Part 2: The Hidden Room

Earth was very far away. Aaron Connell, sitting on the bank of a wide brown river, stared up at the night sky trying to find his own sun, but it was impossible. He might have been halfway across the Galaxy, or in another galaxy, or another universe.

A whole night had passed since Aaron had fled the thaumaturgist Zamphor's manse, leaving behind two dead... wizards... (he forced his mind to think the word) and a host of alien creatures. While there he had nearly lost his virginity to an indigo-skinned girl named Azha, and nearly lost his head to an assortment of armored warriors. He had fled with nothing, not even the clothes on his back (Zamphor had left him naked in the summoning circle while his seneschal taught the boy the local language), and later that day he would probably reach the city of Ptella.

Sitting on the bank of the flowing river, beside a dirt road, Aaron considered what he would do. Ultimately, he had to find a way back home. He had hoped he would pop back to Earth with his summoner's death, but he remained, and so, somewhere, did Olivia, a girl from Aaron's school whom Zamphor had also summoned. She had disappeared on a mysterious errand before the attack. He would need to find her.

And then there was Azha. Azha, whose mouth had done such amazing things to him the night before. He imagined the sensation again, the heat, the light, dangerous caress of her molars, the cinnamon-smell of her silver hair, the way she sucked so hard it felt like his spine nearly wrenched inside-out when he came. He had begun to masturbate in earnest, too aroused and worried to sleep, when he heard voices behind him. Aaron pressed his belly against the riverbank and peered over the brittle grass.

A four-wheeled wagon approached, pulled by two animals that looked like oxen or water buffalo. Two men sat on the front bench, laughing at some private joke in a language Aaron did not understand. They had clay-colored skin and black hair and beards, and they wore broad straw hats and plain linen smocks. The wagon was covered and Aaron could not see inside. For a moment Aaron considered jumping out, greeting them, asking for clothes, but then he saw the axes and bows just behind the men, and the way their black eyes swept the horizon when they did not laugh. Aaron hid again. The wagon rolled by, followed, a moment later, by an outrider on a horse/camel thing wearing steel-ring armor. These men were dangerous, and he let them pass.

Too excited to sleep, Aaron stood up (wiping away ants that had taken to conquering his leg while he lay hidden), and moved with renewed energy toward the city. He was terribly thirsty, and even the muddy brown water looked tempting when Yothis's white-orange sun rose and the moons faded into white shadows, but still he pressed on, pacing himself like he did in track and rugby. He only had to jump off the road once when he spotted a dustcloud heading toward him: he hid and mounted soldiers rode past him. The one in front held a banner showing a green crab on a white background, and they all wore light ring armor. Curved swords hung from their belts, and hoods covered their faces. They looked very important, and Aaron decided that they were nothing like the police back home, and probably more like the ghetto cops he had seen, hands on guns, at the edge of his old neighborhood. He set out again as a new colony of ants began a new conquest, kicking his leg until the nasty things fell away.

Aaron reached Ptella by midday, parched, exhausted, and covered in dust from his trek. It was an extraordinary place, watched over by cruel-eyed soldiers. Its people hurried about in attitudes of fear, except for the well-dressed merchants (or nobles, or priests; Aaron did not know for sure) who strode through the busy crowds with sneers on their faces. Aaron skirted the edge of a slave market where men and women of many different races were sold off to the wealthy. He shook his head and kept walking, backtracking when he approached a dangerous-looking slum, until he came to a run-down ghetto. The people looked poor, but they smiled at him, and Aaron smiled back.

Ptella had no "city wall," or rather, the wall only surrounded the very heart of the city, and suburbs spread out from it, sun-baked villas in a Roman-ish style and old villages of wood and stone that the city's expansion had swallowed. Despite his thirst and growing frustration, Aaron hid until sunset on a hill overlooking a house of white adobe. He was in what people called the "Nazhaki ghetto," and no guards came near the place. Someone had hung clothes out to dry, and Aaron would have no trouble climbing the low fence. He had stolen before when his mother had not fed him, and the thought did not trouble him. Only getting caught troubled him.

