Crat'ax stands taller in the boat. His spine straightens, and his massive jaw sets. He doesn’t look at me, but his presence shifts, as if he has put on a mantle I did not see him wearing before. This is not the man who dragged me through sand and smoke and who took me for no good reason. This is a man who knows exactly where he stands.
The skirr surfaces beside the boat with a wet sound and slaps its tail against the hull. A few figures on the nearest platform recoil. One spits into the water.
So even here, the skirr is trouble.
Crat'ax clicks his tongue at the creature without anger. It circles once, then dives, its sleek body vanishing into the dark water. He pretends not to care about that creature. But nobody pretends that hard without something underneath.
The boat glides closer. The stilts rise higher now, slick with algae, barnacle-like growths clinging stubbornly to the lower beams. I smell dry seaweed, smoke, and salt. But no trash, no obvious decay. Everything here is maintained, like you would expect in an organized tribe.
Crat'ax nudges the boat against a post and secures it with a practiced twist of rope. He climbs out first, barefoot on wet wood, steady as if the platform were solid ground. He turns and offers his hand.
I hesitate for a couple of seconds. He has to know that this is also not my choice. But I can’t make him look weak in front of his tribe. That could make him really mad, I think. So I finally take his hand.
His palm is rough and scarred. Heat blooms where our skin meets, sharp and undeniable. He steadies me as I step onto the platform, his fingers tightening reflexively at my wrist. The contact lingers a beat longer than necessary. His eyes flick down, then away.
The wood is smooth under my bare feet, but I’m sure I’ll get splinters unless I can make some kind of footwear. All these menare barefoot, though. Maybe they polished the planks well before they built this platform.
The attention of the village presses in. Cavemen come walking fast, boys run along the planks to see what’s going on.
They are big. Not all of them are the same size as Crat'ax or Sprisk, but enough that the effect is overwhelming. Purple-striped skin catches the dim light. Muscles shift under scars. Weapons are everywhere — knives, clubs, spears, and hooks. But no swords, despite Cora telling us all the cavemen have those and think they are really important. That could be a good sign.
Murmurs ripple through the platforms. I catch fragments I recognize. Woman. Deep.Given.
Not necessarily the words you want associated with you when you are standing barefoot and exhausted among giant aliens with weapons.
Crat'ax steps forward, placing himself half a pace in front of me. He’s not blocking me, but demonstrating responsibility. And, it crosses my mind, ownership.
He speaks, his voice low and controlled. I don’t understand all of it, but the meaning seems pretty clear. He found me. Near the beach. The Deep’s reach. And I think he claims that he didn’t take me by force.
That last part draws a few skeptical sounds, including from me.
I straighten my spine and square my shoulders. I stand where I am — visible, breathing, watching.
A narrow walkway leads inward toward a broader platform at the center of the village. Something about it feels different and intentional. It’s the village square, I think. There’s a big fire ringand a big totem pole that grows up through a hole in the floor and must be resting on the bottom of the ocean.
Offerings rest along that hole — bones, pretty pebbles, smoothed bits of driftwood, carved tokens I don’t recognize. The ocean stretches beyond, vast and blue-green, its surface reflecting the bright light from the rising sun.
Crat'ax gestures, brief and economical. He speaks again, slower this time, as if translating for me as much as for them. The Deep gives what comes ashore. The Deep takes what resists. The Deep is not kind. The Deep is not cruel. It iscorrect.
There is no shaman, as far as I can tell. Unless it’s Crat'ax. This is not worship as I understand it. Rather, this is acknowledgment, the kind you give gravity or storms. That might be good news, or bad.
Cora told us about the cavemen’s Ancestor religion, which basically rests on a prophecy about some kind of legendary creature called “the Woman” being found by a random caveman, who is then supposed to Worship her and Mate with her. I didn’t like the sound of that at all, but if these guys don’t subscribe to that madness, then I might not be in quite as tough a bind as I fear. But we’ll see.
Someone steps forward. A man with heavy scars across his chest and arms. His gaze fixes on me, sharp and assessing.
“That female did not come from the water,” he says. I catch enough to understand that much. “She came from the sky.”
A ripple of unease follows that.
Crat'ax does not deny it. He nods once. “She comes from the beach. The area between Deep and Dry, where the Deep oftengives us what we need. There was a Plood ship as well. She escaped from it and walked to the beach, toward my fire. I realized that she had been given to me. By the Deep.”
Eyes narrow and shoulders tense when the Plood are mentioned. These guys don’t like those nasty little kidnappers any more than I do. A common enemy means common ground, I suppose.
But now I have to assert myself. I will not be talked about as if I’m an object.
I swallow and step forward before I can overthink it. My heart pounds so hard it threatens to drown out reason. I lift my hands, palms out. Universal language, I hope.
It’s very quiet.
