Remnant Population

“It’s all right,” the tall man called back. “If they haven’t hurt the old woman, they won’t hurt us.” Ofelia pondered all the faults in that assumption as Kira led the way into the left-hand workroom. Why should they hurt an old woman who had never threatened them, once they found out she wouldn’t? And why would they not hurt those who did pose a threat? But she was not going to argue. She didn’t know how in the first place, and in the second place her head hurt too much. Bluecloak said something to the other creatures, and one of them walked away quickly toward the kitchen.

“Did you notice,” Kira said to the stocky man. “They don’t walk flat-footed all the time. I’d love to see the bone structure—” The stocky man nodded, then narrowed his eyes at Ofelia. “You’re not feeling well, are you, Sera Falfurrias? Perhaps you need to lie down for awhile?”

Nothing she would like better, but not while these people were poking around. Might as well leave a roomful of toddlers to play in the kitchen with no one watching. “I’m all right,” she said, but she sat in the chair he placed for her. Then the creature came back with a bowl of crushed ice — when had they learned to use the ice-crusher? — and folded a towel around a handful of ice as deftly as any nurse. It put the ice on the bruise; she sucked in air, but it did help after a moment. She put up her hand to hold the ice in place, but there was no need. The creature stood behind her, holding it.

“Well,” said the tall man, She struggled to remember his name. Vasil Likisi. “Its clear you’ve made friends with them. How did you teach them to do that?”

“Ahhnt,” Bluecloak said. They all stared at it. It pointed at Ofelia. “Ahhnt.”

“Aunt?” That was the young woman, Bilong, “You mean like… aunt? Mother’s sister?” Bluecloak took the book that another of the creatures had brought it from the schoolroom, the storybook about the girl who stayed with her aunt. It showed the book to Bilong, “Ahhnt.” It fumbled through the pages until it found the picture it wanted, then pointed to Ofelia, and the picture of the girl and her aunt.

“It can’t possibly understand,” Kira said impatiently. “A storybook? Whatever it means by aunt, that’s not what we mean by aunt.” She glanced at Ofelia. “Do you know what it’stalking about?” She did, but how could she explain it to this woman, who was in her way as alien as Bluecloak? This woman so impatient she was already fidgeting, already unwilling to listen to more than a word or two? No. Her head hurt too much. Courtesy demanded some answer, but not a complete one.

“I took care of some children other than mine,” she said. “I think that’s what Bluecloak means.”

“Oh.” The other woman sat back, looking unconvinced.

“How did you tell it that?’ asked the younger woman.

Her head was pounding. Ofelia shifted, and other bruises stabbed her. “I — used gestures,” she said. “And I’m really very tired now.” She closed her eyes.

“Do you suppose she’s really hurt?” asked the tall man. When she didn’t have to listen to him, his voice still sounded tall and self-important, as if he had a lime in his mouth. He was ready to be a

“I hope not,” said the other man. “She’s our best source for understanding this alien culture; she’s been living with the indigenes—” “But she’s so—” Ofelia presumed a gesture went with that, and probably a sideways glance to see if she was really asleep or just pretending. “She hasn’t the background,” the tall man said finally, Playing it safe. “Vasil, you are the most — !” But that was cut off, Ofelia heard the stealthy sound of people rising from chairs and trying to walk off quietly. Let them. She didn’t care. She dozed off, and when she woke found that someone had put a row of chairs under her legs, and padded them with a blanket. Her head still hurt, but not so badly.

Bluecloak stood beside her. “Ghouls,” it said. Her mind wavered. Ghouls? Then she made the transformation: it meant “fools.” And she didn’t have to ask who it meant. It meant the other humans. Ofelia made no attempt to get up; she didn’t want to move. But she winked at Bluecloak. “They are fools,” she agreed. And ghouls too, she thought privately.

“Uhoo

Bluecloak offered an arm, and she managed to sit up, biting off a groan at the pain in her side and leg.

Another of the creatures moved to her other side, and the two of them helped her along the passage.

Outside, it was dark, with stars glowing softly in the warm damp wind. “Where are they?” Ofelia asked. Bluecloak pointed down the lane; she could see a bright glow of light at the shuttle field. Had they gone back to the shuttle? She didn’t really care. Bluecloak and the other one helped her to her house, and inside, flicking on the light for her. Bluecloak opened her cooler and clucked at the contents. Ofelia wasn’t hungry, and tried to say so, but Bluecloak wasn’t deterred. It rootled around until it found some dry flatbread, and offered it to her, sprinkled with salt.It tasted surprisingly good, and her stomach let it stay. Bluecloak poured her a glass of fruit drink, and stood over her while she drank it. She could feel it’s determination that she would eat. After that, she wanted only her familiar bed. For the first time since Bluecloak arrived in the village, the creatures came with her to the bathroom. She was not embarrassed; they had seen it before, and she was too tired. She glanced in the mirror accidentally and stopped, staring at the purple lump on her head. She looked down at her arm, where the skin over the bruise had torn, leaving a dark crust. Bluecloak’s expression, when she looked up at it, was grim. She sensed anger and disapproval, but not of her.

“Its all right,” she said. “I’m not really hurt.” They offered her support — she was glad to lean on their arms — to the bed, and when she sat down, the other creature bent and lifted her legs gently. Bluecloak moved to the other side of the bed and turned down the cover, then paused, looking at her. She was so tired… but she managed to roll over, into the open bed, and Bluecloak pulled the covers over her as tenderly as any mother.

They were frightening in a way they had never been frightening before — she had no idea what they thought had happened, or what it meant, or what would happen tomorrow. She was too tired to say anything; Bluecloak turned the lights out, and she waited to hear the front door open and close, but fell asleep first.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

When Ofelia woke in the pearly light of early morning, she heard soft voices from the next room. She stretched, and then winced as the bruises from yesterday’s blow and fall intruded on her. She hurt all over, in more places than she remembered being hurt yesterday. And who was in her front room? She didn’t want to get up. She wanted to lie there until she died, or her body quit hurting, whichever came first. She moved her left arm cautiously up to feel the lump on her head. It felt as large as it had been, if not larger. She let her arm fall back, and imagined the commotion if the humans returned and found her dead. Would they realize they had done it, or would they blame the creatures? She needed to use the toilet, too. It was one thing to lie here, sullenly determined to die from a few bruises, and another to lie here miserable because her bladder ached with fullness. Besides, if they blamed Bluecloak, what would happen to Gurgle-click-cough’s babies?

Even with that thought, when she first tried to sit up, it hurt so much she caught her breath hard and felt tears stinging her eyes. She scolded herself; the old voice was happy to provide the terms she had not used for several years. Coward. Weakling. Sissy. Just a few bruises and you act like a baby. She tried to make no noise, but she felt shaky and weak from the pain by the time she had pulled herself to her feet. Her arm had bled again in the night, sticking to the sheet, and the bright pain when she pulled it free was too much. A sob came loose in her throat.