On Blue's waters

They had originally been of smooth stone of a kind that was not shiprock, or granite, or any other with which I was familiar. In places it had fallen away, and bare earth thick with gravel could be seen through the openings. These gave me hope of climbing out, but when I tried to stand up I found myself so weak and dizzy that I nearly fell, and quickly sat down again.

It is conceivable that the pit had been intended as a trap from its beginning, but I do not believe that it was. It seems to me instead that it was all that remained of some work of the Vanished People, possibly the cellar of a tower or some such thing. The tower (if there had ever been one) had collapsed centuries earlier, scatter- ing its wreckage across the valley and leaving this pit to collect the leaves of autumn and unfortunates like me. Eventually treacherous vines had veiled its opening, weaving a sort of mat which I had torn to shreds when I fell. A few long strands hung over the edge still, and it seemed to me that I might be able to climb out with their help, if only I could reach them; but I was, as I have said, too weak even to stand.

Strangely, I did not sleep that night, although I had slept so long-three days at least-after my fall. I did not, but sat up shivering and tried to rake together a bed of leaves for myself that would keep me warm, or at least less cold, finding among them my slug gun and the clean bones and skulls of several small animals, instruments of divination in which I read my own fate. I prayed; and at intervals of an hour or so, I fired my slug gun into the air, hoping that Seawrack would hear the shots, wherever she was, and realize that I was still alive. When only two cartridges remained, I resolved to reserve them until there was some hope that someone was nearby.

(Until I heard her voice, I suppose; but in sober fact I hear her now although she is so far away.)

Then I would-this is what I promised myself-fire one shot more; and if that also failed, a last cartridge would remain.

Morning came, and with it warmth and a new face that looked at me over the edge of the pit. At the time I thought it the face of a boy or a small man. “There you are,” the owner said. He stood, and I must have seen that he was naked. Possibly I realized that he was not human as well, but if I did it made little impression on my mind.

A moment more, and to my numb astonishment he leaped from the edge, down into the pit with me, saying, “I want to get you out.”

No doubt it was said ironically, but I heard nothing of that. My rescuer had arrived.

“Shall I do it?”

Logically I should have said that he was trapped now just as I was; naturally I said nothing of the kind. “Please,” I said, and I believe I must have nodded. “Please help me if you can.”

“I can if you’ll let me. Will you?”

No doubt I nodded again.

He strode over to my slug gun, a diminutive, sexless figure. Picked it up, cycled the action, and threw it to his shoulder, aiming at the sun, or perhaps only at the edge of the pit. “I can’t use one of these, Horn,” he said, “but you can.”

“Be careful.” My voice had become a weak croak, and seemed the voice of a stranger. “The safety’s off, and you chambered a fresh round.”

“I know.” He grinned at me, and I saw the folding fangs that reached nearly to his chin. “You could kill me with this. All you’ve got to do is point it and pull the trigger. Isn’t that right?”

“I won’t.”

“Your last chance would be gone.” He grinned again, testing one slender fang against the ball of his thumb, as though making certain that it was sharp enough.

“I know,” I said.

He laughed, a boy’s cheerful, delighted chortle. “Do you know who I am, too?”

“I know what you are. Is that what you mean?”

“But not who?”

By that time I was sure he had come to kill me. I stared down at the leaves.

“I am your best friend, the only friend you have in all the whorl, Horn. Have you any others?” He sat down facing me, with my slug gun across his lap.

There was nothing to say, so I said nothing.

“You hate me and you hate our people. You made that clear when I visited your boat. Why do you hate us so?”

I thought of Sinew, livid and scarcely breathing in the little bed we had made for him; but I said, “I wouldn’t hate you at all if you got me out of this. I would be very grateful to you.”

“Why did you hate me so when you woke up and found me on your boat?”

It was a long time before I spoke, a minute at least; but he seemed prepared to wait all day, and at length I muttered, “You know.”

“I don’t.” He shook his head. “I know why you Blue people dislike us, and it’s regrettable though understandable. I don’t know why you, the particular individual called Horn, hate me as you do.”

I was silent.

“Me. Not my race in general but me; you do, and I can feel it. Why does Horn hate me? I won’t name myself yet. I haven’t quite decided on a name, and there’s plenty of time. But why hate me?”

“I don’t hate you,” I insisted. “I was afraid of you on the sloop because I knew you had come for blood.”

He waited expectantly.