“I had a little husband, no bigger than my thumb, I put him in a pint pot, and there I bid him drum;
I bought a little handkerchief, to wipe his little nose,
And a pair of little garters, to tie his little hose.”
He repeated the verse several times, and soon, under his encouragement, the males were beating time to the song, crooning along. Sara recalled thinking, if he wound up stranded on Jijo and had no future in any other profession, the fellow could certainly find employment in one of those modern Tarek Town day-care centers.
If we still have such luxuries when all this is done.
Prity plopped herself in front of Sara. Sniggering softly, the little chimp flattened a patch of sand and began drawing figures with a stick-mostly convex, parabolalike shapes that climbed, turned over, and fell once more to zero. Prity chuffed and pointed, as if eager to share a joke. But Sara could not concentrate. Fatigue overcame the throbbing of her abused body, drawing her down to helpless slumber.
She dreamed of Urchachka-world of grass-its plains whipped endlessly by hot winds, seared by frequent fires, or else swept by scorching rains of glittering volcanic dust. After each scalding episode, the plains seemed strewn with ashy death-yet bright stems always burst forth in prolific flashes, pushing skyward fast enough to be tracked by a patient eye.
On busy Urchachka, water seldom stayed long on the ground. Life sucked it up, caching it in buried tuber reservoirs that meshed across whole continents, or else in bulbous, multihued spore-pods, or in the lush grass stems themselves. These, in turn, were browsed by herds of grazing beasts-nervous brutes whose three-pronged horns used to wave threateningly toward danger, till they found themselves tended in great herds, protected by creatures more formidable than any past predator.
In the manner of dreams, Sara dwelled concurrently both within and outside the images. At one level, her mind’s eye peered through a forest of waving fronds, feeling wary and fearful, alert to dodge being trampled by the great beasts, or worse, being gobbled by accident in their ever-crunching maws.
Holes in the fecund loam led down to underground warrens-a lightless, crowded realm of sweet roots and frequent violent encounters-a domain that had lately begun to seem all too cramped, confining. The world of light above now appeared paradise by comparison-for those large enough to snake their necks above the tips of wafting grass.
With a slim, detached portion of her mind-the fragment that knew she was dreaming-Sara marveled at the power of imagination. A gift allowing her to inflate what little anyone on Jijo knew about Urchachka-from terse entries in a prelanding encyclopedia, plus a few fables passed by urrish storytellers. Tales about days before their fallow breed was discovered on its torrid home world, by a patron race who dropped from the sky to claim that strain of clever herders, guiding them upon the Rising Path. The road of uplift, toward the stars.
The detached part could observe but had no other power over a fantasy like this one. A color dream, potent, forceful, and emotional. A fey fantasm, with momentum all its own. A vision of clouded, insentient paranoia.
Darting between bulbous stems, evading the big dumb herbivores, she followed a smell of drifting smoke and came upon the trampled circle surrounding a smoldering pit of ashes, with a crowd of lanky four-legged figures lounging around its rim. She peered cautiously at the Big Ones. Only lately had she recognized them as larger versions of herself, older cousins and aunts, instead of dangerous horrors with flashing hooves and alarming tempers. Now she spied on them, creeping closer, fighting an ever-growing temptation.
An urge to step forward, out of the grass, and announce herself.
She had seen others do so, from time to time. Other small ones like herself, shaking off the dust of their burrows and stretching out their necks. Boldly moving to assert their claim, their birthright to a place by the fire. About a third of those who did so were ignored, then tolerated, accepted, and finally welcomed into the tight web of intermeshing loyalties. The rest did not meet happy ends. There seemed to be a trick of timing involved. A ritual of twisting necks and groveling abasement that varied from group to group.
Then there was smell. It was best to approach a band that had a good aroma. One like your own.
Stealing closer, she watched the party of adults, some with pouches that squirmed with lucky males who had found safe refuge from the dangerous world. Dimly, she recalled having once lived in such a place. But now she was much too big.
The adults lay sheltered by tall stems from the beating sun, resting with their long necks curled round upon their backs. Now and then, one of them snorted when her breathing fell briefly out of phase with the others. The third eye-the simple one without lids-kept watch.
