The Faerie Dusters

The Faerie Dusters

by D. L. Herring Copyright 2009 Chapter One The lights were rising from the abyss. Again, as always, they would take their erratic courses to the top of the sky. Again, as always, light trails would slowly fade. The sky would sparkle and glisten irregularly, but as exhilarating and predictable as new song. Then the lights would fuse into the large bright ring that enclosed the barrier, and midday would lie flat upon Phar Sheeth. The lights, however, would be long in reaching the barrier. Their trek had but begun.

This was Zamani's favorite part of the day, when shadows first stretched long upon the cultivated fields below, when lights shot bright streamers through the mists of the nhola's night, piercing deeply through vine and flower to reach the living heart of the forest. There, the mist and light would vie. There, as always, light would win; mist and shadow would be put to flight. Daylight, victorious and jubilant, would rise and rise.

Zamani stood upon the voal of a lofty nhola, facing the castle-city, Zhereen. With arms akimbo, and breathing reverently stilled, he thrilled once more at the dawn. The waking noises of uncountable creatures arose from the motherly embrace of the magnificent forest that stretched out below him.

Wings stirred. Legs stretched and straightened. Voices called and answered.

Zamani's eyes were drawn left, where a beautiful giant unfolded wings of red and white upon the billowing dawn. It lifted those wings until the black trim was visible. Gathering winds, the wings thrust dirtward, so that the sturdiest nholas danced and swayed. Mighty wings rose and fell. The forest gesticulated. This sight most grand was the kingdom's first denizen, Zamani's first subject. It was the oldest and largest of all the floaters.

Dimmed by distance, awash in mist, the old floater sailed up, slicing through streamers of bright morning light. Great wings of red and white flashed brightly through each morning shaft. Zamani sat and crossed his legs; the old floater's daily ritual was a treat not to be missed. Huge even in the distance, the floater changed direction with a monumental thrust of it's wings. Up it went, sailing higher, moving out to probe the barrier.

Zamani's black eyes widened, absorbing the floater's moves. It beat it's way skyward and turned. It dove, headlong, into the barrier. Zamani felt as though he watched his old friend from the top of the sky. Time slowed. The floater fell back, beating the air with furious wings. So, the floater had failed again.

Zamani threw himself back with a grin, stretching his bare back upon the cool moist surface of the nhola. Such was the favorite part of his day. Always had, and always would the old floater rise up to test the barrier. Always had, and always would the floater fail.

Zamani opened his eyes to the top of the sky; already, it reflected pale light. The voal of the center-most nhola almost touched it. Someday, he reminded himself, he must climb it; he must conquer it. He must subject it to his will, as he had subjected all else in his kingdom. This was his forest

kingdom; this was his world, and this was the favorite part of his day. All things were bathed in new light, and joy sailed high on mighty wings.

He filled his chest with cool air and shouted at the sky, “Zamani's.”

The sound struck the sky and fell back into the forest. Waking creatures answered him. He laughed, for all was well.

Then, his thoughts were drawn home. In the lower nholas, large green vines formed a supportive mesh for the loftier boles. They were very tall in the heart of the forest. So tightly woven were those vines that they grew together to form enclosures. Some were large, others small; most of them were home to the noisy zeo. Star gnats, too, were fond of them.

It had been a large, abandoned zeo hive that Zamani claimed as his. Zamani rolled to his feet and leapt to the nhola below. Nimbly racing over vines that were worlds in their own right, bouncing from one spongy voal to the next, and sidestepping the slippery sweetchurs, Zamani soon reached his home.

How he relished his home! So large it was, so comfortable and secure. Filled with treasures it was. How many middays he had seen in amassing such wealth, he could not say. Forever is a misty land without borders, but here and now had clean lines, and crisp edges, and, here was the door to his home.

He released the tightly drawn shroomskin cover from the lower stays, pressed through, and quickly pulled it tight. He knew that he must prepare for school, but there was still time enough for his treasures, so he turned and danced into the room with a leap and a laugh.

“Try for these; hobbedy, hobbedy!” sang he.

Hung upon the wall was the hand-crafted cage that contained two star gnats. Their brightly flashing butts cast an orange light upon his many possessions. What should he take with him for his first day of school? There were colorful wings, quill caps, and pots. There were simple spears, staffs, woven rope, and silk vestments.

Clothing - yes! He remembered. This midday was clothing day, and he had promised Xarhn something special. He had collected a flower and made her a fetching dress the eve before, but what would he take for himself?

His mind drifted. Xarhn! How she pleased him. How she troubled him.

He sat by the table and sighed involuntarily, “Xarhn.”

So lovely. So sweet. He played her name across his tongue as if it was the sweetchur's treasure.

He knew her colors; he knew he could bend them at will, and yet . . . and yet. Within him stirred feelings unnamed, feelings his powers failed to constrain. How she troubled him; how he ached.

Zamani had stuttered; Zamani had tripped. His strength had failed him, and his mind had lost its keen edge. All for the nearness of her!

The smell of her lingered in his nostrils.

But, he was Zamani! He was king and conqueror, wind song and brushing breeze. His hand was high. He would ride the old floater; he would conquer the highest nhola; he would reach up with his own hand to the top of the sky. He would sing and dance circles around the girl, and disappear as the morn mist. Yes, she was only a girl. She, too, would he conquer.

And yet . . . what strange, new feelings these were. What ragged hot wings they were that fluttered in his belly. Was it possible? Might Xarhn conquer him?

“Enough,” he told himself. “To work.” He dismissed the pesky thought. And yet . . .

“Arrrgh!”

Now, what to do first? As he sat by the heavy table, his eyes wandered over his many possessions. He drew his hand across the cool, smooth surface of the table, and fell helplessly into a deep revery. It was this morn last, when tiring of his forest triumphs, that he decided to breach the barrier and see what adventures lay beyond.

Chapter Two Although he should not have jumped through head first, his second time through the barrier was not quite as painful as the first. Rolling to his feet, he had raised his arms in victorious glee, spinning madly round and round. He spoke low the word of power; he spoke it to himself to strengthen him against the sting.

“Daoine! Daoine! A heart to plant my courage in.”

Objects sped before him, turning in tightly packed bands of white, red, green, and yellow. Again and again, he chanted the word of power, pumping his heart with courage against the sting of the barrier. Round and round he spun, the chant becoming a ragged song. And then it came: a voice from nowhere. It was a laugh that was a question.

“Well, who are you?”

Zamani was shocked and surprised. He was shocked that he had been surprised and so surprising was the shock that he tripped on his feet and went sprawling flat on his back into the berribits, there to gape at the revolving visage of a cleg bound girl.

With a smile at once both warm and mocking, the girl asked again, “Who are you?”

“I’m . . . I’m the . . . my . . .” he stuttered, climbing to his knees.

A new and disturbing sensation swept through him as he looked up at the girl - too long; too intently, he realized. From the corner of his eye, he noted that his color had changed, and he silently cursed his weakness. The neutral blue, so rigorously maintained by the power of his will, had been swept aside by the flooding of embarrassed crimson.

The girl watched him intently. Did she know? No, he told himself, she did not. How could she?

To scan the rainbow was not a gift given to the common Sith. Zamani knew it because he had learned it in secret at the school of Phrava. She did not know, but Zamani's wrath welled up in him all the same.

How poorly he had controlled himself!

Zamani taken by surprise? Zamani at a loss for words? It left a vile taste in his mouth. From the crimson of embarrassment, from the dark reds of wrath, he fought his way back to blue, just as from his knees, he climbed to his feet.

“Urrgh!” he spat in self-disgust.

“Am I not pleased to meet you, Urrgh?” sweetly sang the girl, spinning into sudden dance. As the dance ended with a deferential bow, she added, “My name is Xarhn. Are you pleased to meet me?”

“That’s not my name,” Zamani corrected.

“I Know,” she giggled. “May I hear it?”

“Yes,” he said, wondering at the game she played.

“Yes is your name? How strange.”

“No.” “No? But did you not clearly say . . .”

Suddenly weary of her banter, he said decisively, “No. Listen and learn. Yes, you may hear my name. My name is Zamani.”

Xarhn spun into another dance. She laughed an annoying accent upon each graceful step.

Abruptly she stopped, arms high, fingers locked. A sweet smile spread across her gentle face.

“Zamani. Zamani. Must you be so long to answer a simple question?”

He eyed her with interest as, once more, she broke into dance. Her dance seemed particularly graceful: a spinning, swaying sort as if the body had a mind of its own. She spun in tight circles, rising to her toes and hurling herself side-wise foot first. The entire movement completed a larger circle where the ending was the commencement of swaying motions best accomplished by the female body.

Through the seasons, Zamani had watched all the girls - but, from a distance. This grand spectacle, so close, was new to him.

Colors flooded; her head rolled; a smile dawned upon her sweet face; her lips glistened in the new light. The arms and hands of this girl were of such exquisite expression as to quite nearly speak.

Was she dancing a message? The light brown of her joy melted into the fiery red of passion that all but glowed upon her throat and fingers. This girl from the cleg throbbed with the inner pyre of excitement, and her cheeks flushed from the warmth of it.

Suddenly, the dance ended. Xarhn drew the toe of her right foot up the opposing leg, sinking magnificently to a seated position upon the cleg. Zamani had been in the center of Xarhn's dance; he

had turned with her to keep her in his sight.

Now that he stood still, he felt dizzy; he felt his eyes moving of their own will. He released the air from his chest, only then realizing that he had been holding his breath. He dropped to his knees before the girl, and she opened large black eyes to meet his riveted gaze.

She said, “You must not be much of a dancer.”

He smiled and asked, “Why do you say that?”

“Because,” she answered with a mirthful grin, “I can dance circles around you.”

Zamani drank in the image of this strange girl as he would the dew of the forest. Upon her high pait, Xarhn wore a simple paitcap of interlocked nechsta petals of a white much brighter than milksap.

He noted that her neutral blue had returned. As his eyes wandered, he saw that her skirt was bravely adorned with the bright green of nechsta leaves rather than the traditional use of the flower's petals.

Her bare breasts, well along for a girl of so few middays, rose and fell as she exhaled the exertions of her dance. The nips were erect, and passion's waning glow gave them a purplish cast.

He confessed, “You dance as if the Maker of all gave dance to you alone.”

At that, she fairly beamed. “Well, of course he did. Brag!”

“Do you answer every compliment with an insult?”

“No,” she answered, smiling innocence. “Just yours.”

They laughed, and Zamani loosed the shroomsack from the waistband of his trousers. He crossed his legs, seeking a comfortable position, and pulled the shoulder strap over his head, careful not to muss his blue quill cap.

Xarhn followed his moves with evident curiosity. Setting it slowly to his side, he watched her shining eyes follow it down. Beneath the nechsta paitcap, he thought, her temples must surely be orange. With his hand yet on the sack, he crossed it over his lap and set it on the cleg by his other side.

Capriciously, he returned it to its original position.

Xarhn looked up with a frown upon her face. “You mock my interest.” An earnest pout replaced the fleeting frown.

“Yes.” After a moment the frown returned, accompanied by blazing cheeks. She sat up straight and narrowed her black eyes.

“Peck!” she said.

He countered with an imitation of her stony voice: “Curious!”

Zamani watched as the fire in her cheeks swept toward her hands. He watched her struggle for control. Her reds faded to blue, but yellow could easily be seen above her eyes, and he knew that thoughts arose in her even as she looked between him and the shroomsack in his hand. Then she broke the long silence with sweet words and a smile.

“Did you truly like my dance?”

“Yes.” “It was a gift.”

Zamani nodded deferentially and answered, “I do thank you.”

Xarhn's yellow was momentarily replaced with brown. The smile drifted away, and the yellow swatch above her eyes returned.

She spoke in a low steady voice. “And do you have a gift for me?”

He could have answered immediately. He chose not to. With a practiced blank face, he looked her in the eye. Inwardly, he reveled in the coming conquest. He would tease her anticipation until purple turned to red.

Expectantly, Xarhn gazed at the strange new boy, so unlike the others. He had glanced up into his thoughts as if mentally raking through the treasures that lay hidden within the mysterious bag. His lips began to speak and were stilled as, perhaps, he remembered some more nearly perfect object he wished to give her.

What was it? What?! She wanted to know. She needed to know. Why did he take so long? Had he fallen asleep like Yagi, his large black eyes looking directly into her face? She squirmed irritably, but then he focused and his hand moved upon the strange container.

Zamani had been watching the girl lean closer, and closer still. The smell of her was in his nostrils. Her large eyes had narrowed to slits of focused concentration. Her skin was almost entirely purple. Now was the time.

He shrugged and shook his head: “No.” “No? . . . No?!” she cried, her reds all but burning him.

Zamani was quite pleased with himself. What high fun! He could not help but grin the wider as the more darkly she blazed. Though her lips still worked, she had no words. She was as silent as stone, and Zamani relished it. She could not speak, nor did she need to; her searing colors spoke volumes.

While Zamani struggled not to laugh outright, he found it easy to appreciate the sheer effort it took Xarhn to return to her neutral blue. He amended his answer.

“Just kidding. Of course, I have a gift.”

“Peck,” she pouted.

Smiling, he asked, “Would you like it this morn or the next?”

“This. Now.” she declared.

“First, you must guess what it is,” he teased.

“Tell me,” she pleaded impatiently.

“Very well,” conceded Zamani. “My gift to you will be magic.”

She searched his abysmal eyes to no avail. She simply could not read the strange new boy; she resorted to name calling.

“Brag!” she said. “Taran! Spunkie!”

“Magic,” he repeated, nodding.

“Are we not all aware that only the wog know magic?”

“Have you ever seen a wog?” demanded Zamani.

“No,” she admitted.

“So there you are. If you want my gift, fetch me a berribit.” As Xarhn jumped to brown feet and strode toward the overhang, Zamani called after her. “Choose a green berribit and not a ripe.”

She returned to find him standing, a smile upon his blue face. She proffered a green berribit half the size of her head. He took it in both hands.

“Now,” he declared, “watch as I command it to fly. I will try to hold it with my hands, but because magic has more strength, it will break free and fly away.” He then spoke to the berribit directly, “And now, you berribit, take wing. Fly!” Zamani strained at the large green fruit. His hands pulled left and down. He grunted and bared his teeth to show the effort it took. Veins stood out on his neck, running widely toward his shoulders.

Xarhn followed every movement with unblinking eyes. Again, he grunted, hands pulling right and up, then level.

He gave the unripened fruit a stout squeeze; the pulp exploded through broken skin. Straight as sedge, it flew into Xarhn's bewildered face. She touched the sticky spot on her forehead where the pulp had struck her; it was more than white with her surprise. She gazed in utter disbelief between the boy's broad grin, and the glistening pulp that lay upon the cleg.

Zamani removed a filament from his blue quill cap and pressed it to her sticky forehead. Her white forehead turned yellow; her toes turned pink. She lifted dark red fists, and Zamani knew it was time to run.

He kept easily ahead of the girl, dodging this way and that to avoid her wild blows. He led her round and round the cleg. Xarhn bore down on him, determined to make contact.

She called names after him that were sharp as chipstones. “You Spunkie!” she yelled. “You privy bred Peck! You’ll beg mercy when I bend your Taran pait!”

Zamani fell to the cleg near his shroomsack and gasped for air. Xarhn fell close by and faced him sourly. There they stretched upon their bellies, breathing laboriously, and kept their eyes locked.

Their hard exhalations alternated, and soon, it seemed they were but taking turns blasting each other with their breath. They laughed. How could they not?

When there was silence once again, and nothing was left save neutral blue, a single orange finger made stealthy inroads toward the light brown shroomsack. Zamani took it and retreated.

“What is it?” She asked.

“Shroomsack.”

“Does it hold treasure?”

“No.” She took a new direction, stating, “Well, it’s likely only old things no one really wants.”

Zamani conceded, “Very well, girl. I’ll show you.”

He crossed his legs and placed the bag in his lap. Upon her knees, Xarhn attended the ceremonious unfastening of the bag with absolute interest. On the dull green cleg between them, Zamani set out his three spice bags, each but a small scrap of shroom tied with twine. He placed them in a neat row and set the shroomsack aside.

He said, “These are my three tasters. I put them in food for more taste. You may not open them, but I will let you smell them.”

Xarhn, watching for Zamani's approving nod, lifted the first bag to her nose and sniffed cautiously. The spicy aroma assailed her as an angry zeo might. Disapproving, she set the bag quickly back and rubbed her nose.

Zamani said, “I call that one zeeda. It makes the mouth burn with unseen fire.”

She next took up the middle bag. She sniffed with feigned boldness and returned it.

“That one, I call Moost,” said Zamani. “That one is my favorite. The taste is sharp, like a knife.”

Xarhn drew the third bag to her nose. The aroma of sweet flowers excited her.

“Ooh!” she exclaimed. “I like this one.”

“That one is anik,” he answered. “It tastes sweet, but it isn’t. Not really.”

Zamani then drew a small brown pot from the heavy sack. It was crafted from the carish seed

and polished to reflection. The rough, conical lid was held in place with a tight length of shroomstrap.

He set it on its flat underside, just before her knees. The morn light gleam piqued her interest.

“This pot holds a dew much sweeter than honey,” he sagely informed her.

She asked, “What do you call it?”

“Sweet.”

“Sweet?” she snorted. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

He untied the tight gray strap and lifted the lid. He held the pot out to her and commanded, “Dip in your finger.”

Xarhn inserted a finger; she placed her finger upon her tongue, and her face lit up with the browns of delight.

“Ooh!” she cried out.

She drove her finger deep and tasted again. Zamani watched her lovely face become lovelier.

He watched her tilt back her head as he did when he spoke to his father. He could almost taste the sweet with her. She drilled the pot a third time and glowered when he withdrew it.

He sat with the sack in his lap, raking through his treasures. To one side sat the tasters and the sealed pot of sweet. He set the shroomsack aside, and let fall the cover. He opened his hand before her face. In his palm were two gray stones. A question in Xarhn's onyx eyes answered the proud smile on Zamani's face. Her blue brow flooded white, and her full lips sought to form words, but Zamani could await no prompting.

“Firestones!” he proudly proclaimed.

Xarhn gasped, “Flynts? But . . . aren’t they just a myth? I mean, Teller has taught of them, but who has ever seen them?” She snorted disbelievingly and asked, “Are they real?”

With a wide smile, Zamani answered, “Watch!”

He struck the stones together, causing a heavy red spark to fly into the cleg.

“Ooh! Again!” Xarhn was beside herself.

After several more demonstrations, all as exciting as the first to Xarhn, Zamani set the stones aside and drew forth new treasure. He set before the girl one large piece of dried shroom meat and two small chunks of carish meat. Both meats were white, but not very. He named them and gave the larger carish to Xarhn. The meat was hard and waxy, but Xarhn was much pleased with the flavor. She eyed the larger portion of shroom even as the last of the Carish slid down her throat.

Her black eyes sparkled widely as he pulled off a slab of shroom and placed it in her purple hands. The chewy shroom was like nothing she had ever tasted. Zamani looked on with joy, for she relished each bite, and was pained to swallow the last mouthful.

“Who gave you all these wonders?” she asked, sitting back on her heels.

Zamani lost his broad smile. “I need no one to give me what is mine.” He thumped his chest with an indignant fist. “I pick the meats; I gather Sweet. Only I have the fire stones.”

“And your cap?” she asked, impervious to his ire.

“Trophy of the kill. Blue quill mocked me; I killed him and took his mantle for my prize.”

She answered with a blank expression, saying, “I don’t understand.”

“Silkhead!” he gibed.

“Well, I’ve never heard of blue quill. All I learn, I know, but this blue quill I’ve not learned.”

Hitching a thumb over his shoulder, Zamani explained, “Blue quill is a creature of the forest.”

He stopped short as Xarhn gasped and placed a hand over her mouth. Her body pulsed with white and orange. Zamani had slipped up, said too much. He felt uncomfortably guilty.

“You’ve been to the forest?” she managed at last to ask.

Zamani despised his discomfort. Who was this girl to make him feel this way? His ire rose up again into his chest. He clenched his jaw against the burning. Curse the girl!

He spat his answer at her, “I live there.” He allowed time for the news to sink in. “The nhola is my home; it is my kingdom.” He spread his arms expressively and crowed, “In the forest, Zamani rules.”

She did not seem as duly impressed as he had hoped. She only asked, “And you kill forest monsters?”

Zamani slumped back and answered, “When they annoy me.”

Jumping suddenly to her feet, Xarhn cried out, “The barrier! You’ve broken the barrier. Now, the monsters will free themselves.” She was completely white.

Zamani leapt up and drew Xarhn into his arms. It was something he had seen the adult Shee do to give comfort.

He whispered the healing word into her ear. Then he told her, “Be still, foolish female. The barrier cannot be broken.”

“But . . .”

He assured her, “I am king of the nholas; I pass through as I will.”

Pushing him from her, she argued, “No! No, Sith do not just pass through the barrier. They

would leave us.”

He countered, “Well, there you are, silkhead. Have I left? Am I a ghost?”

Xarhn had become volatile. Zamani could barely keep pace with her changing colors. Red chased white; orange and yellow swirled into each other to become one. She stamped back and forth in wild disbelief, pummeling the dull green cleg, at last wheeling to face him squarely.

“Very well!” she demanded. “Very well, then. Show me.”

“Hah! You don’t even know where the barrier is.”

“I do so!”

He dared the girl with a big smile, with a broad gesture. “Touch it; show me where to pass.”

She flooded red with fear. “I will not,” she said defiantly. “If you came through, you can find your way back.”

Zamani laughed. “Fine. So you really don’t know.”

Her reds deepening, she strode purposefully to the opening in the berribits that Zamani had come through. She plucked a ripe fruit and tossed it in demonstratively. The berribit rolled to a stop five hands inside the barrier. She knew, and she knew that she knew.

Zamani did not relish the prospect of jumping through again so soon; the sting of the barrier was worse than any ten zeos. Yet, Xarhn had left him with but two options: to cross the barrier, or surrender to a girl.

“Prove it, or move it,” she dared. “If you will but walk to the fruit, I will believe all that you say.”

“Fine.”

He filled his shroomsack and tucked it smartly under one arm, then he walked without hesitation to the berribit. With his back to the girl, Zamani whispered the word of power, thankful his knees did not weaken. The sting faded almost at once. He pulled the bag over his head by the strap and affixed it to his waistband. He picked up the fruit, turned and tossed it to her, the expression of ‘I told you so’ on his smiling face.

“You did it!” She exclaimed. “You walked through the barrier.”

“Told you. Now, it’s your turn.”

She took a step back and answered, “I don’t think so. I’m convinced, not stupid.”

“Then, I must go,” Zamani proclaimed.

“Oh! Wait,” she pleaded, nervously nearing the barrier, “will you return?”

“Perhaps.”

“This morning next?”

He shrugged and spread his arms.

“Midday next,” she added hastily, “I go to school. Will you come?” His hesitance spurred her forward. “Oh, please say you will. Please.”

He asked, “What is school to me?”

Her hope a little brighter, she answered quickly, “We’ll have so much fun, Zamani. I promise.

Teller is old and wise; you can ask him anything. We’ll have song and dance; dance is my favorite. Oh! And midday next is clothing day. We can dress up in whatever we make. Please say you’ll come.

Please, please, please . . .”

Zamani was curious. He asked her, “What will you wear for clothing day?”

At that, Xarhn cast down her eyes and scuffed a toe in the dull green cleg. Clasping hands behind her back, she unwillingly submitted, “Well, I did make a sedge cap. It’s a really nice cap, but . . .

I’m kind of stumped. Mother’s not allowed to help.”

“Then, I will come,” declared Zamani.

Xarhn looked up brightly, hugging herself, and bouncing gaily upon her toes. Her laughter was glad, yet still showed uncertainty. She said, “Oh, good! Great! Promise?”

Zamani promised, “I’ll be here at low light. Bring only your paitcap of sedge, and I will bring you something special to wear.”

“Ooh! Promise?”

“I promise,” said he, turning to leave.

“I’m so happy! Just wait til they hear . . .”

“No!” snapped Zamani, turning back. “Keep my secret or I will not come.”

“But . . .”

“But. But.” he mocked, “If something say you must, tell them I visit from Zhereen.”

“I will. I promise.”

As he turned again to leave, he looked back over his shoulder and quietly commanded, “Remember.”

“I promise.”

Chapter Three Zamani melted among the colorful herbs of the floater forest and solidified beside his smooth black table. He pulled his hand across the cool surface and sighed. The large black rock that had become his table was like nothing else in his kingdom. What a hardship it had been to bring it from the heart of the forest! What a hardship it had been to raise it from the forest floor to his home! But it was well worth the trouble, he thought. As far as he knew, there was no rock like it among the Shee. Upon this table, he had eaten sumptuous meals. Upon its cool black surface, he had fashioned objects, spun vestments, cut straps, and waxed pots. This morn, he would gather supplies upon it for his first day at school.

The initial pick being too large, and after careful consideration, his table now held only the necessary items. Upon the cool stone slab lay his reed flute, and his ruby handled knife was off to one side. On the opposing end lay his food. Large chunks of shroom commanded an ample collection that included carish, chelt, jerky made from the pestiferous bizrock, pots filled with sweet, and bags filled with tasters.

Vestments lay neatly in the center of the table. For Xarhn, the even last, he had fashioned a gown from the large flower that grew at the heart of the forest. It was white, but not very, with umber ribs that ran its length. He had cut holes for her arms and removed one rib to use as a waistband. For himself, Zamani had picked his very best: a blue quill cap dyed red from the juice of the berribit, his best silk trousers dyed dark brown with the bark of the nhola, and shroomskin boots beaten soft. He was particularly proud of his boots. He had sewn them to fit over the foot and extend past the ankle by half a hand. He had attached slats to the bottoms with sticky sap and had cut them to the shape of each foot.

Around his waist, Zamani would stretch a broad shroom belt. It would be held in place with a large round stay cut from the bark of a nhola. The light brown belt and dark brown stay would cover his flat belly, as well as anchor the mantle. The mantle, of course, would accent his attire. It had taken four middays to complete the work, more time than he spent on his boots.

Zamani was sure all eyes would turn to his mantle, for unlike that of the Shee, his draped over the shoulders and down the back. Neither was it stiff, but free flowing. Fluffy, red-dyed floater filaments adorned the outer side of a blackened flap he'd cut from a large, old shroom. He had beaten the flap until it was supple. At the neck and shoulders were attached Bizrock wings. These crossed over to form a black and red breastplate. When the breastplate hooked around the belt stay, the whole magnificent contraption held in place.

His chores complete, Zamani nibbled at jerky waiting for his next great plan to present itself. It came quickly. There was still time before his meeting, time enough, in fact, to master the one jump he had so far failed to accomplish. It called to him; it mocked him with bitter laughter.

It was just a small nhola on the inner edge of the floater forest, but it tasked him greatly, and he would not be at ease in his kingdom until it was mastered.

The Big Dew lay between the smaller nholas and the floater forest. The smaller nholas bore fewer vines on them, and being spaced wider than the taller nholas in the center, they

presented a greater challenge. Zamani had to leap with all his might to cross the nholas near the Big Dew. He had mastered all but one, and it vexed him.

Time after time, that one small nhola had thwarted his most determined efforts. This morn offered no change. Try as he would, Zamani could manage no more than to slip and fall into the succulent undergrowth below. The forest rang with howls of rage.

“Arrrgh!” he bellowed, “You will not defy me!”

He stood up and determined to make one last try. This time for sure, he assured himself.

He climbed to the top, positioned himself at the edge, and cleared his mind for the jump. The other nholas were there, awaiting their king. He tensed and jumped. The young nhola reeled as he exploded upward and outward. He arced across the void, chest pounding, fingers reaching. He caught the edge, his body slammed the side, and his toes sought purchase. His handhold failed him, his toes slipped, and once again the void seized him in its iron grip. It turned him head down and hurled him dirtward.

In the wild mesh of the floater forest floor, Zamani lay in a spongy tangle, exhaling defeat. He told himself that he would return; he would master the jump - just not this morn.

Lifting his wearied flesh from the ground, he made for the refreshment of Big Dew. Small to medium shrooms grew along the path, and he sprang easily from one to the next, adding distance to his stride. Then, fetching up on the low branch of a scruffy zeeda bush, he swung out to land, sure-footed, where the dew began to lift.

Big Dew was the largest dew ball in all of Phar Sheeth, and it belonged to Zamani alone.

Where it came from was any one's guess. Why it did not dry up each midday as the dew was known to do, again, was anyone's guess. Voals gathered dew, and oft it was that Zamani drank from those small orbs, but no dew was as sweet or as cool as this. He drew up a small portion in one hand, letting it roll about freely in his palm. Then deftly, he tossed it high and caught it in his mouth. There was an odd rankness to it this morn, but still, it was cool.

With a joyous leap back, he landed atop the giant dew ball, arcing arms and legs to allow his heat to be taken by the thick fluid. Movement on the Big Dew was always pleasurable; it was altogether different from walking or climbing. He took his time. Refreshed and thoroughly at ease, he slid lazily off to take a seat beneath the zeeda bush. The moment was comfortable and pleasant; without a thought for the day, Zamani could have taken root and become a flowering vine. That was the feeling – as if he might embrace his forest. He often felt that way. He eyed the light reflected from the Big Dew; the glistening made him strangely calm. It glittered and it glimmered as it rose and fell in the early light.

Rose and fell?

That wasn’t right. In all of his seasons, Zamani had never seen such a thing. Something new was afoot. He could only wait and watch to see what happened next. He stood upon his feet and trained all his attention on the heaving fluid.

A strange, pale creature broke the surface and pulled itself free of the Big Dew. It had skin like the skin of a shroom, and dew balls rolled from its back as it turned to face him. The eyes were huge black orbs, half out of their sockets; the lids moved upon them in a heavy fashion. A circular thread of

yellow laced each pupil, and the creature's mouth was the merest slit with two black holes above it.

The alien beast just sat by the dew, eyeing him. What was it? Did it wish to live in his kingdom? Zamani would have to name it, but what might he call such a thing? Massive hind legs folded beneath it while webbed fingers sought purchase in the dirt. And how big it was, yes, twice his own size! The beast suddenly opened its mouth and thundered.

“Greebit,” said the beast.

Zamani answered, “You have chanced upon my world, white one. How, or from where I know not.”

“Greebit.”

Zamani dismissed the interruption and continued, “You may dwell in my kingdom, but if you annoy me, I shall wear your white skin.”

Zamani faced the beast for a long moment, matching the intensity of its glare with his own, but as he turned to leave, something struck his feet, pulling them from under him. He threw his arms around the zeeda bole with a mighty desperation. His skin flooded with hues of angry defiance as he felt his joints near to snapping.

“Arrrgh! Let go,” he bellowed.

Gripping the bole in one arm, Zamani reached back to thrash the beast, only to discover that it still sat at its original distance. What had him, amazingly, was one extremely long and sticky pink tongue. He groped for a fallen branch, the length of his arm, but found it just out of reach.

“Sonofacoosith!” he yelled, “Release me, or face the brunt of my wrath!”

His fingers strained at the branch, and at last, it fell into his grip. Turning it to immediate use, he beat furiously at the sticky appendage. His precarious hold upon the zeeda slipped until only three desperate fingers held him fast. All the while, he beat harder at the thing that held him, not caring that sometimes his ankle got in the way.

He swore, and cursed, and yelled, “Turn loose, Greebit!”

The tongue, at last, snapped away. Zamani, banging his head against the zeeda bole, scrambled around to its sheltering side. He looked up in time to see the creature's hind legs disappear into the unknown depths of the Big Dew. Gone it was, and none too soon. He straightened and stepped forward. The Big Dew heaved in and out, swallowing small stones.

Zamani's chest heaved as well. His breathing could scarce be quieted, and his bony frame reverberated with the painful echoes of his throbbing heart.

“We will meet again, Greebit,” he wheezed, “and you will feel the straight of my blade.”

With the shroomskin cover sealed tightly inside, Zamani felt more at ease. While the comfort of his home could normally ease most ills, this morn, his joints did not cease to ache.

His beautiful home, quiet as meditation, could neither still nor mask the ceaseless pounding inside his head. At his cool black table, he rested his head in folded arms and sought his normally calm center.

That beast - it nearly had him for morn meal!

What a strange and wonderful beast it was, yet he could not help but cringe at the thought of how close he had been to becoming a wad of Greebit dung. Any further visits to Big Dew would be in the company of cold iron.

For now, he must return blue. He sat straight and held his breath. That seemed to still his racing heart a bit. He almost didn’t want to go. His adventure among the Shee would demand much from him. He peered into his mica at the bump on his head; he touched it.

Ouch!

He took away the swelling but kept the pain in his head and ankle. He would learn well from them. They would strengthen him to kill the impertinent beast. He pulled his hand across his head and was reminded of its roundness; if he was to fit in, he would need a pait. Looking into the mica, he kneaded his head until the wattle of a pait fell over his right eye, giving him a thoroughly Sith like appearance.

There we are, he thought, and what a handsome pait it is.

Chapter Four Xarhn paced along the berribit overhang. Hot reds flashed in her skin; rainbow hues flashed from the nechsta petaled skirt as she spun on her heels in the early light. Sedge jangled dryly as she raked the paitcap from her head and sat heavily in the cleg to pout with teary eyes. Zamani stepped quietly through the barrier. It stung; his eyes popped wide, and it was a good thing, he thought, that the girl's back was to him.

He had been too absorbed in his thoughts, but just as the morn lights cleared the nhola mists, so had the barrier cleared his mind. He thought to pause a moment and collect his scattered composure, but Xarhn had already heard his movement upon the cleg. She spun to her feet, snatching her cap on the way up.

Both brow and breast had flooded red, a bright warning that faded to brown at his broad smile.

“You’re late!” she scolded.

“I regret it.”

“You’re very late,” she insisted.

He explained, “Old Greebit caught me. Fighting monsters takes time.”

Xarhn smiled at his anecdotal manner, but the smile faded quickly as he limped toward her. She cried out, “You’re hurt!”

“Well, yeah. He tried to eat me.”

She gasped and pulled him into a tight embrace. When the unwarranted intimacy dawned on her, she stepped quickly away, reddening with embarrassment. “Did you kill it?” she asked.

“No. But, I will.”

Smiling again, she placed the cap on her head and bounced on her toes for effect. Long strands of sedge jangled dryly about her pointed ears. She asked, “Do you like it, Zami?”

“Very much, but my name is Zamani.”

“No longer,” she corrected, “you lost a piece of your name for being late.”

“Give it back.”

“No. It’s mine,” she beamed.

Zamani was game. Sort of. He smiled and responded with head tilted forward, and wide eyes cast up in teary humility. He said, “I’ll never be late again. May I have my name back?”

Xarhn folded her arms and turned an aloof gaze toward the sky. “No,” she said, “I own it. And, if you ever make me wait again, I’ll own the rest. Then you’ll belong to me.”

“Zamani belongs to Zamani,” he declared. “And for all I know, you only just arrived.”

“Have not; been here forever.”

Zamani smiled and patted the shroomsack at his side. Xarhn spun in a merry circle; hers was the color of great joy.

“Perhaps this will make the waiting of value,” he said, “or, did you weave your own?”

“Well?!” she prompted, facing him squarely. “Show me; don’t make me hurt you.”

“It is for school. Not until then shall you see it.”

“No!” she cried.

“Not until then.”

She pouted. “Very well, if you will not show me, you can eat morn meal with my family.”

“I agreed to school with you. Why should I do more?”

The question and Zamani's deadpan manner caught her off guard. “Very well,” she stammered, “then you can dance with me.”

“Silkhead! I’m hurt.”

Xarhn steadied herself, took a bold breath and answered, “If you’re lame, then dance a lame dance.”

“Why don’t I just walk?” he politely insisted.

“Zami . . .”

“Zamani.”

“Zami! You don’t have to do so much, just watch where I go, and . . . sort of, gimp along after me.”

She gave him no time to answer. She spun away in graceful dance. The long strands of her cap swished this way and that as she danced quickly into the distance. Zamani had no choice but to follow. Besides that, Zamani was quite taken by her graceful movements. Thoroughly enthralled, he limped after her.

She danced along the overhang. Then, in a swirl of nechsta and a rattle of sedge, she sailed like a floater across the path, toward a row of sedge, straight and tall. From one end of the row to the other, Xarhn spun out her captivating dance. Then, with a sparkle of onyx eyes, she danced to the far side of the row. Zamani followed.

And there he was, standing in a field of zarglenuts. Before him stooped an adult Sith in the plain vestments of a worker. His steady hands reached into a furrow to place and cover a seed. Beyond the mon-Sith, Xarhn stood in the embrace of one who could only be her mother. From where he crouched, the mon-Sith smiled up at Zamani.

“So, you’re the boy from Zhereen,” he said. “We’ve heard all about you - all night long.” He cast his gaze toward Xarhn, who could, from her crimson flooding, only smile. His eyes turned back and narrowed. he prompted “Zamani, is it?”

“Yes.” “I am Pax,” said the mon-Sith, “Teefa's own.”

Teefa served up the customary greeting, “Are we not pleased to meet you?”

Zamani responded, hiding his irritation behind the flourish of a courteous bow. He answered, “Is not the pleasure entirely mine?”

Pax lifted himself to stand on bare brown feet. He took Zamani by the shoulder and led him through the field. Ahead was the mon; Pax spoke the standard greeting. His hand was fatherly-firm on Zamani's shoulder as he said, “Are you not welcome at Pax-mon? Is not the haven of our home your own? Our lof is on the table; we held the morn meal til Xarhn could gather you to us.”

“It is so rare for one to visit from Zhereen,” piped Teefa. “You must tell all.”

Xarhn and her mother danced ahead. As they entered the mon, Xarhn smiled back over one shoulder.

Perhaps it was a moment trapped in time; Zamani was moved by the glimmer in her eyes, by the rich

brown of her joy that all but glowed. Rather than follow them, Pax led Zamani to the side of the conical dwelling, where lay a pile of blue-grey slate. They sat.

Pax said, “allow the girls to set the lof; they will call us soon enough. You and I must talk.”

Zamani could not resist the fatherly insistence of Pax; all he could do was sit and listen. He looked about and could see, in the distance, the neighbors of Pax-mon as they strained and pointed in his direction. He sensed their eagerness to meet the stranger from Zhereen. By now, he thought, all of Phar Sheeth must surely know.

Zamani turned to Pax and respectfully asked, “Of what shall we speak, mon-Sith?”

Pax leaned forward, plucked a blade of the cleg and held it between finger and thumb. He studied the lacy green milfoil thoughtfully. The pause in Pax’ reply caused Zamani alarm; a hard knot formed in his stomach. Then Pax spoke.

He said, “My child. My treasure.”

“Very well,” agreed Zamani.

“No one belongs to Xarhn,” the mon-Sith continued. “Acklik, though much older, was her chosen, as he was the last free male. He left us some three hundred middays this last. A fever. We’ve all wept for Xarhn.” He straightened and looked Zamani squarely in the eye, placing weight on his next words, “Now, Zamani walks among us. Therefore tell me, will you care for her as she cares for you, or, will you hurt her by returning to the forest when you’ve tired of her?”

Zamani was stunned. Where did that come from? He had only agreed to go to school with the girl. The burden of a father's concern for his daughter was all well and good, but a single question occupied his mind. Had Xarhn betrayed his secret?

He asked, “She told you?”

“No, boy. I deduced as much from her incessant chatter, and the bag you carry - ‘shroomsack’, she called it - shrooms only grow in the forest. You see boy, I may farm zarglenuts, but,” and he paused to lean close, whispering conspiratorially, “I am a son of the Gathornes.”

Zamani's mouth fell open; he inspected the mon-Sith with the tight squint of incredulity tugging the corners of his eyes.

Pax continued, “Twice before the great battle of Mithal-Moun, my father explored the nhola forest. It really didn’t take much effort for me to see through your guise, for neither your dress nor your manner speak of Zhereen. Rather, they speak of a life apart, untouched. Now, you may indeed be from Zhereen, but my guess is you have not been within those walls for many seasons.”

Zamani slumped against the mon and exhaled. He confessed, “Your words are as true as your soul, mon-Sith. The nhola is my home. I just thought to . . . fit in.”

Pax looked toward the forest with a sigh. “To live in the forest,” he said dreamily. “What a life you must live. Don’t be ashamed.”

“I’m not. I . . .”

“Are there others?” Pax abruptly inquired.

“No.” “Oh. Too bad.” He straightened, once more piercing the boy with his eyes. He said, “How courageous you are. You’ve done well for yourself, but now you can live among your kind. I’ll not ask how you braved the barrier, though I must admit to curiosity, but there is one thing I will ask of you.”

“Ask,” said Zamani.

“Accept my treasure as your own.”

Zamani opened his mouth to reply and found that he could not. His mind was blank. He had reeled from one blow after another. He could not have guessed that his guise was so shallow. He could not have guessed that upon his second morn past the barrier someone would offer him such a . . . gift. A girl. He opened his mouth once more to reply, and just then, Teefa called from within.

“Pax? Zamani?” she called.

“Yes,” answered the mon-Sith.

“We are ready.”

The hand was on Zamani's shoulder again. “Come,” said the father, “let us eat.”

Zamani had never seen the interior of a mon. He had slipped, unnoticed into Mithal-Moun, but this was his first time in a mon. His assumptions of how one would look inside were all wrong. The home was warm, earthy; the intricate weave of milksap vines afforded his eyes an array of rich variety.

Wrongly, he had assumed that the inside would be as circular as the outside. He was glad to be wrong.

Altogether, this was a home he, himself, would inhabit. There were shelves, closets, and separate rooms off the main hall. From the center of the sedge flooring arose a round column of tightly woven sedge, sealed and reinforced by the application of zeowax. At the top of the column, where the dwelling narrowed, was a single small room accessible only by steps affixed to the wall.

“That’s my room,” said Xarhn, suddenly at his elbow.

Then Teefa stood before him with a smile. She said, “Zamani, will you honor my table?”

“This way . . .” began Pax, but was quickly cut off.

“I’ll do it,” said Xarhn, possessively clutching Zamani's arm.

She would allow no competition. She led him to the far side of the central column. There was the table.

Just a simple slab of slate balanced on a stone, but it was laden with lof and morn meal fixings. Around

the slate were four fat pillows, elaborately adorned. The hand that held the sewing spine was as obviously gifted as Xarhn was with dance. When all were seated, Pax spoke.

“Our good Teefa,” he said, “has spared nothing, but given all that our guest should be honored. The Maker of all has not spared, but given all that we should honor Him. Let us eat.”

Xarhn sat close to Zamani. Before him, she placed an orange nutpot filled with steaming tay porridge.

Porridge was new to Zamani; he eyed it politely but dubiously. Pax tore pieces of lof and passed them around the table. Xarhn placed lof neatly by Zamani's nutpot, adding a simple slat utensil to eat with.

Zamani had never received such attention. Teefa poured and passed the milksap, then set a honeypot in the center. Through all the fuss, Zamani had not considered his appetite; he was content to sit and watch. The morn meal ritual was simple and genuine. Now he was glad that Xarhn had tricked him.

“Eat, boy!” command Pax, while spreading his lof with honey.

Teefa asked, “Will you tell us of Zhereen? Are you so different from us, there?”

Zamani looked up from the gooey porridge and was seized by a single casual glance of the mon-Sith. It was a glance that might have said, ‘honest words are as precious as those who are nourished by them.’

He liked Xarhn's father. He felt . . . admiration. Would that his own father had been like Pax. “I’ve not seen the inside of Zhereen for seventeen seasons,” he confessed. “My home is in the nholas.”

Teefa dropped her lof, staring in wide-eyed amazement between Zamani and Xarhn. She turned to Pax. “It’s true, mother,” Xarhn enthused. “It’s true, father! I’ve seen him walk through the barrier!”

Teefa gasped, hiding her gaping mouth with both hands. She turned to her own with imploring eyes.

She reached for her husband, and he took her hand in his. Zamani watched Teefa's erratic flooding compared her colors to the more stable browns of Pax and decided that Xarhn took after her mother more than her father.

“There now, sweet Teefa,” consoled her own. “I’m sure the barrier is still quite strong.”

They sat in silence, Zamani stealing a glance at the lovely Xarhn. He did not recall her being so close to him. In fact, if she was any closer, he thought, she would be on the other side of him. He could sense the tension his confession had brought on; it sat like a weight on his shoulders. He tasted the porridge in an attempt to redirect his focus. It was a horrible paste that cried out for moost. One mouthful was quite enough; all he could do was stir the awful gruel. Then the silence was shattered like stricken slate.

“How?” asked the mother.

Now all eyes were on him; he could feel their need to know before he looked up from the bland morn meal. Pax had orange temples, as well his daughter, but Teefa exhibited the hues of embarrassment.

Xarhn turned to him with a gentle prompt, “Yes, tell us.”

The eyes of Pax were patient eyes; they asked, ‘is there some trick to it?’

Zamani took a breath and answered, “I . . . just take the pain. It hurts less each time I go through.”

Teefa continued, “Is it a hard life in the forest?”

“No.” “There are supposed to be monsters in the forest,” she said, flooding fear. “Those great flying things.”

Zamani soothed, “Fear not; no floater would ever eat a Sith.” Secretly, he wished he had a floater with him just to suck up the awful tay.

Xarhn asked, “Why?” “They have no mouths.”

“But, how do you live?” Teefa wanted to know, “Where do you sleep? What do you eat?”

Xarhn cried out excitedly, nudging Zamani in the ribs, “Ooh! Did you bring some sweet? Give it up, Zami.”

He corrected her, all but spelling it out, “Za-ma-ni.”

“Zami.”

“Child. Child ” chided Pax. “Leave the boy at least his name.”

That sounded very much like a loaded statement to Zamani, who pulled his bag and began loosening the stays.

Pax continued, “Xarhn told us about the ‘sweet’. We find it hard to believe that any food would,” and he turned to Xarhn, “rainbow-flood the mouth.”

Zamani turned an incredulous eye on Xarhn, noted that she had flooded the colors her mother had just moments earlier.

Her smile, though crimson, was accompanied by a defensive glint in her onyx eyes. She straightened and said adamantly, “Well! It’s true!”

“Allow me to honor Pax-mon,” said Zamani, placing his sweetpot on the table. As deft fingers unfastened the conical lid, he added, “Sweet for your lof.”

Each took turns dipping lof in Zamani's sweet, and exclamations of delight filled the hall. As his hosts were absorbed in the nhola treat, Zamani took the opportunity to liberally sprinkle the tasteless porridge with moost.

“Absolutely amazing,” Pax intoned. “Daughter, give the pot back to our guest.”

Teefa asked, “Where do you get this?”

“Sweetchur,” answered Zamani. Then, noting her blank stare, he added, “It is a creature of the forest. It carries Sweet on its back because it has no hive.”

“And the powder you put in your tay?” That was Pax. “A crushed plant: moost. Would you like some?”

“Oh my!” said Teefa, “Is your tay not to taste? We have sayl.”

As Zamani passed moost to Pax, he received sayl from Teefa and tasted from the palm. It was very bitter.

Pax spoke between slats of newly seasoned porridge, “This is quite different. Very good. Life in the forest must be every bit as fulfilling as ours.” He sprinkled moost in Teefa's porridge, then in Xarhn's before returning it. Conversation ceased as all devoured their porridge with pleased noises.

“Ummn!” said Pax. “Ummn!” said Teefa.

“Ooh!” said Xarhn.

“Mmn!” Zamani agreed. He placed his sweet for all to share; all dipped lof, and finally, the morn meal was washed down with thick, pleasantly cool milksap.

“Well, I simply cannot breathe,” said Pax. He leaned back on one hand and rubbed his diminutive pait with the other. “I must burst, I think.”

Teefa laughed lightly, her response a recitation: “Oh, you always say that. You just like to eat.” Pax and Zamani shared a smile; Xarhn scooted closer, and Teefa turned to prompt her guest. “You must have rich food, indeed, among the nholas.”

Pax replied, “Gem of my soul, the food we have is more than adequate.”

Then Teefa turned to scold her own, “We would have better if the pyre was not so weak. Yes, we do well enough now, but what shall we do when it has altogether died?”

A young voice called from outside, “Teefa? Teefa?”

“Come,” Pax called. “Step in.”

A girl rushed in. Her dress was the usual long-sleeved work gown, but for the small slatted mantle on the left shoulder. She was winded from running, and anxious. Though Xarhn's size, and comely, Zamani did not like her - something about the eyes warned him of a small and fearful soul.

Teefa stood to take the child in hand, asking, “Shirpa, dear, what has you flooded so?”

“I ran all the way,” wheezed the girl. “Norsith calls you; Rikchi's time is at hand. You must come.”

Shirpa darted an anxious glance toward Zamani, but quickly returned her attention to Teefa. The mother put both hands to her mouth in wonder. Flooding brown, she faced her husband and bounced on her toes excitedly. Smiling, Pax stood and drew Teefa into his arms.

“A new one,” she gasped. “A child! I must hurry!”

Teefa and the girl rushed out, followed by Pax. Xarhn giggled happily. Zamani gathered his shroomsack.

“Tell me of the pyre gem,” said he.

“I’ll show you.”

She uncovered a metal cage that had been stored below the wall steps. Zamani knelt beside her. This being his first time to actually see a failing pyre, he was filled with genuine admiration for all of them.

They lasted for many lifetimes, but sadly, they could not last forever. The cage was old; the solid top was blackened. The fist-sized gem was affixed in the center. A gentle fire turned within the stone's orange interior. Zamani reached out to feel the heat of it. He looked at the girl close beside him, and they smiled.

“It’s dying,” said Pax from behind them. He leaned over them and added, “Soon, it will give neither heat nor light.”

Zamani asked, “Where do they come from?”

“We traded for them - before the battle. Our Peck cousins mined them beyond the hels. Had you no pyres in Zhereen?”

“I suppose; I was small. Can you get more?”

“The mine was closed. None knows where it lies.”

Zamani said of the gem, “You lose heat at the sides.”

The mon-Sith answered patiently, “We also use our gem for light.”

Xarhn added, “But, it takes most of the night to bake our lof.”

“Then, I would use fire,” Zamani advised.

“Fire?” repeated Pax. “Explain.”

“When I cook in the nholas, I use fire. Have you no zeowax?”

“Yes, of course,” answered Pax, somewhat at a loss. “We have some airing in back.”

“Airing? Why?”

Xarhn answered, “We have to air it for three days to be rid of the awful smell.” She turned large eyes to her father for confirmation.

Pax nodded. “That is correct.”

Zamani stood up suddenly. He said, “I will show you something.” From his bag, he produced a small pot and two fire stones, beckoning all to sit, watch, and be amazed. In grand fashion, the pot of zeowax was opened and passed beneath noses.

“Eeyoo!” said Xarhn, covering her nose.

“Zeowax,” admitted Pax. “Now, watch and understand.”

Zamani placed the pot on the table. He took up the fire stones, one in each hand, and struck them over the pot. A lapping blue flame appeared. He had to laugh, for wonder was in their eyes, and surprise had turned their foreheads white.

“Now hold your hands over it,” he commanded. “Feel the heat.”

“Ouch!” cried Xarhn.

“Simply amazing,” Pax intoned. “If we replaced the gems with this . . .”

“Fire,” Zamani added.

“How quickly we might bake our lof.”

“True,” answered Zamani. “Yet, quicker still could you bake it if you made a heat box of slate and sealed both fire and lof within.”

The two were speechless at his proposal. Zamani watched their eyes follow his treasures into the shroomsack. He sensed he had risen in their esteem, and that enlarged his heart with the joy of conquest. It filled him with the superior mirth of a king in the casual exercise of his power. He felt . . . benevolent.

He said to Pax, “I will find fire stones for you this very eve.”

Pax gaped; a question cried out to be asked. Xarhn gave answer. “Flynts, father; they aren’t a myth.”

With a shake of his head, Pax managed to speak. “Indeed. Indeed,” he said. He stood and faced an open room, lost in thought, then presently, he turned and kissed his daughter's cheek. He smiled and rubbed his belly. “Midday draws,” he said. “You two must make for school. As for me, I must make for the privy.”

As Pax departed, Xarhn turned to Zamani with widening eyes. Having been made aware of the depth of day, she raced about the table, straightening and putting away. She quickly brought the mon to a semblance of order, then returned to Zamani with sparkling black eyes and brown skin.

“I’m excited,” she exhaled.

“You’re a silkhead,” was Zamani's response.

Chapter Five They followed a meandering path of depressed cleg that would ultimately bring them to the small town called Thletix. The warm midday light beat down from above. Xarhn danced ahead of Zamani, paitcap rattling as she skipped and hopped joyously. Her laughter was a song of delight; Zamani could almost forget the pain in his ankle as he limped behind her. He could almost forget his anxiety at so boldly thrusting himself into the foreign heart of Phar Sheeth – so far removed from the security of his forest home, but thoughts did enter in, and he was obliged to wrestle with each of them.

He considered his new experiences and his great lack of knowledge. From his spying at MithalMoun, surely he knew more than any Sith, with the exception of the Mithal, of course. Vigilant observation had given him an understanding of the petty machinations of the Shee. However, the matter of the failing pyre gem had shown him just how little he actually knew of their circumstances. Perhaps meeting the Teller at school today would be of some merit. Perhaps the elder Shee had somewhat to offer.

Zamani remembered his battle with the Greebit thing. His head still hurt from banging it soundly against the zeeda bole. He considered the straight rows of hardening zarglenuts he had seen in the fields of Pax; a deft stroke or two with his iron knife might fashion a thick, protective cap suitable for his next encounter with the bothersome beast.

He remembered the words of Pax: “Accept my treasure as your own.” Now, what could he possibly do with a silk-headed girl, he wondered. She would be useless in the nholas, and he couldn’t stay here, with their endless sowing and reaping. No - that did not appeal to him at all. Yet, she might be of some use in setting his meals for him; he had liked the attention she'd given earlier. And - he liked her dancing.

But, then other words came to him: “Leave the boy at least his name.” No, it would never work, he thought. She did not figure into his world. And he: what must he sacrifice to belong to a silk headed girl? What freedoms, what treasures would he lose in the barter? He actually ached when he got near her. Was that any way for a king to feel? It just would not work.

He eyed the lovely creature, who had tired of dance and now marched by his side, attempting to match the cadence of his faltering stride.

“Your limp is better,” she said.

“I thank you.”

“It’s still a limp. Taran.”

He was drawn into her broad, infectious smile. “And, you’re still a silkhead,” said he.

“Are you sad?” she asked. “You’ve hardly said a word.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“About school?” “. . . Yes.” “Oh! I know,” she merrily chirped, “You should make a berribit fly for Teller.”

Zamani laughed, “That would be fun.”

Following a brief and thoughtful silence, Xarhn said in somber tones, “You’re a strange one, Zami.”

“Zamani.”

“Are you always blue?”

“Coosith!” he swore. He had forgotten to relax his colors. He saw how intently the girl inspected him, and now he realized that if he did not bend his colors once in a while, he would not blend in; he might as well shout to the Shee that Zhereen was a lie. He kicked himself mentally: at this rate, he would give himself away before midday was half gone.

With the pretense of a smile and a sigh, Zamani flooded brown. He apologized, “Sorry. I get that way when I think. Living in the nholas is not without cost.”

She asked, “how long have you lived there?”

“Forever.”

“You should have come sooner.” When he did not immediately answer, she asked, “When did you get stuck?”

Zamani had to laugh at such a genuine nature. “I was very small,” he said.

“Do you have memories of Zhereen?”

He stiffened at the fleeting image of his mother's face. And there it was in his chest: the pain of loss he had hoped he would never feel again.

“Only the Norsey,” he fibbed.

“Did your father bring you out for a walk and lose sight of you? Is that what happened?”

Zamani flooded darkly. Reds swirled unbidden from memories long forgotten. He hated the very thought of his father. There was too much pain in that topic; he would have to change the subject quickly. Grinding his teeth, he commanded calm within himself. Then he took a breath and answered.

“No. I found a secret way out. If I wanted, I could find my way back, but, no more talk of this.

The Maker is my father now, and the forest is my home.”

“You could live with us,” Xarhn suggested. She got no response. “Or, we could build our own mon. Mithal would likely give us father's back field.”

“I’ve seen what you Shee do,” he answered a bit too harshly. “I’ve watched from the nholas for middays untold: your constant sowing of seeds, the uninterrupted revelry, and long processions.

Where’s the challenge in such a life; where’s the adventure? The problem with you Shee is that you have nothing new in your world.”

Downcast, Xarhn replied, “We have you.”

Zamani regretted his short tirade; he needed to soften his words. “Besides,” he added gently, “I’ve sowing and reaping, in the nholas, you cannot imagine.”

“Tell me,” she prompted, her smile returning.

“The forest sows itself,” he explained with a grand sweep of his arm. “Each creature sows its own kind. The dirt gathers all to feed upon, and so, floaters reap floaters; shrooms reap shrooms, and Zamani dances among them all taking what pleases him.”

“Do I please you?”

“How like an addled girl to hear only whispers when joy is shouted.”

A mock frown covered Xarhn's face, knotting her brow and pursing her lips. She spoke slowly and deliberately, “I said ‘do I please you?’ Don’t make me hurt you.”

He could not at first tell if she was serious behind the mask of a joke, or if she joked to lighten the strain of their conversation, but her colors soon belied a silent longing and desperation of heart.

What was he to make of such a one? At last, he smiled.

“Yes, girl, you please me well.”

They approached the smaller path that wound toward Tazig-mon. The dwelling stood among sedge rows, and square patches of cultivated nechsta. Behind the mon were four small structures each housing, as Xarhn explained, a single spinner. They stopped by the path as Xarhn continued to explain.

From the spinners were taken many useful items: silk for vestments drawn out upon a wheel, medicine from venom to cure them of ills, and nutritious eggs for barter and meals. There was more, but Zamani was not paying attention. His mind already on the school, he considered the questions he would ask of their Teller.

Two small figures raced up the path from the mon. The girl wore a simple skirt much like Xarhn's and carried a silk-wrapped bundle. The boy also carried a bundle and was dressed in a common sedge-slatted loincloth. Breathing heavily, the pair stopped short of Zamani on Xarhn's side.

Their excitement was obvious as they nervously clutched the bundles to them. They stared at him in wide-eyed expectation as Xarhn greeted them with cheer. Their flooding indicated fear and uncertainty.

“Midday greetings,” she said to the pair of them. She pulled Zamani close and made the introductions. “Well, here he is. Zami, this is Tosh and her own Voytk.”

The boy and girl fairly beamed; their skins were brown. The two, and Xarhn, seemed unable to contain their happiness. They were all thoroughly brown as if something special had taken place -- as if a light had fallen from the sky. He hoped something more than giddy fidgeting would soon take place; patience just wasn’t his strength.

Zamani had gone to great pains to appear Sith-like; his loin cloth was almost identical to that which the boy wore. His cap could not be that strange! His bag now felt large and conspicuous; he regretted bringing it. He really wished the boy and girl would stop staring at him, but he had to play along. Xarhn's abuse of his name grated, yet, he would somehow force himself to fit in.

Tosh dropped her bundle and took a tentative step forward, exuding, “He’s so tall!”

“He stands above me,” Xarhn answered possessively.

“We wanted very much to meet you,” said Voytk, submitting the knuckles of one hand.

Zamani was at a loss; he had not learned of this gesture at Mithal-Moun. He wondered if the boy was up to something. Was there an object concealed in his hand? As the moment began to stretch, he felt Xarhn take his hand in her own. She extended his hand, knuckles first, toward the boy, who seemed pleased to touch it. How odd, Zamani thought.

“It’s a greeting,” Xarhn told him.

Zamani made eye contact with the boy and ad-libbed, “Midday greetings.”

He turned and extended his hand toward the girl. Do the girl, he thought. Maybe they would all quit smiling, and he could be on his way, but the girl whitened and turned pleading eyes toward Xarhn, who quickly grabbed his hand and pulled it back. The boy and girl giggled nervously.

Voytk explained, “The greeting is for boys only. To greet Tosh in that way is to show charm, and if you charm my girl, will you not get a thrashing from yours?”

“You save your charm for me,” Xarhn pouted prettily.

Zamani could not see himself feeling embarrassed, so he chose to feel annoyed instead. How was he supposed to know every silly custom of these strange creatures? At once, he wished he was back home among the nholas where there was certainty, where there was control, where boys did not explain and girls did not laugh. He tasted anger.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I am stupid. In your world, I am newly born, but turn from me now, all of you, and I will surely surprise you with something of my world.”

“Ooh!” Xarhn exclaimed, pulling the others around with her.

“Cover your eyes,” commanded Zamani.

They covered their eyes obediently and giggled. Zamani summoned his glamor, making himself invisible. This would show them, he thought.

“I’ll meet you at school,” he said.

When the three turned to look, Zamani was gone. He was nowhere at all to be seen. They turned this way and that, gasping in disbelief at the emptiness in all directions. Without a word to her friends, Xarhn bolted down the path toward school. Voytk and Tosh followed close upon her heels, bundles in tow. When they became three purple spots on the path to Thletix, Zamani put off his glamor and followed slowly. A mighty laugh welled up from deep within; he could not hold it back. He was proud of his trickery, and content to walk alone.

The massive stone Norsey reared before him, ever the sentinel. Behind its bulk crouched a town. Thletix was no more than an afterthought in the shadow of that imposing edifice. No building was more adorned, or more revered than the Norsey. The life of the Shee began there. Young bodies were nursed behind those grand walls; young minds were formed. The large stones of the outer wall were held in place by hardened zeowax. Zamani neared the Norsey's single entrance, an oversized door of rough ancient sedge. Iron hinges held it fast in the wall, and an old but sturdy lock made it secure.

He drew his hand along the cold, rough stone. He touched the garlands.

Far to the right, he noted a circular stage. It was a plain, raised platform made from sedge, but it was central to Shee ceremony. As he rounded the Norsey and entered Thletix, a babble of voices assailed his ears. He stood at the upper end of the town market. Five ramshackle sedge huts lined a broad dirt boulevard that hugged the Norsey's wall, curving around to the town's two smaller buildings, a temporary lodging for the Mithal, and the school. While the huts were filled with barter, the Shee huddled outside of them, leaning over weighted carts, engaged in earnest dickering. Children ran among their parents, calling one to another.

Suddenly at his elbow, Xarhn snapped, “There you are!”

She planted her feet apart, folded her arms over ample, but delicate breasts, and pouted. A frown tugged at her lower lip as one foot patted the large grains of boulevard dirt. Reds flashed dangerously. What to do? He extended his knuckles.

“Midday greetings?”

“Much too late for charm,” her sulking voice declared.

Scanning her rainbow, Zamani discovered hues of green at her elbows and fingertips; Xarhn was fighting back shame, and he had caused it. He had done the very thing Pax had asked him not to do; he had hurt her. A hard lump formed in his throat.

“I’ve shamed you before friends,” he said. “I’m sorry. I was annoyed, but I did not mean to hurt you.”

Hoping to soothe and comfort the girl, he reached out to caress her cheek; he had seen Pax caress Teefa in that manner, but the result was more than he expected. Xarhn's face was smooth and warm. The ache in him returned. He felt stupid and awkward. As he withdrew his hand, the girl reached

quickly to hold it in place. She flooded brown, with passion's red upon her throat. Zamani could not understand the discomfort he felt, and he wanted it to stop: he sought a distraction.

“So . . . where is the school?” he asked.

She took his hand and pulled him toward the market. Zamani took a step and stopped; he just wasn’t ready for everyone. Already the eyes of the town were on him. Fingers pointed in his direction.

Hushed voices spoke of the strange boy from Zhereen. A tight fear gripped his chest.

“Not this way,” he pleaded.

Xarhn instantly sensed he was ill at ease; the realization was a jolting pain that wrenched her heart. The stranger from the forest, all strength and assurance, suddenly seemed frightened and vulnerable. She took him around the cleg-ward side of the Norsey and led him through the narrow lane that passed by the temporary lodge. She brought him to the school with a comforting smile; they were the first to arrive. In the darkened interior, Xarhn busied herself with the opening of four sedge windows. She made quick work of them and hastened to reclaim his hand.

“We can wait here,” she whispered. “No one will trouble you.”

They sat on a stone bench beneath an open window. Two other benches occupied the small room; one bench was near the door, and the other was by the back wall. There was a closed door in the back wall that seemed made to elicit curiosity. He wondered what lay behind it. Xarhn slid her paitcap beneath the bench, and Zamani followed suit with his shroomsack.

“Do you like it?” she asked brightly.

He answered, “I feel smarter already,” winning a playful slap on the hand. He confessed, “I don’t know what to say, and they all stare at me . . . like . . .”

“Don’t worry,” she soothed.

“I feel like I don’t belong.”

“I’ll help you, Zami, I’m right here. And you do belong.”

“It’s hard for me to be polite all the time,” he sighed. “I never know the right thing to do here.

Do I have to touch the Teller's hand?” he asked, turning to look into her eyes.

Xarhn laughed sweetly, “No, silly; that’s just for boys. Relax. Before you make a complete idiot of yourself, I’ll tap your foot like this,” she said with a small demonstration. “That way, you’ll know to do or say something else.”

“My thanks,” he offered.

Xarhn had been cheery, he knew, in an attempt to assuage his concerns, but now she turned to him with a serious voice. Something was on her mind; he could tell just by her flooding.

“Zami . . .” she began hesitantly.

“Yes.” “. . . will you be my own?”

He didn’t see that one coming. He took a deep breath and answered her quiet question with a question of his own. “Can you live in the forest?” he asked.

“What? You mean, leave my family?”

“Why not?”

“So what you’re saying is I should trade my family for the monsters - let you drag me off to who knows where?”

“You make it sound really bad.”

“And you make it sound like I’m just something you can throw in your bag and do with as you please.”

He could see she was on the verge of being upset, but so was he. He came for school, not for nonsense. He had to settle it.

“Listen to me,” he said. “Just this morning, your father said to me: accept my treasure as your own.”

“He did?”

“Don’t you see? He has already put you in my bag.”

She leapt to her feet. “Then, you’ll belong to me?” she asked happily.

“No, you silk-headed girl.”

“But . . .” She was suddenly lost.

“Understand me. If your father has given you to me, then you belong to me, not I to you.”

Xarhn giggled, sat down and took his hand. “Silly boy,” she said. “It’s just an expression.”

“That’s all fine,” he returned, “but know this: Zamani is not possessed. Zamani possesses. I will go and come as I please, and if you’re good . . . ” “What?”

“I’ll let you . . . tag along.”

She took his arm and pressed herself to him tightly. “I’ll be good,” she piped. “I’ll be the best.”

Chapter Six Just then, the door swung open. Zamani turned to see the boy and girl rush in, wide-eyed and bundle-laden, to take a seat. A wizened elder stepped in behind them, closed the door and walked to the back bench. The Teller had a well-fed appearance. His pait rolled with his steps. Although flaccid skin formed deep crevices around his black eyes, strength of life was evident in their glimmer. His ceremonial gown was green, and his red, waist length mantle rattled as he took his seat.

“At last,” said the Teller with a warm smile, “a full class. Are we not honored, this midday, to have such a rare guest? Our last from Zhereen were but two emissaries to Mithal-Moun, and seen by none of us. So long ago that was. Our new pupil is Zamani of Zhereen. Welcome him.”

Then he turned from the class and spoke directly to Zamani, “It will please me to be your Teller, if but for this midday session. I do hope that I have somewhat to offer.”

“And I as well,” answered Zamani.

Xarhn kicked his sore foot, sending waves of white and red through his skin. Had he been rude? Had he spoken out of turn? Xarhn may have disapproved, but the Teller was nodding to himself, so Zamani decided to press on, hoping that amended words would find more grace.

“I have many questions.”

Xarhn, with a warning hiss, kicked his foot again; the pain was intense. Zamani could tolerate no more. “Ow!’ he said.

The Teller interrupted. “I see that our graceful Xarhn attempts to speak with you through your bruised ankle. Perhaps she wishes to tell you that a greeting is in order.”

“Forgive my ignorance,” answered Zamani. “Tell me what I must say. If I am to guess, we’ll be here til even.”

“Quite correct,” was the Teller's response. “We shall all make allowance for your having only just come among us. My name is Yagi. Xarhn, please do not kick his ankle; it is wounded.”

Plainly embarrassed, she lowered her face and answered, “I forgot.”

Yagi pressed, “May I know how you hurt yourself? I may have an herb to soothe it.”

“It’s nothing,” Zamani evaded. “I am tall and awkward. I improve as we speak.”

“Then let us commence our class,” said Yagi broadcast. “As our patient guest is more than willing to let us proceed in our customary manner, we shall, in like good faith, remember that our guest has questions. We shall, therefore, attend our assignments in this order: first will be dance, second will be song, and third will be a time for questions. We shall save our procession of clothing for last.”

A shadow at the open window caused all heads to turn. Curious faces peered in at the newcomer, with apologetic side-glances meant for the Teller.

“Step up,” called the Teller. “Introduce yourselves.”

Four middling-aged Sith crowded the window with jostling and smiles. Among them, Zamani recognized the young girl who had come calling at Pax-mon earlier. The youths seemed common, and smiled foolishly, yet, one of them was strikingly different. He was broad-shouldered and stocky. His oval eyes bore the glint of polished iron. As Zamani stood and faced them, they began their introductions.

“I’m Shabani,” said a tall female who stood close to the broad-shouldered one.

“I’m Shirpa,” said the younger female who had sought Teefa.

Beside her, a young male said, “I’m Vreatt.”

And then the stocky older boy spoke. “And I’m Takax.” He then turned to the Teller, saying, “We beg pardon, Teller. We did not mean to interrupt,” he rubbed his pait and smiled crookedly, attempting to explain the obvious, “but . . . we were curious.”

The Teller responded with a smile, saying, “None’s the harm, young Takax.”

Zamani stood and touched knuckles with the two boys, saying, “I am Zamani. Midday greetings to new friends.”

The youths apologized one last time and darted away. Zamani returned to his seat, and to Xarhn's warm, affirming smile. At that moment, he felt as if he just might get the hang of it.

Then Yagi resumed control of his class, saying, “Shall we continue, then? You’ve each had five middays to practice the dance you are to present to me. Tosh, you may begin.”

Tosh stood and immediately began her dance. In many respects, it resembled the dance Zamani had seen Xarhn practice the day before. Tosh danced well, and her ample figure pleased the eye, yet, something seemed amiss. Where Xarhn's dance was all grace and the freedom of weightless flight, Tosh seemed dirt bound. Her dance seemed clipped, and contrived. It exuded happy confusion.

“Well done,” said Yagi, when she had seated herself. “Voytk, what can you tell us about the dance Tosh has presented?”

The boy seemed at a loss. He answered, “I liked it?”

The Teller's smile reassured. He said, “You like everything she does. Tell us something new.”

Yagi silenced the giggles of Tosh and Xarhn as the class awaited Voytk's reply. Zamani wondered if the constant browns meant the boy was in a constant state of mindless bliss. The boy scratched nervously at the wattle of his pait.

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “She did it well?”

The Teller turned to Xarhn and asked, “Xarhn, have you any thoughts?”

She stood and answered, “The dance was intricate and complex. Much effort went into it, I feel.

To name it, I must say . . .” she paused there to search within for appropriate wording, then continued, “mmn . . . I’d say, flowers drinking light.” She seated herself.

“Nicely put,” said the Teller, turning to Zamani. “And, would our honored guest care to comment?”

“It made me dizzy.”

Xarhn reached up and smartly slapped his bare arm, chiding, “Peck!”

After silencing the younger couple, who had huddled on their bench snickering loudly, the Teller turned to Xarhn with a gentle reproach. “Still, child,” he said. “He has given an honest reply.

More than that we may not ask.”

To Zamani, he said, “Perhaps you should avail yourself of my defense, young Zamani. It is obvious that you need to be protected from the thrashings of your new friend.”

Laughter erupted. Zamani turned to Xarhn with a grin, knowing it was like putting sayl in an open wound. She crossed her arms and looked away.

It was Voytk's turn to dance, and it was a thing of thrusting elbows and knees. It was a dance without direction or purpose, a thrashing about of one near to fall. Zamani had seen such movements among the denizens of his forest realm, for such were the gestures of death. He was glad to see the boy sit down.

The Teller encouraged Voytk toward future success by way of forethought and application, by giving more than the rudiments. “A dance,” said the Teller, “is more than moving the body around. The soul must find expression.”

Then Xarhn took her turn. This was the good part, Zamani thought. He wished it would last. As she swirled and swayed, Zamani took a moment to scan the rainbows of the others in the class. Tosh was a battleground where brown waged a losing war against green. Both Yagi and Voytk were brown, but with red fingers. They were at once both pleased and desirous. And why not desire her? Xarhn was a zephyr. She was an unexpected breeze. When her dance ended, hearts dropped. Flushed with exhilaration, she rushed to Zamani's side and searched his eyes for approval. He could not deny her the thing she sought.

Yagi raised himself laboriously to his feet. With all eyes on him, he gave his pronouncement.

“Once again,” he said, “our Xarhn has put us all to shame. While Tosh danced well and proved to us her skill and great effort, and while Voytk gave us dance that was, shall we say, thought provoking, I must award this midday to Xarhn. And too, I think I must speak to our Mithal to advise him that Xarhn's grace is best suited to lead the procession.”

“Ooh!” exuded Xarhn, bouncing in her seat. “Oh, thank you, Teller. I would be honored.”

Yagi turned unexpectedly to his guest, leaving Xarhn the task of containing her excitement.

“Zamani,” he said.

“Yes.” “Speak to us of dance in Zhereen.”

“If I was whole before you, I would do more than speak,” he answered evasively. “I will confess, however, that none in Zhereen can better what I’ve seen here, this midday.”

“You are kind. It is enough that you walk. First, heal, and when you are ready, come and dance for us.”

He turned to the class and asked, “Shall we sing?”

Walking ponderously to the entrance, Yagi turned, assured of their undivided attention. He speared the class with narrowed eyes.

“Very well,” he said. “I was impressed with your efforts in the completion of the assigned dance. Dare I hope that song shall not disappoint me? You were assigned the task of composing one song in five middays, a song all your own. The words may be as you choose; the melody, likewise, is in your own hand. Here, there is no right, no wrong. My only requirement is that it comes from your heart. If it does not, then it belongs to another. Now, I am aware that you are still relatively new to song, and that you have a bit more confidence in dance, but I encourage all of you to relax and enjoy.

Xarhn, please stand and tell us of your song.”

She stood hesitantly and faced the class, flooding red on her chin and belly.

“Fear not, sweet Xarhn,” soothed the Teller. “No one shall despise your efforts.”

Zamani had to hand it to him. The ancient was scanning rainbows and giving the response that best helped the student proceed. Although he practiced his craft well, Zamani remembered many occasions when Yagi was no more than a fumbling student in the shadow of the Mithal. As the Mithal taught Yagi the tenets of Phrava, Zamani, cloaked in glamor, listened in secret. He had been a frequent guest of the garden at Mithal-Moun, where the Mithal was want to teach. Yagi had never suspected, but Zamani had learned with him, even beside him. They had been students together. But, after Yagi left for home, Zamani lingered. Zamani learned tricks the Mithal had purposely concealed from the Teller.

Zamani knew all that the Mithal knew and more. He knew all the Mithal's dirty secrets.

Xarhn cleared her throat. “My song,” said she, “is about my family. I really had a hard time thinking of something, so I asked my father.” She smiled defenselessly and concluded, “Here goes.”

Her voice lifted high in sweet, melting melody. Whorls of rhyme mirrored her guileless nature.

“Father says, ‘Dearest, Your mother is nearest, She, then, can help you,

To think of a song.

When my seeds are all fielded, I’ll reward that you’ve yielded: A kiss if it’s not awfully long.”

She paused, then hurried to explain. “Mother said I should sing what I know, so I put father's words to tune.” She sat down.

The Teller answered easily, “And well you’ve done.”

Voytk went next with a simple tune dedicated to things he liked: “What I like is lots of fun, And games I play when chores are done, And tasty food my mother cooks, And how my pretty Toshy looks.”

Tosh gave a tonal recitation, accompanied by Voytk, who pounded out a simple rhythm on a tom.

“All very good,” concluded Yagi. “I encourage all of you to build on what you’ve accomplished so far. What do you think of our masters of song, young Zamani?”

“I think they’ve had time to amend and polish.”

“Quite right, my honored guest, but can you not see that the Maker has placed in them that gem which they so polish? The Maker of all has put a gem at the very center of the Shee nature. Each of us has one. Are you aware of yours?”

Suddenly, Zamani was annoyed at how long it had taken them to do so poorly . . . except for Xarhn, and, though he could restrain the waving of arms, the snapping of fingers, and the thumping of his chest - gestures that came to him so easily, he felt helpless to restrain his words.

“I am, good Teller. Mine is a pyre gem. You may place it on any matter, and it is cooked.”

“Well said, young Zamani. Am I to understand, then, that given any topic, you can instantly cook us up a song?”

“But name the topic.”

“I will! I will!” injected Xarhn. “I want to name it. Sorry. May I name it?”

The Teller's response was amiable. “Very well,” he said with a warm genuine smile, “but, I encourage you to give him a topic worthy of his ability.”

Pausing only a moment, Xarhn turned to him and said, “Sing to us what life would be like in the floater forest.”

Yagi pursed his lips. “Quite unexpected,” he said. “Interesting, nonetheless. Well, my brightly burning guest, I await your song.”

Zamani stood, and in crystal tones, opened to the class.

“Reap your way t’ward that you sow, Presupposing plans of God, Then creep behind this seeker's brow, And bring my soul to know.

‘Llow me join your silken sleep, And spin for me your dreams, Then waking as a son I’ll turn, To lift love's rainbow wings.

Who am I - life's test to meet, So lean of wit and thew, To crack God's go'smer seal of truth, And taste love's nectar true.

Let’s sail atop the highest breeze, Brush God's nose and watch Him sneeze, Laugh, and at the end give birth, We close our eyes - we feed the earth.”

Zamani seated himself proudly; skins were white and brown. Tosh and Voytk sat with open mouths. Yagi looked within himself as one seldom stirred.

Xarhn gasped, and when Zamani looked into her bottomless eyes, she said, “Zamani! That was beautiful!”

Yagi seated himself. “Exceptional,” said he. “Your song shows the depth of soul of one well studied. It shows an understanding of floaters that may be more common in Zhereen. Lastly, I note a Peckish influence with which my pupils are not familiar. I shall enjoy answering your questions, for you are bright beyond a Teller's expectations. I cannot imagine what you might need of me but ask.

Ask, and I will answer. Attend me, class; we shall now give Zamani his time.”

“What I need of you,” said Zamani without pause, “is an explanation of our history, for I believe, in this, I have been poorly taught.”

“We learn our history early in Thletix, but perhaps, it will do well for these students to have their memories refreshed. Very well, then, this is the history of Phar Sheeth: In the beginning, the Maker - or God - made both Shee and wog. God placed the Shee in the world of the wog, which is called Dirt, for indeed, the wog, being less perfect than the Shee, were fashioned from the very dirt of their world. I see you wish to ask a question.”

“Yes, Teller. Why do we call them wog?”

“A good question. However, we do not know how they came by that name. The naming was far back in time, and no one knows where the names came from. I will add this, however, names were many in those dark days. Everyone had a name, and a folk, and a folk name. Every folk had a language.

For example, although we called them aptly, those noisome creatures called themselves by other

names. One such name was man. Their great armies of giants, they called man unkind. Another question?”

“I beg pardon for my interruptions, but I wish to know if the wog had names for the Shee?”

“Yes, indeed. Their names for us were our own names but distorted. Because those great monsters were less perfect, they spoke imperfectly. Phar Sheeth thus became Faer Ie, and we became known as the faer ie folk. Folk was the wog equivalent of Shee. Also, Pech Sheeth became Pix Ie. Now, in those times, great wars were fought between the Shee and the wog. Ever the Shee sought peace and rest, but wherever they did flee, the wog did pursue. They feared and despised the Shee. Therefore, the Maker of all created a special Phar, a hidden Phar that was protected on all sides by mists, rocks, and roiling dew. The name of the Phar was ‘Tir Nan Og’, a combining of the tongues of Shee and Pucha. It meant, literally, ‘land of the ever young.’ In truth, it made light of the shorter lives of the wog.

However, Tir Nan Og was found. The warring resumed. It was decreed, therefore, that Shee and wog should be separated. The wog remained in Dirt. We were given the eight smaller Pharn. Each world is divided into a top and a bottom, both being equal in all respects. When first our clan was put here, back in my father's father's time, we were very many, but the number of Pucha was much less.

The arduous building of our Phar commenced with the construction of the Norsey.”

“Was there a Mithal, then?” asked Zamani.

“There was, but the Mithal began as a body of governing heads, each head to speak for his Pharish. Originally, the Mithal was four, not one. A portion of the Phar was allotted to our Peck cousins. This was from the hels to the castle-city, Zhereen. Although our Sheen portions were three, they were not enough. Some of the Shee went to live among the Pucha, and although they attempted to live together harmoniously, the many differences between us was a festering wound. Those of us who lived among them soon surrendered to the Peckish influence and were rejected of all decent Shee.

Foremost among the deserters was the villain, Rasha, who proclaimed himself king of Phar Puchal. You wish to speak Zamani?”

“Yes. May I ask you the difference between a Peck and a Sith?”

“Strange request for a Zheren.”

“I remember a Peck from my middays in Norsey, but I’ve not seen one since.”

“How very odd,” said Yagi, stroking his brow. “I’m curious as to what became of them, but no matter, I shall answer your question. Class, do you remember the Peck names?”

As one, the three students recited, “Knockers, and Knickers, Nuggies and Spriggans, Buccas and Gathornes.”

“Very good. Now, to answer your question: those who mined and dug, were they not the Knockers and Knickers? And they who knew the art of unholy machines, were they not the Nuggies and Spriggans? Those of mingled blood, who walked among us as if equal, were they not the Buccas and Gathornes?

While yet in Dirt, certain Shee mingled with the wog - how, I cannot imagine. It has been told that some of their offspring became as large as the wog, with great spikes growing from their heads.

Their association with the wog, suffice it to say, left them forever changed. In the relocation to Tir Nan Og, mingled Shee of every description came with us. They brought with them the pernicious practices of man unkind.

Ever have the Shee dwelt in mons; it is the Shee way. The Pucha lived below, in their dark mines. That is how they got their names, for ‘Peck’ means to crawl beneath. Thus we have ‘Peck Sheeth’, or lower Shee. When God removed us to Phar Sheeth, it was said that he would soon destroy the wog. As a covenant sign, He gave us our rainbow skins, to remind us ever that we are his. This is not true with the Pucha. Their gray, lifeless skins are tokens of their kinship to the wog. As with the wog, Pecks are untouched by Phrava. They are uncontrollable and dangerous. Tormented souls they are, troubled with visions in their restless sleep. They call them dreams; your song employed that word.

Obviously, it was something you learned in Norsey training.”

“Teller,” Zamani asked, “were all Pecks bad?”

“Some could be civil,” Yagi conceded.

“Do you despise the Pecks?”

“I must confess that I do. I was about your own age when the battle of Mithal-Moun took place.

Peck hordes swept down from Zhereen. They murdered my father and mother. No respect for life had they, no mercy.”

“My soul grieves your loss,” said Zamani. “Can you tell me of the battle?”

“I can. Those of the mines, even those of Zhereen, chaffed at the limitation of our Phar. They had drawn plans for the conquest of Dirt. The leader of these malcontents was the evil Rasha. He was young, but he held great power and influence among both Pucha and Shee deserters. His soul was crafty, his mind as sharp as any knife.

His Spriggans devised five machines to be worn upon the body. The power of these metal vests derived from the golen pells which had been brought from Dirt. The wog called them ‘faerie dust.’ For all the mining of the Knockers, golen pells could not be found in Phar Sheeth. Rasha had not enough, but a quantity of the vile substance was stored at Mithal-Moun. Rasha sent emissaries to Ktinmat, then our Mithal Over. Council was called, and the three lesser Mithals were summoned.

Rasha came to Mithal-Moun, bringing five machines, four Spriggans, and his Peck mate, Elimar. Rasha divulged his plan to conquer Dirt. He demonstrated the working of the suits, and finally demanded a share of the golen pells. Ktinmat despised the ungodly machines, and vehemently rejected Rasha's grandiose scheme. He was indignant at Rasha's impudence and denied him access to the store of golen pells. In a rage, Rasha drew iron on the Mithal Over and grievously wounded him. Mithal attendants strove with the Zheren party until Rasha fled.”

