Unlike anything he has seen or heard so far, the sing-song rhythm confuses Big Al. Light as the wind, this human moves like it and sounds like air rushing through treetops.
The mango aroma that reaches Big Al has a distinct undertone of vegetation, the kind of aroma he suddenly realizes he hasn’t smelled since entering Ankerton. Not an unclean scent, but slightly sweet and earthy. The green spaces of Ankerton emanate traces of it. Arcanum Glades had lots of it, a sweet smell woven through the overwhelming mess of Stinkwater. He has never smelled this on a human before. All animals and living places had it. It had been missing from the photos of meat and food. It reminds him of the undecided, natural flow of the swamp, of grass growing toward the sun, of herons landing to eat bugs. Of things moving because they are alive.
Is this human nature, or just human?
Disarmed, the croc in a hat and dress scampers on all fours toward the dancer, like a pet returning home. Big Al isn’t sure how or why he does what he does, but he whirls around the dancer in a circle and puts his nose to the ground. They step on, and with an easy toss, the dancer slides down his back. He curls his tail up, spinning the dancer in the air.
He grabs the dancer’s hand in his right hand and with their foot braced against his hip, the two twirl, Big Al’s leg pivoting around.
A blinking orb with a high-pitched sound whirls out from the dancer, around Big Al’s tail, up over his nose and they end their dance with what sounds like a glowing hummingbird, to Big Al, whirling around both of them in a fast orbit.
They finish the dance.
This human smells like…cilantro?
The orb hovers before them, a strange smell of rocks and will-o’-the-wisp. The hummingbird sound comes from four tiny rotating blades like the front of an airplane, warm and smelling like burning tree sap.
What is that thing? What just happened?
The sound of humans clapping, the scent of water-return mixed with mango and banana billows from a small crowd that has gathered, watching the two in their dance.
Despite a smile on his snout, Big Al doesn’t know what to think.
Since when do I move like this?
These humans have gathered without him noticing, which unsettles him. His nose has never failed him. Well, maybe, once when he sneezed on those humans at the Zit & Grit, but not like this.
Their scents are accepting in a way that Ms. Fast was not; these aren’t just bison-stewish or even mango. They are sweet like honey, enveloping him.
What? I’m not sweet. I’m a crocodile, right? I sleep and I swim and I eat herons and foxes. Why does this human smell almost like me? How did I get here? What just happened?
“Uhh. Excuse me,” he says.
Overwhelmed, overstimulated, and unimpressed with himself, Big Al freaks out and runs back between the buildings the way he came. His purse flops against his thigh, and his straw hat flies off.
Back towards where he smelled the wheat scent billowing out, he ducks into an alley towards a dumpster he had sniffed on the way in. He flies past two humans just inside the alley who smell like burning grass.
With a hop, he lifts the lid with his nose and slides into the big metal box.
KERFLSSSSS
Air hisses out of scrunching plastic bags filled with pub food. Not long ago, the French fries and hot dogs and hamburgers would have driven him wild with hunger. Now he just wants a quiet, dark place to hide.
I should go back. Life was simpler back then. I swam, I ate, and I slept. Now…what did I just do? It was like I forgot everything. How did I…dance…like that?
“Top of the morning to you!” says a voice from outside the dumpster. “I saw your hat go flying off. I’m sure you’ll want it. It’s here against the side so you don’t crush it when you come out.”
It’s one of the humans he ran past at the front of the alley.
“Thank you,” he says after a moment. “I’ll be a while.”
“You take care of yourself, you hear?” says the human. “Welcome to Ankerton, fellow performer.”
Big Al holds his paws over his nose, then his eyes. The smell in here reminds him a little of Stinkwater. It’s thick, pungent, and something he can sink into. His jaw seals shut, and he freezes into his coiled, uncomfortable position. The dark mire of the swamp seems to bubble up around him…
“Hello in there?”
It’s the dancer.
How did he not smell that human approach? How did he miss their gentle, subtle cilantro scent?
Go away. I’m in the dark now, he thinks. Drifting… sinking down… down…
“If you need a moment, just tap on the side.”
The words interrupt, but frozen in his paralysis, Big Al feels his heart begin to slow to a reptilian beat.
“Hmm. Ok. I’ll take that as a tap.”
The person outside leans against the dumpster, a different scent arising, like the sun melting away dewdrops.
“You’re awfully quiet in there. If people hadn’t seen you go in, I’d think you were a mummy, dead and silent.”
I’m not dead. I’m…I’m…just sleeping for a moment. When I wake up, this will all be over. I’ll be in Stinkwater, a heron stuck between my teeth.
“I think you’re amazing. Who could just join me in the flow like that? No one’s ever done that, but you did it beautifully. That was an incredible experience. Raleigh was right. He had seen our next performer.
“Whatever your name is, I’m sure it’s one for the books. They’ll tell stories about you, you know.”
Big Al opens his eyes. What is his name? Is it Rick, or is it Big Al? Or is it something different? This is a strange question for his head, and the two names circle like an animal chasing its own tail.
The dancer’s scent isn’t of fox or trick, but the water-return and something else on the other side of it, something that is deeper, wetter.
What’s wetter than water? I don’t understand.
And with that thought, his heart begins to lift, to race, to pump again. He shifts in the dumpster, and something clangs underneath him.
“Thanks for the tap. I’m still here, you know.”
Raleigh. He’s around here somewhere…
His blood warming, breathing returns at first slow, then quickening like a tree shaking in the wind. Those names chasing their tails still circle in his head.
The human who gave him his first key to the human world.
I should find him and see what he has to say, thinks Big Al, Rick.
“Hello?” says the dancer as Big Al pushes up the lid to the dumpster and slides out to sit next to them.
“Hel…lo,” he says. “I’m…new to this, human…thing.”
“It’s okay,” says the dancer with a smile. “We’re all kind of just figuring it out.”
Looking for Raleigh’s card, Big Al opens his purse. He pulls out ‘Kitchen Closed,’ and his stomach sinks when he realizes it’s been crushed and isn’t readable anymore.
“Oh no,” he says, tears running down his face. “I’ve broken one of my keys.”
The dancer looks at the paper menu.
“I think we have some more like that at Hooks, if you want one of ours.”
His jaw opens as he glances at the dancer. “I…would really like…that.” Digging back in his purse, he finds the small card that Raleigh gave him.
“Do…you know…this…person?” he says, holding it out.
With a deft hand, the dancer takes the card, looks at it, flipping it from the back, where a pen-blue line starts in the middle and disappears off the lower edge, to the front.
“Raleigh Sylvester. That’s my boss. He’s the manager at Hooks. Then this really is you. Come on, I’ll take you to him.”
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Chapter 12 podcast drops December 27
Chapter 13 text drops January 3
