I yank my fingers free and reach for the spear.
Her hand latches down on my wrist, squeezing so tight the bones of my arm pinch together. The pain surprises me; she’s far stronger than I thought. I look into her hard eyes. She mouths words: Don’t…you…dare.
She slowly stands straight. Her grip on my wrist forces me to stand with her.
The Springer stops in front of us. Purple skin wrapped in jungle-colored rags. Angry green eyes.
The others of its kind are still shrieking. They have come out from their hiding places. Musket barrels waver, as if the Springers aren’t sure where they should aim. It hits me—they wanted the purple one to stay clear. Now they can’t fire for fear of hitting one of their own.
I realize that I can easily tell these four apart. Their strange faces…at first I thought they looked the same, but now…not even close. And none of them are the ones Bishop and I saw earlier.
The purple Springer’s three green eyes bore into me, blinking slightly against the pounding rain. Purple doesn’t even seem to notice Spingate. Wet skin gleams. That skin looks…healthy. I realize Purple is shorter than the others.
Shorter, because it’s not fully grown.
When we first saw Springers on this path, two of them were children. Red skin. The bigger ones, the ones with wrinkles, they were blue. Do the Springers change color as they age? If so, the one in front of us isn’t a child, but it isn’t an adult, either. It’s somewhere in the middle.
Like us.
The other three scream louder. Their tone has changed from alarm and aggression to something that sounds like pleading—I think they are begging Purple to get away from me.
It lets out a guttural bark, a single syllable that rings with aggressive command.
The Springers fall silent.
Rain pours down.
Purple leans close, examines me. It wears the same multicolored rags as the others, but also something they don’t—a shiny copper chain around its neck that connects to corners of a copper rectangle hanging in front. The rectangle looks thick, heavy, with lines and swirls of a language I don’t recognize.
The Springer leans back. Its gun butt comes up so fast I barely see movement before the wood cracks into my chin. I stumble, the world spins.
Spingate reaches for me. “Em, don’t fight back!”
I hear a thonk, like a rock thrown against a hollow tree. Spingate falls face-first in the trail’s thin mud. I get to my hands and knees, try to rise, to fight, but pain explodes in my back as the gun butt slams into me again. I fall to my belly.
I roll left twice, fast, creating space between me and the Springer. I pop up on my feet.
Purple stands between me and my spear. Before the Springer can even aim its musket, I rush forward, kick up and out as hard as I can—the toe of my boot catches the big, frowny jaw. Three eyes wince in pain. It hops backward, trying to aim the gun at me, but I rush forward, duck under the barrel.
I reach for the knife hanging from its belt.
A hammer blow to my left temple. I fall to my knees. Something cracks against my right cheek. The other Springers, they rushed in while I grabbed for the knife.
Blackness comes in waves. I taste blood. I tuck into a ball, knees to chest, hands over ears, elbows tight in front of me. Musket butts hammer down, striking my shoulders, my knees, my shins, my back, the top of my head. So many hits, so fast—I’ve never hurt so bad in my life.
Yes you have…yes you have…you can’t remember because you don’t WANT to remember…
I think of my Grampa. I think of the canoe.
The beating stops. The echoes of each blow radiate across my body, waves of pain overlapping. I hear myself crying.
A growl, a chirp.
I open one eye. Spingate is on the ground next to me, tucked into a muddy ball. Sobs rack her body. I look up. Purple is holding a piece of fabric toward me. I roll onto my back, coughing, blood bubbling from my nose. The Springer stands over me, green eyes glaring down.
“Ponalla,” it says. The syllables don’t sound all that different from ones we would make. What does this word mean?
“Ponalla,” it says again, shaking the piece of fabric at me, insisting I take it.
I do. Rain soaks the cloth. It’s a drawing of a Springer. An excellent drawing, full of detail. And it…wait. Something about that face. I recognize it—it’s the Springer I ran through with the spear.
Purple stares at me. Those green eyes, so much like ours. I imagine I can read emotion in them. Hate, but also anguish. Sadness. Loss.
What have I done?
“Your friend,” I say quietly. I hold up the wet fabric, offering it back. “Ponalla…your friend.”
Ponalla was trying to kill me. Then it was just some evil thing that I had to destroy. Now, it has a name. It has a friend, heartbroken that it’s gone. In that way, it was no different from us.
I killed it.