Yagi took a breath and sighed as he was drawn into the memory. He continued, “The aids gave chase, but Rasha closed himself within Zhereen's high walls. There, from inaccessible windows, the villain railed and ranted, cursing all the Shee. He swore upon his blood to find and open the Mythic

Portal, which he believed was the pathway connecting Phar Sheeth to Dirt. He swore he would loose upon our Phar all the bloodthirsty monsters of Dirt.

A great many middays followed. Emissaries came and went. Bucca spies were found among us.

As a protective measure, all Buccas were expelled to Zhereen. Tensions arose; rumors spread of invasion: armies clothed in iron, invincible legions with machines of war. Fears arose about Dirt monsters creeping out from the nholas; we armed ourselves and kept watch. Ragezeg devised the barrier in response to our fears.

He found a way to use one of the machine suits to form an impenetrable, unseen wall around the nhola forest. Two pyre gems send their hidden power through the machine, and along a line of buried metal that encloses both nholas and floater forest. The four remaining machines, as well the golen pells, Ragezeg entrusted to me, charging me to hide them, with all craft and cunning, so that none would ever find them.

War did come. Word arrived of Zhereen opening, of armed legions spilling forth. We raced to stay their hordes; male Shee marched into battle. Those who remained, hid in the Norsey. We met their forces upon the hels. We had greater numbers, but they had superior weapons and armor. Of all their weapons, one they had which was truly our bane. With crushing noise, it spat a ball of searing heat, and with it, they forever sealed the mine of the pyre gem.

However, our great press forced them back, and many fell into the abyss. We warred from the stone walls of Mithal-Moun to the black depths at the end of our world. That battle lasted from the beginning of midday to the ending of the same, and much blood was spilled. They met only defeat, but our victory was more than we could bear. Less than half our hundreds returned home, and I survived the battle to the horror of my soul.

A part of their hordes had circled around the far side of the forest. Our mons were razed, and our families were murdered. We came upon them even as they thrust in their blade. Once more, we engaged the enemy and forced their defeat by the coming of night. We had numbered in the hundreds.

Now, the Shee are but a few families. After the battle, after the casting, many more left us from sickness and fever. Should it surprise any that I bear the Pucha no good will?”

“I did not know. I grieve your loss.”

“Since that hateful day, some forty seasons gone, the Shee have enjoyed peace. If there are any of the Pucha left, They are behind the walls of your Zhereen, or locked in the mines. Gone they are, and good riddance. Forgive the weight of my voice; I do not hurl defamations broadcast. Aside from yourself, the last to open the doors of Zhereen were emissaries, some seventeen seasons past. I prize the peace of my people.”

Zamani spoke quickly, lest the Teller's heart be overburdened with sorrow. “I have learned much,” he said. “What I thought I knew, as right, was wrong. Will you tell me of the hiding?”

“I will not. That must remain my secret. Those vile machines must never be found, for I believe in my soul, as does our Mithal, that should those evil things again see light, our Phar will cease to be.”

“I truly meant no harm,” Zamani assuaged. “I was curious. Will you tell me another matter, then? You used the word ‘myth’ as if a thing untrue is believed. I wish to hear more.”

Yagi smiled comfortably. He answered, “Myths are beliefs that aren’t true. They are the product of being unattached with one's mind. It was once believed, for example, that flynt could be found in the nholas. Now we are sure, as with golen pells, that flynt may only be found in Dirt.”

Zamani caught the sly grin that flashed across Xarhn's pretty face. It was there but for an instant, and then was gone. He asked the Teller, “Are nhola creatures myth, or truly from Dirt?”

“Quite real,” Yagi replied. “The portal has been opened.”

Zamani prompted, “The Mythic Portal is no myth, then.”

Yagi responded, “Understanding can travel in two directions.” He made a vague gesture above his head and continued, “In this instance, many believed the portal to be no more than a story told at revel time. Thus, came the portal to be called mythic.”

“Could a wog find its way into our Phar?” asked Zamani, wringing a gasp of horror from the class.

“I think not,” said Yagi. “Wog are much too big. Wherever in the nholas the portal may be, I believe that only small creatures may pass through it.”

Zamani leaned forward in genuine interest. “If I may press you further,” he asked, “how big are wog, exactly?”

“Very big,” said Yagi, thoughtfully stroking his chins. “When they stood, the mists of their sky could be hidden by their great, thick heads. Imagine seven Shee, each your own height. The first will take the second up on his shoulders; the second will take the third, the third the fourth, and so on until the seventh stands on top. Does that give you an idea of their size?”

“They would be very tall. Do you think the Maker really destroyed them?”

The Teller answered cautiously, “I cannot say with certainty. Although the Maker of all swore that he would soon destroy them, and that was in our distant past, his table of time is not like ours.

Whether He did or did not, who can say? I will tell you this - Rasha claimed to have transported himself to Dirt, and there saw wog.”

Zamani pursued a new thought, asking, “Did Rasha leave us in battle?”

“It was reported that Rasha escaped,” sighed the Teller, “but, not before losing his right thumb to Ragezeg's iron.”

“Ragezeg,” Zamani repeated slowly. “The new Mithal?”

“Yes. Ragezeg, the son of Ktinmat, hated Rasha, the self-proclaimed king, for wounding his father. During the battle, Ragezeg pursued Rasha into the hels, where below the four stones, he took his thumb in close combat. To this very midday, Ragezeg keeps that thumb in his chamber at MithalMoun.”

Zamani had been in Ragezeg's chamber, but he had never seen a thumb. He wished to continue this most interesting discourse, so he asked, “What are the hels, and the four stones?”

“Wherever the Peck has gone,” said Yagi, “there have been hels. Hels are the belly of a mine, which are dumped some distance from the mouth of their burrow. At the center of the hels, one may find an erection of four large stones. It is a practice borrowed from the wog religion of groves. It is to the stones that Pucha resort to worship their works, and themselves.”

“Shee worship the Maker of all,” injected Voytk.

Being suddenly wrenched from conversation with Zamani, and reminded of his class, he asked them, “And how do we worship the Maker of all?”

The class intoned with a single voice, “With pure souls, and open hands.”

Yagi returned his attention to Zamani with a satisfied nod. He continued, “The Pucha had a song they sang at the hels. The words were these: Make the hels. Make the hels, Knocking for our lovely pells, Rake the ore. Burrow, bore, Silent slate and dozey door.

Raise the stone. Shadow stone, Low the toil but ours alone.

Knick the dunn. Four to one, Three will find our happy home.

High the Peck. High and great, Warm the dunny low and late.

Dance the ring. Praise and sing, Blessing stones will blessings bring.

Seal the home. Lost and gone, Raise again the shadow stone.

Make the hels. Make the hels, Knocking for our lovely pells.”

Yagi took a deep breath and concluded, “Monotonous words from monotonous minds.”

Zamani was full. He had too much spinning through his head. He smiled grandly at the Teller and said, “I could drink of this dew and never tire, but I will trouble you with no more questions. You have given much, and I do thank you.”

“I have enjoyed your questions,” replied the Teller. “A bright, seeking mind is no trouble to me, young Zamani. Mayhap you will honor me with your questions another midday.”

The small class had been reverently enthralled by the exchange between their Teller, and the stranger from Zhereen. It was as if a breath, collectively held, had been suddenly exhaled. They blinked their wide, black eyes and began to move again. Yagi, too, flexed and rubbed the small of his back.

With two smart claps of his pudgy old hands, he brought attention back to class business.

“Class,” he said, “this midday has been a treat for all. We’ve added to our strength of dance, we’ve taken important first steps in song, and we’ve witnessed the bright mind of one who searches truth. Soon, we will end our class in a procession of vestments, but before we do, I remind all that with our next class we will resume our language and writing arts. Bring your slates.

Now, we will display, in our costumes, originality. As I said, they need not be work or ceremonial; they may be as practical or ridiculous as you like. We shall learn from our own efforts and those of our classmates, but in all events, we shall have fun. Voytk and Tosh will begin. Please uncover the pyre gem, and close the door behind you. Now, be quick.”

With bundles in arms, the younger couple hurried into the dark room. Silly giggling issued through the open door, along with an orange illumination from a dying gem. The door closed.

Yagi asked Zamani, “Not that you were expected to, young Zheren, but, did you bring a costume?”

Zamani answered with an easy smile, “I did. Xarhn spoke of the matter. Since I make all my own vestments, I simply chose from among my best.”

Xarhn piped in happily, “And, he brought something for me.” She blushed and amended, “I mean . . . I had only a cap; Zami made the rest.”

“Open hands,” answered the Teller with a sage nod.

Before another word could be spoken, the door opened and Tosh pressed her face into the crack to ask, “Are you ready?”

“Come!” commanded Yagi.

The two children paraded eagerly into the classroom, marched along the wall before turning circuitously to reach a spot just in front of the Teller. Tosh ended her march with a flourish to highlight the flow of the silk skirt she wore. It was an attractive garment that reached as far as her brown feet.

Unadorned, it had been stained a pleasantly soft red with the juice from ripened berribits. Around her pointed pait sat a tiara of succulent cleg. A mantle of garlanded tay draped her shoulders and covered her breasts. Studding the small, yellowish tay leaves were larger, blue-green zarglenut leaves, sown stem in and point down.

Voytk sported a sedge loin cloth with broad, rounded slats. A sleeveless silk shirt had been pulled over his head, and fit his slender torso like skin. Green milksap leaves adorned the shirt in an overlapping fashion. As if to fence in the soft wattle of his pait, a single band of plain sedge encircled his head.

“Turn,” commanded Yagi.

They slowly turned as one, to give a full view of their costumes to the Teller. They faced him anxiously, awaiting his approval. The Teller smiled; Tosh squealed. She bounced upon her toes, then took Voytk's hands and, together, they hopped about, laughing triumphantly.

Yagi stilled the two with an upraised hand and announced, “I am pleased. Now, when you are quite done with your bouncing, you may return to your seat.”

Zamani looked at the girl who sat beside him; she met his eyes with unmasked anxiety. Both clever and comely was the costume Tosh displayed. Both in her eyes and in her ample green flooding, Xarhn pleaded jealously for Zamani to have a costume that would beat the competition. Zamani gave her hand a pat and turned again as the Teller cleared his throat.

“Xarhn, Zamani,” Yagi declared, “the turn is yours. Dress quickly and return.”

Xarhn fetched up her sedge cap and skipped excitedly to the back door, where she waited impatiently to proceed. Zamani reached between his legs and withdrew the large shroomsack.

Immediately, he rued his choice, as Yagi barely stifled a gasp of painful recognition. The strangled sound danced along his nerves like the sting of the barrier. Unbelief burned in the Teller's fat-enfolded eyes. Beneath the broad white patch on the Teller's forehead, a fire leaped up as their eyes momentarily locked.

Zamani braced himself and followed Xarhn.

He swore beneath his breath, “Coosith!”

The bag had given him away. Why had he not taken more care? Thinking to keep his secret, he had formed a wattle on his pait; he had arrived without a cap, just to prove himself one of them. He could have kicked himself for such an oversight. Of course, the elder would immediately associate the shroomsack with the nholas. In all of Phar Sheeth, the shroom grew nowhere else.

“Before even falls,” called Xarhn testily.

He closed the door behind him and said to her, “He knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That I’m not from Zhereen, that I come from the nholas.”

It was his turn to be anxious, and he could see that she both recognized and empathized. She answered softly, “So, tell him the truth, Zami. He will respect you for it. What does it matter where you’re from? I know where you’re from.”

“Yeah, but you’re just a girl.”

Pointedly, she cast her eyes at the bag and answered, “A girl who’s waiting.”

“Oh.” The small, tight room had a single closed window and a dying pyre gem which sat in its cage on a narrow table. Zamani used the free end of the table. He loosed and removed the stays. He forced his concern to the back of his mind, and brought forth the Liyll gown, shaking it out with a snap.

“Ooh!” exuded Xarhn.

Xarhn's exclamation of delight drew his eyes to her. She stood before him naked, her skirt in a heap at her feet. The burning ache returned; a lump in his throat prevented speech. He stood with her gown in his hands, but why could he not move?

“Give. Now,” she demanded, bringing him around.

Zamani proffered the silken gown, and sighing, Xarhn slid into it, turning to face him with a smile as bright as midday. He folded the flower in front and looped the belt around her slender waist.

She spun happily, the pointed lower ends of the gown billowing.

He freed himself from his loin cloth, and Xarhn giggled. Crimson flooding engulfed him like a garment. He stepped quickly into his trousers and hooked his belt with the nhola stay. Calm returning, he pulled the shroom boots over his feet. On, then, went the mantle, and he crossed the breastplate in front with a second nhola stay. He drew the red stained blue quill cap from the bag and placed it on his head. The ragged lower edges curled down his back and draped his shoulders.

Placing the old vestments in the bag and tucking it beneath one arm, he reached out for Xarhn and said, “Let us go before I lose my nerve.”

Forgetting her own splendor, Xarhn stared at him in wonder. Her mouth gaped. Zamani fetched her cap and placed it in her hands. Absently, her eyes never leaving him for a moment, she fixed it upon her head. He could not abide the staring. They were his best vestments, but they weren’t that good. He opened the door and pushed her through.

A hush fell upon the class as Xarhn stepped into the room. It became so quiet that Zamani could hear the beating in his chest. Tosh, who had been standing, sat heavily and gaped. Voytk's eyes widened in wonder. Yagi turned in his seat, then stood. The Teller stared at the gown intently, but there was no wonder in his old fat eyes. He circled the girl, and with a trembling finger reached out to touch the offwhite flesh of the Liyll. He traced a brown rib in it with evident sorrow.

The Teller took a step back and cried out, “The Liyll! Maker of all, girl! You walk in death.”

Xarhn stammered, “What . . . I . . .”

Then Yagi clutched her shoulders and shook her. His voice was harsh and loud, “How dare you wear our Mother Soul! Take it off! Take it off!”

Zamani stepped in and freed Xarhn from the Teller's grip. He pushed Yagi from her and took her into his arms. She hid her face against his chest and sobbed. His eyes were daggers as he met the Teller's gaze.

His words were barely audible as he squeezed them out between gritted teeth. He said, “Touch mine again and die.”

Yagi stepped away, flooding white and yellow. He drew upon the words of power for defense.

“Bwabachod, soothe and nod,” said he.

Zamani answered, “You’ve no power over me. I’m stronger than you.”

“Peckish Sith!” cried the Teller.

“What I am, you can see. I am lord of the nholas.”

Tosh gasped. Yagi found his seat and fell heavily upon it. He soon calmed himself, white and red making way for neutral blue.

“Pardon my outburst,” he managed at last.

“I do,” replied Zamani.

Yagi's voice grew small and contrite. “Xarhn, child, forgive me. I would never harm you; please believe me.”

Sniffing wetly and raking back tears, she peeked out and answered, “You scared me.”

“Forgive me, please,” he repeated.

Zamani answered him, “She does.”

Yagi took a deep breath and said, “Xarhn, you and Tosh should leave; Voytk, please go with them. I have questions to ask of Zamani.”

Tosh took Xarhn from Zamani's embrace and walked her from the class. Voytk quickly grabbed the bundles and followed them out. As the door snicked shut, Zamani sat, cross-legged, on the cold stone floor just in front of the Teller. He placed his bag beside him.

“Speak,” he said calmly. “Ask your questions.”

The Teller's eyes hardened as he leaned forward and hissed, “Who are you!?”

“One who searches for truth,” was the quiet answer.

“Lord of the nholas indeed!” sneered the Teller. “When I saw your bag, I knew you were not of us.”

“Despise me if you must. What does it matter when I am only one of so many despised by you?

Now, ask your questions, else I leave.”

“My soul is not cruel, boy. I despise those who murdered my father and mother.”

“My mother,” said Zamani, “was also murdered. Should I despise the race of the one who took her life?”

“Yes!” spat Yagi. “Yes, you should. The murderous nature of one is shared by all of them.”

“Sith hands took my mother from me. Shall I despise you?”

Yagi gasped; his mouth chewed on words he could not speak, but at last, he bowed his head and managed, “I presumed incorrectly. Forgive me.”

“I do.”

The old Teller lifted his face, willing, after all, to meet a stranger halfway. He leaned toward the boy on the floor and asked, “Will you share your loss with me? Tell me . . . who are you?”

Zamani answered, “I will, but for Xarhn's sake, not yours.” He pointed to the back room and continued, “In your closet, she told me: ‘tell him the truth; he will respect you for it’. You matter to me less than Xarhn; your respect is of no moment, but I will tell you the truth for her sake.”

He hung his head and took a breath. His trembling told him this was a bad idea. His rainbow was neutral blue; the Teller could not read him. The elder could know neither his fear nor anger. Yes, he hated to admit it, he was afraid, but his anger would push him past his fear.

“Go on,” prompted Yagi.

Zamani lifted his eyes to meet the Teller's and spoke. “My father,” said he, “murdered my mother. I was very young. I fled Zhereen, and in the nholas, I found all I needed to survive. For seventeen seasons I have lived in the forest.”

Yagi protested, “But . . . the barrier is impenetrable.”

“Not so, Yagi. You speak myth, for I pass through as I will. Your own eyes tell you this: the shroomsack, the blue quill cap, the mantle, and breastplate.”

Yagi placed his hand on his head and rubbed as if stung by reality. His eyes searched the void before him. “Yes . . . yes,” he agreed, “you speak the truth.”

“All that lies within the barrier have I claimed as my own; of all the nhola's myth and truth, I am master. My hands have slain the beasts of Dirt.”

“But . . . our Mother Soul belonged to all Shee, and you destroyed it,” accused the Teller with a trembling pain in his aged voice.

“It was but a flower, elder Sith.”

“My father's father planted that most singular of flowers. It came with us in our relocation as a token from him who made our world. It is our heart and soul; there is no other of its kind. Phar Sheeth lives and dies with the Liyll. You’ve destroyed us all.”

“Do we not both sit here, Yagi? I tire of your myths. Things that are, you do not believe; things that are not, you do. You have much to learn.”

Yagi blustered, turning red. “I have much to learn?! I have much to learn!?” He fought for control and returned blue. Distantly, he acquiesced, “Yes, perhaps I do.”

Zamani said, “In the nholas, I would be your Teller.”

“True enough,” responded Yagi, “and yet, for all your seasons among speechless creatures, you address me as equal. How is this?”

“I have learned at your elbow, Yagi, in the garden of Mithal-Moun.”

“No, it cannot be!” gasped the Teller.

“When the Mithal taught you to scan the rainbow, I was there.”

“No . . . but, how?”

Zamani grinned, closed his eyes and vanished from sight. Yagi slumped in utter dismay.

He whispered a single word: “Glamor.”

“Yes, Teller. Another myth.” Zamani appeared behind the Teller, giving him a start. He strode to the far end of the room and continued, “Now, you must surely say that I am one of your despised Pecks, for was it not the Pucha who obtained glamor only to lose it in the relocation?” He spread his arms and awaited an answer.

Yagi flooded white, then red; he struggled inwardly and returned blue. “Had I not seen your pait,” said he, “I would swear you are of mixed blood. That and your rainbow convince me, and yet, you are obviously an unnatural boy.” Yagi set his jaw and demanded, “Once before, I asked who you are. Tell me now, and plainly.”

Zamani walked to the door and opened it to the noises of Thletix. He paused with hand to handle, then turned to face the elder. “The one thing that ever made me natural,” he said, biting off the word and spitting it at Yagi, “was the love of my mother. No mother was ever more filled with love; no soul ever sweeter; no heart more alive with kindness.

That stolen treasure can never be replaced. No substance, no spirit, can ever fill the emptiness in me. Do not be so quick to claim the torment of loss as your own. Rainbow hands took her from me.

They locked around her throat, squeezed the life from her, and yet, you despise the very name of Elimar.”

He could sense the change. The air seemed heavy and dark. Sound fled as rage welled up in Yagi until it had no place to go but out. The old fat hands clenched into small tight fists. The flooding of reds upon the skin of the Teller seemed almost black. The elder shot up from his seat. He stepped forward and spat.

“Gathorne!” he cried aloud. “Son of the undoer. Destroyer. Go from us; return to your nholas.

You have no place among the pure.”

“You may not speak for all the Shee,” countered Zamani in a flush of hot anger. “Not everyone can hate as purely as you.”

Yagi's voice could barely be constrained as he trembled with indignation. He said, “Death and destruction walk with you. Gathorne; abomination! You can add no good to us. Leave us. You are unwanted.”

The words of the elder hurt worse than the sting of the barrier. Unreasonably, as if the value of his life depended on the approval of this one Sith, Zamani felt very small. His head knew better, but his heart could not bear the hurtful words. He was crushed.

He cried out, “Why must you hate me? I’m not my father.”

Yagi turned his face to the back wall; he threw his hand up in a gesture of separation.

“Go,” he said.

Chapter Seven Zamani fled from his presence. He hurried along the narrow street, his mantle trailing him turbulently. It had all been a bad idea - a very bad idea. The Teller's words chased him like angry zeos, stinging him at will. He wanted to leave Thletix; he wanted to curl up in the guarded comfort of his forest refuge. Hot tears goaded him, blurring images into dark, biting shadows. He raked at them angrily. His strength had evaporated, and it scared him that he trembled uncontrollably.

Lies!

His mind raged against Yagi's words, but still, he felt as though his world had been pulled from beneath him. Did his Peck half make him an abomination? He had never in his life expected to hear such hurtful words from the lips of one who led the young. Damn Yagi! The stinging verdict would not leave his head.

‘You are unwanted.’

‘You are unwanted.’

‘You are unwanted.’

He stepped into the broad market boulevard, batting at tears that would not cease. Voices trailed; words fell into the dirt, and eyes, like arrows, pierced him from every quarter. Fingers pointed; fearreddened hands were clenched before gaping mouths. It dawned on him that his costume was at fault.

Surely, they must think some Dirt monster had escaped the forest. His bright red cap, his breastplate like a creature best kept behind the barrier, had frightened them.

The nearest of the market structures was the common, a large booth of sedge in better repair than the rest. Within its darkened interior, several mothers stooped over pyre cages laden with food in preparation of mid meal. An eating bench was before the common, and upon it sat Pax, consoling Xarhn in fatherly arms.

Zamani stamped up to them, removed Xarhn's skirt from his bag and tossed it to the bench.

They came to their feet. Xarhn's mouth opened; she might have called his name, but his head swam,

and he could not be certain of anything at the moment. He felt like a prisoner in a dream. In the eyes of Pax, Zamani saw a gentle stirring that moved him to respond. He opened trembling lips, but his heart ached in a way that defied words. All the while, his head throbbed with the incessant demand of his legs: run . . . run . . . run!

So he ran. He ran from Yagi; he ran from a girl not strong enough to hold him; he ran from Pax, and from pain; he ran from the whole damnable Shee world. He ran from himself. He ran to the edge of Thletix and beyond; he ran past the Norsey to the ceremonial platform, to the far side of it, where he fell sobbing into the cleg. Lost and alone in a small meaningless life, his heart, at last, opened the portal of his fears, and all the bitter torrent spilled forth.

He rolled against the rough sedge work of the stage caring not at all that his bag of possessions lay scattered at his feet. He sat up, then, and sniffed away his weakness; he hugged his knees and buried his face in his arms. He had placed the stage between Yagi and his wounded heart. He had covered his face and his bitter pain. He rued the idiotic notion of leaving the safe walls of his forest fortress.

Then came the quiet voice of Pax, “Can I help you, son?”

Zamani sniffed wetly, “Don’t think so.”

Pax sat beside him. “Tell me, anyway,” he insisted soothingly.

Zamani answered from the shelter of his folded arms, “I hate this place! I should never have left the nholas.”

“Do you find all our world so troubling, or just a part of it?”

Zamani peered up at the Sith with one wet eye. Pax did not mock him; his manner was both gentle and concerned. It seemed to reach inside and pry loose the thing that worried him. The answer just spilled out.

“Yagi hates me,” he said. “He said I’ve no good to offer. He said death walks with me because I plucked a flower and made a gown for Xarhn. He bade me go.”

“Tellers can be wrong.”

Zamani wiped his eyes dry, and suggested, “You should be the Teller.”

Pax laughed, “Ha! Then I would tell old Yagi to climb into my pyre cage, for with all his hot air, my lof would bake in half the time.”

Zamani smiled away the last of his crying and gave a final sniff to his tears.

“Xarhn told me how you stood for her,” said Pax with a hand on the boy's shoulder; he went on to say, “I’m proud of you. Flower picking may be a serious crime, but I would never have guessed as much.”

“He said it was the Mother Soul, that I destroyed Phar Sheeth by taking it.”

Pax answered that with a shrug. “Then, we are ghosts,” he said. “This is what I see: you’ve tangled your feet in our cleg; you’ve bumped your head against an old hard wall. Should you leave us for so little cause?”

The reply nearly brought tears back to his eyes; the wound was still new and tender.

“Yagi said I’m an abomination; I’m unwanted.”

“Xarhn wants you,” said Pax. “More than that, she needs you. You mustn’t let the words of one bitter Sith burrow too deeply. The seed he would plant in you would become a weed of equal bitterness.”

Zamani hung his head and sighed. For the first time since fleeing to the nholas, he was lost.

“I can see where your strength fails,” said Pax. “Too long have you lived in the nholas, alone: with no father and no mother. It has just been Zamani, and now Yagi has robbed you of even that. You have no one to reach for, no one to fall back on. Let’s make a deal.”

The Sith smiled broadly and kneaded the young shoulder beneath his dirt worn hand. “You tell me how Yagi has you so rattled - for the problem, I know, is more than a flower - and I will give you the one thing that is mine to give: the arms of a father.”

Zamani had never known a father's arms; he fell into them gratefully, and they covered him completely. That timely and wonderful embrace drew the pain from his heart and charged him with new strength. The cruel churning of the day ceased, and he sensed a peace he had not known since that day he was sure the barrier was between him and the Sith who murdered his mother.

“Xarhn bade me tell Yagi the truth,” he said, “and, I had hoped Yagi would respect me for that.

It is not for the flower that he hates me, but for who I am.”

“And, who are you?” prompted Pax. Zamani hesitated, he really didn’t want to go there again so soon. He said, “My mother was a Peck.”

The embrace tightened and Pax said, “This very morn I knew you for one of my own.”

“I can’t help that I am Gathorne. That doesn’t make me bad, does it?”

“No,” was the soothing answer. “You’ve seen my fields. You’ve seen how the nuts are tied to form pots of all shapes and sizes. Can you guess which will grow big, or which will be small?”

“No.” “It matters not, Zamani, for each one can hold something good.”

Zamani asked, “Does Yagi hate you?”

Pax sat straight and released Zamani. He turned where he sat to face the boy eye to eye.

“Let me tell you about Yagi,” he said. “He has never forgiven us the death of his father and mother. He never will. His is a bitter soul, but that is not true with others. I accept you and others will too. The sad time of iron and blood is long past, and Zamani is a tall pot holding much that is good. In fact, from such a tall pot, there might be no end to the good.”

“Yagi doesn’t know you're not pure, does he?”

“No. After the battle, Yagi made it his mission to eliminate the unpure, to put an end to our existence. He found many of us, and while there is no proof, I am afraid many of us were slain by his own hand. I was very small at the time, and my father had served Mithal-Moun on countless occasions.

Ragezeg sometimes played with me when our fathers met. It was to Mithal-Moun I was taken to escape the bloody hand of Yagi. Ragezeg hid me there; later, he formed my pait and gave me Teefa. No one knows this save me, the Mithal, and you.”

Pax leaned back against the stage and paused. Zamani struggled to take it in, that such as Yagi could live among the Shee, that no one had sought to stop him. Pax stretched, and yawned lazily, then continued.

“Now, Yagi greets me daily in the market; he barters for my wares. He took me as a son when his own died of the fever.” Pax lingered in his past, Zamani watched his eyes wander from memory to memory, then he returned with a sigh.

“Someday,” said Pax, “I will be summoned to Yagi-mon, and he will be on his bed. I will take him in my arms and lift him on his pillow. He will bless me, and I will kiss his cheek. Then, I will whisper in his ear that he has loved a Gathorne, and I will close his eyes.”

Zamani searched the eyes of Pax and found there no evil. Within the eyes of Pax, Yagi would find forgiveness. Zamani carefully considered his next words. He did not want everyone to know who his father was, but perhaps Pax deserved to know. He did not wish to tell another and be hurt again, but he felt good about Pax. If Yagi could find forgiveness with Pax, maybe he could as well. It was a thin hope, but perhaps Pax would not turn cold at the mention of the undoer's name. His chest was tight at the thought of it; it felt as though a band of iron pressed his ribs into his lungs. He took a deep breath; he took a chance.

“I must tell you more,” he said.

“Speak it.”

He paused to gather strength, then spoke the words, “I am the son of Rasha and Elimar.”

There! He had said it. But, now what? He watched Pax closely as the information sank in. He looked for any clue as to how the news was received. He waited nervously for the first response. There was no flooding of white or red. The eyes of Pax beheld him, but they did not accuse.

“You were born late,” said Pax. “Rasha and Ragezeg are of like seasons.”

“He murdered my mother.”

There was a hint of green upon Pax as he said, “Your loss touches me. Indeed, Rasha may have gone mad, but yours is not your father's mind. I feel that you are destined for greater things, that all of us will benefit from the goodness within you.”

Zamani bowed his head. Pax knew it all and did not despise him. He confessed, “I feel better now – relieved.”

“Yes, it is a heavy burden you’ve thrown off. Take it up no more. Now, I should return to my daughter. I really came for her, you know; when you broke from her arms, you broke her heart. She feared you were lost. I knew that if you returned now to the forest, it would crush her. You know there is no one for her save yourself?”

Zamani's eyes darted up. “Yes,” he acknowledged.

“What would she be without you, but truly unwanted?”

Zamani turned within himself and saw only grief, sympathy, and desire for Xarhn. He then realized that Pax had planted words like seeds; he had crafted them to become markers to guide his thoughts. He had naught but respect for Pax. He answered, “I will not forsake her.” Then, with mounting resolve, he added, “And none will ever see Rasha in me. Never will I destroy, or undo, but my hands will open to all people.”

Pax stood. “Your words refresh me, son. I’ll just run along and comfort my daughter with this good news.”

Following Pax to his feet, he reached out and caught Pax by the elbow as he turned to leave.

Something burned in him; something wanted out. It needed to explode. He had already been bold to thoroughly expose himself as he had; his hesitation was brief.

“Pax . . .”

“Yes,” said Pax patiently.

“I wish you had been my father.”

Pax turned, and hugged him tightly; he kissed his cheek. Then, smiling, he said quietly at arm's length, “In my heart, am I not?”

Pax departed, leaving Zamani to ponder his words. They resounded in his ears like the crystal notes of a perfect song frozen in place. They filled him with heady music; they filled him with purpose.

Like a fire, he felt a blazing newness course through him, consuming the stubble of dead thoughts. He stooped to gather possessions into the shroomsack, absorbed in the bright middle distance of a burning, new mind - lost to the play of motion in the air.

“Ahem.”

Zamani looked up from his bag to see the three boys he had met earlier. They stood above him;

each bore something in hand. Takax held lof; Vreatt and Voytk each carried a pot.

“We brought you mid meal,” said Takax in an assured manner. “Voytk has soup of egg and shar; Vreatt brings milksap.”

“I do thank you,” he answered mildly, “but, I have food of my own.”

Voytk stepped forward in sudden enthusiastic animation. “From the forest?” he asked.

Zamani peered up into three open faces. Yes, he thought, the news was out. Everyone knew. The three moved in; as Takax seated himself, the others followed his lead.

Quite after the fact, Zamani casually invited them to, “Have a seat.”

Vreatt leaned forward and said, “Xarhn spilled the seeds, but your secret is safe with us.”

Voytk very nearly sang, “May we taste your food?”

Zamani studied them with a smile. Why not? he thought to himself. He crossed his legs and grandly announced, “I will share, and we four shall feast.” He turned to the stocky Takax and said, “Break your lof.”

He handed each of them a strip of jerky. Takax chewed robustly; Vreatt nibbled judiciously; Voytk simply inhaled. They seemed pleased.

Vreatt asked, “What is it?”

Zamani replied capriciously, “Monster meat.”

Voytk stared at him with wide, unbelieving eyes; Vreatt ended a long pause with a nervous cough. Takax cocked his head in surprised appraisal and bit off another mouthful.

“It’s good,” he said.

Then, lof was passed around and used to scoop the thick soup into laughing faces. Zamani was warmed by their camaraderie. The boys accepted him, and that felt good.

Voytk took a sip of the white milksap and asked, “Will you tell us about the nholas?”

“What I can’t understand,” injected Takax, “is how you got through the barrier. Put my hand to it, once. Threw me on my back. Hurt bad,” he said with a short guttural laugh, “I learned my lesson good.”

“He just walks right through it - pretty as you please,” said Xarhn, coming around the stage, with life and glitter in her onyx eyes. The smile on her face spoke of tears gently wiped away. She stood behind Takax, hands clasped before her. Her eyes searched his own as he scanned her rainbow.

She bounced eagerly up on her toes. He placed his hand on the cleg by his knee, and she sprang to his side, with a quick kiss for his cheek. She cast about with narrowing eyes in broadcast challenge.

She said smartly, “I hope you Spunkies left something for me.”

“You just missed the monster meat,” said Voytk.

“I’ll monster you,” she replied, and with an elbow to Zamani's ribs, she buoyantly demanded, “Food. Now.” To the boy's great delight, Zamani passed around more of his strange forest food – naming and explaining as he went. Xarhn, of course, could not get enough sweet. The soup was spiced with Moost, the milksap with Anik, and when the Chelt was divvied up, they raved.

He explained to them, “This is made from milksap.”

“No! How?” was Vreatt's reply.

“Well, you put it in a sedge pot - the weave must be tight - and you just let it sit. The longer it sits, the better it tastes.”

“Show my mother,” said Voytk, “I could eat this forever.”

“More,” Xarhn gayly piped. “Now.” “There is no more,” answered Zamani to her annoyance. “You’ve eaten all I brought.”

“Well, I couldn’t eat another bite,” conceded Vreatt, stretching upon his back and patting his belly with a proud hand.

Voytk proclaimed, “I like Chelt.”

Takax belched hardily and leaned back on his hands.

“Well, I want more,” said Xarhn, thrusting a hand into Zamani's bag. What she retrieved was a crooked reed; small holes lined one side of it. “What’s this?” she asked, and all eyes flew to what she held. Vreatt sat up with a grunt.

Taking the reed in hand, Zamani lifted it to his lips and blew. He felt large and generous as he played for them. His breath whistled through the hollow reed, and his fingers danced upon the holes.

An airy melody wafted among the five of them. It fluttered on giddy, joyful wings. It wheeled and dove low only to sail high above their heads again. Xarhn closed her eyes and pressed her smiling, uplifted face into the melody.

Zamani could not have been happier; it was, after all, the best feeling to be received, to be appreciated. How often he had wanted just this. Yagi was wrong; he did have good - maybe enough for all. The group sat in stunned silence as he returned the reed to his bag and, lest Xarhn should reach in again and lay her hand against the edge of his knife, he tied it shut.

He looked from one gaping face to the next. “I make things,” he said with a shrug.

Takax responded with sudden animation, “Me too. My family makes many things: columns,

baskets, benches - whatever the Shee may need. If it can be done, we can do it.”

“My family makes wine,” added Voytk.

Vreatt finished with, “Chipstone is what my family does, but I shall not always work in stone.”

“You train to be Mithal,” said Zamani to the boy's surprise.

“How did you know?”

“Living in the nholas, I often go to Mithal-Moun. I’ve seen you many times in training.”

Takax grinned and said, “We’ve not begun to guess the half of you.”

Zamani grimaced. “If you knew me,” he said, “you might not like me.”

Xarhn challenged the group with sudden, stern words. “Anyone even looks at him wrong,” she said, “gets the back of my hand.”

Takax studied her with a broad smile upon his face, then turned back to Zamani to ask, “Really, now? What could be the worst of you? We already know that you eat bugs.”

Voytk picked up on the cue and added, “Perhaps he snores - like my father.”

“Easy . . .” Xarhn warned them. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

Zamani placed a hand on her knee as she began to rise. “I wish it was that simple,” he said. He took a deep breath and forced himself to answer the unasked question. “I’m a Gathorne.”

He watched them with no slight anticipation as they peeled away the layers of him with narrowing eyes. He saw them struggle to digest his revelation; he knew not what would come of it, but he felt suddenly free.

“We’ve never seen a Gathorne,” said Vreatt, and Voytk nodded wide-eyed and gaping. “Teller hates them, but the Mithal says there are good ones as well as bad.”

Xarhn spoke up. “Well, I don’t care what you are.”

“If that’s all it is,” said the steely-eyed Takax, “you misjudge us.”

Zamani looked at each one in turn. Might as well tell them, he thought. Their first response encouraged him, and besides that, a part of him deep inside desperately wanted to believe what Pax had said. Another part of him immediately questioned the wisdom of blabbing too soon. Should he tell them; would it be a mistake? He took another breath and pressed on.

“I am Rasha's son,” he said.

Then the baffled pause set in. It rested on him like a weight. And, what a weight it was. To that was added the intense weight of their eyes. It pressed him beyond himself. He began to buckle. He

wished they would say something - anything - just stop flaying him with their eyes.

Xarhn broke the long silence. “And, your point is?” she asked.

Takax responded as if startled from a nap. He said, “Yeah, so what?”

Voytk bit his thumbnail and nodded as Vreatt reasoned, “All that we’ve ever heard are old tales of an old war. We never saw Rasha's face, but we see your face. What matters the past? Rasha is a story; you are real.”

Zamani bowed his face; he was humbled. He looked up and said, “Yagi hates me for who I am.

I hoped not, but I feared that you might hate me also.”

Judiciously changing the topic of conversation, Vreatt said, “I have chores. Come home with me and meet the family.”

“I do thank you,” answered Zamani, “but I, too, have chores. Another time.”

Vreatt said, standing to leave, “Until that time, new friend, farewell.”

Voytk pouted. “I hate chores,” he said, “I want to stay.” He hung his head sadly and added, “Mother will thrash me if I come home late.”

With a quick smile and a wave goodbye, Voytk jumped to his feet and left with Vreatt.

Xarhn took a breath and moaned irritably. She said, “Oh! I must do chores, too.”

Zamani kissed her cheek and answered gently, “I’ll be back.”

“Well, you’d better,” she responded, squaring her shoulders and handing him a stern look. Then, her features softened to a warm smile. Kissing his cheek, she leapt gayly to her feet, took up the pots, and ran around the stage.

Only the muscular Takax remained. As if he had been waiting for the others to leave, he sat forward, rubbed his hands together and looked Zamani squarely in the eye. His gaze was polished iron; his presence was worked stone. Zamani liked him. The self-assured manner in which Takax carried himself and his confident leadership of the others caused Zamani to wonder if Takax might not make a better Mithal than Vreatt.

“What chores have you?” inquired the stocky Sith. “I’ll come along and help.”

Zamani considered, then answered conspiratorially, “I go to the hels.”

“The hels? Why?” “To open the mine.”

“Ha! No one can open the mine, not even me. It’s sealed.”

Zamani flashed a challenging grin. He leaned in and said, “You may not be able to open it, but I can.”

“Well, if you can do it, then I certainly can.”

“Do you really think so?”

“I know I can - now that you say it’s possible. But, how?”

Zamani smiled inwardly. Takax, large and strong, would be an indispensable ally in his quest; no other would do. He said, “Yagi taught me the old Peck song: make the hels, make the hels. You know it?”

“I do, but it’s been a while; I’m in high class now.”

“The song is the clue.”

Takax frowned and rubbed his wattle. “Really?” he asked. “Clue to what?”

Zamani sat back and spread his arms. “It tells us where to find the back door,” said he.

Takax was baffled. He simply repeated, “Back door?”

Zamani attempted to jog the boy's memory with a bit more of the song. He recited, “Nick the dunn, four to one, three will course unto our home . . .”

Takax thought it through aloud, “Four to one. Four to one.” Then, his face lit up and his eyes widened. “Ah!” proclaimed the boy. “Four . . . two . . . one.”

“Exactly. There is a second way in, and it’s beneath the third stone.”

“Clever,” admitted Takax, “but even so, why open the mine?”

“Think about it.”

Takax’ eyes narrowed then widened again; he had the answer: “Pyre gems.”

A slight nod of the head, a slight spreading of the hands was Zamani's congratulations for the successful deliberations of his new friend.

“So, we go to the hels,” said Takax. “Let us argue that pyre gems are needed by all; let us agree that we find the back door. Do you think you’re just going to walk in, collect gems, and bring them back in your hands?”

Zamani considered the problem; Takax was right. New gems would bake his hands just as if they were lof. They would need supplies.

He asked the boy, “What can we carry them in?”

“I’ve old caging at home,” said the stocky boy with a brag in his broad, bright smile. “I can easily rework them into larger cages.”

“We’ll need light,” said Zamani. “Can you do that, too?”

“If it can be done, I can do it,” boasted Takax, as he jumped up, eager to begin.

Chapter Eight They followed the path toward Mithal-Moun. Zamani had left his mantle, cap, and shroomsack hidden at Tinokta-mon, Takax’ home. He pulled behind himself the two large baskets which his new friend had quickly fashioned from old pyre caging. He marveled at the strength of the boy, how easily he had bent the old iron with his hands. The short length of twine that connected the baskets was looped securely in Zamani's hand. This, too, had Takax made quickly and with ease.

As he pulled the baskets over the cleg, they jangled - a noise that had long ago become wearisome. He rested his free hand on the cool ruby handle of his knife. He brought it as a precaution, for who knew what they might find in the mine? It's solid presence made light of the uncertain future.

Takax had been surprised when it was pulled from the bag. His normally steely eyes had widened momentarily - just long enough to show the awe he felt for the finely polished iron and intricately crafted handle.

His ally walked silently beside him, back straight and jaw set. Takax carried the new light. It had impressed Zamani how skillfully the Sith had removed the gem from its cage and mounted it atop a handle of tied slats. He was filled with his new adventure, and his mind far from home when Takax dropped the question.

“Is your soul at ease among us, or will you return to the nholas?”

Zamani answered, “I am at ease . . . save for Yagi.”

Takax laughed, “Ha! We learn from him, but at least we have enough sense not to take him seriously.”

Zamani scowled at the side of his friend's head. “I should be so strong,” he answered.

The barb was wasted on the stocky Sith. He replied, “You are strong, and your heart is good.”

He looked quickly toward Zamani, then as quickly away again. “I’m glad you’ve come to us, glad for Xarhn, that she has her own at last.”

How many times must he tell these simple folk, he wondered? “Zamani belongs to no one,” he argued. “I am my own.”

“Try explaining that to Xarhn,” Takax challenged.

“Xarhn is a silk-headed girl. I just let her tag along.”

At that, Takax laughed robustly. “Silk-headed, that’s rich. Nothing under the pait, right? My

girl, now, there’s the true silk head. You met her, only. I, however, know her all too closely. All bluster and hot air. Goes in three directions at once. She goes so fast at times, all I can do is step aside and watch her bounce from wall to wall.”

He added noises for effect, “Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing! Bing!”

Zamani could not help but laugh. He said, “That must be something to see.”

“The trouble with girls,” Takax continued, momentarily waxing philosophic, “is that they think they know what they’re doing. Perhaps they do - I’ll be big - but we sure don’t, you and I. We can never be sure what they will say or do next.”

“Sure you can,” Zamani assuaged, “I do it all the time.”

Takax appraised his new friend with a question in his slack face.

“Scan the rainbow,” Zamani explained.

Takax stumbled over the unfamiliar phrase and queried, “What the who?”

“Scan the rainbow. That means read their colors.”

“Colors are colors,” dismissed the larger of the two as if swatting a zeo. “They come; they go.”

“In this you are wrong, my friend. Knowing what each color means is the second Phrava.”

Takax’ pointed ears all but pricked forward. “You have my attention,” was his earnest response.

“Tell all.”

Zamani confided, “I know what Ragezeg teaches. When he is in his garden, I am there. What Yagi learns, I know. What Vreatt learns, I know. Mithal teaches some to Yagi and some to Vreatt, but not all to either.”

Takax grunted sagely, encouraging Zamani to continue.

“I hide and listen,” he said with an easy smile, “and learn what even Yagi does not. I know all the words of power; Yagi knows three, and Vreatt but one. I know all the colors; Yagi knows some, Vreatt none. Mithal withholds for his own advantage.”

After a brief pause, Takax responded, “I would not have guessed.”

“Much there is you know nothing of; the Mithal is not all good,” said Zamani, stressing the word ‘not’ before concluding, “The Shee would benefit from knowing the colors.”

“So, tell me a color,” Prompted Takax. He stopped and faced Zamani.

Zamani said, “When you see brown, there is joy or peace. Blue is neutral. Reds are the passions.”

Takax rubbed his chin thoughtfully and responded, “Shabani has many reds . . . I must learn of this.”

“I will explain at length, as time permits.”

“What I don’t understand,” said Takax, resuming his march, “is why the Mithal would keep secrets.”

Zamani answered earnestly, “He is not all good. If you knew, you would have power as he does.

If you knew when he lied, you would have power over him.”

“Why should the Mithal lie?”

“I’ll tell you a secret, and you’ll know,” offered Zamani. “Rikchi and Charchon have a child this midday. This even, the Shee will celebrate with procession and revelry. But, I was there at the conceiving. I hid in my glamor and watched. You know not of this, but only that two must stand before the Mithal. This is what happens: at the conceiving, the two must sleep by the first Phrava, that is the Mithal's will. The portal is opened for the male and they are placed together. The young must come this way.”

“I understand; I’m smarter than I look, so, just give me the short version.”

Zamani stopped and turned to Takax. He said flatly, “Ragezeg fathered Rikchi's child.”

Takax stared hard into Zamani's eyes. Jaw muscles clenching like fists, he flooded from white to red in uncontrollable splashes of emotion.

“But . . . that’s wrong!” bellowed the stocky Sith. “That’s wicked!” He lifted fists to the silvery sky, and grated, “If I find this to be so, I’ll . . . I’ll twist off his head and hand it back to him.”

“No!” commanded Zamani. “Calm yourself and hear me. This must remain between us. Live on as if I never said a thing - you must promise.”

Takax reeled in his turbulent thoughts; his flooding skin roiled with hot reds, and yet, through might of will, he returned blue. In his eyes, the flash of polished iron faded to the rough constitution of cold stone. He made the promise, set his jaw, turned and began to walk.

Despite the rattle of towed cages, a silence filled the short distance between Them. Takax, at length, spoke to free himself of it.

He asked, “Are you sure we’ll find gems in the mine?”

Zamani played to his rekindled spirit. “No,” he answered, “but, you’ll give up looking before I do.”

“Ha!” he laughed. “Not Likely.”

Zamani bolted away, calling back over his shoulder, “Race you!”

They fell, deeply winded, to the cleg. A short distance from them arose the dour visage of Mithal-Moun, a large stone edifice besieged on two sides by the overhang. It's cold, gray face glared at them suspiciously. As they rolled and wheezed in the unkept cleg, laughter was sparingly wrung from their belabored chests. Takax rolled to his back and threw wide his arms.

“I just did beat those long legs of yours,” he exalted.

They laughed, rested, sat up and breathed heavily as if in a competition of stabbing winds.

Then, they laughed the more. As breathing eased, Takax eyed the cold edifice of Mithal-Moun. Zamani could see the hatred in his friend's eyes, and he regretted having told him the secret.

Takax caught Zamani's eye and inclined his head toward Mithal-Moun, asking, “So, you’ve been inside, then?”

“Yes. There is great treasure within.”

“Have you seen Rasha's Thumb?”

“No.” “Say,” changing the subject, Takax said, “the old Peck boarding lies above the hels. Want to see it?”

Zamani waded into the ease and camaraderie of his friend. “Very well,” he said, “Just don’t make me chase you there.”

The ghostly boarding reared before them. Nothing could have prepared Zamani for the eerie foreboding this place of death and decay evoked in him. It wasn’t his fault he never looked out past the Moun in this direction. A prickly sensation crept up his back as sight of the twisted, desolate boarding clawed at his eyes. Halls sat upon halls at impossible angles. Ancient gray sedge had come undone in many places, and black holes, like twisted maws, gaped at him.

Takax pointed to a large round construction guessing, “That must have been their Norsey. What do you think?”

“I think it knows we’re here.”

“Nonsense. Come on.”

Zamani followed him into the cavernous interior; a large arm extended, and the torch lighted wall and floor. He could almost imagine the long dead, gray Pecks that once lived here. Their footsteps thumped in his ears - or was that his heart? His hand moved involuntarily from his tightening chest to the cool reassurance of his ruby handled knife. He had dropped the baskets at the entrance and followed his friend into the unknown past.

From the narrow hallway, they emerged into a small empty room. A ragged, gaping door was set in each of its walls. Takax walked through the door directly before them, into a large circular

intersection at the heart of the building. Old empty pots littered the creaking planks of the dusty floor.

“Look!” Takax called over his shoulder as he pointed with the torch.

Ahead of them, winding sedge stairs led up into the blackness of the Norsey's top floor. Takax held the torch above his head and tried to get a glimpse beyond the balcony. Zamani stooped to retrieve a pot. It disintegrated in his grasp.

Takax mused, “Wonder what’s up there?”

Zamani answered dryly, “I’ll know when you return.”

The stairs protested loudly as Takax warily eased himself upward, testing each new surface with cautious toes. Zamani stepped back and bit his lip, tensing at each deeper, more ominous groan of the ancient sedge.

Takax paused at the middle point to whisper back, “Almost there.”

It happened then. The spiral stairs snapped, surrendering with a low grating growl to the weight of the intruder.

“Whoa!” cried the helplessly tumbling Sith.

Torchlight vanished in a shower of splintering slats, and Takax hit the floor with an awful crunching thump. Much of the top walkway came too and buried the hapless youth. Takax punched through the floor, buried both by the balcony and the spiral stairs. The quick, grinding collapse seemed an eternity long to Zamani and crawled along his nerves like the barrier's sting. Last of all to snap and fall away was the slow advance of the moment; with fear came alacrity.

Zamani leapt to the heap, raking furiously to uncover his friend. The darkness surrounded him, but he raked it aside with the rest.

He called out, “Takax! Takax!”

Through the suffocating dust came the indication of an answer. It was something less than a sound. Then the debris surged upward and a hand pushed through, seeking purchase. It took Zamani's wrist in a mighty grip and pulled him into the musty heap.

“Help!” came the muffled cry.

“I’m with you!” Zamani called back.

Freeing himself with great difficulty, Zamani set about in desperate earnest. Slats flew in all directions. As debris fell, it made the thin noise of substance sucked dry by time. His efforts were soon rewarded, as Takax thrust through his other hand. A moment later, Zamani found his friend's two feet sticking straight up. Last of all, he exposed Takax’ head. A hint of gem light came from beneath.

Zamani wiped the dust from his friend's face and asked, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” was the answer, “but, I’m sitting on the torch, so hurry it up.”

Zamani redoubled his efforts. He pulled tightly wedged slats free from the hole his friend had made and threw them over his shoulder. Takax kicked, and flailed his arms, causing cave-ins that hampered progress.

He cried out, “Hurry! I’m cooking!”

Then, at last, one long plank broke in half, and Takax fell through to the cold dirt below the floor. He sought the torch and hoisted it up to Zamani, with an embarrassed smile upon his face. He rolled to his knees with a grunt and stuck his head up through the hole.

He said, “If it can be done, I can do it.”

“I’m glad you’re not hurt.”

“I do fall well,” appraised the youth. “Do you agree?”

“We should leave now.”

“Wait. Bring the light closer,” said Takax, lifting an old knife rough and brown with age. “I think I found something, after all.”

They stepped from the Norsey into the midday light, Takax fingering the broken slats of his loin cloth. He held the iron between the two of them and grinned.

He said, “It has no handle, but I shall keep it I think. I’ll make it shine like yours.”

Zamani took up the baskets and handed the torch to his friend, saying, “This place does not like us. We should leave before it sets on us once more.”

From within the ancient Peck Norsey, there arose a low wailing groan. They stepped away, facing the door in absorbed fascination. The groan became a mourner's shriek of settling struts and snapping sedge. Then came the airy ‘thump’ of crashing parts that sent spewing from the doorway a gust of cold, musty breath. That foul breath was thick with splinters. The boys crouched and threw their arms across their eyes for protection. They could not see around their arms, though they tried. Then the dust and debris settled; they looked into the Norsey's black maw. Each turned to his friend with wide eyes and yelled as one.

“Ahhh!”

Laughing, they raced away.

The blue-black stones towered over them. Midday light reflected from their cool polished sides.

On the coarse gray hels, nothing grew save those four monolithic stones. Zamani scanned the dead, rocky surfaces of the hels to no advantage. There was not a clue. Kicking morosely at loose rocks, he wondered if the back door was under one of the unmovable pillars. Could Takax push one over with his great strength? He doubted it. He cast about for anything that would bring a thought to his mind, and

his eyes fell upon a rock shoulder halfway between the hels and Zhereen.

As the floater forest bent toward the silent Zheren fortress, there near the overhang and jutting through the torn fabric of the cleg: there was the mine, a large rocky scab sealing the wound of its entrance. In his mind, Zamani traced an imaginary line from the mine to the nearest of the black stones . He looked down. The line should end where he stood, in a broad flat space between three hels, and to the right of the Zheren-most stone. As Zamani zeroed in, Takax watched, in self-indulgent patience from a nearby mound.

Zamani stooped to rake aside loose rocks; Takax, forsaking all patience, leapt from his perch to assist. His broad hands scooped away large quantities. Their combined effort soon revealed, not dirt, but a large slate cover. Takax used the old iron knife to work at the edge of the slate. He chiseled away enough of the surrounding dirt to insert his hands. Having done that, he laid the knife aside, raised the slate, and leaned it against a blue-black stone.

“We were right,” said Takax, returning Zamani's triumphant grin.

“I was right.”

“I opened it.”

“Could anyone but the mighty Takax?”

“No, and that’s why I must constantly remind you - if it can be done, I can do it.”

Excitement faded to wary awe. Before them, a black tunnel opened into the unknown. A faint, but disturbing stench assailed their nostrils. They wrinkled their noses but squared their shoulders.

Adventure called them by name.

With torch in hand, Takax descended first. Zamani took the baskets and followed close on his heels. Small, loose rocks gave poor footing as they hazarded the rough gray tunnel floor. The orange glow of Takax’ torch bled into the surrounding darkness and returned to their heightened senses a dreary, unnameable hue.

Then, bare feet slid upon rounded gravel, and Takax rode the tunnel floor on his slatted seat. At the end of his descent, he stood straight in a level tunnel that was twice as broad as the entrance. The torch light reached only a short distance ahead of him, but it afforded sight of rich, multicolored veins within the walls.

Zamani stood at his elbow and said quietly, “You sang a new and distinct tune for each small rock your bottom polished.”

“Funny. I’m laughing. Here, put this in your baskets.”

Zamani received a slat that Takax had picked from the passage floor. Twine had been tightly wrapped around it. It was old, but both agreed upon its serviceability. They looked down the tunnel, side by side; they staunchly appraised its beckoning hand, then sighing as one, they stepped forward into the bowels of their world.

Xarhn knelt in the path-side cleg. She fingered the pretty flower that covered her so richly, wishing it could last forever, yet knowing it would ultimately bruise and wither. The wearing would be lost, but the gift was hers for all time. In a pot, she thought, small and stout, would she seal her prize. In her father's back field, she would place it in a hole beneath the cleg. On that spot, she would weave her milksap; a mon would be raised and a home made. There, she would raise her young with Zamani.

She had raced through the birthing, then she had raced through Thletix, all for the sight of her love. In every door had she put her head, in every nook, room, and corner, she called his sweet name.

“Zami . . .Zami . . .”

But, her love was not to be found. She had so hoped that she might quickly return to his side, and perhaps help him with his chores. She would do anything for him, anything he asked. She would do it gladly, with a song in her heart and dance in her feet.

Sadly, his chores had taken him from Thletix, and from her. She pined to be with him, to kiss his cheek, to wrap herself in his protecting arms - arms that would save her from the pinching loneliness of her heart. She sighed, and her sigh cried out: ‘Oh Zami, come back to me; I am here.’

She had known loneliness so very long. Daily, had she watched the other couples. Her heart was heavy with the weight of her solitude. Takax laughed with Shabani; Voytk rejoiced with Tosh; Vreatt and Shirpa rose up together. Their joys were full. Their communions were sweet. She watched from her emptiness, always wearing a brave mask, enduring polite pity.

It was in dance that she found release; cares and sorrows were swept aside. She found relief in the tender love of her father and mother, without whom she would surely not survive.

Everyone loved ‘poor Xarhn.’ Pitied would be more accurate. Without her own, she was but half a Sith. It had seemed she was fated to stand apart; the seasons had erased all memory of Acklik so that only his name remained.

Then, in a single joyous morn, her emptiness had been filled; her wanting heart had been saved.

The Maker of all sent her a boon through the barrier, a boy like no other, a gift named Zamani. Her love was tall, and bright, and charming. He came from another world, with strange ways and wonderful gifts. He was a boy who dared to fight for her. How she loved him.

What fear she had known when his eyes filled with tears and he fled her arms. But, father had returned with comforting news - Zamani was not leaving her. He could not leave her, he simply couldn’t! She would die.

And then, there was mid meal at his side; how large, how alive she had felt. Strengthened and renewed, she had gone to her mother's side; all chores suspended, she was allowed to help in the birthing. Shabani and Shirpa comforted the laboring mother; Teefa performed the midwife duties; Zivith, sagely nodding, pointed to the proper silks, herbs, and pots that Xarhn should hand up as her mother called for them.

Then, Rikchi's swollen belly spat forth a child. Xarhn had received her first startling glimpse of the gaping female portal, which only the Mithal's Phrava could shape. Through that portal, whimpering,

came new life. The dew pot was handed up for the washing, and the child was laid to its mother's breast. Rikchi had a girl, and mingled with her joy, Xarhn felt sorrow for another mateless soul.

Xarhn recalled the Mithal's grand entrance, his pointed green cap, and ornate mantle. He was splendid, and all met him with the proper deference. He stepped up to the birthing bed; he placed a hand on Rikchi's moist brow. A lingering, loving smile crossed his regal features. Then, he took the child in his arms and held it as if it had been his own - and the girl child received her name. Xarhn was warmed by the memory; there was joy in new life.

She slipped from her reverie to find Pax and Teefa kneeling before her in tender attention. Each kissed her cheek. How she loved them. How she needed them.

Pax prompted, “Shall we go home?”

She answered sadly, “I was hoping Zami could go with us.”

“Zamani will come back to us,” soothed her father. “You must remember that in our lives his flower is but one day old, barely more than Rikchi's child. His heart is a newly opened bud, while his roots remain hidden beyond the barrier. You must warm him with the light of patience, and nourish him with the dew of understanding.”

“I will, father.”

Teefa said softly, “Xarhn, my dearest, your help in the Norsey was priceless. I am so proud of you. But now, we must away, for we’ve the even to prepare. Our celebration will lift all hearts into the Maker's hands. We must bring forth lof and tay; our clothing must be sewn. We must practice the dance, and do you know why? Our Mithal wants you to head the procession.”

Xarhn squealed delightedly, “Oh, mother! Oh, father!”

“Come,” said Pax, taking her by the hand. “Come.”

The trek was arduous. As if bare, aching feet were not bad enough, Dirt monsters inhabited the blackened shafts. Not far into their march, Zamani's foot triggered a large silk thread. From the dark came a spinner of grotesque proportions. Its white skin glistened in the torchlight; its mandibles made menacing sounds. ‘Clack! Clack!’ they snapped.

Long, spiked legs reached for them. Iron flashed. Zamani drew his ruby handled knife and walked carelessly into the spinner's embrace, slashing heroically. Takax followed his lead, but with less skill and fortune. When Takax picked himself up from the rocky floor, gingerly fingering a lump near the wattle of his pait, the spinner lay dead before them.

Creature shells lay all around them. Takax judiciously fashioned crude armor and helmets for the two of them. What a sight they were. Takax was leery of wearing the husks of dead Dirt monsters, but he reasoned it was better than another bruise. Before leaving, they looked at the spinner one last time. It was the first kill of their adventure. To Zamani, the matter seemed small, but to Takax it seemed grand. The conquest filled him. He had learned the limitations of his iron. He had also learned the extent of his will: not only to survive but to survive victoriously.

Dirt monsters were ever present as they penetrated deeper and deeper. Some crawled, some sprang; all seemed to be a wall, floor, or dark niche - until they moved. Some had soft backs and short legs, while others had shells and mighty hind legs. All had two long quills attached to their heads, all were sickly white, but none survived Takax’ strength and quickening skill.

While it was true that Zamani killed more with greater skill, Takax slaughtered the Dirt monsters with greater enthusiasm. Takax exulted with wild whoops of Shee inner strength. His howls of victory vaulted down the passage, causing the blackness to skitter away.

The mine progressed in sharp switchbacks. Each time their direction changed, they found they traversed a deeper, warmer level. Ancient artifacts littered the rough, rocky floor. While some were useless, disintegrating at the merest touch, others proved to be quite helpful, adding strength and advantage to their continuing battle. A small hammer in Takax’ strong hands proved to be more deadly than his decay-crusted iron. A knocker's pick delivered a single, lethal blow.

To the amazement of the stocky Sith, Zamani often called upon the first Phrava, reciting words of power he had assumed were off-limits to all but the old and Mithal-trained. When Zamani said, “Egloamin!” they were shielded from harm. No creature could breach the invisible force. When Zamani said, “Hobbedy!” the beasts would collide into each other, or simply skitter away into their black holes.

They came, at last, to the Peck's dunny; they stood in the entrance. The dunny vault was so vast that torch light failed to reach the back of it. Takax took a step forward; something brittle beneath his foot snapped, drawing his torch and attention to the floor. Within the circle of light, sightless skulls peered up from the rubble of the ancient vault. The long forgotten dwellings reminded them of the boarding far above. Rooms sprang feverishly from rooms, as random and ridiculous as afterthoughts to idle fancies. High, devious walkways connected the misshapen visage. The glowering ugliness of the dunny fairly shouted the madness of its builders.

Zamani suggested they leave, continue down the passage. Takax agreed, but no sooner had their whispers faded than their hearts leapt up in their throats. Thumps and bangs issued from the blackened vault. Wild screams and 'Ban Shee' wails sprang from the pressing gloom to echo loudly from the high ceiling. Both far and alarmingly near, a small army of deformed white Pecks boiled forth. They were no more than four heads high, but the long deadly pole picks they brandished made up for their diminutive stature.

Immediately, Takax waded in, scattering the grotesque creatures by the dozens. He freed two of the pole picks, which he and Zamani used with notable success. The insistent madness of the onslaught seemed endless. Pecks sprang from blackness where nothing seemed to be. They fell from shadows, surrounding the adventurers, who stood back to back, slashing and hacking in a knee high mass of writhing demise.

The final Peck fell. Echos of iron on iron faded from the dunny. The young warriors looked about on the carnage. Moments had seemed like seasons, but now, the end seemed startlingly sudden.

Breathing raggedly, they made their way over the piled corpses to the rock wall, where they sat heavily.

They needed to still their hearts, and make some sense of the moment.

“Tired now,” rasped Takax.

They rested, and moved on; they wanted nothing more to do with the dunny. Quietly, they forced the reluctant blackness with determination and an outstretched torch. Back fled the darkness, as forward they marched. Often, reflective but jubilant eyes locked, and they would share a cautious smile. With new weapons in hand and seasoned success under their belts, they felt invincible.

Their journey stretched on with no indication of the gems they sought. Level after level held nothing save the obnoxious Dirt monsters, which they quickly dispatched. They pressed on, undaunted, choosing to glory even in the length of their quest. They chose to bypass a tributary path at the sloping of the switchback, they dispatched a pest and continued down the incline. They noticed, to their left and right, two large round rocks had been set in the walls. While it seemed curious, neither took the time to question the reasoning for such a work. Most likely, they sealed tunnels.

At the leveling of the incline, Takax leading with torch held high, tripped on a line that was stretched across the floor. A weighty groan issued from the blackness behind them. Heads snapped around, and torch light leapt up the incline. Fists tightened on weapons, but, it was no beast they heard.

One of the large stones rolled toward them with a deafening roar.

“Run!” commanded Zamani.

As fast as their legs could manage, they threw themselves forward, barely ahead of the rolling doom. Chests pounded, baskets clattered; bare feet slapped the tunnel floor in wild abandon. The awful roar of rock on rock grew louder. In the blackness ahead of them, a wide pit appeared, as if it was the mouth of a beast awaiting food. Two morsels raced toward it.

“Jump!” they cried as one.

They hit the broad incline on the other side of the chasm and rolled painfully. The massive stone crashed behind them and rolled forward, wringing from them a united, breathless gasp, but the stone stopped short of bare toes. They waited for what seemed an eternity; no further did it roll, the stone fell back and away. Moments later, it struck the darkness below with a bone-shaking peal. The returning silence seemed quite nearly as loud. Old dust filled their nostrils.

“Coosith!” swore Zamani, coughing up the foul dust.

Takax complained, “Pain. What am I sitting on?”

“Looks like a ladder.”

A second crash rose up to their pointed ears. It was the grinding rumble of collapsing rock walls. Then sprang up the hot orange glow of pyre light, piercing billows of ancient dust, to reach and warm their hearts. They locked eyes and shared in the smile that joined them, the thrill of triumph, and the communion of friends.

Chapter Nine Midday was nearly done. The lights were retracing their earlier flight, in hopes of abysmal rest.

Long purple shadows crossed the cleg, and a slight breeze was at hand. Zamani helped his strong friend

replace and cover the slate door of the mine. They eyed the twelve searing gems that rested in the two metal baskets; these would elicit cries of wonder from the Shee. Takax and Zamani would return as heroes to Thletix. Their tale would be told, and retold, throughout the even's long celebration.

Leaving the hels behind, the laughing heroes strode mightily toward the reception, recounting their battles between them. When the merriment faded to a warm glow, conversation found new paths, and Takax pressed Zamani for an explanation of scanning. Zamani patiently led him through each color, each combination of colors, each meaning. Surprisingly, the stocky Sith absorbed the telling with more alacrity than Zamani found needful.

“And now, one important matter,” concluded Takax. “How will I know when Shabani speaks a lie? There are things I must judge of her.”

“Too easy,” said Zamani, glad to share. “While all else is blue, note the eyes. The outer corners flood darkly red.”

Zamani then gave tips on bending colors: which clues to pick up on, which response best suited which purpose. The telling felt good. He very much enjoyed sharing truth with his new friend, and he hoped that Takax would stand beside him in future quests.

On an impulse, he tried Takax with the word of shielding. He instructed how the mind should be funneled through the word, and his adventurous friend was eager to try. The first attempts were futile, hilarious at best. Takax took offense at Zamani's unchecked laughter. Pulling the face straight just barely worked, and the larger of them laughed as well. Zamani advised him to practice every day.

Then Thletix came into view. The Norsey rose darkly through the distance and gathering eve.

They rounded the peninsular overhang and made for Tinokta-mon. Takax’ mother rushed from the mon at their approach. Breegah had plain features, and while ice was just another myth, still there was ice in her eyes for the lateness of her son. Her lips curled in readiness to impart pointed reproofs until their manner caught her attention. The victorious gate of their advance, the long shadows running before them, and the bright light behind them gave Breegah a start. The ice melted.

“Love!” she called excitedly. “Tinokta, come quickly!”

Tinokta stepped from the mon, his chiseled face expressed awe for what the boys dragged toward him. He advanced; they stopped. Tinokta circled them, shielding his eyes from the brightness of the gems. Before him, twelve pyre gems blazed in two makeshift baskets. The smile on his son's face was just as bright.

His deep voice reverberated, “By the Maker! New gems! But, how?”

Takax, if such was possible, smiled the more broadly. “Mother, father,” he said, “there is much to tell, but first we must deal with these, for the cleg bakes.”

Then, as his parents noticed Zamani as one who had just appeared from thin air, Takax named him. “My friend, Zamani.”

Breegah nodded, speaking even while entranced of the gems, “Yes, the boy from the nholas.”

“Pleased,” Tinokta added absently. He found it hard to draw his eyes from the brightness of the gems. “Gems,” he said. “By the Maker . . . we have no words.”

Then Breegah spoke sternly to her son, “I should wallop you for being late.” She added with a sly grin, “But, I’ll not.”

Her excitement overflowing all boundaries, she grabbed her own and danced around. She cried in joyous abandon, “Oh, still, my soul! Tinokta, we have gems!”

Having guessed this would happen, Takax and Zamani shared a youthful smile. They watched as Tinokta swept Breegah from her feet. He held her in hardened arms and swung her around in jubilant circles. They hugged, they laughed; they put on quite a show. The boys were thoroughly entertained.

Then, just as abruptly as he had taken her up, Tinokta set Breegah aside and stepped up to the baskets. Gem light washed his face, and the weight of urgency rested upon his eyes. “We must hurry to Thletix,” he snapped decisively. “The Mithal must know. Most likely summon all heads,” he added absently as he pulled on his chin. Then his eyes narrowed, and he said to his son, “Fetch the tongs, boy.”

Takax had brought the matter thus far, but he was not exempt from his father's new found zeal.

He caught it like a tossed ball. Leaving his parents staring helplessly into the light, Takax took Zamani by the arm and hurried him behind the mon, to the work area, where he quickly found the tongs and turned to leave.

He called over his shoulder, “I’ll be with father.”

Zamani smiled inwardly. Takax would be caught up in the general excitement. No matter; Zamani had foreseen it. He took his bag from beneath the table where he had hidden it. The table was a common slate nearly buried in odd looking tools, scraps, and pieces of . . . things. He would take his time dressing, for he knew that haste was no guarantee of speed. Still, he would be done and waiting before Tinokta took his first step toward Thletix.

An urgent knock rattled the door. Ragezeg arose, with difficulty, from his meditations. He donned the green cap of his office and slid back the rough iron bolt of the door. Before him stood Breegah, Tinokta's helper. She bowed nervously, and took his extended hand, touching it to her brow in the customary show of respect. As he had done for ages, Ragezeg quietly accepted the homage, but her nervous manner struck him pointedly. His mind, at once, was loud with curiosity.

Indeed, he had expected no visitors this close to procession. Her presence was troubling, and yet, he was not altogether displeased. He hated the isolation of his office. Breegah danced excitedly from toe to toe. She had news, and if he did not ask for it, it would spill forth nonetheless; female Shee were that way.

He put on his official smile and said, “Breegah, your interruption of duties is most pleasing.”

“Your pardon.”

Ragezeg examined her. Yes, her mysterious, underlying joy would boil over. Respect of his

office was all that held it in check. His smile broadened from official to genuine, which called on seldom used muscles. Breegah was plain, but something in her manner had always aroused him.

He said, “Tell me your mind before you burst.”

She sang excitedly, “You must come and see. Something most wonderful.”

“Then I shall come,” he answered, and he closed the door behind them.

Urgently, Breegah took the Mithal's hand and led him to the market. He entered the broad boulevard, not knowing what to expect. By all standards, the market should be empty. It was not.

Tinokta and his son, Takax, occupied the center of the boulevard, waging a mock battle with long poles. By the mid meal bench, a strangely dressed boy watched them fight and laughed at their show.

More amazing than finally seeing the forest boy everyone had been speaking of, was the bright pyre light between them. This was not the dim light he was used to, but the burning light of new gems.

He had not seen such in ages. As Breegah brought him near, his chest pounded with unaccustomed excitement. The father and son came close to pay homage, but his mind was not on them. The bright pyres had wholly captured his attention.

Tinokta and his son, in turn, took his hand. Absently, he allowed it to be drawn up to them. He gathered his wits, focusing his attention away from the gems, only to find another surprise. His wandering eyes noted the pointed iron atop the two poles. The picture was clear - the old mine had been breached. He would calm himself and know more.

With returning presence, Ragezeg scanned their rainbows. A great joy flooded their skins, and it was a joy he shared. “I see someone has entered the mine,” he prompted. “I see that ingenuity has garnered a timely harvest.”

Takax stepped to Zamani's side, resting a heavy arm upon his shoulder. “It was all Zamani's doing,” he said. “We owe him the respect.”

“Indeed.”

Ragezeg had been made aware of Zamani's presence earlier. He had learned of him from a seething Teller. Yet, for all his meditations, he was not prepared to see the strong resemblance that Zamani bore to the half-remembered Rasha. From the restraints of age, painful emotions surfaced, but he would not have them known. He held to his neutral blue.

Civil he could be, and he found his hand opening to the stranger. After all, Zamani was an innocent. The tears of former times had not fallen on this child.

“Lord of the nholas, I presume,” said Ragezeg, extending his hand.

Zamani was unmoved, unmoving, his face a mask of stone. He stared out at him through penetrating eyes. How like his father. The moment stretched into embarrassment and his hand grew heavy; he dropped it to his side.

He asked the boy, with some amazement, “Can you not show respect?”

Takax shoved him forward, snapping, “Show respect!”

Zamani answered in even tones, “Some have earned my respect.”

“Foolish youth!” hissed Tinokta.

The Mithal soothed, “Be calm, Tinokta. This boy may be right, for I have earned the respect of the Shee, not so this youth from the nholas.” He turned back to Zamani and asked, “So then, how may I earn your respect? What may I barter, if indeed you have respect to give?”

Zamani's most charming smile overspread his face. He was well versed in the machinations of the Mithal; he would not get caught up in word traps. He answered simply, “Let time prove us both.”

“Well said. I hope that, later, we may sit together and speak at length. Your presence has sparked in me a keen curiosity.”

“We shall.”

Ragezeg turned, in his most official manner, to the gems. He cleared his throat, knowing that someone would speak.

Tinokta, standing in Breegah's embrace, answered the prompt. “We thought,” said he, “you would want to call the mon-Shee.”

Takax quickly added, “Zamani asked that they be given freely to all.”

Ragezeg eyed the undoer's son with admiration. Here was a boy who had lived his young life apart from the values of family ties, yet, within him virtue shone as brightly as the newly mined gems.

“Quite right,” said the Mithal. “Zamani's open hands bring light to Phar Sheeth. There shall be joy this eve, indeed. New life have we to celebrate, new light as well. Run swiftly, then, young Takax.

Draw the heads together. Bid them bring their cages. Go, now.”

Takax darted off into the deepening eve. Breegah called after him, “Be late again, and I’ll wallop you good.”

Came the distant reply, “Yes, mother.”

Ragezeg turned on his heels and headed down the dark alley to his lodging; Tinokta fell in at his side, Breegah trailing. Zamani watched them walk out of sight; he heard their voices become small.

“They say,” said Tinokta, the mine is filled with Dirt monsters.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Breegah chimed in, “What a wonder they found a way in.”

“Indeed.”

The shadows swallowed them; their voices dwindled to silence. Zamani was left alone in the boulevard, as if to guard the bright new gems. Since early morn, he had been in the company of one person or another. Now, the sudden abandonment added only the ache of familiar loneliness. He turned and wandered up the boulevard, leaving the gems behind him.

Having made so many new friends, his solitary steps now rang hollow. As he followed the curve of the Norsey's wall, he noted light issuing from its door. He stopped and turned to it. An elderly female stood in the half-opened doorway. She leaned against the rough sedge frame in contemplation of the rising lights beyond the barrier. She became aware of him, starting at his sudden presence. She clutched the handle of the door and drew it against her protectively.

She searched his face with dull black eyes and sighed, “So like your father.”

However she knew, her words had no place in him; they rubbed abrasively. He answered quietly, “Rasha has no place in me.”

He had hoped to assuage her, to bring the matter finality, but she went on. “Please forgive my foolish Yagi. Time cannot heal his wounded heart. Pity him, as do I, but do not take him from me.”

The door closed against him. Her plea had come as such a surprise that, for a long moment, he simply stood with open mouth. The night pressed in on him, prickling his skin.

When at last he found his voice, he called through the heavy door, “I am no one's enemy. I am not Rasha.”

There was no reply, and suddenly he felt very tired. His shoulders bent beneath the weight of this damnable Shee world. He turned to the nholas where a thousand star gnats winked beyond the barrier, and in the door behind him, a solid bolt slid home.

Chapter Ten He sat on the unpolished stage, absently staring down the market boulevard. The family heads were present, and each had a dimly lit cage. With tongs in hand, Tinokta worked happily. The pace was slow and steady as he took an old gem from a cage and replaced it with one that burned. Zamani could not feel it, but it was there somewhere; he was happy for the Shee, all of them.

He watched the extravagant gestures of his stocky friend and guessed that dead tales were being raised. No doubt, they were being stretched to the point of incredulity. But Takax was in his own and received from all a proper respect. He watched his friend stop speaking, and look around. He came up the boulevard toward him. The brief thought of hiding in his glamor was quickly dismissed. He would not do that; no, his friend would call him to mingle. Smiling and unwilling he would go.

“You sit alone,” noted his friend.

“What a keen eye you have,” he answered, but his friend's remark was all too true.

“Come,” said Takax. “Help me tell the tale.”

“You’ve already told it to each head twice.”

Takax laughed merrily. “This is true,” he said, “but, you have not. Your half of the story is called for.”

“Such heroism as ours,” said Zamani, mustering a grin, “should not be denied the well-earned praises of those who stand in awe.”

Takax chuckled. “You speak as I think.”

“How did you find me?” asked Zamani, noting the near blackness of the night.

Takax grinned apologetically. He said, “Truth is, you completely slipped my mind. Pax said you might be here. He sent me with a message.” Then he recited the message, adding a gesture of open arms. “Proud arms wait to embrace you.”

They faced the market, standing side by side. Takax assumed the stance of a fighter. They laughed, but for Zamani, the laughter died in his throat as he thought of dangling himself, like a tasty tidbit, above ravenous maws. He searched the throng for Pax. Takax, it was clear, had no understanding of the personal message Pax had sent with him, but Zamani was strengthened by it. He stood as iron against the straw of circumstance.

Then, with a hardy slap of Takax’ broad hand upon his shoulder, Zamani accompanied his friend into the din of the Shee. Zamani waded in and did his part. The mon-Shee were engrossed. He spoke of huge, multi-legged monsters, their numbers, how they moved. Takax followed with lively enactments of the battles. Telling of the armor they had fashioned, Takax produced a shell breastplate which he’d brought from the mine. Of course, everyone had to touch it. Then the pole picks were displayed, and Takax spoke, in awed tones, of a hammer that had been left behind.

Zamani described the mad white Pecks. The crowded boulevard gasped. He spoke of their unending numbers, their twisted, rotting dunny, their heart-stopping cries. Takax recounted their prowess in dispatching the wild warriors. He gave splendid demonstrations which thoroughly impressed the family heads. Zamani concluded with the rolling of the stone.

Then Kikok asked what Tinokta intended to do with the pole picks. A debate on the proper use of the iron ensued. Pax took Zamani by the elbow and led him out of the clamorous crowd. They sat on the eating bench, and Zamani waited respectfully as Pax collected his thoughts.

Pax smiled and said, “Your safe return is a testament to your abilities.”

“Don’t forget Takax,” said Zamani, chafing at the unaccustomed pinching of profound praise.

“Yes. He seems truly enlarged by your adventure. As if he was not big enough.”

Pax made a small, nervous laughing noise that ended in an encapsulating silence. The two of them sat in a hush, studying their hands, the family heads, and middle space. Words, at that point, seemed inadequate. They leaned back and watched the grand gesticulations of Takax, as he found another upon which to lade his tale. Hot gem light cast his shadow across the Norsey wall. Zamani was

dazzled by the dance of the storyteller; his sleepy eyelids drooped. He glanced at Pax and was surprised to find that he was being studied with keen interest.

Pax opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then took a deep breath. “I wanted to thank you,” he said.

“No need, mon-Sith. I did what I did for you, because of your words. I did it to thank you.”

Pax brightened, and with a short laugh, he sat forward. “Such a one!” said he. “I must return to my preparations. Come home with me.”

“I do thank you, but, I’ll stay here. I must think.”

“Xarhn will be pleased to find you here,” said Pax, standing.

“Tell her I wait.”

Pax left, and, one by one, the others slipped away, remembering work to be done, excited to install their new gems. The market grew silent and dark. Zamani sat alone at the eating bench, nursing a thought. He thought that if he could, somehow, find the hidden arms of war, all the Shee would have iron enough to spare. There was no end to the uses to which iron could be put.

Pax could dig in his fields so much easier with iron. In fact, Zamani could not think of a single labor that would not be made lighter by the application of iron. But, a quest for the arms of war would be formidable. It was not an impossible task, should he set himself to it; he would give iron to the Shee, and the Shee would give him respect. His decision came into focus. Somehow, he would find the arms of war.

Of course, he would need to learn more about the hiding. Yagi would never disclose his secret, but there was just a slight chance that the Mithal might. Zamani considered several lines of argument.

Ragezeg might easily dismiss all of them, but still - Zamani had to smile – his likelihood of persuading the Mithal was good, for he knew the Mithal's sordid secret. And, his goal seemed to justify the harsh means he had in mind. His thoughts, then, wandered to golen pells; he thought of the faerie dust and the mechanical suits. How the Shee would benefit from such wondrous treasure! Indeed - how they would benefit from Zamani's beneficence!

He arose, and set his face toward the Mithal's lodging, following the narrow street that coursed between the Norsey and the school. The closeness of the walls made them seem somewhat darker, but, as he passed the school, he noted the issue of pale orange light from beneath the door. Was the Teller in? Gingerly, he opened the door and peered within. Yes. There sat Yagi on his stone bench. His head nodded, while beside him sat an old cage with an old pyre gem inside. He had not gone to the boulevard; no one had called him.

Zamani assessed the situation. Yagi sat sleeping in his ankle length, ceremonial gown. A single sprig of sayl adorned his gown. Upon his feet were sedge sandals, old and well worn. A cap of rolled nechsta petals sat precariously on the Teller's head. His skin was the buff color of deep slumber. Having prepared, what else was an old fat Sith to do? Zamani smiled and stepped inside.

Yagi's gentle snore was interrupted by a wet snort. He mumbled to himself, took a breath as his

head rolled to the side, then forward again. Zamani closed the door and tiptoed across the room. He sat on the bench beside the Teller. Yagi shouted something incoherent as if he might rouse from his sleep, but then, he settled back into his dreamless sleep. Zamani smiled at the sleeping Teller, made faces at him, balled his fists in anger that would never be vented. Then, he leaned over and whispered in his ear.

“Bwabachod, bwabachod; in my hand you rest. Tuatha; mine, both soul and mind. Speak truth at my behest.”

“Yes . . .” mumbled the sleeping Teller.

“What is the hiding?”

“Gone. All gone,” came Yagi's slurred response. “Hidden. None shall find, and good riddance.

World . . . safe and whole. Mother, father . . . my success honors you.”

Zamani quietly prompted, “At what did you succeed?”

The Teller stirred, settled, and mumbled, “At great pains. In peril oft. I accepted the Mithal's charge. All evil hidden. None shall find, for the hiding, itself, is hidden.”

Zamani repeated the word of power. “Tuatha. Tell me where you’ve put the hiding.”

“The hiding,” said Yagi, “hides inside a secret song. Long ago came the song, lest I forget my work.” The Teller giggled lightly and continued. “To my own ears was the song sung; none other has ever heard.”

“And, do now your ears remember that song?”

Yagi's head rolled in a sleeper's nod. “They do.”

Zamani pierced the long-guarded secret. “What do they remember, Yagi? What are the words of your song?”

In a small, childlike voice, Yagi sang the hiding for Zamani: “Tre' not upon the downward path, Hide your feet from certain death, Blackened hole where stone should be, Abysmal doom for hapless Shee.

Iron will shield your Mother's Soul, Turn within her heart and toll, Dew her tear for lost and late, Naught to cast but graven slate.

From Thletix or Zhereen may fly, Of souls when souls must go, To dance among the living lights, In realms both strait and low.”

Zamani was both pleased, and proud of his work. As the eerie song bled from the room, he turned again to whisper in the Teller's ear. “Tuatha. How bitter is your hatred of the nholan king?”

Yagi stirred in his slumber. “Loathsome Gathorne,” he mumbled. “Must kill him. Must be done.”

Zamani gaped, he had not expected that. “Tell me your plan,” he commanded. “How will you kill one who is your superior in strength and agility?”

