Without watching, lest I grow more generous than I dared to be, I threw that in the general direction of the creature and ran on after Oomark. But the boy had halted, and when I caught up with him, he was scowling.
“Why did you do that?”
“Because – I was sorry for – ”
“For that?” He laughed in a way I did not like as he pointed.
I turned to see the creature crouched low to the ground, pulled in upon itself as Oomark had been at the sound of that dread horn. It was making no move to follow us.
“What-what is the matter?”
“You were sorry.” He mocked me, his lips grinning in a smile that was not pleasant, which reminded me of – Bar-tare! “You were sorry. But he is sorrier now!” The boy stabbed a finger at the quiet figure.
“Why?”
“You gave him food – now look at him! It hurts and hurts and hurts. And he deserves that hurting! He is neither one thing nor the other. Maybe he’ll be nothing at all shortly.”
“Oomark – ” I tried to catch his arm, but he eluded me, laughing hatefully. “That food – did it poison him?”
“If it did not, he’ll wish that it had. You will, too, Kilda, you will, too. Look at yourself – just look!”
It was his turn to grab my arm and swing it up before my eyes in a hold tight enough to bruise.
That brown shine on my skin had increased. There was a kind of hard shell developing from my flesh. I jerked away, refusing to look.
“You cannot stop it, you know.” Oomark had lost some of his mockery. “Look at me!” He danced from one small hoof to the other, turning so that I could see him from every angle. His hands pulled at his tunic, loosening it. Now he threw that and his under tunic from him so he was bare to the waist. Bare – no! His small body was completely covered with a soft gray down. It was thinner on his arms and shoulders – I could see through it to his skin – but at his waist it grew longer and thicker.
“Put on your clothes!” I tried to give that order my old authority.
“No!” he kicked at one of the tunics. “No!” He stretched wide his arms and capered in a grotesque dance. “Those are hot. They scratch. I do not need them any more – ever!”
He went skittering away, as if he feared I would catch and try to clothe him by force. Unlike the discarded boots, I did not leave them lying. Rather I rolled them tightly and stuffed them into the top of the stone bag.
“Come on!” He beckoned to me. But I glanced back once more at the hairy thing.
Was Oomark right? Had the food the alien begged for so piteously indeed proven poison? But if our natural food had been fatal to it, why had it – or he – wanted it so badly – dogged us, begged? And if our food was poison to a creature of this world, would it not follow that native food would be so to us? I had eaten nothing save from what I carried. But Oomark –
I put all thoughts of the stricken creature out of my mind to run after the boy, determined that this time I would not allow him to take such a risk.
But it was too late, for he stood beside a large bush or small tree planted at one end of a mound. It was heavy with golden berries, and Oomark was not the only feaster. From some of the branches hung those gauzy-winged things I had seen in the woods. And in the grass were small animals.
Neither winged things nor animals took any notice of Oomark, nor did they when I approached. They were too intent upon feeding. The berries were large, perhaps the size of my thumb, and so full of juice that they spattered widely when their skin broke. Oomark pushed them into his mouth three and four together, so the juice trickled down his chin, dripping into the hair on his chest.
“Here.” He held out a sticky hand, three of the globes on it. When I shook my head (and it took determination to do that, for they made me long to taste), he grinned. Then he shrugged and popped the refused berries into his own mouth.
I drew away, realizing I had no chance to stop him, afraid I might yield to temptation. I made special note of the mound by which that bush grew. It was odd to find it in that level land, and it gave the impression of being purposefully humped there for some forgotten reason. Also, it was only the first of a series of such that were erected in a straight line. I counted nine within the visibility limits of the mist.
Each of these had a bush or tree planted at one end. But not all of those were alike. Three were of the yellow fruit. Three bore larger spheres, which would fit into the palm of my hand, and these were a dark purple-red. At them no feasters crowded. In fact, there was something repellent about them. The leaves of the trees there were also not uniformly shaped, but irregular and of a green so dark as to be near black.
The other three trees had a much lighter foliage – a silver edge to long ribbony leaves of a very pale green. Their slender trunks and branches were not covered with rough bark, but smooth and of a silver shade also. They had no fruit, only clusters of white flowers, which swayed gently, even though there seemed to be no wind. Now and then I caught a whiff of a fragrance so sweet that I longed to run and bury my face in one of those clusters. But, like the purple fruit, they seemed to ward off touch, though I did not have the same distaste for them as I did for the dark fruit.
These trees were all planted in a pattern: first the golden berries, then the purple spheres, last the silver flowers. Then they began all over again, through the same series twice more. So I was very sure this was of a purpose. What were these mounds? Graves of rulers or priests now long forgotten? There hung about them an aura of age, of settling into the earth, which did not come only from passing years, but also from the weight of centuries. Or were these the remains of buildings, soil-encased, perhaps the last of some ancient fortress?
It would seem Oomark had had his fill, for he came away from the bush to kneel and rub his hands in the grass, pulling up a tuft to smear the juice from his face, though his efforts at cleanliness were not too successful.
Then he turned about to face the mound and lifted both hands. Holding them palm out, he spoke, certainly not to me, nor to the hopping and flying things still feeding.
“My thanks, Sleeper, for the bounty of the table, the richness of the feast.”
The words had the ring of ritual, a form of invoking the invisible. Once said, he did not linger, but came to me as one prepared for brisk action.
“Who is the Sleeper?”
Oomark looked puzzled and glanced back to the mound. “I don’t know.”
“But you said-”
“I said that because it is right and fitting. Don’t be asking, asking, asking all the time, Kilda! If you would eat, you would know – you wouldn’t have to ask!”
“I would know if I ate. Is that how you know, Oomark?”
“I guess so. Anyway, I know you thank the Sleeper after you eat here. The Folk always have.”
He started away on a course that paralleled the first of the mounds, passing the purple fruit, coming to the silver flowers.
“What about these?” I still tried to add to my store of knowledge. “There are more fruit – ”
“No!” He averted his gaze from the purple spheres. “You eat those – you die. Not all the Sleepers have kind thoughts for the Folk. You don’t eat these, and you don’t touch those!” He pointed to the flowers.
“Are they so deadly then?”
Again he seemed puzzled. “No – not in the same way. It is – they might serve the Folk if they could, but it is not in them to do so.” His frown of puzzlement grew deeper. “I really don’t know, Kilda. The fruit is bad because the Sleeper there hates us. But the flowers – they are not enough like the Folk to be touched.”
Three grades of Sleepers, I deduced – those offering the berries for refreshment, those dangerous and evil, and those too unlike the inhabitants to make contact. Or was I being fanciful now and reading too much into what I had seen and Oomark’s words?