Chapter 5
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 buttocks 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 assumed “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. “Hello 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 gentle wash. 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 assault 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’ amusement. “. . . 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 assessed 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 encompass the entire back of his hand. He spit on a finger, rubbing and scraping until he revealed a superficial, two-inch laceration. He had gotten lucky. He doubted a doctor back home would even bother to stitch 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. Assuming 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 passed 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 assistance. 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 surreptitiously 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 reassured. “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 shared 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 tom-cat best buddy, and the stranger at his side.
Both wore the standard military haircut, matching brown hair buzzed to half-inch prickles. 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 that he 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 analyzed 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 fiancée is too skinny to have boobs 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.”
Now, in an alien world with a dog who was also a man curled against him, Collins smiled at the memory. As weird as the situation had become, it seemed marginally preferable to having made what might have seemed like a sexual advance on some strange woman who, properly and without insult, could be better called a bitch.
Oblivious to Collins’ train of thought, Falima continued. “A young male, of course.”
Great, so now I’m a child molester. Collins cringed. That makes it much better.
Attuned to Collins’ discomfort, Falima continued, “It is all right, really. He is probably the closest thing to a dog of your world that you will find here. He clearly enjoys the attention, and he probably will not remember much of it in human form.”
Collins studied the dog’s brown-and-white patches.
“So go ahead and stroke him. If it makes him uncomfortable, he will let you know.”
Yeah. Collins glanced at his wound. Next time, he’ll bite my hand clean off. Tentatively, he petted the dog’s back. It sighed and snuggled more closely to him.
Falima smiled. “Actually, I like it when people stroke my nose.”
Collins gave Falima a strange look.
“In switch-form, of course.” Falima’s cheeks turned scarlet, to Collins’ surprise. She seemed too strong to let anything embarrass her. “And a scratch behind my ears now and then feels wonderful. Especially when the flies are biting.” Her features lapsed back into their tough demeanor. “But I do not like being kicked. In any form.”
“I’m sorry,” Collins said, meaning it. “It’s just that’s how we steer in—”
“—your world,” Falima finished.
“Yes. In my world. The only world I knew existed until yesterday. I’m very sorry I kicked you. It won’t happen again.”
A strained silence followed, into which Collins wanted to insert something clever that might finally bridge the gap between them. Instead, a question came to mind. He wanted to know why discussing her petting spots shamed her more than switching to human form buck naked. Wisely, he put aside that train of thought for a safer one. “I guess it’s just us till Zylas becomes a man again.”
Ialin strolled to them, crunching something between his teeth and carrying handfuls of leaves and stems. He turned Collins a withering, imperious look, then focused on Falima. He remained standing, the only position that allowed the tiny man to tower over his seated companions. He spoke in the language of Barakhai.
Falima’s reply took much longer as she, apparently, filled him in on the conversation to date.
With the memory of Bill and Jean Dusumter in his mind, Collins studied Ialin. The hummingbird/man, too, could pass for a slight, curveless woman. For an instant, the thought that he might have made the same mistake twice swept through Collins, banished by the memory of Zylas’ use of the pronoun “he” to refer to the hummingbird’s human form. Of course, Zylas’ English is rather primitive.
Falima addressed Collins again. “Zylas will not desert us just because he is in switch-form.”
The dog stretched its legs, pressing its back against Collins, groaned, and dropped back off to sleep.
Collins nodded, certain Falima spoke the truth. “I just meant we won’t have a way to talk to him until he’s . . . until he’s human.”
“I will.” Falima patted her tummy and tossed her black hair, highlights of scarlet, purple, and green shifting through her tresses.
“You will?” Hope rose in a wild rush. “You can . . . you can . . .” Collins barely dared to believe. “. . . talk to each other in animal form?”
Falima held a brief exchange with Ialin that left the man snickering before replying, “Not usually. But Zylas is older. He has good, solid overlap between his forms; I know of no one with more. And I still have his translation stone.” Her blue gaze hardened. “Thanks to you.”
Collins stroked the dog’s side, and its tail thumped in gratitude. In addition to a near-flawless grasp of English, Falima had clearly mastered sarcasm. “I’m sorry.” He wondered how many times he would have to apologize before Falima would forgive him, hoping she would not prove as difficult to appease as Marlys. Maybe it’s a woman thing.
Apparently mistaking Collins’ attention to the dog for an unspoken question, Falima said, “No, I cannot talk to him. He has little or no overlap. He might not even have reached coming-of-age yet.”
