The man who had spoken gestured at a rocky prominence. Though free of slime or moss, it looked shiny with damp. Collins' aching body begged him to rest, but he dared take no chance of offending. "May I sit down, please?"
"Please do," said a voluptuous naked woman with the darkest skin and hair Collins had ever seen. She might have passed for an aboriginal African in his world except that she had threadlike lips, a long, narrow nose, and eyes that appeared more yellow than brown. Her inky hair fell in knotty straightness nearly to her knees, though it covered nothing women of his world would have considered significant for modesty.
Collins plopped heavily down on the ledge, feeling as if he had survived a journey through a wood chipper. He adjusted the crude bandage on his head and dropped the backpack beside him. "My name is Benton Collins," he said. "You can call me Ben."
"Ben," the original speaker repeated. The man held the sword awkwardly. Clearly, he knew or had surmised its purpose, but he had no experience with such a weapon. "Who are you, Ben?"
Collins thought he had already answered that question with his name. He tried to guess the reason for the question, what he would want to know were he the captor. But, first, he needed to figure out the purpose of this mismatched group; and his thoughts slogged through light-headedness and pain for an answer. "I'm from another world. One without switchers and switch-forms."
The way-too-skinny woman piped in, "Are you a royal?"
Collins bit his lower lip, uncertain of the consequences of answering with truth or various lies. He had no way of knowing whether this group held royalty in awed esteem or despised them for inflicting this life of anarchy and imprisonment upon them. The king's ancestors had literally visited the sins of the parents onto the sons and daughters; yet, the current king and his relatives were also innocent descendants. Not that that simple, clearheaded and obvious reasoning prevents wars and resentment in my own world. Preferring to die for honesty than deceit, Collins stuck with the truth. "My world… "he recognized the fallacy of the statement he was about to make and amended it even as he spoke, "… at least my part of it, doesn't have royalty."
Glances circumnavigated the room. They seemed surprised by Collins' pronouncement, which made sense. Having lived under no other form of government, they might find it difficult to understand how others could. Even in his own world, Collins sometimes found it hard to see how communism had flourished and countries continued to accept monarchs, even if only as figureheads. On the other hand, he had loved science and math and suffered through subjects like history, geography, and social studies. He did not consider himself a stereotypical scientist who saw the whole world in black and white: provable theories versus ungrounded superstition. He had even dated a psychology student, albeit unsuccessfully.
The original speaker summed up the modicum of information they had gathered. "So you're not a royal, and yet you also have no switch-form."
"Correct." The snail's pace of the interview ground on Collins, who suddenly remembered the limitations on his time. He finally glanced at his watch. It read 11:08 A.M., to his horror. "Oh, my God! I've got to get moving." He would never have guessed how long he had lain unconscious, curled around his backpack, on the stones. The presence of this gang of switchers, including the dogs, must have kept the cougar from returning to finish him.
Humans and animals alike stared at Collins. Clearly, they believed his ability to go or stay depended wholly on them. And, Collins realized, they were essentially right. He could only attempt to prod them along.
Collins wrenched open his backpack. "Listen, you all seem nice enough, but the life of a man and a cause depend on me hauling ass out of here right now." He seized the Snickers bars and held them up. "Here. You'll like these." Even as he tossed them, Collins had a sudden wild thought. He had read that chocolate was poisonous to most of the animals people kept as pets. On the other hand, he had fed candy to his cat and hamster without any harmful effects that he knew of, and the animals he now faced spent half their lives as humans.
The puppy ran toward the bounty, but its father stopped it with a well-placed paw. The lioness sniffed one candy bar carefully, and a short, sinewy man who had not yet spoken hefted the other two. As he studied them, Collins remembered to add through his pounding headache, "Take the paper off first. The good stuff's inside."
Using his teeth, the man ripped the wrapper and sent it floating to the ground. He took a bite of the Snickers, and a smile lit his face. "This is… great!" He hefted it like a trophy. "Best food I've ever eaten." He handed the one he had tasted to the scrawny girl, who took a delicate nibble.
