And there were a dozen or so small trails of smoke rising up from the middle of it. People.
By the time Denton reached the horseshoe gorge it was almost dark. The sunsets went on forever here, and Denton had made his way, with the speed of a desperate man, through turquoise, pink, orange, red, and purple light, respectively. Finally, with the world around him fading like a bruised grape, he stumbled upon the opening.
There was no mistaking it. It was as remarkable close-up as it had been from afar. The walls of the plateau were steep enough to escape all but the most incessant forms of life—some lichen and a few scraggly climbers. Their salmon color towered over the sea of green. The walls here were shaped like the ends of pichers, rounded to points. The entire opening to the gorge was only about a hundred feet across, half of that taken up by the river that flowed out of the valley like a snake leaving its hole.
It was very pretty. Denton paused for breath, leaning one hand against a tree. He was charmed by the sight, charmed by the happy thought that people would, indeed, pick such a place to live. If there was a creature with a brain in its freaking head anywhere on this entire planet, in fact, this is the spot it would choose to nest. And as he looked around, he found further proof. There was a clearing here, an area deliberately cleared of vegetation. Trees had been cut down, long ago, so that only a half-dozen or so large specimens remained upright, almost like totem poles, in the middle of the clearing.
Definitely man-made. Denton straightened up and took a step back to appreciate it, his heart swelling with relief so strong it hurt. He wanted this to work out so badly!
But then, in that fading purple light, he saw something odd about the trees. They looked… scarred, their bark all torn up. And even while he was thinking that, he noticed that his hand, the hand that had been leaning on the tree, felt a little odd. Sticky. Even stickier than usual.
He lifted it close to his face and in the fading light saw blood.
Denton screamed. It was a short, intense little burst, coming from the gut. It had no sooner come out than he clamped his lips shut. Announcing his presence was the last thing he should do. All the headhunters, the nasty cannibals out there in the forest, were even now pricking up their ears and heading this way. His eyes darted left and right in a panic.
Too late. Maybe it was his imagination—he didn’t stay long enough to find out—but he could have sworn he heard movement behind him, back the way he’d come. Denton ran into the gorge.
He crashed along, his fear making him clumsy. There was a path here, and he followed it with feet that kept tripping over each other in their panic. But after a short while, his ears and eyes on constant alert, over the dimming light, over the sounds of his own breath, he slowed and became aware of where he was.
He was on a path. Oh, there were definitely people. This was not a path made by animals heading to the river to drink. Huh-uh. This was a virtual road through the jungle. He paused, trying to hear if he was being followed, jogged ahead, paused.
The path was about four feet wide. Overhead, the grape sky had faded to indigo and the stars were coming out, though they were not as crisp and bright as they would be later. The path looked quaint in this light, homey even, like something out of a summer camp he had once been to or seen on TV. He heard nothing around him.
Maybe he was being an idiot. Maybe the torn-up bark on those trees was completely natural, just the way the trees grew, like hairless dogs or any of the zillions of other weird species he’d seen on this planet so far. Or maybe the bark was shredded from some anteaterlike mammal that tunneled for insects. Maybe the “blood” on his hand—he looked at it again in the twilight—was just sap. Maybe he was a sap, panicking over nothing. Had he seen body parts? Severed heads hanging from the trees? No. He’d seen some frayed bark and some sticky dark stuff. Heck, with this light, it could be maple syrup.
He lowered his hand and saw the girl.
She was in the trees, sitting on a limb that was level with his chest, watching him. Her legs were folded in a deep squat, her slender hands lightly holding the branch. She might have looked like a wild animal in that pose, if her face were not so wise, if she were not so stunning.
She was stunning. His breath left him. He stared. She seemed just as alarmed as he was, for she stared back.
She was, hands down, the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, as exotic and exquisite as this whole place. Her hair was long, long as her hips, and the soft texture of spun silk. Its color, in this dark light, glowed white, though his mind corrected this estimate to a very light blond. More important, she was human. And not only human but woman. And not only woman but a swimsuit edition centerfold. He literally shook with joy. Because up until that moment, despite not allowing himself a thought to the contrary, he hadn’t really been sure he would find anyone here at all.
And yet… as he continued to stare, his eye began to discern the hundred little disparities that his mind had at first glossed over. There and there and that and… Christ.
She was female all right, at least he thought so, and certainly gorgeous. But she was not human.
Her torso was long and so narrow it looked like stretched taffy. The center of her—with a navel like a dimple—was no wider than his hand. Her hips, covered by a little skirt, were bowl-shaped and wide. Her breasts, if she had any, were covered by her hair. She was probably no taller than he, but even on the branch she gave the impression of freakish height. She was all attenuation. Her limbs were unnaturally slender. Her knees were bent deeply; her toes gripped the branch. Her thighs were as long as his arm.
And her face… it was flat and sharply boned. The nose ridge was only slightly raised from her cheeks, the nostrils peaked and flared with alarm. Her eyes were extremely large and slanted upward, her chin delicate and pointed. She reminded him of… what? An ethnic and very thin model, vaguely Asian except for her coloring, or… yes, drawings he’d seen of fairies.
“Wow.” He released a shaky sigh.
Her head snapped to the side as if she heard something; then she melted away before his eyes. She jumped gracefully from her branch to a neighboring one, fading back into the trees.
“Wait! Don’t leave!” he called out.
And that was when he realized that he was surrounded.
He must have been more mesmerized by the girl than he’d realized. A crowd was standing around him and he hadn’t even heard them coming. His fear returned, more from the sheer unexpectedness of it than anything else. He gave off a brief cry and stood trapped—heart pounding, mouth dry.
His bruises might have faded, but his skittishness from the beating had not.
There were at least thirty of the creatures around him—males, females, and even children. They were quiet, all staring at him with expressions of what he hoped was more perplexity than homicidal rage.
They didn’t look like headhunters. They didn’t look mean and nasty. But there were still thirty of them and he could be wrong.
They were the same species as the girl, of course. And now that he saw them in all shapes and sizes it was obvious how very unhuman they were. They were tall, a foot or so taller than him on average, and very thin. Even the grown males had tiny waists and boyishly narrow chests and arms. Their faces were all flat, with noses that were mere bumps-and-nostrils. Their eyes were oversize and almond-shaped. Their fingers and toes had a little of the gecko about them. Their hair was long and wild and fair, even the males, and their clothing skimpy and brightly dyed.