Like an antelope, back to the clearing. Then, at the last curtain of ferns, she screeched to a halt. Knelt, the canvas over her shoulder, and slowly crawled into the clearing.
Julius was still there, now holding Manuel. The boy was asleep. And, to her vast relief, the creature had not moved. It was no longer alone, however. Another had joined it. The two animals were standing side by side, staring. Their hides, she noticed, were still mottled with ochre. But the pinkish-reds had faded considerably.
She hoped she knew what that meant.
A look of relief washed over Julius’ face when he saw her enter the clearing. He extended his hand.
“Toss it to me.”
She shook her head, and kept crawling toward him. Once at his side, she unfolded the canvas and draped it over both of them.
They knelt there, clasping each other, facing the monsters, their mouths open.
After a time, they saw the pinkish-red fade from the hides, replaced by thin wavering stripes of green. After a time, they saw the green grow into solid bands—still against ochre—and the creatures approach. And the beaks slowly open.
Khaki life washed over them.
Remembering that day, Indira flipped back through the pages of the notebook, looking for the entry.
I should had gotten it immediately. I knew the creatures were chromatophoric. It must be the principal method by which they communicate (outside of the hoots), although I suspect that there’s a lot expressed in the way they curl their tentacles. (No—the proper word is “arm.” “Tentacles” are those specialized arms that squids develop, the long ones that end in palps. Tentacles are arms specialized for mobile hunters, and these critters ain’t hunters of any kind.)
Nice, shy, friendly, giant octopi.
Octopus-heads, I should say.
Okay. Just in case this notebook should someday fall into the hands of an expedition come to our rescue—about a thousand years from now, I estimate—let’s try to describe these beautiful nightmares. I don’t want to draw down the curses of the historian, like those dopes in Roanoke who didn’t keep any diaries. No, sirree. Worst cussers in the universe, historians. I know. I’m in love with one.
Here goes:
Imagine a body shaped like the thorax of a lobster. About the size of a buffalo. Except that a lobster’s thorax is the carapace of an arthropod—hard and rigid. The carapace of these creatures is more like the mantle of a squid, without the flukes. That’s it. Mantles. They must have evolved from something like squids.
But a squid’s mantle is too soft to serve for a land creature. These mantles are much tougher. Cartilaginous inside, I suspect. Squids on earth still have a vestige of a shell inside their mantles. I suspect that on this planet the “molluscs” evolved something that serves the same purpose as a skeleton. Any large terrestrial animal has to have some kind of hard structure to support its weight. Probably pieces of shell-like material, linked together by a network of cartilage and muscle. Terrestrial analogies can be thought of. Some of the dinosaurs maintained rigid tails in a similar way. (Okay. Loosely similar. Give me a break.)
I can’t be sure, of course, without dissecting one of them. (Oh boy. I mutter that in my sleep, Indira might cut my throat.)
(Come to think of it, I might cut my own throat.)
The body of the creature is enclosed by the mantle. A hard, but not totally inflexible, carapace. A thick integument covers the mantle. The integument becomes especially thick and hard (almost like soft horn), at the front of the mantle. What I’ve decided to call the “cowl.”
I call it that because the front edge of the mantle looms over and protects the head below. Necessary, I suspect, because the head of this critter has no skull. But we’ll get to the head later.
How does this thing get around? Well, here’s where the molluscan Bauplan shows its possibilities. I’d love to know what the ancestor looked like. Just when you think it must have been a pseudo-cephalopod, you look at this thing’s feet.
A two-legged gastropod. I kid you not. They’re not “legs,” of course. Not the slightest resemblance. Instead, the creature’s peds are like fleshy—what can I call them? The closest analogy I can think of is pontoons. Except pontoons are rigid, and these peds are semi-segmented, like lumpy treads. Again, without cutting them open (down, boy, down) there’s no way to be sure—but I’d bet that there’s a complicated structure in there. Something like what must exist inside the mantle: a network of “shell”-slivers, cartilage, and muscle.