The beasts of Barakhai

Chapter 3

BENTON Collins sprawled on the floor of his cell, the stone warming to his body. His eyes lay open; he felt incapable of closing them. The irregular, plank ceiling became indelibly etched on his vision: the watermark in the shape of a bottle, the knothole like an ever-staring eye, the spidery crack that emitted a steady patter of water droplets. You will be hanged midmorning. The words cycled through his mind, always in Falima's voice, a death knell he had no way to escape. "I didn't know," he said to no one. "How could I possibly know?"

Collins scraped his fingers along the damp stone in mindless circles, his back aching and his wrists throbbing with every heartbeat. This can't be happening. People changing into animals? It can't be real. He forced his eyes shut, hoping that, when he opened them, he would awaken from this nightmare. The darkness behind his lids was filled with shadows.

Beyond his control, Collins' eyes glided open to confront the same water spot, the knothole, and the crack. The water plopped steadily against stone.

Collins awakened with no realization of having slept. Only the diffuse glow illuminating the prison revealed that morning had come. Distant voices wafted to him, unintelligible and intermingled with the occasional clink of metal. He sprang to his feet, the movement inciting a sharp pain through his back and right shoulder. The hard floor had stiffened him during the night.

Four men entered Collins' field of vision. They all wore the familiar rust and gold, swords, and batons. They also carried a rope.

Terror seized every part of Collins. He flattened against the back wall of his cell.

The men spoke to one another in their odd language, then gestured Collins forward.

Collins did not move. "There's been… a mistake," he wheezed through a throat gone painfully dry. "I didn't know. I… didn't… know." Enough time had passed that the rabbit no longer filled his belly, a constant reminder of a heinous crime. Yet he found it impossible to eat.

The guards exchanged more words. Then, one stepped forward and unlocked the cage. Two of the men entered, one carrying the rope. The door clanged shut behind them.

Collins measured the two with his gaze. Both stood shorter than his five-foot-eleven frame, and only one outweighed his 155 pounds. However, both moved with a wary dexterity that threatened experience and strength. It seemed as foolish to fight as to go willingly. The first would gain him bruises in addition to his sentence, but the latter would mean he had done nothing to avert his fate. Either way, he had nothing to lose but more pain. He was going to die. I'm going to die. Despite the time he had invested in it, the thought seemed beyond comprehension.

The man without the rope, the heavier one, drew a loop in the air with his finger, an obvious gesture to turn.

Collins only blinked, pretending not to understand. It seemed safer than insolence.

The men conversed a moment, then nodded. They lunged for Collins simultaneously. He leaped backward, crashing against the wall with enough force to send pain lurching through his spine and breath huffing from his lungs. A moment later, they had him prone, arms pulled behind him. The ropes tightened around his wrists again, reawakening the previous day's agony. He screamed.

The guards shouted over Collins. The two hauled him to his feet, the door opened, and they all escorted him through the prison hallway. They went through another door, attended by two women in the standard uniform, then emerged into sunshine so bright it seared Collins' eyes. He shut them, allowing the men to guide him blindly, stumblingly forward. Gradually, the sounds of a crowd grew around him, mingled conversations interspersed with an occasional call and sometimes pierced by a bark or whinny. He opened his eyes to slits, seeing a blur of faces, streets, and cottages in a glaze of brilliant sunlight. Then, he caught sight of the gallows towering over the rest, and he forced his eyes fully open despite the pain.

Collins now saw that he walked through a village of mud-and-thatch cottages, shops, and mills. The gathering consisted of a teeming mass of people, as varied in appearance as Americans, except they all wore simple homespun: grizzled elders and slouching adolescents, adults of every age, some clutching children's hands or babies in their arms. The shadow of the gallows loomed over them. Collins pinned his attention on the vast wooden monstrosity. A rope dangled from its uppermost pole, over a high, warped platform with massive, metal hinges. Clearly, the rope went around the victim's throat, then the platform was dropped, suspending him, by his neck, just above the level of the crowd. Him. Collins shivered. Him is me. He would feel his spine snapping, a moment of excruciating pain followed by absolute and permanent nothingness. Permanent. The enormity of death filled his mind with a terror beyond panic, the realization that the world would go on without him in it, that his time on this earth would end, not in years, but in minutes.