“This even,” said the sleeping Teller. “Walk with him . . . procession . . . hidden knife in gown. I will overtake him at the cast; no one will know.”

“Bad plan,” whispered Zamani. “Tuatha. Now, hear my voice. I am the voice of Yagi. You will obey me. I am the voice of virtue; you will not kill another. I am Yagi and am no murderer. Hear me.

Return your knife to its place; you will hate no more. Say it.” “ . . . I will hate no more.”

Zamani arose, removed the sayl from Yagi's gown. In its place, he put a red quill from his cap, affixing the sayl in its place. As he stole quietly from the room, he stopped in the street to look back through the door and remember. This eve had been most fortuitous. A slow, broad smile warmed his face. With door closed, he turned. It had all been too easy. He wondered why he had not thought before to use his Phrava; a few well-placed words were all he needed.

Yes, he felt quite proud of himself, for now, he need not risk a failed confrontation with the Mithal. As he set off around the Norsey, his heart warned him that it was best to leave the Mithal for another day - not that he feared the Mithal. What the Mithal knew, Zamani also knew. And then some.

He stopped and mused; yes, another day.

He had gone the odd direction, not by the market boulevard, but around the other way, through the dark back street behind the Norsey. He found himself standing before the door of the lodging. The lodging was not much more than an extension of the school, with a small alley between. The buildings curved around the Norsey like a hand caressing the face of a tender child. The school and lodging were like a cradle for the young within the Norsey, but the slatted roof of the lodging was lost in the dubiety of the dark night. No more than a single long room with door and window closed, the dim light from within bled through a multitude of cracks to illuminate the street, casting the suggestion of his shadow across the Norsey wall.

Ragezeg's ancient voice called from within, “Come in, Zamani; the door is unlocked.”

Startled, Zamani wondered how the Mithal knew of his presence. Were his old ears so keen he could hear a boy's quiet footfall from within? Curiosity gripped him, pulled him through the door.

Ragezeg was lifting a metal pot from the pyre cage. The table upon which it sat seemed ready to fall. The Mithal placed steaming dew in two identical nut pots and turned with one in each hand.

“I’ve made tea,” he said. “Will you have some?”

Zamani stepped in with a shrug and closed the door. The long, dim room contained the one table, a neatly made cot, and a small bench set between the cot and the door. Drawing ancient skin back into a smile, Ragezeg pressed a warm nut pot into Zamani's hand. Zamani drew it up to his nose and inhaled the aromatic steam. As he did so, Zamani wondered if he had been hearing things, for when Ragezeg had smiled, he thought he heard the crackling of dry leaves. Had he heard a smile?

Yet, Ragezeg was no dry, dead leaf. For all his antiquity, his force of life was almost tangible.

He looked even more alive than Yagi, who was his junior.

“I do thank you,” said Zamani, sipping the tea. “How did you know I stood without?”

Ragezeg sat on his cot with a weary sigh, and said, “Pardon my age, but I must sit.”

The Mithal drew tea into his mouth, holding the pot with both hands. He closed his eyes to savor the hot dew, which Zamani only now realized was Anik. He sipped again and watched the Mithal.

He was absorbed with the person of the Mithal. Zamani had never been in the Mithal's presence outside his glamor. Well - there was the time in the market, but all other times, in the garden at Mithal-Moun, he remained unknown to the Mithal. He felt, now, as if he was meeting the old Sith for the first time.

Ragezeg's eyes sprang open, having in them the glint of unsheathed iron.

“When I met you in the market, it was not the first time,” said the Mithal. “I noted a feeling, if you will, which I have often felt in my garden at Mithal-Moun. You’ve been near me often enough that I knew you stood without.”

That did not quite explain the two teas, but Zamani accepted it. He seated himself on the bench as the Mithal sipped more tea and continued speaking.

“I’ve not always felt you near. Sometimes, I imagined you nearby, but I was wrong. Perhaps.

Let us say that I have ever looked forward to my . . . ‘invisible student’.” Ragezeg smiled indulgently.

“While I have had to content myself with poor, simple Yagi, and Vreatt, devoted though they be, I have found comfort in the notion that someday my invisible student would appear and outshine both of them.”

Zamani took his next question from its sheath, as if it was a knife, and plunged its point into the Mithal's heart. “Were you disappointed to learn my name?”

“Surprised. Your father is but a dim memory - but you - you are something quite special, I hear.

I am most eager to learn of you. Let your father remain in the depths of Zhereen; let you and I talk, now, face to face at last. What say you?”

“Very well. Speak.”

Ragezeg sat forward eagerly. He said, “I wonder if I might see your pait?”

Zamani puzzled, “Why?” “You are first generation Gathorne. Your mix has the rainbow, but the head remains rounded.

And yet . . . Yagi tells me you have a pait. Please indulge my curiosity.”

At such close range, the Mithal's smile was, somehow, warming. He removed the cap from his head, and watched the Mithal's eyes widen.

“Amazing,” marveled Ragezeg.

Zamani felt compelled to confess, “It isn’t real.” Setting the cap aside, he rubbed the pait until his head was once again round.

“Amazing,” Ragezeg said the second time. “Glamor, form change, color control . . . your special skills, along with what you may have gleaned from my classes, make you superior to either branch of the Shee. Yagi speaks true. If you choose, you can be a formidable enemy.”

“I am no one's enemy. My hands are open.”

“Indeed, they are. Yagi overlooks the possibility that your strength may prove our ally.”

Zamani dismissed the Teller, saying, “Yagi no longer troubles me.”

Ragezeg sipped more tea, smiled his crackling smile, and said, “Tell me, if you will, what you’ve learned from your visits to my garden.”

“Everything.”

The Mithal paused, perplexed, but smiled pleasantly.

Zamani continued, “What you teach in your garden, I know. I know your garden as well as I know my own home - that is how often I’ve been there. No part of Mithal-Moun is hidden from me.

Not even your private chamber.”

Ragezeg's smile fell from his face.

Zamani said without bragging, “I know all three Phrava.”

Ragezeg bowed his head. “Well,” he said, you are quite accomplished for your seasons. Tell me, how often . . .” his throat closed around his words; he sat up straight and began his question again.

“How often have you been to my chamber?”

Zamani declared calmly, “I know your secret.”

Ragezeg looked into Zamani's still face. The greens of unchecked shame colored ancient skin, as old, thin lips worked around silent words. But really - what could the Mithal say? Zamani studied the elder's face: the face of one guilty of grievous wrong. The Mithal knew his guilt, and his wrong-doing rested on his tired shoulders like a heavy mantle. To Zamani, the forlorn and penitent visage of the Mithal was no different from that of the hardened and bitter Teller. How hateful and despicable they both seemed to him, now. It was hard for him to imagine that he once looked up to Ragezeg.

Then, there were the eyes of Pax; they seemed to float in the air before Zamani's face. The eyes

of Pax were as black as the eyes of any other, yet, they bore a unique quality that had earned Zamani's respect. The eyes of Pax did not mock, they comforted. The eyes of Pax did not accuse, they consoled.

Yagi had found forgiveness in the eyes of Pax. Could his own black eyes afford such light? Could he forgive the Mithal? Zamani considered the import of his thoughts and made a decision.

Had someone but spoke it a moment before, he would have sneered, but now, he looked into himself deeply. He stared into the abyss that was himself awaiting whatever answer might arise. His own face rose up to meet him, only his eyes were not his; they belonged to Pax. “My hands are open,” he said to the Mithal. “My soul is pure; I am not your enemy.”

Chapter Eleven Once again, Zamani sat alone on the stage beyond the Norsey. Memories of the long day danced upon his mind in ragged and incomplete circles. On the whole, all had gone well. He was beginning to feel comfortable among the Shee. As to his dealings with Ragezeg and Yagi, he felt assured that his decisions were good. The Mithal had admitted to his weakness with Rikchi. Zamani had been there, he already knew, but then Ragezeg went on to confess his indiscretions with Glotk, Zetl, Xuri, and Tuito.

Now, there was a shocker!

He sat alone in the night, legs folded. He considered the day, his friends, the mine, the Dirt monsters and mad Pecks. He considered Yagi, and Xarhn dressed for school in the Mother Soul. He considered Ragezeg and all the children he had sired. He had many thoughts to consider, as they spun in damnable circles just above his head.

He watched two girls walk up the path to Thletix. They laughed secretively, with heads bent together. Tosh and Shabani walked around the Norsey, down the boulevard, and disappeared behind the school. Far up the path, he noted the swaying of hot new gems, as the Shee left their mons, cages between them, and headed for town.

The girls reappeared, pulling and pushing a large sedge platform with great difficulty. They giggled as they lost their grip, faltered, yet slowly moved the great thing in stops and starts - managing to drag it all the way to the door of the Norsey. They left it there, sitting on its four short legs, and quickly slipped through the door. A flash of dim orange light briefly illuminated the sled.

Zamani yawned.

The night was silent, and the only thing before him was the sled. He looked at it, but not from interest. There was the fact that it abundantly declared its maker's skill. Still, it was just a sled in the night. It sat before the door that two silly females had gone through, and they might reappear at any moment. Still, it was just a sled in the night. Zamani yawned again, then fought back his fatigue with a deliberate attempt to focus his heavy eyes on the one object available to him.

Indeed, it had been fashioned well. Long, polished poles ran the length of each side, and extended far beyond. Two ornately woven seats had been attached to the center of the sled. They sat grandly side by side. Two rounded poles looped above the seats, supporting a canopy of fine silk.

The families had reached the Norsey. Some held their new pyres, unwilling to let them go.

Others set their cages on the dirt to stretch and rub tired muscles. Shadows danced high up on the Norsey wall as they moved close to one another, and the din of their gathering grew. Beams of new light darted between the milling Shee. They raked across Zamani's burning eyes, but he would not turn away. He rubbed them hard with his fists and looked on, captive of the spectacle.

The Shee were in their processional attire, and each Sith was something grand. The males wore ankle length white gowns, each bearing one small personal adornment. Their pait caps were of nechsta petals and were rolled into cones. Sedge sandals lifted them from the dirt of their world.

The females also wore sandals. Their white ankle length skirts had been left unadorned, but lush mantles of nechsta covered their breasts, while intricate crowns formed beautiful garlands that fell gracefully about their shoulders. As for their faces, all but the eyes were hidden by veils of silk.

Returning from the mine, Takax had explained to him the procession in detail. The procession of this eve honored new life. These combined families - the entire Shee population - would begin at Thletix, follow the path that wound tight by each mon, and end where they began. Joy would lead the procession in dance; the Mithal and Teller would follow, representing guidance and understanding.

Then the young girls would go next, to sing the four songs. At the center of the procession would be the seats of honor. Fathers would bear the sled upon their shoulders as the mothers walked beside them. The boys would follow, beating toms. This would signify the beating of the new mother's heart. Finally, the processional rear would be brought up by those who carried the first and last light.

The light spoke of their past and future, of their growth and change.

Indeed, everything in the procession had a meaning. The white gowns and skirts were the pure souls of the wearers. The female mantles represented the covering guidance of the males who were their own. Adornments on the male gowns were the gifts of their open hands – whether given or received - whatever held timely significance. Sandals were worn to represent youth, and when the Sith's own mon was reached, the sandals were removed and placed mon-ward on the smaller individual path.

This, as Takax had explained, was because the young are believed to exist in a state of separation from the ties of adulthood. Placing the sandals meant they belonged. Similarly, veils signified motherhood. When a mon was reached, a veil was removed – the emptiness of youth being answered in birth. The petal cones of the male pait caps were worn with the small ends forward. On reaching a mon, the cap was turned around, for it was said that a boy's life had been enlarged: he had become a father. The long garlands of the female headpiece invoked length of days.

Zamani could see the significance, but there was a place deep inside of him where all this ceremony served only to annoy.

A small figure, all white and nechsta, freed itself from the bedlam of the mob. In a blur of fluttering petals and trailing garlands, Xarhn raced toward the stage. Had he not been so sleepy, he might have moved. She flew at him, sandals slapping loudly, and leapt into his startled arms.

The force of her knocked him on his back, and she lay atop his stunned body. Her garlands formed a room in which only their two faces were real; Phar Sheeth had gone away. She panted happily in his face, and her breath seemed much sweeter than the flowers she wore.

He probed her sparkling eyes when suddenly she pressed her lips to his, and the familiar ache returned to him. It was an overpowering slap that left him tingling from the top of his head even to the soles of his feet. Noting that she had closed her eyes, Zamani did the same. He surrendered to the communion. It was new to him and wonderful; he wished it not to end, but when, at last, Xarhn lifted herself above him, he opened his eyes to find her studying his face with an earnest and penetrating gaze.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Yet stunned, Zamani was taken further aback. Should he answer? Love was an itchy thought, something to be avoided. Sure, he liked her, and it wouldn’t hurt to let her tag along; - but, love? - his mind reeled.

She rolled off to her back and lay beside him with a sated sigh. The din of the mob rose and fell, but the swell became a distant song as she took his hand and squeezed it with all the force of her passion.

She quietly boasted, “I lead the procession.”

“I’m pleased.”

“Have you been given a place?”

“No.” “Well, you can go with us all the same. Will you?”

“You must say please,” he teased, noting that his fingers slept in her tight grip.

“Please; will you?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Xarhn lifted herself up on one elbow, leaning over his face with intent eyes and tickling garlands. She said, “Well, think hard; don’t make me hurt you.”

Zamani had to smile. Such a manner this girl had. He felt her small fist in his ribs, the sudden force of which knocked the breath from him.

She asked in mock anger, “Are you laughing at me?”

“Well, of course, I am. Silkhead.”

Suddenly, the sound of beating toms rose up through the night. Xarhn sat excitedly on the edge of the stage.

“Ooh!” she cried.

Zamani followed her up, and saw that the procession had begun. The Shee gathered into straight lines, and Zamani could see two figures in the seats of honor. Light bobbed on poles as each Sith took his place. Then, Zamani noticed an overlarge Sith trotting toward him.

“I must go,” said Xarhn.

She reached up, pulled his head around and kissed him hard and quick. Then she scooted away past the advancing mass of Takax.

“Friend,” he said hurriedly, “I need your help.”

“You’ve but to name it,” Zamani yawned.

“We begin; come quickly.”

As Takax pulled Zamani along, he explained he had no partner to carry the first and last lights.

The new, hot gems had to be carried on a specially made pole. Zamani saw what his friend meant when they arrived. A long pole of woven sedge stretched between two cages. The ends of the pole forked into double prongs that slid through notches in each cage. To keep the ends from sagging, four evenly spaced shoulders were required.

Takax joked in hushed tones, “You’re taller than me, but I think we can make it work if I walk on one tiptoe, and you walk with one bent knee.”

“Right.”

The procession moved forward, toms sounding loudly. Voices drifted back from the head of the march, sweet and melodious, as the girls sang the song of birth. Zamani met his friend's glinting gaze, shared a smile, and marveled at how quickly he had been assimilated into the Shee. He remembered Xarhn's kiss, and his smile broadened.

Each mon was stopped at in turn. A cap was turned, a veil removed, and sandals placed monward. Tinokta-mon was the first. Shinshar-mon came next. By the time they reached Tazig-mon, the second song had commenced. It was, Zamani recalled, the song of youth. They reached Pax-mon and continued up the path.

Upon reaching Charchon-mon, all toms ceased to sound. The final strains of song drifted away, and the straight line of procession broke up, as all jostled forward in eager anticipation. Zamani and Takax removed their burden to join the press.

Within the circle of Shee sat the platform. To one side stood Rikchi, on the other stood Charchon, holding the child in his arms. Ragezeg and Yagi faced the hushed assembly with all the weight of their age and wisdom. The Mithal spoke, and his voice dominated the rapt silence.

“New life has been granted,” he called out. “The Maker has opened his hands to us – his Shee.

To Charchon, Rikchi, and little Yana let us, likewise, open our hands. In the giving, new life opens complete. In new life is the gift of our completion.”

Yagi took one step up to stand beside the Mithal. He raised his voice and said, “Upon this cleg,

our father's fathers built mons, when from Dirt they did first cross over. Upon this cleg, from that first bright midday, we have birthed, raised our young, and lifted them to the Maker. When a father lifts his child above himself, the Maker sends a soul to be caught - both precious and revered. Our custom of waving draws to us a soul to be cherished.”

Charchon stood beside the Mithal and raised Yana above his head. Among the press, not a breath was heard. Slowly, Charchon rocked from side to side; all eyes followed the girl child. Charchon stilled his waving; moments passed in absolute silence. Charchon lifted his face and tightly pressed shut his eyes. The Mithal on one side, the Teller on the other side, each took one of Charchon's arms to brace him. The father waited; the crowd waited. Zamani nodded and was elbowed awake by his friend.

A long moment later, Yana wriggled in her father's hands, spat a coughing whimper and began to cry. The Shee burst forth with shouts of joy. Zamani listened to clapping hands, hoots of jubilation, and raucous laughter. Something in the ceremony moved him; something seemed right, at last. Despite what he knew, he had a good feeling for Rikchi and Charchon. He brought his hands together, joining the jubilant.

Soon, the milling Shee reformed their straight line, and the procession resumed, with the song of attachment. The path wound by the cast and back toward Thletix. The gift of seasons was sung, and the procession broke up. Zamani milled through the bustling Shee, feeling somewhat out of place. All, but he, attended some task or another. Food was piled high by the stage for a night of feasting and merriment. Lights were set and distanced. Fathers congregated. Mothers directed children in final chores. Zamani walked among them as if cloaked in glamor.

The very small were loosed from the Norsey and they flew to their parents, splitting the night with cries of delight. With a pleasant smile, Zivith left the Norsey and strolled among them. Zamani sat with his back to the stage and quietly watched as the revelry began. Already, large pots of berribit wine were being set here and there by the young. Laughter roared and faded, only to swell again – and snatches of conversation fell upon his tired ears: “They’re still boys, you know. If not for our strength and direction . . .”

“We should put you gathering chipstones. We’d soon hear another song from you.”

“If I had your cache, and you had a bump on the head . . .”

“That strange boy . . .”

“Zamani! Are you with us?”

Zamani roused himself and looked up. Takax loomed above him with lof laden arms. He held one out to Zamani and cheerfully inquired, “Lof?”

Zamani responded sleepily, “No. I have no hunger.”

“You know,” said Takax, “you should either wake up or close your eyes altogether.”

“Deep thoughts, my friend.”

Takax laughed from behind his burden. “Ha! Well, you just stay there, and I’ll get the others.”

That said, he was gone.

Zamani wondered how much more he had to endure before he could go back to his nhola home, and sleep. The long, long day had drained him. His wit had fled, his soul dozed; his mind wanted to yawn.

He looked, with bleary eyes, through the writhing mass of revelers. He saw Ragezeg, Yagi, and Zivith seated on small stools, engaged in pleasant conversation. He saw mothers and fathers delighting themselves with the Norsey young. The children seemed starved for attention. He saw Takax, Tosh, Shabani, Shirpa, Voytk, and Vreatt serving food and wine. Toward the outer edge of the reveling Shee, he spied Pax, Teefa, and Xarhn seated near their blazing gem. A small boy climbed among them seeking hugs and laughter.

Zamani had not long to wait for Takax’ return. He held a large sealed pot beneath one arm and carried his torch before him. His smile was grand, and five figures followed in his shadow. The gang of youths coaxed Zamani to his feet, and around the stage, where they might find some privacy. Hidden from the adults, but exposed to the gawking gang of friends, Zamani sat with his back to the stage and drew his knees up defensively. All eyes were on him. Takax was the nearest. He planted his torch in the cleg and drew Shabani into his massive arms. Vreatt sat quietly with Shirpa, while Tosh and Voytk huddled further back.

Takax grinned. “Who wants to go first?” he asked.

Shabani corrected him with a stout nudge. “Wait for Xarhn.”

“First for what?” inquired Zamani.

The big Sith encompassed the group with outstretched arms and answered, “We take turns at storytelling.”

Stifling a yawn, Zamani wondered what, in their cleg-bound lives, they had to tell stories of.

Among the lot of them, only Takax had a real story - and he had already told it to the point of nausea.

Just then, Xarhn skipped into view. She threw herself into Zamani's side and burrowed deeply into the soft mantle he wore.

“Who’s first?” she chirped.

“I was just asking,” said Takax.

Then Vreatt prompted, “Let Zamani go first.”

“Tell us about the nholas,” piped the diminutive Voytk.

The circle of youths erupted with a cheer of approval. Zamani felt suddenly like a trapped bug on one of his hunts. He wanted to yawn; he wanted to sleep.

He said, “The nhola is the nhola. What can I tell you?”

“You can tell us more than that,” answered Xarhn, driving a pointed elbow into his ribs.

“Very well, what do you want to know?”

The group thought visibly, but it was Takax who answered first. “Well, what do you do there,” and as an afterthought, he added, “when you’re not killing monsters?”

He rolled his head back, chased away that persistent yawn, and searched his thoughts for something to say. They must have thought his life in the forest was really grand. They did not know how monotonous his daily chores could be. They wanted titillation and excitement. What could he possibly offer them?

“Well . . . I climb the nholas,” he began, “and, I jump from one to the other.”

They stared at him with sparkling, stupid eyes that screamed, ‘More! More!’

“I run on vines; I watch the lights rise. Whatever I feel like . . . I don’t know.”

Zamani immediately regretted his words - sort of. The gathering fell into an embarrassed silence. Was he the only one who appreciated a quiet moment? Takax took small, handled pots from Shabani, and passed around the wine. Zamani sniffed it and wrinkled his nose at the acrid aroma. He took a bold sip and found that it tasted better than it smelled. He sipped again.

“Draw slowly,” suggested Voytk, “it’s stronger than Tax.” “Tax?” queried Zamani.

“They call me Tax,” grinned the meaty Sith.

“They call me Zamani,” returned the dizzy nholan king, wringing laughter from the group.

Voytk piped in, “We heard Xarhn call you Zami,” while the girls exchanged furtive glances and barely repressed smirks.

“True enough,” conceded Zamani, “but, she’s promised to be good from now on.”

Again, laughter. Zamani raised his pot to the group. This was exactly what he needed in his kingdom: creatures who doted on his every word. He liked the attention; he loved the approval.

With serious intent, Shabani brought thoughts back to the forest. “But, where do you live?” she asked.

“Deserted zeo hive. Up high.”

“Zeo hives are small . . .” she puzzled.

“Not mine. In the forest, hives can be as big as three of your mons. And, mine is well appointed.

Midday next, you should come and see - all of you.”

“But, the barrier . . .” Shabani protested, drawing nervous agreement from Shirpa.

“If he can get through,” chided Takax, “we can too.” Adding for Zamani's sake, “Silkhead.”

Shabani slammed an elbow across the big Sith's chest, and laughter rang out. “I’ll not be called names!” she scolded.

“Well, I’ll go with you,” said the chastened, but undaunted Takax. “Maybe the others would go too - if they weren’t such spinner turds.”

Shabani reached for one of his ears, but he covered both with his broad hands. As Shabani attempted to get determined fingers past his guard, the cool night rocked with hot laughter. Zamani drank the warming wine and laughed harder than the rest.

When a silence fell at last, Vreatt asked, “Do you have a bed?”

“Yes. I’ve a bed . . . and a table . . . and a light . . .”

Xarhn straightened and asked, “Firelight?” The others echoed her curiosity. As her question raced across the lips of her friends, she shocked them further with her next excited comment. She said, “He makes fire with flynt; I’ve seen it!”

Takax prompted, “Let us see it.”

“I’d really rather not.”

“I must insist.”

“I’m tired. Really. Midday next, perhaps, when I return.”

“No!” said Xarhn. “Oh . . . please don’t go.” She rolled to her knees, took Zamani's hand and squeezed it imploringly. She looked as if the sky might come crashing down around her.

He hoped his answered would be gentle, but when he said, “Sometime in this present life, I intend to go home and get some sleep,” Xarhn sat heavily and pouted.

The group became still and sullen. Zamani yawned into his hand and finished the wine. Into the silence, as Takax refilled empty pots, Zamani said, “I don’t use fire. Not for light, I mean. I cook with it, but for light, I use a star gnat.”

Timidly, Shirpa asked, “What’s a star gnat?”

“Night lights,” said Zamani in a matter-of-fact manner.

Takax frowned with quickening thought and asked, “Dirt monsters?”

Zamani shrugged. “They sleep in the nholas,” he said. “At night, they fly to the top of the sky.”

Dawning looks were exchanged. That they comprehended so slowly, Zamani cared little. He could explain later. For the moment, it was enough that he was warm and comfortable. He took more wine into his mouth and squeezed it down his throat. He closed his eyes and considered the moment.

Ah! Great stuff, this wine.

“You can see some midday next,” he said, spearing his audience with a pointed glare, “those of you who are brave.”

Takax beamed a broad smile at his friends and said, “That means me.”

“I’ll go too,” said Vreatt, surprising all with his sudden boldness.

Not to be excluded, Voytk added, “Me too.”

The girls, embarrassed to say no, looked to each other for support and shrugged. Among them, the only Sith who looked pleased was Takax. Zamani was proud of his stocky friend. Takax the huge, Takax the mighty; what a useful friend he would be.

“Takax can tell you about Dirt monsters,” said Zamani. “He fought them bravely enough just this midday. The light between us was our guide through the old Peck mine.”

The group gasped as one. Obviously, neither the parents nor yet Takax had informed the other youths just how the Shee had come by their new lights. Xarhn bolted upright to search Zamani's eyes.

The others stared at him stupidly. Then Shabani cupped her own, and with considerable force.

She scolded, “You could have been hurt!”

Recovering with a broad smile, the overlarge Sith boasted, “It’s true. We slew them each and every one. Zamani and I.” Shirpa said, “I asked father of the new light. He would only say, Takax will tell you later.” Tosh and Shabani nodded agreement, and Xarhn added, “Me too.”

Vreatt asked, “How is it possible?”

“Now, there’s the ingenious part,” beamed Takax. “Teller told the old Peck song in class.

Zamani had enough mind, that hearing it only once, he discovered clues to a second entrance.”

Zamani pulled at his wine. “Just tell the tale, my long-winded friend,” said he, “and give us the shorter version, lest we all be awake when the morn lights arise.”

Takax captivated his audience. His grand tale kept all eyes riveted. His attention to detail elicited cries of delight - and horror. His magnificent gestures of reenactment helped them each to feel

the weight of the weapons, the chill of black stealth, and the cool sweat of victory.

Wonder and enchantment were spun in the telling. Zamani closed his eyes, assured that all attention was on his friend. As chatter of the quest faded into the distance, he drifted pleasantly on the beckoning waves of slumber - until a sudden weighty silence fell upon him. Startled, he peered singleeyed from beneath his cap to find that all eyes were trained on him. It seemed as though they might suck the very life right out of him.

“What?”

Vreatt leaned toward him and asked in hushed awe, “Do you really know the Phrava?”

“All three,” Zamani admitted.

As he gave them time for the information to sink in, Tosh suddenly giggled and asked, “Can you form the portal?”

Almost asleep, Zamani yawned and answered simply, “Yes.” Voytk and Tosh smiled and embraced happily. Takax winked at Shabani and refilled Zamani's pot. Xarhn cuddled. Zamani, unaware of the import of his news, gratefully accepted the wine, the attentions of Xarhn, and the deepening silence.

Takax came close, and asked in a quiet aside, “Can you round the iron point on Bani's tongue?”

Shabani came up behind her own and cupped him again. Merriment danced like a wild beast through the small gathering, then faded to the ragged wisps of a vanishing vapor. Wine flowed freely, and as the even closed its petals, hearts glowed. All that remained was a peaceful stupor, as they sat and beheld one another. Zamani's head was swimming with Shee wine.

Too late, he realized he had imbibed too much. Too late, he suspected his friend of deliberately plying him with the intoxicating drink. It was all too late; he did not care. Every time Zamani's head fell forward, his eyes fell shut. The only way he could hold them open was to tilt his head back. He would never make it back to the nholas; he would have to sleep where he was.

Vreatt suddenly tested him, asking, “How many principles form the third Phrava?”

“Five,” mumbled he. “Body, mind, soul, life, and death.”

Shirpa asked, “Can you really disappear?”

Zamani was fading fast. “Yes,” he sighed.

“Glamor!” intoned Vreatt.

Then the large voice of Takax brought him up from the muddle of his mind. He asked, “You’re first generation. Am I right?”

“Yeah.”

“Aren’t first generation supposed to have round heads?”

Xarhn straightened defensively. “Now, wait!” she said. “First generation what? His pait is true, I’ve seen it.” She looked at Tosh and Voytk. “We’ve all seen it.”

“I saw it,” agreed Voytk. Tosh nodded.

“Yes,” concluded Takax, his eyes locked with Zamani's. “We’ve all seen it. Still. Can you offer us an explanation?”

“I can,” said Vreatt, turning heads. “Shape change.”

Xarhn, in growing confusion, reached up and snatched the cap from his head. There were oohs and ahs. Dear Maker, he thought! Will his novelty never wear off? He sighed deeply, sensing the embarrassed umbrage mounting at his side. He lowered his face and awaited her blast.

Xarhn sputtered, “You’re . . . you’re a Peckhead!”

As the others rolled in merriment upon the cleg, Zamani snatched his cap back from the glowering Xarhn and jammed it atop his head. “I’ll go home now!” he said, directing the rebuke in his voice to the gaping girl who knelt beside him. “Perhaps by the lights, I can tell the difference between Yagi and you.”

“Don’t you dare!” she countered, physically holding him down.

“I can’t help what I am!”

The group fell quiet. Xarhn realized her words had wounded him. Tears welled in her onyx eyes as she pulled his face around to meet her own. Zamani felt a grievous shame; he could not look into her face for the pain he felt deep in his chest. The eyes of Takax, Shabani, and all the rest raked over him brutally. They pierced him clean through. He was transported by the sudden, respectful hush.

Xarhn took his hands into hers and quietly said, “I would never hurt you, Zami. Don’t you remember what I told you? I love you.”

From the far side of the stage, quickening toms drew their attention, and Zamani's pain, away from the moment. Shabani and Tosh giggled, but he could spare no thought for them; Xarhn had leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, wet and arresting. When he opened his eyes, Xarhn was following the other girls around the dark stage.

The toms now grew quite loud, and Shee voices, like fluted instruments, joined the insistent rhythm. Zamani shook his head to clear it and looked around. Only Takax sat with him. The overlarge Sith studied him with a broad and knowing smile.

“No way out but in,” he commented, and lurching to his feet, he extended a hand to Zamani.

“Come,” he said. “The dance begins.”

He stumbled after his friend on wobbly legs. The wine and pots were placed on the parental side

of the stage, then Takax, too, was gone. Zamani fell against the rough stage and watched his stocky new friend amble toward the pulsing press. A mist had begun to settle. Hot beams of new gem light stabbed through it in a glittering frenzy. Shadows spun out of control.

Not ready to believe the sight, Zamani rubbed his weary eyes and looked again at the writhing mass of revelers before the Norsey door. The insistent toms reverberated deep in his chest; his head throbbed to their beat. Now, he thought, would be the perfect time to slip away.

What a spectacle these Shee were! The youths, taking over the toms, allowed the fathers, one by one, to steal into the ring of dancing mothers. Toms beat steadily, oddly shaped pots emitted rasping toots. The voices of the dancing mothers waxed and waned as they called out in a raw and wanton manner. Zamani could not take his heavy eyes from the dreamlike dance.

Knowing what it was made it no more believable; he was thoroughly absorbed. The parents danced the ‘union’ - a complicated rhythm of darting moves back, and solid hops forward. The toms thumped faster; the melody wound tighter. His head hurt trying to make sense of it all. He would, therefore, he decided, brace himself against the Shee madness with a little more of their wine.

No very young could he see, nor, for that matter, could he see any of the elders. The young must be fast asleep, he mused - as he should be - and the elders would not be far behind them. Looking back to the revelers, Zamani sensed the high spirit of their joy. He was pleased for them, but it was time to go. His bed called to him; it called him by name.

‘Zamani . . . Zamani . . . it called.

He threw back the last of his wine and set his drinking pot by the larger pouring pot with exaggerated care. Then Zamani pointed his will toward home, but, his legs would not move. Hadn’t he been thinking of something? He couldn’t remember. As he stood there, unable to remember, unable to move, the dance of the Shee ended in a laughing, rolling tangle. Music trailed sharply, and the loud stillness of the night rushed in to fill the void.

He continued to lean and watch. Revelers disbanded; supplies were gathered; gems were readied for the short trip home. It all seemed to be acted out slowly, like a dream thought Zamani.

Brief, distant laughter sputtered like a blue flame and was gone.

Zamani overheard the impotent command of one of the parents: “Now, don’t stay out too late.”

The adults took up their pyre gems, and to his surprise, filed past the Norsey to the Mithal's lodging rather than toward home.

Ah! - So, that was it!

Temporary portals would be formed this eve. He was curious what thoughts might arise in the Mithal's heart as he tranced the anxious mothers, then returned them to their waiting own.

Chapter Twelve Three of the older pyres remained as the night's only token. His friends were between the cages

and the stage, huddled in secretive conversation. Zamani could hear their soft voices, but the words were lost to him. Now, what had he been thinking?

Ah, yes! More wine.

The girls formed a separate group. Heads bent together, they whispered and giggled. The boys laughed boisterously, and Takax jogged toward him.

“Well, don’t we look happy,” chuckled the meaty Sith. “Have you never had wine?”

Zamani's head rolled loosely from side to side in answer to his friend's query.

“Wait here,” said Takax, then turned, and trotted back to the others.

The group coalesced around him, with broad quizzical grins. They seemed to delight in his warm glow. Such wonderful friends, he thought. Had he not chosen well? As Takax gave quick and decisive commands, their happy faces vanished one by one; the lights went with them. His massive friend remained, the broad smile on his face a comfort to Zamani. His steely eyes narrowed as he studied him.

After a long moment, the stocky Sith boomed, “You’re tipped!” He rocked with laughter, then said, “Too much berribit wine. Come; we go to the point. Rouse yourself and follow me, if you can.”

Takax tied the smaller pots to the larger and tucked them under an arm. He handed the torch to Zamani and pulled him up to a start. Zamani did not so much walk as fall forward, but it cleared his head.

Takax cheerfully informed him, “The girls have prepared a special dance. Hurry.”

The point, as his friend had called it, was a long curved outgrowth of the overhang. Zamani had passed it twice this very day - once going to, and once coming from the mine. Beginning above Tinokta-mon, the point extended through the barrier like a finger, uncurling from the fist of the forest, pointing toward Mithal-Moun. It was a perfect hiding place for the happy experiments of youth. Takax told him that they often met at the point for privacy, as the parents rarely wandered far from home.

By the time High-Knuckle came into view, Zamani was feeling much more like his usual self, and while his eyes remained heavy, a warm knot of expectation honed his senses. They neared the site, and Zamani was startled when Takax slapped him on the shoulder with his broad, meaty hand.

Takax was excited. He said, “This should be good.”

They entered the protective impasse of the point. Three lights had been placed equidistantly in the fashion of a triangle. Vreatt and Voytk sat in the center of the lights, leaning close in happy conversation. In the ragged shadows of the Knuckle, four girls stood stark against the dark hint of ripened berribits. A small heap of mantles lay beside them, with sandals sorted neatly behind.

Takax called out, “Don’t tell me we missed it.”

The boys jumped up to join them, and the girls skipped forward to encircle them.

Xarhn chided merrily, “We could have danced twice; you’re so slow.”

With high spirit and bright eyes, Shirpa added, “And if you want what’s nice . . .”

Tosh continued, “. . . To the center, you must go.”

Shabani concluded the singsong with, “Your heads are thick, else you’d be quick.”

Zamani shared a grin of delight with Takax, Voytk, and Vreatt. Tosh and Xarhn took the supplies, Shirpa swung giddily from Vreatt's neck, and Shabani issued quick commands. Zamani was seated in a tight circle at the center of the lights. Takax was on one side, Vreatt on the other, while Voytk sat against his back. He was able to relieve the crushing discomfort by placing his shroomsack in his lap.

All of the girls, save Shabani, ran laughing to hide behind the berribits. She remained to explain: “You must close your eyes. All of you. Begin with song. Use your folded legs for toms. And, don’t open your eyes; I mean it! When our clapping hands join with you, only then may you look.

Ready?”

Zamani gratefully closed his burning eyes. So far so good, he thought. Vreatt's voice took up the melody of the adult dance, while hands beat loudly against folded legs. He copied the rhythm on his bag and followed the melody as best he could. The song came soft and low; the rhythm heavy. Then, he sensed movement. Hands clapped, and his eyes sprang wide of their own will.

There before him was a marvelous sight. It caused him to sit still and gape. The girls encircled the boys with a hand clapping, strutting, mesmerizing dance. It was not so much that the dance was marvelous but more that the girls wore only their garlands. Leg thumping pulsed more quickly, and Zamani rejoined. The tight figures of the girls flashed brown and red as they danced in and out of the lights. The song the boys sang became raw and guttural. Zamani was no longer in control of himself; he could not blink, but that mattered less as less as the dance heated up.

All of the girls, after their own manner, were beautiful. Shirpa was thin, with small high breasts.

Tosh had full breasts with heavy nips. Shabani barely had breasts. She stood half a head higher than the rest, and her lean muscular body spoke of power and graceful agility. But Xarhn, he had to admit, was built with absolute perfection. As each girl turned in dance, and their butts flashed wetly in the gembuffeted mist of night, Zamani could not help but compare Xarhn to the others.

Tosh was amply endowed; the reddened spheres of her backside reminded him of ripened berribits. Shirpa was the shape of two waxed pots. Shabani was tight and lean. Only Xarhn was perfect.

He regarded the smooth void between her legs with quickening pulse and was glad he held his shroomsack over his lap.

The strutting, circling debut came to an end; each girl spun before her own. The song grew wild and ragged, while the leg slapping took on a painful pitch. The dance had begun as a breeze of titillation. Now, it was a wind of suggestive sensuality. Xarhn throbbed madly before his unblinking eyes. Her arms and hands performed on their own; her legs came forward, one after the other, feet slapping time to the rhythm of his hands on the bag. Her perfect breasts bounced gaily up and down as she stamped first forward then back. Then, she spun about and arrested him perfectly with glistening

proportions.

The dance wound tighter, closer, more dizzying. Like the fluted sounds of the pots they played for their parents, the sweet grunting of the girls enhanced the ragged melody of the boys. How much closer would they dance, he wondered. And then, there were Xarhn's eyes. They reflected his own unchecked enthusiasm. They bored through him with desire and need. Her fragrance came again to his nostrils; it was a flower he must inhale deeply. More! More, shouted his heart, but his mind cried out, How much more can I bear?

As if in answer, the girls spun three times and fell back upon the mist-soaked cleg. The dance ended with a jolt; melody and rhythm faded, leaving only a tingling sensation in the hands. The night still spun before Zamani's face; his eyes raced helplessly to catch up. His head felt light as if the dance had been more wine. The late lull of the misty night chirped in his ears.

A tingling hand reached out to touch Xarhn's feet, wet with dew; he watched the heaving of her breasts. He saw the ecstatic smile on her sweet face, and how she pressed shut her eyes in response to his touch. She had enjoyed the dance as much as he, if not more. She had spent herself completely.

Takax gave him a happy nudge, and whispered into his ear, “Told you!”

Zamani could not spare a smile for Takax; he was helpless to respond, for his eyes were stayed on the treasure Pax had given him.

Voytk shattered the night with a whoop of glee. “Aiee!” he called out.

Zamani had never known such camaraderie or happiness. The joys of nhola freedoms suddenly paled in comparison to the bonds he had formed this day. Compared to this one moment, as he felt the breathing nearness of Xarhn, they did not exist. His eyes caressed her visage, sweat and mist mingled, causing the rise and fall of her perfect breasts to sparkle in the night. He knew, in that moment, that she had thoroughly conquered him, and he knew he could do nothing but submit. Without a whimper, the king of the nholas would bow his head and admit defeat with a smile.

When labored breathing had ceased, Shabani led Takax away from the group to whisper in his ear. Zamani could hear the sound of Vreatt embracing Shirpa, and of Voytk embracing Tosh. Zamani could not look away from Xarhn; his eyes were stuck to her as she rolled back and forth on the mistmantled cleg. Her brown, and passion-hued skin fairly glowed. How could he turn to lesser matters?

Presently, Takax returned to stoop by his side. Shabani gathered Xarhn and took her away. She smiled sweetly in retreat. Her sudden absence hurt. He turned to his overlarge friend, fighting back confusion and anger.

“We must speak,” said his friend in hushed and urgent tones.

“Say what you must.”

“The girls desire a favor, and have asked me to seek it of you.”

Zamani knew. It was too easy. “Portals,” he said flatly.

Surprised at how quickly Zamani had guessed the matter, Takax said rather enthusiastically, “Yes! Yes. Can you?”

“I can. Why should I?” Takax leaned in close and smiled pleadingly. “Listen,” he whispered, “this means an awful lot to me personally.” He squared his shoulders, and added somberly, “I mean, I like you and all that, but if you say no, I’ll snap you in half.”

Zamani also squared his shoulders. He sought his friend's eyes in all seriousness. He asked, “Can you hide the matter from your parents . . . all of you?”

“Yes.” “I don’t wish to cause divisions and be hated of your parents.”

“We’ll keep the secret.”

“If you cannot, you’ll only make problems for all of us,” continued Zamani.

“You have my word,” said Takax. “Will you?”

Zamani looked away and sighed. “Very well,” he consented.

Takax could not contain himself. “Aiee!!” he exulted.

From the overhang came squeals of delight. Takax took him in an iron grip, shaking him joyously, rattling his wine-tender head. He was stirred by his friends' joyous laughter, but could not feel that joy within himself. Instead, he felt a cold worm of dread gnawing at his heart. Had he done the right thing, he wondered? His quiet consent meant so much to them it seemed, but would it truly prove itself a favor?

Voytk and Vreatt were suddenly kneeling beside him. Voytk asked, “Can we watch?”

Zamani really didn’t care. “Suit yourselves,” he said.

Takax leapt up; he ran to the shadows and gathered the girls. They moved from the overhang as a single body, as a single giggle connected at the elbows, bolstering one another's courage. They stood before him, unable to contain themselves: ready to burst. As they bounced nervously on their toes, the bright flooding of their skins all but lit the night.

As if prearranged, the girls lined themselves up in order of who would go first. At the awareness of their planning, Zamani tasted ire in his throat. He felt used. And yet, it was he that agreed. No use crying now; time alone would prove his decision. Zamani looked at the whole picture and sighed. The girls stood before him, all reverence and foolish giggles as if he was someone of high calling. They acted as if he was the Mithal. The boys, at a short distance, had seated themselves to watch. Zamani felt like a brightly painted toy - soon to be dented and worn.

Shirpa stood first in line. Tosh held an impatient second place, while Shabani bounced

excitedly in third. Behind them all, Xarhn stood quietly smiling.

He struggled to his knees and said, “Give me a moment, then, step up as I beckon.�

He closed his eyes; slowly, he breathed in and out. A dark mist swirled in his mind. He fell into it. With each exhalation, he fell deeper. At the center of the mist knelt his body reaching out to his heart. He watched the familiar scene. His body flew up into his mind, then, his mind flew up into his soul. The eyes of his soul opened. As always, the view of unseen truth dizzied him.

A line of four females stood before him, bodies clear and blue like mist. He beckoned, and the first soul stepped forward. Between the legs he looked, and into the belly, seeing what was meant to be.

He cupped his hands between the legs, and drew the soul into the flesh, slowly reshaping the flesh until it fit as snugly as a garment of fine tight silk. Flesh and soul became one; the first portal had been formed. Three times more did he beckon; three times more did he draw the intended portal into flesh.

Depleted, Zamani fell from his soul. The rustling of berribit leaves sang a potent song of desire.

His friends had wasted no time in departing; only Xarhn remained. She knelt before him, took his hands and braced his weakened body. In her face was wonder, and in her eyes, awe. Her perfect lips were wet, and slightly apart, as if they would speak. Her onyx eyes shimmered with the nearness of tears, and her skin bore the flooding color of love. The message was clear.

Her gentle hands pushed the cap from his head, caressed his face, and drew his lips to hers. She tugged at his nhola-wood stay; the mantle slid from his shoulders. Tinged with a single red desire, her warm, wet body fell into his arms. Oh, how he ached for her; how he throbbed. How he needed her. He closed his eyes; he surrendered to her passion, and a thousand sweet voices flooded their communion with songs of promise.

A thousand flames of desire burned with blinding light, and by the dew of love's surrender, each flame was washed clean. Each flame was sated and added to the soul's single pyre, where burning knew no depletion. Her body clothed him; her heart engulfed him. Her mind spoke to his, and her soul lifted him on gentle wings.

Upward he floated, upward and out of himself, until he was pressed, breathless, against the top of the sky. Xarhn sang, Zamani noted the echoes of laughter. Xarhn cried, and Zamani was comforted in the shadow of her joy. Xarhn clawed and screamed in flaming ecstasy. Zamani quaked. He broke the roiling sky into a million musical shards.

Amidst the flooding fragments, their descent was gentle.

Zamani lifted his mantle and covered the sweetly dozing girl beside him. He had never known such pleasant fatigue. He sought stability in the pot of wine. The bitter dew refreshed him, soothed his dry throat. He took more and felt the chill of mist evaporate from his skin. In all his life, Zamani had never felt so worn, or sleepy. The cool, wet cleg would have been a more than adequate bed, but now he could only refuse sleep. When Xarhn awoke, he would walk her home . . . or anything she asked. If she needed to be carried in his arms, he would do so without hesitation. She stirred in her slumber; he cast concerned eyes in her direction.

She need only ask.

He pulled down still more of the tart beverage, in hope that his fatigue might be washed away.

Muffled noises issued from the overhang, reminding him how painfully awake he remained. How thirsty he had become! He took shelter from the mist in the bottom of a pot of berribit wine. He fought the chill with a blanket of warm recollection.

As he stared morosely at yet another emptied pot, he felt his mantle slide across his shoulders.

Xarhn knelt beside him and removed the empty pot from his hand. She pressed the hand to her cheek.

The wine had a tighter grip. He swung his head about, in an attempt to keep it steady, but to no avail.

So lovely was she! Her eyes, smiling into his, seemed to possess an inner fire. The mist and gem light combined in that moment to form about her a ring of glistening rainbow hues, and the garlands of her headpiece rolled from her shoulders to brush the nips of her sweet round breasts. What a vision she was!

Her words came to him as the enchantment of distant song. “I love you,” she said.

And he heard his heart reply, “I love you.”

Then a sweet, bright laugh. “I never imagined,” she enthused, “such joy could be mine. So heady! So much more than rising up.”

He straightened his head and asked, “Rising up . . . what’s that?”

She rested her hands in her lap, sat back with a smile and answered, “A touch, my love. A whisper. Before this night, we would seek the point and rise up only. I never had my own, as Tosh or Shabani, but they were kind, and . . .”

Zamani stared stupidly, as one with fever.

Xarhn pressed his hands into hers and said, “We hold hands. We feel what others feel. We see things in our minds. Oh, Zami, will you rise up with me?”

He smiled; his head rolled; he said, “I’ll do anything you ask.”

“And well you should,” she teased.

A laughing press of sweet warm lips coaxed Zamani to his knees. The mantle fell from his shoulders, and its warmth was replaced by the damp chill of the night. Xarhn's misted belly felt slippery as she positioned her body flush to his, and his world was no more. Only she existed. She placed her palms in his and rested her head in the crook of his neck.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered. “Open your heart.”

Bright flashes beat against the inner eye as he waited - for what, he knew not. Then Zamani sensed more. More than two bodies pressed tightly together, he sensed himself as one with Xarhn. A thrill! Her heart beat within his chest; he could feel it throbbing inside him. They rose up warmly; they floated just above the cleg, adrift in the mist. A great pleasure welled up in him, inseparable from tears, as when the dew rises to the voal of a nhola. A giggling giddiness overtook him as he felt himself . . . spin into flights of dance. His feet slapped merrily against the cleg, and colors raced past him.

The emptiness of another life - so very far away - was filled with the light of a singularly bright gem. It was the fusion of two smaller flames, flames which burned less brightly by themselves, into one searing light. The fires became a light. It was neither Zamani nor Xarhn - it was Xarhmani. That light became his throbbing heart. He saw his hand reaching for it, desperate. It fell into his grasp and became a small, smooth face. Xarhn's eyes, abysmally black, opened to him with an engulfing smile sensed in the shimmering tears of joy. Within that onyx smile, images of feelings danced in happy circles.

It was the feeling of a sure grip in the soft tissue of a nhola's voal. It was the feeling of a gift. It was the feeling of a mother's approving hug, the feeling of fielding seed in a father's large shadow. It was the feeling of discovery, of conquest, of encouraging friends, of finding friends. It was the feeling of passion's bond, deep and throbbing.

A distant, reserved part of Zamani's mind marveled to sense himself so happily, thoroughly wed.

Xarhn's feelings were as deep as the day was long, as fleeting and light as the heralding breeze of eve's approach. This was a powerful communion which most reminded him of the third Phrava. That distant, reserved part of Zamani's mind thought: Why not join the two, the rising and the Phrava? What would come of it?

He pictured Xarhmani standing, a clear blue flame, grasping the bright double-gem of rapport in their hand. Zamani reached out from his reserved place and pulled the body up into the mind. He pulled the mind up into the soul. He soared; she took wing. Xarhmani soared up and up until the silver sky, reflecting small lights, said ‘thus far and no further.’ There the communion knelt. Xarhmani halved and Zamani knelt beside Xarhn. Her eyes sought his, and her blue transparency flooded red. He reached out to comfort his love, and the sky came undone.

Shards of silver-gray rained down. It revealed a blazing brightness that burned away all form and identity. A frightening vision appeared - a firmament. Vast armies of white vapors marched briskly between unseen horizons, the intensely blue field of their passage never empty. Fear welled up as the world engulfing image flickered, wavered, and popped.

Yagi hung from a nhola, his feet bound in twine. Voytk lay upon the cast, his skin transparent.

Odd, dark hallways echoed the approach of danger. Shadows ran forward. Hands caressed a swollen belly, and a small laughing boy fell into Zamani's upstretched hands.

“All are mine,” a low, melodic, and frightening voice declared.

Dry bones dangled in the web of a giant spinner. White dew rippled in a perfectly round pot.

Wog towered over small, skittering creatures. A fist unclenched to reveal a golen pell - which burst into searing flame.

The melodic voice said, “I have chosen you.”

Large balls of dew rained down upon a leaf, beating it mercilessly. Screams of horror rang out at the approach of fearsome creatures. Golen pells, one by one, transformed into pleading faces, known and loved. Takax and Tosh raised desperate, groping hands.

And the low voice shook them as it said, “You will lead my rainbow Shee to a land that I shall make known to you. There, my Shee will worship me in the fullness of their strength.”

Two pots sat on a smooth, black table.

The voice: “I am your father who commands you.”

Zamani fell back. He landed in the misted cleg, gasping for breath. A suffocating tightness gripped his chest like a fist. Confusion took away his mind. Xarhn's voice rang fearfully in his ears as he sought purchase and stability.

“Zami, I heard a voice. Zami . . . what’s wrong?”

He found his feet; he tried to run. His legs pumped for all their worth, but instead of forward momentum, he felt only the cold wet cleg against the back of his head. Again, he attempted to claw his way free of the binding stupor; he tried to outrun his horror. His head reeled repeatedly as if struck time and again by a mighty hammer. All was lost, save his first and deepest need - to run.

Xarhn's voice screamed, igniting every nerve within him, “Zamani! Somebody help!”

As he came to his feet, naked figures sprang into the light from leafy shadows. His world spun about him; his stomach tightened into a sickening knot. Panic filled his chest as he gasped for air and found no relief.

A large figure flew at him; he felt the solid jolt of contact, and then a face, suddenly there, fell back. Many faces surrounded him, distorted fearful things - masks that mocked and taunted. Voices chirruped in his ears like a chorus of mad Pecks. Shouting voices pinned him in on all sides, prodding him. His heart all but leapt from his chest.

He turned in desperate circles, seeking egress. He lunged toward an opening; he sought escape through a narrow gap in the ring of tormentors. Forward became down, and the taste of cleg brought darkness and peace.

Chapter Thirteen The other children played a game of tag and dodge, just beyond the beds, at the broader end of the room. Nervously fingering the hem of his gown, Zamani sat on the edge of his bed and watched the door. Old, fat Ershaml had left it open again - just a crack, but that was enough. It called to him; the freedom of the hallways pricked his will.

He knew the way to mother's room. She had taken him there, in secret, once. Father had scared him but then had gone. Mother whisked him away to her room; they sang and played and laughed til it hurt.

She loved him like no other. She opened a secret passage in her wall, behind her bed, and in time it brought them to a small obstructed view. They clawed, and crawled, and clambered out beyond a thick green hedge. How he loved mother. He sat in her arms, and they inhaled the sweet air of a shining, alien world. It was a sparkling broad expanse with a brooding forest in the center of it all. They looked long and long upon that dark, mysterious forest. It thrilled him; it called him by name.

In his mind, Zamani retraced the path that led to mother. If he stayed close to the rough wall and hid behind the herb pots when someone came close, he should quickly reach the room - and mother would be so happy to see him.

He stole a cautious glance toward his bed mates. He opened the door just enough to slip past, and seeing the hallway empty, darted out and behind an herb pot to listen for footfall. No one was about.

Zamani took bold steps along the center stones, following memory. The thrill of his adventure brought a smile to his small face; the thought of mother's arms about him quickened his steps. He flew down the hallway on winged feet.

The door was massive and ornate. Zamani stood still on tingling feet to listen. Voices came from within. As he recognized his father's cruel voice, the smile fled his lips; his chest tightened and his heart pounded fearfully. Now what? He clenched his fists and drew closer to hear what was being said.

“You’re a fool!” hissed his mother. “You’ve no one to blame but yourself.”

“Peck bitch! Stay your insolence; I am still your king, and you will sheathe your tongue in my presence.”

“I will not. Think you I fear the king? No, I say. Nor will I speak for you. If Rasha is almighty, then Rasha can speak for himself.”

“You stinking gray whore!” cursed father. “You’re in league with them!”

“In your twisted heart! Don’t look to me; it was not I who killed my people in the tunnels, nor I who sought that accursed door. No, this is Rasha's failed quest; this is Rasha's mad obsession.”

“It is there, Elimar! Just on the other side. Believe me.”

“I no longer care. You were so possessed of that otherworldly portal, my own was forced to wait for old age, and madness drowned in wine.”

“I should never have taken you in. I should have left you in that foul, stinking pit.”

“Go on with you, then; be go and be gone. Deal with your revolt. Leave me alone to raise my son. I’ve but one consolation for my mistake, while you’ve much wrong to right. Accept your fate. Whimpering and begging do not become a king.”

“I’ll show you Peck bastards! I’ll show all of you!”

“Did I say king? You’re no king; you are not even a Sith. You are the noise of my backside.”

Zamani winced at every foul utterance of his father; his heart cheered mother for her strength. Why didn’t father just go away? That would be best, just leave them alone. Why did he have to be so mean?

Why did he have to hurt everyone? Zamani wished to be at mother's side, to shield her from the king's rage. He wished father was dead.

Muffled noises issued through the door; there was a struggle, and furniture toppled with heart-stopping thumps. Mother cried out, and Zamani pushed through the door.

“Mother!” he cried.

Father sat atop mother, cruel hands at her throat. Zamani flew to her, beating small angry fists against his father's back.

He called out as each fist fell, “Don’t . . . hurt . . . my . . . mother.”

A large thumbless hand impacted his face, sent him tumbling and sobbing into the overturned table and chairs. There in the litter lay his father's ruby handled knife. He took the large handle in both hands with quick determination. He brandished it at father, trying not to shake.

“Stop!” he screamed, and father noticed.

Slowly, grinning horribly, father rose up from the unmoving body, and advanced. Zamani brandished the iron knife menacingly. He backed toward the secret tunnel behind mother's bed. His hands trembled at father's approach. Fear was a hard knot in his belly.

Father smiled wickedly. He asked with a hateful snarl, “You going to cut me, little Gathorne?”

Hands outstretched, Rasha eased forward - one step, then another. Sight of the thumbless hand pressed Zamani into the rough wall. He took the big knife in one hand, batting tears with the other.

“Go away!” he screamed, making pointed thrusts with the iron blade.

Father's evil hands moved ever closer. Zamani pulled desperately at the place that opened the wall, but all in vain; it would not open. Tears welled up from his heart and poured down his cheeks. He pulled with one hand and kept the knife between him and the evil king. Against his will, he sobbed uncontrollably, and those evil outstretched hands closed over him.

Black fingers uncurled, exposing a too bright sky. Above him, within white vapors, the eyes of Pax opened on him, deep and forgiving. The melodic and terrifying voice came to him. It said, “You must lead my people home. I am your father.”

Blackness closed upon him, and fear gripped him, rising up through his constricted throat like a scream that would be, but could not. He groped for light, and the darkness fell away from his face. Fevered thoughts cried out. Where am I? Dim and small were the images of his confinement, and his body lay bound as if by the heavy vines of some wicked plant. The scream that would be escaped his lips as a low, painful moan. He tore at his bonds, anger and desperation rising like bile, as he found his feet. He turned, groping along a woven wall, finding a curtained escape, and raced madly for release.

A voice wailed from behind him, “Zami!”

Feet tread on air, as the dark, twisted dream spun about his head. Reality dawned in the fall. Like a heavy stone, he fell. Cold, and painfully hard, was the solid jolt to his head and back. The nightmare spin began to slow; sense returned to him with the recognition of Pax-mon's main hall. He lay upon their table, or, what used to be their table. His acute realization brought a gasp as the pain washed away the last trace of sleep.

Xarhn raced down the steps, calling his name in alarm. “Zami!”

Pax flew from his room, with Teefa on his heels, and, there sat the forest boy in the wreckage of their slate table, unable to master either trembling or tears. The three drew near with unblinking eyes. Pax quickly assessed the situation as he fell to his knees. Zamani wore only trousers and a sheen of sweat.

He shook uncontrollably, and his wide, wild eyes reached out to him pleadingly.

Pax said, “Sweet Maker of all,” exhaling his fright.

Xarhn fell upon Zamani's neck, awash with his fear and pain. The trembling of her own brought burning tears to her eyes. She turned to her father with a desperate plea, “Father . . .”

He soothed, “We will care for him, dear. Do give me room.”

Xarhn sat on her heels in prayerful readiness. She watched as her father examined her love; she watched as her mother fetched a cover from the closet. As Zamani was pulled forward under her father's knowing scrutiny, she spied the black bruise on his back and head.

She cried out, “Father, his back!”

Pax answered calmly, “Yes, dear,” and redirected his examination.

The bruise stretched from Zamani's head to the waist of his trousers. The table, which was now in ragged quarters, was as thick a slab of rock as any other. It seemed impossible that anyone could break such a thing. Pax took the cover that Teefa had shaken out and draped it over the hunkering frame of the wounded boy.

“Just bruises,” he declared. “He’ll come through.”

“What happened?” Teefa asked in a hushed but worried voice.

Xarhn sniffed, “I don’t know. He just went running out the door.”

“Calm, both of you,” commanded Pax. “He’s going to be fine.” He cupped one hand behind the boy's head and asked, “What happened, son?”

Zamani brought up wide, wet eyes. He stammered, childlike, “I . . . had a dream.”

Teefa gasped, then looked away in shame as Pax commanded silence with a glance.

Xarhn dried her eyes quietly, meeting the same glance with naught but tractable obedience. Pax, then, gave all his attention to the wounded boy.

“Go on,” he prompted.

Zamani sobbed pitifully, “Mother was dead, and . . . I was trying to get away, but, I couldn’t get away.”

He tried to still himself with a deep, shuddering breath and smeared tears across his face with the palm of his hand. “Father was coming. Wicked! I saw his thumbless hand close over me, and I was scared.”

Zamani fell into Pax’ arms and wept bitterly. Xarhn's tears fell with his. Teefa, near to shock for the news, bit her hand and kept silent. Even so, her heart was wrenched out of place for the pain of the undoer's son. Pax laid his head against Zamani's and spoke soft words. The tears slowed.

“There, now,” he said. “That’s better. The dream is gone, and you’re here with us, aren’t you?”

Zamani sniffed wetly and continued the telling, spurred as much by the warm wall of Pax’ arms as by his own need to get it out. “And then . . . when the hand opened,” he said, sitting back to face Pax eye to eye, “you were my father - only, it wasn’t you, but the Maker, with your face. He was so big, and I was so small. I couldn’t speak, or move; I was terrified.” He sniffed again, and looked up with a small, helpless laugh and finished, “There is no power before the Maker.”

Xarhn was relieved to see her own in an improved state. She embraced him with all the fire of her love, but, Pax motioned for her to leave off. She obeyed.

Suddenly and deeply stirred, Pax asked, “You were given a charge?”

Zamani nodded. “First, when I rose up with Xarhn . . .” he began.

Teefa gasped, dumbfounded. Xarhn, aflood with shame beneath pointed parental eyes, quickly confessed, “After the dance . . . we rose up . . . but, everyone does it. I mean . . .”

Zamani cut in, oblivious to the embarrassment he had caused her, and said, “It was then, before the darkness came - I heard a voice.”

Zamani recited from memory, “All are mine; I have chosen you; you will lead my rainbow Shee to a land that I shall make known to you. There, my Shee will worship me in the fullness of their strength. I am your father who commands you. You must lead my people home. I am your father.”

Pax sat back and glanced at his wife, asking, without words, for privacy. She moved at once, gathering daughter, folded spinner silk, and a sewing spine on her way outside.

“Come, dear,” she said to her daughter, “we’ll sew you a bright new cap.”

Stirred with pride and joy, Pax gathered Zamani and led him to a woven seat. He pulled a warm cover around less tremulous shoulders. Conflicting emotions fought for his heart, as he studied the humbled youth. He felt each as a stabbing pain deep in his heart: joy, fear, sorrow, hope. In his entire, secretive life, no such light had ever warmed him. Not that he complained; life was good. But, dare he hope at last? His head reeled. He had always believed that, in some unseeable future, the divided folk, the Shee, and the Pucha, would reunite in brotherhood of the brightest seal. But, now! To hear it from the lips of this unlikely leader - it begged the imagination. A thrill! He sat by the lad and drew him into his arms.

“Your dream has rejoiced my heart,” he confessed. “The Maker has given you a holy charge.” A laugh spilled forth. “You’ve actually been called before him!”

Zamani complained, “But, I was so helpless . . .”

“Fear not,” soothed Pax. “Rejoice. Yours is a life soon to change - meant for change. The Maker has a purpose you alone may serve. Praise the Maker! That you should be called to reunite the people!”

“Pax, I don’t understand.”

Pax fell from a state of ecstatic reverie to one of sober rumination. “People; a word of the wog. Take it to mean, the different folk: Shee, Pucha, perhaps even the wog.” He was prompted by Zamani's searching gaze to say more, “Well, you see . . . the Shee tongue is actually a mix of three tongues: wog, Pucha, and Shee.”

“We talk like wog?”

Such simplicity! Pax smiled, joyously patient. “We are all children of the Maker. Our tongue was birthed in the wog world. We are as much the brother to wog as we are to Pucha. Many words that remind us of the wog, we no longer use. That is Yagi's will. My father knew all the words: people, dream, world . . . but now; now!” He felt giddy again. “Your charge will change all of our lives.

Forever.”

Zamani, still perplexed, asked, “But, Pax . . . what am I to do? How am I to know the Maker's mind?”

“Calm, boy. Trust him,” was the sober answer. “He will tell you.”

“But, what does he want? Why me?”

“Hear me,” said Pax. “When we bind slats, what do we do? We make the bond; we lay on zeowax, and the many are one. You are that bond for our people.”

“Zeowax,” echoed Zamani.

“With the exception of our great elders, all we have ever known is division. But, there was a time when Peck stood as brother to Sith. You are a Gathorne. In you, the two are already one. And you know even of yourself, being fully half Sith, that the hatred still lives. You can bring us together. You can end the sorrow.”

Pax stared into Zamani's lost eyes. This boy! To think - he actually sat beside the instrument of the Maker's will. Heady! Heady, indeed! This morn had given him refreshing reason to live and love; it had given him bold reason to hope.

“What if I can’t?” Zamani asked.

“You’ll do it, boy. No worries. Just as the Maker put your foot to the journey, he will come to you again, and guide your every step. And too, for those of us blessed to dream, our visions give us guidance aplenty.”

“You dream too?”

“Yes. Oh, yes.”

In his zeal, his voice had risen, but Pax hardly cared; joy had borne him aloft. Even so, a sudden sense of foreboding swept through him - as the soft sound of Teefa's footfall reached his ears. His joyous heart had chased his careful mind to hiding. The diligence of a lifetime, for a brief moment, had slipped. He knew, before he lifted his eyes to meet hers, that his glad admission of dreams had pierced the soul of his love.

Teefa stood livid at the entrance; she was framed in new light, but her face gathered shadow. Xarhn peeked, gaping, from behind her; the unfinished cap was clutched in a small, white fist. Teefa's eyes looked, imploringly, into his, and Pax could see how small and lost he had caused her to feel. A deep groan of regret issued from his core as Pax rose slowly to his feet.

“I guess I have some explaining to do,” he humbly confessed.

Feeling a sting of guilt, Zamani watched Teefa sink absently into a woven seat. He watched Pax kneel beside her and attempt to calm and soothe her in a small, quiet voice. He watched Xarhn kneel at Teefa's other side in teary-eyed support. He held his breath, not wanting to distract them, and watched vivid whites flood to hues of confusion and curiosity.

Teefa simply said, “All these seasons.” And then she cried.

Pax gathered her into his arms and led her gently to their room. Zamani hoped that Pax could soothe her. Perhaps he would. Zamani had noted that Teefa deeply wanted to reconcile the offense, for among her flooding anger could be seen the hues of undying love.

Xarhn sat upon her heels, clutching the pait cap in white-knuckled hands. The cutting edge of her eyes begged no explanation; Zamani felt the chill. His presence among this folk had caused only hurt. He wanted to go home. He needed a haven, and time to sort things out.

Rising to his feet and throwing off the cover, he ascended the gently curving steps to Xarhn's room. His possessions were in a heap by Xarhn's disheveled bed. Quickly, absently, he donned the blue quill cap.

He pulled on his sandals, affixed the breastplate, and attached his mantle. He drew the shroomsack over one shoulder and hooked it to his belt. As he tucked the ruby-handled knife securely into his belt, the curtain rustled lightly behind him.

He turned to see Xarhn standing in the entrance. Her skin was blue, and her eyes no longer had an edge. They looked at one another for a long, silent moment. She walked to the opposite side of her bed.

Discarding her rumpled processional gown, she donned an older skirt, briefly exposing smooth blue buttocks. She ripped away the nechsta petals from her plain, off-white skirt, and placed her sedge cap atop her head. Then, she turned and delivered the solid punch of the question Zamani knew was coming. Her strained tone belied her blue skin.

She asked, “So, why didn’t you tell me I was like you?”

“It was your father's secret; I had to respect it.”

“But you knew, and you hid the truth - just like father deceived mother. Is that some Gathorne virtue?

Must I become a liar as well?”

Zamani lowered his face in response. “The choices are yours,” he said, “but I will tell you the truth.

Lying is no virtue of mine. To prove it, I will go down and confess our secret to your parents.”

As he turned to the exit, Xarhn leapt to block his path. Black eyes, somewhere between raw panic and smoldering rage met his own.

“You will not!” she flatly stated. It was a command that bordered on a plea.

“Who lies now?”

Xarhn stammered, “I’ll tell them. When . . . they’re able to bear it.”

“Ha!” “I will; I said I will!”

“Very well, you will. I’m going home.”

“I’m going with you,” she declared, the more adamantly barring his egress.

He scanned her rainbow and saw that she would not relent. He casually answered, “Well, I suppose you can tag along.”

She threw herself on his neck and hugged him ardently. She whispered in his ear, “The girls will be waiting where we met.”

He rolled his eyes and groaned within himself. He felt outwitted – as if led about by the nose. But then, he recalled his promise. What now? He had promised, therefore, he must do. All he had wanted to do was go home; being sociable sure was a chore! He needed so badly to be among the nholas, alone, where he planned to relieve himself in a big way.

“Let’s hurry,” he said.

Chapter Fourteen They left Teefa to the tender comforts of her own. Xarhn had gone ahead. That afforded Zamani the opportunity, while cloaked in his glamor, to void the heavy intake of wine from the previous night.

Then, in his unseen state, he caught up to Xarhn and the girls. He decided to remain cloaked, and just listen.

He found the four of them sitting in a row, practicing a dance of the upper body. Giggling ran rampant - but among girls, he thought, when did it not? He sat quietly before them, preparing his mind for the decipherment of Sith-girl drivel; it would be an arduous task.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way -now that I know,” Shabani was saying.

Shirpa piped in, with a grand smile for the sky, “I’m so filled with my Vre, I can’t think.”

“I know, girl,” Shabani laughed.

“Vre makes this funny, little noise,” said Shirpa, imitating his sound to the delight of all.

Shabani bragged, “Tax yelled so loudly, I thought they would hear us in Thletix.”

“You did some yelling of your own,” said Tosh.

Zamani sat in his glamor and thought, what silly nonsense; the deed was done; move on! Ah, but these were creatures of foolish fancy; these were girls. What more could one expect from them?

The girls spoke of the night before and laughed. Still - for all their mirth, one voice was noticeably silent. Xarhn held back. She was as joyously brown as the others, but the yellow of her brow told Zamani that something occupied her thoughts. She ceased moving, looked homeward, then all about.

She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully and killed the dance with serious words.

“That Peckhead should have been here by now.”

“Could he have gone back,” Tosh asked, “or to the forest?”

“Not if he knows what’s good for him.”

Shabani soothed, “I’m sure he’ll return.”

“How could he not?” noted Shirpa.

Xarhn turned to fully face her friends and asked, “What do you think of him? I mean, what do you really think?”

Shabani answered first, “Well, obviously, we think he is quite special.”

Shirpa added, “He’s given us a gift no praise could repay.”

Tosh enthused, “Yeah; power over our own.” The girls laughed.

Xarhn pressed, “Aside from that, does it matter that he’s a Gathorne?”

“No,” was the consensus.

“And, would it matter awfully much,” Xarhn asked with lowered face, “if I was a Gathorne?”

A solid hush fell upon the group as they passed confusion back and forth like a hot rock. Xarhn wrung her hands and braced herself for rejection.

Tosh said, “We don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m a Gathorne,” she confessed, looking at each in turn. “I found out from father just this morn.”

Shirpa asked, amazed, “Your father told you?”

“Well, you see, Zami had a dream and fell from my room . . .”

Gaping, Tosh asked, “Fell? Was he like he was this even past?”

“Yes.” Shabani asked, “Was he hurt?”

Xarhn became more grieved with each probing question; the memories of the morning flooded in and she wailed, “Oh ...! He fell right on our table. His head and back are as black as our eyes.” The girls gasped as one.

Said Shirpa, “But, you’ve never had visions; you’d have told us.”

Xarhn calmed herself with no small effort, as the girls braced for her response by scooting themselves into a semicircle, and holding hands. Xarhn said at last, “I had a dream this even past.”

“Tell us,” insisted the girls.

“It was when Zami and I rose up together. It was like seeing with my eyes closed. First, I saw big white . . . things, all in a row. I could see Teller and Voy. And, I was rubbing my belly . . . in a place I’ve never seen. There were the young, and Zami . . . and, someone was coming. There were bones, and milksap in a pot . . . and wog, and monsters, and fire. Then, the Maker spoke to Zami.”

The girls were eager beyond breathing to hear the words. “What?!” they demanded.

Xarhn answered into the hush, “He told him to take us to a new place.”

She had stunned her friends, and herself. The silence was heavy and grew long. What strange words she had spoken! A new place? It was beyond imagination. Then, Tosh rose to her knees, put her arms around Xarhn and hugged her warmly.

She said, “Well, I don’t care if you’re a Gathorne; I’ll always love you.”

“Me too,” added Shirpa.

Shabani then ended the matter with, “Nothing has changed; nothing at all.”

Girls!

Zamani was disinclined to carry any of them beyond the barrier. They were like a pack of chittering bugs. It might be wise just to take the boys, or better yet, just Takax. He stood up and slipped quietly through the barrier. The sting seemed mild. Sounds of laughter came from the path, and Zamani knew the boys approached. He decided a bit more spying was in order. Perhaps a practical joke would set him on lighter heels.

The boys drew near; the girls, upon noticing them, bent their heads to earnest whispers and scattered giggles. Xarhn had not joined in; she stood and walked forlornly to the place where she had first met Zamani but two morns past. Idly, she ran her hand through the berribits.

“Pssst!”

She turned curious eyes to the barrier. “Zami?” she whispered.

He replied in kind, “Shhh! Join the others and act as if you don’t know where I am.”

She stepped closer and responded, “I don’t know where you are.”

“Shhh! Just go.”

Xarhn quickly returned to her place beside the girls. Just then, the boys drew up short, facing the girls. Their laughter ceased; they made deliberate attempts to hold their faces straight and somber.

As one, the girls jumped up and ran to their own. They draped themselves upon them seductively. The boys retained their stony stance, and in the face of failed first attempts, the girls began to writhe more wantonly.

Zamani was amused.

Shabani said, “Tax . . . did you like what I gave you?”

“Mmmm . . . yes,” he replied.

“And what would you give to keep me from withholding it?”

With a sly smile, Takax returned, “The question is: what would you give that I not withhold?”

The girls made fast Shabani's argument with playfully enticing maneuvers; all their hearts went into the work, but, Takax held Shabani at arm's length and continued.

“You see,” said he, “we thought you girls might let all this go to your heads. We reasoned that girls being girls - you would naturally try to use this for personal advantage. We three have therefore decided that it shall not be to your advantage, but to ours. Serve us well, and you may depend on our continued kindnesses.”

Shabani took her own in hand and shoved him stoutly back. While all three girls had flooded red, Tosh and Shirpa had merely gaped. Vreatt and Voytk stood in stiff determination as Takax stepped back up to the more physically aggressive Shabani. Zamani had to smile; his prize student was bending Shabani's colors as if naturally gifted.

Shabani turned her anger with a defiant laugh. “Ha! And just how long do you think you can play at this?”

“Oh, I have all day,” was Takax’ self-assured response. “How long can you girls wait? Midday, perhaps?”

Shabani slashed her own with cruel, sharp eyes, but no answer came. Tosh looked to Voytk with the promise of long nights deep in her eyes, and won a small victory - an audible gulp that told all. She brought her warmth to bear, pressed close, and saw the resolve of her own fail visibly.

She called to her companions, “I know one who can’t wait.”

Voytk shot pleading eyes toward Takax, who commanded, “Stand strong, Voy boy!”

“But, she’s . . . winning,” he whined.

Shirpa renewed the ploy, then Shabani, but Takax would have none of it. He peeled the girls from his party and called the boys into a huddle. Shabani looked to Shirpa, who looked to Tosh; they were completely at a loss. They looked to Xarhn, who looked away to keep from laughing out loud.

From behind the barrier, Zamani had seen all. He hated the weakness of Voytk and respected the strength of Takax. He knew there could be but one outcome to this test of wills: the boys must win. He watched the huddle break, watched each boy dance up to his girl and take her into playful hands. Each boy caressed his girl, searching, teasing.

That will do it, thought Zamani, but, which girl would give in first, he wondered? His guess was the nervous girl - Shirpa: she seemed the weakest, but to his amused surprise, the weakest of the three turned out to be Shabani. She had seemed a soul near as mighty as her own; she had fooled them all, he thought.

Beaten, embarrassed, pleased, she cried, “Alright! What do we have to do?”

Takax kissed her, raised his face in the warm flush of exultation. “Naught but one thing, my lovely,” said he. “Naught but one thing. Simply obey our every whim.”

There were three shocked gasps, three jubilant laughs, and to the side, Xarhn giggled merrily.

Then Zamani laughed outright, and all heads snapped in his direction. When his glamor faded, it swept away the defeat of the girls and defeated the sweeping victory of the boys.

Stunned faces opened to Zamani, as flowers that sought the lights, and the sweet fragrance of their awe stirred him.

“Sit,” he commanded. “Class begins.”

They seated themselves, by couple, on the cleg just before him. With a quick smile for Xarhn, he glowered at each of the others in turn.

“That which I have given,” he intoned, “I can take back.”

From the girls came shocked gasps; from the boys came indignant gaping.

Zamani added, “That which I have not given, I can remove.”

Takax sat forward and asked, “Do you threaten me, friend?” He made a twisting gesture with his hands and laughed, “Ha! I could snap you like a slat.”

Zamani conceded, “You might try. I would have only to toss you over my shoulder ... into the barrier.”

“Enough,” Shabani said. “You would be Teller? Then tell: your class is waiting.”

“And, what can he teach us?” Takax asked her.

Zamani answered, “I can teach you to be warriors.”

That got their attention; eyes were wide. Zamani had created a portal into their imagination, and into that portal he pressed.

He said to his class, “You will soon enter the forest. It is my world. You must, therefore, settle it in your hearts to follow my instructions for your own good. I’ve no patience for the weak or wayward.

Choose now; join me, or go home.”

Takax stood and declared, “Friend, you know I’m with you. I’ll bear the pain of your barrier as a friend and fellow adventurer, but the rest are not so strong. You must shield them.”

Zamani answered bluntly, “No shield.”

“Then, just the girls. Surely . . .”

“No shield.”

Xarhn slowly came to her feet; she took a step toward him. He felt as though he might fall into the deep blackness of her eyes, as if his power, indeed, his will was being sucked out of him. A confrontation with his heart approached, and he could only bow his face in her presence.

Softly she asked him, “Zami, do you love me?”

He winced; he wished she hadn’t put him on the spot just now.

“Do you?” she pressed.

“Yes.” “Do you want to hurt me?”

“No.” “This morn, when you hurt yourself, did you not receive help?”

“Yes.” “Can you not now open your hands to our need?”

“Shielding doesn’t work with the barrier,” Zamani confessed. “It’s not solid.”

Suddenly Vreatt spoke. “I’ve an idea,” he tendered. “I shall go through first. Then, you and I can combine our Phrava to heal their pain. You must, of course, heal mine first.”

Zamani could feel the stab of Xarhn's gaze. She spread her hands and said, “There you are.

Leadership through friendship.” She spoke as if angry, but then she smiled; her words left no scar.

He studied her with narrowed eyes. She had spoken from love, this he knew. Her words were those of a mother making things right. Trust, also, was in her voice. It was unconditional, despite the edge she had placed on her argument. He stood as powerless before her trust and before her love as he had before the Maker.

He turned to Vreatt and said, “Come, then.”

Upon gaining his feet, Vreatt paused to ask, “What should I expect? I mean, what does it feel like, exactly?”

“Like zeo stings.”

Shabani, who worked with zeos, offered solace. “I’ve been stung plenty,” she said.

Takax blurted, “It’s your job to be stung.” Nervous laughter erupted from the group and quickly died.

Zamani commanded Vreatt, “Quickly.”

The Mithal-in-training bent to receive Shirpa's kiss of encouragement, then straightened and jogged to Zamani's side. As he passed through the barrier, which he had assumed was behind the nholan king, he dropped like a stone and writhed in helpless agony. His shrill screams brought the others to their feet.

“Vreatt!” cried Shirpa.

Without thinking, she ran to her own, where she fell, screaming and writhing beside him. Five watched in horror as Zamani knelt to lay a hand upon each. The screaming ceased.

“Bigoora,” said Zamani.

He pulled the two up on shaky legs. Already, their wild flooding had returned blue.

“We’re whole,” assessed Vreatt, a confident smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He drew Shirpa into his arms.

“You spinner fart!” boomed Takax, gaining the attention of all. “You were behind the barrier all along.”

Zamani smiled an easy smile, redirecting, “As my second, you must expect the unexpected.” He indicated the assemblage with outspread hands. “They depend on you. You’ve experience they do not; so I call on you to be their eyes and ears.”

Takax beamed, smiling broadly to the others in turn. “You turds hear that?” he asked. “I’m second; you just better start taking me seriously.”

Zamani enjoyed his friend's enlargement, but warned, “Takax, don’t let it swell your pait.”

Takax turned and speared Zamani with a grand smile. Holding his hands open before him, he said, “Friend, friend. Call me Tax. Among ourselves, we use our short names.”

“Very well, I call you Tax.” Tax continued, “Hear our short names, and be one with us.” He drew Shabani under a heavy arm and said, “This, my pyre, is Bani,” and he named the others in turn, “Tosh is Tah, Shirpa is Pah, Vreatt is Vre, the worm, here, is Voy boy, and your's we call Xar. To be permitted into your world lifts us by one, so please, call our names as a friend.”

“I shall.”

“And we shall call you Zami.”

Zamani looked to Xar, who nodded and smiled sweetly. He looked to the others in turn; all eyes spoke it: he had been taken fully into the circle. He had been totally accepted. Among dear friends, Zamani had become Zami. They were his, and it felt good.

His big friend broke the spell, asking, “Should we just run through, then?”

Zami blinked the mist from his eyes and said, “The quicker the better. Girls first.”

The hesitation was short-lived; Pah, after all, was already on the other side. Xar, Tah, and Bani joined hands for courage, bowed their heads, and dashed forward. Zami and Vre were quick to banish all pain, to help the fallen rise. Bani rose first, pulling at her skirt.

“Wasn’t that bad,” she assessed.

Xar leapt to her feet and danced excitedly into Zami's arms. Tah sat in disheveled awe. She searched the stinging air with unbelieving eyes. Two were left. Tax took the retreating Voy up in a beefy arm, holding him as he might some object from his father's workshop.

Voy squirmed helplessly in the grip of iron. He whined miserably, “Wait! I . . . can’t.”

To which Tax responded happily, “I’m second, Voy boy, and you’re not gonna worm your way out of this one.” Tax hefted the wriggling boy to chest level.

Voy begged, “Let go! Don’t!” But Tax tossed him through the air; he passed into the forest screaming, “Nooo ...!”

The healing was quick. Still, he fell into Tah's open arms, hiding embarrassed tears. Now, all were in save Tax. From his side, he looked to each in turn as the group urged him to, “Jump!”

In response, he flexed his chest in a proud manner and answered, “I’ll not jump. You’ll see me walk through, head high and back straight.”

The group had no rebuttal, but Zami said, “If the mighty one can remain standing, he shall earn an honored seat at my table, but, I’ll stand close to catch you - all the same.”

Tax reared. He said, “You just stand where you are, slat. All of you: stand back; watch and learn.”

The mighty one stepped through. Every muscle of his prominent frame rippled under his tight skin. His meaty hands clenched into fists. All watched in silent amazement. So mightily did he clamp his teeth that the sides of his neck spread like wings. His legs trembled and gave beneath his weight.

One knee came close to the cleg but did not touch it. With a groan of heroic resistance, Tax forced himself upright. He took a breath, relaxed the grinding of his teeth into a forced smile, and spread his broad, unclenched hands in a gesture of triumph. Bani came to him, allowing him to lift her high in the air.

His friends cheered. There were hoots, and whistles, and howls. Laughter rang, and all joined in joyous dance until, at last, they fell in a gasping heap. They hugged the moment to their hearts, not willing to let it fly. Tax lay upon his back, Bani's lap a warm cushion for his head. Xar, between Zami's legs, sat in the shelter of his embrace. Pah and Vre took the quiet opportunity to rise up together, while Voy nestled his head into the ample pillow of Tah's breasts.

Tah spoke without cracking the glassy calm. “I can’t believe we did it!” she said reverently.

“We’re actually on the other side.”

“And I claim my honored seat,” asserted Tax. “You shall have it, my brave friend,” said Zami through the slats of Xar's cap. “Soon, we will leave to eat the mid meal at my home. Xar will sit on my right, and the mighty Tax on my left.”

Vre surprised everyone when he dropped his palms from Pah's and declared, “I can’t stay.”

Pah sulked, “But, Vre . . .” She fell into his arms and said in a small voice, “The Mithal knows his way home; don’t go.”

“I’m expected,” was his apologetic answer. “I wish I could stay, but, when he’s finished with our mothers, my class resumes.”

Bani railed, “I don’t understand how they can so willingly give it back.” All eyes turned to her.

“I can’t. I won’t; ever!”

“That’s my girl,” cheered Tax. Vre asked Pah, “Will you walk with me to Thletix?”

