Collins nodded to indicate he understood despite the poorly phrased explanation. Zylas seemed to be struggling more than usual, a sure sign of stress. "Is it possible he might. . . retain . . . some of what happened here after he resumes human form?"

"Not impossible," Zylas admitted.

Collins trusted the decision to his companion, glad the dog made it easier by remaining with them unfettered. Its soft brown gaze rolled from one man to the other, and its tail beat a careful rhythm.

Zylas sighed, air hissing through his lips. His face lapsed into creases that seemed to age him ten years.

Beneath the shadow of his hat, his pale eyes radiated troubles, and the white-blond hair hung in limp, tangled strings. "Too tired to make wise choice." He ripped another stout vine from the tree and looped it around the dog's neck. "Keep with us now. Talk. Think." He headed in the direction their companions had taken. The dog balked.Collins went, too, encouraging the animal by tapping his leg and calling, "Come on, boy. Come on," in a happy tone.

Tail whipping vigorously, the dog followed.

Camp consisted of downing the last of their cold rations, tossing their bodies on layers of moldering leaves, and drifting into sleep. Zylas dropped off almost at once. Falima and Ialin chattered in their incomprehensible language, occasionally glancing furtively in his direction. Though exhausted, Collins found sleep more elusive. He knelt by the tethered dog who no longer required the muzzle tie and had eaten his share of the remaining foodstuffs.

Collins ran a hand along the animal's spine. It quivered at his touch, then lowered its head with a contented sigh. Collins continued to stroke the fur, stopping now and then for a pat or a scratch. The dog sprawled on its side, moaning with contentment. Its tail thudded against the ground, and it wriggled as if to keep every part in contact with Collins' hand. He could scarcely believe it the same beast that had inflicted the gash across his hand.

Thinking of it brought back the pain that desperation and need had made him disregard. Collins examined the wound. Clotted blood filled the creases, making it appear to encompa.s.s the entire back of his hand. He spit on a finger, rubbing and sc.r.a.ping until he revealed a superficial, two-inch laceration. He had gotten lucky. He doubted a doctor back home would even bother to st.i.tch it.

The dog whined, sniffing at Collins' hand. It licked the wound.

"Yuck." Collins jerked his hand away, only then thinking of infection. It seemed unlikely this world had a sophisticated medical system, such as antibiotics. Probably at the level of leeches and bloodletting.

The image sent a shiver through him. He had heard that dog saliva contained natural anti-infection agents, the reason why they licked their own injuries and suffered fewer infections. He wondered whether the benefits of those agents outweighed the germs inherent in any drool of a species that drank from mosquito-infested puddles, groomed itself in unsanitary places, and lapped up horse excrement like candy. Better, he decided, to clean this wound myself.

Collins glanced at Zylas. The albino slumbered comfortably, the stress lines smoothed from his brow.

Collins' watch now read nearly 11:00 p.m. a.s.suming this place had days the same length as his own, Collins realized Zylas would become a rat again in about an hour. A flash of heat pa.s.sed through him, followed by a hysterical shiver. Without Zylas' calm reason, he doubted the group would stay together.

Apparently, Falima and Ialin hated him, perhaps enough to turn him in to the guards. They'll hang me.

He wondered if he had now compounded the crime enough for a worse fate, though what fate could be worse than death he didn't even want to imagine. He slumped to the ground, abruptly incapable of anything. Hopelessness overpowered him, a dense blanket that forced his thoughts to a tedious slog.

Escape lay only a day's travel away, yet it was beyond his ability to navigate. He still did not know the way. Once there, he would have to battle his way through armed warriors, with only a rat for a.s.sistance.

A rat. A wave of despair buffeted the last of his reason. Twelve hours utterly alone. Twelve hours dodging a hunt he scarcely understood in an unfathomable world. Twelve hours without a friend.

Tears stung Collins' eyes, then rolled down cheeks still flushed with distress. He had so many questions, and he needed those answers to survive Zylas' rat-time. It seemed safest to lay low, to mark time until he had a trustworthy companion to plan with again. He wondered how the people of Barakhai stood the change, interrupting half their lives daily, putting relationships and experiences on hold just as they started to build. Romance seemed impossible without careful coordination of the switching times-if such could even be arranged. He shook his head, the tears flowing faster. He knew so little to be suddenly thrown, friendless, back into an inexplicable world beneath a sentence of death. He had never felt so completely, so desperately, alone.

Leaves rustled. Something warm brushed Collins' cheek. He looked up into the dog's fuzzy face, and it licked tears from his face again. It whined, sharing his discomfort. Collins managed a smile. Even amid all of Barakhai's strangeness, a dog was a dog after all. He placed an arm around the furry body, and it lay down against him with a contented sigh, sharing its warmth.

Falima spoke from startlingly close. "Dogs are good judges of character." She added snidely,"Usually."

Collins tried to surrept.i.tiously wipe away the tears. He did not look at Falima, not wanting her to know about his lapse. "Maybe you're the one who misjudged me."

A lengthy pause ensued. "Maybe," she finally admitted, grudgingly.

"About Joetha ..." Though Collins hated to raise the subject, he knew he would have to resolve the issue before Falima could ever consent to like him. "I truly didn't-"

"I know," Falima interrupted.

"You do?" Collins could not keep surprise from his voice.

"I ... think I do. It is hard seeing things . . . that way." Falima added insightfully, "Through the eyes of a foreigner."