Collins reared backward, against his captors, screaming in mindless hysteria. Their grips tightened painfully, nails gouging his arms, then his legs. He felt himself lifted into the air. He squirmed, desperate, howling, aware only of the complete and monstrous need to break free. Though Collins recognized forward motion, the significance of it refused to penetrate the thought-shattering horror that drove his fight.

It all came home moments later.

The noose tickled, then hugged Collins' neck, and he went utterly still. It's going to happen. It's really going to happen. I'm going to die. A hopeless rationality filled him, a strange relief from the previous panic. And I'm not going down in the history books as the hero who faced his end bravely. His mind slid to a story he had read in junior high, about a man hanged from a bridge who hallucinated a grand escape in the moments before death. He wondered if it really happened that way and realized that no one could possibly know. He would, but he could do nothing with the information. If only I'd gone to the Johnsons'. If only I hadn't followed that rat. If only I hadn't eaten that rabbit. Regrets followed, the inability to apologize for small misdeeds, to say good-bye. He thought of all the things he would never get to do: hold a job, marry, coddle his children. Visit Disney World.

A man said something Collins could not understand.

Collins laughed hysterically, screwing his eyes shut. Then, the floor fell out under his feet, and he felt himself plunging. He tightened the muscles of his neck and face, bracing for the final impact.

The fall seemed to last forever. Then, a jolt shocked through his groin. Agony cramped his stomach, and he tumbled forward. His nose struck something hard and hairy, driving more pain through him. The crowd roared. Collins forced his lids open. Immediately, wiry hair slashed his eyes, and he shut them again. He felt forward movement, gaining momentum. The noose lay heavy on the back of his neck. He dared a shuddering breath, and air glided silkily, surprisingly easily, into his lungs.

The crowd continued shouting, sounding like they were in an open air sports stadium. Collins sat, splay-legged, on something warm and furry that carried him at a rocking sprint away from the gallows. He remembered the name of the hanging story: "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge," though the significance of knowing it eluded him. Pitching his torso back, without the use of his still-tied arms, he wrenched open his eyes again. His breaths came in pants, due to shock not pressure.

Farm fields flashed past Collins, and forest loomed ahead. Behind, he heard yelling. The noose remained around his neck, trailing a length of rope. He sat astride a horse, its black mane whipping into his face, one golden ear forward, the other flicked backward. A set of saddlebags lay slung across its withers. Falima? he wondered, doubting the possibility. She had seemed so hostile toward him the previous night. He eased more steadily onto the horse's back, not caring who or what had caught him, only glad that he had at least a little longer to live.

The horse lunged around the trees, racing between trunks with a speed that quailed Collins. He wished for the use of his hands. Weight shifts and knee pressure seemed woefully inadequate to keep him astride as the animal kept up its breakneck pace on narrow deer trails through dense tangles of forest. Then, as if in answer to his wish, the ropes loosened on his wrists. He fingered them, his exploration rewarded by frayed areas where it had, apparently, broken. He twisted it blindly over fingers, hands, and wrists, hampered by a warm, sticky liquid. Then, the rope fell away, freeing his hands. He pulled the noose from his neck, rubbed his bleeding wrists, and seized handfuls of mane.

The horse loosed a low nicker and slowed, slogging through denser brush and between more tightly packed trunks. Something buzzed past, irritatingly close to Collins' ear. He swatted at it, missed, and turned his attention to the terrain. The horse wallowed through tangles of brush, forcing Collins to flatten against its neck or side to avoid braining himself on leaning deadfalls and shed branches caught in the crotches of other trees. Time and again, he jerked a leg onto the horse's back to rescue it from being crushed.

Collins had done some riding with his high school girlfriend and realized he could steer the animal better than it could randomly pick its way along the trail. Taking up the rope intended to kill him, he fashioned it into a raw bridle, essentially a loop with reins. Gliding up the horse's neck, he flicked the coil around its nose.

The horse made a sound deep in its throat but otherwise seemed to take no notice of the rudely fashioned tack. As panic receded, Collins considered his situation. He rode on a horse that might, at other times, be human, possibly even Falima. The animals he had thus far seen acted exactly like the creatures they resembled in his own world, except for the too-friendly rabbit. Joetha, he corrected, cringing. Apparently, while in "switch-form," they lost their human memories and fully became animals. He wondered if all humans here had an animal-form, whether he might acquire one if he remained here too long, and how much control they had over the change.

