A tap on my arm. Bishop, both hands on his red axe, nostrils flaring, staring at me. He gives his axe a single shake, asking me a silent question: Should I kill it?
Is this creature alone? If it spots one of us, will it sound an alarm? It doesn’t seem to be wearing anything like the Grownups’ bracelets, nothing that could hit us from a distance. Bishop can surprise it, kill it quick. This thing isn’t like us—it is other—and we face so many threats already.
I don’t know what to do.
Blue eyes scan the trail, the underbrush.
Two small hops bring the creature closer.
It wears a lattice on its chest, kind of like a necklace: it’s made of bones. A bulging bag hangs from its hip.
Only a few steps away now—it wouldn’t have time to react before Bishop buries his axe in that wide head.
I glance across the trail. From my angle, Borjigin is barely visible behind a covering of wide leaves. I can’t see Coyotl at all. I have no idea where Visca is.
The fire-builder rises up slightly. The heavy tail rests on the ground, supporting its weight. It opens its wide mouth and barks out a single, harsh syllable.
More movement from farther down the trail. It wasn’t alone. Three rag-tied creatures that look just like the first. No, their skin isn’t as wrinkled, and they’re a different color. Two are a purplish blue, the other is purplish red. The purplish-red one is the smallest of the four.
Then, two more creatures, less than half the size of the others—children. Their skin is a bright, deep red.
Bishop tenses. He’s going to attack.
Kalle puts her little hand on his arm. Wide-eyed, she shakes her head.
That small gesture brings me back to our desperate situation—we need help. If we can eat what these creatures eat, it doesn’t matter that they aren’t human.
I look into Bishop’s eyes, mouth the word No.
The six creatures suddenly spring down the trail. The adults move quietly and gracefully. The little ones have to make twice as many jumps to keep up. Those two are tiny, with big, blue eyes—I can’t help but think of them as cute.
All of them continue down the trail, vanish into the jungle.
Everything has changed. Children. Families.
Their scent—burned toast—the same thing I smelled at the fire, at the hole in the wall…and at the Observatory. Creatures like these were watching us there. They didn’t attack.
Bishop whispers in my ear: “What do we do now?”
I have no idea. I should have tried to talk to them, but I was too stunned, too afraid.
How long have those creatures been on Omeyocan?
They aren’t like the spiders. The spider is an animal; these creatures wore clothes, jewelry, carried either a tool or a weapon. They acted together, as a unit, like we do. They protected their children.
I don’t have to be Spingate to see that the creatures are well fed. And from what little we know, it seems we can eat what they eat.
The answer to our survival lies with something that isn’t human.
I need to learn more.
“We’ll follow them,” I say. “Let’s move.”
—
We stay close together. Visca is in front. He sweats more than anyone I’ve ever seen; most of the dirt and plant juice have washed off his face. His pale skin looks reddened from the sun, although his black circle-star symbol still stands out clearly.
He keeps us on their trail. That’s not easy, as we’ve crisscrossed at least a dozen intersecting paths. If the fire-makers made all of these paths, I wonder how many of them there are.
The building with the fire pit…one wall had been knocked in. We think a spider did that. Does that mean spiders attack the creatures just like they attack us? Could that possibly give us some common ground, a way to start communicating?
Every twenty or thirty steps, Visca stops, looks at the ground or an overhanging branch. I watch him carefully, see what he sees: a bit of overturned moss, a dangling wisp of colored thread clinging to a branch, a footprint in the dirt holding pooled-up water. This is how he tracks them. I wonder if I could do the same. I’m beginning to think that if I really paid attention, I could follow them using my nose alone.
That smell…burned toast…my dad used to make breakfast. For me and Mom and…I had a little brother? Dad was great at dinner, especially pork, but breakfast was always a disaster…burned toast, runny eggs, and—
Borjigin stumbles into me from behind—I stopped walking, lost in that unexpected memory.
“Sorry, Em,” he says, too loud by far. “I was watching my feet.”
“Be quiet,” I whisper.
He nods furiously. He’s afraid of the creatures, of what else might wait for us in this never-ending jungle.
Kalle is scared, too. I can see it on her little face. We all are, even the circle-stars. We’re just kids, reacting to an impossible situation. No help, no direction, no guidance.
I move down the trail again, catch up to Bishop.
That memory of breakfast. So real. But it’s Matilda’s memory, not mine. Why couldn’t that have been my life? Why couldn’t I have been born instead of hatched? A loving family, parents, a brother.