Arlen woke up with sand on his face. The sun blazed low over ocean waves. He was overdressed in his wool jacket and cap. He rolled onto his back, wincing at the hard metal in his waistband, and tried to remember how he got here. He'd been outside cutting firewood at his granddad's place. Then nothing. Now he'd been given a beach vacation.

The first question was, "Where is this?" He stood up shakily. Water squished in his boots and pink-tinged sand covered him. The warmth seared him through his clothes. The sky was too cloudy to judge by, but he caught sight of the moon... which was pale green, and hazed with clouds of its own. Arlen took a step backward as though to get away from the strangeness. But he knew, now, and the question was what to do about it.

In the distance along the shore, a fire burned and shapes moved. He smelled only the sea-salt. He considered heading toward the strangers and asking them what was going on, but that wasn't at all safe until he knew more, by his own effort. He pulled off his sweaty coat to sling it over one shoulder, then walked inland. There was still some light. Jungle began maybe thirty yards from shore. He kept to its edge for cover. These trees cast long shadows into woods too dense to risk entering.

The distant beachgoers hadn't spotted him. Some were dancing around the flames, others cooking over it or sitting on logs. They wore ponchos and long loincloths. No sign of a radio or a glowing screen. That didn't bode well for finding a convenient way home. The music being played on drum and warbling flute made him want to listen, anyway.

Something rustled. Arlen turned and saw glinting eyes. He yelped and ran. His boots kicked up sand. Behind him came a wolf-sized lizard, frilled in feathers. While running, he threw his coat. Then he fumbled at his belt and found his revolver. He swerved to one side and squeezed the trigger twice.

Shots rang out. The lizard-thing recoiled and snarled. Arlen had missed. It lunged and chomped his arm, and his muscles convulsed. Numbed and jarred too much to feel the bite, he staggered aside and the creature let go to try striking again.

He fell backward onto the sand. It leaped and sailed right over him. Then a rock whizzed and struck it on the tail. It turned, hissing. Sparks crackled along its teeth. A group of the natives had come. They were in costume or something. One of them had a long branch held out like a spear. Another stood unarmed but wary, and there was a girl throwing rocks with more enthusiasm than skill. One stone skipped on the sand inches from Arlen's face. He winced and shielded himself.

The beast was distracted, now, protecting its "kill" from them. Arlen rolled away, found his gun, and held it behind his back, ready to hide or use again. The beachgoers had this under control. The stick wielder jabbed the lizard, a rock staggered it, and the other guy somehow caught a wave that had gone far inland and rode that several feet into the air to crash and kick hard. Another stab from someone's knife and the creature was down, bleeding onto the sand.

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Arlen stood up shakily and raised his bruised hands, saying, "Thank you!" He staggered and grabbed his bitten arm, as the pain finally registered.

The islanders stared and chattered. Their words blurred, and Arlen started to understand them as though remembering a foreign language. They were saying, "How bad is it? What are you?"

Arlen clutched his arm, where a bit of flesh had been seared and blood only seeped. He looked up with gritted teeth. His rescuers weren't quite human. Though mostly recognizable as some bronze-skinned tropical tribe, their ears were too high up and flicked back and forth, hidden by shaggy tan hair. What he'd taken for loincloths were actually tails, wide and seemingly animate. The people wore something like shorts or skirts, loose wraps on the women, and sandals. They stared at him as the weird one in the group.

He said, "I'm Arlen Erickson. Where is this?"

He covered his mouth. The words he'd spoken weren't English, but he understood them.

"Opaline," said one baffled-looking man. He pointed to Arlen's arm and said, "Come. You need help."

He went along, while one guy shrugged and began dragging the animal carcass along. Beyond the firelight the woods opened up to reveal a village of thatch huts. "Civilization," Arlen said, but there was hardly a dirt road. He'd vaguely hoped for a phone. Really, he already knew he was far outside the safety of home.

More of the tailed folk peeked out from homes. Arlen followed his guides to what they called the "healer". Looked competent: an old man surrounded by fragrant dried plants and to Arlen's pleasant surprise, bark strips covered in writing.

Before he could decipher it, his painful wound distracted him again. The healer exclaimed, "What is this? Where did he come from?"

A man answered, "Washed up on shore, chased by a shockjaw."

"He's not wet. Never mind; clear out."

The medic washed Arlen's wound with water and stinging rum. Then he held one hand over the ragged flesh and his fingers glowed a soft blue. Arlen's eyes widened. The throbbing pain faded and bits of charred skin flaked away.

"How!?" said Arlen.

"Thank the spirits. Keep this clean and don't swim for three days. Now, outsider, where are you from? Did you come through the Roaring Storm?"

"I don't remember how I got here. I think this isn't my own world." He shuddered and explained.

The doctor's formal feather headdress and cape hung on the wall. He looked toward them, saying, "I don't know what to make of that. But you have some power too; you hurled thunder?"

Arlen grimaced. "Do your people sacrifice outsiders? Do you cut out people's hearts or throw them off cliffs?"

"What? No! Why would you think that?"

"I know of some peoples who do, or did."

"Then you've seen more of the world than me. We don't have outsiders. Nobody comes through the Roaring Storm, only bits of their ships or in one case a shark-eaten body. We argued about whether they'd bit off his tail."