by Del Howison
Meanwhile Friday had taken out a bamboo flute from a little bag on a string around his (let’s for the moment say his) waist, and had begun tootling away in a high-pitched register that was almost painful. And before I knew it a half-dozen manlikes had come down the track to join us on the beach. Keeping their distance from me—almost ignoring me—they hurried to the water’s edge and very carefully began to drag the dead dolphin creature up the beach into the shade at the rim of the forest. And while one of them sat cradling the dead thing’s head the rest of them set to work scooping out a grave. Astonishing! But—
—Well, I thought, don’t people have this special affinity with dolphins back on Earth? Sure they do. And as Friday and I headed back along the forest track toward the Albert E. and the clearing, already I could hear the mournful singing, the rattling and banging of the Pink burial party on the beach. What was more, back at the wreck, I saw that they’d even been decorating the graves of my shipmates, putting little markers on them with various identifying squiggles.
Damn, but these guys revere the dead!
LATER:
This afternoon I went back into the ship searching for anything that might make my life here just that little bit more comfortable, more familiar, and—what the hell—homeworldly? I took a small stack of Daniel’s girlie magazines that I’d been coveting for God knows how many light-years, a photograph album with pictures of some ex-girlfriends of mine, some busted radio components I might try tinkering with, and various bits and pieces like that. Friday climbed up there with me, then went exploring on his own….
LATER:
It’s evening now and raining. Even though the stream looks pure enough, I’m using my awning to collect the rain. Friday appears pretty fixated with me. He’s taken to me like a stray dog. So I switched off the perimeter and let him in out of the rain. He’s sitting there in one corner, not doing much of anything. When I ate, I didn’t offer him any; as we’ve seen, ship’s rations don’t much agree with him.
Speaking of rations, what I didn’t realize till now is that most of the stuff I took from the Albert E.’s galley was damaged in the crash. I’ve preserved what I could, but at least seventy-five percent of it is wasted. I’ll burn it tomorrow.
Which means, of course, that sometime in the not-too-distant future I’ll have to start eating local. Maybe I should keep an eye on the Pinks, see what they eat. Or maybe not. If Friday can’t eat my stuff, it seems unlikely that I can eat his.
It’s all very worrying….
DAY FIVE (MIDMORNING):
When I woke up this morning I caught Friday going through Dan’s soft-porn mags. My old photograph album was lying open, too, so it looks like Friday’s curiosity knows no bounds! Alas, he also appears to be disrespectful of my personal property. Thoroughly PO’d with him without really knowing why (I suppose I was in a bad mood), I switched off the perimeter and shooed him the hell out of here, then went walkabout on my own. The last time I saw him, he looked sort of down in the mouth—about as far down as a Pink is able to look, from what I’ve seen of them so far—as he went drifting off in the general direction of the Albert E.
Something entirely different:
I’ve discovered that the manlikes go hunting, with spears. I saw a bunch keeping very low and quiet, sneaking off into the thick of the forest. There was a second bunch, too, with half a dozen members who were watching me just a little too closely as I moved around the clearing. It seemed to me they were interested in my interest in these graves I’ve been discovering. I can tell that these mounds in the forest’s fringing undergrowth are graves because of the markers on them. But not all of them have markers, only the more recent ones, which are easily identified by the freshly turned earth. I don’t know if that’s of any real significance.
Anyway, this second party of hunters kept looking at me, at each other, and at their spears, as if wondering if they should—or if they dare—have a go at me! Maybe they didn’t like me looking at the graves because I wasn’t showing sufficient reverence or something; I don’t know, can’t say. But it was as I was examining the more recent graves that these hunter Pinks became especially disturbed. Then, as I knelt to examine a thick-stemmed cactus or succulent that was sprouting in a marked mound—a fleshy, sickly-looking green thing with a pinkish head, something like a bulbous great asparagus spear—that was when the hunters displayed the most anxiety, even to the extent of looking more than a little hostile.