Collins steered the buckskin around a thick, low-hanging branch. It ignored his gentle pull, so he increased the pressure, then drove his opposite heel into its flank.

The ears jerked backward. The horse reared with a sharp squeal, then followed Collins' instruction. The horse's reaction flashed guilt through him. Perhaps the horse did retain at least some of its human understanding. Suddenly he remembered the dogs' unwillingness to share his feast in the field. They must have some crossover between human and animal time. Otherwise, the dogs would never know they could not eat meat.

Collins had acted from impulse, accustomed to steering horses with reins and heel strikes. The horses back home had always taken these techniques in stride, a standard and accepted form of communication. Apparently, people here had a different way of making contact with their horses. He had tried talking to the rabbit and had received no response or indication that it understood. In the field, the guards had used a rope on Falima's horse-form, so she had to have some experience with being led. Nevertheless, he resolved not to kick her any more.

Something buzzed past Collins' head again. This time, he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a large bumblebee or horsefly zipping past him. Human, too? he wondered, then dismissed the thought. No world could support even a hundredth as many people as bugs.

Collins turned his attention back to the horse. "Hello," he tried. "Are you Falima?"

The animal gave no indication it understood, though one ear did rise from its previous position, plastered angrily against its head.

The ride continued for hours, the horse ignoring every attempt by Collins to end it. Pulling back on the rope only made it raise and shake its head. Verbal explanations and, later, exhortations were met with nothing more than a few flicks of its ears. When he tensed to leap from its back, it quickened its pace dangerously, tossing him back into his seat. Eventually, Collins gave up, settling into the most comfortable position his sore thighs could find, flicking off the rope, and allowing the animal to take him where it would.

Finally, deep in some clearly unexplored part of the forest, the horse stopped. It dropped its head to graze at weeds poking around deadfalls and fallen clumps of leaves, then shook its entire body. The sudden movement caught Collins off guard; a grab at the flying mane barely rescued him from a fall. He slid down the horse's side, dislodging the saddlebags and clinging only by his hands. Mane hairs bit into his fingers.

The horse responded with an abrupt toss of its head that tore his grip free, as well as several strands from its mane. Collins dropped to the ground, rolling, hands protecting his head from a chance movement of the animal's hooves. It placidly returned to grazing, paying him no attention at all. The saddlebags lay on the ground.

Carefully, gaze fixed on the animal, Collins eased the saddlebags to him. Made of some natural fiber, the saddlebags yielded easily to his grip, much lighter and flimsier than the leather bags he had used in high school. Its well-crafted shape and metal weights sewn into the central areas kept it in place despite the lack of a pommel. He unlatched one of the two buckles and peered at a bulge of fabric. Hoping for something to replace the sweatshirt he had left to block the door crack in Daubert Labs, he pulled free several pieces. He unfolded a brown dress wrapped around a braided rope halter and lead, followed by a royal blue tunic that looked child-sized. Three knives thumped to the dirt, then a canteen and a stoppered crock. He worked the stopper free and peered inside, discovering a moving mass of what appeared to be enormous bugs. Startled, he dropped the crock. Three black beetles rolled to the ground, bearing a striking resemblance to the round objects he had seen on his salad in the prison cell. One opened its wings, then lifted soundlessly from the ground. The other two followed a moment later, and Collins recorked the crockery.

Collins discovered several more articles of clothing, in varying sizes, including a green tunic and cloak as well as a pair of brown britches that looked as if they might fit him. He pulled the tunic over his head, leaving the lacings undone. It felt odd, the fabric rough against his chest; and it was strangely tight in some places and loose in others. At least it kept him warm. The other pack contained more clothing, another canteen, a parcel of white paste resembling Play Doh, his cell phone and watch, and three pairs of wood-and-rope sandals. He also found a few hard rolls, wrinkled apples, and a wrapped packet of something that looked and smelled like the curds he had tasted on a field trip to the cheese factory in sixth grade.

