Louis Hannibal Nez
Marcind wakes because someone is touching his face.
He opens his eyes abruptly. A woman immediately pulls her hand away. For several seconds neither of them does anything but look at the other. She is about fifty. Her graying hair is tied back. Her skin has been weathered by the sun, and dark eyes watch him with a mixture of caution and curiosity. She wears a thick garment made from some fabric Marcind does not recognize.
The woman says something, but he cannot understand her. She repeats the same words. Marcind tries to sit up. He stops at once: pain cuts through his side.
“Ah...”
She pushes him back against the bed.
“I’m fine.”
The woman speaks again.
“I can’t understand a damn thing you’re saying.”
From her expression, the feeling appears to be mutual.
Marcind looks around. He is lying on something like a mattress stuffed with plant fibers. A rough blanket covers his legs. The room is small. The walls seem to be made of stone joined with mud and some whitish substance. There are no glass windows. A rectangular opening lets in daylight and wind. There are no lamps, wires, or devices of any kind.
He instinctively searches for his weapon. It is not in sight. The woman notices the movement. Marcind looks at her.
“My things.”
She does not answer.
“Betty.”
Nothing.
Marcind points outside.
“My aircraft.”
The woman seems to understand his intention, if not his words. She shakes her head. Marcind tries to sit up again and she hurries to stop him. This time he brushes her hand away.
“I need to see it.”
When he puts his feet on the floor, the world tilts. He has to grip the edge of the bed. The woman rises and shouts something toward the door. A man enters. He is younger than she is, broad-shouldered, bare-armed, with a scar running across one shoulder. He carries a clay vessel. He stops when he sees Marcind standing.
He speaks to the woman. They argue. Marcind still cannot understand a single word, though he understands the tone perfectly. The man sets the vessel on a table and approaches.
“No.”
Marcind raises one hand. The man stops.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
He points to his chest.
“Dominic.”
They both watch him.
“Dominic Marcind.”
The man frowns.
“Mar... kin.”
“Marcind.”
“Mar... sind.”
Marcind nods.
“That’s much better.”
The man points to himself.
“Tarem.”
Then he points to the woman.
“Nara.”
Marcind looks at them both.
“Tarem. Nara.”
The woman smiles for the first time. Something has changed. It is almost imperceptible, but enough. Tarem gives him the vessel. It contains water. Marcind drinks. It is warm and has a faint mineral taste. He empties almost half of it before noticing that they are both watching him. He lowers the vessel.
Nara says something quickly. Tarem answers her. She seems annoyed. Marcind looks at the water, then at them. He understands what is happening.
“It’s scarce, isn’t it?”
Neither understands, but Marcind hands the vessel back. Nara takes it immediately. She does not drink. She covers it with a cloth.