The beasts of Barakhai bob-1

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Collins' urine pattered against dried weeds.

  A distant, high-pitched sound touched Collins' hearing suddenly, and he froze. For a moment he heard nothing but the wind rustling through branches and his own urine splattering against dried weeds. A howling bark wafted over those sounds, sharp as a knife cut and followed by another.

  Startled, Collins jerked, wetting his left shoe. Staccato words soft as whispers came to him. "This way, this way." "No, over here." "Smell… smell target." "Smell." "Smell." "Smell." "Here!" Then a loud, trumpeting voice sounded over the rest, "Hate wood-ground. Go home!"

  Uncertainty held Collins in place. Only then, he realized he had wormed a hand into his pocket and clamped it over the worn-smooth rose quartz. Oh, my God! It's translating barks and whinnies. A worse understanding penetrated. They've come for us. Whirling, he sprinted toward the cabin, securing his fly as he ran.

  Vernon met Collins at the door. "Come," he said in rough English. "Hide you."

  Collins careened inside. The cottage had no windows. Thatch poked through the mud plastered between the logs. A crooked table surrounded by crudely fashioned chairs took up most of the space. Straw piled on a wooden frame filled one corner and, beside it, stood a chest of drawers. Near that, a trapdoor broke the otherwise solid floor.

  Vernon thrust the dog at Collins with a force that sent man and animal staggering. He fell to one knee, arms, chest, and face filled with fur, managing to catch his balance, though awkwardly. Vernon shoved aside the dresser to reveal what seemed to be plain wall until he caught at something Collins had not noticed. Lashed logs that appeared as part of the structure glided open on unseen hinges, and Vernon gestured frantically at the darkness beyond it.

  Still holding the dog, Collins dragged himself into the hidden room. Almost immediately, his nose slammed against solid wall, and wood slivered into his right cheek. He barely managed to turn before Vernon smashed the panel closed, and Collins heard the grind of the dresser moving back into position. Worried its claws might make scrabbling noises, Collins continued supporting the dog, one hand wrapped around its muzzle, the other grasping the translation stone.

  For several moments that seemed more like hours, Collins stood in the silent darkness. Gradually, his heart rate returned to normal, and worse thoughts descended upon him. What if they find us? What if they take Vernon away? What if we're walled in here to die? The tomblike hush of his hiding place seemed to crush in on him, airless and boring, and he stifled an abrupt urge to pound on the door in a mindless frenzy. If the guards caught him, death went from "what if" to stark and graphic certainty.

  Shortly, Collins heard footsteps clomping down nearby stairs and realized several people had passed through the trapdoor he had seen, likely into a root cellar. He had heard nothing of whatever exchange occurred in the cottage, but here their voices wafted to him in muffled bursts.

  "Why is it that every time we're hunting fugitives, the trail always ends here?" The voice contained clear exasperation.

  Vernon's reply sounded gruff. "Why is it that every time you're hunting fugitives, you chase them toward me? I'd thank you to stop. Puts me in danger. Would you like it if I started sending thieves and killers to your-"

  The dog shifted, and Collins tightened his hold. If he could hear the men, likely they would hear any noise from him also.

  "Cut the crap, Vernon." A loud, irritable voice joined the others. "What did you do with them?"

  Vernon's answer dripped sarcasm. "I ate them."

  The dog went limp in Collins' arms. The sudden dead weight made it seem twice as heavy, and it took all his strength to lower it soundlessly to the ground. What the…?

  The first speaker huffed out a laugh. "You're a mouse, Vern. You can barely eat a hallowin seed before you fill up."

  Worried he might have strangled the dog in an overzealous attempt to keep it quiet, Collins continued to bolster some of its weight. It felt liquid in his arms, all fur and limbs, and he fought for orientation. He no longer had its mouth, which put them at serious risk. He groped for it, swearing silently, overwhelmed by heat. All of the oxygen seemed to drain from the room. His heart rate trebled.

  "I'll have you know I can eat three hallowin seeds before I fill up."

  "Not funny," came the gruff voice again. "This guy we're hunting actually did eat someone. Cannibal. Try and hide him here, he'll probably eat you, too."

  "Cannibal?" Vernon sounded shocked. "You're right. That's not funny."