Her eyes widened. "Delicious."
The short man opened the other two candy bars and passed them around the group while Collins emptied his pockets of dog biscuits and jerky. "You can have all of these, too." No longer worrying about an attack, he went through his pack, emptying it of everything he could spare. Not only could those things work as bribes, but shedding them would lighten his load tremendously. "Here're some clothes. You look like you could use these." He left the selection of T-shirts, jeans, underwear, and socks on the ledge beside him. Finding the medicine bottle, Collins sorted through the Turns to find three Tylenols, which he forced down without water, using several hard swallows and all the saliva he could muster. He returned the bottle to his pack. The Barakhain prisoners could probably use the medicine, too; but he did not want to take the time to explain it. He also kept his toiletries, the binoculars, keys, watch, and beeper but left the speaker wire he had used to lead Falima to the biology laboratory. He looked up at no one in particular. "Now, does any of that buy me the freedom to find the lost dragons?"
The prisoners in human form tore their gazes from the pile to glance at Collins, clearly bewildered. The short man who had opened the Snickers spoke first. "The lost what?"
"Dragons," Collins repeated dutifully, though he doubted that would prove enough. "Humongous scaly creatures with lots of sharp teeth."
"Like the one who attacked you?" the skinny woman tried.
Collins shook his head. "No. No. That's a large furry creature with sharp teeth. I'm talking about dragons. Bigger. Just scales all over. Hairless wings." He glanced up to see two bats hanging upside down from a stalactite over his head and looked for the words to differentiate the dragons from them, without resorting to the word "scales" again. "Enormous creatures. Like alligators with wings, but bigger than elephants."
The humans traded glances, and Collins now realized that more had joined them. New animals had arrived as well, including an ocelot and a bobcat, who must have crept out from holes beneath the ledges. Some of the newcomers examined Collins' offerings, and a naked preteen girl began raking them into piles.
Collins stopped describing. Ultimately, it did not matter. "Look, if I can get those dragons out of this place, they can make magic that takes away that involuntary shape-changing… curse thingy."
Captivated either by Collins' words or his excitement, the group kept every eye focused directly upon him. No one spoke.
Collins delivered what he thought would prove the coup de grace. "You can all walk out of this prison as easily as I walked in." He waited for applause or cheering, anything to show they understood the significance of his revelation.
Instead, they all looked at him curiously. The original speaker cleared his throat. "Prison?"
Skinny Girl added, "Walk out to where?"
The triumphant grin that had crept across Collins' face with his final pronouncement withered. "To-to the real world. The world beyond these inescapable caverns." Sudden realization hit him low in the gut. These switchers knew little or nothing of their history. To them, the entire planet began and ended at the barriers thwarting their escape. The river, with its life-giving water and the objects outsiders tossed into it, was probably a god to them.
"To your world?" the girl continued. "Where there're no switches or switch-forms. No royalty."
"No, no, no." Collins slapped the heel of hi
s hand against the knot of torn T-shirt on his forehead, further worsening his headache. "You live in a small part of Barakhai. Out there, there's a whole… " He avoided the term "world" this time. "… a whole other place, more of Barakhai, with buildings and sunshine, towns and villages, where people don't worry that their neighbors might eat them. I come from somewhere else. Somewhere farther, separated from Barakhai by magic." He did not know what to name it, uncertain how the spell might translate English terms such as "The World" or "Earth," especially since he could not even say whether or not he had left the planet or the scientifically known universe. With my luck, Earth would come out as Dirt.
The human fraction of the group whispered among themselves, while the animals shifted from paw to paw.