At last the sun slid down to the west. Aaron screwed up his courage and ran across the street. No one saw him, or at least no one cried out. He jumped over the low fence and prowled through the shadows of the small parched lawn, studying the hanging clothes. There were trousers, shirts, and undergarments, most brightly colored in a zig-zag pattern or with blocky animal shapes that reminded Aaron of American Indian work he had seen once.

Aaron reached carefully for a pair of pants. Just then a door flung open and banged loudly. His heart seemed to bounce off his tongue as a young woman stepped out, moving quickly. Aaron caught only a gimpse of her: black hair, olive skin, and a tear-streaked face, her body hidden by a flowing checkered gown. He inched away, slowly, into the corner of the lawn, but it was not yet dark and even a quick retreat could not save him. The girl spotted a naked boy only a few steps from her and sucked in a great gulp of air to let loose a scream that would have wakened the whole city.

Working on instinct, Aaron jumped forward with an athlete's speed, clapped his hand around the girl's mouth, spun her around, and pinned her. She went completely stiff, trembling like a rabbit as the naked boy entangled her.

"I'm not going to hurt you," Aaron said. The local language came quickly to him when terrified. "I was... stolen away... and robbed. I just need clothes. Do you understand?"

The girl nodded. Aaron said, "Don't scream" and removed his hand, but kept one hand on the girl's wrist as she stepped away. She looked back, caught sight of Aaron's nakedness, and quickly looked away, shamefaced.

"I'm really sorry about this," Aaron said.

"W-what are you d-doing here?" the girl said.

"I'm an escaped..." Aaron paused. Did these people condone slavery? "A man abducted me and my friend, a girl named Olivia." He paused a moment to let the (false) implications of the abduction to play through the girl's mind. "My name is Aaron. I'm from far away. I've lost everything and I just want to get home. I'm not a criminal, I'm a student." He coughed and spat trail dust.

"Alright," the girl said. She pulled free from Aaron's grasp, but slowly, and made no move to run. She still kept her head down. "As long as you're not a brigand or a..."

"Just a lost traveler in need of pants," Aaron said.

He thought the girl smiled at that, though she did not look at him. "Take what you need."

Aaron looked at the odd clothes. "Um... what are men's clothes around here?"

Now the girl definitely smiled. "The russet trousers there," she said. She pointed and her finger touched Aaron's chest. She squeaked and her hands dropped to her sides. "The red trousers and the mustard-colored vest."

"What about this vest," Aaron said, pointing to a blue vest with silver embroidery and shiny buttons.

The girl looked behind her again, as Aaron had half-hoped, then gasped again and looked away. Aaron grinned; the adrenaline was driving him to boldness he had never imagined possible.

"Th-that's my father's best vest," the girl said.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Aaron said. He pulled on the trousers, which billowed out a bit but felt silky and comfortable on his legs, and buttoned up the vest. He felt like a cross between an Arab prince and a Chinese dock worker. "Thanks for this," he said, and he meant it. "I'm dressed now."

The girl turned around and looked him carefully up and down, then glanced demurely away. Aaron studied the girl in turn. She was pretty, not beautiful, but with a pleasant face that seemed less exotic than the other Yothisans he had seen, his lovely hazel eyes and a slightly crooked nose. Her gown was all-concealing and not very flattering, though Aaron guessed she was thin and a little taller than him, maybe a year or two older. Her cheeks were still a little wet: she had been crying when he first saw ehr.

"What's your name?" Aaron asked.

"Wenet," the girl said. She paused. "You look like no people I have seen."

"I'm from America," Aaron said. "Far from--" Something caught in his throat. He bit back a cough, fearing that other people might be in the house, and felt his face grow hot. Finally he pulled in a weak breath, doubled over and a bit dizzy.

"You need water," Wenet said. "I'll go get some."

