Its four primary eyes still closed, the creature uttered a sharp, startled snort-hoot that sent Caine back upon his haunches. The water-strider was suddenly awake, its many eyes open and roving fitfully. It worked its mouth; the dried edges cracked anew and bled freely. Several of what looked like feelers split away, fell off in gory clumps. Ignoring Riordan, the strider worked its legs feebly against the ground, trying to push its body in the direction of the water running in from the neighboring bumbershoot’s root-aqueduct. After several heavy shoves, the creature gave up and seemed to deflate, a low, rolling groan coming out of its dorsal respiration ducts.
Caine rose, went over to where the runoff was now audibly trickling along the root: maybe not enough to make mud, but certainly enough to drink. Riordan harvested one of the cone-trees’ spatulate leaves, curved it into a crude basin, and pushed it against the current of water washing close along the surface of the bumbershoot’s root. Slowly, like holding a cup beneath a dripping faucet, the hollow of the leaf began to fill. As it did, Riordan noticed that, in addition to the cloying scents being emitted by the cone-tree, the runoff was strongly aromatic as well. Probably from airborne spores and pollens that stuck to the wet bumbershoot and were then carried along by the runoff, which apparently seeded as well as irrigated the area under the cone tree.
It took ten minutes for Riordan to collect the one-and-a-half liters of water he carried back to the water-strider, moving cautiously as he reentered its field of vision. The creature’s eyes focused, swiveled towards him — it was unnerving to be the center of attention for four eyes — and the behemoth snuffled tentatively. Then eagerly. Its tongue — an immense, blue-gray anaconda covered with slowly waving polyps — slipped outward, moved toward the water like a blind man’s arm extending toward an expected door handle.
Caine brought the water closer, shielding it with his body so that the strider’s tongue wouldn’t slap at the leaf and inadvertently knock it apart. The strider’s tongue retracted, Riordan brought the water to the edge of its mouth and the animal drank, partly slurping at it, partly allowing the human pour it in.
When the water was done, the tongue explored the leaf carefully, being equally careful not to touch its human bearer. The strider sighed: a deep, bellows grumble of relief and comfort. Riordan almost reached out to pat the great stricken beast, thought the better of it, and instead returned to the root-aqueduct for another leaf-full of water.
Caine became quite adept at the process over the ensuing hour. Five more times he gathered the runoff; five more times the strider consumed it. By the end, they had it down to a cooperative pour-slurp-pour routine that wasted a minimal amount of water.
But when Caine returned with the seventh leaf-full, the water-strider closed its eyes and turned its body so that its wide face nestled into the soft mosses and lichens of the ground cover. It emitted a long sigh and was still. Well, if the poor critter can get some rest despite all those wounds— Caine crept away, trying to ignore the queasiness brought on by the growing riot of aromas under the cone tree. It was easy to imagine that he was locked in a closet with thousands of scented candles, each one different, each overpowering odor vying with all the others.
Resolved to get some sleep himself, Riordan found a soft, rootless patch of ground a few meters away from where the glowing puff-lantern had finally landed, near the edge of the canopy. As he watched, a small, scurrying creature edged under the leaves and tore it apart, devouring the tubules and puffballs before darting away again. Caine smiled: so that was how the cone trees’ oppressive canopies managed not to prevent their own repopulation. Their fragrant, glowing fruit baited in small raiders who also worked as seed dispersers. Keeping an equal distance from the edge of the canopy, and the hulking mass of the water-strider, Riordan lay down on the soft spot he had found. If he could just rest a bit—
Riordan awoke from a sound sleep, startled by the strider’s sounds of distress. The hoarse elephantine bleating increased, along with a thick odor that cut through the cone tree’s own olfactory chaos: it was the strider’s musk, but amplified. Caine moved quickly to where the creature’s head was still mostly embedded in the moss. Its eyes were roving blindly. It snuffled when he came closer: not an aggressive sound, but one of recognition, maybe need. Riordan jumped away to get more water, returned with less than a liter. The water-strider closed its eyes allowed him to pour a little in between the great grinding ridges that were its version of teeth, and then stopped, as if something was confusing it. It lifted its head slightly, quaking, and two of its eyes opened, focusing on Riordan as it inched toward him. Caine anticipated that it was going to vomit on him, but instead, it released a great, musk-reeking breath: a surprisingly sweet smell that was part grassland breeze and part old leather.
When the creature had finished that unusually long exhalation, it laid its head down close to Caine, who knew death signs, even alien ones, when he saw them. Taking a chance, he moved closer to it, which the water-strider rewarded by shifting its head to rub three times against his knee. Then it breathed out and was still.
It was impossible to tell exactly when the water-strider died. There was no death rictus or dramatic eye-rolling or sudden gush of fluids. But sometime over the next half hour, the breathing became faint, then undetectable, and then was no more.
Caine stared at the great, gentle beast, wondered if their mutual accord had simply been the artifact of a mortally wounded animal’s desperate toleration, or whether it was indicative of a genuine congeniality intrinsic to water-striders. Whichever it had been, the rest of the night passed in melancholy silence, lit faintly by the violet and fuchsia puff-lanterns.
* * *
After having goggled wordlessly at the fallen water-strider, Veriden and Xue reclaimed Riordan shortly after dawn and the group set out into the early morning mists. They made good time, but despite his filter mask, Caine found it slightly harder to breathe.
Just before midday, and just as Riordan was preparing to take his turn walking patrol on the left point, Dora Veriden pointed out into the river. “Could be more trouble.”
The group followed her gesture and saw three humps in the strong central current, paralleling them. Xue and Salunke raised their rifles—
“No,” said Caine. “Don’t fire. I don’t think they’ll harm us.” He walked down to the river’s edge, washed his hands, and then washed his arms. Behind him, the group stirred restively. They probably think I’ve gone nuts. But unless I’m much mistaken, I am truly a “marked” man.
“Er, Captain—?” began Gaspard.
“Let’s just wait a moment,” Riordan urged.
The group was already quiet, but became utterly silent when one of the humps rose out of the water: a smaller strider, only about seven meters in height. Its two back-faring bat-wings rose slightly and a soft bass tone stretched out over the rushing current toward them.