Collins clipped his cell phone in place and stretched his watch back onto his wrist. It read six o'clock, which was clearly wrong. The sun lay directly overhead. He reset it for noon. Then, needing to relieve himself, he struggled into the weeds. Even as he walked, he realized the ludicrousness of his action. It hardly mattered where he chose to urinate in the depths of a forest. Only the horse would see him, yet he felt odd doing it in front of her, in case she was an intelligent alter ego of Falima. He walked just out of sight to perform his business, then studied the scene around him.

Trees and brush stretched in every direction as far as Collins could see. The intertwined branches emitted sunlight in patches, checkering the forest floor in patterns of gray and gold. In this area, oaks grew predominantly, their distinctive serrated leaves closely resembling the ones in Collins' world. Deep layers of rotting brown leaves lay like foam beneath his feet. He took a long breath of air, savoring the clean dampness. A whiff of smoke entered with it, and he froze. He was an escaped murderer now; he had to assume he'd be pursued.

Whirling, Collins ran back to the horse. A root hooked his foot, sending him sprawling. He skidded through leaf mold and muck, coming to a stop near the saddlebags. Beyond the horse, a campfire burned a cheery, crackling dance. In front of it sat a middle-aged man with skin like milk. From beneath a broad-brimmed hat, white-blond hair fell to his shoulders; and his eyebrows and lashes became invisible in the sunlight. He wore black linens that resembled some of the clothing from the saddlebags. Collins stared, reviving his genetics lessons. Albinism accompanied certain syndromes, including some that dangerously weakened the immune system. But, he recalled, most albinos simply inherited a recessive gene from both parents that left them without melanin.

Shocked by the thought, Collins pushed it from his mind. He could not understand why he remained so calm when, likely, the other was hunting him. Caught, he would certainly be executed immediately. He whirled to run.

"Come!" the albino said in English. "No run." He repeated, more emphatically. "No run."

Curiosity warred with common sense. Collins turned carefully. "You speak English?"

"Little," the man responded. "No hurt." He rose and gestured toward the fire, seeming frustrated with his own limited ability to communicate. "Help you. Bringed here." He shook his head in irritation. "Come."

Still uncertain, Collins took a step toward the other man. A crock rested in the center of the fire, bubbling lazily.

"Me… Zylas," the albino said, looking up. Pale blue eyes met Collins' brown ones. "Zylas." He pointed at himself. "Understand?"

Collins nodded vigorously. Then, realizing the action might not mean the same thing here, verbalized his answer. "Understand. I'm Ben. Benton Collins, actually; but you can call me Ben." The horse moved nearer the fire and whinnied.

Zylas reached up and patted it reassuringly.

"Is that…" Collins started, wondering if the question might be improper. "Is that Falima's switch-form?"

"Falima." Zylas patted the horse again. "Yes, Falima."

Collins made an intuitive leap. "And you're… you're that rat." Hoping he had not offended the man, he softened the question. "Or aren't you?"

"Rat, yes," Zylas returned. "Me rat." His pidgin English clashed with Falima's fluency. Collins found himself wishing for her human form, even if she did seem to intensely dislike him.

"Did you… rescue me?"

Zylas nodded, glancing at the cooking food. "Chew rope off neck. Chew rope off hand." He stirred the contents of the crock with a stick. "Falima catched."

"Yes." Collins glided nearer. "Falima caught me. Thanks.

Thank you. Both of you." He reached out to pet Falima, but her ears jerked flat to her head, and it seemed safer to remove his hand. "I don't think she likes me."

Zylas grinned. "She'll… come around."

It sounded funny to hear someone who barely knew the language using idioms. Collins guessed Zylas had learned English by example rather than textbooks. "I-I truly didn't know about the animal… transformation thing. Honest. I would never have eaten-"

Zylas waved Collins silent. "I know. Haven't talked into Falima… yet. I been there." He made a throwaway gesture. "She no been."

Collins filled in the missing words. "You've been to my world."

"Yes." Zylas wrinkled his nose.

Hope soared, and Collins smiled. "So you can get me home from here."

A light flickered in Zylas' soft eyes, and he shrugged. "Try."

"All right," Collins said carefully. "Try." He reminded Zylas of the obvious, "Because, if you don't, I'm dead."

"Yes." Zylas went back to stirring.

Expecting something a bit stronger, Collins chewed his lower lip. "I really appreciate your saving me."

"Mmmm."

"And your taking me back to the… the way back to my world."

