The chief seems kind, I think. Good-natured. But as I watch the men around him, I notice something else. They look to Crat'ax, not to the chief. They take their cues from him. His presence carries weight and authority.
I am not surprised.Isure can’t take my eyes off him.
Dozens of eyes move over me openly now, taking in every detail. My skin prickles, and I resist the urge to fold my arms across my chest. For the first time since stepping onto this platform, I feel very exposed.
“Is this whole village?” I ask.
“I will show you,” Crat'ax says and leads me further along the wide walkway, past the tribesmen. “Chief, I will give Callie a tour of the village. She must know the important things.”
The chief’s smile falters. “But not the?—”
“I will show her what she needs to know,” Crat'ax says firmly. “Callie will be perfectly safe with me.”
The scarred man laughs again. “Can you be sure about that? Callie, the gift from the Deep, you should find out what it is he’s keeping you safe from.”
Yeah, that scarred guy is a disruptor. He’s clearly not popular, but I think he’s the kind of jerk who will often say what others are thinking. And his words do make me curious.
“This is the Circle,” Crat'ax says as he leads me past the totem pole and a table that looks like an altar, with offerings of shinyshells, tusks, claws, crystals, carved wood, and other things that may have some kind of religious meaning. “This is where we have the evening meal and where we sometimes have meetings. That platform down there,” he points down into the water from the edge, “is where we gather the splix when they have their run. We can usually catch a few hundred of them out in the open ocean, and they feed us for the next year. Other tribes come here to trade for them.”
I gaze out toward the open water. The day is calm, with a steady breeze moving in from the sea and lifting the edges of my hair against my neck. Salt hangs thick in the air, mixed with the sharper tang of seaweed drying somewhere below the platforms. Under it all is the warm, comforting smell of wood smoke drifting out from the village’s central fire.
The fire itself sits on a massive, flat slab of stone. I pause to really look at it, trying to imagine the effort it must have taken to haul something like that out here and balance it on a wooden platform above the waves. It is an inelegant solution, but an effective one. The stone shields the planks beneath from the worst of the heat, and the fire burns steadily.
I catch myself thinking that a hanging fire pan would have been easier and lighter. But it looks like these guys have lived here for decades without burning their village down.
It’s not a bad place at all.
We pass over walkways and past huts. There is no rot, no sagging wood, no sense of neglect. The floorboards beneath my feet feel solid, worn smooth by years of use. Some planks look newer than others, with a lighter color and sharper grain, as if they were replaced recently. The huts are sturdy and uniform, builtlarge enough for eight-foot-tall men without feeling cavernous or wasteful. Nothing here feels temporary.
The men stare as I pass. They don’t try to hide it. Their eyes follow me openly and curiously, often with something sharper beneath the surface. But none of them are idle. Every one of them is working at something. Some are shaping wood. Some are repairing ropes or lines. Others are hauling beams or fitting planks into place. New huts are going up at the edges of the village, and several boats sit half-finished along the outer platforms. A few narrow canoes are already heading toward the shore, their paddles flashing in the sunlight as they cut through the water, likely bound for more timber.
This village is alive. It’s even expanding. But I can’t see the most important things.
“Where Lifegivers?” I ask, because Cora’s voice is still in my head, telling me how important those are to tribes without women.
Crat'ax does not slow his pace. “Our Lifegivers live in the jungle,” he says. “They will not survive in this village.”
He leads me toward a section of the platform that looks different from the rest. Here, the planks are covered with a thick layer of soil, contained by low wooden walls. Neat rows of plants fill the space, colorful and orderly. The leaves look fat and glossy in the sun.
“We lost one when we tried to move it out here,” he continues. “Many years ago. We gave it deep soil and much care, but it did not survive. Now old Gren’ix uses the place.”
I stop short, surprised. It is a garden, tidy and carefully tended. The plants are arranged with intention, spaced evenly, weeded,and healthy. The air smells rich and damp here, earthy beneath the salt and smoke. I recognize shapes that look close enough to Earth vegetables to make my chest tighten. There are leafy greens, thick-stemmed plants, and even a row of low bushes heavy with berries.
“Is nice,” I say, and for once my broken caveman grammar feels inadequate.
“I do my best,” a creaky voice says behind me.
I turn to see an elderly man approaching slowly with the aid of a stick. His back is bent, and his movements are careful, but his eyes are clear and sharp. His hair is white, and the stripes on his skin are so faded that I almost miss them at first glance. He must be very old, older than anyone I have seen since coming to Xren.
“And it is a great help, Gren’ix,” Crat'ax says warmly. “It has saved many trips into the jungle. This is Callie, given to me by the Deep yesterday.”
Gren’ix studies me without haste. His gaze is thoughtful rather than hungry, curious rather than invasive. “I have heard of you, Callie,” he says. “Welcome to the tribe. And to my little patch of Dry here in the middle of the Deep.”
“Is afarm,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “Is farms on Earth. My world.” I point up at the sky, because that gesture seems to translate well enough.
“Farum,”Gren’ix repeats slowly, tasting the sound. “There are? Then you will know much about this. Do those farum look like mine?”
I look around, taking it in properly. The space is maybe a thousand square feet, a raised bed of soil contained like asandbox, its wooden walls reaching up to my hips. “Yes. But big. Much big.” I search for words and come up empty, so I gesture instead, sweeping my arm toward the edges of the bay. “As big as water.”
