Chapter 5 #2
He leads me toward a section of the platform that looks different from the rest. Here, the planks are covered with a thick layer of soil, contained by low wooden walls. Neat rows of plants fill the space, colorful and orderly. The leaves look fat and glossy in the sun.
“We lost one when we tried to move it out here,” he continues. “Many years ago. We gave it deep soil and much care, but it did not survive. Now old Gren’ix uses the place.”
I stop short, surprised. It is a garden, tidy and carefully tended.
The plants are arranged with intention, spaced evenly, weeded, and healthy.
The air smells rich and damp here, earthy beneath the salt and smoke.
I recognize shapes that look close enough to Earth vegetables to make my chest tighten.
There are leafy greens, thick-stemmed plants, and even a row of low bushes heavy with berries.
“Is nice,” I say, and for once my broken caveman grammar feels inadequate.
“I do my best,” a creaky voice says behind me.
I turn to see an elderly man approaching slowly with the aid of a stick.
His back is bent, and his movements are careful, but his eyes are clear and sharp.
His hair is white, and the stripes on his skin are so faded that I almost miss them at first glance.
He must be very old, older than anyone I have seen since coming to Xren.
“And it is a great help, Gren’ix,” Crat'ax says warmly. “It has saved many trips into the jungle. This is Callie, given to me by the Deep yesterday.”
Gren’ix studies me without haste. His gaze is thoughtful rather than hungry, curious rather than invasive. “I have heard of you, Callie,” he says. “Welcome to the tribe. And to my little patch of Dry here in the middle of the Deep.”
“Is a farm,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “Is farms on Earth. My world.” I point up at the sky, because that gesture seems to translate well enough.
“Farum,” Gren’ix repeats slowly, tasting the sound. “There are? Then you will know much about this. Do those farum look like mine?”
I look around, taking it in properly. The space is maybe a thousand square feet, a raised bed of soil contained like a sandbox, its wooden walls reaching up to my hips.
“Yes. But big. Much big.” I search for words and come up empty, so I gesture instead, sweeping my arm toward the edges of the bay. “As big as water.”
Gren’ix’s eyebrows lift. “Big enough to fill the whole bay?” he asks. “That is a great farum indeed. What do they grow there? Things like these?” He plucks a leaf from one of the plants and holds it out to me.
It looks like arugula, except the leaf is red with green edges, its veins darker and more pronounced.
I take it gently. “Like these,” I say. “And other. Many. Grain. Potatoes. Corn.” I pronounce each word slowly, clearly. That feels like the right instinct here.
“Many farum,” Gren’ix says, wonder creeping into his voice. “You have brought me an expert, Crat'ax. How do they get the water they need?”
“How you get water?” I counter. “No can use that water.” I point down toward the bay.
“We gather water from the jungle,” Crat'ax explains. “There is a stream. Before it runs into the Deep, we take it in pots and barrels and bring it out here, many times every day.” He points toward the shore. “Look. Those boys.”
I follow his gesture and spot a narrow canoe approaching the village.
Two boys paddle hard, with practiced movements.
A large pot sits between them, heavy enough that the canoe rides low in the water, its rim dangerously close to the surface.
Still, the boys are grinning, glancing up at the village and at me, then making inaudible jokes.
“Many farms on the dry,” I say, already feeling the limits of my vocabulary closing in. I don’t want to have to explain about pipes and irrigation. “Close to streams.”
“Wonderful,” Gren’ix says, shaking his head. “We should bring the stream out here one day.”
“The Deep gives us water on the shore,” Crat'ax says. “Bringing a stream from the Dry out here would be difficult.”
“We do many difficult things,” Gren’ix replies mildly. “Some even take women away from the Plood.”
Crat'ax moves us on before I can respond. He shows me the storage huts, dry and well ventilated. Their interiors are lined with shelves stacked with jars and bundles. One hut smells particularly good, even from the outside, rich and smoky.
“Splix,” Crat'ax says. “Smoked so they keep for a year or more. This hut will soon be full again.”
Inside, only a few dozen dried, smoked fish-like creatures hang from the bars, but there is room for hundreds more.
“Not know this on Xren,” I say. “Is on Earth.”
“There are splix on Earth?” he asks.
“Not same,” I admit. “But close. We call them ‘fish.’”
“The splix run every year,” he says, closing the door. “They will come soon. Perhaps in a few days. Perhaps sooner. I will show you my spear.”
I glance down at his loincloth. “Um. All right…”
He leads me back toward the platform where his boat is tied.
He jumps into it with easy grace and lifts out the spear.
It is longer than he is, as thick as my wrist, its leaf-shaped head wide and wickedly sharp.
Edged, round blades jut out partway down the shaft, giving it an unmistakable shape that makes heat crawl up my spine when he holds it up to the sun. That silhouette must be on purpose.
“And use against ocean Bigs,” I say.
“Sometimes,” he replies. “Only when I must.”
I look around the village again. It appears to be thriving.
For the first time since crashing on this planet, I imagine a future that does not involve constant terror.
I imagine a hut at the edge of the village for me and Theodora, one with a drawbridge so we can decide who will be allowed to visit us. I imagine safety.
I imagine perhaps staying.
We could build our hut at the outer edge, toward the land side.
There is even a platform there now, but there are no huts, and it looks different from the others.
There is no walkway leading to it, but still it has a tall fence around its edges.
Its supporting structure looks much more intricate and solid than the other platforms.
I point. “What that?”
Crat'ax doesn’t even look. “It’s a sacred place for worshipping the Deep. There’s no need to go there.”
It doesn’t look much like a place of worship at all. I would have thought that the village’s central Circle, with the totem pole and the offerings, was where these guys would have their religious ceremonies.
As I stare at the platform, I swear there is movement among the thick supporting poles, between the platform and the surface of the water.
“Is man there?” I ask, walking to the edge of the platform we are on and squinting against the glare from the waves.
Crat'ax shifts his spear to his other hand, then grabs mine. “That place is nothing to worry about.” He pulls me along with him until a hut blocks the view.
A man comes toward us. As he approaches, he holds out one of the skin bags that these guys use to keep drinks in. “Good morning, Crat'ax. Are you showing the woman our village? Perhaps she would like to refresh herself.”
“I’ve already given her what she needs, Mek’tor,” Crat'ax growls. “Shouldn’t you be preparing lines and hooks for the run?”
“Oh, I’ve been done with my lines for a while,” the man says with a yellow grin, looking only at me. “You know we don’t have that many hooks anyway. And my boat is always ready. Would you like to see it, Callie? Perhaps you have boats on Earth too, the way you have farms?”
The man speaks slowly and clearly, like to a child. He has an ingratiating way about him. But it crosses my mind that he would only know about the farm thing if he had interrogated the old man about what we talked about.
Or if he had eavesdropped.