However, whatever might have happened next was averted when the first party of hunters came bursting from the forest in hot pursuit of a hairy black hog that was also in pursuit of a small pink grubber. The big black was rampant, so I could only suppose that the small Pink was in heat; but however that might be, the hunters were interested only in the black. And again I supposed they’d been using the little Pink as bait. Well, right or wrong in that respect, at least I now knew what they had been hunting and could reasonably assume that this was what they ate—that it was one of their staples, anyway.
In the confusion, as the big horny hog tore round the clearing after the small scurrying Pink, I tried to make it back to my habitat. Bad idea. In rapid succession the hog took three or four long thin spears in his back and flanks, lost all interest in the small pink grubber, and went totally crazy! Squealing and trying to gore everything in sight, with both parties of hunter Pinks now getting in their best shots as they glided after him, he turned, saw me, came slavering and snorting straight at me!
Of course I shot him; my bolt stopped him dead, exploded in his skull, sent blood and brains flying. He immediately bit the dust, twitched once or twice, and lay still … following that there was total, motionless silence; so that even with the hunters all over the place, they’d become so frozen into immobility that the clearing looked like nothing so much as an alien still life!
And that’s the way it stayed, with nobody moving so much as a muscle until I broke the spell, holstered my weapon, and made my way stiff-legged and head high right on back to my habitat.
Friday was already in there, sitting in his corner on a box of old clothes he’d rescued from the Albert E. Probably figured he was doing me a favor bringing stuff out of there. Anyway, I was glad to see he was still my pal, and maybe even my only pal in these parts now.
Looking out from under my awning, I watched the end of this business with the hog. Finding their mobility again, several of the hunters hoisted the dead tusker and carried their trophy in a circle round the clearing in an odd, paradoxically muted celebratory procession. At least I’m supposing that’s what it was. But when they passed out of sight, that was the end of that and I haven’t seen the hog since. But I imagine there’ll be a merry old feast in the clearing tonight.
LATER:
Toward evening I ventured out again. There was no sign of festive preparations, no fires, nothing. Come to think of it, I’ve never yet seen a fire. Maybe they don’t have fire. Me, I can’t say I fancy raw hog!
Anyway, there was no sign of the spearsmen, and the handful of Pinks who were out and about seemed as bland and harmless as ever; they paid little or no attention to me. But in any case I wasn’t out too long before it started in to rain again, so that was the end of tonight’s excursion.
Friday is already asleep (I think) on a layer of old clothing in his corner. Not a bad idea.
So it’s good-night from me, Jim lad …
DAY SIX (MIDMORNING):
Didn’t sleep too good and it’s left me grumpy. Late last night the Pinks were at it again, howling, thumping, and rattling, and that includes Friday. I woke up (very briefly) to find him gone and my defensive perimeter switched off—the little pink nuisance! I got up long enough to switch it on again, then went back to sleep. But I must find a way to get through to him, warn him against doing that. It’s either that or simply ban him from the habitat altogether.
Everything tastes lousy this morning, even the coffee. Must be the water: It’s too clean, too sweet! My poor old taste buds are far mo
re accustomed to the recycled H2O aboard the Albert E. Maybe I should climb up there one last time and drain off whatever’s left in the system. Also, I should look for a remote for my defensive perimeter switch; the habitat didn’t have one.
Actually, there are several items in the handbook that the habitat doesn’t have: inexcusable deficiencies! Some dumb QM’s assistant storeman on the Greater Mars Orbital should have his ass kicked out of an airlock!
As for last night’s ceremonial rowdyism:
There’s a new grave under the low vegetation at the rim of the clearing. I reckon it’s the hog. Having eaten the thing—or at least the parts they wanted—the Pinks must have buried whatever was left. So their rituals extend even to their prey. This is all conjecture, of course; but again, as with the dolphin, I can’t find this practice altogether strange. I seem to remember reading somewhere that many primitive tribes of Earth had a similar attitude toward Ma Nature’s creatures: an understanding, appreciation, and respect for the animals they relied upon for food and clothing.
