Chapter 3 #2
Crat'ax stands taller in the boat. His spine straightens, and his massive jaw sets. He doesn’t look at me, but his presence shifts, as if he has put on a mantle I did not see him wearing before.
This is not the man who dragged me through sand and smoke and who took me for no good reason.
This is a man who knows exactly where he stands.
The skirr surfaces beside the boat with a wet sound and slaps its tail against the hull. A few figures on the nearest platform recoil. One spits into the water.
So even here, the skirr is trouble.
Crat'ax clicks his tongue at the creature without anger. It circles once, then dives, its sleek body vanishing into the dark water. He pretends not to care about that creature. But nobody pretends that hard without something underneath.
The boat glides closer. The stilts rise higher now, slick with algae, barnacle-like growths clinging stubbornly to the lower beams. I smell dry seaweed, smoke, and salt. But no trash, no obvious decay. Everything here is maintained, like you would expect in an organized tribe.
Crat'ax nudges the boat against a post and secures it with a practiced twist of rope. He climbs out first, barefoot on wet wood, steady as if the platform were solid ground. He turns and offers his hand.
I hesitate for a couple of seconds. He has to know that this is also not my choice. But I can’t make him look weak in front of his tribe. That could make him really mad, I think. So I finally take his hand.
His palm is rough and scarred. Heat blooms where our skin meets, sharp and undeniable. He steadies me as I step onto the platform, his fingers tightening reflexively at my wrist. The contact lingers a beat longer than necessary. His eyes flick down, then away.
The wood is smooth under my bare feet, but I’m sure I’ll get splinters unless I can make some kind of footwear. All these men are barefoot, though. Maybe they polished the planks well before they built this platform.
The attention of the village presses in. Cavemen come walking fast, boys run along the planks to see what’s going on.
They are big. Not all of them are the same size as Crat'ax or Sprisk, but enough that the effect is overwhelming.
Purple-striped skin catches the dim light.
Muscles shift under scars. Weapons are everywhere — knives, clubs, spears, and hooks.
But no swords, despite Cora telling us all the cavemen have those and think they are really important. That could be a good sign.
Murmurs ripple through the platforms. I catch fragments I recognize. Woman. Deep. Given.
Not necessarily the words you want associated with you when you are standing barefoot and exhausted among giant aliens with weapons.
Crat'ax steps forward, placing himself half a pace in front of me. He’s not blocking me, but demonstrating responsibility. And, it crosses my mind, ownership.
He speaks, his voice low and controlled. I don’t understand all of it, but the meaning seems pretty clear. He found me. Near the beach. The Deep’s reach. And I think he claims that he didn’t take me by force.
That last part draws a few skeptical sounds, including from me.
I straighten my spine and square my shoulders. I stand where I am — visible, breathing, watching.
A narrow walkway leads inward toward a broader platform at the center of the village.
Something about it feels different and intentional.
It’s the village square, I think. There’s a big fire ring and a big totem pole that grows up through a hole in the floor and must be resting on the bottom of the ocean.
Offerings rest along that hole — bones, pretty pebbles, smoothed bits of driftwood, carved tokens I don’t recognize. The ocean stretches beyond, vast and blue-green, its surface reflecting the bright light from the rising sun.
Crat'ax gestures, brief and economical. He speaks again, slower this time, as if translating for me as much as for them. The Deep gives what comes ashore. The Deep takes what resists. The Deep is not kind. The Deep is not cruel. It is correct.
There is no shaman, as far as I can tell. Unless it’s Crat'ax. This is not worship as I understand it. Rather, this is acknowledgment, the kind you give gravity or storms. That might be good news, or bad.
Cora told us about the cavemen’s Ancestor religion, which basically rests on a prophecy about some kind of legendary creature called “the Woman” being found by a random caveman, who is then supposed to Worship her and Mate with her.
I didn’t like the sound of that at all, but if these guys don’t subscribe to that madness, then I might not be in quite as tough a bind as I fear. But we’ll see.
Someone steps forward. A man with heavy scars across his chest and arms. His gaze fixes on me, sharp and assessing.
“That female did not come from the water,” he says. I catch enough to understand that much. “She came from the sky.”
A ripple of unease follows that.
Crat'ax does not deny it. He nods once. “She comes from the beach. The area between Deep and Dry, where the Deep often gives us what we need. There was a Plood ship as well. She escaped from it and walked to the beach, toward my fire. I realized that she had been given to me. By the Deep.”
Eyes narrow and shoulders tense when the Plood are mentioned. These guys don’t like those nasty little kidnappers any more than I do. A common enemy means common ground, I suppose.
But now I have to assert myself. I will not be talked about as if I’m an object.
I swallow and step forward before I can overthink it. My heart pounds so hard it threatens to drown out reason. I lift my hands, palms out. Universal language, I hope.
It’s very quiet.
“Friend,” I say. The word comes out thick and clumsy, but recognizable. “Not gift. Not given. Not Plood. Woman. My name Callie. Callie.” I put a hand on my chest and say it slowly and as loudly as I can.
A hush falls. Boys chuckle, their smiles white and their eyes wide.
I point to myself, then to the distant shore behind us. “I choose.” The grammar is a disaster, but the meaning should be clear enough.
Whispers break out again, louder now. The crowd is confused, but also curious. I see it in their eyes. A belief system is straining, but not really breaking. I am not driftwood. I am not prey. I speak. I refuse to fit neatly, and these guys have to understand that.
The scarred man steps closer, and an unpleasant gaze slides over me in a way that makes my skin crawl. It’s not exactly hunger, I think. It feels more like curiosity sharpened into something dangerous.
Before I can react, Crat'ax moves.
He does not shove the man, but simply steps between us, his presence suddenly immense. His voice drops, resonant and final.
“That is not decided,” he says. “The Deep has not finished with us. Or with her. It will let us know why it gave her to me.” The emphasis on the word me is obvious and also dangerous.
His words carry weight, it seems. The man hesitates, then steps back with a scowl.
I exhale shakily. This almost turned into a fight.
Crat'ax glances at me, quick and searching. For the first time since the boat, uncertainty flickers across his face. It’s not doubt, exactly, but it could be concern.
I raise my eyebrows. Um. Yeah, it’s a little bit too late for that, dude. You brought me here.
He takes my hand again and leads me away from the center platform toward a smaller structure near the edge of the village.
It’s a simple hut, made from planks and straw.
It looks dry, and it’s raised high enough above the water to be safe from the splashing waves.
There are no particular tides on this coast, as the girls and I found out a long time ago.
Crat'ax speaks again, slower. “The village is safer than the beach. Safer than the jungle. Much safer than the Plood. But every place has its dangers.” He clearly picks short and easy words for me to follow.
“I know,” I tell him, but I’m not giving up. “Go back. Back to friend. Not Plood there. Not Plood. Only friend.”
He looks away. “The village is safe. The Deep watches us. You were given by the Deep.”
Outside, the village resumes its low hum. Life continues, altered but not stopped. I realize then that I am no longer just a captive or a rescue mission. I am an unknown, and these guys aren’t used to that.
I look at Crat'ax, at the scars and the strength that goes deep. He’s not a bad ally to have here.
If I can’t leave for now, or if I escape and am brought back, I may have to get really smart. Outwit, outlast, and then outplay.
And survive long enough to run.