Page 50 of Caveman Alien's Touch

He frowns. “But Noker. We didn’t find him.”

“He’s probably in the camp now, eating the Borok food,” I tell him. “It’s good food. You get some, too.”

The kid thinks. “Noker isn’t in the camp.”

“How do you know?”

“If he comes back but you’re not there, he will go to find you. He won’t stay in the camp.”

I scratch my head. Thatiswhat he would do, but I didn’t think Trat would know. “So we may meet him on the way back.”

“We may,” Trat says and twirls his spear between two fingers. “But we should still search for him.”

I nod at his foot. “Are you injured?”

He subconsciously hides the wrapped foot behind the other. “No. That foot is not like the others.”

Ah. That must be the reason the tribe he was born into set him out into the jungle to die and he became a Foundling. “But you can still walk?”

“I can walk andrun,” Trat says, sticking his chin out in defiance. “But not fast,” he adds.

I can’t help but like this little Foundling. But now I have to get him safely home.

And then? What if Noker isn’t there? What if he…

No, I don’t want to finish that thought. There are many ways to die on Xren, but he’s smart and immensely capable. He’ll be all right.

“Are you hungry?” I ask. “Thirsty?”

“No. There are many berries and fruits in the jungle,” Trat tells me in his precocious manner.

“Tired? In pain?” I try again.

“I’m fine. Are you?”

“Yes. Let us go. If you see danger, hide. Not fight.”

“I know,” he says, and I get the feeling that only politeness is stopping him from rolling his eyes.

Trat insists on going in front, like Noker did. I’m not sure how smart it is, but this kid has lived his whole life in the jungle, above ground. He may be as good as he thinks he is.

When we get to the camp, I’ll personally watch him eat his fill of Borok food. He’s far too skinny.

The walk is no easier than before. I still stay alert, and I notice Trat is just as sensitive as I am to strange movements among the leaves and plants. Several times he stops to hide before I’ve even noticed anything, and once another giant insect flutters past us while we’re pushing our backs against the trunk for a tree, trying to be invisible.

The sun is about to set when the ground gets really soggy and the stench is worse than usual. In front of us is a big swamp, looking like a mosaic of various rotting plant matter, withered reeds and who knows what else. Tall ferns sway slowly back and forth for no reason that I can see — there’s no wind down here. A mist hangs over the place, and I swear I can see giant mosquitoes buzzing in the far distance. Dead trees rise up from the surface here and there, pointing to the sky. There are also living trees, but they don’t grow as densely here as on land.

“I not remember this,” I confess. “Where are we?”

Trat puts the tip of his spear to the ground and pushes it down. “It’s a swamp.”

“Swamp,” I repeat the new word. “You not see it before?”

“Not this one.”

“We lost our way,” I conclude. “But this is not nice place. Must find a way around the swamp.”

“It’s shorter to go through,” Trat says. “A swamp could be very large. Brak and Noker say so.”

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