“Hem!” he says.
The other two are wide-eyed, two-fingered hands fidgeting on their muskets. Are they afraid? Do I horrify them? When O’Malley climbs the stairs and stands next to me, the two guns snap up. Hammers lock, barrels point at us.
“Don’t move,” he says quietly.
“Wow, Kevin, thanks for that brilliant advice.”
This isn’t the time for sarcasm, but does he think he’s the only person on this planet with common sense?
Lahfah hops between us and the guns, a fast movement that obviously causes pain in his broken leg. He yells at the new ones—that’s the only word to describe the awful noise he makes. The two new ones yell back.
Barkah lets out a single, sharp shout. The yelling stops. The two new Springers lower their muskets. There is no question as to who is in charge here.
“I see it, but I can barely believe it,” O’Malley says. “I mean, I know you told us about them, but…well, they aren’t human.”
I’ve never seen O’Malley in awe before. He stares at each Springer in turn. The two new ones stare at us in equal astonishment.
The rain beats down. The leaking roof creates the same quivering mud puddles I saw last time. The waist-high statues gleam wetly.
Barkah hops to me, reaches out slowly. I see the fingers of O’Malley’s hand twitching, drifting toward the jeweled hilt of his knife.
“No,” I say, calmly but firmly. “Pull that and we’re dead.”
O’Malley forces his hand still.
Barkah touches my sternum. He looks at his friends.
“Hem,” he says.
Then Barkah’s finger slowly moves toward O’Malley. O’Malley stiffens, as if he’s about to run back down the stairs.
“Don’t you move,” I say, forcing a smile. Then I wonder if smiles might be horrifying to them, with all those bare teeth and our squinty eyes.
O’Malley forces a smile of his own. “What if they have diseases?”
“Then you and I will be sick together. Stay still.”
Barkah’s fingertip touches O’Malley’s sternum. Barkah looks at me, waits.
“Ohh, Malley,” I say, sounding it out. “His name is O’Malley.”
Barkah starts to talk, stops. His frog lips wiggle as he imagines how to make the sounds.
“Ohhh-malah,” he says.
I laugh at the simple mispronunciation. I say the name slower, sounding it out, “Oh…mal…eee.”
Barkah concentrates. “Ohhh…mah…lah?”
O’Malley looks at me, astonished. An alien just said his name—or at least tried to—and just like that, Barkah isn’t quite as alien as he was a few moments ago.
“Oh-mah-lah,” O’Malley says. He laughs with delight and relief. “Good enough for me.”
A word pops into my head. I reach out and touch O’Malley’s sternum.
“Kevin,” I say.
Barkah thinks on it a moment, then says, “Kevin.”
O’Malley’s face lights up. “That’s perfect!”
“Kevin,” Lahfah says.
“Kevin,” the other two Springers say in unison.
I shake my head in amazement. “Of course, your name is the one they can pronounce correctly.”
Lahfah pokes one of the new Springers in the chest.
“Tohdohbak,” Lahfah says.
I repeat the name as carefully as I can. So does O’Malley.
Lahfah points to the next one: its name is Rekis. Rekis seems pleased when O’Malley and I pronounce that name correctly. The delighted Springer hops from foot to foot.
The moment is surreal—we are introducing ourselves to aliens, who are probably teenagers just like us. We are laughing, together. This is simple, natural. Why was there ever a need for violence, war and death?
If these Springers are with Barkah and not with the army, maybe they aren’t soldiers. Are they too young to serve? I have no way of knowing. Whatever their role, I don’t have time to worry about it—there is a war to stop.
How do I communicate that to Barkah?
I pantomime drawing on my open palm, point to Barkah’s bag. He understands immediately, hands me a swatch of fabric and a stick of charcoal. I lay the fabric flat on a dry bit of floor. I point to Barkah, make a single mark. I point to Lahfah, make another. Then a mark each for the other two Springers.
I look up at Barkah, waiting to make sure he understands.
Lahfah does first. “Kayat,” he says, pointing to himself, then he points at Barkah—“jeg”—then at the other two Springers—“nar, bodek.”
“He’s counting,” O’Malley says. “Their words for one through four.”
Simple math, simple drawings. They understand.
I need to tell him I saw the Springer army. I point in the general direction of Uchmal. I start making marks as fast as I can: parallel, short, leaving enough space so I can make ten, twenty, thirty, forty.
I point to the marks. I point to Barkah’s musket. I point to my head.
“Bang,” I say. I slump down and play dead.
The two new Springers jump away, babbling to each other.