“Coming-of-age?” Collins repeated. That brought to mind David Fein’s bar mitzvah, expanding lip disks, and quests to kill wild boars and leopards.
Ialin made a grunted comment to which Falima responded before switching back to English. “When a child is born, he assumes the same switch-form and at the same times as his mother. He has no overlap at all. On his thirteenth birthday, he gets a party. His switch time melds with his personality, overlap begins, and, if he is a Random, he transmutes.”
Collins put up a hand to stay Falima. “Hold it. I was with you up until the thirteenth birthday party. Randoms. Transmuting.” He shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
Falima eased to a cross-legged sitting position. She spoke painfully slowly, as if to an idiot. “At thirteen, all right?”
Collins did not grace the question with so much as a nod. If he did, he felt certain she would drag a simple explanation into next week.
“A child becomes a man or woman. He gets a switch time . . .” Falima glanced at Collins to see if he still followed her description.
Collins bobbed his head. He knew about switch times from Zylas. “Does some person assign each teen a switching time? Or is it random?”
Falima conversed with Ialin before answering. “Neither. It seems to have more to do with the . . .” She used Collins’ word, “. . . teen’s personality. It just happens, and it seems to suit the person. Overlap between human and animal form begins. Regulars tend to learn control faster than Randoms, but they also spend more time in animal form.”
Collins frowned, shaking his head. “You’ve lost me again.” He considered the problem. “Maybe if you explain what you mean by Regulars and Randoms.” He looked up at the sky. The moon had risen higher, a crescent that scarcely grazed the darkness. Stars spread across the darkness, remarkably similar to the spring pattern of his own world.
“Regulars occur when animals of like type mate, whether in human or animal form. A man who becomes a bull, for example, marries a woman whose switch-form is a cow.” Falima studied Collins’ reaction, and he gave her what he hoped was an encouraging look. This made sense to him. “Since animals can only mate within their type, and they tend not to worry about or understand human conventions when it comes to marriage, Regulars outnumber Randoms by about three hundred to one.”
Collins reasoned, “So a Random would come of a union between two humans with different types of switch-forms.”
“Right.” Apparently impressed by his reasoning, Falima passed it on to Ialin.
Ialin came back with something that sounded gruff, almost warning.
Beaming, Collins struggled to continue. Falima’s opinion of him mattered more than he could explain. “Until thirteen, Randoms become the animal of their mother. Then, they become . . .” He did not know how to proceed. Logic dictated that boys might follow the father and girls the mother, but the opposite could prove equally true. What am I doing seeking logic in magic? Sticking with what the name implied, he tried, “. . . something random?”
“Exactly,” Falima crowed. “Though maybe not totally random. It probably has something to do with the physical or emotional makeup of the person. Or maybe the animal-type influences those things. It would be hard to ever know for sure.”
“Which are you?”
Falima’s open excitement disappeared. Her features lapsed into a mask, and her movements looked calculatedly casual. “What?”
“Which are you?” Collins repeated carefully. “Regular or Random?”
“All horses are guards,” Falima said in a not-quite-indifferent tone. “Senior to dogs. Ours is a respected position, nearly always bred on purpose.”
“And you?” Collins pressed.
Falima blinked, now clearly annoyed. “You heard me. You may assume me a Regular.”
It was not a direct answer, but Collins accepted it. Though he had clearly stepped into dangerous territory, he could not keep himself from asking. “And Zylas?” He glanced toward his companion as he spoke, only to find a set of empty clothing. “He’s changed!”
“A few moments ago,” Falima confirmed.
Collins studied the britches. He rose with a caution designed not to disturb the dog, drawing nearer to where Zylas had fallen asleep until he found the rat-sized lump stirring regularly beneath linen. “Is he a Random or a Regular?”
“Random,” Falima said with a wide yawn. “Do you think we breed rats on purpose?”
Collins thought of the lab. We do. “And Ialin?”
This time, Falima dodged the question. “I’m getting tired. We really should sleep.” Without awaiting a reply from Collins, she headed away to curl up on a pile of leaves. Ialin went with her.
Put off by Falima’s sudden detachment, Collins lay back down beside the dog. Its warmth soothed him, even as he worried for the propriety of his action. At least he could explain it away as a means to keep watch over an animal that might sneak off and report them to the authorities. He wondered about the information Falima had given him and why discussion of the origins of self and friends made her so uncomfortable. He vowed not to press the question the next day. To do so might lose him what little trust of hers he had managed to gain or leave him in the bleak loneliness he had dreaded only an hour ago.
With these thoughts buzzing through his mind, it surprised Collins how swiftly he found sleep.