Pah hung her head, answered in a small voice, “I would very much like to stay.”

“Good choice, actually,” he said. He hugged her and placed a kiss upon her pouting lips.

Then he stood and turned to face Zami. He said, “I hope to join you at a more opportune occasion, but I must go.”

“You will ever be welcome at my table.”

“Come; help me through.”

“Friend,” answered Zami, “you don’t need me. The second time is much easier, and you can heal your own pain as you go.”

Xar put an elbow into Zami's ribs. “You’d better be telling the truth,” she warned.

“He is,” said Tax. “And just how would you know?” asked Bani.

He bragged, “He taught me to scan the rainbow.”

Vre studied the face of his host. “Perhaps you could teach me,” he said.

“With a glad heart.”

Pah said to Vre, “Zami can teach you all you need to know. Stay. Please.” “ . . . I’m expected.”

Vre placed his palms together and turned to the barrier. He took a deep breath and stepped through. He bit off the healing word, then spoke it more calmly the second time. One, slight seizure had gripped his frame. For good measure, he spoke the word a third time. Then he turned, calm, and waved to all. He smiled a smile for Pah alone. Then, he turned again and walked away.

Yawning, Tax sat up and stretched. He said, “Well, I’m ready.”

Suddenly apprehensive, Tah asked, “Will we see Dirt monsters?”

Zami soothed the swell of fears. “Yes, but, don’t be afraid,” he said. “They don’t have mouths.”

Chapter Fifteen The overhang opened suddenly onto a paradise of lush, overgrown vegetation. It was the floater forest. Zami led them through tall purple reeds that sported fluffy, white heads; he led them through huge yellow flowers that yawned cavernously, and he led them past bushes whose many twisted arms groped for the sky. Big leaves, bright green, lined a rudimentary path.

Large, lazy zeos danced in unhurried flight. Some seemed to nap on fat red flowers. Slack faces drank in the rich and magical beauty of Zami's world. Hungry black eyes swallowed each new wonder whole. Mouths gaped. Zami leapt to the top of a large brown rock to watch them file past; their childish

awe was treasure indeed. Pleading looks silently sought permission, and he, with outstretched arms, gave it.

“Play!” he commanded.

In one direction, Tax and Bani ran hand in hand. In another direction, Tah and Voy skipped and giggled. Senses glutted, Xar found her place at Zami's side, while Pah idled nearby with a vacant and solitary smile.

“You’re not playing?” asked Zami of the latter.

“Silly!” chided Xar. “How can she have fun without her own?”

“I’ll tell you how,” replied he. Leaping from the rock, he indicated the entire expanse of silvery sky with open arms. Smiling broadly, he said, “She can spy for the blue quill.”

Zami lifted the startled Pah atop the rock, setting the girl on her feet beside Xar. He stood back and beamed; he pointed to the sky using only the motion of lifted eyes. The girls were excited.

Uncertain but game, she asked, “What do I look for?”

“Have you never seen a floater?”

“No,” she said. “I mean, not up close.”

“Look for gray wings,” he said. “Look for the blue mantle - like my cap.”

Xar asked, “May I look, too?”

“Please do,” said he, “and call out when you spot one. Now, I must gather our children.”

In a flash, Zami melted into the foliage. He left the girls excitedly holding each other, as they perched precariously on the point of curiosity. He slipped quietly through the lush growth; he stalked the sounds of happy laughter, but his quarry eluded him. Leaves rustled, and laughter grew distant as his charge raced through freedom and wonder. Finally, Zami stood still and called to them.

“Tax! Tax! Gather your troops!”

An answer reached across the distance: “Coming!”

Zami returned to find Xar and Pah still perched atop the rock, earnestly scanning the sky. He announced his return with a loud swish of broad leaves. They paid him no mind; indeed, their attention was absorbed in the task at hand. Rustling foliage announced the return of the four. They burst through the overgrowth and stood on the path near Zami, who studied them from behind a straight face until their merriment ebbed, and they became attentive.

“We move on,” he said somberly. Then he smiled warmly and added, “I’ll show you a better place than this.”

The four had just begun to smile when Pah startled them with an outburst of raw excitement. “I see one! I see one!” she cried.

She bounced up and down on her toes and pointed. The two girls lost their balance and fell back with a squeal. Even as Zami caught them, and set them upright on the trail, the others began to vie for a place on the rock.

“Where? What is it? I can’t see!” they cried as one.

Pah enthused from the trail, “It was beautiful!”

Xar grumped, “I never saw.”

Tax forced his way to a slight prominence on the rock, shouting, “Let me see!”

Bani took hold of his waistband and gave it a stout tug. Tax fell back among the press. His arms waved wildly; his hands groped where there was no purchase. Down went all. Their confused, tangled bodies seemed to writhe as a single living creature that sported the odd arm or leg. Voy's muffled cries for release came from beneath. What a mess! Zami laughed til he hurt.

Order was eventually restored, and Zami led his sightseers deeper into the floater forest. Lush became dense, and dense got ridiculous. New and more exciting marvels assailed the group, wringing from them a more or less continuous gasp of wonder.

Dominating all, from high and far, was the majestic nhola forest where Zami lived. It rose up and up; it seemed like a pillar supporting the sky. Pah, for the tenth time, described the splendor of the blue quill she had seen; interest had not yet waned. Zami called Tax to walk with him ahead of the rambling, giggling, marveling knot. Their conversation was serious and secretive.

“I’ve a new quest,” said Zami. “Will you join me?”

“You know I will.”

“It’s good to hear you say so; I will need all your strength.”

Tax smiled a grand smile and slapped Zami's back in high spirit. “You and I,” he said, “what do you say? Warriors to the end.”

“I don’t know how dangerous it will be,” Zami confessed. “I can’t even promise you monsters to fight. This quest is different; it’s a quest of the spirit.”

“Can it be done in a day?”

Zami just smiled.

Tax looked him in the eye and asked seriously, “Where will this . . . quest . . . take us? To a new Phar?”

Zami repeated, “New Phar? What do you mean?”

“Bani spoke about a vision – like you’re supposed to take us to some new land.”

Zami shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“So, tell me what you do know; we’ll go from there.”

Zami bluntly confessed, “I want to find the arms of war. I want to find the suits and the golen pells.”

Tax stared ahead of himself. “Tough task,” he admitted.

Zami ventured, “Yes, but with my mind and your strength . . .”

“Hey!” Tax took Zami's neck in an overlarge hand, shaking him in mock anger that ended in a warm laugh. He said, “You shouldn’t put yourself down that way. You can’t help it that you’re not as well endowed.”

Zami leaned in close and asked, “If we need extra hands, can we count on the others?”

“Well, of course, we can,” Tax replied. “They’re all willing souls.” He added in an aside, “What Voy boy lacks in courage, he makes up in his eagerness to please.”

“Voy is weak; I’m not sure I like him . . .”

“But you will let him prove himself,” urged Tax; behind his smile was just a hint of ultimatum.

“Very well.”

“Now,” said Tax, screwing on a different face, as if he turned to speak to another, “tell me you don’t intend to lead us to Dirt. Please.”

The consensus was obvious in his friend's words; Zami could scarce restrain his broadening smile.

“Please,” repeated Tax. “But, think of the monsters waiting to be fought.”

“True enough,” Tax soberly conceded, “but, my keen perceptions have noted the flaw in your immediate plan. None but Yagi knows where those things lie hidden. For all we know, they could be at the bottom of the abyss - if the abyss has a bottom. How can we even begin? Without Yagi, your quest is in vain.”

“Not true, “ countered Zami. “Of this, I’ll say more later, but for now, I want to show you something.”

Zami led his followers to a broad clearing. Plush, untrampled cleg carpeted an oval expanse, ringed by mature anik plants. Their fat brown stalks yielded just a bit beneath the weight of great green

waxy leaves. Each stalk bore but one heavy leaf, in the cup of which bloomed a bright red flower. The fragrance of anik was overpowering. In a depression at the center of the clearing stood one small nhola.

Flowering vines clung to it like needy children, roots burrowing deep into dirt. Dew leaked from the top of the nhola, spilling a slow cascade of large drops to form a sparkling pool at its base.

“Ooh!” said Xar in delight.

“Watch,” said Zami with a grin.

Removing all but his trousers, Zami leapt out over the dew and landed on his back, a feat that produced a loud smacking sound. The weight of his body made a slight depression in the dew as his arms and legs described joyous arcs.

“Try it,” he called.

Tah asked, “May we take our clothes off, too?”

“Please yourselves,” he replied without care.

Tah ripped off her skirt and sent Zami rocking up and down when her backside hit the dew. Voy followed with a wild laugh. Tax and Bani, leaping together, sent violent ripples throughout the pool.

Xar took Pah's hand and the two jumped up and back. Spirits were high; arms and legs thrashed playfully, laughter rising up to the sky.

In the midst of his joy, Zami remembered to warn them against standing. He said, “Whatever you do, don’t try to stand . . .” but his warning came late.

“Help! Zamiii!”

He rolled quickly from the dew and leapt for the cry. Voy was in up to his chin; he struggled vainly to free an arm. The dew held fast. In turn, each of the others moved to help. Tah, attempting to sit, sank. Tax pivoted to rise and also sank. As he went under, he took Bani's arm and pulled her down.

As Zami reached Voy, two more squeals joined the chorus. In all, six voices cried for help; six voices called his name.

Zami felt as if he had six ears, and each one throbbed.

Zami knew he had little time before their faces went under, and the pleading went silent. His grip sure, he raced from one to the next, yanking each to safety, until at last, he had freed all of them.

They huddled on the cleg, knees drawn in, humble and quiet. Zami joined them with an exasperated sigh. “. . . because the dew will suck you under,” he finished in frustrated anger.

Xar and Pah sat in each other's arms, staving off cold tremors. Pah sniffed and said, “We didn’t know.”

Zami's anger sought egress: “That’s why you must do only as I say.”

“Zami, don’t be severe,” pleaded Xar. “I’m . . . sorry,” he answered, sighing deeply. “I was scared. You could have left me, all of you.”

“We’ll do better,” said Xar. “Yes. Yes, very well.” Zami covered his eyes with his hands; he had to still the painful thumping in his chest, to ease the tightness beneath his brow. He waved dismissal and said, “Go. Explore; have fun.” Then he looked at them and added, “But, should you see a drop of dew upon the cleg, step far around.”

No one moved; they remained seated, staring at him sullenly.

“No, really,” he urged, “go play. I need to calm myself, and think.”

Still, they sat, so Zami mustered his most commanding voice. He said, “Tax, you and Bani go that way. Voy, you and Tah take Pah with you and go that way. Play a while; then we leave.”

Voy's eyes were wide, his voice repentant. He said, “I’m sorry.”

Zami could not forgive the boy, not yet. All he had to offer was the restraint of his tongue.

Tah jumped up and said brightly, “Come on, let’s play while we can.”

She helped Pah to her feet, and together, they ran in among the aniks. Voy rubbed a forearm across his eyes, then ran after the girls. Tax stood up, and flashing a broad smile, whisked Bani up in his arms. As he disappeared into the foliage with his giggling prize, he turned to call back over one shoulder, “You three don’t wander far.”

Despite the distant cheery cries, the clearing now seemed quiet; peace returned to him. He listened to the fading voices and took a deep breath. Tah was saying, “Come see this leaf! It’s bigger than my bed.”

Xar had not moved. “What about me?” she asked softly. “Where do I go?”

He turned to her, drank her in. How could he be angry with her? Though her face pouted, a questing smile played at the corners of her mouth. He recalled the sweet warmth of her lips.

“Sit by me,” he invited, patting the cleg beside him. As she moved closer, crossing her legs and taking his hand, Zami took comfort in the nearness of her, and his peace was complete.

She spoke again; it was almost a whisper: “You should have forgiven Voy.” “Voy could have gotten you dead.”

“He said he was sorry.”

“Will that keep him from troubling me?”

Xar squeezed his hand and said, “Zami, forgive him. He is no different from me, or the others. Here, we are like children, and you are like a father; you can lead us wherever you choose.

Don’t be angry.”

He stretched out on his back, with his head in her warm lap. He looked up into her sweet face and asked, “What would Pax do?”

She caressed his face with cool hands. She answered quietly, “He would hug all of us. . .”

“Well, I don’t know about ‘all’.” “. . . and, he would patiently show us the better way.”

Zami knew she was right; he tried to convey that in his smile. He promised, “I’ll try to do better.”

Xar looked up from him with a sigh. She said, “It’s so beautiful here. Zami, will you make your music here?”

Happy to please, he sat up and pulled the shroomsack close. As he freed the crooked flute, he asked her, “Will you dance for me?”

“Like I did this even past?”

“No; the one you did when first we met.”

She stood upon brown feet, and Zami readied himself to play when she called out in delight, “Look!”

Tax and Bani emerged from the Aniks. Each wore a small leaf; holes had been punched through for the arms, and the tapered end touched the cleg. Zami chuckled; they reminded him of star gnats.

Tax bowed ridiculously deep, and Bani spun around on her toes. Xar clapped her hands and laughed merrily. The sweet, pure notes that rose up from her throat made Zami's flute seem alien and out of place. He turned his head, as Xar pointed, and caught a glimpse of the other three climbing a rather large anik. While Tah, atop the broad leaf, took Pah's hands and pulled, Voy took Pah's bottom in hand and gave a stout push.

Zami placed the reed to his lips and played; he put away his shadowy thoughts and played the bright moment. He played slowly, his fingers walking with deliberate steps across the note holes. Xar, forgetting dance, knelt before him and closed her eyes in rapt admiration. Zami lost himself in melody that issued from his deepest parts. He played the sleepy bizrock clinging to the vine; he played the sackweaver lost in dreams. With his reed, he sketched the lazy star gnat and sculpted the soaring floater. Nholas stretched up through morning mist while zeos rode piercing beams of yellow fire.

Sweet melody, arresting and real, sparkled like the night lights in Xar's ears. It dripped on her mind and flowed down like the slow, sweet cascade of honey. It was a shining, reflective mica spell that mirrored all her joys, but the spell cracked. It broke into a thousand brittle shards as Voy, Pah, and Tah burst through the aniks calling for help.

“Zami ...!” they screamed in unmasked horror.

Chapter Sixteen A large sackweaver crashed ponderously into the clearing just behind them. As Zami stood, he noted from the corner of his eye that Tax and Bani, minus their Anik mantles, ran toward him no less hastily than Tah, Pah, and Voy, who skidded to a hunkering stop behind Xar and himself. Watching the beast as she ran, Bani slammed into the halting Tax, who in turn slammed into Zami.

“What is it!?” Tax demanded.

“Sackweaver.”

The Dirt monster seemed unbelievably long. It's swollen, round body traveled on stubby, sucker-footed legs. Its brightly tinted length pulsated from head to tail as it moved. Lidless black eyes stared blankly from above the continuously moving mandibles. Transparently white, with hints of blue and green, the creature reared on its hindquarters to assess the situation. The girls squealed and joined Voy to cower behind Zami.

Xar cried in distress, “It has a mouth! You said they had no mouths!”

Zami chided lightheartedly, “It won’t eat you.”

“Are you sure?” Tah queried from the huddle.

“You’ve nothing to fear; watch.”

Zami ran forward and, with a nimble leap, mounted the beast behind its bulbous head. The sackweaver reared, sensing disturbance; it sought from side to side then lost interest. It moved to the pool and stopped to drink. Courageously, Xar stepped away from the huddle. Zami stretched out his hand to her.

“Come on,” he invited. “Jump up behind me.”

Xar landed behind him with a laugh. She put her arms around his waist and hitched up close.

The creature turned to move away, but Bani was whistling through the air to land, with sleek grace and superb agility, securely behind Xar. She laughed proudly and sought the waist before her. The sackweaver bucked up and from side to side as it sought the disturbance. Then, Tax fetched up behind Bani, and they called for the remaining three.

“I . . . I can’t,” called Pah. They rode the jolting ride with shouts of merriment. Tah ran up and down, avoiding the head and seeking her opportunity. She found it and sprang up behind Tax. The creature reared, and Tah locked her arms about Tax for support; her large breasts pressed warmly into his back. He turned and encouraged her.

“Hold on tight,” he said with a pleased smile, and he patted her bare leg.

Tah shouted, “Come on, Voy. It’s fun.”

But, Voy hunkered near Pah. He answered, “No. I . . . can’t.”

The great beast turned toward them, and they ran frantically around to its other side. It turned again. With a frightened cry, they skirted the creature's head to cower in its trailing shadow. The sackweaver moved in slow arcs around the clearing, in search of easy egress.

Clothing was scattered and crushed. The riders shouted to the sky with bright open faces filled with glee. Voy timidly led Pah behind the mammoth beast, while atop the thing, five gallant friends took the ride of a lifetime. Then, the creature stopped, swelled, and deposited a steaming green pellet at the feet of the startled two.

Said Voy, “It . . . it dropped something.”

Tax laughed raucously and answered, “That’s a turd, you turd.”

“Eeyoo!!” squealed the pair as they ran in disgust.

The merriment ended when the Sackweaver turned into the aniks. Zami called for them to jump, and the five of them tumbled giddily across the cleg. Tax continued to laugh as they collected garments, scattered and tattered. Zami stuffed mantle and sandals into his bag for carrying. There was more than enough room, so he suggested the others do the same. His cap, in fair repair, he placed upon his head, and he put his ruby handled knife securely beneath his belt.

Tax came, still laughing. He managed to say, “My loincloth is ruined.”

Voy and Pah, shamefaced, came with soiled clothing. Zami called them apart and asked them to sit. While Zami gathered a calm, serious face, Xar, Tax, Bani, and Tah huddled at a discreet distance, perfect for hearing, yet unobtrusive. Zami knelt before Pah and Voy. “Do you want me to take you back?” he asked.

“No,” said Pah. “Voy?” “No.” “This is my Phar,” said Zami. “It is a gift; I want you to enjoy it. As long as you do what I say, you’ll be safe, both of you.”

“I was scared,” Pah whimpered and Voy hung his head.

“And now you’re ashamed,” said Zami, “but, you don’t have to be. I’ll protect you, I promise.

No harm will come to you in my kingdom. Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” they agreed.

“Then follow me to my home, and we’ll have a feast. How’s that?”

Green faded from their skins. They smiled and nodded, visibly at ease. Zami smiled too. He looked up, and Xar stood beside him. Her onyx eyes shone with deep appreciation. Zami had achieved more than he had hoped to; her perfect smile said, ‘well done’.

From the clearing to Zami's home, the trek became wearisome. His friends seemed frayed, their bright chatter had long since bled away. The twisting trail was difficult for his friends to negotiate. The large vines that tied the nholas together, being rooted in the lush foliage, rose up and over and through the trail in a manner that thoroughly tasked his troop. Their line stretched out in a ragged march that was more the staggering of numbed sensibilities.

Tax and Bani walked ahead of him; Xar joined them, but no one spoke. Tah trudged several paces behind him, deep in pouting contemplation. Far behind came Pah and Voy, at times lost from view by the turns of the trail. Zami slowed until he walked beside Tah. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

Startled, she looked up and answered sadly, “My Voy attends Pah. They speak of berribit and shar and there is no room for me between them.”

Zami offered, “Two fearful souls clinging for comfort.”

She stirred from within: “But, I’m brave. Right?”

“Yes.” Suddenly, she changed the topic. She said, “I’m tired. Zami, is it much farther?”

Her skin was mottled with discomfort. In fact, the spirit of his group was oppressive. Something had to give, and soon, or else their languor would choke the life from him. His eyes followed the impatience of his heart into empty middle space, scouting a too distant horizon for some dawning of hope.

He answered perfunctorily, “We’ll rest before we start the climb.”

“Climb?!” echoed Tah in bleak surprise.

Ahead of him, Tax stopped and turned; Zami called to him. Brightening at the indication of some new purpose, he trotted back with attention for Zami and a broad easy smile for Tah. Zami commanded, “Bring up the rear.”

As Tax disappeared down the trail, Tah fell behind Zami's quickening pace, mouthing silent words and shaking her head. Above them loomed the massive presence of age-old nholas - filling the sky, touching horizons. It was nearly midday as they marched through the choking great vines. They were upthrust hands groping for rising lights.

The unseen descent of dew caused the oppressive gray distance to shimmer. The dirt of the trail was moist with the dew that had risen to the sky and made the long caress back down. Small stones and coiled roots troubled the clammy path.

Tax’ approaching feet slapped the moist dirt with a loud report. Zami turned to receive him, who halted with a smiling, open mouth that would only speak after the necessary intake of air. Absently, Tah walked between them and stumbled over an upthrust root. Tax acted immediately. With strong broad hands, he caught her in her fall and set her right. One swift movement, thought suspended, drew her instinctively, and protectively close. The moment found its balance, and proved his hands, that they lingered without warrant.

Tah looked over her shoulder, turned and searched his eyes with a timid smile. It was only then that Tax noticed the warm pounding overlarge breasts that filled his hands. He dropped them quickly, rubbed his palms across his legs.

Smiling raw embarrassment, Tax joked, “Some handful.”

Zami looked past them. Xar had flooded white. Bani was a noisy, dark red. Then Tax and Tah turned also. Tax noted Bani's reddening scowl and put his hands behind his back. Uncomfortable with the innate guilt of his hidden hands, he quickly sought another pose. He crossed his arms over his chest, then let them fall by his side.

“She tripped,” he explained.

She stood in his face, cold as stone. “I’m not blind,” she answered. She cupped him hard on one ear and took him by an elbow. As she yanked him up the muddy path, Bani's railing trailed back to the rest.

“I was just trying to help,” moaned Tax. “Help yourself!” snapped Bani. “That’s what you mean. I saw exactly what you were trying to do! So . . . you like big breasts do you?”

“That was just conversation. Bani.”

Tah stumbled forward, a pleasantly vacuous expression on her face. Zami watched her walk away. Then, Voy and Pah approached and passed him, deep in oblivious conversation. They discussed the possibilities of shar simmered in wine. Zami covered his eyes and sighed.

Fate could not be so grudging, he thought.

He looked up and queried the still white Xar. “Did you ever have one of those days,” he asked, “where you wished it was some other day?”

They camped in a broadening of the trail. The dirt had a cold muddy quality that sucked at their feet with sinister greed. The vines had become quite large; they angled up into the brooding nholas.

Then they grew. To his guests, they seemed huge and impassable. Tall carish plants hooded the trail, giving it the cold, bleak feeling of a tunnel. Even though they uttered not a sound, Zami could sense the lingering tension between Tax and Bani. Drained, and near to anger, he sat in the clammy dirt and

hugged his knees. Tax sat beside him, and Voy, knowing there was nothing to say to such an unhappy mood, sat beside Tax. Xar broke the moody silence with a question for Zami: “Where are we supposed to sit?”

“In the dirt,” he answered.

“The dirt’s wet.”

Zami looked at her for a long moment and said, “Then . . . sit on my shoulder.”

Xar smiled sweetly and complied. Zami had to admit a certain gratitude for the weight of such a pleasurable warmth. Had he been clever? He couldn’t recall. Following suit, Bani sat heavily on the broad shoulder of her own; she faced the back of Xar. Then Pah sat on Voy's shoulder, facing away from the group.

Tah immediately wailed, “Now I’ve no place to sit.”

Tax patted his free shoulder, and Tah covered it, but Bani leapt to her feet with an indignant snort. She kicked her own and moved to Zami's free shoulder. Zami could see what was coming next; he preferred to close his eyes. He covered them with his hands.

“Oh, no you don’t!” said Xar, turning to push Bani from her perch. “Just you go and rub that on someone else.”

Bani stumbled away. She turned and scowled at Zami, but embarrassment flooded her skin. She ignored Tax, stared at Tah with cold contempt, and considered Voy. Giving a loud harrumph, she folded her arms and fell like a stone on the open seat.

Zami moved Xar and stood. “That’s it,” he snapped. “Up!” He fumed silently loud, the others stood and watched him as if he might suddenly burst open. Finally, he calmed himself and said, “I think it’s time I removed the portals.”

“No!” cried the girls.

Zami glowered; he said, “There’s been naught but confusion since I agreed to it.”

“We’ll be good,” said Xar, and Bani echoed her, saying, “We’ll be good.”

A moment passed, and Zami's face softened. He said, “I suppose I’ve no one to blame but myself.” Then his eyes narrowed to a glinting edge as he added, “I hope I’ve heard the last of it.”

Mouths had gaped; heads had bowed. A collective sigh issued from the girls at the passing of danger. Feet scuffed in the damp dirt, and Zami calmed himself further.

“Very well,” he concluded, thinking to change the dour mood. “Voy, come here.” When the boy stepped up, smiling appeasement, Zami asked him, “Can you climb?”

“Yes.” Voy was cautious but eager.

“Carish grow all around,” he said, gesturing with a broad sweep of the arm. “Climb one and toss down the seeds.”

It was a short, fibrous bole that Voy chose. He scaled it quickly and penetrated a dense thatch of leaves at the top. Small brown carish seeds began to fall. They were happily collected and placed in Zami's bulging shroomsack. When Voy returned, Zami indicated the slanting plane of a colossal vine, and the group began its ascent.

Chapter Seventeen Zami led the way; Xar followed, then came Pah, Voy, Bani, and Tah. Tax was last, in order that he might assist any who stumbled. His attention strayed little from the ample attributes of the girl just ahead of him. Those attributes seemed to speak to him; they seemed to call him by name as he marched through the solitary confinement of his reverie. At any rate, none fell; none slipped or stumbled. The rough surface afforded them exceptional footing.

Still grand in scale, the vine became smaller as they moved higher. It was a winding trail between towering nholas. It coursed through an unimaginably tangled maze of budding flora, as thick as the weave of their awe. At last, their highway stretched flat across several supporting vines, then it hooked right and ended abruptly.

They stood on a shelf that was flush with the largest thing any of them, save Zami, had ever seen. It was a wall. Along the edge of the shelf: naught but a broad chasm. Wide eyes moved beyond the chasm to the core of the forest; they gaped and gasped as one. Nholas, larger still, stood like the legs of giants that stretched between the vague and the implausible. The choking mantle of flowering vines gave the immense nholas an air of antiquity.

Zami stood on the brink of unexpected depths, where the highway narrowed and disappeared.

The others stood a safe distance behind him, in wary awe. His sudden command gave all a start.

“Pah, Voy; step up.”

The two stepped cautiously around Xar and hunkered uncertainly in his shadow. The dark brown bark of the nhola, nearest to Zami, swarmed with sweetchurs. Their slow, umber movements made them undetectable to the inept pair.

“Do you remember my sweet?” asked Zami.

“Yes.” “Yes.” Zami ran a finger over the back of a slow-moving creature and pulled a sample of its burden to his tongue. When he knew that his entire troop recognized them, he said, “These are sweetchurs. They are harmless. You may all taste.”

Timidly, Pah and then Voy stretched out their hands. They tasted; they sought Zami's smile and

approving nod. The others joined them; they were bold, if not more than a little hungry.

“Mmm!” said Xar. “Don’t push!” said Tax. All took a turn - and another. They savored the sweet; they ‘oohed’ and ‘ahed’. They studied the bizarre creatures. When they were refreshed, when they seemed to relax and forget their former worries and concerns, when their postures and rainbows told Zami what he needed to know, he called for attention.

Zami looked directly into the eyes of Voy and casually said, “You must jump across.”

Voy peered nervously into the void, aware that the intense and sudden silence was nothing more than a finely tuned ear awaiting his response.

“It’s awfully far.” he croaked.

Zami spoke to the group: “This is the shortest jump you will have to make.”

“You go first,” said Tax to Zami, his face bright with a mischievous smile, “and I’ll toss him over to you.”

“No!” Voy answered quickly. He took a deep breath and said, “No, I’ll do it.”

Zami placed a hand on Voy's shoulder to soothe and steady; he said, “If you can’t reach the top vine, there is one just beneath it. You’ll be fine.”

Xar demanded, “Are you sure we can do this?”

Tax repeated his favorite axiom: “If it can be done, we can do it,” but, the group stood blank faced and unconvinced.

“Watch me,” said Zami.

He walked slowly back to the beginning of the shelf, turned, and darted along the length of it.

He thrust forward, sailed effortlessly across the chasm, hoping the ease of his demonstration would inspire the others.

He called from across the way, “Who’s next?”

In an uncharacteristic display of will, Voy jumped first, his face a wide-eyed and stony mask of fearful concentration. Zami caught a flailing arm and pulled him in. Bani went next. Long, graceful strides sent her, in a running arc, through the void. She fetched up in Zami's arms, panting excitement, and smiling a victor's smile. One by one, the others followed without incident. Tax leapt and landed with a joyous whoop. Xar Jumped with faith and self-confidence; her landing was sure-footed. Pah landed well, and Tah fell into Tax’ generous grasp.

Emboldened by success, Zami's troop pressed on with a laughing confidence in their newfound

skill. They raced over broad vines, snickering at the treacherous depths below. They danced on nhola voals and drank the ebbing dew. They swung on hanging creepers, and climbed through living knots, fragrant and blooming. Bouncing, and dashing, and leaping, they came at last to an immense tangle of vines. The unbelievable vines, which had grown together, seemed like an impenetrable wall.

The dense tangle was actually Zami's home; it thoroughly received its well-earned smile of thankful satisfaction from its returning occupant. It was a gigantic knot tied between the boles of four great nholas. It became evident, after a moment, where their host had cut and shaped a natural crisscross of smaller vines to form a porch and walkway around his door. The application of hardened zeowax gave the walkway a smooth and even surface. Cut lengths of dried creeper had been tied together into a sturdy hand guide. A hole, made perfectly round, sat squarely in the center of the porch some fifteen hands from the door. A ladder faded gradually from the rim of the hole to the absolute blackness below.

Zami unfastened the large shroomskin door, permitting access to his wide-eyed friends. They filed into the dim, cavernous space that Zami described simply as, “Home.” On a wall, two caged star gnats pulsed weakly, giving the mysterious dark interior an intermittent orange chill. Xar walked to Zami's black table, where two open pots were visible, one by her knees and the other at the far end of the polished oblong.

She whispered in reverent awe, “Zami, it’s the table from the vision: the two pots.”

“Thought you lived alone,” prodded Tax. “I do. I set a second place for the Maker.”

Bani stood at his elbow and asked, “Is it always this dark?”

Thus prompted, Zami called broadcast, “I need some extra hands to catch new lights.”

Tax was in, and Voy made his choice with hesitant silence. Zami rummaged through the darkness with sure hands, finding what he sought, and giving instructions to those who would stay behind.

“While we’re gone,” he said, “you girls can set the mid meal.” He pointed with a free elbow and continued, “By the far wall, there are pots and food. Don’t come back here, and don’t remove my father's pot from the table. You may make new vestments if you wish. You’ll find silk, and skins, and sewing spines by the food. All you need is over there. Don’t go near the star gnats. They’re nearly dead; if you scare them and they die, you’ll be without light til Tax and I return. Keep the door closed.

Xar commands til I return.”

Zami stepped from the darkness hefting three large woodvine cages and gave two of them to Tax. He kissed Xar lightly on the cheek and led Tax through the shroomskin door.

After fastening the door behind them, Xar turned and spoke to the others: “We’ll set the morn meal first. We’ll do it up right; I want Zami to be pleased when he returns.”

Zami and Tax returned through the door laughing and set the brightly lit cages at their feet.

They gaped. A large sheet of silk had been draped over the table, and eight places were extravagantly

set. Food sat high on the table; it was truly a feast. Circling the table were eight shroomskin cushions, fat with floater fluff. Five smartly dressed friends ringed the table in happy anticipation of Zami's approval.

They wore tight fitting trousers with belts; on their feet were sandals like Zami's own. The tops were rolled down, but the bottoms were unslatted. The girls wore sleeveless tops of silk tied in front with loose knots. Voy's sleeveless top was shroomskin and cut to open in front. Lastly, each head was adorned with a fetching blue quill cap. Xar's cap was the most fetching of all; its blue-black ends curled around her ears and streamed down her back.

Zami smiled for all, but mostly for Xar. “Well met,” he said.

Gleefully, they bounced up on their toes; they laughed. Xar flew into Zami's arms and kissed him ardently. Pah, then, stepped forward with two sets of similar vestments. Zami and Tax were quickly fitted.

Xar said, “We’ve been waiting forever.”

The cages were hung on the wall, and the dying star gnats released. Tax stepped forth from Bani's attention, smartly dressed, grinning big, and spinning on his heels for all to see.

Then they sat. Zami ordered the seating. Xar sat to his right and Tax to his left. On the left side of the table followed Bani and Pah. Voy sat down from Xar, with Tah at his elbow, happy and anxious.

They feasted in high merriment. Zami jested, told tales, and answered the odd spontaneous question.

Laughter rang through his brightly lit hall, and not a scrap of food was left untouched. He felt enlarged to have his friends with him in his home; all were delightful, even Voy. He relished the giggles of the girls and the happy chatter. Looking to the pot at the far end of the table, Zami gave quiet thanks to the Maker of all. In the end, all fell back from the feast and rubbed their swollen bellies. Tax belched - a surprisingly hardy bellow - and everyone laughed again.

“I can’t breathe,” said Voy, “I’m so full.”

Zami answered, “Close your eyes and sleep.”

That seemed a welcome idea to all. Xar snuggled into Zami's arms, Tax and Bani rolled together, and Tah invited Pah to sleep with her and Voy - not between, nor on the Voy side, but on the Tah side, and silence settled.

Stretching pleasantly after his nap, Zami sat up and palmed his heavy eyes. To his right, balled in happy slumber, lay Xar. Beyond her, Pah and Voy were entwined in each other's embrace. That was curious; Zami looked to the left. Bani slept alone; Tax and Tah were absent. Then he spotted the missing two behind his heaped treasures, half hidden in shadow. They sat very close to one another and whispered clandestinely. Zami caught the attention of his muscular friend with a gesture of his head which was, at once, both summoning, and indicative of Bani's rousing form. Tax scurried to her side just as she rolled over and draped her arm across his broad chest. Tah padded softly to her place.

Zami called loudly, “Awake! Awake!”

The group struggled to a sitting position; eyes opened with dry difficulty. Mouths gaped in

pleasant yawns, and tongues licked back the sweet taste of sated sleep. Tax stretched pretentiously.

Zami announced to his friends, “We have a matter to discuss; it is the matter of adventure.”

Lids heavy over dry orbs, Xar grumped, “Who dares to wake me?”

Tax answered brightly, “We begin a quest.”

Tah said, “Before we begin . . . where’s the privy?” and three girls grunted approval.

“Don’t have one.”

Four cried foul, now fully awake. “What!?” said they.

“You’ll have to go outside.”

“Where outside?”

Zami shrugged, “Over the side. Where else?”

A fine trick thought Zami. He joined the infectious guffaws of Tax and Voy as the pouting girls arose with indignation to stomp outside. Xar turned in the half-opened door and leveled cutting eyes at Zami.

She said in a lean, low voice, “I once called you a privy-bred Peck; I guess you are more uncivilized than I first imagined.”

When the girls returned, the boys sought their own ease. Then, the group gathered once more round the table and Zami called for order.

“I intend to set upon a great and glorious quest,” he began flamboyantly, “but I need your help, all of you.”

Voy asked, “What do we have to do?”

Zami smiled, “Help me find the arms of war, and bring them here.”

From the momentary lapse of quiet order, the voice of Bani rose above the others in startled confusion. “But . . . nobody knows the hiding! Only Yagi,” she proclaimed.

Zami countered with indisputable self-assuredness, “I know it.”

But it was Tah who asked the question the others wished to: “Why?” Xar added to that argument by emphatically stating the obvious: “They’re weapons.”

Zami turned to her with his answer. “I wish to divvy iron among the Shee; work will be easier and life will be better.” Xar's tightly knit brows caused him to add, “They only were weapons; we can use them for good.”

The group took a moment to digest Zami's reasoning, then Tax asked in a flat, demanding voice, “You say you know the hiding; how?”

Zami shrugged. “I went to Yagi and persuaded him to tell me.”

Tax laughed, “Ha! Not likely.”

“Yagi hid the hiding in a song,” Zami explained. “Before the procession, I found him asleep in the school. I asked him, and from his sleep, he sang me his song.”

“Sing it to us,” chorused his friends.

He did, and when he stopped, a long silence followed. He spoke again. “The first thing I need is your help understanding the words.”

Tax didn’t think the song was genuine, but he stayed his tongue. Zami explained further, “Once we know the meaning of the words, we can find the hidden treasure.”

Voy echoed the words as if they were an incantation of magic: “Hidden treasure . . .”

“Ooh! I know,” chirped Xar. “Mother's Soul: that’s what Teller called the gown you made me.”

“Smart girl,” Zami smiled. “Let’s see . . . ‘iron will shield your mother's soul’ . . . the arms are here, in the nholas, near where I plucked the flower.”

Tah added, “The ‘heart’ must be the heart of the forest.”

Zami nodded. “But, what does ‘toll’ mean?”

“Bells,” said Bani. “Great noisy things of the wog. They were hung high and struck. Teller said the sound of them was deafening.” The others agreed.

Zami thought aloud, “So, the arms are high up, at the heart of the forest, near where the flower was. But, what about the rest of the song?”

“Too easy,” said Bani. “The ‘downward path’ is the way down. Look for high dew and find a graven slate: a showstone. Then look in a hole for something bright: golen pells.”

“I do thank you,” said Zami with a nod. “So then, the plan is this: first, we search at the heart; then, we look high. The way down and the hole can wait til midday next.”

Chapter Eighteen They collected their resolve and filed outside to the ladder. One by one, they descended into darkness.

The ladder was a makeshift, rambling path, attached in sections to one of the supporting boles of Zami's home. The ladder was long and sturdy, its stoutness gave them confidence. From the bottom of

the ladder, Zami led his eager troop along winding paths of pale vines that ran ever dirtward. The stark silence, and otherworldly closeness of the inner forest made of his friends a quietly huddled and wary group.

Fibrous vines, larger in circumference than the Norsey, were home to many deeply rooted flowering creepers. The dank, slick surface and knotted outgrowths instilled a heightened carefulness to each searching step. And time stood still in the dark belly of the nholas; neither end nor beginning could be touched.

Zami called for a rest, and the command was met with grateful praise. As they seated themselves, they shucked the overlarge bags they had been issued and rested without conversation. The only sounds to be heard in the pressing, light-forsaken bowels of the forest were the rustlings of pale flowers in the damp breeze, and the scratchy brushing of creepers, one against another.

A large round creature, orange and black, pulled itself lethargically from the underside of the vine on which they sat. It stopped behind Voy to sense his presence with stubby, jointed antennae. Pah saw it first; she skittered back on the heels of her hands and feet. The warning was stuck in her throat; she thrashed her arms and hands to get Voy's attention. She skittered further back and bumped into Tah, who looked up and saw the beast. On hands and knees, she leaned around Pah to call out.

“V-V-Voy!” she hissed, as she beat the vine with the palm of her hand.

Voy looked up into frightened faces; wide eyes shot warning glances to something behind him. He swallowed hard and slowly turned. What he faced was a large monster with a small head. Two stubby appendages protruded from the head - they wiggled at him. With a squeal, Voy leapt across the heads of Pah and Tah and fell against a startled Tax. The creature spread glossy, rounded wings, and flew off above their ducking heads with an ear-popping roar. It shot up among the vines and disappeared.

“Bizrock,” said Zami.

They came, at last, to the last leg of their march. They filed down the sloping vine, and across the forest floor. Rotting flowers twined creepers, and hardened debris from times unknown raised an acrid odor to their noses. The weight of their world's heart pressed down around them. They marched through multicolored shrooms, each rising from the forest floor with its own odd shape. The height of many seemed excessive. The group came to a stop before a wall of brown bark that filled the scope of their vision in all directions.

Zami declared, “Here it is: the big one.”

They scrambled over raised dirt that ringed the nhola's gnarled base. Zami found amusement in his friends as they touched the creviced bole again and again – as they spoke in awed whispers of the unimaginable. The base of the nhola seemed to go on forever, and a silent reverence came upon them as they followed Zami. On and on they went, and the gentle breeze that favored their trek now became brisk – and loud.

“What is that noise?” demanded Tax. Zami explained above the increasing din, “We are coming to the mouth of the forest, where I plucked the Liyll. The noise you hear is the breathing of the nholas.”

At mention of the Liyll, Xar pressed her hand into Zami's and sought his eyes. He smiled at the sweet uplifting of her face and held her close as they stumbled over clumped dirt, large knots of the nhola's base, and loose gray slate.

Two immense roots defined a small field of tumbled, flat slates. Bani indicated that the shape of it was that of a bell. At the wider end of the field was a black, crescent-shaped ravine. It was the mouth of the forest. In the center of the field, midway between the narrow slope of the roots and the ravine stood the pale green stem of the Liyll. It leaned toward the mouth as air suddenly shrieked into the gash. The girls pressed their hands over their ears, and Zami led his awed adventurers into the gale.

Tax shouted into Zami's ear, “Where does all the air go?” They watched debris being sucked into the hole.

“Don’t know,” he shouted back. The wind and noise died without warning and silence rushed in on them like the slap of a cold hand.

“That’s better,” said Bani.

Zami took Xar by the hand and brought her to the Liyll. He said, “This is the stem from which I plucked your gown.”

Xar pointed excitedly: “Look!”

On the crimped end of the stem, where the flower had been ripped away, tender leaves encircled the buds of a double bloom. As the other girls pressed in for a look, Tax pulled Zami and Voy to his side, his face blazing with purpose.

“Where to from here? Up?” “What does the song say?” was Zami's answer.

Voy recited, “Iron will shield your Mother's Soul, turn within her heart and toll.”

Zami said, “Should be in this field.”

“You mean under the rocks?” asked Voy. “Yes,” said Zami, but his shrug held no conviction.

Without preamble, air shrieked from the ravine, sending billows of debris high over their heads. The four girls, hands on ears and heads tucked, put as much distance as they could between themselves and the noisome hole. Zami, with a mischievous grin for his stocky friend, leapt out over the rip in the dirt.

Strong currents took him aloft, to the dazed amazement of Tax and to the anxious horror of the others.

The powerful wind spun Zami away from the hole toward the vast wall of the nhola. Practiced hands found ready creepers. He climbed down and walked toward his friends. The noisy torrent ceased, and annoying debris drifted down.

Tax said, “That looks like fun.”

Zami responded, “Don’t try it, my friend. You are much too heavy.”

As Zami reached the huddled knot of girls, Xar, eyes still wild with fear, took a swipe at him and missed. Zami easily dodged her exasperation and smiled an apology.

He said, “We must all now avoid being inhaled. Let’s start here, and look under the slates.”

Tax clapped his hands for attention and said merrily, “We turn our hands to turning stone.”

The initial enthusiasm of the task was soon lost, as the labor soon seemed fruitless. The droning roar of the ravine made their heads hurt. Yet in short order, working methodically from the nape of the bell, ravine-ward, nearly all the slates had been turned. Only those nearest the mouth remained.

Tax, being the heaviest, was elected to finish the labor - to within a body's length of the ravine.

“Be cautious,” Zami warned. “The next breath goes in.”

Bani jested nervously, “It’ll take one taste, and spit him back.”

Tax swaggered forth and turned with an insufferable smile. “Be ready to catch me.”

He approached the hole, hefted a sizeable slate, turned and sent it flying as a brag.

The group called to him: “On your belly!”

Still, he stood. He slapped the dust from his hands to announce both his courage and a job well done.

His smile was a brazen boast. Then the noise began. Instantly, his cap was sucked into the grinning maw; he averted his face from debris and lurched into the gale. He attempted to step away from the mouth with arms stretched forward, but his feet flew from beneath him and he tasted dirt. His fingers gouged long deep troughs – and he was gone.

“Tax!” cried Bani, leaping forward to clutch hands that were suddenly absent.

She slid forward on her belly; the wind was sucking her in after her own. Zami could not think, only act. His hands were tight about Bani's ankles, as both were drawn forward. It was the kind of moment that lasts an eternity, as quick as the blink of an eye, as slow as growing up. He dug his toes into the dirt, feeling weightless and useless.

Then Voy grabbed his feet, shouting, “I’ve got you!”

But, the sliding continued. He heard the din of voices in the wind, calling first one name, then another.

He saw fingertips worry the lip of the ravine. Bani reached for them, but they were gone.

She wailed, “Tax! No ...!”

And then the wind abruptly died. Bani kicked loose of Zami's grip and scrambled desperately forward.

Zami rolled to his back and sat up. Voy had fallen hard on the seat of his pants, and Tah was weeping into cupped hands, but neither Voy nor Tah commanded his concern; his mind was on the loss of his

greater friend. He turned to the ravine, where Bani lay. Her hands fell lifelessly over the rim of the hole. She wet the age-old dirt with tears.

Lifting her face, she howled, “Tax ...!”

“No need to shout,” said Tax from the hole. “I’m well enough.”

Bani looked over the edge with a big, wet sniff. She plowed the darkness with narrowed eyes.

“Where are you,” she called. “I don’t see you.”

“I’m on a ledge . . . and, I think I’ve found the arms.”

Zami leaned over the edge and asked, “Where?”

“Right in front of me. A tunnel.”

Bani called down, “You come up out of there before the air starts again.”

Tax called back, “You gonna swat me?”

She laughed and wiped the muddy tracks from her face. “Most likely,” she said.

“In that case, I’ll just check the tunnel first.”

They waited, for what they knew not. They waited until the mouth had exhaled, and covered them with loose, annoying litter. They heard a thumping noise, and Zami ran to the nearest root to listen. Again, the thumping noise. Zami hefted a slate and struck the root three times. The others gathered close in anticipation. The noise in the root grew louder, more insistent. Then, one loud thump sounded and the rough surface of the root splintered. Another thump brought a sandaled foot through to the outside.

Hands bent quickly to the labor, and soon Tax slid through a large gap in the bark. Iron tumbled after him. He held a shiny breastplate above his head, and everyone cheered.

The trip back to Zami's home exhausted them. The laden bags drew bitter complaint. Zami stopped often, more often than he wished, to refresh and encourage his weary train. When at last they reached the ladder, all save he and Tax went ahead, bagless, to rest. Sacks of iron - unwholesomely heavy - and cumbersome bundles were drawn up with twine, one at a time.

Not all could be brought, so only the best had been chosen. The arms of war lay upon Zami's smooth black table. He smiled a shiny, tired smile at the treasure. There were iron blades, heaped high and spilling over. There were long lethal spears, gleaming hotly. Bright armor and shields flaunted curious Pucha designs. Heavy, iron-tipped bludgeons tasked the imagination. For the shiny silver funnels, there was no ready explanation.

Holding hands, the jubilant adventurers danced in circles, laughing, until all tumbled panting to the floor. Breath chased and hardly caught, chests heaved. The floor was cool, and ragged laughter trailed away into small contagious bursts of sated victory.

“Rest,” commanded Zami.

Tah declared, “I’m too excited to rest.”

“Me too,” said Tax, to which Bani and Pah vigorously agreed.

Voy breathlessly suggested, “Let’s go on another quest.”

Xar rolled into Zami's arms with a probing smile and asked in a fragrant whisper, “Can we?”

Zami answered, “If that is what you want, then get you up. We leave at once.”

A chorus assailed him: “Where to?”

“Up . . . nhola hopping.”

Everyone spoke at once; a bevy of questions brushed his ears. He closed his eyes and let the questions fly. They became small buzzing noises that begged to be ignored. He imagined the noisome bizrock winging near. It darted in and fell back. The noise was rhythmic, rising and falling like the chirrups of his kingdom's denizens. He could have slept to it. But the buzzing bizrock also thumped, as if flying into a wall, then forgetting and flying into the wall again. He opened sleepy eyes. Tax was pounding the floor, calling for order. Zami knew what needed saying.

“Listen to me,” he said, rising and stretching. “There is dew at the top of the nhola each morn, and the voal can be slippery. They are dry at midday, but there is a hole in the center of each voal, and there is always some dew left. Care must be taken. I will show you the way to jump, to climb, to search. Do as I say and you will never fall. We seek the showstone.”

Zami led them across the nhola tops. They seemed surprisingly adept at the long jump; he was impressed. He spread them out in a line, and they set about to search the voals seven at a time. While they searched, they played; they played like the Norsey young. Bouncing high on a springy voal was a happy game for them that soon became a contest. They called across to one another in wild hoots of gaiety, and all were winners. They jested; they sang songs. Zami was caught up in their infectious fun; it was all high play and a glorious good game.

“Look!” cried Xar, pointing excitedly.

Rising like a smile among the farther ambuscades of the lesser nholas, two great planes of red and white sliced the air in a broad arc, and circled away and up to higher climes. Even at such a great distance, black trim gave definition to those mighty wings. Zami wondered if the Shee ever saw his oldest friend.

Surely they cannot help but see; they need only look.

Pah cried out, “It’s huge!”

Zami called loudly enough for all to hear, “What you see is the oldest citizen of my kingdom. I watched him tear his sack. I saw him loose his wings.”

“He’s glorious,” said Bani, nearby.

Zami answered, “That shall be his name from this midday on. I will call him Old Glorious.”

With a laugh and a cheer, they moved on. As the nholas grew from unthinkable to impossible, climbing became part of the game. Tax raced Zami to see who first might gain the voal of the next lofty nhola.

Strength belonged to Tax, but long experience was with Zami. So it was that Tax found his friend resting comfortably when, at last, he pulled himself over the top.

Vastly round, cool and sponge-like, the voal afforded Tax a broad bed on which to cast himself and ease his aching arms.

A laugh in his words, Zami asked, “What took you so long?”

Tax gulped air greedily, coughed a blunt reply: “Give me a minute.”

“Rest, then. The others should be with us before long. We can camp here till you catch your breath, or, we can turn back if this is all too much for you.”

“Ha! You had the unfair advantage. Next time, we’ll arm wrestle.”

Voy pulled himself over the edge and turned to help the girls. Each, in turn, collapsed and wheezed relief.

Xar asked weakly, “Has the hole been searched?”

“Yes,” replied Zami, propping on an elbow to survey, with a smile, his panting crew.

“Oh. Good.”

Voy asked, “Are there many more?”

“A few.”

Bani rolled to her side. With a gasp, she noted, “Our homes look so small.”

They pressed on. The 'few' became many, but no complaint was voiced. The higher voals were truly grand; they were worlds unto themselves. Thletix or Zhereen might be fit atop one of these giants. They camped on one such expanse with a renewed sense of adventure. They took the time to find their second wind, and then they danced. Bani led the girls in a slower, more tantalizing version of their post-processional performance.

High voal, high spirits. Zami taught them the warriors dance, something quite new to them, but they took it up with enthusiasm. In doubled rhythmic moves, Zami led them with a shaken fist that clutched an imaginary spear, and a jolt of a step. His train followed: right foot, right fist, left foot, left fist. And so it was that they marched the broad voal's outer rim, stalking invisible prey in a happy, spellbinding shuffle.

On the second tallest nhola, they stopped to rest. The central nhola towered above them, piercing the very top of the sky. It had not taken them as long as Zami had imagined it would. For all their playing

and dancing, they had reached the center of the forest in short order. Zami stood watching his weary friends; they had given themselves to the quest quite heroically. He would ask no more of them.

He declared, “The big one is mine alone to climb.”

“Good,” said Tah. “We’ll just wait for you here.”

“Showstone has to be up there,” Tax wheezed. “Should have come straight here; we wouldn’t have tired these poor girls so.”

Zami answered, “I think they shall rest well enough, once you cease panting so loudly.”

Ragged laughter echoed back from the top of the sky. Zami stepped to the edge and leapt across the void to clutch thick creepers, deeply rooted in the tough bark of the big one. He thought to himself, my time has come. He would conquer the greatest of all the nholas; he would reach up with his hand and claim the zenith as his own.

Tax sat up and hailed, “Take care, my friend.”

Zami took a strong grip and hung by one hand, the toe of a sandaled foot snug in the creepers' flowering lacework. A ball of dew, rolling past on its slow sojourn into the black bowels of the forest below, caught his attention.

“Ooh!” exclaimed Xar, stabbing a finger into the sky.

Heads snapped around as Old Glorious rose up from the depths, with a flap of his mighty wings. The nhola swayed as the floater fanned his way up and up. Cowing before the sheer immensity of the otherworldly creature, and buffeted by strong winds, their fingers sought purchase in the spongy matter of the voal. Zami laughed. Old Glorious rose high above them and circled the big one. It gained height with each circuit. Tax and the others stood boldly in a tight huddle and gaped up at the wonder.

Nothing said ‘awe’ like the image of his friends.

It amused Zami to see them strain after the rising floater. Well, he had to admit that they had never been so close to something this big. Then Tax raised and shook his fists, bellowing a raucous cheer.

Zami announced to all, “I’d not look up with open mouth if I was you.”

Tax turned and demanded, “Why?” “Floaters can fly and make droppings at the same time.”

“Eeyoo!” cried the girls.

Zami laughed to see Pah and Voy fall upon their faces and cover their heads. As other eyes steadfastly followed the floater's ascent, Zami palmed the ball of dew, a clever thought taking shape. When Old Glorious passed overhead, and Tax turned to follow its course, Zami let fly. The dew ball connected solidly with a meaty shoulder, tiny droplets spraying Xar, Tah, and Bani. As Tax lurched forward from

the force of the blow, the girls froze in startled horror. Tax spun on his heels to lock eyes with Zami, and the girls followed his gaze. Zami shrugged and offered an apologetic smile.

“I warned you,” he said.

“Eeyoo!!!” squealed the girls.

Zami left his friends frantically batting at drops of dew. It took all his strength of will not to laugh out loud as he started up. The running fits of the girls were, indeed, quite a sight.

From below came the gruff voice of his overlarge friend asking, “Is it off? Did I get it all?”

Zami, himself, was as tired as any of his friends below. But his long-held ambition to climb the big one spurred him onward. Deft fingers and practiced hands pulled him relentlessly up. The abrasive creepers chaffed his skin. Up and up he climbed; there was no pausing, no looking back. His arms and legs began to ache; his bony chest pounded and his lungs burned.

It seemed he had been climbing forever; his throat was dry, but the edge of the voal was in sight. He reached with his hand, up and over. He squeezed his fingers into the voal's soft matter. Where one handhold failed, he sought another. He worked blindly, and unceasingly. Glistening balls of dew spilled over the edge.

This is going to be difficult, he thought. With exaggerated care, small measure upon small measure, Zami lifted himself. His grip was precarious, but finally, he was able to reach an arm fully up over the edge. With a mighty voal piercing grip, Zami pulled his chin up and over the edge; dew spilled over, encircling his shoulder, engulfing his mouth and nose. He gave his head a quick shake and hoisted himself up to sit on the conquered nhola.

So, here he was, he had made it; he sat at the very pinnacle of his kingdom. He could nearly touch the top of the sky, but he was slipping. He slid without remedy toward the center of an unbelievably broad and dew filled voal.

Now what?

The dew was growing dangerously deep, threatening to overwhelm, to suck him under. Then, his feet fetched up on something hard, and his descent came to an abrupt stop. Thank you, Father, he thought.

So there he sat at the center of the voal, up to his chin in the heavy dew. He took a deep breath, plunged in his head, and grabbed the object beneath his feet. Difficult though it was, Zami managed to sit back up, wipe the clinging dew from his face, and claim sweet, fresh air for his prize. He gasped and bade his thumping chest to settle. And, there it was; he held it in his hands. The showstone was his.

“Ha!" he laughed at the sky. “Ha!” He tucked the slate in his belt and furrowed his brow to the new dilemma: how to crawl back up to the voal's edge. How might he fight, and win, against this clinging dew? How might he get over that damnable edge without slipping and falling?

Just then, the nhola rocked. Black trimmed wings beat the air into a painful bellow all about him.

Wings of red and white covered him as Old Glorious settled and extended its tongue to drink. This was

Zami's way out; Old Glorious was the answer to his dilemma. With a singularly mighty effort, Zami lurched up and grabbed one spiky leg in each hand. The startled creature heaved away, pulling Zami free of the liquid grave. Rising on furious wings, the floater spiraled out over the edge of the voal – and down. Old Glorious fell like a stone. The floater plummeted in a wide spiral around the nhola, pressing frantic wings against the fall and seeking stability. His black trimmed wings struck the air like hammers, relentless, but to no avail. The beast had no balance.

Zami caught glimpses of the voal on which his friends stood, as they stared up at him in mute horror.

Each pass brought their pinched faces into clearer detail. A critical moment approached; he knew that if he did not time his jump perfectly, he would topple helplessly through the nholas to an untimely death far below. The voal swung beneath him; he opened his hands. He just noticed the scattering of his friends as he flipped face up, and spread wide his arms and legs. His eyes locked gratefully on the floater for one fleeting moment, then the voal slammed him a stinging blow. His breath was knocked from him, but it rushed past his lips in the word, “Bigoora!”

Xar flew to his side with smothering, teary-eyed affection. Concerned faces gathered over him. Zami pulled the slate from his belt and held it high for all to see. The red skins of his companions flooded brown, and the mist of worry lifted from their faces to reveal broad, bright smiles. Tax tilted his face to the sky, howling with delight – and the echoes of Zami's victory rained down.

Considering the trials of their all too successful quests, Zami thought to lead his troop home by an easier route, thus arriving with some measure of comfort. He brought them to the mid-nhola tangle of vines, where he was reasonably sure there should be a broad path back, a straight shot home. But, small annoyances plagued the homeward trek, and Zami soon rued his hasty choice. Bizrocks assailed them, exploding from the shadows to careen above their heads. The younger, smaller bizrocks, landing on the girls, caused running fits of hysteria.

Large nholan zeos hovered menacingly at hive entrances. “Zeozeozeo . . .” they warned.

Further on, thick walls of dangling creepers all but killed their homeward march. And, just as he thought the end was in sight, it literally was. The vine he traversed twisted sharply under, and Zami stepped out into emptiness. Seasoned reflex was all that saved him. Deft hands took hold on a dangler to pull himself back when the small burrowing roots gave way with a snap. He swung out over the void. His friends gathered uselessly at the edge.

“Zami!” cried Xar. Twisting ridiculously, he said, “I take it all are alerted to the danger.”

Embarrassed laughter rose up, and quickly died away. Zami hoisted his weight and steadied the nauseating spin. At last, he faced his anxious group, the dangler was still, and his friends ceased to spin in his eyes.

He smiled at them assuringly and said, “We’ll have to swing across. Get ready to catch me.”

Shifting his weight, rocking to and fro in widening arcs, he kicked his feet and momentum increased.

Soon, he was swinging over the broad chasm. Back and forth, back and forth; the beating in his chest quickened. Had he not business to attend, his present exercise would be fun. His feet passed over the far vine, he kicked, and once more he was racing toward his friends. Tax attempted to take him in hand

with no success; his reaching hand just missed the outstretched foot. As Zami sailed away from his friends, voices called out in support of the next attempt. He reached the far vine and kicked toward his waiting comrades. Tax caught the foot and pulled him in.

As the dew atop the big one, Xar embraced him.

Zami took Tax across first; Tax would be the catcher. Though it held, their combined weight brought snapping complaints from the dangler. One by one, Zami took his friends across, and done was done.

He accepted their cheers.

A short march brought Zami's home beneath their feet, and tired bodies sank gratefully to the cool floor. He looked into the eyes of the one he loved and saw fatigue. Fetching a cage from the wall, he drew her to her feet and placed the showstone in her hand.

“Back in a moment,” he told the others.

Zami led her back past his treasures to a place where his great hall narrowed and became small. Within the mesh of the back wall, a shroom skin had been tied by four corners to form a bed. Zami laid her down and drew thickly woven covers up over her. He softly kissed her lips.

“I want you to sleep,” he said.

Looking up at him past weighted eyelids, Xar hugged the showstone against her breasts and smiled dreamily. Zami drew a pillow from beneath the bed and placed it under her head. Already she slept.

Zami kissed her once more, then turned and tread softly away. Before he had gone four steps, Xar spoke from behind him, eyes still closed.

“Perhaps we should go home. We have chores. Our parents must be concerned.”

He returned to stand over her, looking down into her sweet brown face. He said, “I will send the others home, but you must stay with me. Your father gave you to me. I have his permission to care for you.

Sleep, now.”

Her brown skin turned buff even as he spoke. He turned on his toes and walked back to the others.

Having left the cage with Xar, Zami emerged from black shadow to find his friends quietly staring.

They roused as he seated himself, and he spoke softly.

“I’m going to send you home for a while. Do your chores, and make your excuses.”

Tah asked, “What about Xar?” “Xar is mine. Her home is with me.”

Tax cleared his throat and spoke into the stark silence that followed Zami's flat declaration.

“Well, I do need to help father,” he said. “He wants to break an old pyre gem.”

Bani added, “I must help collect the wax.”

Then Pah was encouraged to speak. “I should stop in at the Norsey. Mayhap Vre has returned.”

“I’d like to stay,” said Tah. “You can all return this even. Act as you do when you go to the point, but come here.” He winked at Tax, adding, “And bring wine.”

That seemed to brighten the group. Tax and Bani embraced, smiling happy notions known to all.

Then Tax turned in earnest to Zami. “May I have the metal cones?” he asked. “I don’t know what kind of weapons they were, but I may have a use for them.”

“Help yourself.”

Zami led them out and down the ladder. He chose another vine, informing his friends that the course they followed was a shortcut. Indeed, it was a straight shot into the floater forest. They came quickly to the barrier. Their return trip, as Tax noted, was far too short. Zami stepped through the barrier, turned and called for Voy. “This is the worst part,” said Voy unhappily.

Zami answered, “Come through quickly.”

Voy whined, “I . . . don’t know . . .”

“It doesn’t hurt as bad the second time,” offered Zami. “You can’t know how much courage you have until you use it.”

Voy seemed barely convinced. “ . . . Alright.”

He took a deep breath and stepped through. He immediately fell to his knees at Zami's feet.

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” he said.

Zami lifted him by his shoulders and said, “Still. You are whole.”

Voy looked up in surprise; he patted here and there for reassurance. He stammered, “But, you didn’t say the word.”

“Didn’t have to,” Zami answered, and to all, he said, “A little sting is nothing to cry about.”

Tax stepped through, beaming victoriously. Bani stepped through with a self-congratulatory nod and ran quickly on her way, a kiss to her own in parting. Pah and Tah came through without incident, and Pah scurried down the path with Voy on her heels. Tah followed, deep in thought.

Tax was watching Tah depart when Zami took him by the shoulders and turned him around.

“Tax,” he said, “return before the others. Bring torches.”

“Our next adventure?”

“I want you to show me the way down. I want just you and me to go. We’ll find the treasure and be back before the others return.”

Tax asked, “You think it might be dangerous?”

“I’ve no idea. Never been there.”

“It leads into the abyss,” said Tax. “Then perhaps it is. I don’t fear for you and me, but for Voy and the girls. And . . .” added Zami with a smile, “I know that if it can be done, you can do it.”

“That’s what I keep trying to tell everybody,” laughed the large Sith. “Be back soon.”

Zami watched Tax jog down the path, where Tah stood waiting. They turned, and side by side went on toward Thletix, heads bent in close discourse. Then Zami spun on his toes and was gone. He had errands to complete ere he come back to Xar – and he did not want to be gone long.

Chapter Nineteen Pax was not home; Zami called once, but the mon echoed emptiness. He stepped into the hall, wondering if he should take something back for Xar when a rustling noise came from the parental chamber. He moved to the doorway and there found Teefa curled upon her bed in fitful sleep; the buff coloring of slumber was troubled by pesky patches of frustrated desire. As Zami watched, a notion came to him; a smile broke upon his face. Since he had taken the daughter of Pax, he would leave a gift in her place. He would work quickly, and head for Thletix; doubtless, Pax was still at the market.

The market bustled with closing chores. Unsatisfied fathers loaded unbartered goods upon hand-worn pull carts. Zami walked the broad boulevard, passing Vureedi, a lithe Sith of unprepossessing presence. Bani helped to tie the twine about the wax pots he would carry home; she raised an artful smile at Zami's passing. Voyun and Shinshar stood in hushed conversation with Yagi.

As Zami passed near the Teller, a look of utter confusion spread across the elder's face, as of needed memory just out of reach. Pax worked quietly, knotting twine about his wares. Zami took the twine from his hand and pulled it across the cart; he looped it around a simple stay and handed it back across.

Pax accepted the assistance with an affable smile.

“Midday greeting,” said he.

Zami noted, “Your cart appears heavy.”

“A poor day.”

“I cannot be long,” said Zami. “I’ve come to ask a favor.”

“Name it.”

“I want Xarhn to live with me in the nholas, and . . . I ask your leave.”

Pax smiled broadly, somewhat amused. He replied, “Did you really think you had to ask?”

“For respect; yes.”

Pax invited, “Come. Walk home with me.”

Zami took the cart in hand and led the way in adamant goodwill; Pax followed, protesting lamely. When the Norsey's dark face was at their backs, Zami said, “She is there now; she sleeps on my bed.”

Pax replied, “I think she will have no better care than yours. She is your treasure now; open to her, and she will be your heart.”

“I had hoped for such words.”

“Son, great things await you. How could I be anything but pleased with my daughter's own?”

Believing Pax deserved the whole truth, yet fearful the truth might change everything, especially the esteem in which Pax held him, Zami stumbled through his next revelation as one might stumble through a threshold in haste, and hunger, and want of home.

He screwed up his courage and said, “You might not be so pleased if you knew all my hands have done.”

“I doubt it. What can you do but lead us all to the new world?”

Zami sighed; there was no polite way to say it, but he offered, “All the Mithal can do, I can do,” as a preamble.

Pax did not hesitate in his response: “You order your world around you; you shape the future.”

Zami said plainly, “I have given portals to the girls . . . I have lain with your daughter.”

Pax looked away in surprised contemplation, but continued toward home; the only sound between them was the creaking of sedge wheels. Presently, Pax turned to study the nholan king. He saw a boy, he saw his daughter's own, and he thought: he has been called by the Maker.

Pax said, “I am not offended. You have set your feet toward the unknown; new calls for new. Of course, the other parents will not share my faith in you; what you’ve done flies in the face of our customs. Let not your work be discovered. I must ask you then - favor for favor - take them first when you go. You are a leader; they will follow.”

“I may be gone this midday, next.”

“That soon?” Pax flooded surprise.

Zami confessed, “I’ve found the hiding. I intend to use the suits to explore Dirt.”

“Dirt?”

“Yes.” “Do you think Dirt is the new world?” asked Pax. “Don’t know. The Maker hasn’t said.”

Pax inhaled deeply and set his jaw in straightforward determination. “There will be danger,” he said after a moment's consideration. He looked Zami squarely in the eye; he laid his hand on Zami's, and Zami stopped. Zami set the cart down and turned to hear how Pax would finish. Pax said, “My daughter will be of much help to you; she has the power of heart and soul.”

Zami asked, “Does she dream?”

“Soon, I think. She is still young. But when she does . . .” He smiled more to himself than to Zami. “Her dreams will be as dew on flowers; let them guide you.”

Zami laughed, “That I need. I’ve not a clue what I’m up to. I go to Dirt . . . but what then? I only hope I cause more good than harm.”

“You’re chosen,” Pax argued to Zami's frown. “What harm could there be?”

“I don’t know,” replied Zami, waving away the uncertain future, “but I must turn home. I’ve food to gather.”

“Then, give Xarhn my love.”

Nodding, Zami remembered to say, “I went to your mon before I found you in the market. I was quiet; Teefa still sleeps, but I left a gift for you. Let none be the wiser.” He turned and jogged away.

Quickly, quietly, he set the meal: shroom meat, carish, and sweet. He placed them at one end of the polished black table; at the other end was the setting for the Maker. All was ready, save drink and chelt. He hurried to a cleverly hidden door near his amassed treasure. Beyond the door was a second, smaller porch upon which were baskets of curing chelt, pots of dew, milksap, his oven of slate, and sedge racks burdened with skins and silk. He took chelt and milksap, then returned to the table. The pouring of anik flavored milksap and the slicing of chelt was the completion of his task. He laid his ruby handled knife on the table and sought Xar. Her eyes were closed, but she was on the edge of wakefulness. In the gentle throb of orange light, her dreamy features brought warmth to Zami's sense of being. He knelt to study the perfect planes of her face when sleepy eyes opened to fix upon his. A smile parted her full lips, and a small hand slipped from beneath the covers to draw him near. She rolled into his arms with a sigh.

“I dreamt, I think,” she whispered. “Is that good?”

“Tell me what you saw.”

She snuggled closer and said, “I saw you. You were holding a pyre gem in your hands. And then,” she yawned, “a giant foot stepped on us, but, you raised the gem and it went away.”

Zami waited to hear more, but all he heard was the soft noise of her fragrant breath. He said, “Your father says he loves you, and, I’ve set the meal if you’re hungry.”

With a loud, happy sigh, she hugged him tightly and said, “I wish I was like you.”

“If you were like me, I wouldn’t have you,” he replied.

She laughed sweetly in his ear - a breeze among the nholas - and he helped her from the bed.

Fully awake, she stood on her toes and threw her arms around his neck. She pressed her warm lips to his. How could Zami not love her? Xar was the unnameable gift, the warm cocoon of secret treasure, and Zami was willing to remain in her embrace for all time.

Falling from her toes, she gruffed, with all the mock severity she could muster, “There had best be lots of sweet; I don’t want to have to hurt you.” And with her small, warm hand in his, they turned to leave. “Oh, wait!” she said. She ran to the bed and returned with the showstone, a sweet pout on her lips. “I shouldn’t be this nice,” she explained. “You owe me an apology.”

“Not that kings need apologize, but, whatever for?”

“For making me go outside; I found your privy.”

Zami laughed hardily, and said, “Come. Let’s eat.”

Tax helped Tah to the vine, with lingering hands, and she smiling, turned to take the four torches. Her eyes drank in his muscular frame as sinews rippled beneath his taut shroomskin vestments.

A mighty leap brought him to her side, below the ladder.

“Do you think he’ll mind?” she asked nervously.

“Don’t see why he should,” said he. “The more hands, the better. Right?”

Tax slung the bound torches over his neck, and followed Tah, appreciatively, up the ladder to the porch. He assessed Zami's door for a thoughtful moment, then called out. “Zami! I’m back!”

After a moment, Tah asked, “What if they’re not here?”

“Then, we’ll wait,” he answered, smiling confidently. He called again, “Zami!”

Zami came through the door, and Tax stepped up to him, brandishing an apologetic grin. Zami had expected to see Tax, but when he looked over the stocky one's shoulder, he saw what he did not expect. Zami was surprised to see the buxom one, Tah, standing in his friend's shadow. She tried to look hopeful and acceptable - or at least, unobtrusive. He felt a sudden aggravation crease his brow.

Zami's thoughts roiled within him: if Tax was not the larger of the two of them, he would surely put a

fist between his eyes.

Tax reasoned, “She wanted to come along. I told her, you’d see the sense of it. After all, the more hands, the better. Right?”

Tah pleaded, “I just want to help. I won’t get in the way.”

Zami pulled his friend close and hissed, “I thought we agreed this was too dangerous for girls.”

Tax quickly promised, “I’ll look out for her. And she won’t get in the way, just follow behind, and help. She’ll only do what she’s told.” He turned to the girl and said, “Right? You’ll do everything I tell you, won’t you?”

“Oh, yes. Everything.”

Zami dropped his face into an open hand and sighed in resignation. He said, “Just is just, I suppose.”

Then, he turned an embarrassed smile to his friend and confessed, “I made the mistake of telling Xar. Now, she must go, and she is stuck to me like sweet. So . . . one more can’t hurt. Come.”

Tah hopped cheerfully on her toes, clutching Tax’ arm in her excitement. Zami led them through the door, and their breaths caught in their throats. They stopped and stared, with open mouths, at the spectacle of shining ancient armor that stood before them. From head to toe, Xar was cast in iron. The armor was close fitting, with simple lines. Legends were deeply etched into the planes of the breastplate. Tah had to feel, had to touch.

Tax responded to Xar's proud smile, “Now, isn’t this a sight?”

Zami said, “I think we should all wear armor; I’ve no idea what dangers await us.”

Tah nodded absently, and Tax shrugged. He untied the torches and passed one to Zami, with a self-satisfied, if not somewhat mischievous, grin. Zami took it in hand and puzzled over it for a long moment. The strange cones had been fastened to handles of sedge. For all intents and purposes, it was a torch, but, no light came from it. He placed his palm against the cone and felt the heat of the gem inside. He lifted the cap, and light slapped him in the face.

“Point it around,” instructed Tax. As Zami turned it, first one way, then another, a tight beam of light jabbed at shadows and sent them running. He played it across the ceiling, and onto Xar's shining armor, then replaced the cap.

“Clever,” said Zami in praise of the work.

Tax said, “It’s just a fragment of an old gem: more light than heat.”

Xar spoke, unable to contain her secret any longer, “If you think that’s something, look at this.”

She drew the helm from her head with a grin. Tah gasped; Tax dropped his torches and gaped.

He stepped up to her, looked long into her eyes, then drew an unbelieving palm across her round, paitless head. Tah followed suit.

“Only way the helmets fit,” Zami told them.

Said Tax, “Perhaps, we can do without them.”

Zami answered softly, but adamantly, “I’d rather we not.”

Tax thought it prudent to acquiesce. “Very well,” he sighed.

Then Tah cried out, “But . . . I don’t want to be a Peckhead!”

“But, you’ll do it for me, right?” Tax put both hands on her shoulders, as if to hold her in place, and reminded her, “You said you’d do everything I asked. Well, I’m asking you to do this - for me.”

“But . . .”

“Hey! It’s just for a while, and my head will be just as round as yours.”

Tah cast a sulking face toward her feet and nodded.

Zami came near, and Tah looked up, fearful she would be rounded before Tax was. Zami said, “Now is a good time for you to be told.”

“Told what?” she asked uncertainly.

“You’re as much a Gathorne as Xar.” Tah whitened; her mouth dropped open. She looked at each of the others, in turn, hoping that some sign, some small tic of the eye, would belie the jest. She looked to Tax for support, but he could not look into her eyes. That, alone, made her heart drop. She faced Zami.

“I am not!” she declared.

“Ragezeg told me your mother is second generation, just like Pax. That makes you third generation, just like Xar.” “No . . .” she whined. “But, I don’t have visions. I . . .”

“You’re still young,” said Zami. “The dreams will come.”

Xar drew an ironclad arm about Tah's slumped shoulders. “Welcome to the new order,” she said.

Armor-clad, they marched through nholas, taking an easy path along the forest floor. But, the iron was heavy, and they soon became weary. They pressed on in silent discomfort. Each carried a large shroomsack, a torch, and a spear. Zami carried his ruby handled knife and Tax carried a long rope of twine, coiled neatly around his neck.

Skirting Mithal-Moun, and passing through the barrier - its sting a mild annoyance - their clanking steps came easier on the open cleg. Their spirits lifted with the nearness of their goal. They rested on the lip of the abyss, near a narrow path that vanished quickly into the blackness below.

“So, you were saying . . .” prompted Tax. Zami stretched on his back, savoring his repose. “It’s a barrier. I was saying, I think it’s a barrier, like the one around the forest, only solid.”

“Sorry,” said Tax. “I don’t believe you. It’s the sky, and it goes on forever.”

“There’s a way to find out.”

“And that is?”

“You’re the strongest,” said Zami. “Take up a stone, and throw it with all your might. Throw it across the abyss. If we hear it strike the sky, we’ll know it’s solid.”

Tax stood up, found a stone, and dislodged it. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s just see.” His body twisted; his left foot came up. With a loud metallic scrape, he hurled the stone out across the abyss. The girls leaned forward to listen. Ears pricked forward; breathing was stilled. Tax cupped a hand behind one ear and graced his fellows with an unbelieving smirk, but the smile melted from his face as sound returned to them.

‘Snick!’

Zami stretched, and confessed, “Sounds solid to me.”

“You’re right,” admitted Tax with a creaking shrug. “Old as I am, and I don’t know the Phar in which I live.”

“We’re, none of us, so very old,” said Zami. “I’ll call myself old at discovery's end.”

Tah cleared her throat for attention. “Will we be able to climb down in all this armor?” she asked.

“We have to,” replied Zami. “Who knows what we’ll run into down there?”

The narrow path was strewn with loose stones. Zami led a cautious descent, warning those behind of perils ahead. Turns turned sharply, and inclines were steep. Xar crawled down at a light's pace, never letting Zami out of her sight. Then came Tax, leading Tah. For all its twists and precipitous sheers, the narrow path was not overly long. Soon, it opened into a broad, rough walkway, set within the rock wall. Torchlight discovered the grey-black of wall, floor, and ceiling. Ahead of them, the walkway curved away into darkness. Zhereen-ward they marched, as solid blackness gathered below the craggy edge of the trail.

Tax and Tah walked ahead, brandishing torches at the brooding darkness. The trail passed endlessly through their circle of light. Loose rock was crushed loudly beneath the weight of their iron-

shod feet. Then, Tax stopped to fuss with his helm.

Zami between her and the precipitous edge, Xar asked, “How far do you think it goes?”

“Don’t know,” he said, and as he came level with Tax, he asked, “Is something wrong with your helmet?”

“Not the helmet,” Tax complained. “The head. It’s hard to keep my mind on what I’m doing when my head feels so . . . so . . .”

“Round!” Tah finished for him.

“It just doesn’t feel right.”

“You’ll be fine,” Zami soothed. “Let’s find the suits. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can celebrate our victory.”

Spirits flagging, they moved on - and on. No one spoke; only the iron made noise. The trail went on forever, and just when Tax angrily ripped his helm from his head, and Zami thought it wise to call for a rest, the trail narrowed to a point. Tax discovered a crawl space and a hole. He went through and called from below.

“It’s a narrow ledge,” he called up to the group. “Goes back the way we came.”

Zami sent the girls down, then dropped through to the confining ledge. They hugged the wall and sidestepped in single file with Tax in the lead. Footing was precarious, and they were all glad to have a torch. The trail was solid enough, but having only enough room for their heels made Zami nervous. Then the trail broadened a bit, and Tax stopped to shine his torch forward, searching the blackness for any hope of progress. He saw only emptiness.

He turned and reported, “The trail ends here.”

Frustrated, Zami commanded sharply, “Backs against the wall! I’m coming up.”

With perilous difficulty, Zami sidestepped around Xar, around the ample Tah, and around the hulking Tax. He stood upon the crumbling edge of their quest. He played torchlight past his toes: blackness was all he saw. He shined the light forward: the indication of a ledge. There were two, perhaps three, outcroppings of level rock. They seemed broad and easy to travel; he wondered if they had been whole during the time of the hiding.

He turned to his troop and said, “We’ll have to jump.”

Tax responded. “Are you tipped?! It’s too far.”

“No,” said Zami. “We can do it. It’s no further than the jumps we made in the forest. I don’t recall you having a problem on the voals.”

“That was different.”

“Besides,” said Tah, “we’re too heavy in all this armor.”

“Nonsense!” was Zami's cavalier response. “Look, I’ll go first. Once I’m across, Xar can follow. Then you can jump, then Tah. I catch Xar; you catch Tah.” Despite the protests of his friends, Zami placed his toes on the edge, bent his knees, and leapt across the void with all his might. His foot just missed the far edge; he felt himself falling. His ironclad chest slammed into the flat rock. Hasty fingers raked the surface, seeking purchase. He heard the desperate cries of his friends; he heard his spear and torch striking the wall as they tumbled into oblivion. Time slowed. He could have placed both hands between each beat of his heart. His pulse beat a slow, lazy cadence inside his ears, yet, he continued to claw relentlessly for a grip. For the first time in seasons, Zami was genuinely afraid. Voices calling his name from far away, pried at his fingertips, threatened his focus.

“Hang on!” It sounded like Tax. He did hang on. He strained at his weight and managed to get an arm up and over the edge. The iron defied traction, yet, heartbeat by heartbeat, Zami hauled himself up. He stood upon his hands with his legs dangling over the side. He saw his helmet against the wall. Carefully, he leaned forward and drew up one knee; he pushed himself to safety. Glad noises came from over the way; his party hailed his narrow escape from the maw of doom. He pressed his back into the solid sureness of the wall and sought his calm.

After a moment, he called over to his troop, “Alright; lose the armor.”

Piece by piece, armor clanged away into blackness until all stood naked in the dimly lit gloom of the abyss. Spears and torches were thrown to Zami, and Xar nervously approached the edge.

Zami said, “Jump hard; I’ll catch you.”

She gulped a deep breath and answered, “Here I come.”

Her foot touched lightly on the far edge, and Zami held her in his arms; tension fled from her.

The former apprehension vanished as a mist. Xar squeezed her arms tightly around her own, and her heart knew its home; she pulled his lips to hers and laughed.

So the process went - Zami jumped to the second outcropping and caught Xar; Tax jumped to the first and caught Tah; she fell into his solid embrace. He held her fast, sensing the beat of her heart and the warmth of her flesh.

Zami called them from the third ledge: “Come on!”

On the far side, the trail offered ample footing. They walked side by side, and once again, Tax took the lead, Tah at his side.

Zami confided to Xar in a whisper, “I think I’ve caused a problem.”

Xar studied her two dear friends, up ahead, and asked, “What are you going to do about it?”

“Me? What can I do . . . solve one problem by making another?”

Xar insisted, “Well, you need to do something. Tax and Bani have been one since the Norsey.

And, Voy belongs to Tah. Bani may seem strong, but I know her, and I would see her hurt, but she will be if you let this continue.”

Zami said hopefully, “Maybe it’ll work itself out.”

“You have to talk to them, Zami.”

“Hey! I twisted no one's arm over this portal matter. It wasn’t even my idea. It’s what you and the others wanted, so you’ll just have to learn to deal with it. Besides, I just said I may have caused a problem; I didn’t say I accepted responsibility for it.”

Xar looked up and whispered, “Well, I know how I’d feel if it was your arm around Tah.” They came to another ending. There were, however, more outcroppings just below them. They jumped easily to the first and dropped to the second. The third, like steps, led them down to a broad, black chasm. Zami sensed the heart sink in his friends. They spoke of turning back, and Zami, too, felt discouraged, but he was not ready to admit defeat. He searched ahead with one of the torches; he looked for anything useful. He noticed a rock in the wall that protruded far past the normal, rough texture; it stuck out like a battered peg. If he could get Tax’ rope around it, they could swing across to the ledge just past it.

He took the rope from Tax and looped one end. After several attempts, he succeeded in snagging the rock and cinching the loop. Swinging across was a simple matter, and spirits soared on the other side. Zami was just glad that he had not led them all this way only to turn back. He placed a large stone on the end of the rope, and they pressed on.

The path they found themselves on was broad and somewhat smooth. They walked four abreast, with room to spare, and presently, they came to a large black hole in the wall. A thorough exploration turned up nothing. A short walk further brought them to a smaller hole. Zami rubbed his chin thoughtfully and said, “It’s awfully small. Xar, you’re the smallest, why don’t you crawl in and tell us what you see.”

“You want me to crawl in there? Alone? Excuse me?”

“I’ll do it,” Tah volunteered. “We’re about the same size.”

“No, you’re not,” Zami disagreed. “You’ll get stuck trying to pull your butt through.”

“Well!” huffed Tah indignantly as Tax guffawed.

Zami earned a solid pop of Xar's small hand, and Tax laughed on, receiving a swipe from Tah, teary-eyed and flooding red.

“Well,” said Tax, “she can just stick her head in and shine the light around.”

Zami gestured toward the hole: “Alright. Do what you will.”

Handing her spear to Tax, Tah knelt before the hole and inserted the torch. She looked uneasily at her friends, then her head followed the light into the hole. Tax attended her progress with peaked interest, and Xar pulled Zami sharply about.

“You don’t look!” she commanded.

Zami busied himself with idling. He walked to the edge of the precipice and shone his light into the blackening gloom. Xar came to his side and added the third light to his.

From behind with a laugh, Tax said, “Hey! I can’t see back here.”

Zami and Xar could see a ledge below the one on which they stood; it was wide enough to walk on but too far down to jump safely. From behind them, Tah gave a surprised giggle. The hole that Tah explored was empty; a short march along their present course, however, brought them to yet another.

This cave was somewhat larger than the second, so Tah crawled in, and Tax followed.

They called from within, “This one goes way back.”

The four of them followed the long cave back, and down. A switchback led them to a lower level; they emerged from a medium sized opening, difficult only for Tah's butt and Tax’ broad shoulders, onto a stout and goodly ledge. It was, in fact, the same ledge Xar and Zami had spied from above. It stretched away to the left and to the right with equal mystery. Tax stepped into the tight circle of light.