LATER:
I’ve managed to fix up a remote from some of the electrical kit I took from the Albert E. Now I can switch on my defensive perimeter from outside. Not that the manlikes have been intrusive—well, except for my man Friday—but I like to think that my few personal possessions are secure, and that I’m retaining at least a semblance of privacy …
Today I went fishing with a bamboo pole and line I managed to fix up. Friday went with me, showed me the grubs in the sand that I could use as bait. I brought in an eight-inch crab-thing that Friday danced away from. It had an awful lot of legs and a nasty stinger, so I flipped it back into the sea. The fish that I caught were all small and eel-like, but they taste fine fried and make a welcome change from ship’s rations. I offered one to Friday, which he didn’t hesitate to accept and eat. So it seems these small fish are another Pink staple.
LATER (EVENING):
I had a sleep, woke up in the afternoon feeling much refreshed, and went walkabout with Friday. We chose to walk a forest trail I never used before; Friday seemed okay with it, so I assumed it was safe enough. When we passed a group of Pinks gathering root vegetables, I paused to point at a small pile of these purplish carrotlike things and raise a questioning eyebrow. Friday must have understood the look; he pointed to his mouth and made chewing motions. Going to the pile, he even helped himself to three of the carrots. None of the gatherers seemed to mind. So I have to assume that these tubers are yet another Pink staple.
Then, because it was getting late, we headed for home. But, did I say home? I must be going native!
Back at the habitat, as we were about to enter, I witnessed something new. Or if not exactly new, different. First off, as I went to use the remote to cancel the electrical perimeter, I noticed Friday looking up into the sky above the clearing. And Friday wasn’t the only one. As if suddenly aware of some imminent occurrence, all the other manlikes were sneaking back into the shadows to hide under the fringing foliage. Several of them had taken up spears from somewhere or other, and they were all peering up into the sky.
I went into the habitat with Friday, and we both looked out from under the awning. At first I couldn’t see anything of interest. But then, on a level with the highest of the treetops, I saw a small shape drifting aimlessly to and fro. It was a young aerial Pink. (I immediately thought of it as a fledgling, which if it had any feathers I suppose it would have been.) Whatever, it was a pink flyer getting nowhere fast, looking all confused and lost up there.
Then, much higher overhead, I spotted something else. Spiraling down from the dusky indigo sky there came a black speck, faint at first but rapidly increasing in size. Its wings—real wings this time—gradually folded back, becoming streamlined, until in the last moment the hawk-buzzard-vulture dropped like a stone and swooped on its prey … and itself became the prey!
In the instant before it could make deadly contact with the young floater, a great flock of adult aerials launched themselves from the high canopy, converged on the buzzard, and slammed into it from all sides. Squawking its pain, winded and flapping a broken wing, the thing tumbled into the clearing. Even before it hit the ground there was a spear through its neck and it had stopped complaining. And up in the treetops, the aerial ambushers were already drifting back to their various roosts.
Now, if I hadn’t witnessed this event with my own eyes, I’d never have believed that the adult flyers could move so fucking fast and with such deadly intent! Not only that, but to my mind the incident formed a perfect parallel with what had happened to the black hog: Both had been examples of deliberate entrapment. And I wasn’t in the least surprised as night came on once again to hear the mournful ceremonial wailing, rattling, thumping, and piping of the manlikes….
Another staple? Possibly. Another grave in the morning? I’d bet my shirt on it—if I hadn’t already given it to Friday….
DAY NINE (MIDDAY):
I’m getting a bit lax with this. But the less I have to do, the more I feel like doing nothing! The last two days I’ve spent my time on the beach fishing, dozing, getting myself a tan that my old shipmates would have killed for. It’s alarming how pasty we used to get in space, keeping away from naked sun and starlight and all the gamma radiation. But this is a friendly sun and I’m protected by atmosphere. Friday’s skin must be a lot more fragile than mine; he made himself a shelter from spiky palm fronds and spent most of his time in the shade.
