“Give nothing to the beggars. It does no good, not for them and certainly not for you.” The alien spoke crisply, doing its utmost to convey a clear meaning. The traveler from Earth was surprised. In his time on this world he had heard little plain-speaking. The traveler decided to test the alien’s candor.

“Surely their fortunes can change? Or do you mean your society has decided they must stay as beggars, now and forever?”

The test was not successful. “I mean nothing more than what was said,” the alien replied. It turned to go. “Tomorrow shall we meet, at the appointed hour?”

The traveler replied with a gesture of three hand taps on shoulder, signaling an affirmative. The alien in turn made three taps on its own left shoulder, one tap with each of its right arms. It then departed, moving smoothly on six short but powerful legs.

The traveler went in the opposite direction, walking down a vaulted gallery. He passed a few aliens of varying condition: a laborer wearing worn, shabby sandals on its six feet; some members of the middle-class, window-shopping along the gallery, all manipulating communications devices with their multiple limbs; and an upper-class manager or possibly a chief, a sentient advisor-crab perched on its shoulder. Here and there along the gallery were bits of trash, piles of mud left by the periodic sluicing rains, and discarded fragments of half-eaten food. The traveler barely noticed; he had become inured to such casual filth.

As he approached the exit from the gallery the dull sounds of traffic and voices of passersby grew louder. Ahead he saw a dense flowing stream of pedestrians and beyond an even denser stream of vehicles. The traveler paused, steeling himself to enter the swift-moving flow. Seeing an opening he strode briskly forward.

He was surrounded by bodies. With his longer human legs he was able to keep pace, but he could not match the sudden changes in direction of the six-legged aliens as they milled one about the other, each striving to get ahead and arrive at its destination faster than its fellows. So he walked as an alien child would, with sufficient speed, but straight on and oblivious to the cues the aliens used as they dodged around each other.

He walked on. Then, ahead he saw an opening, where the flow of moving aliens parted to make a space. It was a beggar, squatting in the middle of the walkway. He stopped in front of the beggar, and it seemed the other walkers nervously looked away as they passed.

“Help … me,” the beggar said in a weak voice. The traveler saw the beggar was in need of help. Where most other aliens of his acquaintance were sleek and well-fed, the beggar showed bones and thin muscles through papery skin. It was naked and the mat it squatted on was grimed with dirt. Before it was a dented cup which held a single coin of low value. “Help … me,” the beggar repeated.

Will it do any good? the traveler wondered. It came to him that it did not matter. Certainly if nothing is done, nothing will ever change, but if someone does something, at least there is a chance. From his wallet he took a plastic currency chit. It was less than he might spend on a modest meal, but it was much more than the coin in the beggar’s cup. Who knows what change it might bring to the beggar’s life? “Take this,” the traveler said.

The beggar seemed barely aware of him. “Take this,” the traveler repeated. Now the beggar seemed to hear, it pushed forward the cup. “No, you take it,” the traveler said, proffering the chit. Somehow he felt to throw the money into the cup would be demeaning, to him and the beggar. The beggar reached up, ever so slowly. As it took the chit, a nail of its long finger caught against the traveler’s skin and the traveler jerked his hand back at the needle-like sensation. Welling up on the heel of his hand was a droplet of blood.

“Well, you’re welcome,” the traveler said, but the beggar paid no heed. The traveler began to walk on.

The day was fine and the traveler admitted there was much he admired about this world. Overhead winged a bird, bright green in color, of a type he had never seen before. Though the bird was high above it seemed he saw with perfect detail golden threads that ran through its emerald plumage. Now he came to a part of the roadway lined with apple trees — or he called them apple, seeing as the trees were heavy with round, red fruit. The fruit gave off an intoxicating aroma, like wine, or like a cordial preserved for years that when finally opened floods the room with scent and memory. Why had he never noticed it before?

He walked on, slower now. The voices of the aliens now filled his ears crisply, hundreds at one time yet all distinct. He caught snatches of conversation: promises, explanations, denials, entreaties, words of love — some he knew by the very tone to be true, others not. Even the garments worn by the aliens seemed suffused with meaning: there was a sash woven by a mother and given to her son before he came to the city; there was a headband that belonged to a sworn brotherhood, now defunct; the skirt worn by a young female whose mate has died. How had these obvious meanings eluded him before?

He walked on, though much slower now. There was a light breeze and it was good on his face, yet he also felt particles of live pollen, invisible to the eye, striking his cheek that for a moment sought to burrow inwards until their tiny claws were frustrated by his earthly skin. How can I know that? he asked himself. But then his senses brought more and more to him and thought was banished: There was the minute scraping of insect wings; the texture of the walkway stones and their very warmth through the soles of his shoes; countless smells of food, industry, exertion and sex; a whirlwind of voices, signals and signs; and the varied and constantly wavering subtle colors of the sun itself. His own senses had somehow expanded, surrounding him, isolating him, dominating him with details so deep and so minute the barriers between self and not-self were beginning to fade away. And in the vast sensual space he was aware of the beggar, and he knew what had happened. But knowing no longer had meaning for him. There was only sense, the infinite texture of existence drowning him like a pitiless sea.

The traveler stopped and slowly lowered himself to sit on the walkway. The swift-moving stream of aliens parted around him, like water flowing past a rock.

The traveler weakly reached forth a hand. “Help … me,” he said. “Help … me …”

© 2016 Fernando Salazar