“Which way, now?” he asked.

Zami chose left, and shortly they came to another small hole in the wall. Xar pulled Zami around by the elbow, and Tah inserted the torch that she and Tax shared between them. The report was negative.

“Nothing,” she called back with a giggle. “Stop!”

As they moved forward, the ledge they traversed became less foot-worthy and narrowed to a small, sharp end. Disappointment was rife in the complaints of his friends, and here it was again, staring Zami in the face. Had he led his friends astray? Of course, he was winging it, but he hated the thought that he should go so far and no further. He stepped, with great care to the edge, until he stood on his heels, and he extended his torch. What he discovered was a cleft in the wall.

He commanded his friends, “Sit and rest a moment.”

Tax demanded, “What have you found?”

“There’s a gash in the wall. Seems to get wider as it goes down. I’ll see if we can use it.”

Xar called, “Be careful.”

“I will,” was Zami's over-the-shoulder reply.

He leaned forward, and with his free hand found purchase. He extended a foot. The rough cleft provided an unimpeded descent to a small outcropping not far above a ledge similar to the one above.

Good! Good, thought Zami. He felt relief that they could move on. The worries he had been hiding from his friends abated somewhat, and he called up to them. Under his watchful eye, Xar descended first. He talked her through the descent, took her hand, and pulled her safely to the ledge. Tax came next, with Tah following immediately behind him. He assisted her descent with bold hands that added soft squeals of delight to her breathless purple flooding.

Directly to their left arose a massive stone bridge, stark and scary in the cool, clammy darkness.

It was large beyond belief, and upon closer inspection, was found to be of the same polished material as the monoliths of the hels. Tax called their attention to the great cave from which the bridge derived.

“Shall we?” he prompted.

“Later,” said Zami. “Let’s cross over first.”

“Why?” Zami shrugged: “Touch the sky.”

Through the deep gloom they marched, lights pointed forward. The depth they had reached was oppressive, but their piercing torch beams bobbed and sliced with each step. They marched on and on until a smooth, shining wall prevented them. Like polished metal, the wall was cold to the touch.

Flaking from the silvery wall was a film of dried residue that seemed very old. They put pieces in their hands and puzzled over their nature.

The great cave, from which the bridge had sprung, proved almost endless. Its film covered walls went on and on. Though large and easy to follow, the cave led eventually to nothing more than the connection of bridge to cave wall. Disheartened, they returned the way they came and huddled with backs to the mighty bridge. They pondered the darkness ahead of them, the timeless black thickness of the abyss, a solid black chill that stole their warmth, and strength, and determination. In the abyss, time had no meaning, and distance could not be gauged. Had they come halfway? Would the end of this trek ever elude them, and the damnable blackness dash all hope? One thing was sure - each one of them felt it - the haunting sense of disconnection. Disconnection from home and happiness, from light and life, was what they felt.

The girls were exhausted. Another large cave had been reached, and Zami called for a break.

They sat along the edge and gave ease to their weary feet. A moist, gentle breeze issued from the mouth of the cave. Zami felt the imminence of defeat press in on them; it weighed upon them all, but Zami defied it willfully.

“Too many caves,” he complained as he played the torchlight along the ledge. “We’ll be as old as Yagi if we search every one.”

“Giving up?” There was a laugh in the question Tax asked him.

“No.” Xar wondered aloud, “Is that another bridge?”

Tah responded, pointing her torch at the barely visible bridge, “Do you think there’s a cave behind it? Should we explore?”

Zami answered, “We’ll explore this one. That breeze has to be coming from somewhere.”

The cave led them down to a short, small shelf. From there, a cleft in the wall carried them further down. They found a series of outcroppings that were like steps; they followed them, glad for the ease, and descended to another ledge, the broadest one so far. They stood quietly, and a soft, lapping murmur came to their ears. A moist and acrid air assailed their nostrils. They moved forward, and the narrow beams from their torches seemed all the brighter for the total blackness that pressed in from all sides.

Zami asked, “Did you notice the sting as we came through the cave?”

Xar replied, “You heard me say ouch.”

Tax asked, “What was it, another barrier?”

“Yes.” With no thought for the new mystery, Zami, instead, walked over to the edge and peered below.

Friends followed. Large roots protruded from the rock face and extended down into a gently lapping dew, black as the perpetual night above it. Shadows, blacker than the dew, moved freely below the surface. Torchlight died quickly in the viscous fluid. An eerie chirping commenced among the roots, and three torches swung toward the sound.

“I’m scared,” said Tah. Stepping closer to Zami, Xar seconded, “Me too.”

Tax walked along the precipice, shining his torch, searching. Then he knelt and called, “Over here.”

Tah pleaded, “Be careful.”

He sat on the edge, turned, and lowered himself to a large root below. He took a few cautious steps; the fibrous tuber swayed beneath his weight. He eased forward, with his light toward the sunken end of the root. His beam fell upon a small black creature similar to those he and Zami had slain in the mine. A hard black shell covered it, and mighty hind legs were folded at its rear. The girls huddled in gasping fright behind Zami as the creature turned from the light and leapt out over the dew. Tax, startled, lost his balance and staggered back against the rock face.

Zami followed the creature with his light. It writhed helplessly on the surface of the dew, finding neither traction nor further progress in its flight. One of the many shadows rose up and, in one horrible gulp of finality, yanked the creature to oblivion. Zami, heedless of the fate of one insignificant Dirt monster, walked over to Tax and offered a hand up. However, the girls still shuddered at the indignity of the creature's demise.

“Uh . . . guys,” said Xar, “I’m ready to go home now.”

Tax flatly told Zami, “Whatever is down there, you can fight it. I’m keeping my distance.”

To their left was a small stone bridge, mottled white and grey. As they approached, Zami saw that a large root grew from beneath it. Xar suddenly tugged at Zami's elbow, and whispered in his ear; she and Tah were in need of privacy. He took several steps toward the bridge and raked the blackness with a torch beam, then returned.

“You two go ahead,” he said. “We’ll turn our backs.”

Timidly, the girls moved forward, warily jabbing the darkness with a torch. They gripped their spears tightly, holding them well in advance. Zami placed a hand on the shoulder of his large friend and nodded sagely. They turned their backs. The tiny footsteps padded off into silence. Tax and Zami waited, then, they waited longer. Impatiently, Tax looked up and pulled a broad hand down over his face. Had the waiting not weighed on him as well, Zami might have laughed at the chafing of his friend.

Then: “Zamiii . . .!!!” The girls cried out in shrill, earsplitting voices.

Zami spun about on his toes, his chest pounding. The girls raced toward them in frantic haste.

Tax lurched forward, but Zami took hold of his arm and stilled him. Xar and Tah thudded into the open arms of Zami and Tax; they had dropped their spears, and gladly paid the echoing clang to buy a safe spot behind the boys. Following them, a giant spinner leapt from the blackness into the light. Long legged and heavy, it was not large or pale like those in the mine. It stopped just short of them and presented a formidable visage of orange and black. Tax raised his spear and stepped forward.

“I’ll take it,” he said.

“Wait,” said Zami, placing a restraining hand on the wrist of his bold friend. “Let the girls do it.”

“What?!” cried the girls.

Tax searched Zami's eyes for some indication of the joke. He felt as though he looked through Zami's head and into the blackness behind it, for there was no joke. He lamely echoed the girls: “What?”

Zami explained, “They need the experience. Our spears are quite long; they’ve only to step up and run it through.”

Zami pulled the girls from hiding and calmly handed each her spear. The spinner moved forward, raised its front legs and assessed the group. All the while, Xar, and Tah declared their objections with long, mournful moans.

“I’ll be right behind you,” Zami soothed. “Just walk up and put in your spears.”

They edged forward, hesitant; the monster did not move. They stepped closer, and the beast held its place. Then with sudden speed, fired by fear, the girls rushed in, sank their spears in the evil face,

and ran back without delay to peer at it from behind the protective wall of Tax and Zami. The creature trembled and settled on its belly to move no more.

Zami declared, “It’s dead.”

Tax complained, “That was the dumbest monster I’ve ever seen: didn’t even fight back.”

He walked to the spinner and removed the spears; Zami was beside him. The girls remained where they stood, for they wanted no more to do with the awful beast. Zami confided to Tax with a wink and a whisper, “Don’t tell the girls, but I put it to sleep.”

The small mottled bridge was a bony finger, tickling the solid blackness. It thrust from the wall directly below the larger bridge. A raised spine ran from the upper bridge, and down the wall to the lower bridge. A large, ghostly web connected the two bridges, disappearing from view around the far side of the spine. Decorating the spooky silk was a clutter of empty shells. The two girls, though emboldened, approached with disgust, prodding this and that with extended spears. Tax and Zami stooped to shine a torch below the bridge. Xar neared the spine. Tah followed and tapped a large shell with the end of her spear. The hollow ‘snick’ at her heels caused Xar to spin on her toes, spear thrust up and ready. She stumbled to the far side of the spine and fell into the web. Something hard fell across her trembling shoulders.

Long and loud came the wail: “Oh . . . Zami . . .!!!” bringing all three to her aid.

Zami lifted the object from her shoulders and pulled her free. He and Tax lit the web with combined torchlight. Tah and Xar turned from the sickening horror that dangled there. Upon the web was the snared skeleton of a long-lost sith. Brittle trousers hung tenaciously from desiccated skin, and bone. Two large holes were visible in the center of a sleeveless top. Zami played his light along the gruesome corpse; his beam fell upon the right hand. Four fingers curled in past agonies, but no thumb was present.

Tax gasped, and said, “No thumb!”

The girls turned, with gaping mouths, to see if it was really true. Xar drew herself to Zami's side and his arm slid around her waist reflexively. She peered up into his vacant eyes.

Tah had to say it. Her voice bore the hushed and somber tone of the entire group: “Rasha.”

Tax whispered, “He must have died here looking for the Mythic Portal.”

“No,” said Zami. “He opened it. He died when he returned. Don’t you see? The web could not be here otherwise.”

Tax had to agree. “True. True,” he said.

Zami continued, “He sought to cross over, so the portal . . .”

He slipped his arm from Xar's waist, and turned, face set with the edge of determination.

He headed across the bridge. A blazing heat swept through him. Rasha had opened the portal and loosed upon Zami's world a host of menacing creatures. Now, it was time for the son of the undoer to

undo the damage. A section of the bridge had long since collapsed; Zami's march ended at the gap.

Below, the fallen stone stood on end: a gnarled tooth in a black mouth. With the long wail of pent-up rage, Zami threw himself across the void. He hit the far side solidly; determined fingers took hold and pulled him forward.

“Bigoora!” he snarled at his bruised, bony chest.

He raced to the wall and slammed to a halt. He cast about for the offense. He carried no torch, but he saw well enough. It was to his left; a thick iron bar hooked over the side of the bridge. It went down and down to latch, and hold open, a massive iron door. Water flowed in from Dirt. He gripped the hook of the iron bar and pulled in anger. Every muscle strained, and the veins stood out on his neck. He moved the hook toward the edge; mighty was his determination - and his desperation.

He gasped and cursed loudly. “Move!” he raged. “Coosith! Move! Tax, help me!”

And Tax was there, stumbling to his side with a pained grunt. He dropped his torch and put his hands on the hook. They heaved together, darkening from the strain. Little by little, the corner of the iron bar moved out past the edge. Tax threw Zami aside and sat before it. He gripped the edge of the bridge in his hands and placed his heels against the iron. Tax shouted Zami's rage, and the bar moved forward, iron grating loudly against stone. He took a deep breath and pushed again; he roared, and the hook relinquished its hold. Below, the door slammed shut, sending up a spray of foul, white froth. Zami sat panting beside his great friend. Tax inhaled huge quantities of soured air and threw a heavy arm around Zami's neck.

He laughed, and said, “Well, I feel better. How about you?”

Zami could only nod.

The trail did not continue past the bridge; they returned the way they had come. They approached another small bridge, again under a larger bridge. They rested there. Restless after victory over Rasha, in the throes of lingering excitement at the defeat of evil, Tax walked to the precipice as the others sat quietly. He knelt and shone his light down beyond the edge. Then, he capped his torch, stretched out on his belly, and looked again.

“Hey Zami,” he called, “come and look at this.”

Zami arose and went to the edge, where he knelt beside the larger Sith. Curious, the girls were at his heels. Tax rolled to his side and studied them as they settled in their places.

“Torches out,” he said. “Look below.”

Dutifully, they capped their two torches and stretched out on their bellies to peer into the dew below them. They were swathed in darkness, and the ceaseless lapping of the dew was spooky. The girls sought comfort in contact. They stared into the black liquid, and suddenly, several shapes swam below them. They moved oddly, but their movement highlighted the backdrop of pale grey.

“Do you see it?” Tax whispered. “There’s a light in the dew.”

Xar whispered over Zami's head, “There’s another side.”

“Well, of course,” answered Tax. “There is, after all, a bottom half to Phar Sheeth.”

“Wonder who lives there?” mused Tah. The girls sat on the bridge and watched the boys climb up through a cleft in the wall. It angled up toward the larger bridge overhead. It was below the larger bridge that Tax had spied the broad mouth of a cave. As they came level with the cave, a bright and hopeful smile spread across their faces.

Zami intoned: “A blackened hole where stone should be.”

Chapter Twenty Much later, Zami sat at his table, fingering the showstone. After the chill of the dark abyss, being home, and fully dressed, gave him a warm sense of well-being. The quest had taken longer than he had imagined it would, for when, at last, they had crawled back up, the lights had already begun their long descent toward abysmal slumber.

Tax dressed and left to gather remaining friends to the celebration. Xar and Tah sat over by his many treasures examining his latest acquisition - the suits. Occasional giggles wafted above the susurrus of hushed conversation. Zami yawned. He considered the mistake Tax had made by leaving Tah behind to gather the others. He should have taken her out, and then let her return with the rest. He studied the two girls with idle interest and stifled a yawn. Xar caught his wandering glance and returned it with a smile.

Thoughts raced between his ears; his contemplations dizzied him. He knew of nothing to curb their flow, so he reached out to embrace them. He hugged them to him tightly, drawing strength from them.

Three successful quests. Pyre gems had renewed the Shee; iron would give them vigor. Two good and glad-worthy achievements. After a lifetime of bitter visions, his deepest desire had been fulfilled: he had destroyed his evil father, Rasha. Three. And he had done so without the use of his ruby handled knife. Iron had indeed filled his hands, but only to be dropped - and in the spray of foul, black dew, all of Rasha's evil works had been washed away.

Beyond all that, four suits had been added to his treasure pile. They were strange, mysterious things that could transport him to another world. All that remained were the golen pells. Three successful quests, and one remaining. Yet, the problem his own hands made chafed him. It flew in his face like the pestiferous bizrock. It threatened every happy thought, and caused him no end of unrest, for, like Rasha, he had opened something that permitted the entrance of monsters. Nothing quite as solid as giant spinners, no, but just as dangerous. His would not be Dirt monsters, but rather, dirty little monsters of the spirit.

He saw them plainly in his large friend, Tax. They would eat and breed and grow until every soul was touched by them. They would leave a stain that could not be as easily washed away. How could he hope to fight such things as these? He needed to take Xar by the hand, and lead her far, far away. He hoped for a land where the dirty little monsters he had let in could not find them.

He studied the showstone. Engraved in the slate were four large circles and four small circles. Inside the second biggest circle, there were two small squares, one at the top and one at the bottom of the circle. From each of the squares, a line emerged and went off to the right where they converged in one of the smaller circles. One other symbol had been etched into the stone; it was a stacked set of four wavy lines. These lines were near the small circle where the two straight lines converged. If the circles represented Phar Sheeth, as he suspected they did, his answer would be to work out from the center the heart of the nholas.

Let’s see! The two overlapping rings at the center had to be the iron and the slate. The small ring to the left, between two larger circles, had to be the suits. The squares were Zhereen and Thletix. Therefore, the wavy lines, right of center, could be nothing other than Big Dew. That left only the small circle upon which the two lines converged. He knew just where to look. A formidable slate covered a hole just inside the barrier. The overhang, in turn, made the slate all but invisible. He had briefly explored the hole, some seasons back; sky lights lived there.

Of course! Now he understood; now he made the connection with the residue they found in the abyss.

The huge caves, from which emerged the mighty bridges, certainly must encircle the entire Phar. The living lights traveled between their deep burrows and the top of the sky using the bridges like he used the vines of the nholas. Zami got up from the table, leaving the showstone in place. At the door, he turned to face Xar, who eyed his departure with suspicion.

“Where’re you going?” she asked.

“If the others return before I do, start without me. Tax is in charge.”

She repeated, “Where are you going?”

Evasively, he answered, “I’m going to fetch you something special.”

“Ooh!” she brightly exclaimed. “Don’t just stand there. I’m waiting.”

Living lights crawled slowly home. Long shadows crossed the Phar. In the air was the sweet fragrance of success. The weight of the pells on his shoulder, slung back in an ancient bag, kept Zami's buoyant mood from lifting him to the sky. Remembering the giant spinner from his adventure in the abyss, Zami considered how he had tranced it without so much as a word. His powers had increased. And now - a test was in order, a test of the mind.

As he passed Big Dew, he spied for old Greebit. Not a trace. For as far as the eye could see, naught but one creature stirred; a small sackweaver fed contentedly on the lush leaves beneath a vine-draped nhola. Zami turned toward it, and with each step, willed the beast to rest. Mastication ceased, and Zami straddled the bright green back. Then, with a jab of his thoughts, he spurred the creature homeward.

Zami topped a tall nhola. He loosed his grip on the horns that grew from the sackweaver's back and stepped down with a word of thanks. The beast turned and ambled away. Zami seated himself, folded his legs, and focused bright eyes on his home. His porch, from where he sat, was clearly visible. Upon the porch, Bani was teaching a new dance step to the other girls. Time for some fun, he thought with a smile. He fetched a nearby spine, invoked his glamor, and headed merrily for the porch.

“No. No,” said Bani, pulling Tah aside. “Roll the hips - like this. Step and roll. Step and roll.”

Pah laughed with considerable embarrassment. “Isn’t this a bit too bold?” she asked.

Having mastered the step, Tah returned to her place between Pah and Xar. A line formed, with Bani at one end and Xar at the other. They giggled cheerfully, laced their arms, and the dance resumed. The four girls moved as one. The legs went fluidly forth, and then the hips were thrust forward. They repeated their new step again and again.

“That’s it!” Bani encouraged. Then, she yelped, and jumped from the line, looking for the cause of her discomfiture. “Ow! Hey!” she exclaimed.

“What’s wrong?” asked Tah. “Something stuck my butt!”

“Ow!” squealed Pah, jumping forward and rubbing her behind.

Next was Tah: “Ow!” The girls were in total confusion, and it took all of Zami's will not to laugh out loud at his prank.

Small fists on her hips, Xar scanned the empty spaces of the porch. “Zami!” she yelled. “You sneaky Taran! Mine is the only bottom you’re allowed to touch!” Then: “Ouch!”

A large zeo flew by. Zami caught it with his mind and chased the girls inside. He dropped his glamor and followed them in with a snort of amusement. Xar stepped up to him and cupped the smirk from his face.

“That’s for sticking me in the butt!” she scolded. She hammered a tiny fist into his chest, adding, “And, that’s for sticking me last, instead of first!”

Zami dangled the ancient bag before her eyes; his broad smile both charmed and soothed. Xar cried out excitedly, “Ooh!” She danced on her toes and clapped her hands. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tight.

Her head nestled below his chin, she asked gayly, “What is it?” Then, suddenly, she stepped back, and her demeanor became serious. “Don’t make me wait,” she said sternly.

Zami laughed, “Well, give me room.”

He opened the bag and emptied its content on the table. Several dozen shiny yellow rocks jostled for position. The girls, stooping over the pells, gasped in disbelief. In total absorption, Xar exclaimed, “The golen pells . . .” She wheeled on him, fire in her eyes, and hit him. “You went without me!”

Zami found himself on the floor; she was stronger than she looked. She folded her arms and turned away. He sat up with a laugh, and instructed the girls, “Touch them. It’s alright.”

The arms were neatly stacked beside his other treasures; near the far wall were two unbelievably large wine pots. Tax, alone, had the strength to carry them. He smiled as the girls fondled the pells, but he

wondered why the boys were absent.

He asked them, “Where are the others?”

Pah said, “Vre never came back.”

Tah added, “Long class.”

Xar explained, “We sent Voy and Tax to seek food.”

“Good,” said Zami.

Then Bani looked him coldly in the eye. “You could have taken the rest of us along,” she scolded.

“What? Just to fetch the pells?”

“No. To get the suits.” And Pah, at Bani's elbow, nodded vigorous agreement.

Zami's smile, yet filled with mirth, borrowed a conciliatory lifting of brows, and shrugging of shoulders. Pitching his voice to a master-of-the-cave / king-of-the-nholas / end-of-conversation tone, he said, “I really only wanted Tax along. Two girls were two too many.”

“Two!?” Bani leapt upon his words with an immediate and fierce suspicion. “But, Tax said only Xar went along.”

The smile slipped from Zami's face, as it dawned on him what he had said. The blind eye of levity sprang open, and all mirth fell by the way. Xar looked quickly up, a warning in her onyx eyes, but the words, “Tah was there,” had already slipped from his tongue.

Zami's eyes responded, I said too much, didn’t I? Bani glowered at Tah, who dropped the pell that was in her hand and flooded the red of embarrassment.

“And what else,” asked Bani bitterly, “has my own failed to tell me?”

Zami hurriedly injected, “Did he tell you that I nearly fell to my death?”

Unmoved by the news, Bani's face hardened. Her piercing glare strayed not a mite from the downcast, feet-shuffling Tah. Zami pulled a hand roughly down his face in exasperation. He raked his thoughts for any inspiration that might allay Bani's wrath. This was just the sort of thing that would ruin their festivities. Why must the Shee be so problematic?

A thought took shape. “Remove your caps,” he ordered Tah and Xar. When two unexpectedly round heads appeared, Bani's hard face melted to awe. She sat heavily on the floor and gaped up at them. A pell rolled from her hand across the floor. Zami said, “I discovered that Tah is a Gathorne, like Xar and myself.” Zami squared his shoulders beneath his new burden. He said, “I take responsibility for accepting Tah into my company. I could not talk Xar out of going, and she needed the comfort of another girl. Tah was at hand. Do you like my handiwork?”

“It’s a bit much,” Bani confessed in a daze.

“Only way the armor would fit. Has Tax shown you his head?”

In white shock, Bani searched his face. “You took his pait?!”

Zami shrugged. “As I said . . .”

At that moment, Tax and Voy burst through the door, carrying between them a full sack of carish seeds.

With a grunt of finality, Tax wrested the sack from Voy's less than helpful grip and tossed it to the floor.

“Just trying to help,” said Voy. Noting the golden grains, Tax stepped to the table, an awed Voy at his heels, and whistled happily. He smiled at Zami, and said, “Well, aren’t you the sly one? Look out woggies, here we come!”

The girls stared at him with a single, unmoving face. The evident tension crawled on his skin, making his round head itch beneath his cap of floater quills. “Well, hey!” he called, “I’ve a sack full of food.”

His broad smile begged a return to noise and normalcy.

“I did the climbing and picking,” bragged Voy. “He just filled the bag.”

“And quite a job it was,” responded Tax. “Not to mention bringing it all the way back with you hanging from one end of it.”

“What’d you bring us?” asked Zami.

“Carish,” replied the two boys, eye to eye.

Authoritatively, Zami said, “Not enough. Guess I’ll have to organize a real search. Before we can celebrate, the table must be full. Now, let’s see . . . who wants to hunt shrooms?”

When no one answered, Zami continued on, undeterred. “Very well, Bani, Pah, and Tah get shroom duty; grab a sack. Xar gets to collect sweet, and Voy will do milksaps. I’ll show each of you where to look, and what to do. Then, I’ll return to ready chelt and jerky.”

Bani thrust out her jaw and asked, “What about Tax?” Zami turned to his large friend, with a bright smile. Tax gets to sit here and open all the carish seeds.”

Tax opened his mouth to protest, but Zami cut him short. “If you get through with the seeds soon enough, you can go below and help with the shrooms.” Into the dead silence, Zami added, “The sooner we’re done, the sooner we open the wine.”

Zami led Bani, Tah, and Pah to three separate locations in the floater forest. They were good spots, filled with tender young shrooms. After a few cursory instructions, Zami left Voy to spike the milksaps, draining their sluggish dews into several medium-sized pots. He took Xar to a broad vine, covered with sweetchurs, and set her to work. Then, he returned home, and to his sulking friend. On his way to a small but needful nap, he gave one final instruction.

“Call out when you leave.”

He tossed, and he turned; the nap taunted him. How could he sleep when happy thoughts prevented him? Now that he had solved a sticky problem by putting distance and time between the prickly agents of his discomfort, images of the coming celebration, the dance, and Xar's beckoning smile teased him.

He flung himself from the bed and strode forward.

Tax idled at his task.

“Still at it?” Zami asked with a grin.

“This is no easy chore,” answered Tax with a sad half-smile. “The seeds resist me, and the wine calls to me. ‘Here am I’ says she, ‘open me; drink deeply’ says she.”

Zami laughed. “Well, stop at half; put the rest aside. I’ll go and try to hurry the others along.” Zami's next words died in his throat as the door opened, and Tah stepped in, dragging a half-filled bag behind her. Tax, nibbling a small carish, took a portion of it and flicked it her way with an impish grin.

Tah answered Zami's pause with, “I found all I could; I looked everywhere.” She asked, “Is there something else I can do?”

Tax quickly responded, “She can help me with these.”

The pile of seeds was not overly large, and Zami had no strength to parent these two. He waved a hand through the air as if some noisome creature buzzed near his head. “Very well,” he said. “I’m off to find the others.”

He hurried to Xar, and found her on another vine, industriously harvesting a second swarm of slowmoving sweetchurs. Stepping gingerly among them, she stooped and rolled her stick across their backs just as Zami had instructed. When a large drop of thick sweet depended from its end, she placed it expertly into the pot by pulling it along the inner surface. At Zami's approach, she smiled warmly and stepped from the midst of her labor to embrace him, making sure not to touch him with sticky fingers.

He asked her, “How many pots have you done?”

“Three,” she bragged.

“Is that all?”

She huffed, “This isn’t easy, you know.”

He queried, “How much have you eaten?” Her answer was a timid sidelong grin.

Zami stroked his chin and looked skyward. “Let’s see,” said he. “Five pots?”

“I have not!” she protested happily.

He basked in her happiness but a moment, then he said, “Three will do; turn home now. I’ll fetch the others.”

As he turned to leave, Xar sweetly asked him, “Have you done the chelt?”

He flipped a dismissive hand through the air and grinned. “Actually,” said he, “I took a nap.”

“Peck.”

He continued, “But, I couldn’t sleep. I left Tax deep in seeds to find you and the others, and then Tah came early, so I let her help Tax. And here I am.” He smiled again.

Xar complained, “You’re not very bright, are you? What if Bani returns and finds them together?”

Zami exhaled his exasperation in the word “Yes.” He pressed the palm of one hand against his eyes as the annoyance at his ignorance and inaction swelled like a scaled, horny beast rearing to strike. He made hasty decisions and turned to Xar. “I’ll find Voy and Pah,” he told her.

“You, finish quickly here and find Bani. Tell her to join Pah. Then, run, and tell Tah to leave and help Voy.” He kissed Xar cursorily, then mounted his scaled beast and rode quickly away. As Zami negotiated a hasty path to the forest floor, he recalled the adventure in the nhola's heart.

“You gonna swat me?” Tax had asked Bani, and she answered, “Most likely.”

Pah was not in her place; Zami found Bani in her stead. She leaned over, plucked a small shroom, and placed it in her bag. She acknowledged his approach with a smile and strode toward another shroom.

Zami fell in beside her.

He asked, “Where’s Pah?” “She’s with Voy,” was the answer. “She wanted to do milksaps, so I’m working her area. Did you really nearly fall to your death?”

Zami sighed and smiled. Things might not be so bad. He answered, “Yes. We were on a narrow ledge that had fallen away. I thought I could jump the breach in my armor, but I was too heavy.”

Bani plucked another shroom and asked mildly, “All of you wore armor?”

Zami answered, “Yes; I thought there would be Dirt monsters to fight, but we only found one spinner at the bottom.”

“Did my Tax kill it, or did you?”

“Actually, it was Xar and Tah.” Bani looked straight ahead and sighed, “You should have let me go. I’m strong; I could have killed it myself.”

“No doubt.”

She stooped and plucked, then she fed their conversation with another question. “Was it hard - climbing down, I mean?”

Zami clasped his hands behind his back, chafing at her languid gate. He answered patiently, “Well, Tax and I were fine, but having two girls along made it all very slow. We had to help them down, or help them over some rock or the other.”

“I see.”

Zami did not mind recounting the tale, but he wished to hurry on and collect Voy and Pah to his celebration. Finding Bani where Pah should be did not help his hasty plan. Xar would be looking for her elsewhere, and wander in circles. All the while, Tax and Tah remained together, giggling, and mindless of approaching disaster. He couldn’t just tell Bani to return; Xar needed time. If he sent her to find Xar, Xar might no longer be there, and Bani might decide to return without her. What to do?

Bani asked, “Who found the suits? Nobody said.”

“Tax found them. There were many caves in the abyss walls, a lot of searching.” Zami recalled with a smile, “Xar was all the time pulling me around so I wouldn’t see Tah crawling into the smaller caves.

You should be proud of Tax; he helped me close the Mythic Portal.”

“I am.” She smiled briefly at him and asked, “Was it very dark?”

“Very. Tax nearly fell into the dew at the bottom.”

Bani gasped, “What happened?!”

Zami recounted the event, “Well, he was out on a vine below the last ledge. He was looking at a small creature. The creature jumped out into the dew and was swallowed up by something we couldn’t see.

Tax lost his balance, but I caught him. No harm.”

Bani nodded thoughtfully, but it was more to herself than to Zami, as she continued shrooming. Zami considered how to instruct her. Having failed to find Bani where she should be, Xar might have raced home, not thinking to look here. If Xar had already warned Tah and Tax, perhaps it was safe enough to send Bani home. Zami was unwilling to chance it. Perhaps it would be a better plan to send Bani to find Voy and Pah. Then, he could run quickly to make sure Tah came home last.

It came from nowhere, and Zami answered automatically; he did not realize what he said until it was too late.

Bani asked, “If you could not jump in armor, how could the others?”

“Well, we had to take the armor off.” He rued the unguarded response.

Bani halted; she spun to face him. Her skin flooded red as she stepped in close with a worried and angry scowl. Zami was held in the taloned grip of Bani's black eyes, as one long heartbeat scraped the walls of eternity.

“So what you’re telling me,” she reasoned in a low, grating voice, “is that my own was huddled in the dark with that . . . that big butt?! Nothing between them?! Naked?!”

Zami swallowed hard, and began to answer, “I assure you . . .”

“Helping her down! Helping her over! Watching her crawl into caves!

Bani removed her shroomsack and slammed it into Zami's chest. Ouch! She was strong! She turned on her heels, set her jaw, and strode angrily toward his home. He slumped. There it was: disaster, and its name was Bani. Zami could see his celebration melting away like the morn mist. Why did he even try?

What made him angry above all was that he could blame no one else. He had done it all by himself.

As Bani strode away, he could hear her say, “He’s got a lot of explaining to do that I don’t want to hear!”

Zami threw his arms to the sky and swore, “Sonofa Coosith! Girls!”

With bag in hand, Zami raced off to find the remaining two. As he expected, they did not make his task easy; they had wandered far afield. The rustle of fat leaves led him to their hidden location. Deep within a cleft between two wildly overgrown milksaps, Zami found the pair of them hastily straightening their vestments, racing to conceal what had all but transpired. At his brusque command, they wrestled their loads to their shoulders, panting to keep up with him, and jogged home.

“What’s wrong?” asked a winded Pah. Zami snapped, “You are! You’ve forgotten who you stand with!”

Pah gulped air but kept up. She snapped back, “It’s Vre's fault! He warms his bench at class but leaves me cold. Why should I be alone?”

Zami wheeled on her. “This I know,” he growled, “you’ve put Tah out of her place. Now, Tah removes Bani. Bani goes there even now, in a deadly heat.”

Voy caught up to them and panted, “This should be rich.”

Zami pressed his face into Voy's and said, “I find no joy in this! My kingdom is no place for the rows of children!”

Zami left the bewildered and cowering duo; he ran ahead. He came upon Xar and saw the fruitlessness of her search for Bani etched deeply in her face. “Come!” he called to her. “She heads home even now.”

He raced up the ladder and burst through the door. Carish seeds lay in a pile on the floor, untouched, unattended. Tah's sack sat where she had dropped it. Xar entered quietly, followed by Pah and Voy. “Are they here?” Xar whispered at Zami's side.

As if in answer, a frightening commotion erupted from the darkened recesses far to the back of Zami's home. A wail issued from behind the large pile of Zami's treasures, back where his bed would be.

Voices pitched high in tangled confusion, the sounds of struggle ensued. Bani staggered from the shadows, sobbing bitterly into her hands. She fell to her knees by Zami's polished black table, and lifting teary eyes to the ceiling, loosed such a bellow of betrayal that a crawling chill gripped the four gaping spectators. Bani rocked forward; her lithe frame heaved with violent, noisy sobbing. Xar at once ran to her, draping her in comforting arms, and speaking tender words.

Tax emerged from the darkness, pulling at his trousers, deeply reddened by the presence of so many witnesses. Missing were his quill cap and upper vestment. His bare feet padded to Bani's side, where he hesitated in pained reflection before kneeling.

He pleaded, “Bani . . . nothing happened.”

Xar barked in dark rage, “Go away!” She reached past Bani's quaking shoulders and pushed Tax to the floor with surprising force.

Tax sought Zami with pleading eyes. Bani wailed, and Xar soothed. Voy stood silently with Pah and peered at the debacle from behind Zami. Zami noticed a blackening about Tax’ bent nose. A drop of blood welled in one nostril and fell to the floor. Then Tax found his feet; he padded contritely to his nhola kingly friend for support.

“Nothing happened,” he desperately declared.

“But it could have!” Zami hissed angrily, suddenly appalled by his association with the Shee. “It almost did.”

Tax hung his big round head; another drop of blood fell from his broken nose; it hit the floor audibly between his two bare feet. He said in a soft, humbled retort, “It wouldn’t have gone that far.”

Zami ripped the cap from his head and hurled it at the wall nearby. “Come out from the shadows!” he commanded Tah. Small, penitent steps brought Tah into the pulsing orange light of the Star Gnats. Her face was blackened, and blood welled profusely. She could not bear Zami's angry eyes for long, so she lowered her face in shame. Blood rolled down the sackweaver silk she held loosely over her breasts. Her ample but slumping frame shook with each catch in her breathing as she tried not to cry.

Zami steadied himself, and commanded her quietly, “Come here.”

He quickly healed her wounds and sent her to stand by the far wall. As an afterthought, he healed Tax, then stooped to retrieve his cap. The anger had lost its edge, its dark red hue, being softened and mottled by a deep and profound sorrow.

“My friend,” he dubbed derisively, asking the slumped figure before him, “is it only your flesh that has strength? Are you so weak of heart? Are you so unattached to your right mind?”

Tax stammered, “I knew . . . it was wrong. I was about to say no to it when Bani walked up.”

Suddenly, Bani shook herself free from Xar's tender restraints; she leapt in a red rage to her feet. She cried out, “You lying, peck-headed sack of spinner turds!”

Pleadingly, Tax spread his broad hands palm up, searching for some glimmer of reason in the chiseled red planes of Bani's face. He began, “Bani . . .” but, he was cut off.

“I saw exactly what was going on! Naught but ‘yes' was in your eyes!”

“Bani, I’m sorry.”

She flew upon him in a rage of weeping hysteria, striking him repeatedly with forceful, rocking blows, as she vented that one terrible word: “Yes! Yes! Yes!” Tax stood quietly and accepted each powerful blow, while Tah, at the end of all dignity, sank to her knees and wept in loud fits of attrition. Bani's balled fists struck again and again, until blood welled from Tax’ mouth and nose, and rolled down across his barrel chest.

Zami could stand no more; he stepped in and pushed the two apart. He turned once more to heal his wayward friend when Bani gripped his arm and spun him violently around to face her. He had but focused on her steely eyes when she clutched his two hands and pressed them to her small, firm breasts.

“Make them bigger!” she shouted through her tears. “Give me something to fight with!”

Xar moved quickly to remove Zami's hands. She took the wailing friend back into her arms and turned away. Pah draped herself on the hunkering frame of Tah, whose weeping had by now subsided to noiseless convulsions, and was quite nearly in tears, herself. Zami touched the pummeled, puffing face of Tax. To the quivering back of his lifelong mate, Tax whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Bani shook off Xar's mothering arms and spun to face her own. “I loved you!” she cried, broken.

“Didn’t you realize?” Her voice trailed to a hoarse, defeated whisper. “All my life, it was you, just you.”

She turned away.

They sat at his table waiting for him to speak. Tears had been wiped away, and bloody faces cleaned.

Zami paced before them. The wound of his own guilt burned in his chest, but he would not show it; he set his jaw and forced himself to neutral blue. All eyes moved with his passing. He stopped and faced his friends; he looked at each in turn. He was drained. He felt nothing but a numb sadness.

He took a deep breath and said to them, “I made a terrible mistake when I formed the portals, but, it seemed to me, that being near adult, you could bear up under it with some grace. I was wrong.”

Bani stood up from beside Xar and pointed at Tax and Tah. “It’s their fault,” she declared, “with their round heads and conniving hearts.”

Zami growled, “Sit down and anger me no more.”

She squared her shoulders, and said unflinchingly, “You’ll not intimidate me, Zami. You have some

blame to bear for placing them together.”

With fists tightly clenched, Zami raised his face to the ceiling, and grated, “Anger me no more!”

“Hey!” Bani shouted, placing fingers between her breasts, “I’m the one who got hurt, not you!”

As calmly as he could, he pointed out, “Tax and Tah have tasted blood.”

Bani huffed, “Not enough to suit me.” She folded her arms and stood defiantly.

Zami sighed and faced her squarely. “Very well,” said he. “You say I’m to blame. You’re right; I was wrong to take them to the abyss; I was wrong to bend to your demands for portals; I was wrong to leave the nholas.”

Shocked, Xar exclaimed, “Zami!”

Voy saw a pause in the torrent of heated words; he boldly suggested, “I think a little wine will ease us all.”

“Voy,” said Zami, “I really don’t see how we can celebrate.”

Vehemently, Bani said, “Oh, we can celebrate, alright.”

“Not as long as hurts be remembered,” countered Zami.

She walked over to Voy and sat opposite of Pah. With a bitter laugh, she stated, “I’ve already forgotten.

If Tax wants that heavy hustler, he can have her. She can dance for him, and pour his wine. Pah and I, on the other hand, sisters of abandonment, will share Voy between us.”

Pah twisted her head slowly to one side, seeking words with which to object, but managing only to gape in utter dismay. Voy, pressed between the two girls, sat straight and flooded with hues of happiness. To be the object of two girl's attention delighted him, which offended even the silent and humbled Tah. Voy's broad toothy grin evaporated, however, when he met the cold, bristling glare of Bani's own.

Bani continued, her face a lifeless, haughty mask of stone, “Just as Vre prefers his class to the affections of my poor sister, Tax has abandoned me for a much broader love.”

Xar protested, “But, everyone’s been paired since the Norsey. It isn’t right. All those bonded seasons must count for something.”

Avoiding the roiling eyes of Tax, Voy submitted, “It’s not like we were ever really wed to one another.”

Zami just wanted an end to the head-numbing chatter. “Fine!” he yelled. “Do it however you like! Tah, you’re with Tax now. Voy, you belong to Pah and Bani. But while you freely accept of my hospitality, remember this: you are no longer children to change the game on a whim. This as well: I still have the power to undo my mistake.” He tried to place as much menace in his last statement as was possible, then questioned each in turn with an adamant face.

Pah whined, “Can we just start over?”

Tax rumbled, “If she thinks she can get any satisfaction from that runt, then fine – go ahead.”

Offended by the sincere belligerence of his friend, Voy straightened and began to answer, “I don’t think . . .”

Bani cut him off with, “Shut up, Voy.” She served Tax with a smile of sharpened iron, and added, “This runt shall suffice.”

Voy abandoned his former indignation, and brightly said, “There’s enough of me to go around - and some to spare.”

“Oh . . . shut up,” said Pah.

Chapter Twenty-One Zami led them to an open field that straddled the trail to Big Dew. At Xar's urging, he was determined to go ahead with his celebration and make the most of it. It was, after all, slightly within the bounds of reasonable probability that the former heat would simply blow over. He would give that singular ray of hope every possibility to shine.

Tax carried both wine pots in his hardened arms. His mood was surly, and he glared with hooded eyes between Voy and Bani, who flirted with open disdain of the controlled rage that hollowed all who felt its heat. The others brought small bags of forest staples such as meat, chelt, and jerky. Zami brought his flynts, and with ample zeowax, prepared to camp. A large fire might just distract them.

Zami had chosen this particular field for its unparalleled view. As the living lights settled into the abyss, star gnats roused themselves for the even dance, and became visible high among the nholas, causing the very heart of his kingdom to palpitate, and effervesce in a grand show of eerie sparkles.

The girls set out the food. Voy, Pah, and Xar chattered merry nonsense in an attempt to lighten the overall sobriety that haunted the celebration. Upon rocks he had used many times, Zami gathered flora into a heap, and, after the liberal application of zeowax, struck up a crackling, mood-setting glow.

Then flowed the wine. Xar poured for Zami, Tah for Tax, and Pah for Voy. Bani poured for Bani. Food disappeared as quickly as the wine, but a somber mist prevailed, blocking the light of merrier spirits.

All seemed content to stare at the blaze, content to draw what comfort they might from its impassioned red flicker. Zami fed it from a high dry heap by his side, and eyes sparkled with the reflection of it.

Then, speaking took root. It was, at first, nothing but a whisper of half-hearted chatter. But soon, there was laughter, and the celebration warmed to the fire's pervasive song and dance.

Voy called to Zami, “Tell us of the abyss.”

Zami obliged. In the telling of the tale, he won gasps and laughter from all save Bani. Tah and Xar demonstrated their courage with the orange spinner and wondered why Tax and Zami laughed while

others ‘oohed’ and ‘ahed’. Bani snorted and threw down a mouthful of wine. Then heads bent to the contemplation of the inhabitants of the Under-Phar. Some suggested gnomes, while others offered the pesky Leph Ricaun. Wine flowed freely, spinning Zami's head in pleasant arcs. Yet, throughout the gaiety of the even's celebration, Zami noted that Tax rarely strayed his eyes from Bani's stone visage.

He also noted that Bani's razor eyes rarely ceased to slash her own.

Though the sky above them still reflected the slowly sinking glint of living lights as they made their journey to resting holes below, already had the floater forest grown dark under the spreading shadows cast by overlarge plants. Zami's thinking had also grown dark, and the wine lay heavy on his eyes; the keen edge of his mind sputtered with the dying of his fire. He took Xar's hand and struggled to his feet.

“Walk with me,” he said.

Pah called after them, “Don’t leave; we haven’t danced yet.”

Zami wrapped an arm around Xar's perfect waist and flicked his free hand over his shoulder in an airy wave of dismissal. “Carry on,” he called back.

Zami staggered down the trail, leaning heavily into Xar, who supported him with giggling good cheer.

“You’ve no head for wine,” she said brightly.

“The problem is . . .” he replied with an embarrassed chuckle, “the problem is . . . I’ve no head for wine.”

Xar asked, “Where are we going?”

“Big Dew. Ah! There it is.”

Xar gasped, “It’s so huge!”

“Well, that’s why I call it big.”

It glistened in the thin even light. They sat below his head-banging zeeda bush and watched it in respectful silence. The noise of his wine-soaked friends came softly to his ears. His head spun the more violently, now, for having sat back down. He would have to walk, or sleep, he decided. Rising up on jaded legs, he led Xar into the wild undergrowth, and along a lesser trail.

“Sorry,” said he. “I have to walk.”

In bright reply, Xar answered, “Don’t worry; I’ll hold you up.”

“Glad old Greebit wasn’t there,” he confided. “Don’t think I could fight with him just now.”

“Is Greebit as big as the spinner we killed?” she inquired.

Zami laughed through thick, dry lips. “Greebit? He’s a white-skinned, big mouthed sonofacoosith; that’s what he is. He’s stronger than Tax and big enough to swallow him whole, although, I think he has better taste than that.” He laughed at his last remark.

Xar asked him quietly, “Where are we going?”

“Around; just around. Trying to clear my head.”

“And you need me for that?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I do.” His answer was slurred, but emphatic.

“To hold you up. Right?”

Back up! Despite his swollen head, Zami could clearly hear the warning in Xar's tone of voice. Certain words were required: and he had better be forthcoming.

“No. No,” he said, sobering. “I need your smile; I need your words; I . . . need your love.”

She laughed sweetly and said, “You said the right thing.”

The long, circuitous walk was doing a fine job of clearing his head. He was slowly leading Xar back around toward camp, in the purplish gloom of the first moment of even, to check on the others. Xar predicted that they would all be happily in deep foliage. He liked her choice of words. She promised him a private dance, far away from lesser eyes.

Coming to the camp along a tight, small trail, Zami and Xar pressed through overgrown waxy leaves, and found a teary-eyed Tah in a heap upon the cleg. Pah was attempting to comfort her with trembling arms. She looked up at the two and desperation was clearly seen in her eyes as she attempted to fight back tears of her own. A relieved, yet fearful expression spread across her face at their approach. She leapt to her feet and ran to them. Worry was in her voice.

“Oh! I’m so glad you’re back,” she wailed.

Zami took her by the shoulders, a fearful lump forming in his throat, and looked deep into her eyes.

“What happened?” he asked.

“It was terrible . . . I didn’t know what to do . . .”

“What happened?”

“They had an argument: Bani and Tax. Bani went away with Voy, and Tax just laughed. But, when they didn’t come back, he got really mean. He said he’d twist off Voy's head. Tah tried to stop him . . . but he knocked her down.”

Zami was, by now, greatly agitated. “When?” he demanded.

“Just now . . . just a moment ago.”

Xar urged, “Zami, go after them.”

Pah was speaking to herself. Zami shook her and asked, “Which way?”

She could only point with a trembling finger, but she indicated the trail to Big Dew. Zami ran through the bush, swearing beneath his breath. It had all come to a head, and none could bear more blame than he. He cursed himself. Large leaves stung his face and arms as he raced through the twilight foliage, feeling somehow worthy of the pain. He had allowed the conflict to grow; now was the harvest. There were things he should have said, but did not. There were things he should have done but did not. His thoughts flew with him as he sped along the trail. He turned toward the sound of trampled leaves ahead.

His chest pounded as he came astride of his heavily potted friend.

“Don’t!” Zami warned. “Let me sort this out.”

Tax snarled his only thought: “I’ll kill him! No; I’ll kill them both!”

Zami brought a quick and bony elbow across his friend's determined face; Tax hit the trail with a thud and turned bewildered eyes up to him. He pulled at his much-maligned nose.

Hastily, and with sharpened force, Zami shouted, “I said, I’ll sort it out!” He thrust a finger into his friend's face and added, “You stay here!”

He turned and darted away. With seasoned expertise, Zami quickly beat a path through the lush overgrowth. He trained every sense ahead of himself for an indication of those he sought. It was hateful to hit his friend, but he had no choice; he knew the urgency of his present task. In his drunken state, Tax would surely hurt someone.

He heard them ahead - as Xar had put it - in deep foliage. He slowed and attempted to bring his breathing under control. He raked frantically through his thoughts for a solution to the problem. He would have been happy with half a solution, but nothing was there. He pushed through thick foliage and came upon them in a cleft between two twisted britty plants. Voy was flat upon his back, and Bani rode him as she had earlier ridden the sackweaver. She turned her grimacing face to the dark sky and vented all the power of her vengeance in a loud, laughing sigh.

Zami yanked her to her feet; her eyes strained to focus on him; she groped for comprehension. Zami shook her violently. His warning was a barbed hiss.

“You must run!” he said. “Tax . . .” but he failed to finish.

A deep voice thundered from behind, “Out of my way!”

Zami spun to confront Tax only to find himself sailing up and over the britty stand. He sailed out beyond the thorned shrubs, and over the trail that led to Big Dew. Before ever he hit the trail, Zami heard the loud slapping noises Tax' broad hands made as they contacted flesh. He heard the pained disbelief as Bani fell beneath his powerful blows. And then - Zami's world kicked him in the back. A thousand star gnats blazed before his eyes; a thousand zeos swarmed about his ears. He could barely hear the fearful cries of Voy, and the snarled condemnations of Tax. Painfully, he rolled to his side. He took a breath and caught a glimpse Of Tax chasing Voy down the trail to Big Dew. Bani stumbled into his view and fell to her knees, she stretched one imploring hand after the boys as she rested on the other.

“No . . .” she sobbed.

Zami stood on shaky legs; he lurched forward following Tax and Voy down the trail. He stumbled past Bani, steadied himself and picked up speed. He ignored pain and fought dizziness; he ran as fast as he could to catch his troubled friends. He ached with the effort but followed their voices. Before he reached the dew, he could hear the scuffle - then only silence. Zami burst into the clearing of Big Dew. He stopped to breathe, and catch his bearings. He did not immediately see his friends. Then, the raised voice of Tax shattered the fragile night.

“Help!” he screamed. “Someone help!”

Zami bolted around the zeeda bush to the far side of the dew. The emergency was clear. Voy dangled helplessly from the broad slit of Greebit's mouth. Tax gripped the creature's hind legs with all his strength and desperation. His feet dug into dirt as Greebit sought to reach the dew with its meal.

Zami drew his ruby-handled knife and flew upon the creature's back with an ear-splitting howl of rage: “Nooo...!”

He buried the blade of his knife in the monster's head. The beast bucked wildly. Tax strained with all his brawn, yet the creature pulled him relentlessly forward. The dew drew ever closer, as Zami plunged his blade again and again. Big Dew churned with the beast's attempt to submerge. Voy's limp body flopped back and forth, slapping against the dew with loud smacking sounds. His eyes were open but unseeing.

Zami drove the blade deep into the monster's skull; he pulled it free and drove it in again. He thrust again and again, refusing to lose what was his.

He bellowed, “Mine! Mine! Mine!” as he drove the blade home.

Meanwhile, Tax continued to call for help: “Help! Somebody! Bani, help me!”

And Bani came; she took one of the creature's back legs and dug in her heels. As Zami took the handle of his knife into both hands and threw the full weight of his body into each downward thrust, Bani worked with Tax, calling, “Pull! Pull!”

The beast clawed in vain. Slowly, determinedly, Tax and Bani drew the monster back from the dew.

With his legs fully extended, Greebit gave a final shudder and lay still. Zami rolled off its back and helped Tax open the broad slit of a mouth. Bani pulled free the motionless body, and Zami hacked at the large sticky tongue. Voy's body rolled across the large grains of dirt that ringed Big Dew. His torso was a single black bruise that faded to grey; lifeless eyes stared out of his head. One pitiful cough raised blood to his face, and Bani fell upon him, weeping.

Tax wiped the blood from Voy's face with his hand. “Little friend . . .” he groaned.

Zami wiped and replaced his knife. He watched Bani weep bitterly; he saw Tax humbled, but he had no time for their sorrow; he knew the boy's life was slipping away, and every moment counted.

“Move!” he commanded them. “I need room!”

He forced himself up into his soul and opened his eyes with a jolt of unsearchable pain. A thin wisp of blue life streamed away from the gray-transparent form that lay before him. Zami clutched the thin blue line; he took it in desperate hands and tried to hold it down. He summoned the forces of the life Phrava until he shook from the power of it. Still, the blue life streamed away; it bled through his fingers and slipped past his will. The power of the life Phrava burned like fire; he wanted to drop it, but he dared not. How could he bring a friend to his kingdom only to die? He raised his face and howled. He gripped the blue thread; he pulled it back. The cord broke; the connection came apart; there was nothing left to hold.

He fell back from his soul, beaded with sweat and tears, and convulsed. He could hear voices as if from a distance.

“He’s gone; Voy has left us.”

Zami wanted to scream, “No! Don’t leave me!” but he could not move. He had no control. He hated to lose anything; he would fight to retain any of his treasures - much more one of his friends. What could he do? He lay powerless in the dirt having failed in every way.

Later, when Zami laid the body in the camp clearing, it was as dark a night as ever could be. Seeing the transparent flesh, Xar sat heavily in shock; she remembered the vision. Pah turned away in violent, gagging revulsion. Bani stood apart, trembling, staring vacuously into empty space. Tax hung his head, allowing the free rain of tears.

Tah, all gaping terror, at last, shrieked, “You killed him! You killed him!”

Tax absorbed the frenzied blows of Tah's small fists as she pummeled his chest. He took the beating without a word. She turned from him and knelt by Voy; her fingers trembled on her mouth. She wanted to reach out to him but feared to. Zami could not help but note how much smaller Voy seemed in death.

Tax knelt beside Tah; their flooding was dark. At last, the dire result of his drunken jealousy struck fully home. Tax fell across his lost friend and wept.

It seemed like a dream, all but the cold-awful guilt that gripped Zami's chest. He wanted to cry with Tax, but there were no more tears. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut until some large parental hand made it all better, but death was final. It was a wall too high, and long, and broad to get around - and Voy was on the other side. He looked at the task ahead of him and dreaded having to destroy, as well, this dead boy's mother.

Chapter Twenty-Two He staggered through the cleg of Shinshar-mon; he staggered beneath the weight of Voy's cold corpse, and the weight of his own burning guilt. He inhaled the sour odor that wafted from the sedge wine vats which were behind the mon. He blinked. The march had been long, dark, and cold. He alone carried the corpse and accepted no help. He carried home the empty form of a once happy boy. Voy would never see another midday. He would never kiss again, never wed and raise young, never grow old and reminisce. It all ended with Zami. What a damnably short life!

Ahead was the bright new light shining out from the open door of the mon. He marched toward that light alone, as one by one, his friends had left the march to fetch their fathers and mothers. Djidna would need much comfort. A violent death had been unknown in Phar Sheeth since before the hiding.

His own arrogance had brought about its return and Zami despised himself because of it. Would that he had died and not poor Voy! The urgent footfall of Tax and his parents came up from behind.

Zami stood before the open door and called out, “Shinshar! Djidna!”

As Shinshar's silhouette appeared in the door, Tinokta stepped up to Zami's right and a low gasp from Breegah issued at his left. The squat form of Djidna came to the door, then ran forward with a wail that made Zami's skin crawl.

“My boy!” she shrieked. “Oh, my baby!”

Zami gently laid the body down, and Djidna pressed her son into her bosom. She rocked pitifully back and forth, stroking the boy's lifeless face. She made sad little cooing sounds, as she attempted to will her boy back to life. Shinshar fell to his knees beside her and took up the death wail. Breegah fell upon the bereaved with tears of her own and Tinokta joined in the father's loss and lament. Zami could only stand and watch; he was spent.

Soon, others arrived. Kikok had run to Yagi-mon, fetching the Teller and Norsith. Voyun had gone to call Ragezeg and Vreatt. Weeping became hysteria as Tazig, Vureedi, Pax, and Tinokta struggled to move the body inside. Djidna refused to relinquish her hold and was all but dragged along; weeping mothers kept her on her feet with heroic difficulty. And, numbly, Zami followed them in.

Tax fell in a heap by the door and moaned hoarsely, “Voy boy . . .”

The body was laid upon an ornate silk cover they had spread out between the wall and supporting central column of the mon. The mothers had gathered Djidna into their comforts - away from the body - while Shinshar sat at the table, oblivious to the weak comforts offered by the fathers. Suddenly, Djidna ripped free of her comforters, and flung herself upon her son's cold corpse; the mon rattled with her wrenching shrieks and sobs. Shinshar pulled her to her feet, and into his arms.

“No. No,” she sobbed. “Not my Voytk. Not my baby. Dear Maker, please!”

Through his own tears, Shinshar attempted to guide his wife back to the waiting arms of the mothers, but she pulled away and spun to face Zami. Though he had expected it, even waited for it in pained humility, Zami's heart labored in his chest at her approach.

She screamed into his face, “Why!? Why my baby!?”

Zami stuttered, “I tried to save him . . . I tried . . .”

She struck his face with mean strength and knocked him to the floor; the sting of her blow brought tears to Zami's eyes. Pax stepped between them, and the mothers engulfed her.

As Zami accepted Pax’ hand up, Djidna shouted from her ring of comforters, “You and your forest! You and your foul monsters! Your loathsome bastard blood! Get out! Get out!”

Pax led Zami out through the weeping youths, where he fell to the cleg and said to no one in particular, “I tried to save him . . .”

It was late and Yagi had come with the great mother, Zivith. Ragezeg had gone in to calm the grieving parents. Vreatt talked quietly with Takax; the familiar short names went unspoken as Pax gathered information from the scattered group of youths. Tinokta and Voyun had gone to prepare the cask. Zami, alone, sought distance and solitude beyond the vats. He sat cross-legged and soul-chilled in the cool, trammeled cleg as he watched a thousand star gnats sprinkle the night with their pulsing lights. He felt very small, and he felt lost.

He had stepped away from his safe forest home and the world came crashing down around his ears. Big and proud he had been, now no more than a heap of broken tiny shards. He rubbed his head above his eyes, but he couldn’t reach the ache in his soul. Zami looked up to find his friends gathered timidly before him. He looked into the eyes of his overlarge friend, and they lowered in shame. Vreatt took a step forward and spoke.

“We just want to thank you,” said he, “for trying to save Voytk. We know you did everything you could.”

Zami jumped to his feet, with a scowl on his face that reflected the wrenching of his soul. “Sure!” he snarled, first to Vreatt, then to all. “Thank me for doing nothing. While you’re at it, why not thank me for the blindness that placed Voy in death's hand? Thank me for my pride, as well. And while you are all standing around trying to share the guilt that is mine alone, thank me for the stupidity that brought me out of the nholas.”

“I just meant . . .”

“I know what you meant,” Zami interrupted in a low growl and paced without direction. “I was stupid to ever come out of the nholas, stupid to let you talk me into forming portals. I was proud to think that I could lead any of you, and wrong to imagine I was worthy of friends. So look; gawk! See the nholan king. Voy is dead because of me. I wish I’d never met any of you.”

Xarhn took his hand and argued, “It’s not your fault.”

He pulled away; he could not look into her eyes, not after his rant. “Who is at fault, then? Tax? Bani?

No, I’m to blame. I would ask the Maker forgiveness, only, mercy is too good for me.”

“Zami . . .”

“I’m going back to the nholas,” he declared with his back to them. “I’m not coming out ever again and don’t come looking for me; you won’t find me.”

He walked away from them, but Xarhn ran to him, seized his elbow and pulled him around to face her.

“No,” she pleaded. “Don’t.”

He gently removed her hand, and with face bowed, turned once again for home. He had taken only five steps when Xarhn spoke from behind him, stopping him in his tracks.

“I love you,” said she.

He turned with waning determination and faced his friends with a sad smile. “Sorry,” he said. “I just need some time.”

He walked away.

That night was long and painful. Atop a high nhola, he watched the small line of lights move through the utter blackness. He watched the lights gather, in a sad lump, at the cast. He forced himself to watch, unseeing, unblinking, until his eyes ached, until the lights dispersed. He looked on long after the lights were gone. He stared into the blackness. Between the night and his soul, the latter seemed the darker.

He accepted the chill wind that blew across the barren landscape of his heart. The bitter weeping of a bereft mother rang in his ears again and again. The lament for lost Voy was like the chirrup of little monsters that lived in his forest. With each pass came the knife-like thrust of Djidna's words. They worried and widened the wound in his heart.

“Your loathsome bastard blood!”

“Why my baby!?”

“Your loathsome bastard blood!”

Zami cried himself to sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Three He had never known exactly how long a midday was - until now. He had never known how silent and empty his life was - until this single, eternal moment. His entire world sat frozen in time; nothing stirred, save the roiling ache within. His eyes burned from staring at his still, quiet world; if he closed his eyes, Voy was there, transparent and dead.

It seemed like a lifetime; he felt old. He had aged within himself since he had awakened. He sat through the eternal midday, watched his empty life stretch out before him, and refused to blink.

Suddenly, his nhola danced in the grip of a mighty wind; startled, Zami dug his fingers into the spongy voal. Rising from more dirt-ward chores, Old Glorious came to rest on Zami's perch, peering into Zami's face with large, round, emotionless eyes. The beautiful wings – red and white, trimmed in black - flapped enormously, then folded up together. Neither of them moved.

Zami was comforted by the unexpected company of his first citizen, and oldest friend. He sat and watched, and was gladdened that his life was not empty after all. What did this creature see with those oddly placed black orbs? Did he feel? Was he lonely, too?

Zami had not yet thanked him for the ride, and even though it would only fly away, Zami wanted to reach out an appreciative hand; he wanted to touch his friend. Slowly, he extended his hand, a finger, and old Glorious did not move. The quills between his eyes were cool and smooth to his touch. The

long coiled tongue relaxed as Zami stroked its head; the wings parted ever so slightly. The melancholy smile slipped away from Zami's face; something was gone.

The creature drooped; the big head sank beneath the voal's edge. Zami leaned over to see his old friend dangle from one lifeless leg. What had drawn old Glorious to him - to die beneath his hand? Had it, somehow, remembered the first face it had ever seen? Had the bond of their lives demanded this final moment together?

Tears - Zami needed tears. That would be the appropriate thing, but, where were they? He had spent them all on Voy. Another friend lost. How many more? Zami spread his hands and hid his face from the world.

Chapter Twenty-Four Xar climbed up upon the porch and was immediately struck by the desolate ‘feel’ of Zami's home.

Missing was the shroomskin door. Missing was the lived in feeling she so vividly recalled, and so desperately needed. A chilling black hole gaped at her. She stepped inside, and a dull sense of dread took on a keen and cutting edge. She stood just inside the door and waited for her vision to adjust.

What she finally saw scared her. She cast her eyes desperately about the gnarled and gloomy interior.

All that remained was the large black table of shiny stone. Gone were the treasures, the arms of war, the golen pells, and the suits. Gone were the pots and the caps and the silks: all were gone. Even Zami's special setting for the Maker was glaringly absent from its place. Xar swallowed with difficulty; a hollow pain was swelling between her breasts.

She called out, “Zami!”

There was no response save that of an echo, which fell to the floor and died without a final throe. She slumped by the open door, and hid her face in folded arms, but, before the sob could rise to her aching throat, a muffled noise pricked her ears.

Her eyes were drawn to the ceiling. “Zami, I know you’re here. It’s been a whole day; I had to come.

Zami. Don’t shut me out.”

The emptiness grinned silently at her pain. She listened hard for another noise; none came. Had he really gone? Or - did he only want her to think he had? A glint of light caught her eye; it was down the wall to her left. She stared through the blackness, and presently, it appeared once more. She made her way carefully over the smooth but uneven floor. She found a shroomskin pulled tightly over a narrow door; a gentle breeze stirred, and once again, light stabbed past the cover's edge. Fretting the knotted stays that held the cover taut, Xar made room enough to slip through. She found herself on a small, secret porch.

The one thing that Xar really understood about Zami was that he had an inexhaustible supply of secrets.

Hand-fashioned railings closed in the smaller porch, and unfamiliar objects cluttered the rough-scraped floor. The first object to catch her eye was a medium sized box made of slates. Touching it with curious fingers, she discovered that it was hot, and quickly withdrew her hand.

She looked around at the strange assortment of items: on a rack of sedge were long strips of an odorous material left out to dry; skins and silks draped the nearby railing. She sampled of the large quantities of chelt that cured slowly in sedge baskets, and open pots held clear sweet dew.

A scraping sound, from behind, startled her. She spun just in time to see the last rung of a twine ladder disappear past the high, tangled roof. So, he was hiding!

Xar yelled up at the roof, “You can’t fool me, Zami. I know you’re up there.”

Briefly, Zami appeared at the edge of the roof and said, “Go home.” Then, he was gone again.

Stubbornly, Xar called back, “No! I won’t! Zami, I need to talk to you.” When no answer returned, she asked, “Are you really going to make me climb this thing?”

She shrugged and searched the outer wall for suitable handholds. The surface was rough and laced with clinging creepers. Easy enough, she thought. Testing a tentative creeper, she drew up her weight and stretched up a leg to toe in. However, her tight silk skirt made such maneuvers impossible. She removed it and started up in earnest.

The vast top was wildly knotted, but difficult negotiations soon brought her to an isolated opening.

Three craggy steps carried her down into Zami's secret lair. It was large enough, well lit, and jammed tight with his treasures. Zami sat cross-legged on the uneven floor, working with slats. Spread out before him was something big, something somehow familiar, something red and white, and trimmed in black. Xar marked a careful path to his side and nestled close.

Without looking up from his work, Zami said, “I told you to go home.”

“And you think I’m gonna do everything I’m told?” He looked then; she continued, “Besides, I belong with you.”

“I need to be alone,” he said without emotion.

Xar answered, “Well, you can just be alone with me.”

He groaned, “Don’t expect much.”

She asked brightly, “What are you making?” She got no response but pressed on undaunted. She would burst if she couldn’t tell him the news. “All the fathers gathered this midday last. The Mithal and Teller came, and they locked themselves in the Norsey til even.”

Zami took his knife and cut a notch in one of the long slats. He did not react to her news. But Xar had only begun to relay the news.

She continued, “Pah told them everything. Father says everyone is upset.”

No response.

“The Mithal wants to wait about our portals - to see if any of us are with young.”

Zami placed the notched slat over a shorter piece and tied them together with twine. Although his hands moved nimbly, his eyes seemed not to see.

Xar went on, “After Pah, they called the rest of us, one by one, and made us tell all. Father told me that Shinshar demanded a punishment; some of the other fathers agreed. The Mithal approved.”

Without looking up, Zami quietly asked, “Who’s getting punished?”

“Tax, Bani, and Tah,” was the answer. “They’re being held in rooms at the Norsey until two middays pass; the Mithal says there must be no anger at the punishment.”

Zami responded, “Greebit killed Voy. How can others be blamed?”

Said Xar, “They are not being blamed for death, but for transgressions of the spirit.”

Zami faced her; he clearly did not understand.

She explained, “Tax is guilty of jealousy; he’s to be slatted fifty strokes. Tah gets ten strokes for tempting Tax, and Bani is guilty of vengeance. She’s to get seventy strokes.”

“That’s stupid!” objected Zami. “Tax and Bani were too deeply potted to know what they were doing.

Nobody started out trying to hurt the other.”

“I know, but, that was the judgment.”

Zami sat back thoughtfully, and asked, “When will it happen?”

“Before the mid meal, at the staging.” Her words left a bad taste on her tongue. She winced at the thought of being slatted, and continued, “It’s really sad. I would take their place if I could. Poor Bani seventy strokes!”

Zami's face hardened. “No. You will not take their place, neither will they be beaten.”

Xar asked, startled by his stony resolve, “What are you going to do?”

“Something. Let me think.” He looked at the slats in his hands, studied the wings of Old Glorious - Xar realized with a sudden shock - and speared her with a cold and calculating eye.

Then he said, “I’ll show them what it means to be attacked by a monster. I’ll scare them to a trot. Then, we can hide in the nholas, or, better yet, we can all move to Dirt.”

His thoughts had flown over her bare, round head. She rubbed it, remembering. First was the shock of mother, and the amusement of father. Then was the contempt of the parents, the rejection of the Mithal, and the rage of the Teller. She returned Zami's smile, hoping that her confusion was sufficiently displayed in her eyes, however, Zami turned his brightening interest upon the slats, which he raised before his face. He seemed suddenly strange to Xar; his smile did not fit his face. It seemed more a shadow: a fleeting image of someone altogether different.

He looked through the slats, and beyond. Xar thought the moment was just a little too spooky. She cleared her throat and said, “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”

Zami noticed her as if she had just materialized from thin air - a discomfiting glance if ever there was one. Then, his black eyes sparkled with the formation of a plan. She loved it; she loved all of his unexpected turns. She loved Zami.

With suddenly brilliant intent, Zami asked her, “Can you get in to see them?”

“Yes. I saw them just this morn. Tax was wondering how you are?”

“Oh,” said Zami, softening somewhat. “How is he?”

“Sad,” replied Xar. “He doesn’t mind being punished, he said, he just misses Voy.” “And the others?”

“Tah doesn’t want to be called Tah anymore; she wants to be called Tosh. She just wants to get through the slatting and try to forget. Bani is angry. She hates everyone. She hates Tax worst of all and says she’ll have no more to do with him. She hates Tah - I mean Tosh – for coming between her and her own, and she even hates Voy for dying.”

Zami set the slats aside, and took her hands into his, saying, “I have a plan and I need your help.”

Xar failed to speak; she was just too happy to do anything but smile: Zami was back – and he needed her. She liked the sound of that.

Zami continued, “I need you to go to Tax and Tosh. Tell them I’m going to Dirt, and if they want to go with me, they don’t have time for games with slats.” He said, “Tell them to be ready to leave when Old Glorious breaks through the barrier.”

“Is that all?!” complained Xar. “No, there’s more.”

“There had better be.”

Zami said, “I want you to take a message to Ragezeg. Tell him this: if Takax, Tosh, and Shabani are not released immediately, I will unleash my monsters upon the Shee. Tell him, I have complete control of the nhola beasts, that I will drive them through the barrier, and attack the Shee freely. If others should hear you tell my words to the Mithal, so much the better.”

“That’s still not very much,” she pouted.

“There is one more thing,” he told her, “and, my plan will fail without you, so forget nothing. When I fly out from the nholas, point and yell. Make sure everyone sees. There will be confusion; punishment will be the last thing on their minds.”

“You’re going to fly?” She couldn’t believe it, even as the words escaped her lips. Shee simply did not fly! What was he talking about?

“Well,” he conceded, “I have to finish this . . .” He indicated the wings before him. “And then,” he said, “I have to practice. I’ve got a costume to sew - oh! - and, I need to make sure the suits work. Much to do.”

He seemed beside himself as if his many plans revolved around his head, and he could scarce keep his eyes trained on any one of them but for a moment. He turned and took up his work with an intense focus that dissolved the world about him. Xar sat there watching him, feeling forgotten. She shifted on the floor, to find a rough spot that was less prominent, and cleared her throat for attention.

“Don’t forget,” he said without looking up. “Your's is the more important part. When I come flying in, looking like Old Glorious, there’ll be such a panic, you can all just walk away. Bring them here; I’ll have everything ready.”

“To go to Dirt?”

“Yes.” “Forever?”

“Maybe.”

“Well . . . I just can’t leave mother and father,” she said, suddenly put out. “We have to take them, too.”

“We only have four suits.”

“So! Think of something.”

“I will,” Zami soothed. “I’ll find a way. Perhaps, once I get you three over, I can bring back the suits for your parents.”

Xar slumped with relief. She just couldn’t leave her parents - not to mention, her little brother - she loved them too much. She could move away to a different mon, but not to a different world. Then, she remembered her confrontation with mother and father earlier.

“I thought mother would have a fit when she saw my head.” She had to laugh. “She took it really well, all things considered.” She elbowed Zami's ribs, a gleam in her onyx eyes. “Then, I found out about the gift you left. Father asked me to thank you.”

Zami chuckled, never ceasing the work with his hands. A sturdy flat framework was taking shape. Xar wondered if there was anything he could not do.

“Guess you want me to go,” she said.

Without warning, Zami turned and pulled her into his arms. He pressed his lips to hers; Xar closed her eyes and absorbed the moment. She floated above herself, lost somewhere in time.

He whispered in her ear, “Go. Go home. I love you.”

Chapter Twenty-Five She helped her father in the market until mid meal. She helped her beaming mother with preparations, and then, she excused herself to visit her friends in the Norsey. A light tap at the old familiar door gained her an entry with hardly a wait. Zivith led her down the dim, circular hallway, past rooms of napping young, to the empty play area at the center of the Norsey.

“I just set out the food,” whispered the Norsith. “I’ll bring them down.”

Xar wandered about the open middle, examining play toys she remembered from her own Norsey training. She stopped at the dew well, an ornate stone carved with reliefs of the tales told the young.

Her finger traced the figures of Ojin and the growling Coosith. She drew her hand along the polished rim of the well and remembered how she had nearly fallen into the larger, lower tier. She remembered how Zivith had scolded the other young for laughing at her.

She wandered to the long sedge bench and sat on the attached seat - a plank of sedge worn smooth from countless bottoms. She faced the half-open door, and quietly awaited her friends. Shar soup had been set out for them; it smelled good, and she was sure it tasted better than it smelled. The Norsith always made the best soup. The lof was warm, the milksap cool, but her attention strayed to the darkened inner wall, above the door, and up to the balcony that circled round by the upper rooms.

She searched the easy, yellow sky, and tried to imagine Zami flying through it. She fell from her reverie at the creak of the ancient door. Zivith led Tax and Tosh to the table, where they sat without speaking, and stared gloomily into their meals.

Zivith took a portion of food into her arms, and said apologetically, “Shabani refuses to leave her room.

I’ll just take some soup to her; mayhap she’ll eat a bit later.”

The Norsith left and closed the old door behind her. Tosh took up her eating slat and stirred the soup in hopeless resignation.

Tax set his pot at arm's length and growled, “I hate Norsey food.”

Then, without preamble, Xar leaned forward and pushed her news across the table. “Zami's working on your escape,” she imparted in a conspiratorial whisper. “He sent me to tell you.”

“Escape?” repeated Tosh quizzically.

“It’s very clever,” she explained. “When you go to the staging, he flies out of the nholas and scares everyone into running; we simply walk away.”

“Fly?” asked Tosh, startled into confusion. “Did you say fly?”

Tax rubbed his round head and grinned as the news sank in. “That boy!” Tax exclaimed. “He’s gonna make them all think he’s a floater swooping in to eat them. Right?”

Xar nodded happily; Tax had explained it better than Zami had. She continued, “He said if you want to go to Dirt with us, leave the slats alone, and be ready.”

“I wouldn’t miss Dirt for a lifetime of slattings,” Tax chuckled. “Tell him I’m in.”

Xar turned to Tosh, her laughing black eyes awaiting an answer. Tosh reddened as she noticed Tax’ impatient interest. “I don’t know . . .” she hedged. “Dirt sounds a bit drastic; ten strokes aren’t all that bad.”

Tax turned in his seat and took her hands in a commanding grip. He pleaded, “Tosh, go with me. Say yes.”

For a long moment, she simply stared at their hands. Then, she took a deep, wavering breath, nodded, and quietly said, “I’ll go.”

Chapter Twenty-Six The wings were perfect; no one would see the frame until he was directly over them, and by that time, they would be too busy running. He had been surprised at how easy it was to fly like a floater. Landing the thing only took small changes to the body's position. He attached it to a Thletix-facing nhola and set about his other chores.

He had taken the head of old Glorious and made a cap of it. Shattered bones of the Greebit monster were sewn in to appear as teeth, and the entire macabre mask now hung above his slate oven, drying in the gentle heat of burning zeowax. His costume was made from the many quill caps he kept in store; all was now ready.

He sat within the dim largeness of his emptied home; a single star gnat throbbed in a homely twine cage. Zami examined the workings of the machine-suit he would wear to Dirt. About him lay the other items necessary for the trip: three mirror-like suits with ancient straps replaced by sturdy shroom straps, four iron helmets, four long spears, the torches Tax had fashioned, and the bag of pells. Although he could not find a way into the suit, the outer surface was quite enough to deal with for now.

The upper torso fit over the body in two sections that locked firmly in place. This was joined to the stomach plate by cords of coated wire; Zami had repaired the many ancient cracks in the wiring with a liberal application of the quick-drying chula sap. Chula sap had a supple springiness to it that made it the obvious choice for crack repair. Usually, he mixed small portions with sweet and dried them; they were good to chew.

Below two lidded pockets on the front torso section - he supposed these were for the pells - small metal stems projected from sealed outlets. The stems could be snapped up and down without breaking off.

Upon the stomach plate of each suit was a round knob that could be turned, clicking as it went. On the back torso section, between the shoulders, could be found a long raised box that tapered to a fine point near the bottom. The box sported four narrow slits, two on each side. The whole thing, indeed, was a mystery, but one he would solve in the wearing.

He climbed into the torso and locked it in place. He pulled the broad belt around his back from the left and fastened it on the right. He pulled the new shroom straps between his legs and secured them to the stomach plate just below the knob. His suit, as well as the enlarged one to be worn by Tax, came with a convenient cup. Two suits did not. He would let Xar and Tosh adjust them as need demanded. His suit fit him well; Zami stooped and stretched to get the feel of it. It felt natural.

Now . . . which pocket should he put the pell in?

He lifted the lid of each and tried to peer inside. Perhaps he had to fill both of them, but, no, he thought; two separate pockets suggested two separate purposes. He sat and pondered, then he remembered Xar's dream. Pulling a torch to his lap, Zami pried loose the warm pyre shard and put it in the left pocket of his suit. Nothing at all occurred.

He pushed up the metal stem and heard the loud snap of it as he did so. Still, nothing happened. Zami pulled the stem to its original position and placed the gem in the right pocket. When, after he had drawn a breath, he snapped the right stem to its upright position, something happened. A slight but steady buzzing sound filled his ears. Barely visible, a pattern of swirling colors appeared to his eyes.

The colors flowed around him, and he watched as dust motes brushed the colors and danced away. Yes, of course! It was a shield. He decided it was time; he retrieved one of the heavy pells. He stood in the middle of his empty home and placed the pell in his left pocket. Then, he flipped up the stem. He looked to either side of him as ethereal, rainbow wings flowed out from the box on the back of his suit.

He smiled; he had wings and they pulsed with a bright, mysterious life of their own. The empty hive was excitingly bright; the walls came to life with a thousand dancing hues. Never had he seen such a visible thrill. Zami looked past a shoulder to study the rippling, pulsating surface of the rainbow wing.

How beautiful it was! He could never have imagined such a thing as this; the edge of the wing rippled away to nothing; it had an edgeless edge.

He could feel the power of the wings against his skin. He reached for the knob, wondering if he might use the suit to fly, and noted the dancing fire close upon his skin. It shimmered like the wings, yet, it was as near invisible as the pattern of the shield. What a marvel! He stretched forth his arms before his face, and had to smile; he felt himself lifted from the floor. He wafted slowly to the ceiling; he lowered his arms and settled back to the floor.

Thrill upon thrill! He wanted to dance. Ah, but that might send him hurtling helplessly through a wall. He practiced flight; it was such high fun. Not only were the arms used, but the legs as well. Small gestures of the hands and feet turned a detached roll into a graceful aerial dance. Zami spun through the empty old hive, turning slow, lazy somersaults between the ceiling and floor. Indeed, he placed his feet on the ceiling and laughed at the floor.

At last, he settled and shut off the suit. He knew now what he needed to know. One pocket powered the suit, and one pocket powered the shield. The movements of the body excited the rainbow wings and induced flight. Therefore, the round knob on the stomach plate would be used for the transportation to Dirt. Numbers etched on the plate just around the knob, ranged from zero to eight. Which of these might be the setting for Dirt he would deal with presently.

Zami placed gems and pells in their respective pockets on each suit (for he had recovered the dropped torch from the abyss) and lined them up against the table. The remaining pells sat in the middle of the polished table, with spears and helms. His preparations were complete.

He stepped out onto his porch and took the sweet forest air deep into his chest. He watched contentedly as the abyss swallowed the last of the living lights. Joy filled him, deep and serene. Why not just take a quick look: see what awaited them? He powered the suit and chose the number eight.

POP! “So . . . this is Dirt.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven Will tightened the worn old straps with a yank. Nag brayed once, stepping sideways before settling into her usual, docile stance. He leaned Pa's shotgun against the barn wall and rubbed tired eyes with rough, dirty hands. The night had been an ordeal; the calf had died in his arms. What else could go wrong!?

He faced east and stretched; his cold joints cracked. The rising sun was no more than a splash of red on the bellies of thin, low clouds. The autumn air was bracing, but it offered no comfort; the long vigil of the night had taken everything. He tied a jug to the saddle horn, and eyed the shotgun, scratching in his long, salt-and-pepper beard.

No, he thought, leave it. Could be some grumpy old she-bear would walk up from the woods, and put him out of his misery. He pulled himself atop his mule, with the rope wound tightly around one hand, and put his heels to her flanks.

“Hup!” he called.

Nag turned toward the hill, dragging the bloody blanket that held the dead calf. Nag needed no further prompting, but went directly to the hill; the short broad oak was just ahead. To Will's right was the large blue pond that Pa had loved so well, shining orange in the press of dawn.

“Whoa, Nag!” He did not hurry, just took his time, occasionally sipping from his jug. Soon, a pile of dried branches was at his feet - but it wasn’t big enough. He pulled dry clover and threw it on until the wood was well hidden. Then, pulling deeply from the comfort of his jug, he sighed, sealing it with a shaved cob, and placed the dead calf atop the pile. He struck a Diamond match, lifting smoke and licking flames to the morning sky.

He eased the suspenders from his shoulders and let them fall to his sides. He watched the crackling fire, and let it warm him. Then, he pushed the sleeves of his union suit up past his elbows and leaned back against the low oak stump. He stretched his feet to the fire and opened the jug.

Dirt truly amazed him; Zami circled slowly to take in the entire panorama. Dew, clear as air, trickled from a hole in the great rock wall. It flowed through a rock-bedded channel toward a searing light.

Colossal, nhola-like growths filled an unending blue sky with a chaotic profusion of colored leaves: red, orange, and yellow.

Monsters were everywhere. At a big red beast, that traveled on four legs, Zami pointed his mind. The beast halted, and Zami straddled its back. He led it with ease along the dew's widening course. With shield on, he sat comfortably atop his beast and watched the new world parade past. So much color!

There was yellow, there was red, there was orange and brown.

There were beasts abounding. They came in all shapes and sizes. He recognized floaters, though they seemed much smaller. He noted a weird, buzzing thing with a pointed face. It flew around him, seeking where it might penetrate his shield, but earned only scorn and a hardy thump of Zami's fist. A gentle nudge from Zami's mind sent the pest along its way.

The single brightness of the blue sky warmed Zami's skin, while shadows that fell from everything gigantic chilled him. He watched in awe as one large winged creature swallowed a smaller winged creature in one fluid swoop. What a world! In every direction, this new world was alive with continuous motion and a subtle, yet abrasive, cacophony. Here, everything was bigger, faster, and louder - well, almost everything. A small yellow floater wafted curiously near, then lost interest.

Ahead of him, and to his left, a single great growth stood away by itself. Anchored by gnarled gray roots, it lifted an unimaginable weight of brightly colored leaves into the quickening sky. Appearing nearby were two other marvels. A fire, fantastic in proportion, danced upon the dirt to the quick tombeat of a deafening roar. And - a wog sat before the fire. It spoke in slow, loud noises to a homely beast that grazed in the tall brown flowers, away from the flame.

At the sound of hooves, Will turned to see Tuck approaching from the east, his dappled gray mare negotiating the hard dirt trail with mechanical, uncaring steps. Tuck was, in all likelihood, Will's sole remaining friend; he was certainly his most consistent customer.

“Mornin’, Witherspoon,” said Tuck, dismounting his mare.

Bill Tucker was a small, leather-faced man who clerked at the Evanston Hotel. His shoes were always polished, and his trousers always pressed. He had money; he could easily afford to drink at Brady's Saloon, but much preferred Will's back door brew. Tuck sent his mare to nuzzle the clover by Will's Nag, and crouched by the big stump, following Will's gaze into the snapping flames.

Tuck said, “Won’t be long now; almanac’s callin’ for a early snow.”

Will snorted from the lip of his jug, “I’ll be sure an’ chop some wood.”

“Oughta hitch up with the widder Hawkshaw, move up in the big house. Now, there’s the hearth’ll keep y’ warm.”

Will grated, “Shut y’ face.”

Tuck smiled. “Y’ know,” said he, “there’s plenty a man what’s put on his best, but the widder snubbed ‘em all. Got her eye on you, she does.”

“Well, she can just go on lookin’. I done learnt my lesson. Now on, it’s just me and the Good Lord. And Nag, here.”

Goading was in his voice; Tuck responded, “Hell, man. Ain’t no time to roll over an’ die. Why yer still a young man. Well, young enough. Y’ know, for a lick and a promise, all she has could be yourn.