Overhead, a swarm of tiny flying things hovered in parasitic avarice, wary for any chance to dive and briefly suck at an exposed lip, or pouch flap, or even a blood-rich eyelid, and get away again before quick hands or jaws snapped. Sara watched as one unlucky bug was snatched before landing. In a fluid motion, the adult popped the buzzing bloodsucker into her mouth, crunching away without bothering to rouse from her slumber.
I don’t recall diving insects when I read about the urs homeworld, pondered the detached part of Sara’s drowsy mind, or in any tale of Urchachka.
Gradually, it dawned on her that she wasn’t making it all up. Rather, her unconscious was borrowing from events in the real world. Her eyes were open just a crack, and through the dreamlike diffraction of her interlaced lashes, she was watching actual urs do what she had thought she imagined.
As before, half of the Urunthai lay curled on sandy wallows, breathing with uncanny unison under the blur-cloth canopy. Nothing seemed much changed from when she had last gazed at her captors. But then something happened that correlated eerily with her dream-a low, buzzing sound, accompanied by whizzing motion through the air. A small, insectlike object darted from left to right, toward one of the dozing urs. In a flash, the sleeper snatched the hurtling speck out of the air with her gaping, three-jawed mouth, chewing contentedly with both main eyes still closed. The central one, unlidded and faceted, retained the glassy dullness of full sleep as the warrior settled back down, snoring heavily.
I’ve never seen that happen before, Sara pondered. Are there bugs here in the foothills that attack urs like those on their homeworld?
Taut, bowstring tension ran up Prity’s spine as the little chimp edged backward, pressing against Sara with an elbow. Sara slowly lifted her head to scan the Urunthaj. Those awake fondled their arbalests and switched their tails nervously, as if beginning to suspect that something was wrong. Their long necks stretched,
waving left all at the same time, then at Dedinger’s desert men, and onward to the right. When they turned away again, there came another low twanging buzz, so familiar it almost seemed unnoticeable. Once more, a small shape sped toward a dozing urs. Again, it was snatched from the air and consumed without rousing the sleeper.
Sara followed the arc of that brief flight, backward across the tent to where the Stranger sat at his dulcimer, still plucking at the lowest note, creating a steady hypnotic rhythm. The rewq draped over his eyes only partly masked an enigmatic smile.
Sara realized two others were watching the star-man-Dedinger and Kurt the Exploser.
Sniffing at the humid air, UrKachu motioned for Ulgor to join her outside. The four painted warriors on duty went back to tending their weapons.
The Stranger bided his time, softly plucking the string. He kept up a slow, soothing cadence until the wary Urunthai guards settled back down. Then, with his left hand, the Stranger touched the side of his head and slipped two fingers under the filmy covering provided by the rewq-reaching into the hole in his head, Sara realized, with a touch of nausea. When the fingers emerged, they held a tiny object, a pellet, about the size of one of the message balls used in the Biblos Library. While his right hand plucked the string another time, his left brought the pellet forth, poising it for the next stroke.
He’s using the dulcimer as a launcher! Sara realized, watching in fascination.
She noted a slight difference in the sound, a buzzing dissonance as the tiny pill spun through the air toward another sleeping urrish rebel. It missed this time, dropping half a body length short of the target.
Dedinger was in motion, surreptitiously nudging his comrades, using furtive hand signs, telling them quietly to prepare. He doesn’t know what’s going on, but he wants to be ready when the pulp hits the screen.
The tent flap opened, and UrKachu reentered, without Ulgor. The chieftain sauntered over to one of the sleeping Urunthai and prodded her-an action that normally would have a wiry urs on her feet in an instant. But there was no response. The raider kept on snoring.
Alarmed, UrKachu began jabbing, then kicking the sleeping warrior. Others hurried over to help. In moments it grew clear-of eight who had gone down to sleep, all but two were lost in a soporific stupor.
The dulcimer twanged again, and several things happened at once.
UrKachu swiveled angrily and shouted in Anglic- “Stof that infernal racket, now!”
Meanwhile, a tiny object sailed over the dying coals, toward the confused warriors. One of them snapped reflexively, taking it with her jaws. Almost instantly, her nostril flared and her neck stretched to full extension, trembling along its length. The urs began to wobble at the knees.
