I walk after Crat'ax to the central Circle. There’s a big fire on the huge flat rock. Dozens of torches have been lit, and make this place feel almost luxurious to me. I’m used to the creepy lightinside the saucer, the flickering light from our small campfire, and a small lamp that burns dinosaur oil and gives off smelly smoke. This is very different.
The light spills outward over the platforms, catching on wet wood and salt-crusted ropes. Smoke rises in clean columns and then breaks apart in the night breeze, carrying the smell of roasting meat. It’s rich, fatty, and almost sweet. My stomach tightens with a sudden, embarrassing hunger. Purple-striped men are everywhere, mostly sitting down. There are bare chests, scarred shoulders, thick arms glistening with sea-spray. They move with purpose, but not haste.
I think it’s just started, because many are still finding their seats, and big chunks of roasted meat are being cut up. But the conversation is still lively. It stills when we approach.
“Greetings, Callie,” says the one grinning man who wanted to give me juice earlier. “How was the jungle?”
It’s a friendly question, but there’s something about that guy I just don’t like so much. I just give him a shallow smile.
Crat'ax points to a low wooden bench. “Sit next to the chief, Callie. It’s proper. The jungle is always dangerous, Mek’tor. So it was today. We will tell you later, after the chief has opened the meal.”
I sit down, knees together. Crat'ax takes his spot beside me, sitting on the planks but still towering over me. Everyone’s staring, some openly, others less so. The conversation is picking back up, and the topic of most is obviously me.
The chief comes striding. He’s wearing a modest headdress, mostly consisting of shells and long, sharp teeth that could comefrom a sea monster. Three necklaces of shells dangle around his scrawny neck.
“Ah, Callie is here,” the chief begins. “And the brave Crat'ax. Then we can begin this celebration. First we shall thank the Deep for its gifts and its test, which our tribe passed.” He makes a sign with his hand, and the whole tribe says, “The Deep is merciful!”
Then the chief sits down and gives me a magnanimous smile. “How do you like our tribe so far, Callie?”
“It’s a good tribe,” I state, having been asked that question a couple of times already. “It lives on the ocean, and worships the Deep. Other tribes not.”
“Very true!” the grinning man exclaims, as if I’ve just said something profound. “They do not. And look how much better we’re doing!”
There’s a murmur of agreement around the fire. Boys distribute food and drink, serving the chief first, then me, and then Crat'ax. It’s a wooden plate with a steaming, smoked splix on it, vegetables that must come from Gren’ix’s garden, as well as something that must be seaweed. There are snail-like things and a gray mass that I don’t want to guess at, much less taste.
“Only eat what you want,” Crat'ax says calmly, as he bites into a piece of grilled meat that could well come from a dinosaur. “Leave the rest. It was all given by the Deep.”
Everyone’s looking at me, so I pick a piping hot piece of the splix and sniff it. I have had this before, but not in view of everyone. Being seen to like their food must be the right move here. I put it in my mouth. “Is good.”
There are smiles, nods, and low comments.
I chew slowly, enjoying the faint luxury of the heat and salt. The splix flakes apart easily, rich and dry, and the hunger I’d been ignoring roars back to life. I take another bite before I can think too much about it. Around me, the men relax a fraction, as if I’ve passed some quiet test. Yes, it’s the first time they see a woman eat anything. It must be more sensational to them than it seems.
Mek’tor leans forward, elbows on his knees. “She eats like she belongs,” he says to no one in particular.
Sprub’ex snorts. “She eats like she’s starving.”
That earns a ripple of low laughter. I pretend not to understand, though I do. Crat'ax doesn’t react at all. He eats methodically, eyes forward, but his presence beside me feels deliberate and strong. Like a line I can hold onto if I start drifting.
A cup is pressed into my hand. It’s dark wood, warm from being held. Inside is a similar type of fermented fruit juice that Cora and Sprisk brought to us, which is something the cavemen callfrit.This is not the same taste as thefrinethey had, but it’s similar enough. And it’s good.
“Careful,” a man says mildly. “That one makes the night shorter.”
I choke a little, and there’s another round of laughter. Heat rushes to my face.
Crat'ax reaches over, steadying the cup until I’ve caught my breath. His fingers don’t quite touch mine, but they’re close enough that I feel the warmth of his skin.
“We saw a rekh,” he says, taking the attention away from me. “That is to say, Callie saw it.”
The group quiets down, everyone eager to hear more.
“I was busy with a rock,” he goes on, so loud everyone can hear. “And then Callie says ‘rekh’ behind my back. Just like that. As casually as if she had seen a leaf or a bush. So I didn’t react until I really thought about it. Rekh?! And there was a rekh, staring at her from three paces.”
It’s a big exaggeration, but I won’t protest.
Crat'ax goes on to tell the story about the raptor that chased us, making me the hero of the story and turning himself into only a clumsy onlooker who lets the raptor eat his pole.
He’s a good storyteller, too. The men are breathless until the end, when they roar with laughter at the image of Crat'ax practically feeding his boat pole to the raptor.
