The conversation continues more naturally after that. I’m asked questions that I sometimes answer and sometimes pretend not to understand. They all want to know where I come from, but I’m not about to reveal Theodora’s existence to these guys, so the answers they get are all about Earth, and otherwise as vague as I can make them.
Sprub’ex, the scarred man, sits opposite us, half in shadow. He hasn’t touched his food. His eyes flick to me, then away, then back again, as if looking at me directly costs him something.
“The Deep sends signs,” he says finally. His voice is rough, unused to being the center of attention. “It sends krai. It sends strangers. It sends things that don’t fit.”
The air tightens. I can feel it, like a held breath.
Crat'ax swallows his mouthful and wipes his hands on his thighs. “The Deep sends what it will,” he replies evenly. “It is our task to receive, and be grateful.”
“Grateful? First we must understand it,” Sprub’ex counters.
Crat'ax lifts his hand. “We passed the test,” he says. “The Deep was satisfied. The krai is dead. The village stands. The rekh didn’t kill Callie or me. Or you, strangely enough.”
There are scattered chuckles. Just like that, the tension eases. It’s not gone, but lighter. The scarred man glares at me, then looks down at his plate at last. The moment passes, filed away rather than resolved.
I take another bite, aware of how closely Crat'ax watches my reactions, not my mouth. Whether I flinch or shrink. Or whether I look like I might break.
I don’t. This isn’t even that bad. And I didn’t choose to be here. None of this is on me. This is all on Crat'ax and his tribe.
Conversation resumes around us, louder now. Stories of the attack, exaggerated and retold already. Someone demonstrates with his hands how big the krai’s claw was. Someone else argues it was bigger. A boy mimics the sound it made, and another leaps from one table to another to show Crat'ax’s jump.
At one point, a hand reaches across me for a bowl. Instinctively, Crat'ax shifts, his arm coming up just enough to block the movement. It’s smooth, almost casual, but the hand withdraws at once. No one comments. My pulse kicks up anyway, as my body reacts before my mind does.
I finish what I can of the food and set the plate aside. My stomach is full, my head pleasantly light from the frit. Thefirelight makes everything feel closer, more intimate than it should be with this many people watching.
“We have many evenings like this,” the chief says, turning to me again. “It’s my favorite part of being a Deep-worshipping tribe.”
“It’s nice,” I say. “It feels more safe than jungle.”
He nods, satisfied. “Precisely. Much safer. The krai almost never comes. Now it will not be back for years.”
Crat'ax leans closer, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “We can leave.”
I glance around the Circle, at the fire, the totem pole looming behind it, the offerings gleaming dully at its base. At the men who have already folded me into their evening without knowing what I’m doing here. Well, I’m not the one to ask.
“Soon,” I say. “Not yet.”
Something in his expression shifts at that. Approval, maybe. Or something more complicated.
We stay for another hour before he straightens and announces it to the group instead, rising to his feet. “The meal honors the Deep. Callie is tired. We will go.”
No one challenges him. A few nod. Someone murmurs a blessing after us as we step away from the fire, back toward the darker edges of the platform village. Only a couple of them glare at us.
As we walk, I become aware again of how close he is, how the noise and heat fade behind us. The night air is cooler here, the bay a black mirror broken only by torchlight.
I don’t know what I am to this tribe yet. A guest? Maybe.
But to some, I’m obviously an omen. And not a good one.
I touch Crat'ax’s wrist. “Crat'ax. Why am I here?”
10
- Crat'ax-
The firelight fades behind us as I lead Callie away from the Circle. It does not vanish all at once. It thins, stretches, and clings to the edges of the platforms, as if reluctant to let her go. I feel the weight of it on my back. The men are watching, and measuring.
I don’t look back, and I don’t answer her question. It’s something I’ve been wondering, too.