More’n a hunert head, I hear, an’ the biggest, purdiest spread in the whole valley.”

Will sneered, “Yeah, she’s got a biggun, alright. Man could get lost in a spread like that, never see the light o’ day.”

“All the more to warm y’ these comin’ cold months.” Tuck laughed.

“Tuck, just shut up an’ git a jug. I got no use for women. Got enough on me as it is.”

“Heard y’ paid a visit up to her place last month.”

Damn Tuck's goading!

“Went up for supper’s all! Ate some; talked some. Ain’t been back since.”

Tuck fished in his vest pocket and tossed a dollar coin to Will. He fetched the empty jug from his saddle horn and dropped it by the stump on his way to the creek. He spoke idly.

“Seen the new banker, yet? Arlis Vanderbilt’s his name.”

“No,” said Will.

“Kicked the Walters right off their farm. Did the same to ol’ John.”

Tuck drew a fresh jug from the cold creek and walked back. “Be out to see you next. Best be pannin’ up some gold . . . real quick.”

“You just keep y’ mind off m’ gold, and let me take care o’ Vanderbilt.”

Tuck mounted his mare, turned her down the trail, and called back over his shoulder, “Watch y’self; he’s a meanun.”

Will sat long, and watched the fire die out. In the final, sputtering flame, he saw Ep's gentle golden hair and laughing blue eyes. He saw the gun in his hand, and its smoke rose up from the embers.

Women!

He said to Nag, “This is it, ol’ girl. I had it all, but I wanted more.”

Nag chewed in dumb bliss, and Will continued.

“This is what a man is brought to. Everythin’ gits lost, and a man finds hisself at the bottom of a jug.

All for the love of a woman.”

He paused to peer, with one eye, into the deep dissolve of the jug's dark interior. He turned it up and tapped the bottom; a single drop fell to his tongue.

“Yeah,” he repeated, “all for the love of a woman.”

Suddenly, Nag danced back and brayed; a wild look of fear was in her wide brown eyes. Her nostrils flared; a strangled noise issued from the back of her throat, and she bolted west along the creek.

Will sat straight and yelled, “Git back here!” When she disappeared beyond the trees, he sat back with a disgruntled ‘harumph’ and said, “Damn ol’ lop-eared jackass. I ain’t chasin’ y’.”

He scratched in his long, oily hair, and resurrected some choice invective. He stretched his untied boots closer to the embers and rested his head on the rough oak stump.

“I ain’t chasin’ y’. Damn ol’ mule.”

He locked his fingers over a middling paunch and dropped heavy lids over dry, burning eyes. Ep was there. Damn! Won’t it ever go away? He opened his eyes and studied the approach of gray-bellied clouds. A rain was coming.

He told himself, “Hell! I need another jug. Guess I’ll hafta fish one oughta the creek.” He raised his head, but nothing else seemed mobile at that particular moment. So, he dropped his head back, with a solid thump, and began to sing, “Well . . . I thought I’d go fishin’ . . . got to thinkin’ it over . . . y’ know the road to the river . . . it is a mighty long way . . .”

A loud splashing from the creek drew Will up to one elbow; it was Emma Hawkshaw. She approached on her prized paint. He fell back with another solid thump of his head on the hardwood pillow.

“God!” he complained beneath his breath.

Chapter Twenty-Eight Emma Pratt Hawkshaw was a big-boned woman in her mid-forties. Although her sable hair was lightly streaked with gray, her face was admirably youthful and imbued with self-assurance. Her brown eyes sparkled with the force of a determined outlook.

She called down from her mount, “What a fine, manly voice you have. You should come sing in the choir.”

Will reasoned, “If they got a whole choir, they don’t need me.”

Emma laughed merrily. “Now Will,” said she, “I’m sure they’d love to hear you sing. Why I’ll wager, Pastor Eubanks would ask you to sing a solo.”

“Yeah, I’ll sing solo,” Will cracked. “So low they can’t hear me.”

Emma dismounted, laughing sweetly. She said, “That’s good, Will.”

“What y’ want?” Will grumped. “I’m a busy man - in case you ain’t noticed.”

“Busy gathering wool,” Emma snorted in her usual outspoken manner. “I was merely curious about the cow. Has she calved?”

“Look on the fire, woman.”

Emma noticed the burned remains. She sighed, “Oh . . . I’m so very sorry.”

She walked to the smoldering ash and stood beyond Will's outstretched feet. He studied her backside with one squinted eye. She wore fancy, store-bought cotton britches, and a flannel shirt, tied at the waist. Her long hair was neatly coiled behind her head. She bent to stir in the ash, and Will opened the other eye. How did it all fit!? Then she straightened, pulling at a half-burned clover she had plucked from the edge of the ember pile.

“Enjoy staring at my bottom, do you?”

Belatedly, Will clamped his eyes shut, and laid his head back, clearing his throat. “Concerned y’ didn’t burn y’self is all.”

Birds sang sweet songs in the distance. Whiskey sloshed behind his eyes, making his world spiral comfortably in on itself. He thought he could sleep there for three days - if only this confounded widow woman would go away. He felt a motion and roused from his stupor to find that she had seated herself upon the stump. She sat so close to his head that he could feel the heat from her flanks on the side of his face. With a grumping sigh, he resealed his eyes.

Emma asked, “Where’s your new mule? Nag, is it?”

“Took off up the creek like she had a bee on her tail.”

“Nag.” Emma laughed the word. “Quite the uncommon name.”

“I named her after you.”

“I’m flattered.”

“You would be.”

Emma cleared her throat, a small polite sound that set a new course for conversation. “I noticed your fence has yet to be mended.”

“I keep it that way a-purpose.”

“I’ve a man puttering about the barn; I could have him take a look at it.” The offer lingered in the air, unanswered. She added, “It would be no problem.”

“Thank y’, no.”

Undaunted, Emma dropped her first contrivance and took up the second. “You know, Will, I’ll have a fine stew on, tonight. ‘Twould be nice if you could come up - put on your best bib and tucker, bathe perhaps.”

Will struggled to sit up and face her. He said, “You got a real talent for gittin’ my goat. Y’ know that?”

He stabbed the cloudy sky with baleful eyes. “Bathe, she says! Hell far, woman, I still itch from the last time.”

“So, pardon me!” she countered severely. “You just sit here and do nothing. Life has to be lived, Mr. Witherspoon. Don’t come to supper; see if I care. But, winter is near upon us, and there’s many a chore needs your attention. You’ve not cut a single cord . . . and that poor old house,” she paused to cross herself, “God bless it, has all but caved in.”

Will fired right back, “Well, you sure got it all figured. Don’t y’? But, there’s one thing all that fancy education o’ yours didn’t teach y’ . . . and that’s how t’ leave a man in peace.”

Emma leaned forward on her elbows and shook her head. “Lord knows,” she said, “I’ve tried my best to be your friend.”

“Snoopy ol’ busy body’s what y’ mean.”

She continued as if he had not interrupted at all, as if she had only paused for effect, “Sure, and though I’m sorely tempted just to throw up my hands, I’ll not waver in my faith.” She set her jaw, and added, “I’ll simply roll up my sleeves, and do it myself. Faith without works, Mr. Witherspoon . . .” Then, nodding approval, she stood, mounted her paint, and concluded from the saddle, “I’ll just drop by your house to do a wee bit o’ straightening.”

Thus proposed, Emma turned her paint and trotted away, calling over her shoulder, “Since you’ve no mule, Mr. Witherspoon, you can just ride shank's mare. Don’t be long, now.”

Will fought his way up to a tottering stance of defiant rage. This was too much! “What!? Don’t you touch nothin’! It’s my house, an’ I like it just the way it is!”

Zami released the creature and flew up the bole of an endless, otherworldly nhola. He thought to himself with a satisfied smile, What an absolutely wonderful world. This would make a splendid home.

Four adventurers could ask for no more. The large creatures posed no serious threat; the shields in the suits would repel all attacks. True: it was extremely warm - and bright - but, he was sure they could adjust. All they could ever want or need, this new world was sure to provide.

Large, stiff vines protruded from the magnificent bole: neither did they tie to other boles, nor did they sag from their astounding proportions. How the remained the way they were was a marvelous mystery.

Many types of strange and wonderful monsters lived among these stiff vines. There were flying beasts

with pointed faces that sang in high, shrill notes. There were four-legged beasts that flapped their tails nervously and chittered from safe distances. There were even tiny versions of spinners, star gnats, and floaters.

Settling on a high vine, Zami surveyed the rock wall and flowing dew below. Beyond the hole from which the dew emerged, there was a closed door. There was a familiar world, where friends awaited his return. Would they be as pleased with Dirt as he was? He turned and studied the new-world nhola. At the base of the stiff vine, where it was largest, a black hole opened from the depths of the bole. Zami stuck in his head and looked around the large, pithy cave. The smell of it was pungently sweet. This would do nicely, he decided with a silent nod.

He tested the inner walls with his ruby knife and knew a home could be fashioned with ease. He made quick work of widening the chamber and clearing the floor. Then, he set about carving two additional rooms that were accessed by way of hastily fashioned steps. Zami reveled in his labor; he labored for Xar, his love, and two friends. When he was done, he turned the knob back to zero and switched on.

Once more, he stood on the familiar plane of his porch. Phar Sheeth slept.

Transporting treasures to the new world seemed no effort at all. Even the smooth black table could be easily lifted with the power of his suit. To his amazement, when he returned to Dirt, he appeared at the same place he had departed - on the vine before the door of his new home. He made a mental note that when he returned for his friends, he should depart from the hole in the rock wall. From there, he would guide them slowly and safely to their new home.

He stood, at last, surveying the main hall of his new - what? He could not call it a mon, nor could he call it a hive. Well, he could save that for later. It was crammed with the many items he had transported.

He would have to carve another room just to hold his treasures. That, too, could wait. It was a good start; supplies were stacked from floor to ceiling, from wall to wall. His black table occupied the center of the hall; his father's setting was in place. The slate oven sat by the back wall, between the two stairways. All the necessary items for a new beginning were here in this room.

He finished the rooms and placed a shroom cover across the main door. He had even gone to the trouble of retrieving two new pyre gems from the mine and placing them in old, bent cages. The extra effort had tired him, and in Phar Sheeth, the long night waned. His body craved sleep, but his excitement overwhelmed. There was yet one thing to do before returning for his friends, and to do it, he would need to find the wog.

Will wobbled to the creek, Pa's shotgun secure beneath one arm, and began the crossing under a noon sun. It had been a long and frustrating battle, but he had won. The widow Hawkshaw was gone.

He crowed, “Guess I showed that ol’ biddy a thing or two.” His boots filled with the icy water from the creek, and he gasped from the shock of it. “Ooh! Ooh!” He hopped, attempting a speedy dance to the other side, but instead, he fell to his hands and knees with a splash, as the shotgun landed on the bank.

“Damn, that’s cold!”

He crawled toward the bank, a smile playing on his creek-spattered face; he was full of himself. He had put the widow to flight. His hand caught something in the icy water; it was a jug. He’d been looking for that.

“Oh! There you are,” he cooed.

The bank came beneath his hands and knees. Nag walked up to him, nuzzled his oily hair, and crossed the creek, headed for the barn. Will rolled over and sat up; he called after his mule.

“Don’t you ever run off an’ leave me with the widder agin! Yeah, you better head home; I ain’t none too pleased with your mulish ways.”

He clutched the shotgun and staggered to his feet. He pulled the whittled cork from his jug and sent cool, smooth whiskey past stained but sturdy teeth. The overlarge gulp sent a shiver of satisfaction down the length of his wet, taut flesh. He sought the ash pile, and whatever warmth it had to offer. The gun went across his lap, with an affectionate pat, then he slammed back more of the smooth brew. This, he thought, had to be his best batch ever. Pure nectar!

“Wonder what the interest is?” he asked himself. Then, with a shudder and a frown, he answered himself, “Gold! She knows I pan. That’s why she keeps comin’ round, waggin’ that ol’ big butt. Gold.”

He clutched a handful of ash and studied it intensely, abortively. He couldn’t see where the calf left off, and the wood took up. It was all a uniform gray. It was a losing color; it was his color.

He said to his hand, “Yours is not the only fat in the fire, little critter. Women! They’re all hot t’ git their hands on y’, till there ain’t nothin’ left but the man. Then, they’re as gone as if they ain’t never been.”

The ash seemed to grow warmer in his balled and angry fist; he hurled it at the nearby oak.

First, to his dismay, and then to his horror, a little man appeared on the root; he was dressed in silver.

Will's jaw dropped open. Het set the jug aside, rubbed his eyes, and looked again – there stood the little man, looking right into his eyes. It’s a demon! Has t’ be! Yes, it was a foot high demon, come to ferry Will beyond the coals in retribution for Ep's demise. He had always known it would come to this; he had always believed that he deserved it . . . he just wasn’t ready.

Zami stood on the root of the great Dirt nhola; he stood hidden in glamor, wondering how best to approach the wog. As he listened to the slow rolling thunder of wog speech, he was pleasantly surprised to discover that he understood most of what the giant said. He had been concerned that he might be unable to communicate; he was glad to realize they spoke alike.

Then, to his dismay, the wog cast a fine gray mist about him; his glamor faded, and he stood exposed.

Was this wog magic? The roaring wog came slowly to its feet. The long pole it carried was pointed in Zami's direction. From the front of it came fire and a rain of small round stones. The force of them against his shield knocked him back into the bole. He had blinked, and there were the stones; he felt dizzy. The Dirt nhola exploded from behind him; he could see bits of it flying in all directions at once.

The image of it was burned into his mind. Obviously, this was not a good time to speak with the wog.

He spread rainbow wings and flew, even as the wog cast his pole aside and lurched toward the dew.

The house and barn sailed past him; Nag's startled eyes came and went in a flash. He could still see the foot high man - in his mind. He had peppered it with buckshot, and not only had it remained standing, it sprouted wings and flew. Will hoped to outrun the thing - providing he could stay on his feet. The broken fence was a blur; the red maple sped by. His heart pounded in his chest, and his mind was

painfully lucid. A stark sobriety fueled his pumping legs. He sought distance, and safety, from the pesky silver demon.

Will stumbled, picked himself up, and toppled down the hill toward Emma's grand two-story house. He made a beeline for the ornate front door, greedily sucking air, and pressing the stitch in his side. He slammed the mahogany door with desperate determination and was not about to stop until Emma opened to him. She no sooner had the door opened than Will pushed through, darted down the foyer, and ran around the divider wall. He stopped just short of the sofa. He turned and saw Emma's doll collection on a high shelf, foot high figures that renewed his determined flight.

He ran around the sofa, to the fireplace, where he fell to his knees on a small, expensive rug. Emma rushed in behind him.

“Here, now!” she exclaimed. “What’s this wild look in your eyes?” “. . . man . . .” panted Will. He needed more air. “Little man . . . with wings.”

Emma crossed herself, and said, “Mother's blessing!”

Will hunkered pathetically on the rug and wailed, “I’m a gone coon. Sins o’ m’ youth, Emma, sins o’ m’ youth. Say yer goodbyes, ‘cause ol’ Lucky’s come for m’ soul.” He raised sad, pleading eyes of honest fear, and sniffed back the tear that belied the hardened man.

“Here, now,” said Emma, falling to her knees beside him. She drew him into her arms, and her ample bosom. “What do you expect,” she chided, “swilling that poison day and night? You old coot! Tis not the Divil you’ve seen, but the biting face of too much rot-gut whiskey.”

Will fought tears heroically; he would go willingly before he let anyone see him cry. Then, he was alert to her warmth, alert to how she had pressed his face upon her breasts, and how she patted the back of his head. Conniving woman! He boiled back on his heels.

He railed, “Don’t coddle me, woman! I know what I seen.”

“Sure, and it’s temperance has brought you to your knees.”

“He was real; he cast a shadow! I tell y’, I know what I seen. Looked surprised as hell when I put a load o’ buckshot in ‘im.” Will's eyes grew large, and he threw his arms out to his sides. He added, “But then, he just sprouts wings, an’ flies up.”

Emma soothed, “Alright, Will, calm down. Let us be off our knees, and on the sofa. You can tell me your story in more detail.”

Will sat on the sofa, and looked into Emma's sparkling eyes. He suddenly felt embarrassed. Something in her glance discomfited him - as if she knew exactly how sober he had become. Hesitant, he began his tale; he told the telling points and did not stray far from them. Emma attended his every word, occasionally crossing her breasts in the Catholic fashion that Will found so irritating. He finished his story and watched her visibly digest the information. Presently, she leaned forward on her elbows and cupped her chin in one fretful hand. Deep thought clouded her normally effervescent eyes.

She turned and asked, “What was in the fire? Was there something other than the calf and the wood?”

Will answered, “Ju's a ol’ blanket an’ a rope.”

“Anything else? Anything at all?”

He thought. “Clover. I laid some dry clover’s all.”

Emma slapped her knee and sat back. She said, “Well, there you are! You’ve seen the deeny Shee.”

“The what?”

“Good neighbors?” she prompted, looking for some light of recognition. “Mother's blessing?” She got no response and crossed herself. Will just stared at her with a blank, dumb look, and shook his head.

Emma clarified: “You’ve seen a faerie.”

“A . . . faerie,” he repeated; he wasn’t quite sure he had heard what he heard.

“The ash was a faerie ointment of sorts, and made it visible.”

Will sliced the air with his hand; his head was too full of things he didn’t know and didn’t want to know. He said, “Well, what does it want with me?”

“Just curious, I suppose.”

“So, how do I git rid o’ it?”

“Well . . . you don’t, Will. The deeny Shee go where they will, and do as they please. They can be prankish pests, although I have heard they sometimes leave gifts.”

Will shot back, “Dropped a good jug on his account; he damn well better leave a gift.”

Emma laughed. “Now Will,” she said, “the wee beasty did you a service. He got you sober and clean all in the same day.”

“I’m not laughin’, Emma.”

“If you’ll put on some dry clothes, and part your hair, I’ll set another bowl on the table.”

Will said, “I still got beans,” and stood without preamble. He turned to leave.

Emma said, “Will . . . if it will help at all, I’ll ride out tomorrow and set the frid about.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

All of Phar Sheeth came to the slatting. Xar stood among the press, tensely awaiting the Mithal's return.

She glanced across the staging to her father, who offered the comfort of a smile and the tender kiss of a knowing wink. Shinshar stood upon the stage; he patiently gripped the wide, heavy slat. Zivith, far behind the rest, attended her small group of noisy young. Xar watched her brother pull the ear of Kikok's little girl. A strange, sad longing flooded her heart; she missed her brother already. A sudden silence among the press brought Xar's attention back to the stage.

Ragezeg and Yagi spoke quietly with Tazig, Tinokta, and Vureedi. As the three fathers turned back for the Norsey, Ragezeg and Yagi mounted the stage. Xar screwed up her courage and followed them; she gained the Mithal's attention with a yank of his tinted sleeve. Ragezeg looked at her with the condescending smile of patient old age.

He asked, “What is it, my child?”

She took a deep wavering breath and began, “I bring a message from Zamani.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

“He says that if Takax, Shabani, and Tosh are not released immediately, he will unleash the nhola monsters on Phar Sheeth.”

The Mithal's patience seemed suddenly tasked. Xar watched his ancient eyes harden over a practiced smile. He said thinly, “Is that so?”

Xar continued, “He says that he has control of the Dirt monsters. He says he’ll drive them through the barrier, and attack Thletix.” She felt as if all eyes were on her; she looked nervously about. Fortunately, the Teller had gone ahead, and the parents nearest the stage were huddled in private speculation.

The Mithal turned to look Xar fully in the eye. His ancient voice was a subdued rasp as he answered, “I do not think that will happen, child. At any rate, I serve Phar Sheeth, not the nholas. A judgment has been called for; surely, you must understand.”

Xar swallowed the lump in her throat. She said, “I do, Mithal, but what about Zamani?”

“Girl, I am sorry; I know this grieves you, but it must be finished. Now, please step down; they approach.”

Xar made way for the accused. They were led from the Norsey by the fathers. Tazig walked just behind Tax and Tosh. They seemed both apprehensive and bold. Although naked before his entire world, Tax walked with his head high and his jaw set. Tosh was the more apprehensive of the two; she walked with her head down, and her hands clasped before her.

Bani came kicking and cursing; Tinokta held tightly to one arm while Vureedi fought to control the other. Every curse that Xar had ever heard now issued from the lips of poor, naked Bani. There were even a few curses Xar had never heard. Xar blushed and took in the spectacle. Surely, no such thing had she ever witnessed. Tax mounted the stage with determination, while Tosh hesitated and had to be prompted by Tazig. Bani was hauled up on the stage without ceremony, but with much ado, as she fought the fathers with a strength that tasked their patience.

Ragezeg waited for Bani to calm before he spoke. Tax stared straight ahead without blinking. Tosh stared at her feet, too numb for tears. Bani glared red rage. Xar looked to the nholas.

The Mithal began, “A judgment has been called for . . .”

Then she saw him: Zami flying. Xar hopped anxiously up and down. She pointed skyward and called for all to hear, “Look! Look, they’re coming!”

Heads followed her finger; a large floater with black trimmed wings of red and white sailed out toward Thletix. The barrier had been breached.

Then Pax cried out with alarm, “Dirt monsters!”

Panic immediately set in. Mothers screamed, and ran to scoop little ones in their arms, as fathers stumbled, one over the other, seeking safety for their loved ones. Everyone yelled: Monsters! Run! Hide! Yagi twisted his foot and fell from the stage. But throughout the din and frenzy, Ragezeg faced the approaching floater with calm assurance. As Xar positioned herself near the three accused, Yagi leapt to his feet and ran for the Norsey with unsuspected haste.

Xar whispered, “Get ready.”

Smoothly, Zami sailed down and landed on the stage. In a single gesture, he threw off the wings. He took a deep breath and drew the mask from his head. He turned to look at his friends, then back to the Mithal. He spoke over his shoulder as his eyes locked with Ragezeg's.

“Go,” he told his friends, “I’ll deal with the Mithal.”

Ragezeg grated, “An amusing trick, but do you honestly think you can stop the judgment?”

“I already have.”

Ragezeg squared his bony shoulders and argued, “I will not let you interfere. I will use my power to stop you if I must.”

Zami answered, “My power is greater.”

Xar was transfixed, she should be far away, but she could not move. She had seen demonstrations of the Mithal's power; she feared it as much as any other. She saw it now, again: the gestures that came before, how Ragezeg tilted his head ever so slightly and mustered his immense power. Ragezeg closed his deep-set eyes, and Zami reeled; his legs buckled.

Then Zami threw one hand up before his face, and he straightened. Xar was impressed. Ragezeg staggered back, righted himself, and leaned into the onslaught of Zami's Phrava. Xar began to fear for the two of them. She could see them straining beneath the burden of their powers. She could not tear her eyes away from them; the battle, though silent, was substantial. Swaying slightly, Zami suddenly clenched a fist. He stood before the Mithal, confident and smiling.

The Mithal's eyes opened; a strange, twisted noise escaped his throat. His eyes widened and his skin flooded white with shock; he sank to the stage and slept. Voices rang out as fathers charged from the Norsey.

Zami turned and found his friends present. “Go,” he commanded. “Go now.”

Xar quickly led Tax and Tosh toward the nholas, crossing the cleg at a quick, but an unworried gate.

Fathers who chased the three fell in their tracks and slept. From the Norsey door, mothers looked on timidly, and all was quiet. Among the fallen stood Bani; she faced him with searching eyes. Her rainbow shouted confusion.

Zami spoke in a gentle voice. “We will be going to Dirt. If you wish, and you think you might be safe there, you may live in my old home.”

Bani asked, “Will you ever return?”

He did not answer; he simply vanished.

Chapter Thirty They floated up through the cold night. A new home was above. Quick instructions had made able flyers of his friends, nevertheless, Zami's senses were on alert for possible mishaps.

Tosh giggled, “This is fun!”

Tax asked, “Why is it so cold?”

Xar inquired, “Is it much farther?”

Zami spied the light that peeked through the door of their new home and smiled. He settled his flyers safely on the vine just before the door and sighed relief. Small Dirt creatures buzzed frantically around the door, seeking entry. Zami sent them on their way with but a touch of his mind.

“This is a Dirt nhola,” he explained, ushering all inside. “I made our new home in it.”

Zami sealed the shroomskin door and turned into the light. He accepted their praises as they wandered through neatly stacked piles, taking stock. Then, they gathered to stand by the table, and the pyres, for warmth and comfort. They shed their helmets and spears.

“All the comforts . . .” said Tax. Tosh, with lowered face, said softly, “Thank you for saving us.”

Zami shrugged. He said to them, “I know your hearts burn within, as bright and hot as these new pyres, but here it is night; we should sleep.” Then yawning, he added, “Daring rescues aren’t as easy as they

look.”

Chapter Thirty-One Five blankets and three quilts weighed upon Will with obliterating comfort, staving off the wakefulness that taunted him. They were a solid barrier between the remaining shreds of sweet slumber and cruel consciousness. His mouth was cotton dry. He just wanted to go on sleeping but the battle between covers and cognizance was taking on heroic proportions as it banged and thumped all about him like marching foot soldiers. What an awful noise! The soldiers seemed to know where all the squeaky floorboards were – and they stomped on them spitefully.

A loud clanking of tins from the corner roused him fully and immediately from his sleep. He sat bolt upright in bed and reached for the Bowie, but as he did, the useless slats beneath his bed once more gave way, this time with quite a loud report. Will fell into the narrow space between headboard and mattress.

Laughing gayly, Emma called from the back corner, “Now, aren’t you a sight.”

Will slid the knife back into its worn sheath. He rubbed unbelieving eyes and stared speechlessly at the intruder. A lamp sat trimmed on the table, a small fire crackled in his hearth, and hot coffee was steeping in his tarnished but trusty pot. Emma was wiping the inside of two tin cups with the border of her flannel shirt.

She said, “I found the wood you’d cut and put it all on the fire. You might have slept warmly, I hope you know.”

“I got blankets.” He pulled himself to the side of the bed and drew a blanket around his shoulders. The old black dog, comfortable before the fire, eyed him without lifting its head. Will stabbed him with accusing eyes. Traitor! He stepped into his boots, walked to the table, and fell into a chair.

Emma asked, “Do you always sleep in your clothes?”

“Yeah.”

“You should at least set the knife aside. How one can sleep with such . . .”

“Emma, why’re y’ here?”

“Oh . . . well, I thought you might like some coffee.”

Will yawned. “Ain’t much of a coffee drinker.”

“Well, you are this morning.”

She removed the pot from the hook, filled the two cups, and seated herself across from Will. A thick, white steam rose up through the cold air. She nodded at his cup, and he took it in both hands, grateful

for the warmth. He lifted the cup to his nose, and the rich aroma prompted a cautious sip. A second sip led to a third.

“Damn, if it ain’t good,” he said.

“Thank you kindly,” Emma beamed, taking a sip from her cup. “This is how a good day begins.”

“Guess yer right.”

Silence, then: “Tis a sweet dog you have.”

“Well, a real dog woulda bit y’.”

“Does he have a name?” she inquired.

“O’ fella.”

“Really? How Shakespearian.”

“Talk American.”

Emma explained, “Shakespear was a playwright. He wrote a play called Othello. Oh fellow: Othello?”

“O . . .kay.”

Emma cleared her throat, and Will knew she had come, at last, to her business. She began, “Mister Witherspoon . . .”

“Yeah.”

“Are you up for a little work?”

“What y’ got?”

“I need some wood cut, and my regular man will not be in today. I realize how strongly averse you are to chopping wood, but I thought 'twould do no harm asking.”

Will sat a bit straighter. “One thing I always prided m’self on was bein’ a good worker,” said he.

“Honest work for honest pay. What y’ payin’?”

Emma considered, surprised he had taken the bait. “Well, now . . . a dollar for starters, some hay in your barn, and, I thought a lunch and some tea - if you wouldn’t chafe at my company.”

Will nodded. “Alright. I’ll be up a little later an’ take care of it.”

“We’ll need to move quickly. A bad rain is headed in; however much you can do will be greatly appreciated.”

“I said okay.”

“Good. Oh, and later,” she said, “I’ll fetch down some milk for the frid.”

“What’s that?”

“Just a small offering to appease the wee folk.” She grinned.

“Right. I plum forgot.”

Zami lay beneath heavy covers, Xar's head on his chest, unwilling to risk disturbing her sleep. He had been so very sleepy, he had begged off when she moved upon him enticingly. She had rolled away, sighed and slept. But he could not sleep; noises from the other room prevented that. Tax had been so robust with his new mate that Zami wondered how Xar could sleep through it all. Now, all was quiet and warm, but Zami was still unable to sleep. His wide eyes searched the cut marks in the rough ceiling. Patterns formed, became larger patterns which, in turn, became smaller patterns. They danced and marched before his sleepless eyes. He looked at Xar's sweet face and wondered if she dreamed.

With some effort, Zami hauled himself up into his mind, stopping there to gaze upon his love with enhanced clarity. Her mind shone, as a yellow gem, with inner channels of flowing fire. A path led from right to left, small but sure, admitting the slow flame of a dream. Then, the dream was passed back to the right for recognition. Free floating, Zami swung about, melted through the wall, and moved into the other room, where shone two similar gems, bright and fiery.

It pleased him that Tosh dreamed, yet, her fire pooled on the left, and little returned. Glancing, then, at the fires of his brutish friend, Zami noted the curious anomaly of the undreaming Shee. The way from right to left was cut off midway; no fire passed through. Climbing into his soul, Zami compared the mental pathway with the transparent blue figure of Tax that floated above his body. The shape was all wrong. Soul reached out to soul and the mind was touched, streaming blue tendrils working the miracle of the Maker's mysterious healing power. Tax was whole. The body groaned as fire flowed freely, and dreams were born.

Will staggered to the porch, pinching the quilt around his neck with one hand, and clutching the final cup of coffee in the other. He sat on rough, weathered timbers and contemplated the dull red glow of a cloudy dawn. In the distance, a lone rooster staked its claim to the world with all the painful zeal it could muster. O’ fella trotted through the open door, groomed for half a moment with absolute urgency, then parked beside his quilted master to lick Will's face.

Will leaned away and wiped his face with a shoulder. He said, “Sure! Lick yer butt an’ then my face; that’s just what I need first thing in the mornin’. An’ while I’m fussin’ . . . the next time you don’t bite the widder, that’ll be the day we part company.” O’ fella wagged his tail and patiently endured Will's tirade. “Let someone just walk right in! She bribe you with somethin’ t’ eat? That’s it. I’m right, ain’t I? Consortin’ with the enemy.”

Will pulled from the steaming cup and continued, while O’ fella stretched out and rested his head on his legs. “No use t’ look at me with them ol’ sad eyes; I got y’ dead t’ rights.” O’ fella looked up from his stationary position and wagged his tail. “Yeah, you ought t’ feel bad. Now I got no wood for the still.

An’ what’s more . . . you got me talked into bein’ the widder's hired man.” Will sipped thoughtfully.

“But, I reckon I’ll have t’ go light on y’, you bein’ just a dog, an’ only half as smart as me. Y’ see, y’ gotta understand the difference between a man an’ a woman. A man needs to be in charge; God made us that way. How come the woman actually is, plum fuddles the mind.”

He slammed down the last of the coffee, chuckled to himself, and scratched O’ fella behind the ears.

“Women! Beats me. Well, it’s a woman's world anymore. To be a man, y’ have t’ learn t’ nod an’ smile.

I’ve heard tell a woman can be a blessing. Mind y’, I don’t think they had ol’ naggin’ busybodies in mind when they said it. Still, though, she makes a mean cup o’ coffee.”

Chapter Thirty-Two Zami sat at the table, with closed eyes. He could feel the silent presence of his love as she slipped from the bed and came quietly down the rough steps. His power had become deeper and more profound since they had left Phar Sheeth. In bed, he had practiced Phrava at a distance. Now, as Xar thought to slip up on him, he could see her clearly, yet his eyes were closed.

He said, “Am I not pleased to greet you?”

She huffed, “Oh! And I was being so quiet.”

She sat and pressed warmly into his side, all but cloaking herself in his arms. He opened his eyes to her; his kiss was a silent affirmation of his love.

“I dreamed,” said she.

“I know. Tell me.”

Xar closed her eyes and remembered, “I saw the four of us rising up together. Then . . . we just vanished.”

Zami replied, “That’s good. After the morn meal, we can give it a try.”

“I’ll stay solid, thank you very much. You can rise up with the others.”

He laughed lightly and said, “Xar, what you have dreamed is a way for me to teach you my glamor. We may all go unseen. You may also be able to learn the Phrava.”

She considered. “Well . . . you just better tell me where I am when I can’t see myself.”

Zami hugged her and chuckled. “The way you talk.”

“Well, it’s true.” Then she stood and pulled on his hands, saying, “Come on! Help me bring the gem down, and I’ll prepare the meal.”

Tosh descended the steps in the middle of morn meal preparations; the pungent aromas drew her like a zeo to flowers. Zami noted the smile that played at the corners of her mouth. Bleary-eyed, she took up two pots and fell in with Xar's happy labor.

To no one, in particular, she said, “I think I dreamed.”

Zami answered, “You did, but it was weak; in time, you will begin to remember.”

Xar asked, “And, how do you know? You didn’t leave the bed; I’d have roused if you had.”

“I discovered a new power,” said Zami. “As I lay sleepless in the night, I . . . floated through the wall between our rooms, and there saw the dream fires. I healed Tax. Now, we all dream.”

As if on cue, Tax stumbled down the steps, yawning expansively. Tosh and Xar, having completed the preparations, called the boys to table.

Tax fell on a cushion and spoke, “Strangest thing!” An odd expression crossed his sleepy face.

With a knowing grin, Zami asked, “What?”

“Well, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear I dreamed.” The girls giggled, and Tax turned questioning eyes on Zami.

“And, if you did?” asked Zami.

Tax quipped, “Then, I’d guess the bad habits of three Gathornes are rubbing off on me.”

“At least one,” answered Zami. “Truth told, the sounds of your enthusiastic rubbing robbed me of all sleep.”

Tax answered around a mouthful of shroom meat, “Ha! Her passion is not easily quenched.”

Tosh wailed, “Tax!” She punched his massive arm in complaint.

Xar chided, “Brag!”

Zami cleared his throat, to turn the conversation, and asked, “Has no one noticed?”

“Noticed?” asked Tax, giving expression to the small group's startled curiosity. “Noticed what?”

“Look at your skin.”

Then came the protests. From Tosh, “Hey!” From Tax, “I’m . . . gray!” From Xar, “My rainbow! It’s gone!”

Calmly, Zami said, “This new world has new rules. Best we keep that in mind if we wish to survive.”

An acquiescent silence shrouded the morn meal. Food went untouched as hands were stared at, and skin tones compared. Zami gazed upon his dumbfounded table kin and wondered, how will I conquer this new world with such an army?

“Attend me,” he commanded, bringing all eyes to him. “This morn, the work of the Faerie Dusters begins. We will rise up together, and I will teach you the Phrava. Then, I will set each of you a task. My chore will be to search this new world for hidden dangers.”

Zami floated to the base of the Dirt nhola; a moist breeze buffeted him. Along the course of the flowing dew, large leaves of red and gold careened in dance - away and away. Zami had to admit, it was a big beautiful world. The forest stirred softly around him. The dew sang a quiet, burbling song, while its rippling surface reflected the immense gray sky above. He compared his gray skin to the skin of the sky; his skin was not completely gray. Throughout, there was just a whisper of red; it was a blend that most reminded him of the skin of the wog. Was he changing into a wog? Maker forbid!

Creature noises pulled his eyes down the path of the flowing dew; he saw a beast with black quills. It walked toward the dew, starting and stopping in a wary manner. Its long, full tail flicked nervously.

Then it sat up and nibbled an object it clutched in the nimble feet of its front legs. Odd beast, he thought, to have feet that moved like hands.

Zami took a deep, happy breath and, on impulse, hauled himself up into his mind. He sailed down the dew on a broad red leaf, leapt to a rock, and turned to view himself. Quite the dashing figure, thought he, standing there in his shiny mechanical suit for all the new world to see. He returned to himself with a thought. Curious, he flipped open the pocket on his suit and retrieved the forgotten pell.

Indeed, the use to which he had put the pell had worn it away to a mere grain. He made a mental note to warn his friends; they would have to ration their remaining pells. He considered returning for a new pell but dismissed the thought in favor of walking. No harm; there was time enough. Besides that, he wished not to disturb the practice he had set for the others.

The breeze gusted. It lifted Zami's prized red quill cap from his head and sent it flying. It landed on a yellow leaf that rode the streaming dew. No problem, he thought. It was too early in the day to get upset. How many times had he stretched out across the dew in Phar Sheeth? He would do that now; he would ride the dew in pursuit of his cap. He felt confident that once he reached the yellow leaf, he could steer himself back to the large rocks of the bank.

Arcing backward, Zami leapt out with arms and legs spread wide; he felt the cold impact of the dew against his neck and head. He sensed the leaf in his right hand, and then - the dew closed in around him. It filled his nostrils and stung his eyes. Panic constricted his throat as he fought to right himself.

He couldn’t see; he couldn’t hear. He clawed his way to the dry, rocky embankment, where he lay exhausted. He coughed, sputtered, and cursed.

What had gone wrong!? He rolled to his knees and speared the wog-world dew with hateful black eyes.

The few pitiful curses that he knew failed to deliver the full fire of his wrath. So, he fetched a smooth brown stone and hurled it at the evil fluid. On impact, large balls of it erupted from the surface and fell back across its face. He burned at the indignity, but he retained and nursed his self-possession.

He looked to the gray sky and said, “I do well, do I not, Father? Already I have discovered the first danger.”

His head was cold and wet. He stood upon his feet and got his bearings. He could live the rest of his life without a cap, but he preferred not to. Ahead of him, the black creature with the nervous tail was rooting beneath a brown leaf. Zami jabbed it with a mental finger; it fell over and slept. Zami found, upon examination, the full tail to be quite skinny, and yet, it held an abundance of long supple quills.

He drew his ruby handled knife from the tight, broad flap of one of his sandals, and began the job of cutting quills.

He told himself with a grin, “New world, new cap.”

He tied together a lining that snugly fit his head, then with practiced skill, he wove a new cap. It was a cap of shiny black otherworldly stuff that covered his shoulders and dangled down his back. It was, quite simply, the best cap he had ever made. He was proud of his new work. He tossed his head with a satisfied laugh, and let the quills fly all about.

He bundled more quills and tied them securely to the base of the Dirt nhola, then with an easy stride, he set off along the flowing dew; he sought the place where he had seen the wog. Large, brightly colored leaves fell from the heights, and in a similar fashion, thoughts fell through his mind. They were bright thoughts, multicolored, and large. A shroomsack would have been useful. No matter; he would find something along the way. He thought of his spacious new home and wondered if his friends had yet mastered the secrets he had shared.

Many thoughts assailed him - where to go; what to do - but the greater part of his attention was drawn to the forest. The sounds, strange yet familiar, flooded him with a pleasant sense of timelessness. Life was new and filled with wonder. He looked up and spied an immense creature falling toward him.

Tax had decided to place the new room below the main hall. Considering the old iron with which he worked, the task had been surprisingly easy. The pith in some places was so insubstantial that he could pull it free barehanded. Pleasant memories of the previous night, of Tosh, of her giving warmth, sped his job along and obliterated all sense of time.

He scooped pith into a large pot and was reminded of an even's revelry not long past. Bani's familiar face swam before his eyes, an easy smile on her lips. Grief lowered his face, and his massive frame slumped in sudden shame. Why had he abandoned Shabani, and chosen Tosh? Was Tosh more gentle, more eager to please? Had her obedient nature drawn him away from his first love? He had no ready answer. Actually, he had been prepared to love them both; his love was that big.

Ah! - but such an arrangement would have kept each at the other's throat. Girls! Who could figure them out?

He finished filling the pot and carried it up to the main hall. He emerged amidst heaps of previous haulings. He added to the height of a previous pith mound and peered across to the girls, who had, somehow, wrenched order from chaos. He waded through pith and sat with a sigh at the table. The girls joined him, happy for a break.

Tax said cheerily, “This is not the same room. I know it.”

Tosh bragged, “A girl's touch was needed; that’s all.”

“And you,” asked Xar, “how’s your work coming?”

“All but done. Some smoothing should do it.”

“Good,” said Xar. “When can we begin moving things down?”

“Now, if you like.”

She said to Tosh, “That will be our next chore.” She said to Tax, “Just as soon as you clean up the mess you made.”

“Hey!” said Tax, looking wounded. “I thought you girls were doing this room.”

Xar answered with narrowed eyes, “Those shavings are the room below, which you are doing. The mess is yours to clean.”

“And if I don’t?” A stubborn grin played upon his new, gray face.

“If you don’t,” replied Tosh, “you’ll be sleeping in the new room for some time to come.”

Tax jumped to his feet and bowed in grand fashion. He said, “You have but to speak your desire; I am ever your servant.”

She summarized, “You’ve a keen grasp of the situation.”

The three of them laughed heartily. Tosh danced around the table and into his arms. He enfolded her, careful not to crush her. She felt good in his arms, he thought; she fit perfectly. Her smile was warm light on his face.

She asked, “Have you been practicing?”

“Now, what do you think? I’ve been cutting pith.”

Flirtatiously, Tosh said, “We have something to show you,” and she pulled free from Tax to stand by Xar. They held hands, looked into each other's eyes, and giggled.

Tax frowned.

“Wait. Wait,” said Xar. Tosh commanded, “A breath. Now.” Stilling laughter with much ado, they took a deep breath and closed their eyes. Tax waited impatiently for what, he knew not. Just as he was about to speak, the girls faded, then vanished altogether, leaving Tax alone and gaping. Then they faded back in, and where nothing but clear air and bare wall had

appeared to Tax, now they stood solid and real. They bounced up on their toes, they giggled and hugged one another as reward for their success.

Tax closed and opened his mouth several times, then managed to say, “I’m impressed.”

Tosh enthused, “Now, you.”

“Me?” Tax gasped. “I can’t do anything.”

“But you have to try,” said Xar. “Please,” Tosh pleaded. “For me.”

Tax groaned, “Oh . . . alright.”

He stepped away from the table, and the girls gathered close. He clamped his eyes shut; the girls waited. Nothing happened. Empty faces looked from one to the next. Tax redoubled his efforts; he took a deep breath and clenched his fists. His face darkened as blood rose to his cheeks. The girls, too, held their breath, anxious for Tax to succeed. Tax shook mightily from his effort to vanish. Cords appeared on the sides of his neck, and the girls began to fear for him. He exhaled explosively and shrugged a silent apology.

“Try again,” said Tosh. “Try harder.”

“I can’t,” said Tax, with defeat in his voice. “Honest.”

Tosh looked away. “Very well,” she said. “I guess I’ll start moving your things into the lower room.”

Hastily, Tax drew another deep breath and slammed down the lids of his eyes. Xar pulled Tosh around to look. His face was dark red, as he groped with obvious determination for the place in his mind that Zami had shown him earlier. In unison, his index fingers traced a zigzag path before his face, as if he followed that path inside his mind. The girls could do nothing to help him; they could but hold onto each other and wait. They gaped at the magnitude of his effort, and fearing for him, they took one step closer to him in their concern.

Without warning, they found they had been knocked off their feet. Tax exhaled. He looked up hopefully, but found his audience on the floor, with daggers in their eyes.

Tosh wailed, “Muscle-head! That’s not glamor; that’s the shield!”

Tax was quick to help her from the floor. His mouth opened, but there were no words. Tosh pushed him away, with a scowl. She dusted pith from her clothing. She turned away from him; he reached out to her, but still could not speak.

Xar stood up and dusted her bottom. She said, “Now Tosh, he did try.”

“Yeah,” said Tax. “I tried really hard . . . I . . . guess I’m in the new room.”

“I’ll let you know,” Tosh said over one shoulder.

Tax excused himself nervously, “Well, I’ll just clean up this mess . . . over here.”

In preparation for hauling out the pith, Tax walked over to the shroomskin door to undo the stays. The girls were engaged in giggles and girl talk; his back was to them, so they did not see. The stay came off in his hand. Well now, isn’t that strange? He considered the curiosity briefly and reached again for the door. Not only a stay but an alarmingly large piece of the door came off in his other hand. Tax was used to things being the way they were supposed to be; this new turn of events troubled him. He dropped what he held and carefully approached the situation. The door dropped away in its entirety. It fell apart in his hands.

Bright new light flooded the main hall with a moist excitement felt immediately by the two girls. They abandoned all commentary and stood beside him. They shared his consternation and bewilderment, but the outside beckoned them.

Xar exclaimed, “Ooh! Let’s take a look.”

She stepped past her comrades to emerge on the rough broad vine of the Dirt nhola. Tosh was soon beside her, and Tax followed uncertainly, with spear in hand. The new world stretched away from them, dense and splendid, to unseen horizons. Eyes bedazzled by the rich and varied colors of their new home, ears filled with the orchestral cacophony of a million strange life forms, the three of them stood transfixed and dazed.

Boldly, Xar walked toward the far end of the huge vine, where it depended magically from an unsupported growth of brightly colored leaves. She turned to catch a consternate glance from Tosh and shared an awed smile. Tax still stood near the open door and clutched his spear; he leaned warily into the unknown.

Xar saw his apprehension and addressed it. “We’re just taking a quick look,” she told him. “You’ll not be needing that.”

“I’ll hold onto it, all the same,” he answered back.

Tosh, padding along the sloping vine, noted, “Such a long way down.”

Xar pointed excitedly. “See that rock wall?” she said. “Zami said Phar Sheeth lies just beyond.”

“Truly?” Tax came forward to better see. “I wonder how the parents are.”

“I miss them,” Xar mused, “and my little brother.”

Tosh complained, “I’m getting dizzy.”

Tax took her by the arm and urged both girls to return. “We should go back inside.”

They agreed and turned back to the open door. They stopped in their tracks, stood absolutely still; a gray horror stole their breath from them. Tax swallowed hard and took a step toward it; he raised his spear defensively. The girls cowered behind him. The large gray monster was hanging from its back feet. Sharp claws held it fast to the rough surface above their open door. Tax readied himself to lunge.

The beast examined them with furious intent and flicked its tail angrily. Tax took one wary step forward, poised to strike. The creature barked and wailed vehement alarm.

Tax commanded the girls, “Don’t move,” and took another step forward.

He raised the spear above his head and shouted. The Dirt monster ceased its shrill complaint, turned and raced away up the craggy nhola. He was surprised his ploy worked, but he was glad; the monster was just too big for one to fight - even one of his size and strength. He turned back to the girls with a broad triumphant smile.

He shrugged his brawny shoulders and said, “My reputation precedes me.”

Just then, a buzzing creature approached them. It was a small thing with a pointed face, and it beat its wings so furiously they could scarce be seen. It folded six legs beneath itself and made a run on the girls. As it dove upon them, they squealed in unison and ran past Tax for the security of their new home. They watched in disbelief as the new event unfolded before them.

The beast threw itself obsessively at Tax, who dodged and waved the thing away. It came again and earned the back of his hand. Undeterred, the creature marshaled itself for another attack.

“Kill it!” cried Tosh.

Tax watched his adversary fly in dizzying loops about his head; he turned one way then another to keep the beast in his sights. All the while, Tosh, and Xar squealed in unison, demanding the creature's immediate demise. It rushed in, and Tax slapped it down with one broad palm. It squirmed before him on its back, beating its wings against the rough surface, seeking to right itself and fly again. Tax crushed it under the heel of his sandaled foot.

“Eeyoo!” complained Tosh.

Xar commanded, “Get it off your sandal. Don’t you dare come in until you do.”

Tax smiled and said, “Yes, mother.”

Tosh then wailed, “Hey! I tore my trousers . . .”

Xar added, “Mine as well.”

Tax looked down at his own shroomskin trousers and saw that the right leg had disintegrated. What was left of it fell around his ankle. That, then, came apart and fell away entirely. Tosh attempted to hold her trousers in place, but her ample endowments proved too much for them. They were helpless to stop the disintegration, and their clothing fell from them tatter by shred.

Tosh cried, “What’s happening?”

Tax shrugged: “We’re coming undone.”

Zami rode on the back of a great winged creature. The length of its wings was unbelievable. He easily willed the creature with an occasional jab of his mind. He turned it this way and that way, soaring higher and higher - higher than the tallest Dirt nhola. Up and up he flew, owning the vast gray sky. Pure delight bled from his heart, taking on the forms of hoots and whoops and raucous laughter. Never had he had such fun. Never had he seen so much from such a height. He drove the beast in broad, joyous circles; he banked left, and he banked right. He flew straight up into the endless sky and dove toward the dirt below.

He could see a dew below him that was so vast it boggled his mind. It glistened in the distance. It was huge! What wonders! What a world! He flew out over it, low and fast, on the back of his flying beast.

He pressed for more speed and knotted his hands among the strange flat quills of the banking beast. He sped just above the wild, brown Dirt-world cleg, and soon came to what he thought was the dwelling of a wog. He brought his beast to a rest on the top of it, took one of the curious quills, and sent the creature away screeching and flapping.

Over the side, then, he went and discovered an open room on what he assumed to be the front. The top was supported by rough uneven poles of a giant's general proportion; they were, in turn, connected to horizontal poles of a similar cut. Zami came to rest on one of the horizontal poles and switched off his suit. Two sealed portals were set in the wall before him; between them was an open door. The smaller portals were most likely windows, but they were made of a curious substance he could see through.

High on the wall, and just below the rightmost portal, was a shelf; on the shelf was a broad flat, open pot. He flew to it and switched off. The pot contained a white, pleasantly aromatic dew; Zami dipped in his finger for a taste. Not bad! Then he drank from cupped hands; he did not stop till his belly swelled.

Ahhh!!! Now, he was ready to explore. He scanned the interior with closed eyes; one four-legged beast slept on the inner floor, but there was no wog in sight. He jabbed the beast's mind, brought it out, and sent it away. He flew to the floor and sauntered in.

Zami pushed the colossal door until it closed with a loud thud, then he turned to survey the home of a wog. The place was not unlike a mon. To his left was a wog-sized bed. It seemed somewhat broken, as part of it - the part that should be up - rested on the floor. He wondered if wog deliberately slept at such an uncomfortable angle. By the bed, he saw a small table with a drawer in it. A much larger table sat by the back wall near an opening surrounded by rocks. The back table was ringed in by four strange things: they were tall with backs, and they sat on four legs each. Could they be seats?

There was a closed door near the bedside table, and beyond that, a tall box with two doors slightly ajar.

Many objects were scattered about the dwelling; some were hung from the walls, some were placed on high shelves, and some were piled in heaps in corners. Zami guessed the opening in the back wall was for a fire, as it was blackened with ash and soot.

Most of the dwelling had been made from Dirt nholas, but not the place for fire; it had been constructed of great stones and rocks, sealed together. The small side door was sealed shut with a large iron lock, and above the place for fire, was a long shelf, heavy with curious wog stuff. Closer at hand was a pile of interesting treasure in the corner by the front door. Was this the wog's treasure horde, he wondered?

It called to him, so he waded in with a grin. Beyond the present exploration, there was no other need.

There was no telling of time, nor of what wonder he might upend.

Chapter Thirty-Three Will placed another log on the stump, drew back the ax, and sent a newly honed edge through it with one deft stroke. Though the breeze was fresh, his labor had him thoroughly flushed. Sweat trickled down his back annoyingly. He left the ax in the stump and removed his soiled white shirt. He tossed it on the ground beside his rumpled hat. He rolled the sleeves of his union suit up past his elbows, and let his suspenders dangle by his sides. Then, he spit in his hands, took a firm grip on the ax handle and yanked it free.

Emma's backyard was spacious and well tended. Old fruit trees grew among bur oak and poplar. A stone's throw away was a small, bare garden patch; the bean poles remained standing. The whitewashed two-story house rose up on his right, while directly in front of him was a fancy store-bought swing; Emma sat there pretending to look beans, but Will could feel her eyes crawling on his flesh like bloodthirsty ticks.

With an angry down stroke that sent wood flying, Will protested, “Emma, y’ already know what I look like.”

Emma raised a coy smile. “You’re a strappin’ handsome man, Mister Witherspoon. So, I’ll look up from my beans now and again. Are you unnerved by a woman's glance?”

“I been looked at aplenty. Just don’t like bein’ stared at. All this eyeballin’ . . . I’m liable t’ chop off a leg.”

“Then, I’ll be more discreet, Mister Witherspoon.”

Through tangled salt and pepper whiskers, Will exhaled his exasperation. It was bad enough that he had let himself get roped this way - he should be tending his own business; he should be chopping wood for the still - but, the woman ought to be indoors stirring something, or sweeping. He resumed his work with a grunt.

“At any rate,” continued Emma, “this is the perfect opportunity for the two of us to get acquainted, you know. We never have really talked.”

“So, talk.”

“I want the both of us to talk, Will. It may not show in my sunny smile and cheery disposition, but I get lonely, Will - really lonely. I get so few visitors, you know. The town folk think I’m a wee bit odd.”

Will grunted knowingly.

Emma went on, “I’m starved for normal, everyday conversation.”

“Alright; fine. What y’ wanna talk about?”

“Anything, Will. Well . . . not politics; politics bore me, but anything else, anything you like.”

“Okay.”

“Or business, Will. I can talk business any day of the week.”

Will was annoyed, on edge. He wished she would just make up her mind, not go on and on. Between heavy strokes of the ax, he said, “Fine . . . tell y’ what . . . you pick what y’ wanna talk about . . . and then lead out. I’ll follow.”

Emma answered without hesitation, “Let’s talk about you, Will.”

Will laughed, “That’ll be quick.”

“Oh no, now, Will,” she said right back. “I’ll guess you’ve led quite the interesting life. Won’t you share just a wee bit of it with me?”

“Nothin’ much t’ tell, Emma.”

“Well, what type of work have you done? What was your first job?”

Will stopped and scratched in his thick beard. “Well, let’s see . . .”

“Or your second job.”

“Lemme think! First job . . . I must o’ been round 'bout fifteen. Worked for a smith down near Atlanta.”

“You see, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Had some kinfolk there.”

“Was that when you ran away?”

Will questioned her with a strained glance.

Emma explained, “After Elbert died, God rest him, your father came up to visit. God bless the dear old man; he often spoke of you. Whenever you wrote, he asked me to read for him, and he did so cherish your letters. Will, sometimes he cried. It was I that found you, sent word of his illness.”

Will slapped at memories of his father. They knocked at the corners of his eyes like hasty, burning tears, wishing to be set free. He recalled the fancy letter that had been signed E. P. Hawkshaw.

He said, “Thanks. If I’d a been any kind o’ son, I’d a been here for him all along.”

“But you came, and oh, it meant so much! He died a happy man.”

“You a good woman, Emma.”

She smiled, “You were telling me of your first job.”

He sighed and focused. “Yeah . . . don’t remember much . . . anyway, after that, the war started. I was about eighteen; had a spankin’ new uniform, and a ol’ squirrel gun.”

Emma sighed, “So long ago.”

“I’s in the Twenty-Seventh Georgia Infantry.”

“Did you ever meet Lee?” Will laughed. “No.” “Were you ever wounded? I ask because I did some nursing then.”

“Took a bullet in Sharpsburg,” he recollected. “Went right through m’ arm, an’ into m’ side.”

Emma looked suddenly into Will's eyes and said, “I should like to hear about it.”

Will wiped sweat from his brow and continued his chore as he spoke. “Well, they sent me t’ the hospital - eighth general, if I remember right - an’ I was there some time. Thought I’s gonna die. Prayed for it, I hurt so bad. Then, one day, this young nurse walks up an’ sits on m’ cot. Told such a whopper of a joke, I laughed til I cried. After that, she came round most every day - an’ I wanted to live agin, just t’ see her. Don’t remember her name or nothin’, but she put the life back in me.”

“Go on.”

“Well then, one day she up an’ says her Pa died, an’ she’s leavin’ out that afternoon.” Will ceased chopping, and looked hard at the half-forgotten memories. He sighed. “Kissed m’ cheek, give me a gift, an’ run off.”

Will set the ax aside to wipe his face and neck with an old rag drawn from his hip pocket. He had warmed to the conversation and was feeling easy, but Emma stared at him with a strange expression on her face. He wondered if something in his story, or the telling of it, had gotten under her skin. Just like her to ask for a tale, and then take offense. He cleared his throat and finished his recollection.

“Always wished I could meet up with her agin, y’ know, so I could thank her for savin’ m’ life. She did more ‘n any doctor. Leastwise, that’s what I always say.” Emma's strange expression grew more strange; it quite nearly unnerved him. He coughed and said, “Hey! I bet you’ll never guess what she give me.”

Emma leaned back in the swing, closed her eyes, and after but a moment leaned forward with a singularly bright smile playing at the corners of her lips. “She gave you a buckeye,” was Emma's reply.

Will was astonished; he said, “Damn! That’s some purdy good guessin’.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Course I do. Got me through the rest o’ the war. Not a single scratch. Kept it close ever since.”

“May I see it?”

Will slipped his fingers into the watch pocket of his trousers, and retrieving the worn old seed, he walked to the swing. He placed it in Emma's outstretched hand with childlike pride. Emma turned the buckeye upon her flattened palm and rubbed the smooth brown surface with the tips of her fingers. A melancholy smile spilled across her face like a tide that had suddenly turned. She eyed Will in wonder.

“Twas I who gave you the buckeye.” She handed it back. “None other.”

Will's mouth worked like the mouth of a gasping fish; he was at a loss for words. His eyes were filled with incredulity as he looked between Emma and the buckeye. He laughed a short nervous laugh, clamped his hand shut around the keepsake, and managed a soul-felt “Nah!” Emma tilted back her face and laughed into the wind. She speared Will with a merry eye and said, “That very buckeye was given by my own departed father. He wanted me to have it when I was off to the war. Said it would bring me luck.” She laughed again. “How he prized the thing!”

Will stumbled back to the woodpile. He stopped short of the ax where it stood point-first in the ground.

He stared unbelievingly between the buckeye in his palm and Emma on the swing. The most lovely and cherished of memories had grown into a conniving, mouthy widow woman. He just could not believe it.

Resuming her work with the beans, Emma said, “I thought of you as a hero. I wanted that handsome young man never to be shot again. So long ago!” She sighed. “I remember every word you said, every promise; I wrote them in a diary. Well, I’m waiting.”

“Huh?” “You wanted to thank me.”

Chapter Thirty-Four Zami tired of the booming wog. He had learned much from their conversation and would learn more, but for now, he felt a need to finish his present work and return home. From the first wog dwelling, he had taken two items of immediate use. They were, one, a large bag made from a rough material; it had been filled with an unknown brown leaf cut into small pieces, and two, a fine meat jerky. He had cut the large strips into smaller sections and put them in the bag for ease of transportation. He really admired the bag, for laced through the top was a cord that, when pulled, sealed the bag tight.

Now he strolled through the second dwelling, studying at leisure the odd wog furnishings that filled it.

This second dwelling was unbelievably huge. He would not be able to make a thorough search in the time he had left, but later, with the help of his friends, he would make light work of it. What he sought was material from which to fashion clothing. He had no idea why, but his shroomskin trousers had fallen apart.

Nothing was left; even his sandals had come undone. Also, the straps on his silver suit; they had disintegrated, but he had quickly replaced them with wog fabric from the first dwelling. There had actually been enough material at the first dwelling to take for clothing, but it all smelled.

Zami turned right through an adjoining room and walked beneath an enormous table. There was a door into a third room; he entered. This room was filled with huge furnishings and high shelves. There was a place for fire with the skin of a colossal creature spread before it. Other rooms joined this one from the two distant walls, but Zami decided his search would end here for now.

He closed his eyes; he saw a black creature asleep in the room beyond the wall. He turned and perceived that the wog remained in animated conversation outside. Time to begin. He laid aside the new bag and flew to a high shelf on the wall opposite to the place for fire. He paced the shelf before unmoving figures; he studied them as he walked. They were all four of them, approximately his size.

Their blank eyes stared forward into thoughts as yet unformed. He mused upon the purpose of such unliving Shee. Were they toys? Were there wog young somewhere beyond his perception?

Despite such considerations, the vestments could not be more perfectly suited to his present need. He stood before the figure of a wog male and fingered the fabric. The material was black and white, somewhat stiff, and wholly serviceable. With a quiet song on his lips, Zami laid the figure over and began the process of removal.

He had removed the clothing of all four figures; they were tied into a large neat bundle. He had found a material in a roll upon a low table near the place for fire. He had cut away a section of it to wrap around the new clothing. Near the roll, he found a large red ball with metal spines protruding from it. He took two of them, one for each girl, and an ample amount of wog threading. He stood and considered his load; it would become heavy on his return home.

Not only had he the clothing and the bag of meat, but he had removed foods from the first room he had encountered in this new dwelling. He had samples of lof and chelt; the lof was soft and the chelt was sharp. There were the oddly shaped meats he had found atop sweets in large round pots. He had taken all he could and stuffed them in the bag of jerky.

His eyes were now on the large box with doors like windows - he could see right through them, and he found that most intriguing. Inside were many shelves, and on the shelves were many curiosities. He had to look. He switched on, and rainbow wings spread out from the back of his suit. He stretched his hands toward the box, and his suit lifted him from the floor. He flew toward the transparent doors and the handle that joined them.

The closed doors posed no problem whatsoever; he opened them with ease, but suddenly, Zami found himself in the gnarled and taloned grip of gravity. What a time for his pell to fail! Just barely had he time enough to wrap one leg around the handle, and there he dangled seeking purchase. His breath caught in his throat as the door began to swing back in. “Coosith!�

He managed to jam his upended foot against one of the shelves above his head; the heavy door pressed in on him. It took not only dexterity, but patience to pull himself up on the shelf. It was an awkward position. His left arm and leg were upon the shelf, and his right leg was still locked upon the handle. It was a tenuous hold at best, but it was all that kept him from falling.

It took time, and much wiggling, but he managed to squirm and wriggle until, at last, he lay upon his back. He would not fall, but still, there was the problem of holding the heavy door open; he did not want to be trapped inside the box. Zami took a deep breath and shoved the heavy door out and away from him. He quickly rolled in and to his knees. He watched the door with apprehension, for it could swing back in, but it held. He waited, to be sure. He took the opportunity to scoot in away from the edge of the shelf. His bare feet touched something cold, and then, a cold weight fell across his shoulders.

It pushed him out over the edge. Zami now rued his curiosity. His chest pounded, his head ached and he strained to resolve his predicament. Flat was the weight on his back - a round, ornate wog thing. Most of it jutted out past his head, threatening a noisy descent to the floor below. He had only one hand to brace him against his own descent - a most undesirable prospect, to say the least. His free hand clutched the wog thing to keep it from slipping forward. Yet, even as he dealt so pitifully with the weight upon his back and his failing balance, he chanced to look up. The massive door swung toward him.

Will considered the new information in stock silence, as he stared absent-mindedly at the wood before him. A lump of uneasiness balled in his throat, as Emma's eyes raked across him, discerning a past he had mostly forgotten.

“Well, don’t stop,” said Emma. “Where did you go after the war?”

Will shrugged. “Don’t know. West, I suppose. I’s a farm hand for a while.”

“Is that where you learned to chop wood?”

Will eyed the idle ax in his hands, and resumed his chore. “No,” he gruffed in a matter-of-fact manner.

“I was a lumberjack. Up in Washington. Weren’t no state then.”

“Married my second husband in Washington,” said Emma. “I remember you lumberjacks. A rowdy lot, at best. In fact, on the very day of my wedding, as I walked along the planks to church, my dear friend Susanna at my side, a gang of drunken lumberjacks crowded the upper balcony of a saloon, just across the muddy street. My, how they jeered and taunted! In all my life, I’ve walked past no ruder bunch.

And was I not awkward enough, trussed up in that gaudy gown! Well,” she snickered, “one particularly loud young brute climbed over the railing, bowed at the waist, and fell to the muddy street below.”

Will tossed the ax from him and backed away, his jaw slack in dumbstruck disbelief. Emma, guessing the significance of his reaction, was, in her own right, just as surprised as he. She set her beans aside and laughed hesitantly.

“Will . . . don’t tell me that was you! Blessed Mother, that was you, wasn’t it?” She laughed again.

Will glowered. “It ain’t funny! Who are you, anyway? How come you know so much about my life?”

“Will, calm yourself. Tis coincidence, and nothing more.”

“Yeah? Well, tell me another story; I’ll bet my hat yer in it. You been followin’ me?”

Emma huffed, “Me? Following you? Don’t flatter yourself, Mister Witherspoon. Seems more as if it was you following me.”

“Ha! Don’t flatter your self.”

“Just you stop right there, old coot!” Emma squared her shoulders. “So what if our paths did cross in youth? Is that so strange?”

“Too strange for me,” said Will. “It’s like . . .” He groped physically for words. “. . . yer always there, in the woodwork. Watching.”

“Is this superstition I note?”

“No.” “Then, you believe in God?” “I do.”

“So, you must know everything happens of his will. And, should we chance to meet here and there, it’s all part of what he wants. Do you agree?”

Will hedged, “Well, yeah - I guess.”

“So, what has you moved to such choler?” Emma asked.

Confused, yet stubborn, Will kicked the dirt and raked his grizzled hair back from his eyes, but the moist wind played it forward again. “I don’t know,” he said. “It’s just . . . strange is all.”

Emma beckoned with a pat on the swing seat beside her. “Come and sit a moment. Come on.”

Hesitantly, head bowed, Will walked to the swing and sat beside Emma. He gripped his knees and stared at his boots.

“Now,” said Emma, “you tell me another place you’ve been - some other job, some other time. You’ll see that nothing, whatsoever, is afoot. You’ll see that no one has ever followed you anywhere. Go on, then.”

Will took a deep breath, sighed his frustration, and grumped, “Okay. Alright. I’s a deputy sheriff.” He turned and stared hard into her eyes.

“How nice,” she said with a straight face.

Will looked back at his boots and continued, “I’s in a small town east o’ San Francisco, but I’d gone over t’ Frisco t’ fetch back a prisoner.”

“Married my first husband in San Francisco.”

“See!? There you go agin!”

“Now Will . . . you don’t know we were there at the same time. Go on with your story.”

Will snorted. He continued, “I’s at the train station, waitin’ for the Marshall t’ git off the train with the prisoner.” Will squinted his eyes as if seeing an image of the past coalesce before him. “The prisoner knocks the Marshall down an’ takes his gun. He knocks me down runnin’ by. An’ when I reached for m’ gun . . .” He paused, took a breath, and eyed Emma suspiciously, “I accidentally shot myself in the foot.”

Emma raised a hand to her mouth, unable to constrain laughter.

Will reddened in anger, but continued his tale. “I’d only been a deputy for three days! Anyway, the Marshall took my gun, an’ shot the man. I never went back. Figured I had no job t’ go back to.”

Emma wiped merry tears from her eyes in an attempt to manage her laughter. “Oh, my!” she said.

“Wait. Mary, mother of Jesus - I was to meet Henry, my first. You wore a large mustache, and a rumpled gray hat with the brim rolled back.”

“Damn!” Will jumped to his feet and strode to the stump to retrieve his shirt and hat.

Emma stilled her laughter with a mighty sigh. “Will,” she said, “wait; don’t leave. Strange though it may seem, it is still only coincidence.”

Will turned. “Well, it’s too much coincidence for me. It ain’t right how you can be everywhere I go.”

“My God, Will! We only met three times. Nay, but once; the two other times we merely happened to be in the same place.”

“Right,” said Will. “Every time I catch a bullet, or fall on m’ face, there you are – watchin’.”

“Don’t blame me; you were there too.”

“Forget it; I gotta go. You can keep yer dollar.”

“Will . . .”

“An’ if I fall down goin’ home, I don’t wanna look up an’ see you eyeballin’ me.”

Will stormed around the corner of Emma's house. Bright red leaves danced at his heels. Emma called after him, but there was no answer. He was gone. She frowned at the bizarre turn of events and puzzled over things said. She was totally mystified by Will's reaction. She would have to go, at once, and redeem the day. Although there were more profitable things to be done, this sort of an ending to her beginning would never do. Superstitious old sot!

Whatever Will thought was afoot, Emma could not let him go on thinking that she was, in any way, responsible. No; she sensed it quite clearly. There was something deeper than superstitious fear at work. Something deep and terrible gnawed at Will's soul and preyed upon his mind. Rising, and turning

toward the barn, Emma heard a loud crashing noise. It came from within the house. What she heard was the unmistakable sound of breaking glass. Now what?

She turned back to the house. If that cat had broken her good china, she would have it stuffed and mounted! She entered through the back porch door and stood in the kitchen a moment to listen. On the table to her left sat the pecan pie she had intended for lunch. The golden brown halves that topped her pie had been disturbed; several were missing. Mice?

On quiet toes, she entered the dining room and stopped again to listen. A nervousness had crept into her that made her hold her breath. The house seemed chilly and sinister. She had to admit, she just did not like mysterious noises in her home. Her eyes narrowed on the door that led into her parlor, and something happened that caused her heart to skip a beat.

A startling flash of black burst out from the parlor. It darted beneath the dining room table, and streaked between her legs, like an onyx bolt, to disappear through the kitchen door behind her. The back door banged as the cat ran through it.

Her black oriental had often dashed through the house, at times almost tripping her, but Emma had never been so startled by the antics of her cat. No; this time was decidedly different. This time her heart pounded painfully beneath her ribs. This time her breath had caught in her throat. She had been startled, and yes, a little frightened. She fell back against the wall and gasped for air. She found the extra straight-backed chair, fell heavily into it and placed a hand upon her brow. She took her apron and fanned away the warmth from her flushed face.

Emma tried to swallow; her heart seemed to have leapt from her bosom and lodge in her throat. She labored to still her ragged panting as the world spun about her. She looked for calm, and for reason, and after a moment her breathing slowed. She had been afraid, she had to admit, but not of her cat.

Although she only glimpsed it briefly, Emma was quite sure she saw a little man riding atop her panicked pet; he drove it forward as one would spur a horse. “Sweet Jesus!� she said at last.

Was this diminutive apparition the very same that had so frightened her neighbor? She had spoken condescendingly to Will, and now she was ashamed of herself. Now, her own two eyes had seen it. She couldn’t believe it. No; she had to believe it. It was a small man, no more than a foot high. He had been dressed in silver, and long black hair trailed behind him, as her oriental sped through the room. He clutched two tied bundles; he pressed them tightly to his chest. Emma laughed. It was a faerie. It was an honest-to-God faerie.

She roused herself and stepped quickly to the parlor. She stood just inside the door and looked across to her ruined china cabinet. A moan escaped her lips as she stepped closer to assess the damage. One of her finest plates lay shattered on the floor, mingled with broken glass from the right-hand door. She crouched by the cabinet and fingered the broken plate, taking in every detail.

The low table, nearby, caught her attention, and she moved to examine it. Her sewing supplies were in disarray. A quantity of her silk had been cut away, and a spool of thread lay on its side. She straightened, still staring at the low table, still shocked and numb.

A faerie had actually entered her home. How strange! How very hard to digest! Emma turned, and her eyes fell upon the shelf behind her sofa. On the shelf, her wedding dolls lay scattered. They had been handcrafted at her request. She had gone to some considerable expense to have them made; they were her special pride and joy. Now, they were scattered and their costumes missing.

“My dolls!” she cried.

Fearing she could no longer stand, Emma sat on the back of the sofa. The little thief! At first, she felt only anger, but then, the anger gave way to melancholy. It was a sense of loss for which she had no response. As the anger had passed, to be replaced by the miasma of melancholic loss, so too, did that vapor pass. Emma recalled the dashing cat - how terrified her poor pet must be. She wondered where it might be now. Was it still running, wild with fear, with some strange creature on its back - like a jockey on a racehorse? Then, she remembered Will.

Chapter Thirty-Five The loss of her doll clothing, however expensive or highly regarded, was no real tragedy. The cat, she hoped, would return later, not much the worse for wear. There was nothing she could do for that. She could, however, do something to correct the situation between herself and Will. Indeed, she must do something, else he would be lost. She had only just found him - or to be more precise - she had only just discovered her feelings for him. She hurried to the barn, saddled her paint, and set it at a gallop for Will's.

Will had just reached his place; he rounded his ramshackle fence, passed the well, and stomped into the rough-hewn cabin. He fell heavily into a chair and stared morosely at his fallen bed.

“Damn!” he said. “Damn my life! On the one hand, I got snoopy ol’ witch-widders, and on the other, I got little demons all set t’ drag me off t’ hell. Well, between the two, I guess I’ll take the demons. I’m ready; get it over an’ done. That’s what I say.”

Will eyed the blanket that was half on, and half off his bed. A large square hole had been cut from the center of it. He went for a closer look. Beside his bed, the drawer in the nightstand was open; loose tobacco lay scattered about, and the bag was missing. Will turned and spied the cabinet; its doors sat ajar. Inside, his jerky had been neatly cut, and a small portion was gone.

Then, a sound from outside the cabin drew his attention. It was the sound of horse and buggy. He opened the door and looked out, hoping like hell it wasn’t Emma again. A brown mare pulled a black coach up the path. A neatly dressed man sat upright in the seat. Will guessed it to be the banker. The coach circled past the well and stopped. The man who stepped down was lean and tall; his face was hidden in the shadow of a broad-brimmed hat.

Emma reigned in behind two slender maples to look down the hill toward Will's cabin. She saw a dark coach, a well-dressed visitor, and Will stepping down from the porch with thumbs hooked in his back pockets. Emma knew at a glance who the visitor was, it was Arlis Vanderbilt, the new banker. She strongly disliked the new banker; she got a very bad feeling whenever he was near. His pitted face, cold

eyes, and empty smile unnerved her. Even now, at this distance, his presence left her with the chill of sinister foreboding.

Since his arrival, Arlis Vanderbilt had energetically served notice to all the landholders with an outstanding debt to his bank. He had already taken possession of three farms, two houses, and the only hardware and feed store in Evanston. Emma hated him for it. Only a man with no soul could throw a family out into the cold.

She spied the scene below her with an intensity that magnified the two small figures and pushed all else from view. The moist wind whipped through the bright red maple leaves and brought tiny droplets of rain to her face. Her paint danced beneath her, and she calmed it with a hand to its neck. She could not spare her attention; she knew the banker was up to no good. The scene that played out before Will's cabin took on an air of agitation. Will raised and shook a fist in the banker's face; Emma could almost hear his shouted words. The banker pushed a paper into Will's hand. He shook it out and read it. From the stillness of the scene, Will moved like a bolt of white-hot fire. The paper wadded and cast aside, Will stepped forward, his Bowie at the banker's throat.

Emma gasped. How quick were Will's hands! She had not even seen him reach for the knife. But then, Will's hand dropped, and both men took a step back. The banker's hand snaked beneath his jacket and produced a small silver pistol. Before she knew it, Emma was sighting past the muzzle of her Winchester. The hammer snicked solidly beneath her thumb. Even at this distance, she had no doubt of putting a neat small hole in the banker's temple. She would see no harm come to Will. Even as her finger tightened on the trigger, she said, “Father, forgive me.”

But, the banker stepped back; both his hands went up, and the small gun was returned to its place.

Emma sighed and lowered the rifle. Below, the banker turned to his coach, stopped and spun around. A long, bony finger stabbed out at Will, then the banker was prodding his mare down the small dirt path, and away. What happened next, took Emma by surprise. Will dropped to his knees and raised his hands over his head. He turned his face to the gray sky and spread wide his arms. Then, he fell forward on his face.

Will sank to his knees, trembling. He looked into the sky, heavy with rain, and said, “God! God, I near done it agin.” He fell on his face and beat the dirt with hardened fists. “I near killed a man - deservin’ as he is - an’ Eppie's blood still warm on m’ hands. God, what a murderous heart I got. You got ever’ right to just crush me where I am, an’ be done with me. I wouldn’t blame y’ none. But, God, I’d give anything - anything - just t’ know you forgive me.”

Will crawled to his feet, sobbing, and stumbled past the cabin to the creek below. He gazed longingly across to the old bur oak his pa had planted so long ago. Icy water filled his boots as he slogged to the opposite side. There, by the wide round stump, he sank heavily to the ground and folded his face into his arms.

Emma rode swiftly past the cabin, over the creek, and fetched up beside Will, who sat slumped over his knees. She sat beside him and heard him sniff back a tear with stubborn defiance. She put her arm around his shoulders, and he rolled his head to the side; he peered out at her with one red eye.

Emma asked quietly, “Will, are you alright?”

“Hell no.”

“I saw it all. I was watching from the hill.”

“Figures.”

Emma already knew the answer, but she asked nonetheless, “What did he want?”

“Everythin’.”

“I would very much like to help; I’ll do whatever I can.”

Will answered, with a glance toward his cabin, “Thanks, sister, but ain’t nothin’ t’ be done. It’s all over.”

“Well, how much do you owe?”

Will straightened and turned his gaze to the sullen sky. “More ‘n I can pay,” he answered.

Emma bowed her head and clasped her hands between her knees. She confessed, “I came very close to shooting him, you know - when he pulled his gun.”

Will studied her appreciatively, then dropped his head back into his arms. “Should a shot me,” he said, “put me out o’ m’ misery.”

“No. No, Will.” She turned to him as he raised his face. Their eyes locked. “There is always a way.

Don’t give up hope. Please.”

Will threw up his hands and said, “Ain’t no hope. Not for me. Not after . . .” He cut himself short and stared at his soaked boots with a loud sigh. “No hope; I’m a gone coon.”

Emma thought hard. “Well, listen. I’ve seen you pan this stream; perhaps the two of us together . . .”

“Ain’t enough.”

Around Will's neck was a leather strap, the same leather strap Emma had always seen around his neck.

The strap, hiding beneath the soiled neckline of his union suit, ended in a small bulge. Will produced a small leather pouch and emptied its contents into his hand. Emma looked close; she saw five very tiny grains of gold. He returned the gold to its pouch and tossed it over his shoulder, toward the bur oak.

He said, “That count’s for six months o’ pannin’. Maybe, if I had a hunert years . . .”

“Well, surely,” said Emma, “there must be something you can do. You might try finding work in town.

I know you're a good man.”

“You don’t know beans!” Will grumped. Then he looked into his thoughts and said, “If only I could remember!”

“What, Will? Remember what?”

He looked into her concerned face and frowned at the fact that he actually appreciated her company.

He answered, “Pa's gold. He had a bag as big as m’ fist. But, I hid it, an’ . . .”

Emma completed his unfinished thought. “And, you can’t remember where.”

Will shrugged and sighed. He stretched back until his head rested on the stump. Lacing his fingers across his chest, He said, “Ain’t nothin’ nobody can do.”

“Oh, Fine!” railed Emma. “Just you lay there! Lose everything without a fight! Don’t lift a finger; don’t give a damn!”

Will cast an unbelieving eye up at Emma. He had never heard her swear. Several things occurred to him that he might have said, but closing his eyes, he decided to hold his tongue.

Emma blushed beneath Will's scrutiny. If she had surprised him by cursing, she had surprised herself much more. She watched him close his eyes and lay his head back. Was he really going to just give up?

Could he feel that hopeless? She studied him for a long moment; his strong face had gone soft as if he slept. His hands rested under his salt-and-pepper beard; his chest slowly rose and fell. Emma spoke again.

“I saw your faerie,” she said.

“He ain’t mine.”

“He was in my house. He took the outfits from my dolls.”

Will answered, “Got guts; I’ll give him that. Even I know not t’ mess with yer dolls.”

“As well you should.”

“Well, I’m ready for ‘im. Gonna lay right here 'til he comes t’ take me.”

“Take you?” Emma puzzled. “Where?”

“T’ hell. For m’ sins.”

“What?” Emma couldn’t believe what she had just heard. Was he serious?

Will continued, “Got his eye on you, now. My luck, he’ll prolly stick you right next t’ me.”

She wanted to laugh. “Will . . .” she said, “faeries aren’t demons.”

“Says you.”

“They’ve nothing, whatsoever, to do with hell. Honestly! Where do you get such notions?”

“Don’t matter,” said Will. “Don’t nothin’ matter.”

She was half angry; she shifted her position to better see him. “Well, I’ll tell you this, Will Witherspoon. If the banker was after my land, we’d fight like Kilkenny cats. You’d see me sweat blood to keep my own. And now, you have two choices.” She stood and walked to her horse. “You can wallow in self-pity, or you can be a man.”

Will did not answer; she mounted and rode away.

Will's dog slept on its side in the open doorway of the cabin. As Emma rode slowly by the well, she spied the crumpled paper that the banker had served. She climbed down and scooped it up, unfolding it for a peek. The figure was steep, but not all that bad, really. She had spent as much, in one day, just shopping. Why not lend him the money? No; Will was not a man to be beholding to a woman. On the other hand, she thought with a smile, she could ride into town, pay the debt, and tell him later. Sure, he would fuss and fume, but she would simply sit and listen. He would eventually come to an end of words; he always did.

The plan delighted her. Unlike the banker, Will always gave her a good feeling. Her heart assured her that somewhere beneath his crusty exterior, somewhere beneath all the long hair and whiskers, was a fine and decent man. For such a man she would do anything. She mounted and turned the paint toward town, but pulled up short to think. Rather than ride into town in her trousers, she should at least hitch up the buggy, and dress as a woman ought. If she worked quickly enough, she could get to the bank well before it closed. She turned her horse and headed up over the hill.

Chapter Thirty-Six Zami emerged from the forest, his black beast still running at top speed. He came to the flowing dew and prodded the beast to jump. This proved to be another regrettable decision, for the beast reached only the halfway point, and there it fell, thrashing wildly. Having leapt from its back, Zami came somewhat closer to the desired bank - yet, not close enough. The dew was shockingly cold, as he fought his way up from its grip. He pushed his burden ashore and dragged his gasping body up behind.

With a laugh, he hoisted the damp baggage and raced for cover among the Dirt-nholas. Doubtless, he assured himself, his mistakes would become increasingly less severe. He set an easy course through the soft shadows and bright leaves and soon came back into the open. There was the great nhola that stood alone: a Zami nhola, he thought with a smile.

Here he first saw the wog. He took a seat on one of the nhola's massive roots. Here he would dry out; here he would sample the meats and jerky before he returned home. He laid aside the bundle and opened the new bag. He especially liked the cord that drew the top together. He pulled out the jerky, the wog-chelt, lof, and meats. He pinched a meat. Hmm! Tasty! He pinched the lof. I like it! Then he tried the wog-chelt; its bitterness, like the keen blade of a knife, drew in his face. Still, it was quite good.

He remembered the cut brown leaf. What a puzzle! The smell of it was both sour and sweet. He wondered, was it a healing herb, or a taster? There was but one way to find out; he placed the leaf in his mouth, chewed slowly, and swallowed. Almost at once, his head began to spin, and he felt dizzy; berribit wine had nothing on this leaf. The new world danced before his heavy eyes. As his head

bobbed back and forth, an inner voice demanded, Do something; shake it off! Yet, for all his will, he could manage nothing better than a weak and pathetic moan. Then, as quickly as it had overpowered him, the strength of the brown leaf faded. A curious noise came from the far side of the nhola.

Will looked up into thickening clouds and said to himself, “This situation calls for a drink.”

Scattered around the stump were several jugs; perhaps they were not completely empty. In turn, he picked up each and shook it near his ear. With some relief, Will discovered the last jug to be, at an estimate, only three-quarters empty. Pulling the plug, he downed the brew in superior fashion. Then, with coat-sleeve etiquette, a manly belch, and a sated smile, he lay back against the stump.

He proclaimed, “Now, I’m ready.”

The familiar fire spread throughout, and Will felt himself spiraling gently down. No need, now, to be carted away; he would simply spin and spin until he fetched up on the barbs of a glowing pitchfork.

But, the pleasant spinning was short-lived; he remembered the pouch he had tossed near the oak. Never waste gold! He roused, stumbled to the oak, and fell by the roots.

Zami, still giddy from the leaf, stepped over a root and came around the tree, while Will, in the warm afterglow of his brew, groped through the high grass for his pouch. They met face to face and eye to eye – and like a choir of two, they reached the higher notes in unison.

Zami fell into a chasm between two great roots. Will hoisted himself to his knees, and sought his feet and stumbled drunkenly toward the creek.

“I’m not ready!” Will cried. “God, not yet!”

Fate and fear are not good bedfellows; the whiskey wrapped itself about Will's cold, wet boots, and all coordination was lost. Even as he saw the rock speeding toward his face, Will knew that his ticket was up. Darkness overwhelmed him with a loud ‘crack’.

