A new smell: roasting meat.
Visca raises a fist. We stop. He kneels, studies the ground, then we’re moving again, down a steep, tree-thick slope littered with vine-covered rubble. At the bottom, a shallow pond that comes up to our knees. I look around, realize the uneven ground rises up on all sides and that the pond is roughly circular: we’re in a crater, wider than the shuttle is long. A shiver runs through me—what kind of explosion could make a hole this big?
Visca keeps going. Soon we’re climbing up the far side. The mostly hidden rubble makes for dangerous footing, noisy footing, broken blocks and bits of masonry clicking and clacking with our steps.
Near the top, Visca holds up a fist. Bishop kneels next to him, looks, waves me forward. The three of us crouch down in the underbrush, just our heads peeking out from behind the crater’s lip.
We stare out at an uneven clearing. Vine-encrusted crumbling walls tower around the edge. Four walls, or at least parts of them, in that hex shape—I think the two missing walls were once where the crater is now. Beyond those ruined walls, the trees are thick, tall and old.
At the center of the clearing, a small, flickering fire. Above it, a little animal roasting on a spit. Juice bubbles out, hisses on the glowing coals below. I know I shouldn’t be thinking of my stomach right now, but the meat smells amazing.
No sign of the creatures. They built a fire, started cooking that animal, then left?
I lean close to Bishop: “Where are they?”
His gaze flicks about the clearing. The way his eyes move reminds me of the rag-clad fire-builder back on the trail, looking for danger, not finding any.
“I don’t like this,” he whispers.
Neither do I, but that doesn’t matter. I missed the first chance to talk to these creatures. I won’t miss the second.
Creatures…that’s no way to think of intelligent beings that might help us. I will call them Springers, at least until I understand what they call themselves.
“I’m going to the fire,” I say.
Bishop shakes his head. “Let me. They could be dangerous.”
Could be, that’s true, but Bishop is dangerous. Back on the trail, he was ready to kill them all. Even the children, probably. If there’s any chance for peace, for cooperation, I don’t want him screwing it up.
“My decision,” I say. “Stay here.”
His face tightens. At the shuttle, he follows my orders without question. Out here, he expects I will follow his.
Not this time.
I step over the crater’s lip. The clearing’s footing is uneven, a once-hard surface shattered as if by an earthquake. Dirt, vines and leaves cover the ground, cling to broken bits of building. Anything exposed to the light is dotted with blue-green moss. The path we were on continues, a narrow line that winds through the larger bits of rubble.
I’m scared. I’m excited. I don’t know what I’m doing. I realize I’m holding the spear tightly, sharp tip leading my way. Will they think I’m attacking? Maybe I should drop it. No, if they attack me, I have to be able to defend myself.
I move toward the fire, forcing my feet forward, one short step after another.
The fire pit is a ring of piled stones. Small bones are scattered about. The Springers have eaten here before, perhaps many times.
Over by one of the still-standing walls, I see a stack of round purple fruit, each as big as my fist. I walk to the pile. Some of the fruits are whole, some are smashed in a messy paste of purple skin and yellow flesh. The paste stinks—pungent, rotten, but with a hint of sweetness. I pick up a fruit: it’s firm, bumpy. Yellowish lines run down its length.
Can we eat these? I’ll have Kalle check. I slide the fruit into one of my coveralls’ many pockets.
I turn to see Bishop circling the fire, looking at it closely. Visca and Coyotl crawl over the crater’s lip, join him.
That makes me furious. Bishop disobeyed me, again. The circle-stars are so much bigger than I am, far more intimidating. What if they scare the Springers away?
Walking in a half-crouch, Visca joins me, looks down at the messy pile of fruit and paste. His sweaty, dirty face scrunches up.
“Those smell awful. What are they?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
He uses the butt end of his sledgehammer to slide the paste aside. There is something smooth beneath, still smeared with thick globs of yellow. He kneels, picks it up with thumb and forefinger.
It is a small animal. Skinned.
“Same size as the one they’re cooking,” he says. “Why did they smear it with fruit? For flavor?” He holds it close to his face, sniffs, frowns, then smiles. “I’ll tell Farrar this is their version of cookies and see if he eats it.”
His laugh is cut short by a loud bang that makes me flinch, makes Matilda’s memories say fireworks. In that same instant, something cracks against the old wall.