"Yes." Collins wholeheartedly agreed.

Another long silence followed. Collins thought Falima must have left as quietly as she had come. So when she spoke, he jumped, turning his tear-streaked face to her. "What were you doing to the dog?"

She simulated stroking with her hands, then crouched beside him.

Collins blinked the last of the tears from his eyes. "You mean when I was petting and scratching?"

"Yes."

The answer now seemed wholly obvious, but she seemed to expect one, so Collins reiterated. "Uh, I was, uh, petting. And ... uh ... scratching."

"Yes." The word emerged in an emotionless monotone that revealed nothing.

Sorrow gave way to sudden terror. "I always ... I mean I never thought . . . it's just ..." Collins gathered his thoughts. "Did I do something terrible? Again?"

"No," Falima rea.s.sured. "Not terrible. It is just . . . well, stroking someone. That is kind of ...

personal, do you not think?"

Collins patted the animal snuggled against him, and the dog's tail thumped the ground. He tried to consider the beast as a human, and a strange thought eased into his mind. "Is this a boy dog or a girl dog?"

"Male." The response held a hint of question. Collins' mind returned to the summer of his freshman year of college, just before his parents' divorce. His best friend from high school, Bill Dusumter, had taken leave from the army at the same time. They had agreed to meet at Bobcat Den Park. When Collins arrived at the picnic grounds, he found several of the old gang sitting around talking. He waved to Diana Hostetler, with whom he had exchanged jokes and a love for the trombone. Dusumter had dated her for a time, their breakup messy; and Collins had avoided pressing for a relationship for fear of losing their friendship. She looked the same as he remembered: dark, shoulder-length hair that shimmered in the sunlight; eyes starkly blue in contrast; high-pitched, freckled cheeks; and a broad, wry mouth. Katie Tonn and Dave Hansen had become a couple, attending Cornell University together. Dusumter claimed to have lost his virginity with Tonn, but none of the three seemed to hold any ill will. Several other friends from high school played a lively game of frisbee. But Collins' gaze fixed on Bill Dusumter, his tomcat best buddy, and the stranger at his side.

Both wore the standard military haircut, matching brown hair buzzed to half-inch p.r.i.c.kles. Both were skinny, with lean angular faces; and they both smelled of cigarettes. They wore Levis and T-shirts, Dusumter's red with the name of a local bar and the newcomer's plain black.

Collins' brain worked overtime, trying to divine the relationship between the two. Before he could speak, Dusumter gestured him over, a delighted grin on his face. "Ben. Buddy. How's it hanging?"

Still deep in thought, Collins had to force a smile and missed the opportunity for a snappy comeback.

"It's hanging fine. Army treating you okay?"

"Great!" Dusumter gestured toward his companion. "This is Gene." He winked conspiratorially.

"You're going to be seeing a lot more of Gene around here."

"Oh." Something seemed wrong, and Collins could not put his uneasiness into words. "Is Gene . . .

moving here?"

"Yup."

"Ah." Collins gazed into his friend's eyes and read more there, something exciting and interesting thathe would not reveal until asked. Collins felt too dense to find the proper question, whatever it might prove to be.

Dusumter retook his seat. As he did so, he placed a hand squarely on Gene's thigh.

Collins' breath caught in his throat. A million thoughts swirled through his mind in an instant. Bill's gay? The thought bothered him deeply, and that troubled him. I'm for gay rights. I have gay friends.

Am I just a hypocrite? Collins wanted to cry. Few things upset him more than people who preached values to others while cheating on their spouses, fanatics who sabotaged animal experiments then eagerly popped medications born of that research, fiends who labeled women who suffered through an abortion to save their own lives as murderers then encouraged their daughters to destroy the fetus of a man they did not like. It's easy to cling strongly to morality when it doesn't affect you. Collins a.n.a.lyzed his discomfort, delving to its source. I don't have a problem with Bill being gay. It just came completely out of the blue, so opposite from the Bill I knew. I can and will deal with this. It's my problem, not his.

Collins exchanged pleasantries with his old friend, then headed off to see some of the others. He had taken fewer than half a dozen steps, prepared to step around their scattered purses and backpacks, when Dusumter came up beside him. Grinning, he asked, "So, what do you think of Gene?"

Still shocked, Collins did not know what to say. He barely knew the newcomer, who had not yet spoken a word. "Um," he mumbled. "Seems nice." Unable to meet Dusumter's sparkling brown gaze, he glanced at the backpacks.

"Don't tell anyone else; I wanted you to be the first to know . . ."

Collins braced himself, wishing he had had time to prepare, seeking the most supportive words he could muster in his own panicked moments of shock.

"... Gene and I are getting married."

Married? Collins whirled to face his friend. Even as he moved, his eyes registered a name on one of the backpacks: "JEAN." Jean, Gene. It all came together in that moment. Just because Bill's fiancee is too skinny to have b.o.o.bs doesn't mean she's not a woman! Relief flooded him, not because Dusumter was not gay; that truly did not matter. Collins' solace came from the realization that he did know the man who had been his best friend, that he had not missed signs of misery or need, had not been kept from a significant secret for lack of trust or closeness.

"Congratulations." He caught Dusumter into an embrace, not the least bit self-conscious.

Dusumter's familiar voice hissed into his ear. "Way to keep a secret, buddy."