Dreadaeleon skulks around the edges of my periphery, almost as bad as Hongwe. I say ‘almost’ only because he spooks and flees the moment he even gets a whiff of me. I may have been harsh with him in the forest, but he’s never … well, rarely been this jittery before.
Denaos tells me, in passing, that Dread is going through some changes. That’s about all he’ll ever tell me. It’s interesting: of all the sins I’ve tallied against Denaos, drunkenness was not one until now. If I don’t speak to him before breakfast, I’ll never understand him before the slurring, assuming he doesn’t go spilling his innards in the bushes. Each time I try to talk to him, he’s got an alcohol-fuelled excuse that I cannot argue against. It almost seems like he’s planning each drunken snore, each incomprehensible rant. Or maybe he just likes his list of sins well rounded.
In such cases as this, Asper can usually provide insight, but she’s been just as silent. And when I say silent, I mean exactly that. Dreadaeleon flees, Denaos drinks, Asper doesn’t even look at me. I might get the occasional nod or rehearsed advice she’s said to a hundred different grieving widows, but she won’t look me in the eyes. I pressed her once; she screamed.
‘ Ask your stupid little shict if you’re so Gods-damned concerned about everything! Pointy-eared little beast knows everything, anyway!’
‘ Humans, eh?’ was the extent of Kataria’s explanation when I did consult said beast. Of all of them, Kataria is the one who doesn’t flee, who will look me in the eyes. I should be happy with this. But she’s the most tense of all, even when she smiles. Especially when she smiles.
She seems at ease, but her ears are always high on her head. She’s always alert, always listening to me just a bit too closely, waiting for me to say … something.
She doesn’t stare anymore.
I never thought I would be worried by that.
I never considered them honest, but I did consider them open. Some more than others. Sometimes I wonder if Gariath, and his constant threats, kept all our tension directed toward him. These bipedal lizards just don’t have the same appeal that he has.
Sorry. Had.
If he’s alive, he’s not coming back. He’s wanted to be rid of us for ages, so he said. Of course, he didn’t seem to want to live very badly to begin with, so perhaps he’s found a nice cliff to leap from. Either way, I hope he’s happy.
I want them all to be happy. I do. I want them to be able to live without war. I want us to part ways and be able to forget that our best memories together were born in bloodshed.
And maybe it’s up to me to help them with that. I am the leader, after all. I should be there for them, help them with this, no matter how drunk, skittish, silent or paranoid.
It won’t be easy. For any of us, least of all me. I hear the voice. Not always, not often, but I know it’s there. I’m likely the one man who shouldn’t be looking into someone else’s life.
But I can do this.
I can do this for all of us.
Tonight is Togu’s celebration, a ‘kampo’, he calls it. It’s something of a joint feast to herald the end of summer and remember the day humans came to their island with salvation from starvation. To hear the other Owauku speak of it, it’s an excuse to drink fermented bug guts and rut.
Sounds like fun.
As good a time as any to gather everyone together, to tell them all that I’ve been thinking, to tell them what we can do, that we can live without war. From there? I suppose I’ll find out.
Hope is not going to come easy.
But I can do this.
Twenty-Seven
‘KAMPO!’
The collective roar of jubilation rose from the village’s valley into the night sky like an eruption from a volcano too long dormant.
The Owauku had come exploding out of their huts and lean-tos in waist-high green tides, setting bonfires alight to challenge the black sky overhead. Their drums had followed shortly after, pounding relentlessly without concern for rhythm. And, as though it were some honoured guest arriving to mark the official beginning of the festivities, the mangwohad been rolled out in tremendous hollowed-out gourds, dispensed into smaller cups for the patient. Those lizardmen not possessing such restraint simply buried their heads in the drink and came out barely alive but wholly satisfied.
Once Lenk had seen enough to know that he was quite annoyed by the whole affair, his attentions turned to the Gonwa. To a lizardman, they abstained from the merriment, keeping out of the paths of the exuberant Owauku, lingering near fires only long enough to cook gohmn. Against the throngs of their squat, joyous hosts, they stood in groups of three or five, with only three or five groups amongst them.
Only now, as he walked along the edge of the upper lip of the valley, did Lenk truly notice how few and how silent they were.
‘They aren’t going to join?’ he asked the brightly coloured creature to his side, gesturing to a nearby throng of Gonwa.
‘The Gonwa come from Komga,’ Togu explained. ‘They have always had enough, so they don’t think it cause to celebrate when you no longer have nothing.’ He sniffed. ‘Also, they’re just weird.’
‘Right, but weren’t they invited? You said this was for us, didn’t you?’
‘That might have been a lie.’
‘Might have been?’
‘They get hard to keep track of when you have a position of authority,’ Togu replied. ‘You know … well, of course youknow. You lead, don’t you?’
‘Yes, but I don’t really lie.’ Lenk’s eyebrows rose appreciatively. ‘Is that what I’ve been doing wrong?’
‘Probably,’ Togu said. ‘At any rate, it’s not a completelie. This time twenty years ago, humans came to our starving island and brought with them all we needed to become what we are today: coin to collect, grains to make the gohmns grow strong …’
‘ And all the brandy needed to forget when we didn’t be havin’ ’em!’ a passing Owauku cried out, to the roaring amusement of his companions.
‘I’ve been curious,’ Lenk said, glancing to the distant forest. ‘If your forests are barren, how have you survived this long?’
‘Barely,’ Togu replied. ‘Our numbers reached a point where we could subsist off of the occasional fish caught. But they swam so far from our shores that we could only bring back so many. We survived by starving.’
‘Until the humans came.’
‘Yes,’ Togu continued, ‘and the Kampois here to remind us of what the humans have done for us, and to celebrate what we came from. In a way, it is a celebration of you.’ He flashed a broad grin at the young man. ‘Of course, there was some hope that you’d be smitten by our native charm and be convinced to stay and convince more humans to come.’
Lenk blinked, pondering if the intent fixation of both of the Owauku’s eyes was supposed to be expectant, speculative or possibly slightly nauseous. Hedging his bets, he simply shrugged.
‘Sorry,’ he replied. ‘We’re hoping to leave tomorrow.’ He glanced over the ledge, deeper in the valley, where he spied Denaos adding another half-gourd cup to a growing pile. ‘Most of us, anyway. In fact, I was hoping to see the boat.’
‘The boat?’
‘The one you’re lend … giving us,’ Lenk replied. ‘If I can figure out how it works now, it’ll save the time of learning it tomorrow.’
‘Of course … tomorrow …’ Togu waddled to the edge and stared down at the jubilant masses. ‘My people have forgotten the word, it sometimes seems. A few down there likely remember the barren forests we came from, but they have plenty now, so why should they remember?’ He sighed deeply, and then looked to Lenk. ‘Have you ever had this problem in your position? Sparing your friends the harshness so that they might continue to laugh and smile?’