I moved on ahead. I didn’t like to be on the ground near the bowhorns. They were too big, and Nia’s mount was sometimes restless and even nasty. I certainly did not want to follow the animals. It was a hassle to have to keep watching for dung.
That evening we camped by a little marshy lake. Derek and Nia went hunting. They came back at nightfall, empty-handed. We ate stale bread and drank water from the lake. It had a funny flavor.
“Swamp water,” said Derek. “I’ve drunk worse in California.”
“In the desert?” I asked.
“Mostly. But also in Berkeley. A couple of the people in my department had really lousy taste in wine. And they were important people. I had to go to their parties.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Nia.
“A drink like bara,” I said.
“Is it nasty-tasting?”
“Sometimes,” Derek said.
He wandered off, taking his radio. I stayed with the two natives by the fire.
The big moon was up and more than half-full. I looked at it, trying to see evidence of a volcanic eruption, but the clouds veiled it and blurred its edges.
I looked at the natives. “Does anything unusual ever happen to the big moon?”
“What do you mean?” asked Nia.
I thought for a moment, trying to figure out how to describe something I had not seen. “Do bright spots ever appear on it? Do things ever appear on the rim, like a wisp of steam rising or like a tongue of flame licking out?”
Nia made the gesture of affirmation. “But that isn’t unusual.”
“What does it mean?” I asked.
“Nothing that I know of.” She frowned, thinking. “There are people in the west who have found a way to look at the sun without harming their eyes. According to them, the sun is not flawless and untarnished the way we think it is. They say it is spotted. The spots are black. They crawl around like bugs. When the spots appear—a lot of them—it means the weather is going to get bad.”
“I’ve never heard that story,” said the oracle. “But I know what it means when a spot appears on the moon.”
I made the gesture of inquiry.
“It means the Mother of Mothers has not been watching her pot.”
“What?” I asked.
“The old women say the big moon is a cooking pot. It belongs to the Mother of Mothers. Sometimes she forgets to watch it, and it boils over. Then we see what you have described. The old women say it means the winter will be hungry.” He paused. “My mother says the old women are wrong. She has kept a moon string for many years. Every time something happens up there, she ties a knot. And she has other strings that she uses to keep track of the weather. Rain. Snow. A big wind. Drought. She has a string for every kind of weather. There is no connection between what happens on the moon and what happens on the plain. That is her opinion. I think she is right.”
“Huh,” said Nia. “I have never heard the story about the moon. If it isn’t true, I won’t repeat it.”
“The part about the cooking pot is most likely true,” the oracle said. “My mother said nothing about that. Not everything that happens in the world of the spirits has an effect on our world here.”
Nia made the gesture of agreement.
Derek came back. I glanced at him. “Did you get through to Eddie?”
“Yes. Why shouldn’t I?”
“There was static last night, and I’ve been talking to computers the past couple of days.”
“Eddie didn’t mention anything about static.” He sat down, folding himself neatly. “Or about computers. But he has been spending time in one of the big holovision rooms. The moon is erupting. And the eruption is big. We are missing one heck of a sight.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Nia.
“The moon,” I said. “It is boiling over.”
She looked at the sky. “It’s too bad the sky is cloudy.”
The next day Nia said she wanted to walk.
“I am feeling restless again. If my ankle begins to bother me, I’ll ask you to dismount.”
“All right,” I said.
The oracle, as always, rode. Now and then we passed little marshes or half-dry lakes. The sky was hazy. Hani Akhar remained just barely visible.
Late in the afternoon we reached the top of a rise. Below us was a lake. It was much larger than the others we had seen, irregular in shape and full of tiny islands. The edges were marshy. Monster grass grew in bunches on the shore.
Nia said, “I know this place, though I haven’t been to it before. This is the Lake of Bugs and Stones. We are in the land of the Amber People. They come here in the fall on their way south. They fish and hunt for birds, and they perform ceremonies in honor of the mountain.”
The oracle made the gesture of agreement. “Another holy place.”
We descended. The sky was clear in the west. The sun was low. The water glittered, and I could barely see. We passed a grove of monster grass. The lake was only a few meters away. Reeds moved in the wind. The water flashed. Something bellowed. It was right in front of me, crashing out of the reeds, rearing up. My God! It was three meters tall! The mouth was open. The forearms reached toward me, claws spread. Another bellow! The animal I rode jerked its head. The reins whipped through my hands. The bowhorn bucked, and I kicked free of the stirrups. A moment later I slammed against the ground. The jolt went through me. I yelled. Then I was standing upright.
“Back off,” said Derek. “Slowly. Don’t frighten it.”
I took a step back. Derek was next to me. I couldn’t see Nia or the oracle or my bowhorn. The pseudo-dinosaur bellowed again. But it didn’t move. Now, for the first time, I saw it clearly. Three meters tall. Hell! It was more like four. It had a bright pink belly and a crest of yellow feathers. Its arms and shoulders were dark blue-gray.
I took another step. The creature hissed. The open mouth was full of teeth. Blunt teeth. It was an herbivore. But the claws were long and sharp. For digging? Did it fight? The head tilted. A tiny bright eye stared at me.
“Keep moving,” Derek said. His voice was low and even. “One step at a time.”
I saw Nia on the other side of me, a knife in her hand. A useless weapon against this monster. It made another sound. A moan. What did that mean?
Something was moving behind it, coming up from the lake. Another monster. I blinked, trying to see against the sun. It was smaller than the beast confronting us and went on four feet. Its back was gray.
“The female,” Derek said.
It turned its head and bit off a reed. Then it went on, chewing, making a loud crunching sound. Pieces of reed hung from its mouth. Three other animals came after it. These were small, about the size of a Saint Bernard. Two were quadrupeds. They waddled after the mother. The third hopped awkwardly.
“Well, what do you know?” said Derek.
We kept moving back, away from the angry male. Where was the oracle? I couldn’t see him.
Mother waddled on. The children followed. At last they were out of sight, hidden by a grove of monster grass. The male hissed, then turned and bounded after his family. My shoulder began to hurt. My knees gave out. I sat down.
“Very interesting,” said Derek. “They care for their young. That helps explain how they are able to survive in competition with the pseudo-mammals. The mammaloids. We need a whole new vocabulary. O Holy Unity! I thought I was going to piss in my pants.”
Nia said, “Hu!” She put her knife away. “I hope the crazy man is all right. His bowhorn took off. The last I saw of it he was still holding on.”
“Oh, my God, Derek. Our equipment. The radios.”
He laughed. “On the bowhorns. Out there.” He waved at the plain. “Are you all right?”