Uncertain whether or not he had clarified things or muddled the situation even more, Collins tried to think it through. He believed he understood how such a strange bunch of creatures had come together. Likely, it had started with animals who tended to herd or pack and with human counterparts with an eye toward family and protection of those weaker, including their own offspring. Some of the stronger, less social creatures, like the cougar, preferred to spend most of their lives alone. Others might band solely for the purpose of hunting or procreation, such as pure inbred packs of wolves or prides of lions. A group as mismatched as the one that had discovered him had to have security and companionship in mind. Otherwise, the fiercest would already have devoured those most vulnerable. Amid the chaos of eternal imprisonment, at least this one civilized society had emerged, perhaps more. He had to play on their sense of community.
Collins felt utterly beaten. His head pounded, as prone to shatter as a glass-blown figurine. He ached in a million places, and the thought of dragging his tattered body one step farther made him cringe. Nevertheless, he gathered what little energy remained and declared, "I'm sorry I don't have time to explain any more. If I don't leave now, my mission will fail." It was not technically true. Even with Zylas gone, he could still complete the ultimate goal. "And a good man will die for nothing."
Collins tilted his chin, a defiant gesture that nearly cost him his consciousness. "I'm leaving. If you stop me, I will fight with every ounce of strength left in my body." Yeah, that ought to last about a second.
The tortoise started toward him, through a silence that admitted only the steady water-song of the stream. Enormous, paddlelike feet heaved the huge shell forward in a lumbering style that precluded speed. Collins clambered off the ledge to meet her, the simple gesture pounding him with exhaustion and dizziness. He hoped Ialin, Falima, Ver-non, and Aisa fared better, because it seemed unlikely he would ever make it to the dragons. In time. The downward spiral of his thoughts quickened. Oh, come on, Ben. Don't let hope turn you into a fool. If the dragons were here, someone would certainly have seen them.
Collins dropped to his haunches, and the tortoise practically climbed into his lap to meet his gaze levelly. One ancient, clay-colored eye met both of his, and the burden of its one foot on his thigh crushed him against stone. The tortoise had to weigh two or three hundred pounds. Uncertain of its purpose, or the best way to pet a reptile, he reached out a careful hand and set it gently on the animal's head. "Scaly," he murmured. "Scaly, like this."
The long, tortoise neck stretched from its domed shell. If Collins added even a vestigial tail, the creature had to measure a good four feet. He froze, uncertain how to react as the tortoise laid its beaked head upon his shoulder.
A redhead with a scarred face explained, "Mataia approves of you. She's the oldest and wisest of us, and we will help you."
Relieved, Collins gave the tortoise's neck a gentle hug, then scratched the scales on the top of her head. Though akin to stroking large-grained sandpaper, the gesture was the only one he could think of to express his appreciation. She's human, too, stupid. Probably with great overlap. "Thank you," Collins told Mataia. He looked past her enormous form to the humans and animals beyond, "And thank all of you, too. I'm not sure how you can help, but-" A possibility came to Collins even as he spoke the words. "Did any of you hear the sound I played on my recorder?"
The teenaged girl continued to sort through the food and clothing Collins had given them, and two boys who looked like they were about eight or nine years old came over to help her. The rest of the group continued to regard Collins in silence.
Realizing "recorder" might not have translated, Collins clarified, "I brought a sound with me. Until it broke, I used my little box thing to make it."
The black woman held up the smashed remains of the recorder, and Collins wondered where she had hidden it until that moment. He guessed someone had his knife as well.
"Yes, that's it! Did you hear it?"
Several of the humans, and even some of the animals, bobbed their heads. Mataia eased off of Collins' thigh, to his relief. His leg buzzed with a pins and needles sensation, and he cringed through the pain of returning circulation.
"Is that what you're looking for?" a middle-aged man in a loincloth asked, the only human in the gathering with gray in his hair. "The monsters who make that sound?"
"That's them!" Collins said, too excited to question the term "monsters."
The black woman made a decisive gesture. "Come with us, then." Her voice sounded inexplicably tired. "We'll take you there."
Once imprisoned, Ialin allowed his agitation free rein, pacing the confines of his dungeon cell relentlessly to work off a long-suppressed tide of nervous energy. He ceased caring about keeping up appearances. Even a usually composed bear could be expected to demonstrate discomfort when locked in a cage anticipating questioning and, possibly, execution.
