The Apex Book of World SF 2 by Lavie Tidhar Page A

forces dormant,
waiting. They were still there, of course, but they wouldn't show themselves,
just feel out the sailors and take them in the night when their power went
unchallenged.
    They landed without
incident and Magalhaes led them a short distance inland and halted in front of
a fire pit surrounded by the bones of a small animal. He pointed at it, looked
straight into De Menes' eyes, and laughed. "Here are your demons Joao. Hungry
savages, from the look of it." Turning to the rest of the men, he said, "Be
wary, they can't have gone far. This fire was burning an hour before dawn—I
marked it especially."
    The men shifted
uncomfortably. All were well aware that being harpooned by seal-hunters who'd
never seen a European before would only destroy the body, as opposed to the
eternal ravages that falling into the clutches of a demon supposed, but it made
no difference to them. Death was what they feared, and they would worry about
their immortal eternities at a later time. They stood straighter, attentive to
the approach of any savages.
    The natives they'd
encountered along the interminable coast they'd sailed down to get that far
hadn't been particularly aggressive, but it was never advisable to let down the
guard. Everyone who'd ever boarded a ship bound for spice or glory had heard
the tales of fearsome ceremonies, strange rituals in pitch-coloured jungles and
unholy banquets in which Europeans had been served as the main course.
    They need not have
worried, however. An hour after sunrise, a small group of natives approached
them from behind an outcropping of rock. They walked slowly, their skin just
slightly darker than the pale brown grass that their passage seemingly did
nothing to disturb.
    As they came nearer,
the sailors could discern that every member of the group, composed of three
women and two men, was as bare as the day they'd been born, their skin covered
with some kind of thick grease or paste, a bright red colour. Presumably, this
must have kept out the winds that, this far south, were cruel even in the
spring—and would be deadly in winter.
    The three women
walked boldly to the group of Spanish and Portuguese mariners and spoke in
their own language, a tongue that sounded harsh and hollow to De Menes, as
desolate as the moaning of the ever-present wind. There was no threat in their
gestures. The men were unarmed, and the spokeswomen seemed unsurprised to see
them.
    Magalhaes turned to
Herrero, a Spaniard who could understand any tongue, no matter how uncivilised.
Rumours, given strength by his dusky skin and quick temper, told that the
interpreter's affinity for the tongues of the savages was due to him being
half-savage himself. Others said it was a gift from the devil. However he'd
come about it, though, the ability had proven both useful and profitable on the
journey so far. "Stay ashore and learn their tongue. I will have the ship send
you a boatload of supplies. De Menes and Carrizo will stay with you." Herrero
nodded.
    De Menes said nothing.
He should have felt fury at the captain for belittling his beliefs once again,
but there was no anger within his soul. He'd known what was coming, felt as
though he was walking a predetermined path with an already decided ending,
albeit one he could not see. All he saw when he thought about it was the
greyness of impenetrable fog, an indeterminate future.
    He simply walked
behind Herrero as the linguist selected a campsite. This was not hard to do:
the whole hillside was dotted with pits, each of which held the remains of a
discarded campfire.
    The rest of the
morning passed peacefully. Herrero had wandered off and was seated in the
centre of a group of natives, gesturing, laughing, offering gifts of beads and
other trinkets which seemed to go down very well with the natives. Soon, they
were gesturing for Carrizo and De Menes to join them.
    The two sailors did
as they were told. De Menes sat down gingerly between a greying old man and a
woman who could not have