Aaron looked suspiciously at the girl, and her hazel eyes fell again. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she whispered, then glanced up at the boy, whose trim, athletic physique the vest revealed nicely. "I promise I'll be right back. You can hide if you want."

Aaron, despite feeling pleased with himself, hid. Wenet returned a moment later with a jug of water, a silk belt (the trousers were a bit too baggy), and sandals.

"Thank you for everything," Aaron said after draining the cup. He stepped into the sandals and fastened them. "But there's one other thing I need to ask of you."

Wenet stepped away, casting her eyes down, but for a moment her hazel eyes met Aaron's and there was curiosity there. Aaron almost asked the question he would have never asked on Earth: "Would you like to go upstairs? Do you have a closet? Do you want to make love?" He fought against the urge and said, "I need to find my friend, Olivia. She's as strange-looking as I am, and I bet she'd stand out, but I need to know who to ask."

The girl nodded. "The Eastgate," she said.

Aaron glanced toward the inner city, protected by its wall.

"No, it's just a name," Wenet said. "It's where caravans leave to go east around the mountains. There's a market there. Someone would have seen something."

"Thank you," Aaron said.

"It's... it's nothing," the girl said. She looked toward the Eastgate and a tear slid down your cheek.

"What's wrong?" Aaron asked.

"It's nothing. Things are very hard right now. Ptella has no love for us. We--Never mind, just go. I hope you find Olivia." She wiped her eyes angrily.

"Thanks for everything," Aaron said, shaking is head in bewilderment. The girl smiled at him and disappeared into her house.

Aaron slept like the dead between two close-together buildings and awoke in the late morning when the sun found him. Asking directions, he made his way to the Eastgate, where he stole breakfast (answer to the chicken and bean burrito) from an inattentive merchant, then spent much of the morning just walking around, stunned at the variety of the alien world. It was all too much to take in: countless types of people, dressed in styles that looked familiar but that Earth had never seen, selling products Aaron could not imagine.

By midafternoon the owner of a sherbet stand revealed that a girl matching Olivia's description (her red hair and white skin was utterly alien to Ptella) came through a week ago with a man wrapped in a red coat. They took last week's caravan toward Tilnabar. He could learn nothing of Azha.

The current week's caravan was almost ready to go when Aaron found it. Unfortunately, without money he had no way of getting a place, and he had no skills that interested the caravan-master. The man shooed him away as the thirteen wagons prepared to head out, flanked by mounted and walking guards armed with spears and recurve bows. Sad-faced men and women with features and clothes like Wenet, the girl Aaron had met, sat on the farther caravans, while others contained arrogant-looking merchants or wealthy travelers.

The atmosphere of the Eastgate had seemed tense, but suddenly it exploded somewhere behind around. Aaron turned and heard screams of "Nazhaki! Nazhaki!" A mob swarmed up the street, chasing a man in a red-and-black robe with messy black hair and olive skin. Aaron jumped to the side as the rioters swarmed, tearing at one-another in their desire to get at the man. He stumbled and the man at the front of the mob jumped on him, kicking and tearing, but to Aaron's surprise the man got up again and kept running, his expression determined. The rioter behind him made another grab, pulling at the fleeing man's coat, but this carried him close to Aaron. The boy hesitated for a moment, then punched the man in the face. The rioter stumbled back, spitting teeth, then roared and rushed Aaron again. The smaller boy sidestepped, redirected the man, and sent him flying into the rest of the mob. The first two rows slammed into him and fell, and the whole group snarled up, tripping and cursing.

A rock whistled by Aaron's head. Another flew and struck the fleeing man in the back. Aaron pulled him to his feet, not knowing what else to do, but he was not running fast.

"Hurry!" Aaron shouted. He looked up at the caravan guards, who watched keenly, their bows ready. But the man staggered along, fumbling in his dark blue vest.