As instructed, Vernon returned before Ialin's switch, though time would tell whether or not the mouse had located Zylas during his absence. It seemed long enough to the hummingbird/man for Vernon to have found an army of missing renegades, yet Ialin never trusted his own concept of time. Others tended to find him irritatingly impatient.
This time, Ialin did not heft the mouse, instead turning his back to his guard and pretending to lie down for a rest. The fuzzy gray rodent stood, planting his forepaws on Ialin's magically sculpted nose. The man kept his voice low. "At my switch time, you distract the guard." Though it required more words, Ialin dared not leave details to an animal who, like himself, had incomplete overlap. "Make something fall with a noise. Pick an object behind or beside him, so he doesn't look toward me."
The guard's voice boomed through the prison. "Did you say something, Draezon?"
Ialin twitched his nose until Vernon dropped to the floor. He glanced over his shoulder at the guard. "Just berating myself."
The guard chuckled. "For what you did or for getting caught?"
"I haven't decided yet."
The guard laughed harder. A tall, lanky man with unkempt brown hair, he would clearly transform into some trim, hungry-looking dog.
Ialin turned his head back and hissed at Vernon. The change would soon be upon him. "Go."
As Vernon scampered into the shadows, Ialin loosened the layers of shirting that swaddled his slight frame. Becoming entangled would ruin his well-laid plan. A familiar tingle throbbed through his skin as he worked harder to shove down the cloth. Hurry up, Vernon. Ialin glued his gaze to the bars, solid iron with barely a spot of rust. The guards had clearly chosen a secure cell, afraid he might bend or damage the bars in bear form, just as he had hoped. He dared not become complacent, however. Many things had gone well with the previous plan, only to fail him when it mattered most. He could not count on anything going smoothly. A wave of warmth shunted through him, heralding the change. Vernon!
Falling metal crashed against the stone floor, followed by the sound of several more objects slamming and rolling. The guard spun, just as switch-form overtook Ialin. He felt himself shrinking, clothes flopping to the floor, beak sprouting. He sprang into the air, lacy green wings beating madly, all but invisible. His body a blur, he flitted through the bars and out into the main portion of the du
ngeon.
Ialin scanned a scattering of dented pans and chamber pots, and a small gray figure racing from the carnage. From the air, he followed Vernon, not bothering to watch the guard's reaction. In a few moments, the man would notice that his prisoner was missing and call for assistance, Ialin only hoped his sudden disappearance would confuse them, and the mystery would take significant time to piece together. Even if they figured it out immediately, he believed they would expect him to escape, not wend his way deeper into the dungeons.
Vernon led Ialin through a prison filled with empty cells, into a storage room where he disappeared beneath piled up junk. Ialin hovered, willing himself to stay focused. He had decent overlap; and, where excitement tended to unbalance others, it made him more alert and attentive. His beadlike eyes scanned the floor, seeking movement. At first, he saw no sign of his companion. Then, he caught a sudden flash of gray from his left eye. He barreled toward it, an abrupt, midair stop all that saved him from crashing into another door. Vernon disappeared through the crack beneath it.
Ialin dove. Leading with his slender beak, he followed the mouse's retreating form beneath the door and into a dusty room sparsely filled with furniture covered in tattered sheets. On top of one flat surface that appeared to represent a chest of drawers sat a cage barely large enough to contain his own miniscule form. A naked, pink tail protruded between the bars.
Vernon leaped to the dangling edge of sheet draped over the chest and scrambled upward. Ialin hovered over the cage, peering at its inhabitant through one eye. The white fur, the bright red eyes, now dulled by pain, the pink ears laid tight against the ratty head-he knew those features, if not their broken demeanor. Vernon had, indeed, brought him to Zylas.
"Zylas," Ialin buzzed to the only person other than Prinivere who could understand him in animal form.
The pink nose twitched, and the muzzle rose. "Ialin?"
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