The sun was well up when the humans returned. Only two of them this time, the stocky man—Ori something—and the older woman, Kira. Ofelia had gone back to work in her garden, both because it soothed her and because she had missed several days. One of the creatures was with her, eating the slimerods she found; another had insisted on pushing a broom in her house. The hot sun eased her bruises, though sweat stung in the scrapes . . . and then the creature churred, and she looked up.
“Tuh-hoo,” it said. It held up two fingers in case she didn’t understand. What she didn’t understand was when this one had learned so much human speech.
“Did Bluecloak teach you that?” she asked. It tipped its head to one side and said “Uhoo.”
Ofelia didn’t believe that; she hadn’t spent much time with any of them trying to teach them her words, not since the beginning. But if it wanted to give her credit, that was polite.
“Good morning,” the stocky man said, when he came close enough. “How are you today?”
“Fine,” Ofelia said. She had a basket nearly full of tomatoes; they were ripening far faster than she could eat them. “Would you like some tomatoes? They’re not very big yet—”
“They’re beautiful,” the man said. “We don’t get fresh foods like this on the ship, you know.”
She didn’t know; she’d spent her ship time in cryo. But he might not know that.
“Your arm—” the woman said. Ofelia glanced down; the sleeve didn’t quite cover the bruise and scab.
“It’s nothing,” she said, looking away. She didn’t want to talk about it.
“That’s—” the woman began; Ofelia saw the man hush her with a gesture. So much for that one’s arrogance; she still had to be quiet when a man told her to hush. Ofelia found another slimerod and clicked to get the creature’s attention. It came eagerly, and gulped the slimerod down. Ofelia glanced at the humans. They were wide-eyed. The man recovered first.
“You . . . get along well with them,” he said.
Ofelia shrugged, then wished she hadn’t. Her shoulder was still sore, and the man might think a shrug was rude. “They’re good neighbors,” she said. “They don’t bother me.”
“You can talk to them?”
“It’s not so much talk,” Ofelia said. “We understand things.” She gestured with one hand. “We use our hands a lot.”
“Can you tell us which is the leader?” the man asked. “Is it the one you call Bluecloak?”
Ofelia wondered if Bluecloak thought it was the leader, in the way this man clearly meant. “Bluecloak is . . . the one good at learning new things,” she said finally. “Learning words, for instance. I understand Bluecloak best.”
“But is Bluecloak the one in charge?” the woman asked.
Ofelia shook her head, another mistake. For an instant, the world whirled around her, then steadied again. “Only on some things,” she said, when she could speak again. She knew she couldn’t really explain which things; she was only feeling her way into that understanding herself.
“It’s a small group,” the man murmured to his companion. “It may be government by consensus; they may just hash it out.”
“Surely not everything,” the woman said. “After all, they attacked the colony landing; that had to have organization, leadership. And those coastal cities . . .”
“Cities?” Ofelia said. “They have cities?” She felt betrayed; Bluecloak had said nothing about cities, any of the times he’d seen the pictures of cities in her books.
“We saw them from the shuttle flights,” the woman said. “Some of them live along the northern coast of this continent, in what look like stone and wood-built cities. They have boats—”
Ofelia remembered the boats she had seen. But she could not imagine her creatures, the ones she knew, living in cities. Something about their attitude toward this village suggested that they had no settled home. Except the nestmass.
“We won’t keep you,” the man said, as she was wondering whether or not to mention the nestmass. “A couple of your lovely tomatoes, and we’ll be on our way. We’ll be surveying the area today, just wandering around looking at things. We won’t touch anything of yours,” he added, as if his being here weren’t intrusion enough.
Ofelia held the basket over the fence and they each picked out a tomato.
“If it’s convenient,” the man said, “I’d like to interview you later. After all, you were the first contact, even if you weren’t trained for it.” He chuckled, in a way that he probably intended to sound good-natured. It did sound good-natured; Ofelia could not have said why it made her so angry. She wanted to hit him, and that frightened her. She had never been one to hit people.
“I am always here,” she said, not quite rudely. He smiled, and nodded at her, and turned away, already biting into the tomato. Ofelia looked down the lane; she saw nothing of the other humans. Maybe now she could go across and look at Gurgle-click-cough’s babies.