Zami rolled from his back with a merry laugh. The giant had roared, but, it was the roar of fear that had blasted Zami from his feet. Let all wog-dom beware! And now, he thought, to the chase. This wog might provide a moment of amusement. The fearsome Zami is afoot.

Leaping boldly to his former perch, Zami called out, “Here, woggy woggy . . .”

He spied the creature at the bottom of the inclined bank. It rested in the dew with its head near a large stone. Zami raced swiftly down the hill and leaped upon the giant's back. He yelled as loudly as he could, then yelled again; the wog did not move. Zami walked to the head and drummed on it with open hands. The wog did never move.

Zami fell to his knees and grumped, “You’re no fun.”

He jumped from the shoulder and walked around the head, there to peer through a great tangle of black and white quills. Upon the forehead, as well as the stone, was the giant's blood, dark and red. Zami thought, did I scare it to death? If that was the case, he might conquer this world in a day. Yes; at Zami's approach, giants would flee in abject terror. He immediately chided himself for such silly thoughts. Still, this unexpected victory would surely impress Xar. How could it not? It impressed him.

Head clear and thoughts racing, Zami walked back up the hill and mounted the unbelievably cut down nhola. There he stopped, where a pot of wog design lay upon its side. He stuck in his face and sniffed.

The odor that came to him burned his eyes and seared his nose.

Such an offense was the smell that Zami fell back, and beat helplessly at the pain. It was like the first time he went through the barrier, only this pain was all inside of him. Consciousness threatened to fail him. Through burning tears, Zami rolled to his knees and attempted to crawl away, but, he could no longer move. Terror took him in a mighty grip, and a voice from everywhere thundered in his ears.

“Zami . . .” called the voice.

He could neither move nor respond. His heart beat painfully; hot tears dripped from the point of his nose. Suddenly, he was set upright; he sat with folded legs, and his vision cleared. A great panorama opened before him: white clouds raced through a sky of intense blue. Zami was given an understanding of the world. It was an understanding that both tickled and burned inside his head. The voice thundered again, and as it did, images flashed through the bright blue sky.

“This is your brother,” said the thunder, low and melodic. “His blood cries out to me. Fear and ignorance have wounded him, but I will teach him to serve me in wisdom and courage, for I have chosen him as I have chosen you. I have many sons and daughters, and I will bring them to me together. Now, take the man to the woman's house, that he may be healed.”

Finding his voice, Zami asked, “But, how?”

At once, he was both ashamed, and scared. His heart trembled like water beneath the hand of a troubling wind. The enormous sky billowed about him, becoming black; the fleecy white clouds bled frighteningly red.

The voice thundered, “Search in the grass near the tree and you will find gold for your machine. Go, and do as I say.”

Zami fell from the vision with a painful jolt. His head burned with new knowledge, and his racing heart could not be stilled. He leapt from the stump, and ran for the oak; he sought the gold with fearful urgency. The pouch was there, in the high grass, and under the tangle of its leather strap. Zami snatched it up and raced back to the still unmoving man. His fear of the Maker made him ache. He gaped unbelievingly at the bulk of the giant, then he remembered the gold in the pouch. Five middling grains rolled across his palm; four of them fit snugly into the pocket of his suit.

Suddenly, Zami's fear turned to anger; he clenched the fifth grain of gold in a whitening fist. Anger welled up in him until his face and throat burned. He was angry at the man for being so big; he was angry at himself for having no control. Eyes clamped tightly shut, Zami made the extreme effort to calm himself, and just deal with his problem. He opened his fist and looked at the gold: gold made power. It represented Zami's need to be in control. As it glistened in his palm, the golden grain burst suddenly into searing flame and vanished from his hand, but no harm had touched his flesh.

The voice returned to him, and Zami cowered from the thunder in his ears.

Said the voice, “Zami . . . anger is not the path I have chosen for you.”

Rainbow wings spread wide, Zami gathered the man's clothing into his hands. He lifted; his suit hummed from the strain. He could not lift the impossible weight very high, and his hands ached terribly. Progress was difficult and slow; the man's knuckles dragged, and his boots scuffed noisily in the loose rocks. Several times, Zami had to lower the giant to take a new hold.

When he finally reached the woman's house, every particle of Zami's being cried out from the ordeal.

As he had seen in the vision, Zami lowered the unconscious man before the woman's door. He shook out his sore hands and took a deep, happy breath. It had been grueling work, but it was nearly done. He just wanted to run home and be with Xar, to fold himself in her arms, and anchor himself in familiar reality. With a sigh, he fetched a stone and flew up to the window on the right side of the door. He switched off his power, screwed up his courage, and rapped the glass smartly.

Emma checked her appearance in the mirror. It was a hasty job, and not one of her more appealing dresses, but it would do. She chafed at the cumbersome constraint of the thing and thought how glad she would be to return home and climb into something comfortable again. She opened the closet door and pored over several rows of shoes. How she hated having to choose!

A sharp clicking noise came to her ears. She turned her head from side to side trying to make out where the sound was coming from. She stepped into the hall for a better listen. Louder now, it seemed to issue from somewhere downstairs. She really didn’t have time for this; if she wanted to make it to the bank before it closed, she had to hurry. Still . . . such a persistent noise warranted investigation. At the bottom of the stairs, Emma turned left and looked toward the front door.

What she saw backed her against the wall. In the left-hand window stood the little man she had seen earlier. He beat against the glass with a small rock. She knew she was gaping, but she couldn’t help it: there was a faerie at her door. She traced the cross above her face. The little man stopped beating the glass, and motioned frantically with both hands; he was calling her to the door. Emma took a hesitant step, then another. Despite her unease, she found the doorknob in her hand. Slowly, she opened the door and peered out through the crack. The faerie hovered before her door. She looked into the faerie's eyes; he pointed to the ground in front of the house.

“Dear God!” she gasped and rushed to Will's side.

Will lay in a heap before her; a serious wound was on his head. What had happened, she could not know, but he was soaked to the bone. His knuckles were raw and bleeding. She looked back at the little man, who moved with iridescent wings.

“Did you do this?” she asked. “Did you bring him here?”

Wings like rainbows bled away into nothing. The small man flew back and forth over Will's motionless body. He pointed at Will, and commanded in a small, thin voice, “Heal him.”

Then, he turned and flew away.

“Wait!” she called.

The faerie stopped and turned, just floated. He came toward her. Emma jumped at the opportunity.

“I need to put him in bed,” she said. “I can’t lift him by myself. Please help.”

Zami couldn’t believe what he heard. He had just dragged the giant man from the creek to the woman's house, and she couldn’t lift him? Look at the size of her! He flew forward. Emma watched the little man move gracefully back and forth through the air, as he searched her eyes with penetrating black orbs. At last, he spoke again.

“I will help.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven Weary and frustrated, Zami flew up the tree to his new home. The morning's adventure had been long and taxing. A nap was in order, a long, deep, healing sleep. He knew he wouldn’t get one, not right away. His thoughts returned to Will. Of all the day's many mistakes, the one that weighed heaviest on Zami's heart was causing harm to the wog - man - his brother. Of all the day's labors, the heaviest was again - his brother.

He had been gone most of the morning, and Xar would surely swat him upon his return. Perhaps he deserved it. He felt drained. Yet, for all that the day had taken from him, it had given much more. The Maker had etched a new understanding upon the slate of his mind; he had wiped it clean and started from scratch. Now, Zami knew everything about the new world - places, names, reasons - all the secret things. Everything.

He had flown through the sky on the back of a beast he now knew as a hawk. Above the sky was outer space; the planet below was Earth. He had spoken to the human, Emma; their language was the same.

He now knew of the strength and love that was the human spirit. How like the Shee! Indeed, Zami carried home with him more than bundled clothing.

He hovered over the broad limb and looked lovingly toward his new home. He would gladly rest himself in the love and companionship of those within. He let fall his burden and settled his feet on the limb. Before him, a curious new door sealed the entrance to his home. He examined it with awe.

Obviously, the work of Tax. It was wood, and well constructed. Yet, he could find no handle. He pushed it gently, and it toppled inward. He dropped his bundles in the dim interior, turned, and stood the door up on its end. As sight and sound gradually returned to his senses, he stepped to the table at the center of the room.

Near the steps that led up to the separate bedrooms, Xar danced an odd dance of fear and frustration. A mosquito flew about her head in crazy circles, voicing a loud and droning interest in her person. As the pest rushed in from the right, Xar ducked away to the left. It was an amusing picture that lifted Zami's sunken mood.

“Hobbedy! Hobbedy!” was Xar's angry, yet unavailing command.

With a quiet chuckle, Zami seated himself at the table.

Xar cried out, “Don’t just sit there; do something! Oh . . . hobbedy!”

“I am doing something; I’m watching.”

“You had better get off your silly Peck bottom and do something more!”

Zami offered, “You could channel much better if you stood still.”

“Then, he’d get me! Oh! Do something, quick!”

“When he flies away, stand still and do as I taught you.”

The mosquito banged noisily against the ceiling. Xar calmed herself with a deep breath. The bug threw itself at her. She narrowed her eyes and quietly spoke the word, “Hobbedy.” The mosquito smashed into the floor with a dull, smacking sound - and Xar fairly beamed. Zami stood, took the dazed insect and tossed it outside. As he returned to the table, Xar stood at the opposite end with arms crossed. Her foot tapped an angry tattoo on the floor. Zami noted the hastily prepared gown of Sackweaver silk that fell loosely from her shoulders. The scowl on her pretty face was maintained with no small effort.

“That fine new cap had best be mine,” she said darkly.

Zami touched his new cap protectively. “You have no idea what I went through for this.”

“Wrong answer,” Tax jovially declared. He came from behind with a welcoming slap on Zami's shoulder. Tosh followed on his heels, coming up from the new room.

“Is it gone?” she asked.

They wore gowns like Xar's. They seated themselves at the table and looked up with quiet expectation.

Zami knew they waited to see how his impasse with Xar would end. He rubbed his stinging shoulder.

Xar's effort to maintain her scowl was beginning to flag. Zami answered, “You shall have a cap like as my own; you all shall. I promise.”

That was the answer. Xar bounded around the table and fell upon Zami's neck. Her lips sought his and lingered. Her lips were warm and sweet; her breath carried the bouquet of anik.

She pouted, “Oh, Zami. You’ve been away so long.”

Tosh said, “We were hoping to see this new world you brought us to.”

And Tax added, “I’m itching to do some serious conquering.”

Tosh countered, “Hah! What can you do but wield a spear? Xar and I, at least, have mastered glamor.”

Zami sought the deep eyes of his love for confirmation.

“It’s true,” Xar bragged. She turned to Tosh, adding, “And, now I can misdirect.”

“Don’t forget my shield,” said Tax.

“Oh, yes . . . once,” scolded Tosh playfully.

To which Xar added, “Accidentally.”

Zami seated Xar at the table, stepped to the door and returned with a broad smile for all. He said, dropping two bundles on the table, “I bring gifts.”

“What?” they asked as one.

“Well . . . human food, for one.”

“Human . . .” Xar intoned.

Tosh inquired, “It’s not disgusting, I hope?”

Zami answered, “No. It’s quite good, actually.”

When he found the human gold, he had replaced the cloth pouch with the leather; it seemed sturdier. He drew the cord that opened the pouch, and said, “While you eat, I will tell you of the new world.” He was amazed that the three of them were able to fit their hands in the pouch at the same time. He added, “If anyone is interested.”

“Speak,” said Tax. Zami seated himself. “First, Dirt is the wrong name. They call it Earth. What we live in is called a tree.

The cap I wear is made from the hairs of a squirrel.” His thoughts raced ahead of his words. He felt excited. What should he tell them? There was so much banging around in his head.

“Slow down,” said Tax around a mouth full of chewy jerky. He swallowed and added, “How do you know all this?”

“The Maker called me before him - gave me an understanding.”

“Ah!” said Xar, nodding sagely while nibbling an overlarge pecan half.

“I have a question,” said Tax. Zami answered, “Alright.”

Tax bit off more jerky and chewed, deliberately making the others wait. When Tosh punched his broad arm, he swallowed and asked, “Is this going to be the long or the short version?”

Zami answered with a smile, “When the eating is done, we’ll rise up together. You’ll see it all.”

With Zami's power, rising up had reached a new plateau. There was unanimous agreement; sharing Zami's memory would be much better than merely hearing the tale. In the rising, they would share everything: every emotion, every sensation, every sight, sound, and smell. They ate unhurriedly,

savoring each bite. Zami watched his friends with gladness; he looked at Xar and loved her all the more. He stifled a yawn.

Clamped eyes opened wide. Locked hands came apart. Xar snuggled close with a sigh and wrapped herself in Zami's arms. Suddenly Tax laughed.

“Hah! I thought you feared nothing.” Zami straightened defensively, and Tax continued, “You nearly peed yourself before the Maker.”

Xar spoke for her own. “Tax, don’t tease. Tosh . . . swat him.”

Tosh gave him the back of one hand, a glancing blow on a defensively raised arm, and a meaningful glare - more silencing by far than any swatting. Tax pulled at his face in an attempt to quickly still the laughter; as a reward, Tosh nestled in his large arms. Then she sighed.

“How wonderful,” she said to Zami. “May I ride a hawk?”

Zami answered, “Perhaps.”

“So . . .” grumped Tax, “we can’t conquer this world?”

“No.” “Not even a little?”

“No.” “Then, why are we here?”

“Don’t know,” answered Zami. “To do some good thing, perhaps.”

Xar said, “I really liked Emma. I want to meet her.”

Tax continued, “And I had a new name for us and everything.”

“New name?” inquired Zami.

“Yeah. I was gonna call us the ban Shee.”

Tosh pulled apart from him, sat back, aghast. She stammered, “But . . . that means terrible. I’m not terrible.”

“Nor am I,” added Xar. With a wink to his beefy friend, Zami said, “I think it’s up to us two to be terrible; the girls will just have to be sweet.”

That earned Zami a kiss on the cheek. Tax, however, was probed with a pointed elbow.

“Take notes,” said Tosh to her own.

“You know,” said Tax, changing the subject, “what rubs me is the time. Midday, here, is but a yawn and a stretch, and the cold night of Earth approaches. I want to see this world with my own eyes. Today.”

“We’ll do it,” said Zami, smiling new light into the room. “But first, we must prepare. If the girls will agree to mend the suits, you and I, my large friend, shall weave the most excellent of caps.”

Tasks set, the boys left. When they returned through the door, Xar and Tosh leapt gayly from the shadows to model the gowns they had taken from Zami's bundle. Their faces bore happy smiles as they spun for their own on bare feet. Tax whistled. Zami took a cap of glistening squirrel hairs, and in grand fashion, placed it on Xar's round head. When Tax followed suit, the girls spun through the room in joyous dance. The blue silk wedding gowns danced with them.

The long black hairs of their caps made them look human. Tax and Zami raced to fill their respective wedding attire. Tax stretched both fabric and seam. Removing their caps and donning the top hats, Zami and Tax joined the merry dance. Round and round the four of them did spin, filling their new home with raucous laughter. In the end, they fell to the floor, giddy and gasping for breath. There followed a long silence, sprinkled throughout with waning giggles and diminishing pants. Then Tax sat up and spoke seriously.

“We are no longer children,” he said. “We are truly and rightly mated, yet, we are not joined. Should we not be joined?”

“We have no Mithal,” said Tosh.

“Zami knows all that Mithal stuff,” answered Tax. “He could join us.”

Xar spoke up. “You and Tosh he could join, but who, then, would join us? Beside this, we have no friends to stand by, no parents to lead us in.”

“I love my Tosh,” said Tax, pulling her close and holding her tight. “If we are to live in this new world as parents, the joining must be made. I want it to be right.”

Zami was moved. “I, too, love my Xar,” said he. “I would have the matter settled in our hearts, but we are alone, we four, and must live in the newness of this world.”

Xar reminded him, “You said you would go back for our parents.”

“I will, and when we are all present, we will speak again of joining.”

“When?” pressed Xar. “Soon. But for now, adventure awaits. Suit up! Go; quickly now!”

First to his feet, Tax called, “Up and away! We must fly to beat the setting sun.”

In their gold-powered silver suits, they flew down; their high home in the tree fell away behind them.

From the base of the tree, they traced a happy course along the bank of the murmuring stream. At

times, the wind whipped up a churning wall of autumn leaves, yellow, red, and brown. While they walked, Zami pointed to this or that, calling out the new name as if from a lifetime of close familiarity.

Tax was teased for bringing his spear, tag was played, and high drifts of leaves were trounced. At last, they came to the broad stump that overlooked the stream.

Zami called to the others, “This is where I first saw the man.”

Happily, they paced round and round the surface of the stump. Tax took up an old Norsey song, using the shaft of his spear to tap out a cadence as he went. Zami danced the girls around, weaving intricate circles, as the song rang clearly from the broad barrel chest of the moment's bard. “‘Oh, shhh!

Eye for to see, Oh, shhh!

Can’t hide from me, I spy!

Lof on the table, So high!

Bite when I’m able, I sing!

Happy the midday, I bring!

Spinners to play . . .’”

A bright sudden flash brought all four to wary postures. Zami smiled and said, “Lightning.” Then, a low growl from over their heads became a heart-jarring wail of terror that sent each girl fleeing to the arms of her own. The terrible noise banged and banged; they could feel it in their feet. When the last rumble died away, Zami laughed, “Thunder.”

Tax laughed a shaken reply, “A bit overstated, don’t you think?”

Then a mighty wind rolled down across them; they leaned into it and the girls sought refuge behind their mates. The new world danced and screamed in the grip of the wind. Then, it died out as suddenly as it had sprung up. Only the top of the great oak still danced. Zami pointed, and the others stood in awe to see so great a thing move with such elegance. Then, it struck; it came from nowhere. A large cool drop of rain hit Tax on the head. The force of it drove him back on faltering legs.

“Hey!” he complained.

A drop struck Zami and another hit Tax. Large drops splattered, disturbingly, all around the girls, who looked to Zami for an explanation. Obviously, not all of his new knowledge was absorbed in the rising.

They cried out in confusion and distress.

Xar: “What is it?!”

Tosh: “What do we do now?!”

Then, the bottom dropped out. They leapt from the stump and ran for the protective cover of the oak.

There was no path through the tall, wet grass. They ran into the tangle, tearing back the beaten blades.

All the while, the rain pelted them mercilessly. Tax and Zami switched on, took the screaming girls in hand, and flew them to cover. There, they huddled on a dry root and watched the large drops of rain slam the earth all about them with a deafening roar. After a moment, it slowed and stopped.

Zami loosed himself from Xar's tight grip, took a step back and beheld her. Wet, matted squirrel hairs were stuck to her face, and her legs glistened with the cool moisture of rain. She pried away the soursmelling hairs with delicate fingers. Zami could not help himself; he laughed. What began as a chuckle at the back of his throat, burst forth as full-blown hooting from the pit of his stomach.

“Don’t!” she cried.

Zami laughed harder, and harder still - until his sides hurt. Tax bellowed loud chortlings at Tosh, who complained as fervently as Xar. Laughter took on a life of its own and wished not to die. It was like a ball that Zami and Tax passed between themselves, back and forth over the heads of the girls, until they, as well, could do no less. Only for the need of breath did the laughter fade, and then, quite solemnly, Zami said, “Rain.” and, the laughter lived again.

“Fly with me!” called Zami, and he shot away on rainbow wings.

Three surprised faces sought one another. Then, they switched on and followed fast. Xar came first, as she was most attuned to the motions of flight. Tosh followed her, not quite as adept in the moves required for flight. Tax trailed clumsily at the tail of the speeding formation.

“My spear!” called Tax, empty-handed.

“Leave it!” shouted Zami.

Chapter Thirty-Eight Their spirits soared as high as their bodies. Joyous hearts flew on unseen wings. With blushing cheeks, they raced above the broom and clover. Wind whistled in their ears, and happy calls made little sense.

They thrilled and flew on; they swooped and shot, and boasted their glad souls to God. They gorged their sated eyes with the glory of glistening water, stretching far and away. It was a body without bounds. They switched off on a rocky bank and stood in silent awe of the powerful majesty of Earth.

Someone sighed, but no one turned an eye, for the rippling surface of the lake was hypnotic. The big water teamed with life. Beyond tall reeds, noisy ducks settled from the sky. Some, already afloat, bobbed for meals below. Away out in the middle, a sassy trout leaped into the air, turned and fell with an unheard splash. Turtles slid, soundlessly, from a fallen, rotting log down the bank to their right. To their left, through horsetail, slid a scaly snake. A bullfrog lumbered lugubriously from the depths and called to its own.

“Brrrrrrup!”

Growling deep in his throat, Tax stepped forward with angry, clenched fists. He bellowed at the beast and sent it back under with a noisy wet ‘plop’. Tosh clutched a hardened arm and pulled him back.

“No. Don’t,” she softly pleaded.

Tax stayed himself with a mighty, hissing sigh, and said apologetically, “I’ll always hate that monster more than the rest.”

The image of Voy's lifeless body flashed before the eye of Zami's mind. The pitiful sobs of the dead boy's mother resounded in his inner ear. An ugly creature brought an ugly sadness to the rocky bank of recollection. He inhaled deeply, pushed the memory away from him.

Tosh urged her own, “Let’s fly.”

The two switched on, floated up and over the water. They flew hand in hand - a difficult maneuver, considering the size of their wings. With arms extended, and fingers linked, Tax and Tosh spun away in graceful aerial somersaults. They rose on a fresh breeze to ecstatics heights, and their laughter, like a gentle rain, sprinkled the two who watched from the rocky bank.

Tax and Tosh drifted away, and all that remained was the soothing susurrus of lapping lake water. Up and out rose the dancers of winds, the riders of gales; they were buffeted in cool, moist currents. It was a dance to end all dances - a graceful, majestic ballet of beauty that thoroughly enraptured the soul.

Zami thought, and called out, “Save the gold! Tax!” “Oh, let them fly,” said Xar. She pulled his arms around her and added, “We’ve pells enough, and more.”

Zami shrugged, held tightly his love, and sought her lips. It seemed, as his eyes slid shut, that he, too, was spinning: far and away, up and up and up. Then, he looked into her eyes, and his need was slaked by the unspoken words of her love. In those onyx orbs, he saw the reflection of her heart and soul; he saw in her a knowledge more profound than all his meager learning.

A large brown leaf took flight, passing suddenly over their heads. They laughed, and the laughter warmed them against the cooling breeze. Hand in hand, they chose a rightward path along the shore.

They walked unhurriedly toward two dead trees that reared through the lapping cover of the shimmering pond. The pond made a gentle noise beyond the boundaries of attention. The wind, then, stiffened and hindered their steps. They laughed at their clumsy stride. They looked back at their footprints in the slick brown mud that surrounded the dead trees.

One of the trees had fallen into the water, its surface smoothed by time and tide. Near it lay a rowboat, tipped over on small, pond-washed stones, and out of the mud. The second tree, like an ancient hand, groped the darkening sky with brittle bony fingers. At the base of it, smooth roots snaked out into gelatinous mud and slime. A great snarling tangle of briers choked the bank behind the upright tree, and it seemed to Zami like the hand of a drowning man reaching up from the spray. Nothing he had ever seen seemed, at once, so alive, and yet, so dead.

Switching on both suit and bravado, Zami righted the weather-worn boat and seated Xar primly within.

Then, he pushed the thing out into the pond and joined her. It swayed hypnotically from side to side as Zami settled by his waiting love. They embraced and closed their eyes. They allowed their senses to be filled with the rhythmic lapping of wave against boat; it seemed in step with the throbbing march of their hearts.

The boat banged solidly, and they looked up. The wind had driven them back against the fallen tree. In their embrace, they laughed when the boat scraped along the barkless tree. Eye met eye, and they were oblivious to all but their own little world of rocking, bumping, and scraping. Zami felt lost in Xar's eyes – those bottomless onyx orbs - he marveled at the sparkle, the glitter of love, the life in those happy eyes.

But, her face changed before him. Suddenly, her eyes were filled with pained fright. She turned, and Zami followed her eyes out over the pond. He noticed, now, the strength of the wind, the blackness of the sky. Out upon the pond, large crested waves leaped in a crashing maelstrom. Zami felt a fine spray upon his face - and a sense of danger. Standing unsteadily in the heaving boat, Zami searched the lowering sky for his friends. Far, far out, he spotted them: two faltering specks seen intermittently in the gray mist below a black sky.

Without a thought, without a plan, Zami switched on and flew toward them, trusting Xar to follow. His worry and concern strained behind his eyes, and hurt his head. His heart beat against his ribs like hammer blows. He knew this would not work, for how could he help without tangling their wings? He might kill them trying to help - but, try he must. He was responsible.

Lightning flashed brighter than a hundred middays. A frightfully deafening roar followed. Zami flew into the wind, which seemed only to grow stronger. He fought desperately for speed, and his heart sank as he felt the fierce hand of the storm push him back. He saw his friends tumbling helplessly in the gale, barely able to keep their hands clasped together. The storm was driving them closer to shore, but at any moment they might be hurled into the churning waves.

They could not negotiate the water of this world.

They were very close now; Zami could see their wings. He strained mightily to reach them, but the howling gale drove him back. Large cold drops of rain slammed his face, each drop a stinging slap. He had not thought to raise his shield, but now that it occurred to him, he could not afford to take his attention off his present occupation. He strained forward, and to his horror; he saw Tosh plummet toward the pond. Her descent was startlingly swift. Tax dove after her.

Zami blinked and saw Tosh dangling by a single, tenuous handhold. Tax turned into the wind and let it drive him ashore. Suddenly, a painful possibility gripped Zami's heart. It cried out: Where is Xar? If he turned now to look, the wind would grind him into the pond. As Tax had done, Zami allowed the wind to drive him ashore. As soon as the tall grass was beneath him, he switched off and took hold on the grass. His landing was rough; he looked up in time to see his friends fall.

Within the space of two heartbeats, Zami found himself in the water; it pressed in on him, cold and wet.

It filled his ears and nose, and all was darkness, save a dim glow from above. He groped in wild desperation: he would not lose another friend! His feet banged on the slippery bottom rocks, and the merciless tide toyed with his orientation. Then, his hand found something - a hope perhaps, but something substantial, nonetheless. He hauled with all his might, toes gripping the treacherous rock bed, wind and wave whipping him hatefully. He gasped for air, and marched forward; he dragged his sputtering prize ashore.

Zami noted with delight how Tax held tenaciously to his mate; both were safe. He still owned his friends. Then, Xar was there to help the retching saved. She fell once, partially submerged, but soon

enough was on her feet again, determined to bring her friends completely ashore. Though the fierce wind had blown away, the heavy rain still fell. The drops seemed to be bigger, the number of them greater. It beat them into the muddy rocks; all they could do against the onslaught was lay on their bellies and cover heads with hands. The crash of rain was numbing.

Lightning flashed; thunder shrieked. A sudden, more terrible wind fell upon them from the left. Unseen things raked across their backs. A hand clutched Zami's free wrist; he turned from Xar, who he held tightly to him, and looked into the pleading face of Tosh. She spoke, but her words were sucked away by the shrieking gale. The wind took her, just lifted her and carried her away, Tax in tow. He followed them, helplessly, head over heel, Xar in his arms.

Which way was up, or down, he knew not. He and Xar tumbled violently after his friends. His head struck something hard, and he fetched up, with a solid jolt, among twisted briers. Xar had been ripped from his hands, and he could just make out the shape of her a short distance beyond his position. She dangled dangerously from a branch; he called to her, but could not hear his own voice.

Thorned branches thrashed all about like the arms of a malevolent creature; no matter that - Zami reached for his love. Each new handhold was painfully earned, for the rain beat against him like angry fists. No skill carried Zami relentlessly toward his love; it was sheer desperate determination. Stretched between two thrashing branches, he, at last, managed to get an arm around her. He drew her close. Xar released her hold on the branch and embraced him wholly.

Her joyous tears were lost in the rain. Zami had both feet draped tenuously across a madly rocking branch; a white-knuckle grip held another. The only appendage he might climb with was busy supporting Xar. He had rescued his love, but now he needed to be rescued. What to do?

The wind stood still, and the rain beat straight down. Zami ached terribly from the position he was forced to maintain. There was but one thing he might do, and that was to use his feet. He loosed them and dangled jarringly by one hand. Xar locked her arms around his neck and kissed him gladly. He could now use his other hand; it flew immediately to the branch.

Carefully, he walked his hands along the length of the branch toward the sturdier end. He came to a large thorn and stopped. Below him, the briers were thickly matted. His progress had been halted by a thorn, but nearby was a branch of the dead tree. It led up and away from the thicket. If he could just reach that branch, Xar could be removed from danger.

He pressed his lips to her ear and said, “Reach up and grab the branch.�

She felt along his arm with one hand until she clutched the branch. She wrapped her legs around his middle and took the branch in both hands. As she pulled up, Zami reached for the new branch, missed and steadied himself. He took a deep breath, focused, and tried again. His second attempt was successful; he transferred his weight, and Xar's, to the dead branch. A good spot presented itself, where Xar might climb up; he moved toward it. Just then, another fierce wind rushed in upon them. Xar buried her face by Zami's and sobbed.

They were helpless against the wind; it threw them one way, and then it threw them another way. Zami felt the brittle wood snap in his grip. They tumbled into the briers. As if past sharp and sinister teeth, and into the throat of an omnivorous beast, Zami and Xar fell through the tangle of thorns. The wind stilled; the rain eased to a light sprinkle, but Zami could not move. He was balanced precariously on

one side. A thorny branch pushed between the chest and stomach plates of his suit. It brutally gouged his flesh. He had steadied himself by hooking both feet around another branch; he thanked the Maker it was there.

His outstretched arms supported his love, as she lay across yet another branch. He held his hands beneath her shoulders, and that was all that held her in place. That was all that kept her from falling.

She moved her head back so that she might look into his eyes. In doing so, her metal suit slipped upon the branch. Zami's heart jumped.

“Don’t move,” he whispered.

“I promise,” was Xar's reply.

Zami looked above and saw the tip of a branch; he just might be able to reach it with one of his hands.

Then he looked below. Tax and Tosh were huddled together, up to their shoulders in slime and mud.

Zami called to them.

“Tax! Are you alright?”

The two started and looked up. They cried out as one, reached up with desperate hands. “Zami! Help us! We’re sinking!”

Muddy hands groped, but could not quite reach him. Their pleading was pitched. Xar could not see them, but called to them, nearly slipping from her tenuous position. Zami adjusted his hold, and her sliding stopped. Zami felt that he would never survive this world, for every new event made his heart jump in his chest. Surely, it would soon jump from his chest and fall to the ground. He was afraid.

“Quiet! Everyone! And you,” he told Xar, “be still!”

Xar could only see the branches above her. She asked, “What’s happening?”

Tax replied, “We’re just below you, in the mud, and sinking fast.”

Xar asked, “Zami, can you reach them?”

Zami answered, “If I move, we’ll be in the mud beside them.”

“Well . . . do something.”

“What?”

“I don’t know! Something!”

Zami asked her, “Listen, can you reach the branch above us?”

Slow and deliberate, Xar reached up, straining for the branch. It was just out of reach. She answered him that she could not, and slowly lowered her hands.

“Hold on,” he told them.

Tosh sobbed, “Please hurry.”

Zami asked, “Tax, do you see anything I can put my legs around?”

“Yes. I do.”

Tax directed Zami, as he felt behind himself with one free leg. The strain on the other leg was painful.

It seemed like a long time as if forever had passed and come around again to laugh, but one wrong move would sink them all. He managed, at last, to slip his free leg around the unseen branch; his position was now in better shape. Although he was strained, he had leverage.

He considered his next move.

“Xar.” “Yes.” “I’m going to let you fall. It’s not far.” “ . . . Okay.”

“Listen closely. You have to throw your feet over hard. If you don’t flip completely over, you’ll land on your head.”

She bravely answered, “Ha! Look out below.”

Zami withdrew his hands and bobbed up with his branch, as Xar kicked and flipped. She landed on her stomach, raised a muddy face and spat. Tosh reached out and lightly touched Xar's fingers, but could reach no further. Zami righted himself and studied the new predicament with sharp black eyes. There was only one thing to do.

Xar called to Zami above, “Please hurry. This mud smells really bad.”

Zami switched on. Nothing but a loud hum occurred. He worked the switch up and down; nothing happened. His suit had ceased to function.

“We’re waiting,” called Xar. Zami cursed; his only plan had failed. He cast about with desperate eyes. He looked up and down; he looked from side to side. He raked the thicket with needy eyes. Answer, where are you? At last, his eyes fell upon a branch that lay across the mud. It was not that far away, really.

If he jumped well, if he caught the branch in his hands, the others could pull themselves free using his feet and suit for handholds. There was no time left; Tax and Tosh were up to their chins, and Xar was quickly joining them. He jumped.

He found two things to be true as he lay in the mud. One: the branch was securely in his grip, and two: the mud really did stink.

He held his face away from the mud and called, “Climb over me!”

Xar gripped Zami's outstretched legs. Tax wrestled the mud and freed one arm; he took hold on Xar's stomach plate. He pulled Tosh up until she was able to wrap her arms around his neck, and he began to climb. The mud made ugly sucking sounds as if it was trying to slurp them back through slimy brown lips.

Tax moved forward one handhold at a time. The combined weight of Tosh and Tax pressed Xar into the mud. She sputtered and spat as Tax made his way to Zami's legs. She tried to hold on to Tax’ foot as he passed, and thus be pulled along. She lost her grip and reached instead for a hold on one of Tosh's feet.

The mud made holding anything nearly impossible. Tax and Tosh moved slowly forward, and Xar reached forward to grab the stomach plate of Zami's metal suit. She found herself halfway out of the mud when strong hands gripped her shoulders and pulled her forward.

Zami had been pressed into the mud. He had the taste of it in his mouth. When Xar was free, he pulled.

He pulled harder, but the mud pulled back. It was only by the grace of the Maker, and the strength of Tax that he found himself free of the mud. Tax hauled him up and sat him on the branch, with a happy slap on the back.

Zami led his troop from the briars.

Chapter Thirty-Nine Though they rinsed and dried their suits, the damage was already done. It would take quite a while to pick out all the mud from the many small openings in the suits. The switches were hard to move, and while the suits did fly, somewhat, they did so with ominous humming and heated difficulty. On their trek home, the girls broke the somber silence to complain of the heat.

By the time they had reached the great stump, all of them were eagerly tearing at the straps. The heat that came from the lefthand pocket was searingly painful. So, they huddled and shivered and grumped while the suits lay open to cool.

Zami sighed, “Well, I feel as if our new world has finally invited us in. The slap on the back was a bit severe.”

“Oh, sure,” said Tax angrily, “why don’t we all be especially sweet about it. The world tries to kill us and, oh! - it’s just a pat on the back.”

“Tax . . .” said Xar, and could find no other words.

He warned her with hardened eyes and continued, “This is a murderous world; we can’t fight it. It hates us, and it wants us to leave.”

Zami sat at the edge of the stump, dangling bare feet. He was unmoved by his friend's tirade. “You wanted to see it with your own eyes. That’s what you said.”

Tax replied, “My belly is full of water fish have pissed in. You think this is funny?”

Zami jumped to his feet and answered the challenge, “No. I don’t think this is funny. I think you were foolish to fly so far from shore. I think until we are surer of this world, you should stay a pace behind me; let me take the risks. Let the leader lead.”

Tax shoved his scowling face into Zami's. “I say the leader has lead us to our deaths.”

“If you think it’s easy to lead a muscle-brained oaf and two frightened, clinging girls, think again,” Zami answered Tax’ scowl with one of his own. “I’ve done all that I can. I’m tired; I’m tired of perpetually saving you.”

The two boys set into a scowling match. Neither moved nor would they until the other flinched. The girls huddled silently, each hoping no harm would come to their own. They were not sure this would end without blows. Time stretched with the unyielding strength of stone.

Something had to give, and finally, it did. With a grunt, Tax turned away from Zami. The spear he had left behind remained where he had driven the tip deep into the wood. Through all the storm, the spear stood. Tax pulled it from the wood, turned and buried the tip of it between Zami's unflinching feet. Xar looked at Tosh with a plea in her eyes.

“Tax,” said Tosh, “I’m cold.”

Tax sat with his mate, wrapped her in massive arms. Zami sat by Xar on the far end of the stump. He took the suit into his lap and opened the pocket. His pell had burned away by half. Tax had more to say.

“I want to know if this is even the right world. What I want to know is, did the Maker actually tell you Earth is the land he promised.”

Zami sighed and confessed, “No.” “I knew it!”

Tosh tried to diffuse the situation. “We should ask,” she said, “and be sure.”

“We could,” answered Tax, “but we won’t. Our fearless leader is afraid.”

Tosh shivered in Tax’ arms. She said to him in defeat, “I want to go home. I’ll take my slatting, and thank them.”

Zami rubbed his capless head. “You know the way,” he said.

Tax jumped up. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll get ourselves back to the rock wall, and return home.”

Xar had quietly watched; she had said none of what filled her heart, only listened. She, too, longed for home. She missed mother and father. She wanted to see her little brother again. In her heart, she knew that the ordeal they had just suffered would be a thing of no consequence to the humans. Perhaps the humans knew of worse things. She watched Tax and Tosh quietly struggle into their suits, and she felt a

hole growing in her chest. She watched her own absently stroke his head. He seemed lost and broken.

She would stay, of course; he need not ask. Her place was by his side.

“You can leave from here,” said Zami, a note of sorrow in his voice.

Tax said, “Fine. We’ll leave from here.”

The suited pair adjusted knobs; Tax looked at the back of Zami's head. There was something that needed saying, but his mouth could not speak it. Tosh tugged him free of his momentary hesitation; he turned to her with resolve, but he turned again. He narrowed his eyes at one he had called a friend. Yes, thought Tax, Zami was brave and daring; he had great power; he had charm and wit, but, he was one shroom short of a full sack.

Zami had led them to a world of giants - and lightning. The thought of nearly losing Tosh to the angry storm blazed up in his mind. Any world would be better than this one. But, had he not chosen to come?

And, to leave like this - was it right? Still, his mouth would not speak. He might persuade Zami to return with them if only his mouth would speak. Tosh pulled at his arm.

Tosh linked her arm in the larger arm of her own. Two switches went up at once. At once, a loud spray of sparkling fire leaped out from their pockets. Tosh squealed. Tax slammed down the switches.

Startled, Xar leapt to her feet and went to them.

“Are you alright?” she asked Tosh.

Tax snarled, “Now, we can’t even go home. You’ve trapped us here.”

Zami, too, had been startled. He spun around, and up to his feet. His face, tight with concern, softened to a lax sadness.

“Trapped,” repeated Tax. Zami turned away; he spoke softly. “No. You only need to clean them better. Clean them tonight; leave tomorrow.”

Tax went on angrily; why he knew not. “I should never have allowed myself to be talked into this Peckbrained adventure of yours.”

“Enough!” shouted Xar. “No one twisted your arm. Who could? You chose to join us. Zami didn’t choose for you, so don’t put the blame on him. I won’t have it. And, as far as ‘Peck-brained’ goes, at least three in this group are part Peck.”

Tosh put an elbow squarely between the plates in Tax’ suit, eliciting a startled grunt.

“I’m sorry,” said Tax, more to Tosh than to the others.

Zami turned and spoke. “No. You’re right, Tax. Perhaps, we should all leave. This is no place to bring parents, or brothers and sisters.” He lowered his face, and continued in a small voice, “I’m to blame: pride, I think, or arrogance. I was never so scared as when,” he sniffed loudly, “I almost lost my friends.”

Xar took him in her arms. Beneath her gentle caress, she could feel the sobs he tried so hard to restrain.

She felt his pain as her own. She felt his warm tears on her neck, and she wept with him. She felt his arms encircle her and pull her close. He buried himself in her.

She raised her face, with a defiant sniff, and said for all to hear, “It’s no one's fault; this, I know. I know, too, that the storm tested our hearts; such things belong to the Maker. But, I will love my own, no matter the world I find myself in. No storm, or pain, will ever change that” She sniffed again, and confessed with a short laugh, “But, I do miss my family.”

Zami pulled free and wiped his teary face with a forearm. He tried to smile, but it was a weak attempt.

He stepped up to his large friend, keeping Xar's hand in his for support. He stared down at his shuffling feet while he negotiated a long, awkward pause.

Tax spoke. “Listen, Zami . . .”

Zami answered quickly, “No. No, my friend, let us leave my foolishness behind, and return home to kith and kin. Let us know, again, the sweet comfort of our own mons - or, zeo hives, as the case may be.”

Tax leaned upon Zami's shoulders with heavy hands and looked deeply into his eyes. He wished to apologize, but something more in line with his character issued from his lips. “It is good that we are friends,” he said. “We shall leave on the morn, then. Yes?” “Yes.” “Then, let us fly.”

Rainbow wings sputtered into being; silver suits hummed loudly. Above the humming quartet, a cloudy sky took on the somber cast of dusk. The air was clear and clean, sweet with the scent of wet grass.

Hidden creatures sang pleasant songs, ceasing only at the passing of humming suits. They drifted slowly up the course of the stream, and all thoughts were bent toward Phar Sheeth. They thought of home, and familiar faces, the longing hugs of mothers, and the stern smiles of fathers. They thought of delighted squeals, as the little ones ran to them from the Norsey. Would they be received as heroes, brave souls newly returned from the world of the wog? Would they be slatted before, or after, the procession?

Zami was calling above the hum, “ . . . and, caps for all . . .” when Xar stopped to cool her suit. It was a good idea, agreed upon by all. They stood silently before the swollen stream; its music was heavy and hypnotic. Zami closed his eyes and checked the immediate area for danger. He guessed he would forever be stuck in his ‘protective’ mode. There was a part of him that could not stand down from watch.

And then, they were on their way once more, drifting, humming, and thinking of the approach of night.

Attentive eyes watched them from the forest shadows. Bugs flew near, and Zami sent them away. Their tree was before them, dim in the song-filled twilight. They hovered near it, but no one wanted to be the first to start up. Again, their suits were uncomfortably warm. Their suits whined. Then, all at once, silenced rushed in as their suits utterly failed. The four of them fell into a pile of flailing arms and legs.

Zami jumped up and checked, as did the rest. The gold had burned away.

“Oh, great!” Tax complained, kicking the tall grass. “I’m really in a mood for climbing.”

Tosh asked no one in particular, “What are we going to do?”

Xar answered with a sly smile, “I know.”

“What?” was the chorused response.

She stood beside Tosh and rakishly placed an arm across her shoulders. She smiled just long enough to build suspense before giving her reply. Brightly she said, “One of you boys must climb up, and drop down gold for Tosh and me.”

With a grin, Tosh seconded, “Quite so.”

Zami looked at Tax and Tax looked back. The two of them stared, with blank disbelief, upon the audacity of the smiling girls. Then came the laughter. Afterward, Zami thanked her, for she had lightened a new and heavy burden. He stepped away from the group and looked up into the tree with a sigh.

“I guess I’ll go,” he said.

He turned back to his friends, and it was as though he had already been forgotten. It was like he did not still stand before them at all, but was already halfway up the tree. Tosh and Xar stood with heads leaned together, sharing happy secrets. Tax scowled into the darkness, absorbed in private thought. Zami realized he needed them as much as they needed him. No one ever spoke of need, but with the realization came a feeling of humble melancholy.

It took him completely by surprise. Tax looked up, suddenly spun to face him, and shouted, “Move!”

Then he jumped; he threw himself against Zami with a solid jolt. As he rolled beneath the great mass of his friend, Zami heard the noise of something falling very near to them. Before the two of them could sit up and look around, there came yet another crash. With joint wrenching force, Tax pulled Zami to his feet and shoved him toward the stream. Xar was by his side; she was frightened. Tax embraced his mate with protective arms. Zami saw it, but he did not understand; he stepped away from the group and placed a hand on his head.

He saw, over here, their oven on the ground and ruined by the fall. Over there, he saw the black table.

As he and his group huddled, watching helplessly, other possessions continued to fall.

“What does it mean?” asked Xar. Zami turned and took her in his arms. He answered, “I don’t know.”

He closed his eyes and looked into their high dwelling. He saw a tail disappear into the tree; he focused his inner sight on the squirrel who was systematically destroying their home.

Tax wanted to know, “What is it?!”

Zami saw a second squirrel leap from their tree to another, and disappear.

Tosh asked, “Is there nothing we can do?”

“Give me a moment,” said Zami.

The ground was littered with their main hall; cracked pots lay about the table and broken oven.

Everything the girls had worked so hard to put in place was strewn about them, scattered and spoiled.

The squirrel, which Zami had called down, sat before them in a docile daze. Zami climbed upon its back.

“I’ll see what’s left,” he said. “Gather what you can; I’ll be back soon.”

Their eyes followed him up the tree. When he had faded from sight, Xar, Tosh, and Tax, silent and grim, set to work.

Zami stood in the center of the main hall. The floor was littered with debris. The floor was also wet; the new lower room brimmed with sour smelling rainwater. He closed his eyes and checked the room below. He could see few items worth swimming for; he would return for them later. Light spread from the upper rooms; he searched Tax’ room first. Of course, the most important item there was the gem.

He gathered minor possessions and rolled them in Tosh's wedding gown. He took Tax’ new suit, and Tosh's spear and helmet; to his surprise, a pell rolled out of the helm. He placed it in his suit and moved to his own room.

Two cumbersome trips brought down what was left; with two more trips, he brought down the gems.

Riding the squirrel down the tree was nearly impossible, but Zami did not wish to use the last of the pells - not yet - it was too important. Finally, all was on the ground; he sent the animal skittering up the tree. Considering the effort involved, he told himself to choose a bird next time. His friends were far afield, deep in diligent search, so Zami sank to the ground and closed his heavy eyes.

Near the tree was a small pile of salvaged goods. The sack of pells was nowhere to be seen. He pushed his new sight to its limit and scanned the forest that was available to him. Nothing!

He leaned against the tree; he was beat. The day, as well his recent efforts of recovery, had drained him.

He could barely move. Sleep would be especially welcome, but, before he could reach that desired goal, he would have to find a new home, and get them moved in. A long road lay ahead of him. He sensed the return of his friends and opened his eyes to them.

They surrounded him with unasked questions, unvoiced complaints, and fears. Their sure, but silent presence weighed upon him in ways his friends could not understand. The things they wanted from him just happened to be all those things which were presently beyond his capacity. He could surely look forward to more hurtful words from Tax, and that was not a pleasant prospect, but Xar's disappointment would hurt far worse.

Chapter Forty

It was early Monday morning, and the haunting cry of a lone crow took Emma's concentration momentarily from the road. The ash grey sky did nothing for her mood. Will had been unconscious since Friday afternoon when she had found him before her door. She had tended him around the clock and had reason only to grow more concerned.

Aside from calling on old Doc Herschel, Emma had her bank transaction to attend. She urged the horse forward with clicking noises and a gentle flick of the reins. Each muffled clop of the bay's hooves only reminded her of the long road ahead. How could she be patient with Will in such a state? The buggy made annoying noises and she would rather have taken her paint to town - at least it would have been more comfortable - but the buggy was covered, the paint was not. It had rained all day Saturday, and then again Sunday.

The Monday morning sky promised yet more. The cool, dank air and the impending pressure of the gray sky made her trip to town seem dreary. The road was empty and bleak; the crow mocked her.

She came to the covered bridge; the steady stride of the bay echoed, rivaling the chilly susurrus of the swollen river. They emerged into the dismal light and Emma sat back with a sigh, allowing the bay to follow the road south into Evanston.

She could see the Evans House up on its hill, overlooking the town. The old manor had a gothic style altogether appropriate for a cold, gray, rainy day. She turned southeast, then east, and entered Evanston between the bank, and the saloon.

Over the railing of the saloon's top landing leaned a sleepy dance girl - the redhead - pulling on a hastily rolled cigarette. Emma could not recall the girl's name; she waved, and the girl responded with a waxen smile. She pulled the reins and turned south; Doc Herschel's office was just past the saloon and directly across from the blacksmith and stables. As soon as Emma pulled to a stop, a crisp voice called from the stable doors.

“Hold on.”

Hank Burtram trotted across the muddy street. As usual, his unkempt hair was the first thing to draw Emma's eye. She sat patiently; Hank would help her down. His small nervous laugh and manner seemed ingratiating and desperate. Perhaps home life did not fulfill; perhaps the casual encounter afforded more hope than his mate could muster. Hank tied the horse off and stepped up on the rough wood walk. He was tall and thin, not at all the image of a smith, yet, he was sinewy and strong for his age. “‘Llow me,” said Hank in a drawl as he helped Emma from the buggy.

On the walk, Emma tugged unrepentantly at her uncomfortable dress, with its cruel wireframe, and simply said, “Thanks.”

“Terrible wet weather we’re havin’,” said Hank.

“Yes. It is,” answered Emma politely. “‘ Say more’s on the way.”

“Hank, I really hate to rush past you, this way,” she said impatiently, “but, I must see the Doctor right away.”

“Yes ‘m. Don’t mind me.”

“I’m sorry,” said she, stepping around the smith to enter the office. In the door, she turned apologetically and asked, “How’s Mildron?”

Hank simply smiled and shrugged.

At the sound of the door, the Doctor entered from the back room. His thoughtful, round face erupted into a bright smile as Emma stepped toward him.

He received her hand and said, “Ah! Miss Hawkshaw . . .”

The man was short and aging. His small round face often seemed insightful and his genuine smile was quite disarming. The Doctor had been a widower for twelve years and considered the townsfolk his children as, indeed, he had brought many of them into the world. His bald, wrinkled head, his crow's feet, deep smile lines and wattle all spoke of age, yet, his eyes sparkled with inner vitality and profound understanding. It was commonly said the Doc's word could be banked on.

Emma spoke without preamble. “Doctor, I need you at my house as fast as you can pack your bag.”

“My, my,” answered he, furrowing fleece-like brows. “How serious you are. What is it, child?”

“It’s Mister Witherspoon. He . . . I think he has a concussion.”

“Oh, well! Let’s see . . .” He placed a finger on pursed lips, thought quickly. “I’ve only to have Hank hitch up my buggy. Give me ten minutes.”

“I have a small matter to attend. If I’m not back when you’re ready, start up immediately. I’ll be right behind you.” Emma turned and left for the bank.

The timid bank clerk peered out through cast iron bars, his young face screwed up into a knot of confusion. He looked a second time at the crumpled paper Emma had handed him. Emma's usual manner was patient and tolerant, but today, she could not afford to dawdle.

“Perhaps, I did not make myself clear,” she said tersely. “It’s quite simple. Take that exact amount from my account, and apply it to the bill you hold in your hand.”

“Are you sure you wanna do that, Miss Hawkshaw? I mean . . .”

“I’m quite sure. Do it now. Do it with great haste.” She bit off her words. “I am extremely pressed for time. And, oh, I should like a receipt.”

The clerk took note of Emma's hardened tone. He all but tripped over his feet to facilitate the transaction. Several older customers looked up indignantly. Eyebrows were raised by the commotion.

As Emma waited impatiently, she chanced to glimpse the new banker peering suspiciously through the

glass of his office door. To frustrate the likes of such an evil man, she gladly thought, no wiser dollar had ever been spent.

The clerk returned, tractably submitting the receipt, as if for a pat on the head. She thanked him curtly, and stepped from the bank, folding the receipt into her purse. There, she met the Dobbins sisters; she all but ran into them. Her heart sank a bit as she recognized the whitewashed spinsters and town gossips. Emma disliked them. She had always held her tongue in their presence: a feat of personal preservation for which she was particularly proud.

Ophelia said crisply, “Well! Good day to you, Emma. It’s so nice to see that you still know how to dress.”

Emma smiled graciously. “I could never be as fashionable as you, but I do try from time to time.”

“We’ve missed you,” said Beatrice. “Church lacks a certain . . . something . . . when you’re not among us.”

“I do apologize ever so much, but I’m sure there was plenty to pique your curiosity.”

Beatrice took her sister's arm, and continued, “By the by, do tell us, how goes your quest for a new man?”

Emma reddened. “Well now,” she grated, “I’ve got the hapless blighter right where I want him.

Beatrice, Ophelia - it’s been so very good to see you again. If I had the time, I should love to speak at length. But, I’ve so much to do; you will excuse me, I trust.”

That said, Emma raised the hem of her dress, and dashed across the muddy street to her carriage. Doc Herschel was just pulling out from the stables; she waived at him and followed him home.

She attended the Doctor's examination closely. The Doctor walked down the stairs, taking them a deliberate one at a time. He clutched the banister with a white-knuckled hand. Emma followed quietly.

At the bottom, Doc Herschel turned to her and spoke.

“It’s a concussion, my dear, but take heart. I’ve seen worse.” He folded worn spectacles into a vest pocket and continued. “I don’t imagine that he’ll be out much longer; just keep an eye on him. You’ve done well, Emma. You really should consider a return to nursing.”

“You’re too kind.”

“Not at all. Now, I’m going to give you a little something for pain. He should have no more than two teaspoons every two hours. All that can be done, now, is watch and wait.” He patted her arm in a fatherly manner and said, “Should he evince any sign of memory loss, or if he has any difficulty with coordination, you come and get me right away.”

“I certainly will.”

He rummaged in his bag and handed her a small brown bottle, repeating, “Two teaspoons every two hours.”

“I’m so grateful you came,” said Emma.

He laughed. “Less I could not do.”

“Might I interest you in a cup of coffee? I have an excellent cake to go with it.”

“A man would have to be mad,” said the Doctor, “to turn down such hospitality. Your cakes and pies are the envy of every woman in Evanston. But - alas - I must see the Smith girl.”

“How is she?”

The Doctor sighed as he slipped into his coat. “Due any day now.”

The Doctor checked his pocket watch and was gone, but not without a piece of cake wrapped in a cloth.

Emma would not take no for an answer. She locked the door behind him, turned and sat in the straight back chair beside the door.

“I need a nap,” she said to herself. She examined the small brown bottle in her hand. She pulled the cork and sniffed. “Sweet Jesus,” she said and sighed. “He’ll surely love this.”

Chapter Forty-One Will shouted, “Pa! Pa!” He gripped the sides of the small boat and stared in awe at his father. The mist was burning away; a white-hot sun was rising up through the sky. The little boat rocked. Overhead, the sun blazed until even Will's tears turned to vanishing mist. There was nothing but the rocking of the boat, nothing but the glare of sun on unending water and his father rowing, eyes closed.

Will longed to speak with his father, he called to him and received no answer. His father's eyes would not open to him. Will looked down at his feet; they were bare, as were his father's feet. He noticed the small boat was taking on water, but it seemed not to matter. He sat in silence and watched his father row. A deep and gnawing sadness touched him. How he loved the sight of the old man!

“Pa . . . talk to me.”

Far out in the water, something bobbed and little by little, it drew near. Will peered over the side and saw, among the floating detritus, a face that looked back with open but unseeing eyes. It was the face of the banker, white in death. Other dead began to rise from the depths. They were young and old alike.

They were men, women, and children. Will knew all of them; they were the people from town. He stared in dumb horror as they bobbed up and floated by the small boat. They were more than he could count; he turned in the cramped boat to watch them pass.

“Some kinda dream, huh, Willie boy?” The voice crackled like wood on a fire.

Will spun about. His father still rowed; the eyes remained shut. Will had not been called Willie boy since before the war. Suddenly, the father opened his eyes and smiled. Will's heart nearly stopped, for like the little man that had chased him, the old man's eyes were as black as night.

The old man closed his eyes again, never ceasing to row, and said, “Learn from me, Willie boy.”

Presently, Will collected his wits, and cried, “Pa! What’s goin’ on? Where’re y’ takin’ me?”

“Gotta git t’ town.”

“Why? What happened?”

A smile touched the old man's lips. “Got a surprise for y’, son.”

“Pa, I’m right here. What?”

The old man's eyes opened once more, but this time, light streamed from empty sockets. The light was blinding, bright as the sun. Will threw up a protective hand, straining to see through his fingers. His father had vanished in the glow; around him, there was only a hard white. The sound of lapping water gave way to the soft tinkling of a musical note that approached from the distance. Then, the glow faded.

Will found himself surrounded by blue. He stood upon a blue plane that stretched away as far as the eye could see. From above, a blue firmament pressed down upon his senses. It seemed as though everything was blue; he heard blue, he tasted blue, he smelled and felt blue. He cowered. On a nebulous horizon, motion took shape, came forward. As Will could only wait, Eppie walked toward him. Long golden curls fell about her shoulders; she clutched the folds of a bed sheet to hide her nakedness. Above her gentle brow, a small round scar was the sole evidence of the bullet Will had put in her head. She stood at arm's length, looking calmly into his eyes.

He had to ask. “Ep, is it really you?”

“Will . . .” she softly called. “The sin was mine. Forgive me.”

As the image of his late wife faded, Will fell to his knees and called her name. Tears streamed into his beard. He called again but he knew they had come to an end. She had not accused him and her plea pressed as deeply as her own fatal shot. Will fell on his face and wept; he wept bitterly. She had forgiven him but how could he ever forgive himself?

“Look up, my son, and take heart.”

It was a musical voice, rich and loving, that brought Will to his knees once more. His hands moved to brush away tears but they were gone. Strangely, he was no longer perplexed or afraid. His sorrow had abated. He noticed, now, a blue sky surging with fleecy white clouds, ranked and marching from the unseen to the unknown.

Will asked, “Are . . . you God?” The musical voice flooded forward and filled him. “I am your father who forgives you.”

Will protested, “But how . . . I mean . . . how can you forgive the likes of me?”

“Is there anything I may not do?”

“Well, no . . .” Will answered thoughtfully. He lowered his face and added, “Lord.”

“Hear me, Willard; I have chosen you as an instrument of my will. As I command, so will you do. I will shake my tree; you shall bring to me that which remains. The path I have set for you is long and dangerous but do not be afraid. I will be with you.”

Will cleared his throat. “Lord, I mean no disrespect - I’ll do whatever you tell me - but, I mean . . . how can I know for sure?”

“You will raise the dead and heal the sick; you shall walk uncertain ground for my namesake. You will know strange people. You will throw yourself into the flood for love. Go now, warn the people. Take the woman, Emma, with you. She is your helper.”

Will called into the sudden silence, “Lord? Lord . . . am I really forgiven?”

“Go, my son. I will call you to the stones. Bring my children home.”

His back was stiff, and he felt a dull throbbing pain in his head. Soft noises came from unseen quarters.

He lay flat on his back beneath heavy blankets, staring up at a sky-blue ceiling. Something tugged at the corner of his mind. Had he been dreaming? Yes: something blue. He remembered Ep was there and Pa. He felt like something monumental had occurred in his dream, but what? He thought something important had been said to him - if only he could remember.

A loud scraping noise came to his ears. There were footsteps disturbing his thoughts, but - an inner voice? - told him not to worry. After all, he was warm and comfortable. What more did he need? And yet - there was somewhere he needed to be. Where did he need to be? And, just where in the hell am I, anyway?

Emma leaned over him and looked into his eyes with a smile. Will could recognize, in her face, a young nurse from long ago. Nothing of dream, or hope, or time gone by could be the match for waking in the present. He felt as if his whole life had been a race through troubled landscape and he the haggard hero gasping and groping for the finish, as all the while dark clouds of fatal failure closed in around him. Now, somewhat miraculously, the black storm was gone; the finish line was broken in the fall. He lay in a warm bed with the victory cup tucked neatly in the crook of one arm - and, he basked in the healing sun of a nurse's smile.

“So, we’re awake, now, are we?”

Her voice echoed painfully between his ears. He parted dry lips to demand silence and wondered at the extent of his injury, even as he heard the hoarse rasp of his own voice fail his best attempts. No whiskey had ever kicked so hard and it was certainly no batch of his. How to explain it? The wild dreams, the awful pain, the fevered musings: they had to be one of two things. He had either taken a bath in a bad batch - which seemed highly unlikely - or he had become ill and mad with fever, which would explain the strange thoughts in his head.

Emma went away and returned with water, lifting his head to help him drink. He sipped awkwardly, choked, coughed, and Emma gently lowered his head. With coughing came pain, more unbearable than before. Bright stars swam before his eyes and the dark clouds rolled in.

Heavy lids grated back over dry, burning eyes. The blue ceiling seemed vaguely familiar. He was hot; he was hungry. The back of his throat called out for a drink. He threw off the heavy blankets and sat on the side of the bed. It was a difficult thing to do, the blankets ensnared his legs, but it was worth it. He was stiff and his head was tight, the air was cool and refreshing.

Several deep inhalations cleared his blurred vision. His weakened state demanded he lay back down.

He fluffed the overlarge pillows, and the covers, he drew up to his waist. The room that Will beheld was large and richly furnished. Directly before the bed was a stained closet with two doors.

In the right-hand corner of the room were two doors that led off in different directions. The rightmost door, being partially open, presented a hallway just beyond. There was a table to either side of the bed and near the open door was a third table, upon which sat an expensive oil lamp. A window on either side of the bed allowed filtered light through tied drapes. A sofa stood sentinel beside a crammed bookshelf in the left corner of the room.

On flowery, wallpapered walls, Will spied many shelves, all rife with old daguerreotypes and new photographs in fancy frames. The eye-catcher was the finely crafted rocker, pulled close by the bed. In its cushion was the telltale sign of recent occupation. There was a basket of sewing implements and an unfinished quilt of squares in it. On the table right of the bed, Will saw his knife, buckeye, and rabbit foot.

“So, Mister Stoorey stirs,” said Emma cheerfully.

She stood in the doorway bearing a tray with glass and pitcher. She wore a robe that was bright with flowers and birds over a simple white gown. Her hair fell startlingly long, flowing past her shoulders like a beautiful brown cascade. She moved between bed and rocker to place the tray upon the table left of the bed. Will pulled the covers over his bare torso, tucking them under his arms with offended modesty.

Emma chuckled. “No need for modesty, Mister Stoorey; I’ve seen it all.”

Will peered beneath the covers and cursed. “Damn it, Emma, I’m naked!”

“Well, you did need bathing. Had to scrub for hours, you know.”

“Bath?” Will echoed in disbelief. “Hell far, woman, I just took one last month.” His raised voice rattled his head; he reached to steady it.

“Oh, dear,” said Emma attentively. “Does it hurt awfully? You must lie still and be quiet. You’ve had a nasty bump to the head.”

“I need a drink.”

“There’ll be no whiskey under my roof, Mister Stoorey.” Emma spoke pleasantly, coming around the bed to hand Will a glass of water.

“Ugh!” he complained at the taste of plain water. He screwed up his face to show his dislike. He handed back the glass and said, “I want whiskey, an’ if I can’t git it here, I’ll find someplace I can.”

Emma stood back as Will attempted to rise. Holding the covers protectively, he leaned forward. It hit him there; his head exploded in a shower of pain. Bright lights circled his head. It knocked the wind out of him; he fell back weakly, and Emma stepped forward to help him back into the pillows. She pulled the blankets around him in curt fashion and fussed without reservation.

“Go on and do your moanin’,” she scolded. “I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere for some time.”

Obediently, Will moaned and threw down the suffocating covers to his waist with a whining plea, “Just a small drink . . . for the pain.”

“Nay, but I have some medicine which the good Doctor left.”

“I hate medicine.”

“So, do you love pain, then?”

Will sighed and asked, “How long I been here?”

Emma straightened the pillow beneath his head before she answered. “Three days.”

Will rubbed his sore head. Beyond the bandaging, something definitely did not feel right. He ran both hands over his head and chin. Where’s it at? He was shocked to discover that not only had his hair been cropped short, but his beard was gone as well - and that made him angry.

Will was so enraged he could not speak. His head throbbed so that all he could muster was a clenched fist. Emma quietly excused herself and left the room. He looked up and was glad not to see her. He particularly mourned the loss of his beard. A man should have hair on his face! He had always sported some manner of facial hair, even if nothing more than a humble mustache; hair was as much a part of his face as was his nose.

Chapter Forty-Two Emma returned bearing a tray of steaming victuals. Will glowered at her contemptuously. Setting the tray aside, Emma fussed over Will a moment to get him straight in bed, then placed the tray in his lap.

Will followed her every move with wrathful eyes burning, daring her just to look in them; that’s all it would take. She would know the shame of his skinned head. Emma looked everywhere but where he wished her to look as she hummed softly.

The food smelled good; he looked down. A bowl commanded the center of the tray, and the beefy aroma brought embarrassing noises up from the empty pit of his stomach. To the side, there was toast and milk with heavy cream on top. Behind the stew was a small plate with a large helping of pie.

“Now,” said Emma, “let’s get something in that noisy stomach of yours.”

“What is it?”

“Beef stew.”

“What’s in it?”

“Here now!” she scolded. “When you pay for your fare, you may ask what you will, but, as long as you’re a guest in my home, you’ll eat what I set before you, and give the proper thanks.”

“Uh . . . thanks.”

“That’s better.”

As Will took his first cautious sip from the hot broth of the stew, a small voice came from outside the house. “Miss Emma! Miss Emma!”

“Oh, dear,” said she. “I must tend to the hired man. Now, you just eat, and when I return, I’ll give you some medicine for your pain.”

Emma turned and left; Will explored the food. He had rarely tasted such tender beef, and except for the peas and the carrots, it was a satisfying meal. The sweet potato pie was a slice of heaven. He slammed down the last swallow of milk, pulled an arm across his bare face, and set the tray aside. He belched heartfelt - and fingered the knot below the bandage.

Memory returned, full-blown and crystal clear. He had been face to face with the little man. The varment had ducked behind a large root and lobbed a rock at him. Will mused, and his eyes grew heavy; he felt full and comfortably sleepy. Perhaps, he thought, if all went well, he would be sound asleep before the medicine arrived.

“There now, that’s all done.”

Will started from his dozing to find Emma standing over him. She looked disapprovingly at the peas and carrots he had piled around the bowl.

“Now, Will!” she scolded. “This is naught but a waste of good food. You need vegetables to get your strength back. And, these are some of the finest carrots I’ve grown all year.”

“Can’t abide cooked carrots.”

“Well, what of the peas? You might at least have swallowed them whole.”

Will closed his eyes and said quite solemnly, “Emma, if man’d been meant to eat peas, God woulda gave us rabbit butts instead o’ noses.”

“How utterly disgusting.” Emma seated herself in the rocker and resumed sewing where she had left off. “Do you feel like talking?” she asked. “I do. I’ve had a man in my bed for three days,” she laughed, “but I’ve not had the benefit of his company.”

“I’m tired, an’ m’ head hurts.”

“That reminds me . . .”

The table, upon which stood the lamp, housed an inner compartment sealed with two square doors.

Emma leaned over it and retrieved a small brown bottle. She advanced on him with a gentle smile, and as she wiped his spoon with the unused napkin from his tray, Will mentally kicked himself for having opened his mouth.

“I’m okay, now. Really,” he said.

“Here now, we’ll have none of that.”

“All I need is a little sleep, an’ I’ll be fine.”

Emma chuckled. “Come now, Mister Stoorey, take it like a man. Or would you prefer the longer road to recovery? Sure, and if you stay with me - you may get better; you may get worse - the one thing you’re certain to get is a daily bath.”

Wincing, Will accepted the proffered medicine. Thick and vile, the liquid stayed at the top of his throat, gagging him until he swallowed. He coughed, and bellowed, “God, that’s awful! Where are m’ pants? I gotta go.”

“Well, it’s like this,” Emma said pleasantly, “you see, I tried to wash them, but there was no hope - so I burned them.”

“You what?!”

“Just never you mind. By the time you’re strong enough to walk, I’ll have you something to wear. Now, one more.”

“No.” “Doctor's orders. You do wish to be well and on your way, now don’t you?”

Will hesitantly took the second spoonful. He coughed and gagged, and lay panting. Said he, “Damn stuff must have mule piss in it!”

Emma answered, “And, how would you be knowin’ the taste of that?”

“I know y’ don’t want it in yer mouth.” He reached for the water. “Damn. Damn,” he said.

He set the empty glass aside, regarding Emma through narrowed eyes. Unmoved by his disapproval, she smiled pleasantly and set the bottle near the lamp, gladly informing him that his next dose was due in two hours. Will's narrow, hardened eyes followed her to the rocker.

“I rather fancy the company,” she said, returning to the work of quilting. She smiled indulgently.

“We’ve a few hours until dark, time enough to chat away the blue chill of this miserable, wet season.”

Will remarked, “Yer enjoyin’ all this, ain’t y’?”

“Well . . . yes, to be honest, I am. I feel it is due recompense for the many times you called me a snoopy old widow woman.”

“Now, you know I never meant none o’ that.”

“Oh, but you did, Will. You did. And, your punishment for such is to keep me company until you’re well enough to leave - to chew the fat, as it were.”

“Well, I ain’t got nothin’ t’ say.”

Emma sat quietly and focused on her quilting. She rocked quietly back and forth. Will fussed with the blankets, and explored the strange new contour of his head.

“You might show a bit of gratitude,” said Emma without looking up, “you know. I’ve cared for you these three days, Will, and all the while grieving. You’re not the lightest thing I ever hauled up the stairs, although, I did have help.”

“I said thanks. What more do y’ want? You’ve had me for three days. You’ve poisoned me, burnt m’ good clothes, an’ shaved me bald.”

“And there was quite a handsome man beneath the mess.”

“You’ve . . . you’ve had your hands all over me . . .”

Emma sat forward. She said, “Oh, sure! And you think I’ve pleasured myself?” She reddened with an anger that Will could not gauge. “Yes, Will. I’ve ridden you like a horse these three days, wailing like the banshee all the while. Please!” She snorted and sat back.

Humbled by Emma's railing, Will amended his accusation. “Well . . . all I know is I woke up in your bed naked an’ bald.”

“You’re not bald, Will. Actually, it's a rather fine cut, not to brag, mind you. But, you might show a little appreciation of the lengths to which I’ve gone to make you look civilized - you being limp and all.

The front was easy enough, but getting behind your head was a fretful chore. I had to get up in bed with you, and lay you over my lap.”

Will's widened eyes gave Emma a rousing laugh, which only further abraded Will's manhandled manhood. It was as if she had thrown salt into the open wound of his indignity.

“Now, y’ see,” said Will, as an attorney might conclude an argument. “You shoulda asked ‘fore y’ went an’ whacked off all m’ hair. I didn’t say y’ could cut m’ hair. I didn’t say y’ could shave m’ face. My God, old woman, you didn’t even leave a hairy lip. I didn’t want a bath. I didn’t want m’ clothes burnt.

An’ I definitely didn’t want m’ head rubbed around in yer lap. You got no respect for a man's pride.”

Emma smiled. “Well, this little talk has gotten quite lively. Don’t you think? No, Will, you’re wrong of course. Thrice married I’ve been; I know all about a man's pride. I know, too, what’s good for a man, if you’ll pardon me saying so.” She looked him squarely in the eye, daring him to challenge her. “Have

you ever been married, Will? If you ever had, then you would certainly understand that a woman comes to know a man.” She laid aside the quilt. “The woman shapes the man, you see. She gives him purpose and direction. Without a great deal of love and support and attention from the woman, a man is no more than a scared boy playing at being grown.”

Will snorted. “You don’t know beans. You’ a good woman, an’ all that, but what you just said . . . it’s a bare faced lie.”

“Ha!” said Emma. “You’re the one to talk.”

“I am. I know all about you women. You glom onto everything a man has. You milk him dry, an’ y’ move on down the line.” Emma vigorously shook her head, seeking a place to interject a stern word or two, but Will would not let her in. He continued quickly, “Y’ drive him crazy, y’ drive him t’ drink, y’ drive him into the grave, an’ then y’ tell him, I told y’ so.”

Will finished without a notion of what to say next; he tugged the covers up over his chest and looked away. Emma took a deep breath and sat back with a sigh.

After a moment she said, “You sound bitter.”

Although his voice was no longer raised, rather sad, Will repeated, “Yeah, I know all about you women.”

Said Emma, “You must have been married. What went wrong?”

Will felt as if he had just stepped off into deep water. He was quite certain, now, that it was time to shut it up. He answered, “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Very well. But, you mustn’t give up, you know. It only takes one good woman to make all the difference.”

Will snorted. “I’m done with you lot. All of y’.”

“Surely not,” said Emma, her tone more surprised than hurt. “Such a fine man as yourself - you’ve a lot of good yet to offer.”

Will stroked his bare chin and conceded, “Well, I do make a mean brew.”

A long, awkward silence followed. Emma sat and quilted, humming softly under her breath. Will stared glumly at the foot of the bed.

Something black and hairy jumped on the bed near his feet. It was not just a cat; it was not just Emma's cat; it was Emma's black cat. Then, it stepped casually across Will's feet, essentially crossing his path.

Will yelped, and reached for his rabbit foot.

“Now, Coal, we mustn’t be bothering the guest.”

Emma stood and shooed her cat from the room. She turned to find Will wide-eyed and clutching the rabbit foot in a white-knuckled fist. Emma chuckled.

“Honestly. Will - a grown man scared of a wee cat.”

“It crossed my path,” he countered quickly.

Emma made small noises of disapproval. “Just look at you: squeezing that poor rabbit's foot like a frightened boy.”

“Well . . . it works.”

“You’re seriously misinformed,” said she, returning to the rocker.

“Same as the buckeye, an’ you know that works.”

“Superstitious hogwash.”

Will started angrily. “Y’ know . . . you got no right t’ judge. ‘Cause you do all that Catholic stuff. This business . . .” He crossed himself as he had seen her do many times. “An’ beads, an’ statues, an’ God knows what else.”

“Will!” Emma sat forward in shocked alarm. She couldn’t believe what she had just heard, even if it did come from him. “For your information, I’m a regular member of the Evanston Baptist church. I pay my tithes, and I worship in spirit and truth. I’m no longer Catholic.” Knowing that she did still often cross herself, she sat back with a sigh. “It’s just that . . . old habits are hard to break.”

“Yeah, an’ I got m’ rabbit foot.”

An impasse had been reached; they sat in the ruins of crumbled conversation, their eyes locked. Emma was the first to let it go, taking the quilt in her lap and resuming her work. Will stared at the rabbit foot, turned it over in his hand, then dropped it on the bedside table. The silence stretched long and taut, then snapped.

Emma stopped sewing. She closed her eyes and let her head rest on the back of the chair. She took a deep breath and asked, “Will, are you a God-fearing man?”

“I git plum weak in the knees,” he said.

“Is that why I never see you in church?”

“Church?” Will snorted. “That’d be the last place I’d look for God.” Emma, again surprised, sat forward. A red-hot fire burned in her narrowing eyes. “Sure, and I suppose you’d be finding him in the bottom of a jug!”

“Good a place as any. ‘Sides, I never went lookin’; he come lookin’ for me. He walks up an’ knocks; I just open the door. Now church . . . whadda y’ got? Fifteen minutes o’ singin’, thirty minutes o’ preachin’, if yer lucky, a fifteen-minute offertory, an’ a altar call. All neatly planned out; same dead

thing every week. No spirit.”

“How can you say such things?”

Will answered, “I ain’t no preacher; that’s plain t’ see. But Emma, I’ve studied the scriptures up one side an’ down the other. That’s all I ever read when I was in . . .” He stopped short, and redirected. “. . .

N’Orleans. Now, you’s talkin’ ‘bout bein’ in the spirit and truth, but, if you take a hard look at what Jesus told the woman at the well, you’ll see he was describin’ a church you can take with y’ anywhere.

A church of the heart.”

Emma retrieved a Bible from the bookshelf and reseated herself. She thumbed deliberately through its pages, stopped, and read to herself quietly. Finally, she closed the book, and with a nod, she looked up at Will.

“I suppose I can see what you mean.”

Will answered, “I ain’t got all the answers, not by a long shot. But, I figure as long as I let the Holy Ghost be my preacher, I stand a better chance o’ bein’ led to the truth.”

“But still . . .” said Emma. “The word says not to forsake the assembling of yourselves together.”

“I know, but, I never figured that t’ mean me.” Will waved a hand before his face, as if he might call from mid-air what he wanted to say by the simple employment of a crooked finger. “God set me on a road all my own. See, there’s this place in the old testament that tells o’ two small prophets - don’t remember where - but, God told the first prophet t’ go t’ town. Don’t look left an’ don’t look right. He told the second prophet t’ invite the first one in t’ eat. The first prophet went in an’ died ‘cause he didn’t stay on the road God put him on.”

“You seem well versed,” said Emma. “Perhaps you should be a pastor.”

“Ain’t for me. ‘Sides, all that’s changed now. ‘Fore I woke, God went an’ put me on a whole different road altogether.”

Emma folded her arms across her ample bosom. “Tell me about it,” she invited.

“I will . . . just as soon as I git it all worked out.”

Emma confessed with a smile, “You’re a strange man, Will. I usually have a good sense about people, but I just can’t seem to get you figured. Here we are, speaking like the oldest and dearest of friends, but there are times when I swear you hate me, heart and soul.”

Will answered, “Don’t hate nobody; m’self maybe.”

“I have to confess,” said Emma, “I never imagined you to be so knowledgeable in the word. And, such convictions!” She chuckled. “Here I was, all fired up to see you saved and baptized. I thought the only baptism you’d ever known was falling into the creek. You are baptized, I hope?”

Will answered her inquiry with an uncharacteristically good-humored laugh. “Oh, yeah. Long time ago.”

“I hope you’ll forgive me.”

A smile lingered at the corners of his mouth. Will said, “It’s like I been sayin’ all along: you don’t know beans.”

As they laughed, Will thought, she might not be such a pesky neighbor, after all. The room seemed warm and bright.

Emma thought, he’s a tough nut, but he’s beginning to crack.

“I met your little friend.” It had been on her mind for days; she had to tell him.

“Ain’t got no friends,” said he, a look of discomfort momentarily clouding his eyes.

Emma asked, “Am I your friend?”

“Well . . . yeah. But, don’t let it go t’ yer head.”

“But really,” Emma continued, “I met the little man, spoke with him; he’s quite charming. His name is Zamani.”

“Don’t care what his name is, just so long as he leaves me be.”

“Now, Will . . . ‘twas he that drug you here from the creek.”

“It was him that chucked the rock at m’ head.”

“That’s not true,” said Emma. “You’d been drinking. You fell when you tried to run. He told me all about it.”

“I’m sure he did.”

“I nearly fainted dead away when I saw him knocking on my window.”

“Let’s talk about somethin’ else,” Will submitted.

“Alright then, what would you like to talk about?”

“I dunno.”

“I could read the Bible. Would you like that?”

Will closed his eyes. “That’s good.”

Emma straightened herself in the rocker and opened the Bible in her lap. She said, “I usually read a bit before I retire, you know. My granny used to read to me when I was a child; she would open the book at random and read wherever her finger fell. She claimed it was a message meant just for me. Mind

you, granny had such a brogue, I often could not understand what she said.” Emma smiled at the recollection. “How about you pick a page and I read it as my granny used?”

Will sighed; he felt tired. “Sure.”

She stood, and handed him the Bible. It was a large and heavy tome. She instructed him to flip through the pages, and let his finger fall where it would. Well, he thought, he was in her bed and eating her food. Better play along. He chose something quickly, without looking, and handed it back. She then seated herself and scanned what he had chosen.

She said, “You’ve chosen Luke Ten. Now, let’s see . . .” She cleared her throat, and read the passage: “After these things, the Lard appainted other seventy also and sent them twa and twa befar his face inta e’ry city and pless whither he himsel’ wad coom. Therefar said he unta them, the hairvest truly is gret, but the labrers air few. And . . .” she said, scanning forward, “Hale the sick thetter therein, and say unta them, the kingdom o God is coom nigh unta hue.”

She closed the book and awaited his reaction to her somewhat inauthentic brogue.

“You a good woman,” said Will. “Now, read it in American.” Emma giggled, then she laughed. Will had no strength against the contagion of laughter. He asked her, “That’s my message, heal the sick?”

“Yes.” “Alright,” Will suggested, “pick one for y’self.”

She flipped through pages, placed a finger, then opened her eyes. She read: “I say therefore to the unmarried and widows, it is good for them if they abide even as I. But if they cannot contain, let them marry: for it is better to marry than to burn.”

She blushed, closed the book, and stood to excuse herself. “Well, I think I’d better clean the kitchen. I suppose you’re strong enough to walk, and you’ll be leaving in the morning.” She took the tray and moved to the exit, indicating the second door with a nod. “This door leads to the bath and toilet. I’ll be back to check in on you later.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, but only turned and left, quietly closing the door behind her.

Now that Will sat alone, the room seemed to press in on him; the silence seemed absolute. With Emma's departure, the room had seemed to darken. He rolled down the covers, and slid from the bed, stealing a blanket to wrap around his waist. He spied the brown bottle by the lamp. Stooping, he opened the small square doors, and having no better plan, Will put the bottle at the very back of the bottom shelf, thoroughly covering it. He found matches, lit the lamp and trimmed it low.

Then, Will discovered indoor plumbing. There was a large, ornate tub in one corner of the toilet, and a bowl with a pull chain in the other corner. He was confused, but if he wanted to go, he would have to solve the puzzle. He stood in the center of the large room, blanket in hand, and turned in a complete circle. It was such a fancy room, he thought. Shame to mess it up. Spying the mirror, he stepped up for a look. He was much thinner than he remembered. His short hair and clean face made him appear young and foolish.

Chapter Forty-Three Returning to the bedroom, Will took the lamp and placed it on the table beside the bed. He took the Bible from the rocker seat and climbed back in bed. Locating Luke Ten, he began to read. ‘Heal the sick’ - those were the words from his dream. He read through to the end, then he returned and read it a second time. ‘Two and two’, it said. He thumbed forward to the first epistle of John, his favorite book; John made everything clear. He settled in, and read the whole book. Finally setting the tome aside, Will massaged his tired eyes. He noticed soft sounds from the two doors.

Emma stood in the door. She said, “I’ll be in a while. Just thought you should know.”

As she disappeared into the toilet, closing the door, Will let his head roll back. He recalled Emma blushing, becoming quiet. As the image lingered in his mind, he remembered more of his dream, particularly the words, ‘take the woman, Emma, with you. She is your helper.’

Actually, Will mused, for a large-boned woman, Emma wasn’t half bad. Then too, judging from his past, ruinous, taste in women, he was sure he would never return to blondes. He dozed a little but roused at each noise that issued from the other room. He heard the cat crying at one of the doors; if it got in the room again, sleep would be a lost cause.

Then, Emma returned, holding a glass of milk in one hand. Will started from his deepening slumber, and straightened himself in bed. He noticed the glass in her hand and was alerted to the imminent threat of bitter medicine. For a long moment, Emma said nothing. She just stood in the doorway, looking at the man in her bed. Will looked back. He noticed that she wore a different gown. It was sheer and pink, and Will could plainly see the imprint of her nipples beneath it. She stepped into the room; the spoon in her other hand caught his eye.

Emma placed the milk and spoon on the bedside table, took the lamp and returned it to the table with the small square doors. Will could clearly see the silhouette of Emma's body through the sheer pink gown. She moved slowly, thoughtfully; she studied the empty spot where the medicine should have been. She turned to skewer him with a gentle, yet reproving smile.

“I thought you might like a glass of warm milk,” she nearly whispered. “‘Twill help you sleep, and also wash down the taste of the medicine.”

Will tried to glower; that didn’t work. He tried to avert his eyes. It didn’t help that her silhouette was bigger than life. It didn’t help that he could smell the scented bath water on her warm, damp flesh. It didn’t help that he had been so long without a woman.

She asked, “Where’s the medicine?”

“Threw it out the window.”

“I think not,” she said amicably. “Truth be told: I’m not as sleepy as I should be. I napped earlier, so we’ve got all night to play at this. How like a little boy.”

She turned and bent over the small table, feeling about the top shelf. A more than adequate posterior spread before him, and Will cocked an eyebrow in pleasant alarm. The round white flanks and dark indication of a cleft were sights Will had not seen in some time. Emma straightened to face him, and Will quickly diverted his eyes toward the ceiling.

She acquiesced, “Guess you’ll be doing without. Well, get some sleep.”

When she turned, Will surprised himself. “Stay,” he said. Emma looked back across one shoulder tentatively, and Will quickly explained, “You done woke me; let’s talk.”

“Very well, but only a short while.”

Emma planted herself in the rocker and looked placidly in his direction. It seemed to Will that she looked through him. He had no idea how to start a conversation under these circumstances, but Emma sat and waited for him to speak first. Damn her! Then his mouth opened, and the words flew out like escaping birds willing to brave all dangers just to fly free.