"Hold on," he said. "I need to--here!" He pulled a green scroll from his jacket and unfurled it. The guards drew their bows back. Aaron tensed to dive in case they opened fire, but the guards aimed at the mob, not at them. Aaron spared a glance behind him. Most stopped when they saw the archers, but a few did not and they died horribly, shot full of arrows, and fell to litter the dusty street. Aaron stared at the violence, turning around just in time not to slam into the last wagon. They had begun to move, rolling slowly east, pulled by ox-like beasts. Above Aaron a guard readied another arrow. Men reached down and pulled the blue-vested man into the big wagon. Others picked a surprised Aaron up and dropped him next to the man.

A man brought Aaron and the other man (who introduced himself as Porot) water and Aaron waited for his nerves to steady. They had already left Ptella, which was a black line on the horizon.

"So, why are you on the caravan?" Aaron said. He looked back at the city, wondering if he should return. The trip took two weeks and he had nothing. He sat across a small table from Porot, with no one else nearby.

Porot blinked, then looked very tired. "You don't know?"

"I'm not from around here," Aaron said.

"I'm getting out while I can," Porot said. "Ptella hates the Nazhaki enough, and--"

"So, what is a Nazhaki?" Aaron asked. She looked as human... or as "gree"... as other people he had seen on Yothis.

"You're not from around here," Porot said. "I'm a Nazhaki, and Nazhaki is my people. The details are unimportant; suffice it to say that I hurt no one and Ptella despises me and all my people. They are wicked men, and will get what they deserve when Uxalan comes."

"Uxalan?"

"Where are you from?" Porot asked, raising an eyebrow.

"America," Aaron said. "So, Uxalan?"

"The thaumaturgist of Kei. He'll make himself known soon enough, now that Zaphor and Viskel are dead. Ptella will be his plaything, and by then I will be gone. But enough: once the guards calm down, the caravan will have to see our scrolls." He waved the green piece of paper.

"What's that?" Aaron asked.

"That's my scroll. For passage. You do have a scroll, right?"

"I didn't ask for passage," Aaron said. "I helped you get away from those thugs and they pulled me up here."

"Oh no, oh no," his face paling. "You need to get out!" He looked out of the wagon toward the city, but it was only a black streak.

"Wait, I didn't ask to come along," Aaron said, half-standing. "Actually, I did, but--"

"He'll kill you," Porot said, his voice weak. "He'll kill me! A Nazhaki smuggling people? I'm dead already!" A shadow crossed over the wagon's far end: guards checking scrolls.

Aaron turned to the man. "Hide me," he said.

"Where? I--"

"Your room! You have one, right?"

"It's too small," Porot said. "We need... I know." He stood up and led Aaron through the large wagon, down to the ground on another exit. He tripped and Aaron helped him up, and together they reached another wagon.

"In there," Porot said. "Take a left, then a right, then up. It's a food storage room. My cousin Hobodot drew the plans for these multi-tiered wagons. Be careful. Don't eat anything that isn't in a barrel: they take a count. And if you're caught, I never knew you."

Aaron thanked the man and quickly found the storage room.

The guards came regularly over the next few days but never found him, and he plucked raisins and bits of jerky from a wooden bin. At last the caravan-master had counted all the scrolls, and Porot told the boy he could move around, though very carefully. Aaron remained as hidden as he could and studied his new world, which still felt terribly alien. Many moons hung in the sky by night, and Aaron saw how many structures were half-open: in the dry season it never rained, and in darkness the natives saw less well than Aaron did. He watched the yellow grass roll by, and the occasional black tree. Wild dogs followed the caravan until outriders drove them off. Aaron realized he could identify none of the exact species around him. He thought back to his biology lessons: none of the species of Earth remained, he realized, but higher orders remained. He could not remember if lions and oxen were a genus or a family or what, but there were definitely lions and oxen. Everything seemed a bit askew, though. Aaron's limited studies furnished him with no way to make sense of the strange world, which violated everything he knew in both its strangeness and its inexplicable familiarity. He wished suddenly for Olivia, who no doubt knew everything about taxonomy, but she was somewhere near Tilnabar on a dead wizard's errand. He wondered if she knew if he was dead.