Chapter 9 #2
I sit down, knees together. Crat'ax takes his spot beside me, sitting on the planks but still towering over me. Everyone’s staring, some openly, others less so. The conversation is picking back up, and the topic of most is obviously me.
The chief comes striding. He’s wearing a modest headdress, mostly consisting of shells and long, sharp teeth that could come from a sea monster. Three necklaces of shells dangle around his scrawny neck.
“Ah, Callie is here,” the chief begins. “And the brave Crat'ax. Then we can begin this celebration. First we shall thank the Deep for its gifts and its test, which our tribe passed.” He makes a sign with his hand, and the whole tribe says, “The Deep is merciful!”
Then the chief sits down and gives me a magnanimous smile. “How do you like our tribe so far, Callie?”
“It’s a good tribe,” I state, having been asked that question a couple of times already. “It lives on the ocean, and worships the Deep. Other tribes not.”
“Very true!” the grinning man exclaims, as if I’ve just said something profound. “They do not. And look how much better we’re doing!”
There’s a murmur of agreement around the fire.
Boys distribute food and drink, serving the chief first, then me, and then Crat'ax. It’s a wooden plate with a steaming, smoked splix on it, vegetables that must come from Gren’ix’s garden, as well as something that must be seaweed.
There are snail-like things and a gray mass that I don’t want to guess at, much less taste.
“Only eat what you want,” Crat'ax says calmly, as he bites into a piece of grilled meat that could well come from a dinosaur. “Leave the rest. It was all given by the Deep.”
Everyone’s looking at me, so I pick a piping hot piece of the splix and sniff it. I have had this before, but not in view of everyone. Being seen to like their food must be the right move here. I put it in my mouth. “Is good.”
There are smiles, nods, and low comments.
I chew slowly, enjoying the faint luxury of the heat and salt.
The splix flakes apart easily, rich and dry, and the hunger I’d been ignoring roars back to life.
I take another bite before I can think too much about it.
Around me, the men relax a fraction, as if I’ve passed some quiet test. Yes, it’s the first time they see a woman eat anything.
It must be more sensational to them than it seems.
Mek’tor leans forward, elbows on his knees. “She eats like she belongs,” he says to no one in particular.
Sprub’ex snorts. “She eats like she’s starving.”
That earns a ripple of low laughter. I pretend not to understand, though I do. Crat'ax doesn’t react at all. He eats methodically, eyes forward, but his presence beside me feels deliberate and strong. Like a line I can hold onto if I start drifting.
A cup is pressed into my hand. It’s dark wood, warm from being held. Inside is a similar type of fermented fruit juice that Cora and Sprisk brought to us, which is something the cavemen call frit. This is not the same taste as the frine they had, but it’s similar enough. And it’s good.
“Careful,” a man says mildly. “That one makes the night shorter.”
I choke a little, and there’s another round of laughter. Heat rushes to my face.
Crat'ax reaches over, steadying the cup until I’ve caught my breath. His fingers don’t quite touch mine, but they’re close enough that I feel the warmth of his skin.
“We saw a rekh,” he says, taking the attention away from me. “That is to say, Callie saw it.”
The group quiets down, everyone eager to hear more.
“I was busy with a rock,” he goes on, so loud everyone can hear. “And then Callie says ‘rekh’ behind my back. Just like that. As casually as if she had seen a leaf or a bush. So I didn’t react until I really thought about it. Rekh?! And there was a rekh, staring at her from three paces.”
It’s a big exaggeration, but I won’t protest.
Crat'ax goes on to tell the story about the raptor that chased us, making me the hero of the story and turning himself into only a clumsy onlooker who lets the raptor eat his pole.
He’s a good storyteller, too. The men are breathless until the end, when they roar with laughter at the image of Crat'ax practically feeding his boat pole to the raptor.
The conversation continues more naturally after that.
I’m asked questions that I sometimes answer and sometimes pretend not to understand.
They all want to know where I come from, but I’m not about to reveal Theodora’s existence to these guys, so the answers they get are all about Earth, and otherwise as vague as I can make them.
Sprub’ex, the scarred man, sits opposite us, half in shadow. He hasn’t touched his food. His eyes flick to me, then away, then back again, as if looking at me directly costs him something.
“The Deep sends signs,” he says finally. His voice is rough, unused to being the center of attention. “It sends krai. It sends strangers. It sends things that don’t fit.”
The air tightens. I can feel it, like a held breath.
Crat'ax swallows his mouthful and wipes his hands on his thighs. “The Deep sends what it will,” he replies evenly. “It is our task to receive, and be grateful.”
“Grateful? First we must understand it,” Sprub’ex counters.
Crat'ax lifts his hand. “We passed the test,” he says. “The Deep was satisfied. The krai is dead. The village stands. The rekh didn’t kill Callie or me. Or you, strangely enough.”
There are scattered chuckles. Just like that, the tension eases. It’s not gone, but lighter. The scarred man glares at me, then looks down at his plate at last. The moment passes, filed away rather than resolved.
I take another bite, aware of how closely Crat'ax watches my reactions, not my mouth. Whether I flinch or shrink. Or whether I look like I might break.
I don’t. This isn’t even that bad. And I didn’t choose to be here. None of this is on me. This is all on Crat'ax and his tribe.
Conversation resumes around us, louder now. Stories of the attack, exaggerated and retold already. Someone demonstrates with his hands how big the krai’s claw was. Someone else argues it was bigger. A boy mimics the sound it made, and another leaps from one table to another to show Crat'ax’s jump.
At one point, a hand reaches across me for a bowl. Instinctively, Crat'ax shifts, his arm coming up just enough to block the movement. It’s smooth, almost casual, but the hand withdraws at once. No one comments. My pulse kicks up anyway, as my body reacts before my mind does.
I finish what I can of the food and set the plate aside. My stomach is full, my head pleasantly light from the frit. The firelight makes everything feel closer, more intimate than it should be with this many people watching.
“We have many evenings like this,” the chief says, turning to me again. “It’s my favorite part of being a Deep-worshipping tribe.”
“It’s nice,” I say. “It feels more safe than jungle.”
He nods, satisfied. “Precisely. Much safer. The krai almost never comes. Now it will not be back for years.”
Crat'ax leans closer, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “We can leave.”
I glance around the Circle, at the fire, the totem pole looming behind it, the offerings gleaming dully at its base. At the men who have already folded me into their evening without knowing what I’m doing here. Well, I’m not the one to ask.
“Soon,” I say. “Not yet.”
Something in his expression shifts at that. Approval, maybe. Or something more complicated.
We stay for another hour before he straightens and announces it to the group instead, rising to his feet. “The meal honors the Deep. Callie is tired. We will go.”
No one challenges him. A few nod. Someone murmurs a blessing after us as we step away from the fire, back toward the darker edges of the platform village. Only a couple of them glare at us.
As we walk, I become aware again of how close he is, how the noise and heat fade behind us. The night air is cooler here, the bay a black mirror broken only by torchlight.
I don’t know what I am to this tribe yet. A guest? Maybe.
But to some, I’m obviously an omen. And not a good one.
I touch Crat'ax’s wrist. “Crat'ax. Why am I here?”