"All right."

Collins glanced at the crock, recognizing it as the same one from which he had poured the beetles. "Um, are those… um… bugs you're cooking?"

Zylas followed the direction of Collins' gaze. "Fraharas." He translated. "Bugs, yes. Big, hard-shell bugs." He added, as if it might matter, "They clean."

Collins had not eaten since the rabbit. Terror had kept hunger at bay, but now he realized he would like a bite. Not bugs, "Is that what you eat?"

Zylas bobbed his head. "Bug. Fruit. Vegetable." He said the latter with an extra syllable and an improper emphasis, so it emerged like vejahtahbull. "Fish. Milk. Cheese. Egg-but not with baby in." He tossed the parcel of curds. "These better?"

"Much, thank you." Collins popped one into his mouth. It squeaked as he chewed it, but it tasted at least as good as any cheese in his world. He ate three more pieces before speaking again. "Do all people here become animals."

"Not opernes." He considered the translation. "King… and… such like…"

"Royalty?" Collins tried.

"Royalty." Zylas rolled his eyes as if tasting the word, then bobbed his head. "Royalty. Others all yes."

"And all animals?"

"Become person."

"All?" Collins put more cheese into his mouth, talking as he chewed.

"All."

Collins found the contradiction. "But you said you eat fish."

Zylas scooped a liquid spoonful of beetles from the crock and slurped it into his mouth. "Fish not animal."

Collins' gut churned, and he looked away to keep himself from vomiting. The logic seemed maddeningly circular. All animals became humans, but "animal" was, apparently, defined by the ability to transform to human form. "Anything else living not considered animal?"

The beetles crunched in Zylas' mouth. "Bug. Plant. Fish." He shrugged. "That all." He eased the crock fully from the fire.

Falima wandered off for better grazing, still well within earshot.

"And when you're an animal." Collins downed more cheese, keeping his gaze averted. "Do you remember and understand… people stuff?"

"Stuff?"

Collins tried to explain. "Speech, hands, manners."

Zylas scooped and ate more beetles. "Some." He clearly fought for words. "Depend on want. Age. Ex… ex…" The word would not come.

"Experience," Collins supplied.

"Experience," Zylas repeated. "Experience."

"So the more times you become a rat…" Collins trailed off.

"Better… overlap."

"Between human and animal forms?" Collins supplied "Right."

Collins ate more cheese, then asserted. "I think I'd spend half my childhood in switch-form, or even more. Get the hang of it as soon as possible." Feeling Zylas' intent gaze upon him, Collins met the pallid eyes.

"No choice."

"What?"

Zylas used wild hand gestures to punctuate his words, as if this might aid the translation. "Spend half time people, half animal. Change at time, same time, always. No choice."

"Every day?"

"Every day," Zylas confirmed.

Collins tried to understand. "So, half the day you're a rat and half a guy?"

Zylas nodded.

"Do you get to choose which half at least?"

"No choice," Zylas replied again. "No choice at all."

A million more questions occurred to Collins as they rode Falima, for hours, through the woodlands; but he remained silent as Zylas had requested. Sunlight sliced intermittently through breaks in the forest canopy, alternately covered by clouds and branches. Although Collins did not recognize the pathways they took, he had little choice but to trust his new companion. The rat/man had rescued him from execution and did appear to diligently check their route. At irregular intervals, he slid down from his position behind Collins to scout. Some things, Collins could figure out for himself. For example, clearly each person had an individual change time. Otherwise, Falima would have become human at noon, as Zylas had.

Brush rustled. Zylas reached around Collins to lay a pale hand on the left side of Falima's neck. Instantly, she swerved to the right, then went still.

Collins turned to look at his companion. The other man shook his head, gestured at Collins to remain in place, and made a motion near his mouth that Collins took as a plea for quiet. Worried about unseen dangers, he felt his heart rate quicken.

A squirrel appeared on the trail, an acorn clutched between its paws. It gnawed at the nut, flicking its tail in jerky bursts, then continued on its way.

Falima glided back onto the path. Collins smiled at Zylas' paranoia, which seemed oddly stronger than his own. Then he remembered. That squirrel could be the local police. As they continued on their way, Collins had to ask, "That squirrel. Was that someone you know?"

"No." Zylas replied into Collins' ear. "Durithrin."