Sara would not have thought she could react so fast, scrambling backward with Prity, gathering up the blanket-swathed Jomah, hauling the sleeping boy to the rear of the tent. Swift as ghosts, Dedinger’s men were already deploying in a crescent, surrounding the Urunthai, with arrows nocked and drawn.
“What’s going on?” Jomah asked, rubbing his eyes.
The wobbly urs drifted to one side, fell against another, and collapsed, ribcage heaving slowly, heavily.
“Remain calm,” Dedinger announced. “I urge you to lay down your weapons. You are in no condition to fight.”
UrKachu stared blankly, dismayed by the sudden reversal of power. Her group had outnumbered the humans. But now her remaining followers stood in a cluster, unready, at the Earthlings’ mercy. The Urunthai leader growled.
“So, in this (perfidious) treason, the nature of human (so-called)friendship is revealed.”
“Yeah.” Dedinger laughed, a little smugly. “As if you planned things any different, when the chance came. Anyway, there is no cause for panic over this. We’ll still keep our side of the bargain, only as senior partners, with a few slight changes, such as the destination for tonight’s march. Once there, we’ll let you send a message—“
He might have meant to sound soothing, but the words only infuriated UrKachu, who cut in with a shrill battle cry, hurling herself toward Dedinger, unsheathed knives flashing.
“No!” screamed the Stranger in an outburst of reflex horror as feathered shafts sprouted from the thorax of the Urunthai leader. “No dammit! dammit! dammit!”
UrKachu’s remaining followers followed her example, charging into a hail of arrows. Half were riddled during the first half dura. The survivors leaped among their bipedal foes, slashing and drawing some blood before being dragged down by weight of human numbers.
Finally, with no living Urunthai left on their feet, the panting, wild-eyed desert men began turning their knives on the unconscious ones, those whose drugged stupor never let them take part or defend themselves.
To the Stranger, this was the final straw. Screaming curses, he threw himself on the nearest human, throttling his neck ganglia. The hunter struggled briefly, then sagged with a moan. The star-man leaped at another, hurling streams of epithets.
Sara pushed Jomah toward the tent flap and cried—“Prity, take him to the rocks!”
In the blurry muddle of split instants, she saw three of Dedinger’s hunters turn and assail the Stranger. One tumbled away, tossed by some tricky twist of the alien’s body, while another found himself suddenly burdened with a new problem—Sara—hammering at his ribcage from behind.
If only I listened, when Dwer tried to teach me how to fight.
For a moment things went well. Sara’s short-but-burly adversary groaned and turned around, only to catch her knee in the gut. That didn’t stop the hard-muscled hunter, but it slowed him, letting Sara get in two more blows. Meanwhile, the Stranger threw his remaining foe aside in a dazed heap and started to turn, coming to her aid—
The avalanche hit then. A tide of male-human wrath that dragged both of them down. Sara struck ground with enough force to knock the breath from her lungs. Someone yanked her arms back and sharp agony made her gasp, wondering if the limbs were about to tear off.
“Don’t harm them, boys,” Dedinger commanded. “I said ease off!”
Distantly, through a muzzy fog of pain, she heard blows landing as the former sage slapped and hauled his men back from the brink of murderous revenge. Desperately, Sara managed to swing her head around to see the Stranger, pinned down, red-faced, and bleeding from the nose, but well enough to keep up a faint, hoarse stream of inventive profanity. The outpouring was as eloquently expressive, though not quite as fluent as song. Sara worried that shouting and straining so hard might reopen his injuries.
The leader of the human rebels knelt by the Stranger, taking his face in both hands.
“It’s too bad you can’t understand me, fella. I don’t know what you did to the urs, but I truly am grateful. Made a complicated situation simple, is what it did. For that reason, and because your living carcass is still valuable to us, I’ll hold back my guys. But if you don’t settle down, I may be forced to get unpleasant with your friend here.”
With that he nodded pointedly at Sara.
The Stranger glanced at her, too, and somehow seemed to grasp the threat. His stream of scatological curses tapered, and he ceased heaving against the men holding him down. Sara felt relieved that he stopped straining so hard-and strangely moved to be the reason.