  Collins thought his heart might pound out of his throat. The dog became even harder to support, squirming into positions he could not fathom in the darkness. He no longer felt fur beneath his grasp, and that proved the final clue. God, no. He's switching. He gripped harder, now seeking a human shape among the movement. Not now, dog. Please, not now. He held his breath, awaiting the scream that revealed them.

  "I… didn't know. I'll do whatever I can to help."

  Collins could no longer concentrate on the conversation. He found a human ear beneath a wild mop of hair and lowered his mouth to it. "Please don't make a sound. I'll explain everything."

  To Collins' surprise and relief, the boy obeyed. Now he turned his attention back to the speakers, but the voices and footsteps faded away. Vernon's revulsion had sounded sincere, concerned enough to reveal Collins to the guards. His chest clutched and ached. He doesn't know me, has no loyalty to me. He cringed, prepared for the worst.

  The conversation grew uninterpretable, and Collins realized he had dropped the rose quartz in his struggle to maintain control of the dog. He pressed himself breathlessly to the wall, helpless, waiting for the guards to find him, for the dog/boy to shout, for Vernon to surrender him. Then, the voices faded away. Footsteps slammed up the steps, then disappeared.

  More time passed, immeasurable in the sightless, soundless prison. Then, Collins heard the creak of the moving dresser. The door sprang open, and the dull interior of Vernon's cabin blinded him. "Thank you," he gasped out in English. The boy tumbled onto the floor, blinking repeatedly and glancing wildly around the room.

  Vernon assisted the boy to his table, talking softly, while Collins fumbled around the hiding space until he found the quartz. He closed his hand firmly around it before shutting the panel. Now that he knew of the false wall's existence, he could see the faint outline of its crack and the indentation that allowed Vernon to pull it open. He shoved the dresser back in place.

  Vernon approached Collins, enormous hands outspread. "Hi. Think him…"He gestured at the boy, who Collins saw for the first time. Blond hair fell around a heart-shaped, beige face, and brown eyes studied Collins with awed curiosity. Skinny, with long arms and legs, he could pass for a young American teenager if not for his completely unself-conscious nakedness.

  "… think you…" Vernon struggled for the word, his English not even as competent as Zylas' pidgin speech.

  The boy dropped from his chair to his knees on the floor, head bowed. "Your Majesty."

  Collins understood. "Opernes?" he supplied. It seemed absurd, and he wondered what about his humble self might give such a noble impression. My clothes? The simple homespun his companions had provided clashed with his battered jeans and grimy Nike knockoffs. My watch? It seemed more likely until he realized that the boy had made his assumption as a dog. My scent? "Why does he think…?"

  Vernon's features opened in surprise. "You-you speak…" He recovered swiftly, warning in his undertone. "Why does he…? Don't you mean how? How does he know you're royal, don't you, Your Majesty?" His lips formed sounds that did not match his words at all, like a badly dubbed movie. Collins had not gained that impression from Falima when she had carried the stone, and he guessed it rendered the speaker immune from that effect.

  Clearly, Vernon expected him to play along. Though he did not understand why, Collins would not disappoint a man who had just saved his life. "Yes, of course." He turned to the boy. "How did you know?"

  Apparently released by Collins' direct questioning, the boy
clambered back into his chair. "Only royals don't switch." He studied Collins through liquid eyes, as though the answer should have been obvious.

  It should have. Collins tried to cover. "I just didn't know one so young could determine that in switch-form."

  "And retain it," Vernon added, almost hastily. "You must have good overlap."

  The boy beamed, then blushed. "Not really. Not yet." For Zylas' sake, Collins did not glance at the translation stone, though he could not help clutching it like a treasure. He could understand Zylas' reluctance to lend it; at the moment, he would not trade it for the Hope Diamond. As he and Vernon took the seats on either side of the boy, he could not help wondering if it proved as useful to Zylas. Nothing required him to visit Collins' world; and, as far as he could tell, all citizens of Barakhai spoke the same language, at least in human form. But there's more than a little advantage to learning how to communicate with animals, especially here. He wondered if that explained Zylas' near-perfect overlap.

