The woman was so startling a sight, Hota’s initial reaction was one of disbelief. He imagined her to be part of his delirium, or perhaps a further trick of Griaule’s. She was half-turned away, a hand to her cheek, as if she had been struck by a remembrance. A pattern of dark irregular lines covered her body. Like, he thought, a sketch of reptilian scales. He first believed the lines to be a tattoo, but then noticed they were growing fainter every second, and he recalled that the scales of the female dragon had been the exact shade of bronze as the woman’s skin. On hearing his choked outcry, she glanced at him over her shoulder, displaying no indication of fear such as might be expected of a naked woman alone when surprised by a man of his threatening appearance. She remained motionless, calmly regarding, and Hota, unable to accept what he was tempted to believe—that here stood the dragon he had sought, transformed somehow—was torn between the desire to flee and the need to know more about her. In a matter of seconds the lines on her skin faded utterly and, as if this signaled the completion of a process that had restrained her, she turned to face him and said in a dry, dusty voice, “Hota.”
The sound of his name on her lips, freighted with a touch of menace, or so he heard it, spurred him to flight. Unwilling to look away from her, he took a backward step, tried to run, but stumbled, and went sprawling onto his belly. He scrambled to one knee and found her standing above him.
“Are you afraid?” she asked, tipping her head to the side.
Her eyes were dark, the irises large, leaving room for scarcely any white and her face, with its sharp cheekbones and full lips and delicate nose, was too perfect, lifeless, as might be an uninspired artist’s rendering. She repeated her question and, like her face, her voice was empty of human temper. The question seemed pragmatic, as if she were unfamiliar with fear and was hoping to identify its symptoms. Though she looked to be a mature woman, not a girl, her breasts and hips and belly betrayed no marks of age or usage.
Hota sank back into a sitting position, dumbstruck.
“There’s no reason to fear. We have a road to travel, you and I.” A cloud passed across the sun; the woman looked up sharply, scanning the sky, and then said, “I’ll need some clothing.”
Somewhat reassured, Hota edged away from her and got to his feet. He gave thought again to running, but recalled being lost among the thickets and decided that running would probably do him no good.
“Did you hear?” she asked, and again her words conveyed no sense of impatience or anger. “I need clothing.”
Hota framed a question of his own, but was too daunted to speak.
“Your name is Hota, isn’t it?” the woman asked.
“Yes.” He licked his lips, tried to dredge up the courage to ask his question, failed, and succeeded only in making a confused noise.
“Magali,” said the woman, and touched the slope of a breast. “My name is Magali.”
He could detect nothing of her mood. It was as if she were hidden inside a beautiful shell, her true self muffled. She waited for him to speak and finally, when he kept silent she said, “You know me. Is that what’s troubling you?”
“I’ve never seen you before,” Hota said.
“But you know me. You saw me fly. You saw me while I was yet changing.”
This, though it was the answer to his unasked question, only confounded him further and he merely shook his head in response.
“How can you not believe it? You saw what you saw,” she said. “You have nothing to fear from me. I’m a woman now. My flesh is as yours.” She reached out and took his hand. Her palm was warm. “Do you understand?”
“No…I…” He shook his head vigorously. “No.”
“You will in time.” She released his hand. “Now can you bring me some clothing?”
“There are no shops that sell women’s clothes in Teocinte.”
“Borrow some…or bring me some of your own.”
By agreeing to do her bidding, Hota thought he would be able to make his escape. “All right. I’ll go now,” he said.
“You’ll come back. Don’t think you won’t.”
“Of course I will.”
She laughed at this—it was, he thought, the first purely human thing she had done. “That’s not what is in your mind.”
“How can you know what’s in my mind?”
“It’s written on your face,” she said. “You can’t wait to be gone. Once out of sight, you’ll run. That’s what you’re thinking, anyway. But later you’ll tell yourself that if you don’t return, I’ll come after you. And it’s true—I would. And you have deeper reasons for returning as well.”
“How can that be?” he asked. “We have no history together, nothing that would furnish a depth of reason.”
She moved away a few paces, turning toward the sun, and a pattern of leaf shadow fell across her hip, reminding him of the pattern that had faded from her skin. She arranged her hair so that it trailed across her breasts, dressing herself in the black skeins.
