Gren’ix’s eyebrows lift. “Big enough to fill the whole bay?” he asks. “That is a great farum indeed. What do they grow there? Things like these?” He plucks a leaf from one of the plants and holds it out to me.
It looks like arugula, except the leaf is red with green edges, its veins darker and more pronounced.
I take it gently. “Like these,” I say. “And other. Many. Grain. Potatoes. Corn.” I pronounce each word slowly, clearly. That feels like the right instinct here.
“Many farum,” Gren’ix says, wonder creeping into his voice. “You have brought me an expert, Crat'ax. How do they get the water they need?”
“Howyouget water?” I counter. “No can use that water.” I point down toward the bay.
“We gather water from the jungle,” Crat'ax explains. “There is a stream. Before it runs into the Deep, we take it in pots and barrels and bring it out here, many times every day.” He points toward the shore. “Look. Those boys.”
I follow his gesture and spot a narrow canoe approaching the village. Two boys paddle hard, with practiced movements. A large pot sits between them, heavy enough that the canoe rides low in the water, its rim dangerously close to the surface. Still, the boys are grinning, glancing up at the village and at me, then making inaudible jokes.
“Many farms on the dry,” I say, already feeling the limits of my vocabulary closing in. I don’t want to have to explain about pipes and irrigation. “Close to streams.”
“Wonderful,” Gren’ix says, shaking his head. “We should bring the stream out here one day.”
“The Deep gives us water on the shore,” Crat'ax says. “Bringing a stream from the Dry out here would be difficult.”
“We do many difficult things,” Gren’ix replies mildly. “Some even take women away from the Plood.”
Crat'ax moves us on before I can respond. He shows me the storage huts, dry and well ventilated. Their interiors are lined with shelves stacked with jars and bundles. One hut smells particularly good, even from the outside, rich and smoky.
“Splix,” Crat'ax says. “Smoked so they keep for a year or more. This hut will soon be full again.”
Inside, only a few dozen dried, smoked fish-like creatures hang from the bars, but there is room for hundreds more.
“Not know this on Xren,” I say. “Is on Earth.”
“There are splix on Earth?” he asks.
“Not same,” I admit. “But close. We call them ‘fish.’”
“The splix run every year,” he says, closing the door. “They will come soon. Perhaps in a few days. Perhaps sooner. I will show you my spear.”
I glance down at his loincloth. “Um. All right…”
He leads me back toward the platform where his boat is tied. He jumps into it with easy grace and lifts out the spear. It is longerthan he is, as thick as my wrist, its leaf-shaped head wide and wickedly sharp. Edged, round blades jut out partway down the shaft, giving it an unmistakable shape that makes heat crawl up my spine when he holds it up to the sun. That silhouette must be on purpose.
“And use against ocean Bigs,” I say.
“Sometimes,” he replies. “Only when I must.”
I look around the village again. It appears to be thriving. For the first time since crashing on this planet, I imagine a future that does not involve constant terror. I imagine a hut at the edge of the village for me and Theodora, one with a drawbridge so we can decide who will be allowed to visit us. I imagine safety.
I imagine perhaps staying.
We could build our hut at the outer edge, toward the land side. There is even a platform there now, but there are no huts, and it looks different from the others. There is no walkway leading to it, but still it has a tall fence around its edges. Its supporting structure looks much more intricate and solid than the other platforms.
I point. “What that?”
Crat'ax doesn’t even look. “It’s a sacred place for worshipping the Deep. There’s no need to go there.”
It doesn’t look much like a place of worship at all. I would have thought that the village’s central Circle, with the totem pole and the offerings, was where these guys would have their religious ceremonies.
As I stare at the platform, I swear there is movement among the thick supporting poles, between the platform and the surface of the water.
“Is man there?” I ask, walking to the edge of the platform we are on and squinting against the glare from the waves.
