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“Yes,” I say. “You must be starving.”
“I and you. Food?” He tries the word.
“Yes. And water.” Most importantly, water. But what? And where? I’m starting to feel lightheaded and can’t seem to think straight. “I,” he says, then points up the nearest tree.
“Climb up?” I hesitate. He survived the fall from the rock wall yesterday just fine. But what if he gets higher, falls from further? What if... oh. He’s already halfway up the tree while I’m imagining disaster scenarios. The bluish needles rain over me with every branch he touches. He only stops when the tree sags with his weight.
“Good?” I call up to him. I can barely see him up there, shielding his eyes and gazing off into the distance.
“Good! Water!” he calls back, pointing. I hope this diversion won’t take us too much further from the rock wall - further from getting back to camp. Not to mention the problem of carrying water with us. What good will it do to find some lake today only to dehydrate to death tomorrow? If only I’d thought to run around camp with a canteen at my hip. I couldn’t have predicted this exact scenario, but part of our training was “be prepared for anything at any time.” Guess that lesson didn’t stick.
Ryle only climbs halfway down before dropping from the sky, landing at my feet with a heavy thud and a big, proud grin. I spread my fingers in jazz hands and say, “ta-da!” He only grins bigger, as if I’ve paid him some big compliment. Perhaps in his language I have.
“Walk,” he says, and takes my hand.
“Is it far?” I ask. I show him a short distance with my hand. “Short walk.” Then I make them wider. “Long walk?” Maybe we should risk going a little longer without to avoid losing our path entirely. If we go too far out of our way, who knows what kind of trouble we’ll find?
“Short!” he declares, then gives my hand a gentle tug. “Walk!”
Okay, then.
I let him pull me along for some feet - more feet than what I would have considered a short distance myself. But he did find it. First the earth grows damp, and then squishy, then we reach the grassy and muddy shore of a small pond. It reminds me of an earth bog. Swarms of tiny insects rise from the grass as we disturb them with our passage, but they drift away from us. Some flying animals scatter. None are large enough to seem threatening.
“Drink,” Ryle commands.
I drop to my knees despite the mud, dip my filtered straw into the pond, and drink from the swampy water. This filter better be really good. The last thing I need is stomach issues while I’m lost in the wilderness. I drink until my stomach is full, and then I pass the straw to Ryle. I wonder if he’s at risk of the same issues as we are. The same infections, diseases, various maladies. I admire the muscles and the blue and gray patterns of his back as he drinks. He’s definitely a lot stronger than a human. In better shape than most. The longer I’m with him, the more attractive he is. That tail is different. Interesting. It cuts back and forth through the air. It looks dangerous.
On impulse, I reach out and touch the mace-like end of it. He smirks at me over his shoulder and runs the smooth tip up my arm. “Mejj,” he says. He’s said that before. It must be what this part of him is called. It isn’t quite as wicked as it looks - it isn’t sharp at all - but it’s heavy, and cool to the touch. He could absolutely smash me to smithereens with it if he was determined to. Instead, though, he skims it up my shoulder and then caresses my cheek.
“No tail,” I say, gesturing at my own backside.
“No,” he agrees as he straightens. Then he crowds in front of me and grips my ass with both hands, one squeezing each cheek! I yelp with shock. “Good no tail,” he says, and releases me before I can make any more protests. “Map?”
I grumble as I add the bog to our journey’s path. I’m just stuffing the tablet back in my front pocket when Ryle lets out a roar. He bares his teeth and twirls and snarls at something behind him.
I run. No way am I waiting to find out what’s attacking us. I’ll steal a look once I’ve gotten out of the way.
I make it just a few feet away when something heavy hits me on the head. A tiny voice chitters high above me. A laugh? I rub my head and look up to see a damp little creature in the branches. Its fur looks like it’s covered in green and yellow moss, and its round eyes hold a little more intelligence than I expect. It swings down to branches for a closer look at me.
It’s a monkey. A bog monkey! Is that what Ryle was snarling at back at the water? I hope he doesn’t kill it! They’re so tiny!
“Ryle?” I call. I hear him stomping through the foliage not too far away. He holds up what looks like a smashed turtle. It’s big and has nasty sharp teeth. Ryle is wearing a huge scowl. “Food,” he barks. Then he shows me his bleeding tail and complains loudly in his language.
The monkey bounces another coconut sized object off of my head.
I think I’ve had enough of nature for today.
?????
We find another small cave hidden in a crack in the rock wall. Ryle’s had about enough of the great outdoors too, from what I can sense. My head is throbbing, his tail is bleeding. We’re a mess.
We did have one stroke of luck, though. The coconut-sized object that the monkey threw at my head was similar to a gourd. We were able to hollow two out without too much trouble and fill them with water. Portable water is definitely an improvement on this trek. We’re a little more likely to survive, I’d say.
I bandage Ryle’s tail. He grumbles and gripes until I swat his back and tell him to stop being a baby. He huffs and falls into silence.
There is a firestarter in my pockets, thank goodness. I’ve only got three, but I think today deserves a use. I set the little disk alight and feed it branches while Ryle updates our map. He plops the dead turtle-thing directly on the flames, shell-side down, once I’ve got some good heat going.
Who knows if it’s safe enough to eat, but it seems like a better bet than mystery mushrooms and bog grass.