Collins shook his head at the unfamiliar word. "What?"

"Durithrin," Zylas repeated, the word no more comprehensible the second time. "A… a…" He sighed. "Not… city… people."

Collins nodded, letting Zylas off the hook, though he still did not really understand. He guessed it was a concept his world did not need, something that applied only to human/beast interfaces.

Collins missed the signal that brought Falima to a stop. Zylas dismounted and disappeared into the brush. Collins remained in place, finger combing the horse's mane and laying the strands in their proper position. Falima stood stock-still, giving no sign she noticed his ministrations. Shortly, Zylas returned. "The ruins." He pointed ahead. "Not far." He flung a hand from Collins to himself, then jabbed it toward the ground.

Taking it as a signal to dismount, Collins slid to the ground. The movement revealed a tightness through the muscles of his thighs and buttocks that would likely become an ache by morning. His wrists had stopped bleeding, but they still dribbled clear fluid and throbbed with every beat of his heart. Both shoulders felt bruised. He looked at his watch. If correct, they had ridden for more than two hours.

Zylas talked softly to Falima and stroked her nose. The horse pawed the ground and snorted. A large insect buzzed past Collins' face.

"Ready?"

Collins looked up, only then realizing Zylas had addressed him. The blue-white eyes lay unsettlingly upon him.

Collins' gaze shifted unconsciously to Falima.

"She not come," Zylas explained, stepping around Collins and heading in the direction he had scouted. "No need."

Collins continued to study the horse, who had lowered her head to graze and seemed to take no notice of the humans' conversation. He hardly knew her; yet, for reasons he could not explain, he would miss her. "Tell her I said 'good-bye.'"

"I will," Zylas assured without looking back.

Collins turned and followed the rat/man through the brush, excitement building with every step. Soon, he would return to the mundane world of troubles that no longer seemed so significant. Staring death in the face, he might not have found courage, but he had found new perspective. Nothing less would ever seem formidable again.

The forest broke gradually to the familiar field of wildflowers and weeds. On the hill, the broken fortress looked positively welcoming. Collins raced toward it.

"Wait." Zylas charged after his impetuous companion. "Wait!" He dove on Collins.

Abruptly driven to the ground, breath dashed from his lungs, Collins twisted to glare at Zylas. "What the hell did you do that for?"

Zylas' answer was an inclination of his head.

Collins followed his companion's gesture. Just ahead, a ragged line of arrows scored the ground. They had not been there when he had started his run.

"Damn." The expletive left Collins' mouth without intention.

Zylas seized Collins' hand and wriggled back toward the forest.

"Damn," Collins repeated, following. "Guards?"

"Would guess," Zylas returned.

More attuned, Collins heard the second round of bowstrings singing, the rattle and thunk of the arrows landing. He lunged for the forest, Zylas at his side.

There, beyond range of the bowmen, they stopped to study the ruins. Collins saw only the stone building, sunlight flashing from chips of quartz in the crumbling construction. "How did you know?"

"Didn't." Zylas also studied the ruins. "Sense. Smell… guess."

Sensed and smelled. It seemed logical to Collins that some of the animal instincts would permeate into the human phase as well. Thank God. Now relatively safe, he started to shake, terrified in a way he had not felt when the arrows directly menaced him. I almost died. Again. He looked at Zylas, skin white as paper and hair the nearly colorless blond most men loved and many women sought in a bottle. As they retreated back to Falima, he tried to lighten a mood wound as tensely as a spring. "Got any friends who change into rhinoceroses?"

Zylas blinked. "What?"

"Never mind." A dinosaur or an army tank might do it.

Falima made a soft, snorting nicker, then pawed the ground.

Zylas spoke to her gently in his own language. He turned his attention back to Collins. "We go." He leaped onto Falima's back, sliding toward her hindquarters to make room for Collins. Collins' heart felt as if it were sinking into his toes. "Go? But…" But… what? What do I expect him to do? Clearly, approaching directly and in broad daylight could lead only to their deaths. Apparently, at midnight, Zylas would resume his rat form. Then, he could slip past the bowmen. And do what? Give them all bubonic plague? He stifled a hysterical chuckle. With a sigh of resignation, he clambered onto a rock and, from there, to Falima. The horse took off, going back the way they had come.