Then again, he has been looking kind of droopy just lately, all shivery and sweaty. Since my human routines, activities, and such aren’t naturally his, I think it’s possible that Friday’s been spending too much time in my company and that it’s beginning to tell on him. I find I can’t just shoo him off, though, because now it seems I’ve grown accustomed to his face. (Ugh!)
DAY TWELVE (EARLY TO MIDMORNING):
For breakfast I sliced and fried up some of the purple carrots that Friday has been bringing in for me. Wary at first, I took just a single small bite. Not at all bad, they taste something like a cross between chili peppers and green onions; but like an Indian curry, they do cause internal heat and lots of sweating. Maybe Friday has been eating too many of them, because he gets sweatier day by day! Then again, I’ve seen quite a few of the manlikes with the same condition: their skin glistens and moisture drips from their long-nailed fingers, especially when they cradle the dead before burial.
And speaking of the dead:
Just an hour or so ago, a hunting party of five Pinks went out into the forest. In a little while they were back, four of them carrying the fifth between them. He’d been tom up pretty badly—gutted in fact, I expect by a black hog—and he died right here in the clearing. His hunter buddies at once took up his body again, headed off down one of the tracks with it, and the regulation party of mourners and “musicians” went trooping after. So they obviously have a special burial place for their own kind somewhere in the woodland….
LATER (TOWARD NOON):
Friday’s veggies have given me bad indigestion. Maybe I should have left them alone, but I was trying to show my appreciation of his generosity. Anyway, since I know I’ll have to start living on local stuff sooner or later, it probably makes sense to start eking out my dwindling stock of ship’s rations right now with anything I can forage—or whatever Friday can forage for me.
LATER (MIDAFTERNOON):
Midday, after Friday went off on his own somewhere, I took the opportunity to sneak into the forest along the same track taken by the manlike burial party. This was after they had returned, because I didn’t want them to get the idea that I was spying on them, which I was. Maybe a mile along the track I chanced upon their village and discovered something weird and wonderful!
For some time I had been wondering about biped society: did they have a communal place—I mean other than the clearing—where they lived and brought up their kids? … stuff like that. Because until now I hadn’t seen any manlike children. Only now I had found just such a
place. But it wasn’t only manlike kids that I saw.
The track ended at a limestone cliff that went up sheer for perhaps eighty, ninety feet. And there were ladders, ledges, and even tottery-looking balconies fronting the hollowed-out caves. The cliff face was literally honeycombed with these troglodyte dwellings. And that was it; the biped Pinks were cave dwellers. But that wasn’t what was so weird and wonderful.
I’ve told how these pink species seem to parallel the various types you might more reasonably expect to find on a burgeoning world: feathered birds, wild forest tuskers, even dolphins. Now I saw that there was something more to it than that, though exactly what I couldn’t say. But the extensive cleared space at the foot of the cliffs was like a Pinks playground watched over by a handful of adults, and they weren’t just looking after the manlike kids who were playing there. No, for there were little pink hogs running around, too, also being cared for. And on the lower ledges, and in the many creepers climbing the cliff face, that’s where gatherings of infant pink floaters roosted. What’s more, in a freshwater pool fed by a gentle waterfall, I thought I could even make out a young pink dolphin practicing “walking” on his tail! The whole place was a Pinks kindergarten, but for all pink species, not just manlikes! And hiding behind a tree, suddenly I knew my being there wasn’t in order and my presence wouldn’t be appreciated.
Then, hurrying back toward the clearing, I glimpsed hunters heading my way and moved quickly, quietly aside into the forest shade. The hunting party passed me by; but back there under the trees I had found another Pink graveyard—the Pink graveyard, the graveyard of the manlikes! All of the graves had the weird asparagus plants growing out of them; some with as many as four spears, each as thick as my forearm and from eighteen inches to two feet tall, with bulbous tips as big as a clenched fist. But there were also some with collapsed stems and bulbs with empty, shattered husks. And once again I experienced that sensation of trespassing, of feeling that I really shouldn’t be there.