  Unlike Collins, Vernon did not become too lost in thought to remember his manners. "I'm Vernon." He made an arching motion over the boy's head to Collins. "BentonCollins." He slurred it into one word.

  "Just Ben's fine," Collins said before Vernon could stop him. "And what's your name?"

  "Korfius, Your Majesty." The boy stifled a yawn.

  "How old are you?" Collins asked.

  "Twelve," Korfius replied. His posture improved abruptly as he added, "Almost a man."

  Barely a kid. Collins kept the thought to himself. "What do you remember…" He glanced at Vernon for help. "… from… switch time?"

  Vernon nodded his approval of the query, so Collins turned his attention back to Korfius.

  "Not much, Your Majesty," Korfius' face reddened again. "I knew I was with royalty. And a horse-guard." His eyes crinkled. "Though I don't know why or how." He looked askance at Collins, who pretended not to see. The less Korfius knew, the safer he remained.

  Apparently thinking along the same lines, Vernon rose and gestured at the pallet. "Why don't you get some sleep, Korfius?"

  Collins winced, anticipating an explosion. No near-teen he knew would agree to nap like a child.

  But the boy only nodded before glancing hesitantly at Collins. "Is that all right, Your Majesty?"

  Struck dumb, Collins could only imitate Vernon's gesture.

  "You sleep, Korfius. I'll be fine. Vernon and I have work to take care of."

  Korfius bowed. "Thank you, Your Majesty." Still naked, he headed toward the pallet.

  "I've got clothes in the drawers." Vernon walked to the door. "Something in there should fit you."

  Collins doubted it. Anything that covered Vernon's enormous form would fit Korfius about as well as a circus tent. "Sleep well." He followed Vernon outside and closed the door. As it clicked in place, he hurriedly tried to explain. "About that cannibal thing-"

  Vernon interrupted, leading Collins among a stand of poplar at the outskirts of the woods. "So, what did you eat?" "Well-"

  "Let me guess. A pig?" "No, but-" "A cow?" "No."

  "A chicken?"

  "No." Turning the details of murder into a game embarrassed Collins. "You don't-"

  Vernon whirled suddenly toward Collins. "Give me a hint." Collins stammered, "I-it was… a-a rabbit named Joetha." Vernon came to an abrupt halt, and terror ground through Collins. "It seems," the hermit started coolly, "that you don't know what 'a hint' means." Apparently to show he meant no malice, he turned Collins a broad grin. "You don't hate me?" "Nope."

  "But…but…late…"

  Vernon resumed his walk. "I presume you ate her before you knew about switch-forms?"

  The bare thought that Vernon might even consider otherwise twisted Collins' gut. "Yes! I-I wouldn't-" "Of course, you wouldn't. Who would?"

  Outside of a few lunatic serial killers, Collins could think of no one.

  Vernon continued, "If you're kind and decent, and I believe most people are, you wouldn't kill someone on purpose. I'm not going to condemn an accident, even if it did result in death."

  Collins went speechless with gratitude. He felt tears welling in his eyes.

  Vernon politely studied the trees, then chose a deadfall and sat. Shadows dappled his skin, making him appear even darker. "Zylas gave you his stone, didn't he?"

  Relieved he would not have to keep a secret from Vernon, Collins nodded.

  "He must really like you. And trust you. He's rarely even let me hold it, and we've been friends for thirty years."

  "Thirty years." Collins wiped the moisture from his eyes and looked over his companion. The stocky man appeared too young for such a long friendship. "How old are you?"

  "Thirty-five."

  Collins made a wordless noise that Vernon took for encouragement.

  "Our switch time overlaps perfectly. And his mother and I-both mice."

  "Yes." Collins intensified his scrutiny, gaze flickering over the broad neck, solid musculature, and whaleboned figure of his newest companion. "So I heard. Hard to believe."

  Vernon's eyes narrowed curiously. "Why?"

  The answer seemed so obvious to Collins, he found himself simplifying to the level of Tarzan. "Mouse small. You… big."

  Vernon stretched, sinews rippling. "Sometimes it works out that way. Especially Randoms." He smiled. "Would it surprise you to find out my father was a bear?"

  "Your mother must have been an amoeba."

  Vernon halted in mid-stretch. "What?"

