Page 51 of Caveman Alien's Touch

I gaze out at the misty mire. “Going through be dangerous. There’s nowhere to hide.”

Trat easily jumps from the shore and onto a little hummock covered in gray, withered grass that sticks out of the slimy standing water. “Brak says a swamp is sometimes safer than the jungle, because the Bigs don’t want to go there. They’re afraid of sinking.”

“Does he, now.” I try the edge of the shore with my foot. Trat may have a point. But there aren’t that many trees growing from the swamp, so it’ll be easy for dactyls to spot us from above. And swamps are usually popular with insects.

I try the jump myself, landing awkwardly beside Trat on the dry-ish hummock. “Let us go back to land. Swamps have nasty things. Irox can see us.” I point up, where the reddening sky can be spotted through the patchy foliage.

“But rekh and kronk don’t come here,” Trat says and jumps to another grassy hummock.

“There not place to hide!” I hiss, feeling silly that I’m arguing with a ten-year-old boy and not just making decisions. But when it comes to the jungle, he’s probably ten times as experienced as I am. He did follow me through the woods for many hours without me having any idea he was there at all. And he seems perfectly confident.

Trat eyes the distance to the next dry patch. “The dangers also have no place to hide from us. We’ll see them long before they can get close. If Noker comes to look for us, he will go through the swamp.”

He has a point. “But the moment I see a giant mosquito,” I mutter, “I’m turning around and going to the shore alone if I have to.”

The sounds in the swamp are different from the jungle. There’s a lot of rustling in the reeds and the ferns, and each one sends a chill down my spine. There’s wet bubbling and squelching from the mud, as well as noises that must come from living things. Twigs snap and leaves drop for no good reason.

I keep listening for ugly hums that could mean a swarm is coming. As the sky gets darker, I imagine I see lumbering shadows of giant dinosaurs in the distance.

My skin is creeping from it all as we make our way from one small dry patch to the next. And still I see no end to the swamp. Soon night will fall. We may have to stay here through the night, balancing on some tiny, mushroom-shaped ball of dry grass, being sitting targets for any passing menace.

But we better keep going. Trat jumps from one little mound to the next, always pushing off with his wrapped foot and landing on the good one. I follow as well as I can.

As darkness sets in, I notice that the swamp is even brighter at night than the jungle. There are many luminescent plants and things that look like water lilies and have flowers like twenty-watt light bulbs. It’s the eeriest place I’ve ever been.

Some creature starts squawking from somewhere off to the side, its sharp and repetitive cries piercing the humid air.

Trat keeps going, testing each little dry patch with his spear before he jumps onto it. It makes it easy for me to follow him, but it also makes me feel as if I’m exploiting a child.

“Wait,” I call to him as I jump onto the same patch where he’s standing. “Let us think.”

He looks up at me. “Not here, Bronwen. We’re sinking.”

I look down. And sure enough, this particular hummock is slowly sinking into the swamp. “Oh.”

Trat jumps on, and I follow, eager to get away before the patch gives way under me.

“Sinking now?” I ask, squinting suspiciously at the ground of this new spot.

“I don’t think so,” Trat says and stomps his good foot. “I think it’s an island.”

I raise my head and look ahead. It’s not easy to see in the strange light, but it does appear that the dry patch is stretching out ahead of us. There’s a cluster of trees and many low bushes. Now that I check, we’re standing on rotting grass, but under that there are round rocks. This might be some kind of moraine from eons ago.

“Or other side of the swamp,” I say hopefully.

“Maybe,” Trat says and wanders further along.

Compared to the rest of the swamp, this spot is nicer. There are trees stretching high above us, shielding us from dactyls. Some of the plants have a lot of luminescent leaves, making it so bright that it’s possible to see color and not just gray. The solid ground makes me feel more secure.

“We can stay here the night,” I suggest. “Make a fire and rest.”

Trat half turns. “A fire can be seen from far away.”

“Noker may see it and come.”

Trat gives an alien shrug and walks on, stopping at the nearest bush and digging into the ground with the blunt end of his spear. He bends down and cuts with the spearhead, then lifts out three red bulbs that could be mistaken for purple carrots. “These aredraproots. If we make a fire, we can roast them.” He pulls up several more roots and bundles them together, carrying them by their yellow stems.

I start picking up dry leaves and twigs for the fire. Roasted almost-carrots sound okay to me now, after having lived on berries all day and not having found even that for the past hour or so we’ve been walking through the swamp.

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