  "Never mind." Then, feeling the need to explain at least somewhat, Collins finished, "I'm just thinking a bear would have to combine with something really really tiny to make a mouse."

  "Mama was a skunk."

  Collins' head jerked toward Vernon before he could hide his surprise. "A skunk?"

  Vernon's dark eyes hardened. "Yeah, I'm half downcaste. What about it?"

  Surprised by the sudden hostility, Collins raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Nothing about it. I don't even know what downcaste means, at least not the way you're using it."

  The softness returned gradually to Vernon's face, then he managed a short laugh. "Of course, you don't. I'm sorry."

  Collins nodded.

  "The downcaste are necessary animals relegated to the most distasteful tasks. Creatures the civilized animals wouldn't lower themselves to associate with because they have some undesirable characteristic or habit that makes them… repulsive to the urbanists."

  "Like skunks?" Collins asked carefully, not certain he truly understood. He saw nothing essential about skunks. A friend who lived on a small acreage talked about regularly trapping and killing them because more than ninety percent carried rabies in that area.

  "Garbage handlers," Vernon explained. "Vultures and hyenas take care of the dead, the only ones allowed by law to eat meat. Goats and pigeons manage the sewage." He wrinkled his nose, unable to keep even his prejudice wholly in check. "They prefer the company of urbanists and eat anything."

  "Urbanists?" Collins prompted.

  "Creatures who live in cities." Vernon drew a leg to his chest. "Cows, horses, dogs, cats, and such. Some birds."

  Recalling an earlier conversation with Zylas, Collins added, "Durithrin. They also form a social group?"

  "The wildones include creatures who prefer the woods to others' company."

  Collins realized the stone sometimes translated even those words that worked better in the other language, such as replacing durithrin with wildones. He supposed urbanists and down-caste had Barakhain equivalents that would have given him less clue to their meaning. "Deer, squirrels, bears, songbirds…?"

  "… wolves, alligators, wildcats." Vernon shivered. "Once one of those gets a taste for meat, there's no choice but hanging. They will kill again."

  That explained the severity of Collins' punishment, the lack of a trial, and the intensity of the hunt. Not like in my world where serial killers are rare and always crazy. He displayed his new understanding. "Urbanists, wildones, and downcaste. Your
social classes in order of…" He searched for words Vernon might not find insulting. "… perceived importance."

  "Don't forget royals at the top: all human all the time. Workers before wildones. And, at the very bottom, vermin."

  With a start, Collins realized that had to include Vernon and Zylas. He swallowed hard, pressing any emotion from his voice. "Define vermin."

  "Those forbidden to breed with their own kind." Vernon shrugged. "Who wants more mice, rats, snakes, and the like?"

  "But you and Zylas-"

  "Randoms. We weren't made what we are on purpose."

  Uncomfortable with the subject, Collins pressed on. "And workers?"

  Vernon drew up his other leg. "Those who don't quite fit with the urbanists but have a high, useful skill to market. Like beavers, who build. Porcupines, the tailors. Moles and weasels, miners, though some would debate whether they go with the workers or the downcaste.

  Collins glanced around the forest, seeing the trees gently bowing in the breeze, the sun glazing every leaf and branch with gold. It seemed impossibly peaceful, hiding the moment when hounds and hunters once again crashed through them, seeking him. He could imagine other specialized creatures: songbird musicians, shrew crop-weeders, bear beekeepers, but he did not question. Closer matters needed discussion, and a realization required voicing. "So you're the other one who's visited my world."

  "Several times," Vernon admitted. "With Zylas."

  "Why?"

  "Why," Vernon repeated, running his fingers through tight curls, straightening them momentarily before they sprang back in place. "Why not?"

  Collins suspected that was all the answer he was going to get. "Where's Falima?"

  "Hidden." Vernon lowered his legs. "Underground. Too big for your hiding place."

  "Agreed." Now, Collins pulled his own feet onto the deadfall, turning to fully face Vernon. "Underground bunkers. Hidden crawl spaces." He spread his fingers. "Why?"

  "Because," Vernon said with caution. "Sometimes, good folks need hiding."

  It answered nothing. But, for the moment, Collins thought it best not to press.