“Who’s this Mister Stoorey character?”

“Oh. Just a man who slept forever.” There was emotion in her voice.

It seemed to Will that she might be having second thoughts about sitting into the evening with him simply because he was awake. He wondered if she regretted taking him in. She had always chafed at his ill manner and rough edge.

“Guess I ain’t been much of a neighbor . . .” Will submitted.

She answered quietly, “You’ve been all I ever expected.” “. . . But, I want y’ t’ know that I think yer a fine woman, takin’ me in an’ all. I just wanted y’ t’ know.”

“Thanks, Will.”

Distant lightning flashed, illuminating the room with a light brighter than that of the single lamp that shone over by the wall. Soft, rolling thunder followed a few moments later.

Will said, “I’m gonna do better. I sort o’ got some things figured out, now.”

Emma's warm voice reached across the dimly lit room. “You’ll be just fine. I’m sure.”

Will had put his foot in this, but now he felt nervous to continue. Emma spoke pleasantly enough, but she seemed distant as if she spoke only because she agreed to. He wondered how he had offended her, that she suddenly seemed so cold. Her voice sounded the same; no strain could be detected. It was as warmly convivial as ever. Yet, she seemed somehow distracted. Perhaps she had reached a point where she no longer believed his words, or simply did not care.

Hesitantly, Will continued. “I might as well git around t’ fixin’ my place. Y’ know, the roof, the fence.”

“Of course.”

Lightning flashed again; the peel of thunder followed immediately. Wind-driven rain, sudden and loud, beat against the window.

Emma sighed softly. “I was hoping the rain would ease. If my pastures flood, it will prove difficult to bring the cattle in. I’ll have to hire extra men.”

“You ain’t gotta worry,” said Will. “Yours is higher than most. ‘Course, if it does flood, Evanston’ll git the worst.”

Emma leaned forward, concern on her face. “We’ve had rain for three days. Do you think it will flood?”

“Might run over the banks a little.”

“How do you know Evanston will get the worst?”

Will explained, “One thing I got, workin’ for the railroad, is a feel for the land. Even without bein’ flooded, Evanston is lower than the river. If it was t’ rain real hard up river, Evanston would be the one t’ git it. The river would overflow in the crook, below Evans House, an’ run right down the main street.

Take everything with it. Town’s built on a loose rock; not a lot o’ good foundations. Then it would turn back into the river below the school, ‘cause that’s where the land comes back up. But, the town don’t care ‘bout none o’ that; ain’t a brain in the lot of ‘em.”

“That’s not a kind thing to say.”

“Well, maybe you can learn me t’ be kind. All I know is t’ say the truth. You could warn ‘em, but they’d go right on thinkin’ they was right, an’ you was wrong. Their gonna git it someday; saw it in a dream.”

He grunted at the recollection. “Saw ol’ Vanderbilt gittin’ washed away.”

The feeling had come back to Emma's voice. “There are children in Evanston and old folk. If a flood is coming, we should warn them. They might at least build a levy.”

“Well, they won’t listen to me; I’m just a ol’ drunk.”

Emma waved his last remark aside. “You know, Will, I’ve sometimes had such dreams. I had one just this afternoon, and it disturbs me even now.”

Will was moved by the alarm in Emma's voice. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You were in it, Will.”

“Okay. So, tell me.”

She asked boldly, “May I hear yours first?”

Will studied her face in the dancing lamplight. The natural spill of her long brown hair past her shoulders, the way she clasped her hands upon her lap, the way her eyes fastened on his - large, clear, and honest - her entire manner and bearing fairly shouted the unmistakable message: Will, you can trust me.

“Okay; what the hell. I was in Pa's rowboat. He was tryin’ hard as he could t’ git t’ town. He rowed, but his eyes were shut. Drowned bodies were all around; an’ Pa told me he had a surprise for me, an’ that I should learn from him. Then Ep walks up - this woman I used t’ know - an’ she said I ought t’ forgive m’self. Then, God said he forgive me. He said some other stuff, too, like I was gonna meet some strange people, heal the sick, an’ raise the dead. Said he was gonna call me t’ the stones - whatever that’s about.” Will hesitated, and could find no reason to hide the last part. He finished, “An’ he said t’ take you with me.”

“Truly?”

“Yeah. An’ he said I was gonna throw m’self in the flood.”

“Is that it?”

Will considered, and remembered one last thing. He looked deep into Emma's eyes, and said finally, with the surprise of revelation, “I’m t’ warn the people.”

“That’s no ordinary dream,” said Emma.

“Yer tellin’ me.”

“Well then, here’s mine. You and I were running in the dark. Do you know the cave below the Guthrie place?”

“Been by it once or twice.”

“That’s where we were. You ran in between some tall black rocks and disappeared. I held your hand, but some powerful force pulled us apart. The next thing I know, four little faerie people were lifting you by the hair of your head.”

Will rubbed his head in answer. “No chance o’ that now; you took care o’ that real good.”

“Shush,” said Emma. “Then, I was beneath the swell, looking up. I saw you in a boat, you and your dead father. Will, I think there is going to be a flood, and I think I drown.”

A long silence ensued. Only the sound of rain striking glass could be heard. Emma looked down at her hands; Will stared absently into the night. He felt as though he had been knocked senseless. The boat being in both dreams did it, that, and his Pa. Images of floating corpses swam before his eyes, but the image of Emma floating among them disturbed him more than he dared to say.

Emma softly asked, “What are you thinking, Will?”

“I’m thinkin’ we should light out for higher ground.”

“Truth be told, I’ve seriously considered selling out - lock, stock, and barrel. Sell out, and just move away.”

“Why haven’t y’?”

“I have two promising offers, actually. The Guthries wish to buy my cattle, if they can get a loan, and rent my pastures by the month. Carl Smith wants to buy it all - house, land, cattle - though at somewhat less than I’ve asked. I could take the one as easily as the other, but I thought, you know, to let them court me just a bit longer. See which way the cat jumps.”

Will noted how often she sighed; he wondered what to say in response. He said finally, “You got a nice place, here.”

Emma snapped. “No,” she said. “I’ve got a hundred noisy animals and a large empty house. I get so . . . lonely. I . . .”

She fell silent. She looked away from Will, and into the flickering lamplight. She sat as if transfixed.

Will was seeing a side of her he would never have suspected. Emma Hawkshaw had always seemed strong, and self-assured, a woman determined to do what was needed. She had seemed to all the kind of woman who could wear down the hills by sheer force of presence. Now, Will could see that was a mask she wore to assuage an unrelenting world. The hardened exterior is something one hides behind simply because one must. Will understood that all too well. That she could be lonely never crossed his mind.

Now, it was clear to him how her isolation and deeply guarded sorrow mirrored his own lamentable state.

Emma looked back into Will's eyes, and he could not turn away. She continued, “Nights like this just make me aware of all I don’t possess. This house, the cattle, the money in my account: they all mean nothing. I would trade it all, in the blink of an eye, just to be able to share my life with someone. It wouldn’t have to be a good life; I just don’t want to be alone anymore.”

“Now Emma,” Will submitted, “I mean, you’ll find someone if . . . if . . .” He faltered in his attempt at solace. His mind drew a blank. One thing came to mind, and his mouth spoke into the growing silence.

“If you can just keep yer head above water.”

Emma stared hard at him; her eyes burrowed deep, and Will was embarrassed. Such words should not have been undertaken. He genuinely hoped he had not offended, but now, he felt too clumsy and stupid to say anything more. She would, now, surely yank him from the warm bed, withdraw from him the sweet milk of her kindness, and toss him out into the brutal storm. He watched her lean back her head; he watched her rock to and fro. At length, a small sweet laugh trickled from her lips. It broke forth and rushed forward like a torrent, sweeping Will along in its surge. In the end, Emma sat back and wiped merry tears from her eyes; Will caught his breath, with a gasp, and used both hands to hold his head in place.

“Oh, thank you, Will. A good laugh was just what the Doctor ordered.”

Will replied, “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”

“Speaking of which,” said she, “tell me where it is; ‘tis getting late, and the preacher needs a dose or two. Then, I think, we should get some sleep.”

Will, feeling enlivened by the hardy laugh, said, “Well, I don’t really need no more, but I’ll git it for y’.” He slid from the bed, holding his makeshift clothing firmly in place.

“Here, now!” said Emma, leaning forward in concern.

Will dismissed her concern with the wave of his free hand. “I’m alright,” he told her.

He stooped to reach past the doors to the back of the bottom shelf. He straightened and brandished the small brown bottle with a wink and a smile. Then, something seemed to pop in his head. The room moved. Time slowed; it swung about his head like a solid object. He stepped toward the bed and fell.

Intense pain bled into nausea. His vision faded as he fell into the bed, and he heard the bottle strike the polished hardwood floor.

Emma was there, speaking words he could not comprehend. He reached for his head and moaned miserably. He was aware that Emma's arms were about him; he could feel the firmness of her breasts against his back. The warm fragrance of her bath salts filled his throbbing head as Emma turned him, and his face fell into cascading scented hair. He felt the headboard strike the back of his head and heard Emma speak, but what she said, he knew not. Then, the covers were under his chin, and everything seemed dim and distant. He managed to open his eyes to the blurred sight of Emma folding a blanket and placing it at the foot of the bed. Then she withdrew, and returned; she bent over him.

When the second spoonful of medicine passed over his tongue, the fog began to lift. His pain and nausea eased.

He opened his mouth and managed to say weakly, “I . . . I’m sorry.”

“Dear, now, don’t you fret,” Emma replied. “Gave me quite a scare, you did. You just close your eyes, now. That’s good.”

Chapter Forty-Four Will awakened to the blackness of his room. All was silent; the rain had stopped. He could not guess how long he may have slept, but it seemed very late. He sat on the side of the bed and took a deep breath. He felt well enough, but the taste of bitter medicine was upon his tongue. Wincing at the noise he made, he rolled across the bed and reached for water to rinse his mouth. He took another breath, and assessed his current state; he was wide awake, and his perception was keen. Although he could tell, even in darkness, that the hall door was cracked, he could detect no light beyond, no sign of vigil. He walked quietly to the door and listened intently. He heard not a sound.

Bright moonlight through thinning clouds temporarily flooded the dark bedroom, drawing his attention to the windows. He moved to the window that was behind the bedside table upon which still rested his knife, buckeye, and rabbit foot. Behind the tied drapes were window coverings upon which he could see the print of various small flowers. He pulled them aside to stare out into the night. What was he to do, now? Should he lie back in bed, watch the ceiling until it grew light with dawn? That might be a while, judging from the position of the moon. But, time was wasted on him; in the dark, he had a

strange sensation of being beyond all boundaries and restrictions. He counted the occasional appearance of the moon through ragged black clouds.

Will sensed the silent movement of Emma entering the room; he turned to find her standing at the foot of the bed. Stepping toward her, he strained to see past the darkness, and into her eyes. Soft moonlight filled the room and was gone again, but an image remained. She had looked into his eyes, and averted her gaze. It was the fearful looking away of a new bride, a nervous anticipation boldly born from brittle hope. Her breathing was felt more than heard; the warmth of her reached out to him, a timely beacon in a timeless sea of need. A fire burned in her; he felt the heat of it kindle an inner flame he had not felt in years. He cupped her face in his hands and drew her lips to his. She drank greedily of his attention, as did he of her love. Beyond the room, spent clouds flew north.

Chapter Forty-Five The air was sweet; Emma inhaled the vitality of a new day. Rain washed, the land fairly sparkled. Great splashes of autumn could be seen here and there, plastered in tight circles by the runoff of rain from gentle brown hills. A blue sky glittered through naked trees, as blackbirds combed the ground for food.

A thin line of dark clouds capped the northern horizon, a distant reminder of the bliss of last night. The sun had yet to arise from the east, but a vague hint of orange lay beneath the black clouds of the north.

Joyful memories tugged at the coat sleeve of her mind, but she set them aside, determined to attend the matter at hand. She mounted her paint and gently urged it in the direction of Will's cabin. Distant roosters laid claim to the morning. She would be quick, she told herself, there and back in time to place a well-deserved breakfast before the man she loved. She found the cool air to her taste, as the horse set off in a trot up and over the rise and down again. She felt more alive this morning than she had for many years. In the blackness of an empty house, she had at last found the light that would make it a home.

One thing, only, still troubled her. It was the sole reason she had left Will's side to go riding through a frosty fall morning. The woman that Will had known - Ep - there was more to her than Will was want to tell. Will's heart had been wounded, his soul vexed by some unforgiving weight; a woman could tell.

Emma knew that all of Will's leather-skinned ways were in place for a single reason: to protect him from further pain. Beneath that rough crust, there was a dire wound. And, alright: call me snoopy, but the answer is in that cabin. Emma set herself to find the truth.

Zami sat, cross-legged, on the high chest-of-drawers. The learning book was leaned against the wall.

He studied the image on the page: a boy throwing a stick, a dog giving chase. But, no amount of comedy could lift his sunken spirit. He had once been a leader, a king. Xar and his friends had looked up to him. Now a failed leader, he was an outcast among his own. He was shunned and blamed for their miserable fate. How could dogs chasing sticks cheer him?

They needed gold to return home. Tax and Tosh wanted as far away from Earth as possible; Xar wanted to bring her father and mother over. She was sick at the thought of never seeing again the small round face of her baby brother. Without gold, they were marooned in an unrelenting world. They desperately needed gold and Zami had lost all they possessed.

Had he but remained in his nhola home, had he but followed his own counsel, these problems would

not exist. He had known it would come. Tosh, normally quiet, had railed on him. Tax, his comrade in battle, his ally in adventure, had struck him to the ground. Zami touched the tender red swelling of his cheek. Worst of all, Xar had turned away her face. To his love, to his friends, Zami had fallen from his throne and become no more than the idiot who trapped them forever on a brutal world.

Xar's pain grieved him the most, for since that night he had found love upon the cleg, he had become irretrievably entwined with her. Her joy was his joy; her pain was his pain. The last four nights, Xar had cried herself to sleep. Hearing her cry twisted him inside in ways he never imagined possible.

These nights had broken Zami's heart times four.

His only hope was that the humans might know where to find gold; he had proposed they go to Emma's house and ask. Tired, demoralized and beaten, his friends rejected his plan. They no longer listened to him; they were all too hurt and sad. For his choice to leave Phar Sheeth, his friends paid a steep price.

The one hand of this world was heavy; the other hand, at least for Zami, made each small gain seem precious. It made each melancholy remembrance dearer. One thing was certain; Zami could not go on like this. They could sit and sulk if they wanted to, but it was time for Zami to move on.

He flew to the floor and quickly switched off. The move into the human's dwelling had left them with but half a pell; it had to be used judiciously. Standing in the open doorway of the smaller side room, Zami looked up at the broad shelf near the ceiling. Their belongings had not been sorted; they remained where they had been dumped. They lay in a pile behind dust-covered artifacts only a human could guess the importance of. A broad strip of the human's blanket had been tied between those dusty artifacts. The girls were there, languishing. They had gone behind it and not come out. Unable to return home, parents and siblings alike were lost to them. Without parents and elders and friends, the girls could not be joined to their own. They were between two worlds and without the mercy of either.

Silently brooding, Tax contented himself by stalking the large rat that lived beneath the floor. The hunt consumed him, but his spear was never quick enough to strike the prey. With the unending rain and the limited store of human food, he had little else to do. At the moment, however, Tax sat on the edge of the shelf, right of the blanket. His spear was upon his lap and his legs swung idly back and forth. A dull look of hopeless deliberation was in his eyes. Those same vacant orbs came suddenly to bear on Zami.

Like polished and battle-ready spears, they met Zami's gaze and pierced him through. Then, silently, Tax arose and joined the girls.

Four days of this had been quite enough. An unpleasant anger, like bile, soured upon Zami's tongue. He flew to the bed and faced his hidden friends up on the shelf. His blood boiled hot in him, and he raised his voice in rage.

“Very well! Hate me!” he yelled. “Blame me; I don’t care! But, if you give up now, you might as well all be dead! Only cowards give up in the middle of a fight! I’m stuck here, too, but I promise you, I’ll find a way home!”

Zami added, “I’ll fight this world - and I’ll win!”

Zami had shouted louder than he had ever shouted in all his life. His throat hurt. He knew they heard him, yet no one answered.

Zami screamed, “I’ll never give up!”

Just then, the front door burst open, and the cold damp air blasted him. The buffeting shook him brutally, but he remained standing. Startled, he immediately spun about. In doing so, his feet tangled in the shredded blanket. He fell forward on his knees. He looked up and saw the human, Emma, loom over him. A smile spread across the woman's face. Zami disliked that he had not sensed her approach; he hated being caught off guard. Zami untangled himself.

“Well now,” said Emma. “Quite a pleasant surprise it is, meeting you here. I bid you good morning, little sir.”

Having freed his feet, Zami lunged upward only to fall back again. He flailed about in his attempt to regain both posture and dignity. Then, judging how the bed defied balance, Zami decided just to sit.

Embarrassed, Zami gasped, “Emma!” Then, he remembered courtesy, and added, “Am I not happy to greet you?”

Emma walked around the bed, keeping Zami, all the while, in the amazed emanation of a broad, joyous smile. “I don’t know,” she answered. “Are you?”

Zami turned and stood upon his feet. He proclaimed, with a sweeping bow, “You see me as I am.”

“So then, you’ve taken up lodging while the man of the house is away,” she remarked.

Zami enquired, “The man . . . Will. How is he?”

“Better. He’d like to thank you for your help.”

“I meant no harm. Truly.”

“Oh, I believe you, Zamani,” Emma said, a puzzled expression spreading upon her face. “Say, didn’t you have hair the last time?”

He touched his head at the recollection of a perfect cap. He answered, “It was a cap made from the hairs of a squirrel's tail. I . . . lost it in the evil storm.”

“Dear me, Yes,” agreed Emma. “That would be a problem for a small man like you.”

Zami flatly replied, “I am no man, Emma. I am of the Shee.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Emma, with a small giggle.

Zami challenged, “You mock me.”

Emma was quick to respond. “Oh, no, Zamani. I’m happy. In a sense, I’m honored. You see, most folk have never really seen a . . . Shee. Most don’t believe you exist. No, my laughter stems from utter amazement.”

Zami bowed again. “Good,” he confessed. “I am amazing.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Zami bragged. “In my world, I am king of all I survey.”

Emma pulled up a chair and sat. “Well now,” said she. “If I may ask a foolish question, why are you here? Are you lost?”

“Lost, yes. And, unable to return home. Your world rejects me and seeks my life. Heavy rain beats my head, screaming winds deny my steps, and fire strikes at me from the sky.”

“Dear me!” said Emma. “Well, I must confess, storms are hard on humans, too. That is, generally, why we stay indoors while it’s pouring. Ah, but you mustn’t stay here; you’ll catch your death of cold running about in that getup. Come back to my house. Let’s put our heads together and see if we can’t find a way to get you home. Will’s a good man for fixin’ things.”

“This man,” Zami asked, “is he your own?”

Emma smiled. “You might say that.”

Zami pointed over Emma's shoulder, to the mantle over the fireplace. He told her, “I am not alone.”

Emma turned in her seat to look, then she stood. Upon the mantle stood three faeries. There was a squat, muscular boy dressed in a makeshift loincloth, who clutched a small gleaming spear. To his left stood two young girls; they shuffled nervously at her approach. The girls were dressed in the gowns that had been taken from Emma's wedding dolls. Despite their hairless heads, Emma thought they looked much lovelier than her dolls. Emma could barely contain her excitement.

“Oh, how precious!” she cooed. “You look like little . . . bald brides.”

Zami flew to the left of Xar to make introductions. “This is Xarhn, known as Xar. It is she that I love more than life.”

Nervously, Xar said, “Am I not pleased to greet you?”

Emma responded, “The pleasure is mine.”

“Next is Tosh,” Zami continued.

Tosh gaped in awe. Finding no voice, she blushed and held tightly to the arm of her own, looking at her toes in embarrassment.

Emma gayly remarked, “And how very sweet she is.”

Impatient to be introduced, Tax thrust out his barrel chest and said, “I’m Takax, greatest of warriors, and slayer of fiends.”

“I dare say you are.” Then to the group as a whole, Emma introduced herself. “My name is Emma Hawkshaw, and, I’m so very proud to meet you. I must say, I’ve never seen such a handsome group as yourselves. Please, all of you, come home with me; I’ll put on a fine breakfast. Oh, I’m beside myself.

I’m so happy. We’ll eat; we’ll talk . . . you can meet my Will. I’ve but to search out a small matter here,

and I’ll be heading back.”

Emma found the little people to be as excited as she; they worked hastily to gather possessions, and such as they were, Emma tied into a small bundle to hang from the saddle horn. The small, locked side room was her objective; she was amazed to find it had been opened by faeries. When Zami told her how he had burned through the lock with just a touch of his hand, Emma was dumbfounded. The assistance of the wee folk was eager and joyous; she gratefully accepted their help. Emma found them to be swift, and tireless. Together, they turned Will's side room inside out. Their efforts produced all that Emma had hoped to find and more.

Four things they found: a fiddle in its case, a holstered handgun, a faded daguerreotype of Will and Eppie, and a yellowing newspaper. In its pages, Emma found the account of Eppie's tragic demise, Will's trial, and acquittal, and the understanding she sought of the wound in Will's heart. With this, there was hope for healing. She was pleased with the find, but the discovery of Will's dark secret saddened her. She had not been prepared for the brutality of Will's closely guarded secret.

To Emma's shock and astonishment, the account told, all too graphically, of the brutal wounds to the heads of Eppie Witherspoon and Duncan Sweeney, a young drifter. The account further spoke of a lengthy trial, a press of character witnesses who all spoke highly of the man behind the gun, and a verdict of excusable homicide. Emma looked again at the holstered gun; it was the tool of a violent man, a gunslinger.

She sat stunned, the faeries in silent observance. The man she loved, no stranger to the taking of life, had nevertheless murdered two people in a fit of insane rage. She thought to herself, what a heavy burden to carry all these years!

Something tugged at Will's mind. At such a point - between being fully awake, and fully asleep - there are certain truths chiseled in stone. They are comfort, warmth, and non-movement (save emergencies).

He stretched, and it felt good; that added happiness to the list. Sadly, however, there were certain discomfiting external pressures. Like flies to the nose or gnats to the ear, they forecast imminent annoyance. Lethargically, Will waved a hand across his face and sought to regain unconsciousness, but a stinging slap struck him smartly on the thick of the nose; he opened one eye to peer down the length of the bed. That was all it took to bring complete and irreversible wakefulness. The little man stood upon his chest, bearing down on him with a sinister grin. The second eye flicked open to confirm what the first eye could not believe.

“Aagghh!!” bellowed Will, backing furiously into the headboard.

Emma came into view; she took his shoulders and shook him. “Will! Will, it’s alright.”

“He’s come back for me!”

“Now, you listen to me!” demanded Emma. “He’ll not hurt you. Where’s your faith, man?”

Will looked dubiously at the foot of the bed, where the little man had flown. He searched Emma's large brown eyes, took a breath, and calmed himself. He didn’t trust the little man, but he trusted Emma. He released the pent-up breath in a long hissing sigh, willing to be assuaged.

Emma leaned over him and placed a loving kiss on his cheek. He scooted into a sitting position; his

befuddled expression was immediately answered with a warm smile, as Emma began the introductions.

“Now, this fine young lad is Zamani,” said Emma. “‘Twas he that dragged you all that long way from the creek. I’m sure you’ll be wanting to thank him.”

“Uh . . . thanks,” Will managed.

Zami leaped forward, with a broad grin, and in a single move, bounded from Will's left knee to the hollow between his legs. Leery, Will jerked back his head as if someone had taken a swing at him.

The little man piped in a cricket's chirp, “Am I not pleased to meet you?”

The small voice was high, thin and quick, yet, Will could make it out. Wide-eyed, Will looked to Emma, who smiled and nodded encouragement. He turned and studied the grinning man - a boy, actually - and stretched a cautious finger toward him.

Will laughed, “I’ll be!”

Zami pressed the knuckles of his hand into the extended finger, and commented, “You sleep very loudly.”

“Say . . .” Will recalled. “You slapped my nose.”

“Emma said I could.”

Emma's eyes sparkled with prankish delight. “‘Tis true,” she said. “Now, meet the others.”

Emma moved so that Will could see the table and lamp. There, by the lamp, stood three more of the little people, two girls, and a boy. They stood in a tight, nervous knot.

Emma stretched her hands out to them, and said, “Now, hang on . . .”

They braced themselves in her hands, arms about fingers, and Emma, turning carefully, brought them over the bed. They dropped from her hands and moved to Zami's side. Will could not wipe the smile from his face; there he sat with four little people standing in his lap. Will watched in growing fascination. The metal suit that Zamani wore, Will remembered. The second boy wore a simple rag around his waist. The two girls sported fancy wedding gowns. Will suddenly remembered Emma's dolls. She had always seemed so proud of them; nobody dared touch them. Now, these two strange girls wore them with Emma's seeming approval.

Emma knelt by the bed and continued introducing her guests. “These pretty young things,” said she, “are Xarhn and Tosh.”

Will turned to Emma and whispered, “They’re bald.”

“Shush!" said Emma sternly. “And this brave young soldier is Takax.”

What’s next? - was in Will's expression as Emma struggled to her feet with a grunt. She apologized to all, “Sorry, the poor old knees so love to complain. Well now, I’ll just leave you folk to get acquainted

while I set the breakfast table.”

“Balder’n Navy beans,” said Will.

“Just you behave yourself, Will Witherspoon.”

Emma turned and left. Her departure left an awkward silence hanging in the air. The human stared at them with big blue eyes and it suddenly occurred to Zami that Xar had slid her hand into his as if she permitted herself to switch her attentions on and off at will. He looked boldly into her eyes, and she smiled sweetly as if nothing had ever happened.

Will broke the ice. “So . . . you kids playin’ hooky from school?”

Zami answered. “We cannot get back home.”

“Oh . . . lost, are y’?”

“We’re trapped,” blurted Tax. “Can you help us?”

Will puzzled, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Well, I might could give directions if I knew where you kids hailed from.”

Zami said, “Our home is in your mountain. It is sealed to us.”

Will shrugged. “Sorry, kids. I ain’t no miner. Whatever way y’ got out, that’s the way y’ gotta go back.

So, what’s yer world like, anything like our's?”

Xar answered, “Our world is beautiful. Our people live happy lives.”

Tosh added, “Our world is gentle.”

“Well, that don’t tell me a whole hell of a lot,” grumped Will. “What’s it look like? What’s it called?”

Zami explained, “We call our world Phar Sheeth; we are the Shee. Our world is round, enclosed by an unchanging sky. The Shee live in mons - although, I live in the forest. The land is divided by family, each tending their own.”

Xar cut in. “My family grows zarglenuts.” Will echoed the unfamiliar word.

“My family tend the spinners,” said Tosh.

Tax boasted, “My family are builders and fixers.”

Will temporized into the ensuing silence, “Well, it’s all news t’ me. So, what made y’ wanna leave?”

Zami answered. “We heard stories of Earth; Xar came because I did; Tax and Tosh, I rescued from a slatting.”

“So, why did you come; what was yer reason?”

“I was curious.”

Xar elbowed Zami's ribs. “That’s not true,” she corrected. She turned from Zami to Will and explained.

“The Maker charged Zami to lead our people to a new land. Zami thought Earth might be that land but, it’s not.”

Will could understand about half of what he heard. Still, he nodded and smiled at the four little house guests. He could see they were lost and scared, but the rest was just so much – small talk. He grinned to himself; his choice of words amused him. One thing did catch his ear.

He asked Zami, “You talk t’ God?” Zami shook his head in response. “No,” he replied. “He talks; I listen.”

Tax taunted, netting a solid rebuke from Tosh, “He’s scared of him.”

Will studied the stocky little boy, and replied, “You’d be wise t’ do the same. The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever. Psalm . . . somethin’ or other.”

Xar asked, “Does the Maker speak to you?”

“Well, he did once.”

“What were you told?” queried Xar. “May I ask?”

“Sure.” Will cleared his throat, and recited, “Let’s see . . . he said, look up, my son. Take heart. I am your father who forgives you.” He stopped and checked his four visitor's reactions, but they stood there waiting for him to finish. He looked up at the ceiling, and continued, “I have chosen you as an instrument of my will.” He stopped and checked again; their faces remained blank. “Anyway, that’s what he said, an’ some other stuff, too. But, I’m gonna have t’ ask you kids t’ move so I can git up without knockin’ y’ over.”

Zami led his troop to the bottom of the bed, where at Will's prompting, they climbed up onto the footboard. Will folded a blanket, and carefully slid from bed.

Tosh asked, “Will you leave us, now?”

Will answered with a parting smile, “Just gotta tap a kidney is all. Be right back, an’ we can talk some more.”

Will closed the door behind him. Sounds issued from the toilet. As it dawned upon them what the sounds really were, the girls giggled into their hands. As surprised as Zami was at the unending stream of sound, Tax seemed wholly stunned.

“Does it never end?” he asked.

Zami shrugged. They were guests of giants, and giants did things in big ways. He was impatient, but all any of them could do was wait. He turned his attention to sounds that came from past the hall. Zami

closed his eyes to take a look. It was Emma; she ascended the stairs with a neatly folded bundle of clothing. She entered the room and smiled; she always seemed to Zami happy and self-assured.

Although she had a ready smile, Emma had keen, searching eyes. Zami liked and admired her. He sat and waited for what would come. Will opened the second door and stepped into the room.

Shyly, he smiled at Emma and said, “Sorry. Didn’t know you’s there.”

The smile she returned was playful. “I have breakfast,” she declared. Will had stepped to the footboard and turned to look at the bundle in her hands.

Emma said, “Get dressed,” and snatched away his blanket.

He quickly grabbed the clothing and scampered back into the room from which he had come. Tosh and Xar giggled; Emma giggled; Tax and Zami laughed. From behind the door came sounds of disgruntled embarrassment.

“Damn!” said Will. “That ain’t right!”

Emma turned to her guests with a merry twinkle in her eyes. She cupped her hands. “Hop up, then,” she told them. “We’ll just wait for him downstairs.”

She moved carefully; her four guests stood upon her arms, gripping her sleeves and collar for support. She stopped in the doorway to call back at Will.

“Best eat while it’s hot,” said she.

The mirror gave but a dim and incomplete account. Yet, there he stood - more dressed than he had ever been. Not only were the trousers clean and pressed, not only were his long johns white and soft, but a clean white shirt came in the deal. The pat hand included socks, and boots so polished, Will could scarce believe they were his. He had to smile; today seemed to be a day for things new.

Chapter Forty-Six

He scooped his meager possessions from the bedside table. Through the door, then, and down the stairs, he headed. The smell of biscuits and coffee pulled him forward by the nose. He could almost feel the fat from the sausage floating in the air. Will cautiously stuck his head into the dining room.

Emma abandoned her conversation to look at Will, and laugh. “The cat’s outside,” she said.

Will promptly seated himself and took in the table with one mighty glance; he inhaled it with his eyes and that was enough to make his mouth water. Across the table, biscuits sat high and fluffy on a white china plate. There were eggs and sausage, butter and honey, and potatoes fried crisp. All of it sat on a snow-white tablecloth, with a pot of coffee steaming an easy reach away. The newcomers sat around a saucer heaped with vittles, while sewing thimbles held honey and milk. Rubbing his hands together loudly, inhaling deeply, Will ignored the empty plate at the end of the table and beamed his eagerness to eat.

“Will,” said Emma, “we should very much like to have you say grace.” “ . . . Right,” said Will, remembering his place. He bowed his head and prayed. “Lord, we’re all mighty thankful for this daily bread, but ‘specially for the bread o’ life, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

“Short and sweet,” Emma remarked. “Well, dig in.”

The end of the meal found them all replete. Tax stretched back to pat his swollen belly, while Tosh nestled by his side. Xar dipped her finger in the honey for a final taste, and Zami propped back on both hands.

“I can’t breathe,” Will bragged happily. He placed his hands on his belly as if it might burst open.

Tax yawned, “I could nap forever.”

Emma said, “I want you boys and girls to think of this house as your home. Stay as long as you like.”

Tax answered, looking toward Zami, “I suppose we’ll have to.”

“What he means,” amended Tosh, “is that you’re very kind, and we can’t thank you enough.”

Will asked, “Say . . . you kids old enough to be layin’ around like that?”

Emma scolded, “Will! Don’t be so nosy; they’re from a different world.”

“Yeah, but they’re stuck in ours.”

Xar straightened. “We are prepared to be parents,” she said. “If we were home, we could be joined as we should.”

“Joined?” Will echoed, looking to Emma.

“Married, I imagine,” she submitted.

Xar continued, “Our custom requires the Mithal to join us, our parents to lead us into our mons, and our friends to stand by on either side, to bind us on our path.”

Emma enthused, “I love weddings.”

Xar went on. “There is much laughter, wine, and storytelling. We sing, and dance, and hold the procession.”

“Sounds absolutely grand,” said Emma, with a broad smile.

Will asked, “Who’s this Mithal character?”

Tax answered casually, but with a note of strained pride in his voice. “Mithal is our sayer. He is full of wisdom and power.”

As if offended, Xar replied to Tax, “Anything the Mithal knows, my Zami knows, and more.”

Emma suggested, “So, let him do the service.”

Will demanded, “I wanna know where God fits in all o’ this.”

Zami sat up, and politely answered, “The Maker has everything to do with everything.”

“That’s what I wanted t’ hear,” Will said. “Now, here’s my advice. Since yer stuck here, git hitched here. It’s God who’s the real joiner, anyway - if y’ know what I mean.”

Tax looked at Tosh; Zami looked at Xar. Xar and Tosh leaned together to whisper, leaving Tax and Zami to assess the willingness of each other's gaze. The four seemed to be giving Will's idea thorough attention. Will and Emma waited silently. Emma poured more coffee into Will's cup; he sat back and sipped.

At last, Xar spoke. “Tax may be joined to Tosh by Zami's hand, but who would join us?”

Emma leaned forward with a prankish grin and patted Will's arm affectionately. “I feel quite certain,” said she, “the preacher, here, would be glad to do the honors.”

At first, Will assumed she spoke of the preacher of her church in Evanston. When all eyes locked on him, Will suddenly realized what Emma had meant. “Whoa, now,” said Will. “Let’s just back away from the bar a minute.”

Emma cut him off. “Now, Will . . . we can’t very well ask the pastor. Why, don’t you know, the shock would put him in an early grave – bless his heart. He’s a fine man, I warrant, but this,” she gestured toward the four young faeries. “This cannot - must not go beyond these walls.”

Will retrieved his arm from beneath her hand. “Well, all I know is I ain’t no preacher.”

“You’ve a fine grasp of the scriptures.”

“Yeah, but . . .”

“And, I’m sure you’ve not forgotten the vows.”

“I ain’t no preacher,” he repeated stubbornly.

“Now, don’t go getting your back up. Even if you recall but a little, ‘twould be enough for a little wedding.”

“No.” Undaunted, Emma asked the four, “If Will consents to join you, honest and sincere before God, man, and faerie, will you take the next step? I’ll stand as witness. And, I do so love a wedding.”

Will sat back and grumped; he turned away from Emma and folded his arms. He had said ‘no’, hadn’t he? He turned back, about to call her a bullheaded old widow, but her smile stilled him. The sparkle in her large brown eyes encouraged him to think it just might work. The kids seemed sincere. He watched them confer among themselves. Then the four came apart, and Zami looked into Will's eyes. It was evident the decision had been left to him, and the inner struggle showed upon his tiny face.

Zami came to his feet. He nodded to himself and spoke. “The Maker did say that you and I are brothers. I think we shall.”

“Good!” Emma immediately enthused. She squeezed Will's arm and smiled to beat the sun.

Will said to Zami, “Guess that makes me yer big brother.” But, he was still not convinced within himself. He stood up from his chair, paced behind it. He turned and said, “But, y’ know – I don’t know . . .”

Xar asked, “Do you not wish to?”

Emma quickly responded, “Of course he does.” She took Will's hand and gave it a gentle, calming squeeze. “Now, you children go rest yourselves. Make your plans. You just leave the preacher to me.”

By Zami's wings, the four left the table. Will sat down to brood with coffee in hand. He inhaled the aromatic steam and took a sip. He tried to put the thing out of his head. What mattered was now. He was rested, full, and surprisingly at peace. He could stop the train at any time, and get off. He speared Emma with a glance; her bright brown smiling eyes twinkled above the rim of her china cup.

Will commented, “Purty slick the way he does that.”

“It is. Sure,” Emma quietly agreed. “‘Course, I guess y’ gotta be small for wings like them.”

Emma said, “We sailed pretty high, ourselves, last night. Borne up on the wings of love.”

Will chuckled and blushed. He put a finger in his collar and tugged; it suddenly seemed tight.

Emma set her cup aside and took Will's hand in her own. She held his eyes with a happy glance and said, “Oh, Will! I feel so alive. I had waited so long to hear your words. Fair, fair words. Did you mean them, Will? Every one of them?”

Will swallowed involuntarily. He remembered they spoke, but in all honesty, he could not recall a thing he said. It might have been the little things that men always utter; the baubles that women always cling to. His problem was not simple; if he could not remember last night, how was he to delve his past for anything that might help. He needed to answer, and quick, but he surely could not confess to a total blank. He poured out the sack of his recollections and raked through them furiously. His inner eye could not penetrate the thick mist that shrouded his previous evening. Beyond the culminating fire of their union, all he could lay upon the table were pennies. He had to hope that all he had offered were baubles.

“Of course,” Will hazarded.

“Oh, Will! I’m the happiest woman in the world. Will, would you prove your love for me?”

Damn, thought Will, three words too many!

“Come with me, Will.”

Emma took his hand and led him from the dining room. As they walked silently between the shelf wall and sofa, Will glanced down at the four nestling faeries. Xar opened her small black eyes, smiled, and waved up at him. He had to admit, they no longer seemed strange to him. They seemed no more than very small children. Emma took him through the sitting room, and into an adjacent room. She turned and quietly closed the door. She walked carefully across the room and drew back the drapes that covered an east-facing window. Soft sunlight filtered in, and then the room darkened as clouds passed before the morning sun.

“This is south-den,” she whispered. “That’s what my Elbert liked to say.”

In front of the window was a table, and on the table, three items had been placed in a neat row. Will recognized them immediately. Emma stepped back to give him room. He stood above possessions he had not looked on in some time. There was an open leather case, within it was an old fiddle and a worn bow. In the middle of the table sat his holstered handgun. He picked it up. This was no ordinary handgun, but a seven-shot revolver crafted by Jeremiah Williamson. It was a work of art. Will traced the rough brand in the holster's interior. It was, in fact, the very gun with which he had confronted Eppie and her lover. He had not felt the weight of his gun for years; it now seemed tragically heavy.

Het set the gun down and looked briefly at the yellowing newspaper.

He spun on Emma with clenched fists, grating teeth, and narrow eyes. He held his breath within his lungs, seeking the invective that would bring his wind venting forth in an awful explosion of wrath but he could not speak. The mighty storm he held in store slipped past his lips like a sob. He sank to his knees and gripped the table to steady himself. It proved a poor anchor against the mounting tide of unspent rage. Emma was suddenly at his side; she took him into her arms and held him in place. Will fought back tears to no avail; they stung his eyes like burning coals. He pressed his face into Emma's embrace and wept.

“There, now,” Emma soothed. “Such a load to carry these many years. It grieves me to know your pain, but you must face it, Will. Let it out.”

It had finally caught up to him. He had it figured that if he ignored it long enough, hid it in his closet and never spoke of it, it might go away. Of course, it never did go away; it haunted him day and night, and he, like a man with no sense, clung to it. For years he had lived with a wild beast just behind the door. One small lock held it back. Now, it was loose, and how it mauled his heart! He sniffed and looked into Emma's eyes for help.

She wiped his face with her hands and smiled encouragingly. There was nothing really to say and Emma pursed her lips; all she could do was share his pain, let it pour out across her soul. Perhaps she might absorb it into her and give relief. She hugged him tightly, knowing that unless she pulled him completely from his past, she would never have a future with him.

She whispered in his ear, “No man can walk forward, Will, unless he drags himself, step by step, from the past. Nor can you truly love me until you’re free. Be free, Will.”

She reached up and took the small, brittle newspaper and placed it in Will's hands. She studied Will's stuporous expression and prayed for his inner strength. She waited, and her knees ached.

Will slowly twisted the paper between his hands; he pulled it apart and let the two halves fall to the floor. Emma gasped joyously. She drew him back into her arms with a fierce passion. Will wrapped his arms around her, and she filled the empty space inside him. Emma had wept with Will, and now it was his turn to wipe the tears from her face. The chains were gone; he was free, and he loved her.

Emma leaned back with a small laugh. She wiped her face, and said, “Sure, and that’s done, now. You were the first to condemn and the last to forgive, but you did it, Will, and I’m proud of you. I’m proud of you, and I love you with all my heart. Now, tell me you love me.”

Will said, “I love you,” and smiled at how good it felt to tell her.

“Good,” she answered. “Now, let’s get up from the floor.”

She seated herself on the sofa across the room, while Will lingered near the table. He studied the revolver and the fiddle, daring not to touch them; they seemed alien to him, now. They seemed faded, somehow, like memories, but they were his. They belonged to him. He had handled them and the response to his touch was both familiar and dependable. He took the revolver up in his hands, turned it over; it felt both familiar and alien. He spun the cartridge chambers against his palm, and the room filled with the smooth sound of well-oiled machinery. The clicks slowed and stopped.

Emma said from the sofa, “Later, perhaps, you can sell it if you like.”

He turned to look at her. “No,” he said. “It ain’t ever the gun; it’s only the man that pulls the trigger, an’ I ain’t that man now.”

“I’ll say no more,” was her response. She changed the subject. “You know, I never once thought of you as being . . . well, musical. I should very much like to hear you play. I’ll bet you’re quite good.”

Will laughed and said, “Reckon I can hold m’ own.”

He set down the gun and brought up the fiddle with reverent care. With ear bent close, he plucked each string, then made slight adjustments until a grunt informed Emma of his satisfaction. He examined the bow, then placed the fiddle beneath his chin. An easy explanation spilled forth.

“It was the music that caught young Eppie's heart. I played whenever I could: church, socials, an’ the like. She was a purty thing, new in town. A teacher. Guess I was just the best she could do for the time; she soon found other men. Everyone told me, but I was too big a fool t’ listen. Then, I seen it with m’ own eyes. When I was in jail, they said I could have m’ fiddle if I wanted, but I told ‘em no. Told ‘em t’ git me a Bible, instead.”

Will chose an armchair that faced Emma and seated himself on the edge. He placed his chin several times before he felt comfortable; he closed his eyes, and with the bow, he traced a memory just above the strings.

Emma interrupted him with a soft admonition. “Will, play low,” she said. “Those poor children, God bless them, they’ve only just gotten to sleep.”

Now, what’s this, Will puzzled, the possessive voice of a mother? He had never seen any evidence of children. He studied her face. She had proven herself to him a larder packed with all his needs. There seemed enough in store that anyone might turn to her. Children? Curiosity made him bold.

“You got any children, Emma?”

The answer came from far away. “I had a daughter, once. She lived for nearly an hour.”

“Sorry.”

“Play,” said Emma.

Will closed his eyes and pulled the bow across the strings. The note was high, light, and penetrating.

The note sank slowly into a melody that wept like a gypsy love song. It wavered in the air between them; it wafted like a butterfly through a quiet spring. Then it grew, it quickened and darted up on timid wings - an imaginary bird fleeing the approach of reality. It flew higher, and higher still until it burst into a multitude of falling stars. Each star took shape and meaning; they filled prairie campfires and frosty rainbows. They coalesced into something deeper than thought. It took a breath and raised itself; it raised itself into the sky, far out over the ocean, past the horizon. It was the moon, with empty, outstretched garland arms. It took hold of the bright border on the gypsy's dress, and a lovesick maiden danced away into the night.

Emma sat forward upon Will's ending note; the melody had wholly captured her heart.

She said, “That was beautiful, Will. Such a fine melody. Where did you learn such a thing?”

“That?” said Will. “Just a little somethin’ I made up.”

“You made it up?”

“Yeah. Out on the trail, long time ago.”

Emma was pleasantly startled. She said, “I would never have imagined.”

Will grinned. “Well, I can play real music, too. I do a mean Turkey in the Straw.”

“And I’ll be wanting to hear that, but not now.” She paused and screwed up a brave smile. She knew she was asking a lot. She was assured of Will's genuine love, but, she felt she had to take that next step.

She took a breath and stumbled forward. “Will . . . I need you to destroy your still.”

Will had not seen it coming; it hit him like a brick. He sat forward and searched Emma's face. He felt flushed, and it was difficult to focus. He did not understand; perhaps it was just a joke. But, no - Emma wore that serious smile Will had long ago learned to dread.

“Whoa, now! Hold the barn door just one doggone minute!”

“Shhh!” cautioned Emma. “Will, the children.”

“Yeah, but, Emma,” Will complained. “That still’s m’ livin’. Not t’ mention, it’s a work o’ art.”

Men can be so bull-headed about their toys, Emma thought. She argued, “Will, I need to know that I’ll not be sharing your affections with a big iron pot. God knows I could never compete with the fevered dreams such rotgut brings on.”

Will came indignantly to his feet. “Rotgut!?” he bellowed. “Rotgut!?”

Emma placed a warning finger before her lips. “Shhh!”

“Woman, you got no call badmouthin’ my brew. It took years for Pa t’ perfect that recipe. It’s purer ‘n spring water - an’ better ‘n tonic. Why there’s men what had their gout cured by that rotgut.”

“Will, calm down.”

“I ain’t nothin’ but calm.”

Emma stood to face him, eye to eye. “Then, be serious.”

“You be serious,” Will argued. “Ask me t’ burn m’ house. Ask me t’ shoot m’ dog.”

“I’m sorry,” said Emma. She employed the only argument that made sense to her. “I guess you really don’t love me, after all.”

Will replaced the fiddle, then turned back to Emma. “I love y’. I said so. But, why I gotta smash the still?”

“Well,” said Emma, “to prove what you say. To prove that nothing stands between us.”

“Now, looky here,” fussed Will. “Just ‘cause I love y’ . . . that don’t mean yer always gonna git yer way.”

Emma placed her fists on her hips, hoping that Will would see that she meant business. “You old coot,” she said. “It’s not about my way. What if I was in peril, but you could not move? What then?”

She had him there. “I dunno,” he grumped. “All I know is this is a awful lot o’ provin’ fer one day.” He stepped back to the armchair, sank into its cushion, and scratched his head; he had run out of arguments.

Emma pressed him. “Will, dear, I’m thinking of us. Love means compromise, even sacrifice. Any man can say that he loves, but can he prove the truth of his words? Can he do all the things that a man needs doing? That’s the test, don’t you think?”

Will slumped deeper into the armchair. Emma was making way too much sense, and that was spooky.

He kneaded the new reality of his bare face, and finally said, looking up, “I reckon I can do most anything - long as I can see the good in it.”

Emma took Will's hand and drew him up into her arms. She said, “I’ll be right there beside you, Will.

Anything you need to do, any labor you see before you, any weight that you must bear - I’ll be there for you. I can’t say it will always be easy, but I can do my best to make sure you never regret it.”

She kissed his face.

“Well,” said Will, sighing heroically, “if it means that much to y’, I guess I’ll have t’ do some provin’.

But, what I wanna know is, what kinda provin’ are you gonna do?”

Emma shoved Will down into the armchair. She took a step back and narrowed her eyes. Will was driven deeper into the chair, as a shadow is driven from the heat of the sun. “Will Witherspoon,” Emma said in a voice like stone, “proof is something you’ll ne’er need ask of me.”

Chapter Forty-Seven The children had awakened at the sound of Will's fiddle; all were pleased with his music and told him so. With great deference, they sought Emma's permission to explore the house and received conditional approval. She set out food for them, and left through the back door, with Will in tow. They walked toward Will's cabin. The cool autumn air was bracing. They ascended the hill and passed between the two maples which stood watch over Will's south field. Emma chattered as Will stomped along, thoughtful and quiet. Behind the occasional grunt that Will employed to hide his brooding, a storm of worry and concern raged in his mind.

What new life had he awakened to? What sort of man had that bump on the head made of him? Where was it all headed?

He placed the ax across one shoulder, gave the obligatory grunt, and stared dolefully at the sky.

Weather - now, there was a matter his mind could grasp. Black-bellied clouds hung low over the trees; westerly winds pushed them along the mountains. He could smell rain; the chilly air was thick with it, and a sense of dread coiled above the land like a black snake prepared to strike. Rain would come again - a deluge. This time, the swollen river would spill its banks.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said,” complained Emma.

“Huh?” “I’m talking, but you’re not listening. Have we known each other that long?”

“Sorry,” Will explained. “Didn’t mean t’ put y’ off. I’s just thinkin’ ‘bout the rain.”

Emma took in the sky with a quick, angry glance. “As if we haven’t had enough. Oh well, it’s in the Lord's hands.”

“Couldn’t a said it no truer, m’self. Now, what was y’ sayin’? This time, I’ll listen.”

Emma recounted her plan for an outing, as they walked along Will's bucking pine fence. The lowing of Will's single cow sounded from the sagging barn. The sad, deep note foreshadowed Will's thoughts with cries of pain and laments for the dead. It was as if Will had been suddenly dropped into the horrible flood of his dream. He gave his head a determined shake and focused all the more intently on Emma's words. Her plan was simple: after the dismantling of the still, she would pack a lunch, he would ready the buckboard, they would load the kids, and all would go to the cave below the Guthrie place. There, weather permitting, they would enjoy the afternoon. They would pack a lamp and explore the cave.

Will conceded, “Yeah. Sounds like a plan.”

Emma changed the subject precipitously and for a moment, Will was lost. “Will, do you think we should approach the city council?”

“City council?” echoed Will.

“About the flood, you know.”

“Well, somebody needs t’ know, but who’s gonna listen?” They fell silent as they passed between the house and barn. The barn doors stood open, and Will thought out loud, “Wonder how ol’ Nag’s doin’?”

Emma answered, “I’ve tended her these past few days, as well the cow and dog.”

The responsibility belonged to Will; he should have done the tending, not Emma, but he was grateful, nonetheless. He thanked her.

“You a good woman.”

“I wish we could invite someone.”

Will was lost again. “Invite . . ?”

“To the wedding,” Emma explained.

“Yeah. Invite a preacher.”

“Oh, now,” Emma chided. “Don’t be a wet blanket. I’m sure you’ll do just fine.”

“I ain’t got over ‘em bein’ here, much less marryin’ ‘em.”

“Don’t be silly. It’ll be fun. And, it’ll mean so much to the poor dears, away from home, and languishing, God bless their little hearts.”

“They make me edgy,” Will confessed. “They ain’t human. An’ I got enough on m’ mind, what with this dream an’ all.”

“They’re not so very different, really. Now, we’ve both had words with them. In case you’ve not heard them speak of it, I’ll tell you, myself.”

“Tell me what?”

“Tell you of their faith, that’s what. I’ll tell you of their conversation with God.” Will had to admit, “Yeah. That was a real eye-opener.”

“Did you happen to notice the extra setting at breakfast?”

Will thought back. “Uh . . . yeah. Can’t say I paid it much mind.”

“That was done at Zamani's request. It seems to be a practice of his to set a place for his father. You hear what I’m saying, old man . . ?”

“I ain’t as dense as I look.”

“I’m saying these precious children have a relationship with God, just as we do.”

“Okay,” said Will. “I guess I like ‘em well enough. Must be their bein’ so small that spooks me. Might run up m’ pant leg.”

Emma laughed. “Silly.”

They turned, and walked along the creek; it was the last leg of their trip. Soon, they would arrive at an isolated hillside terrace, crowded with pine, and thick shrubs. Will's palms began to sweat.

The large top of Emma's vanity was a cluttered plane. Its huge round mirror made two rooms of one.

Upon one corner, Tosh danced in slow graceful pirouettes, while below, on the broad padded cushion of the vanity seat, Xar leaned back on her hands to watch. Tax’ sole obsession was the jewelry chest.

Upended, he clawed through the many heavy treasures, oblivious to all else.

Tosh laughed. “Has Zami forsaken us?” she asked Xar. Xar replied, “He sits in a window staring out at a grey sky.”

Tax called roughly from the chest. “Before our eyes, he has grown old. The game is lost to him.”

“That’s not true,” Xar said in defense. “His heart aches. Guilt sits on one shoulder, remorse on the other. He grieves that we cannot get home.”

“He should,” Tax answered.

Xar continued, “He especially grieves for me, feeling my loss as much as I.” Tosh giggled. “Tax, take notes.”

Said Xar, “I’ve been too hard on him; it’s really not his fault. Who among us has done as much as Zami? I’m sad that he so pains for me.”

Said Tosh, “Is it not the very heart of love?”

Tax fell from the chest wearing a large gold chain around his neck. He strode triumphantly along the edge of the vanity so that both girls might see. “Here we are,” he crowed. “Gold.”

“You really shouldn’t,” Xar warned. “Remember what Emma said.”

Tax replied, “She needn’t be told. She has so much, she’ll never know the loss.”

“Shouldn’t we ask?” demanded Tosh.

Tax answered, “My love, this is gold. Gold! If I can cut it into small pieces, we can all go home.

Today.” He looked defiantly into Xar's eyes. “It is I, Tax, who has done this. Zami got us lost; Tax got us home.”

Xar was prepared to leap up, in a rage, and meet his challenge when Tosh seized the moment from her.

“But still, we should ask. Stealing is wrong, even in Earth.”

Suddenly, Tax crouched low, bringing his body close to the surface of the vanity. He quietly removed the chain from his neck, and the girls took note of his urgent command.

“Quiet!”

Xar sat forward, disturbed by the sudden stillness of her two friends. Like stone, they moved not in the least. In their silence, drawn faces and pointed eyes shouted a warning that her body could not resist.

She froze in place. Obviously, she could not see the thing that was plain to them, but she dared not turn around.

“The cat is in the door,” whispered Tax to Xar. Tosh spoke to Tax through the side of her face. “Kill it!” she hissed.

Xar could bear it no longer; she had to look. Slowly, she turned her head. There, beyond the corner of the big bed, she could just see the hunkering beast. Its unthinking, predatory eyes were pinned fast to the three of them. Its long tail thrashed in beastly bloodlust.

Xar turned back to her friends and whispered one word. “Glamor.”

Tax reached down for Xar; she cloaked herself, and Tax snatched her up to the vanity top. Tosh had also cloaked; Xar could hear her nearby, commanding Tax. “Make the shield!” she hissed.

Tax gathered the girls behind him; he backed them toward the mirror. His brow furrowed in his attempt to make the shield.

“Hurry!” Tosh demanded.

A streak of black bounded from the door to the bed to the vanity. Emma's personal clutter exploded in all directions, as the cat slammed a paw down across Tax bare feet. The girls screamed and lost their glamor; the cat hissed. Tax roughly elbowed back the girls and threw up his arms defensively. Just then, a white bolt struck the cat in its ribs. Screeching, the cat slid around Tax and slammed into the mirror from the force of the blow. It fell to the floor below, in a shower of jewelry, where it writhed but a moment before it lay completely still.

Amazed, Tax picked himself up, quickly helped the girls to their feet, and led them to the edge to peer down. Beneath the lifeless body of Emma's black oriental, two legs thrashed desperately as Zami worked to free himself. Leaping, Tax bounded quickly to the seat, then to the floor. Tax grabbed black hair in two hands. With a mighty grunt, he heaved until the weight of the cat lifted from their rescuer.

Zami rolled out.

He wheezed, “You left your spear downstairs.”

Tax smiled a broad and grateful smile. He asked, “Well, should we eat it, or mount it?”

Xar was suddenly wrapped about Zami, an assault which he wholeheartedly accepted.

“Oh, Zami! Zami!” she cried. “It was going to eat us alive. Are you alright? I was so scared.”

Tosh wrapped herself in Tax’ broad embrace and said, “I was twice as scared.”

Zami grinned sheepishly at his friends. “I think we’ll have some explaining to do when Emma gets home.”

“What’s to explain?” argued Tax. “It was going to make cat turds out of us.”

Tosh shuddered. “What a horrible end.”

Zami pried himself from Xar's smothering arms, stood, and solemnly pronounced, “The Maker of all tests us, I feel. He must surely know by now that we are big enough for the path upon which he has set us.”

“We’re big enough,” Tax agreed. “We’re the biggest little people this Earth has ever seen. I wish, just for once, the Maker would bring the wog down to our size. I would take some comfort knowing they, too, had to face things bigger than themselves.”

Will stooped to tighten his bootstraps; Emma stood just behind him. “Alright! Alright!” he said, wishing she would stop talking long enough to take a breath.

“I just thought a few repairs would help us get a better price for your property.”

“Okay. Just stop naggin’ me.”

“Will!”

“What!?”

“A bear! There’s a bear looking at us.”

Flippantly, Will remarked, “Well, don’t git lippy with it.”

He straightened and turned; he saw it, too. It was the biggest bear he had ever seen. Emma stood beside Will; she took his free hand. He looked at the ax in his hand and swallowed hard. Where was the shotgun when he needed it? The bear assessed them hungrily.

Emma whined, “Will, what do we do?”

Will bolted up the hill, pushing Emma ahead of him. “Break for high timber,” he replied. “That’s what we do.”

They ran through the forest, leaping over large roots and fallen trees; the bear crashed in behind them.

Everything it stepped on seemed to break noisily; its guttural grunting and occasional breathy roar made it seem but a pace behind them.

“Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!” cried Emma.

Will shoved her forward, shouting, “Move it!”

“Oh, Lord!”

“Run!” They came to a ravine; it was small, but it was steep. A nearly vertical descent was studded with jagged rocks. Will looked quickly around. A dead tree stood up from the sheer cliff, its lifeless trunk broken some few feet above its roots. At that point, it had fallen over and had become cradled in the boughs of a neighboring Shagbark, quite nearly as dead as itself. Will tossed the ax, took two handfuls of Emma's ample backside and pushed her into the tree.

“Up! Up!” he commanded and quickly followed.

Emma called back across her shoulder, “Will? Will?” She could not see him. “I’m scared of bears. I just thought you should know.”

“Just shut up, and climb,” he answered tersely. “Make for that far tree.”

The bear paced beneath the tree sniffing its quarry. Emma hugged the barkless tree and looked down.

The bear stood erect and snorted. The tree was barely above the bear's head. Emma called back, “Will, can bears climb?”

He pressed his hand into her denim trousers and pushed her forward. “Don’t know,” he answered.

“Never had t’ find out.”

The great beast towered beneath the fallen tree. It clawed the boughs that it could reach; it bellowed in frustration. The tree rocked uncertainly beneath Emma's weight. She could smell the bear's rancid breath as each roar lifted a new cloud of steam into the cold air. The bear took a low limb in its paws and shoved. Emma yelped.

“Will, don’t let it get me.”

“Just keep movin’” Will growled. “Yours ain’t the only fat in the fire.”

The bear paced below, watching and snorting as Will and Emma inched toward the Shagbark. The old tree was bent; in the center of it, they were closer to the bear. Will broke off a limb, as the bear stood erect, and nipped at his boots. He urged Emma forward, paused to take a swipe at the bear's head, and missed.

“Keep goin’!” he urged. “The tree is right there; I’ll hold his attention.”

The bear reared again, and Will gave it a stout crack on its muzzle. Will swung once more. The bear caught the limb in its mouth, bit down hard, and fell to all four feet, yanking the limb from Will's hand.

Will nearly fell. Meanwhile, Emma had reached the hoary Shagbark; she pulled herself into its hold.

“Will! Will!” Emma turned and called. She motioned frantically for Will to join her, and in so doing’ she got the bear's attention.

“Oh!” she cried.

Will was closer to the broken end of the fallen tree; he could see it all in a glance. Emma was too far out on a dead limb, the bear was waiting beneath her, the ax lay in weeds behind the bear. Somehow, Will knew exactly what was going to happen; everything that followed seemed like a memory. He heard the tearing sound; he saw Emma fall; the standing bear fell to all four feet.

Will acted without thought, his body moving of its own accord. He dropped from the tree; instantly, he found the ax in his hands and time slowed. The bear had just thrust its face into Emma's fetal pose. It turned at the noise to see Will; its bland black eyes had not yet trained on him. Will was up and running. His arms tensed. They were coiled springs prepared to snap. His hands tightened on the handle. He leapt; he spun; the bear reared back and the ax struck, with a hollow wooden sound, behind the bear's jaw.

Momentum took Will forward; momentum ripped the ax from his hands. He tumbled painfully into a thicket. The beast danced in a circle; confused, it raked the cold air before its face and fell. Will had just a moment to roll from beneath. It lay upon the ground, its breathing labored; steam billowed from its muzzle. That it could not move was all that Will needed to know.

He scuttled to Emma's side. “Emma! Emma,” he called. “You alright?”

He pulled her up into his arms and leaned her against the Shagbark trunk. Her face was scuffed and soiled. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked between the dying bear and Will. She gulped for air but was unable to speak. Sobbing, she buried her face in his shoulder. Will then put his hand to the back of her head, and looked thankfully up through the trees. He let her cry; he wanted to cry, himself.

When the sobbing eased, he asked softly, “You alright?”

She looked up through reddened eyes, and her tear-streaked face was that of a frightened child. She gulped and wiped her nose. “Yes,” she answered. “Oh, Will! You saved me; I was so scared.”

“I thought you was a gone coon,” said Will. “I saw y’ fall, an’ then the bear was right over y’.” He realized his words had spilled out unbidden. He checked his childlike torrent, and finished quietly, “I . . . sort o’ went crazy.”

Emma sniffed loudly, then said, “I’m a debtor to your madness.”

“You sure yer alright?”

“I’m unharmed - but I’ll not speak of my dignity.”

Will laughed, “That’ll learn y’ t’ git lippy with bears.”

Her laugh, like Will's, was the release of pent-up nerves. She brushed Will's soiled shirt with her hand.

“Oh, dear,” she moaned. “I’ll have to do these all again.”

They laughed and hugged, and laughed again. Emma wiped a tear from Will's eye; Will licked his thumb and worried a smudge on Emma's cheek. Their lips met and lingered. Will sighed a trembling, but grateful sigh, and leaned his head against the tree. Emma laid her head against his chest and took note of his racing heart.

She sighed, “I love you, Will Witherspoon.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

They sat quietly on the side of Will's bed; she watched him gather loose tobacco until he had enough to roll. He struggled with a damp match until, grudgingly, it gave him fire. He inhaled gratefully, sighed, and his tensions flew away in a plume of white smoke.

“That surely can’t be good for you,” said Emma quietly.

Will explained, “Well, after this mornin’, I need it, good or not.”

“True,” said Emma. “Just the thought of that vile beast is enough to make me tremble.”

“I was talkin’ ‘bout tearin’ down m' still.”

“It took strength. I see, now, that you can surmount any obstacle. I’m proud of you.”

Will licked his thumb and forefinger, then put out the cigarette. He put it with the loose tobacco and closed the drawer. Yes. Yes. He sighed and looked at his hands as they rested on his knees. Dark clouds weighed upon his mind; he felt jittery. Too many things were happening in his life all at once, and he found it more than difficult to take it all in. If he told Emma his thoughts, if he poured out his heart to her, she would simply natter until he ran out of words. The keen edge of his thoughts would, once more, be dulled by the hail of her arguments. He needed to think, and for that, he needed space. He had to get away from her. Alone, he just possibly might sort it all out.

Emma urged, “Let’s go. I must prepare for our outing. And you . . .”

He cut her off. “No. You go on. I’m gonna stay a while; put some things together. Do some thinkin’.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I’m just gonna move some stuff around, y’ know. Tell y’ what; I’ll meet y’ at the cave. Take the gun an’ fiddle with y’. I’ll show y’ some fancy shootin’, an’ some even fancier fiddlin’.”

“Well, alright,” she acquiesced, kissing his cheek. “Please don’t be long.”

Will grinned, and returned the kiss. “You’ll see me comin’. Ever’body does.”

Emma's departure left a wake of silent emptiness. Broad like the pond, it lapped against him, pushing him into the rocky bank of his impoverished resolve. A decision coalesced; it was uncomfortable and inaccessible to reason. It was a wound for which there was no balm. He had to leave, and he had to do it quickly before Emma's hopes and desires swallowed him whole. It had to be done, and the sooner he left, the sooner she could get over him. Will nodded to himself. Emma needed to move on.

Will's head felt like it was spinning. The improbable was all too evident - feelings for Emma roiled inside of him, strong feelings that threatened the thin veneer of his independence. They were abrasive, and they made him feel raw. It was both real and impossible. He loved her, but how could he cope with her love for him. That and the four faerie children flew in the face of everything that sanity demanded.

Then, there was the totally unbelievable: that God would so casually place him in Jonah's shoes. He was glad enough to be forgiven, to be loosed from the weight of his guilt - he was amazed that God would even speak to him. He just wasn’t a preacher. What possible good could he do? Last of all, there was the totally unacceptable: the willful destruction of his still. And he had agreed to it! Emma's demands knew no bounds. She had taken it all, the hair from his head, the hair from his chin, and his only living - a legacy from his poor departed Pa. What else must he lose? Soon, there would be nothing left of him but a walking, nodding, henpecked wraith. That would never do. There was too much open sky, too many siren hills, for Will to be bound in the shackles of subjugation, having his manhood mauled by the bearish demands of domesticity. Will was a drifter, an occasional worker. He was good for cattle drives, and lumber mills; he had been many things in many places along the road of life, but he was neither a preacher nor a husband. Emma deserved better.

Will had not the first clue where he might head, but head he must, and damn quick. He might strike west into Utah, or south into more familiar climes. It didn’t really matter; a drifter's only duty was to drift. However, he felt obliged to make a quick stop in Evanston, just to give them their final warning.

After all, he didn’t want God hunting him down. With a posse like that, he stood no chance. Just do it, he thought. In and out. Let them laugh at the drunk; he didn’t care. At least, they would know he wasn’t the widow's bought man. It was a sound plan. The only part he didn’t like was hurting the woman he loved - but it was for her own good.

His good denim pants, a buckskin shirt, and a worn blanket were wrapped tightly around the Winchester he kept hidden beneath his bed. He donned the boot length black coat, and the broadbrimmed hat he had worn in his thirties. A few days in the open would remove their musty smell. He took a final look around his Pa's old cabin, then left to saddle old Nag. Of course, Will had to stop by the head-worn stump. It was his Pa's thinking place, and Will, too, had spent many a mellow hour there in contemplation of the clouds. He would miss it. With Nag nuzzling his back, Will cast about an eye on the many empty jugs that lay between the creek and the oak. He recalled the very first jug he had made. Just for luck, he had lowered it into the well. He wondered, now, if he had ever retrieved it. He needed to look before he left. He bid the stump farewell and climbed up on Nag. She turned toward the barn, and Will patted her neck affectionately. He reached the well and pulled up the bucket. Lo and behold, there was the jug.

It was a good thing, he thought, that he was too lazy to draw water; his taste for creek water had proved a boon. Whiskey would warm him on the long cold trip ahead. He mounted Nag and cradled the jug between his legs. The trail to the bridge was sodden and soft. Will decided a small sip would be an auspicious beginning to a long sojourn, besides which, he still had to face the town folk of Evanston.

The wooden stopper resisted but finally surrendered to his determination. The first sip was fine; the second sip was better and bigger.

He proclaimed to the open road, “Smooth!”

Will had only to point Nag in the direction of town; she took care of the rest. The animal's slow, rhythmic plodding relaxed him. He felt surprisingly free, happy, and just a little sleepy. Nag's rocking gate was slow and easy; there was ample time to think through the things he needed to say. He took another sip from the jug and noted the heavy sky. Will's liquid inspiration burned his throat in a good way. He wanted to lean his head against the stump, but the stump would never be his again. No matter; there were places plenty where a man might lay his head. He took a pull from the jug and considered the northern horizon off to his left. It had become black.

Will could feel an immense pressure seeping out of the north like a cold and evil wind. He could smell the coming rain, and a chill ran up his spine. Will bolted a man's swallow, and his throat burned sweetly. Never mind the sky, he thought. His ease was sustaining. By the time Nag entered the covered bridge, Will found the jug to be suspiciously light. He checked the bottom for cracks but found none.

He decided the brew had been leaking slowly from the top and chortled. A song broke forth like a ray of sunshine; it was something he remembered hearing his Pa sing many years ago.

Hey, hey, hey, Don’t y’ pull that stuff on me, ‘Cause I ain’t nothin’ but a ramblin’ man.

An’ a damn sight loose an’ free.

Hey, hey, hey, Don’t y’ pull that stuff on me, ‘Cause I ain’t nothin’ but a country boy,

Just as plain as I can be . . .

Evanston throbbed with the noise of life. Or, was it Will's head? He passed into the busy town with something of a start. He recalled the bridge, but not the rest of it, and there was a good bit of road between the bridge and town. He saluted the saloon, felt for the jug, and found it missing. Oh, well . . .

Nag turned north into the pounding heart of Evanston. She ambled up to the mercantile and waited to be hitched. Will fell from her back, landing on shaky legs. Hitching Nag to the wooden rail proved a difficult and time-consuming task. He spied a soapbox beside the steps and took it. He threw it down in the center of the dusty street, then steadied himself atop it. He beckoned, and a small crowd coalesced from the passing town folk. He beckoned others and found among his gathering Tuck's leathery face, screwed up into a curious expression. Will felt foolish, but he offered his crowd as sober a smile as his numb face permitted. It was time to begin. Just tell them, and go! Tuck being there made him uneasy, but he began.

“Listen t’ me, all you proper folk! You ain’t never paid me no mind, but now I got important m . . . important inf . . . stuff t’ tell y’.”

The box rocked uncertainly beneath him. The crowd laughed, and someone jeered. Construction on the new courthouse, north of the jail, stopped altogether as laughing workers called to their fellows. Will watched his crowd swell. Someone from the back called to him, and the crowd cheered. Will turned on the box; he noted that the sheriff peered suspiciously from his office window, and dour matrons gasped from the boardwalk in utter disbelief. His crowd urged him impatiently. Will continued.

“Listen t’ me! It’s gonna rain!”

The swelling crowd burst into loud, raucous laughter. Old man Jensen's shrill voice rang out from the crowd, “Have a vision, did we?” The town folk brayed in merriment. This had gone wrong in a hurry.

Will pleaded angrily, “Listen t’ me!”

“Give us a sign!” called one of the carpenters. He raised his hammer above his head. “We gonna get wet?”

Then Tuck called out, “You got the widow's leave?”

That was the worst; that was salt in his wound. He speared Tuck with a hurt glance as if shooting from the hip, and Tuck lowered his eyes. The crowd hooted and jeered; Will tried to redeem the moment, but his voice would not carry over the din of the mob. He turned on the soapbox, pleading to be heard. He tottered precariously. He spied the sheriff muscling his way through the crowd. His voice rang out clearly, and officially, above the noise. He called for order and got it.

“I best see some folk goin’ about their business!” he demanded. He glowered broadcast, and the town folk shuffled away.

The sheriff turned the angry iron barrels of his eyes upon Will. “Who the hell are you!?” he spat.

Will called to the departing crowd. “Wait! Hear me out!”

Tuck stepped up to intercede for his friend. “It’s Witherspoon,” Tuck told the burly sheriff. “Like not t’ knowed him with his whiskers all gone.” The sheriff was not amused. Tuck explained. “You know, Hawkshaw's man.”

Will danced on the soapbox; clenching his fists, he yelled at the backs of the people. “The river’s gonna flood! Yer all in danger!” He fell from the box into the sheriff's indignant embrace.

The sheriff quickly set Will on his feet, and grated, “If you ain’t gone when I blink, you’ll be kissin’ the floor of my jail.”

Tuck hastily took Will by the arm. Will gripped the pressed lapels on Tuck's jacket to hold himself steady. He hissed into Tuck's face a slurred plea. “Tuck! Y’ gotta lissen! It’s gonna flood . . . yer all gonna die.”

The sheriff snarled, “Tuck, if you don’t get this sorry drunk outta my sight, I swear, I’ll lock him up so deep, he’ll be preachin’ to the worms.”

“I’ll have him gone in two shakes,” Tuck promised.

“See that you do,” concluded the man with the star. He turned and stomped away; people moved before him like tumbleweeds in a wind.

Tuck steadied Will on one of his shoulders and led him across the street to Nag. After a quick glance behind, he said lightly to his friend, “Well, you sure made a fool o’ y’self. You know you came within an ass-hair of the sheriff's hospitality.”

Will slurred, “Its all true, Tuck. Yeah, I’m drunk. But . . . I had t’ warn y’.”

Tuck attempted to hold Will in just one upright position. “Okay. Okay.”

Will pushed Tuck's help aside, and fell back into Nag. Tuck straightened him and cast about at nosy passers-by as Will wrapped his arms around him.

“Keep t’ high ground,” Will said into his friend's ear.

Tuck tried again to place his friend upright. “I will,” he promised. “Okay? You got my word on it.”

“Evans Hill . . . git ‘em all t’ Evans Hill . . . higher ground.”

“Right,” said Tuck.

Will laughed. “Alright, Tuck, so I’m drunk. But, it was . . . smooth.”

Tuck grabbed his falling friend, and said, “All I can say is I hope you got some left.”

“Tuck . . .”

“Yeah.”

“ . . . nope. I killed it.”

“Cryin’ damn shame,” Tuck submitted.

“Tuck . . .”

“Yeah, Will.” “ . . . you a good man.”

Tuck laughed. He said, “It takes practice. Now, let’s get you back to the widow. I’m sure she’s worried sick.”

Will pulled free of Tuck's grip. He staggered, then placed a hand on Nag's rump to steady himself.

“No,” he said, shaking his head in an exaggerated fashion. “Can’t go back.”

Tuck's smile was impish, knowing. “Cold feet?” he asked. He patted Will's shoulder condescendingly.

“Well, I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go, old man. Let’s just get you in the saddle.”

“South,” said Will.

Tuck pushed him up. With fell into the saddle, and sat there at an angle. He held the saddle horn and straightened the bundle he had tied to it. He spied the new banker walking, possessively, down the wooden walk toward him. He fell from the saddle, pushed Tuck aside, and stumbled up onto the walk.

Will barred the banker's progress with an outstretched arm.

He said, “Hold on, you ol’ Vanderbilt. I got somethin’ t’ say.”

“Well, I’ve nothing to say with you,” huffed the banker.

“Well, I got somethin’ t’ say t’ you.” Will was adamant.

“Very well,” said Vanderbilt. “Speak quickly, and step aside. I’m a busy man.”

“You can have the land,” said Will. “I can’t pay y’, so just take it. I’m leavin’ . . . an’ t’ hell with y’.”

The banker spat. “Your note’s been paid. Paid in full. Now, step aside.”

As the banker moved to step around Will, Will lurched forward to hold him in place. He grabbed for the banker's lapels. Vanderbilt dodged, and stepped out of reach; Will stumbled, then steadied himself.

Tuck, stood behind him, preferring to catch his friend rather than risk the sheriff's attention.

“Hold the barn door,” said Will. “What’re y’ tellin’ me, here?”

“I’m saying the widow Hawkshaw paid your note. Now, move!”

Shoving past Will, the banker hurried down the walk and ducked into the mercantile. Numbly, Will stumbled from the walk, and Tuck helped him climb atop Nag. Suddenly, Will shouted.

“Ah, Damn!’ said Will. “Damn ol’ meddlin’ widder woman!”

Tuck said, “She likes you. What can I say?”

Will shouted again, doubling over in his saddle. Elderly matrons walked by and clucked disapprovingly. Tuck looked back and saw that the sheriff stood outside his office; his gunmetal glance made Tuck swallow hard. He took Nag's reins and led her down the street.

Tuck said, “Okay, Will. We’re headed south. Where you goin’?”

“South?” Will asked, forgetting his anger. He swayed in the saddle. “Maybe Georgia.”

“Sure you don’t wanna go home?” asked Tuck. “It’s closer.”

Will shuddered. “That’s where the widder is. She's waitin’.”

“Waiting?”

“By the cave,” said Will.

“Well, what’s she doin’ there?”

“Picnic.”

“And you wanna go south? Man, you know the widow makes the best fried chicken . . .”

Will glowered into his empty hands, then realized that Tuck held the reins. He responded, “It ain’t the chicken that’s gonna be et.” He leaned precariously from the saddle and added in a solemn whisper, “She aims t’ swallow me whole.”

Tuck laughed. “I can think of worse things. South, it is. I can go as far as the old station, then you’re on your own.”

“You a good man, Tuck.”

Tuck led Nag down the street. He walked slowly past the Doctor's office. He walked past Arlo Stetner's restaurant, then past the school and orphanage. Buggies rolled past Tuck and his charge. They waved at him, and he waved back; they shook their heads, and Tuck just smiled and shrugged. Town folk busied themselves as Tuck led Will's mule along the muddy street. All took a moment to look his way.

The shops had turned to houses, and the houses became few. Tuck walked further still, as Will nodded in the saddle. Presently, Tuck stopped in front of a building that leaned to one side. It was raised from the ground, and a raised wooden walk faced him. Tuck could see the tracks that ran behind the building; this was the old station.

Nag shook her head, Will awoke, and Tuck said, “You know, this ain’t hardly right, the way you’re treating her. You can’t just take a woman, and then up and leave her cold.”

“Will retorted, “You don’t know me.”

“There’s been talk,” said Tuck, stepping away from the mule.

“So!” “Doc said he found you in the widow's bed, with a knot on your head.”

Will grunted. “Yer a nosy bastard.”

“And, you’re a scoundrel. So, where’re you headed? Really?”

“Don’t know,” Will answered. “Reckon I’ll know when I git there.”

Tuck cleared his throat. He said, “Well, listen . . . now you got the widow all primed, you think there’s a chance a gentleman could, you know, slip in to take your place?”

Will reared back in the saddle. “Tuck,” he said, “she’ll break yer knobby head. She’ll gut y’ an’ skin y’ ‘live.” He closed his eyes, and slumped forward, concluding, “What do I care. I’m free, now.”

Tuck watched his slumping friend a moment, then said, “I better get back.” He turned to leave.

Will called after him. Tuck . . .”

Tuck stopped. “Yeah.”

“Don’t you . . . hurt her.”

Tuck turned in time to see Will fall from the saddle.

Chapter Forty-Nine

The mare nibbled the bush to which it was tied. A large basket of food sat prominently on the buckboard seat. Emma looked at the four faerie youths. They stood in the jagged entrance of the cave, expectant and enthusiastic. Personally, she felt somewhat down. Will had been gone an uncomfortably long time; she was beginning to worry. Her guests, like children, awaited her permission to enter the cave. She couldn’t keep them waiting any longer; they all had waited for such a long time.

Zami said, “The cave calls to my friend.”

“I need to explore this cave!” Tax enthused with a broad smile.

Tosh called from just inside, “Come see, Emma. A great pond that gives its own light.”

Emma stepped into the cave and looked upon the small, reflective pool. She still held in her arms the fiddle and gun she had tied in a bundle. To her right was an outcropping that created a level surface in

the rock wall. She placed her bundle there to rest her arms. She stepped to the pool, with faeries in tow, and looked into the illusion of endless depth.

She said, “There are many pools just like this one, all quite lovely. I suppose a wee inspection will do no harm. Mind you, keep the light in view. I wouldn’t want you getting lost.”

“We will,” assuaged Tax, and hoisted his spear to the ready.

Tosh asked, “Will you come with us?”

Emma sighed, “I had hoped that Will would be here, and we could all go in together. No, I think I’ll watch for him by the road.”

The faeries ran into the darkness; Emma turned and walked outside. Anxiously, she looked up the road.

Xar stepped from the shadow of the cave. She stood quietly watching the human. She was not at all surprised to feel a strong, sad kinship of hearts with the woman. Emma and she were much alike; Xar had determined that from the beginning. Their strengths and their needs were similar; they both loved deeply, and that love was not always returned - not that boys and men didn’t have their distractions.

She thought sadly, How lonely it is to walk a step behind.

Zami called to her from the cave, “Xar, are you with us?”

Xar studied his shadowy figure. He was just as captive to the adventure as was Tax; it filled him. Xar called back, “I should stay with Emma.”

Zami smiled and was gone.

Emma had spread a blanket upon the damp earth; it was there that she sat. Emma turned at Xar's approach. Her smile, thought Xar, was genuine, caring - the giving of a gift, but, there was sadness behind Emma's warm smile. Xar sensed, in the human, a happy hunger for company, and relief that she was not alone in her vigil. It was strange how a smile could tell so much; Xar wondered if Zami's Phrava was rubbing off on her. She seated herself and looked up into the woman's face.

“You don’t wish to be with your friends?” asked Emma.

Xar responded, “No. I wish to sit with you. May we talk?”

“Goodness, yes,” said Emma, leaning upon one hand. “I must say, I could do with a bit of company.

Thank you.”

Emma removed her shoes and crossed her legs. She leaned forward to face the road and pretended to be comfortable.

Xar watched her fuss anxiously with the hem of her dress. It was a long awkward silence that Xar felt compelled to break. She said, “May I ask of love in Earth?”

Emma was startled by the question; she looked at Xar with her warm, empty, needful smile. She intoned the words, “Love in Earth,” and looking down the road, with a deep sigh, she answered, “Well,

the way of it is this, you see, a man and woman meet, they fall in love, marry, have children, and only death can separate them.”

Xar puzzled over Emma's explanation. “Fall?” she asked.

Emma explained, “Oh well, that’s just the way we say it, dear. What I mean, I think, is that you couldn’t love another, even if you tried.”

“You choose each other? Xar asked. “No one chooses for you?”

Emma frowned. “Heavens, no. Is that how it’s done where you come from?”

“Yes,” nodded Xar, “but, my chosen died, and I was alone. Until Zami. He came through the barrier, and danced his joy – and, I loved him.”

Emma sighed. “You love him deeply; I can tell.”

“As you love Will,” added Xar. “How long have you been joined?”

“Joined?” Emma blushed. “Oh, dear, no. We’re not joined. Not yet, I mean. We’ve but recently met.

Well, that’s not altogether true. You see, for many years God has given us opportunities to meet and fall in love. Our paths have often crossed, but we never really saw each other. It took, I suppose, this isolated valley, oh, and the crack on his head, to finally bring us together.”

“Forgive me,” said Xar, “but, if your paths crossed, how could you not see each other?”

Emma laughed gayly. “That’s a good question, and I wish I had an answer for you.”

“Are you sad that you did not see each other?”

“I think not,” replied Emma. “I’ve been married to three wonderful husbands, and I loved each one.”

“Did they die?”

“Yes, dear. But now, I have Will.” Emma leaned back on her hands. “My life was empty for awhile, but Will has filled me with joy.”

Xar said, “We are alike in this, but my Zami is easily distracted. I do not often have his full attention.”

“I know what you mean, dear. Will - God bless him - only takes those steps that I urge upon him. That is a woman's domain. After all, without our guidance, what is a man but a frightened boy?”

“True,” Xar sagely agreed.

The two of them laughed, the human and the faerie; they had much in common. Then Emma sighed, and Xar sat silent. Emma straightened her legs and looked at her feet.

“I worry,” Emma continued solemnly, “you know. I fear I may be pushing, and that, from my own need.” Emma paused, transfixed in leaden rumination. She bit her hand; she turned to Xar with

widening eyes. “That’s it,” she said to her. “That explains it; I’ve pushed him too far, too fast. He’s scared.”

“What do you mean?” asked Xar. “I should have seen it. He’s gone; he’s left me. Come,” said Emma urgently. “We have to go.” Emma lumbered to her feet. “Fetch the others,” she said.

Xar, startled, had jumped to her feet, and moved away, lest the woman crush her. Her heart beat with the urgency of the human. She ran to the entrance of the cave, and called out, “Zami! Zami!”

Emma snatched the blanket from the ground and tossed it in the buckboard. A sudden peal of thunder took her eyes to the sky.

“Oh, dear!” she said.

Xar continued to call, as Emma stepped into her shoes. She set the basket of food in the back and was set to untie the mare when a motion from down the road caught her eye. She saw, first with gladness, but then with fear, that Will was heading her way. He was draped without dignity across his mule, and Mister Tucker, atop his mare, was leading them both up the road.

Emma turned to Xar, with a warning finger upon her lips. She motioned Xar inside the cave, out of view, then turned to meet the good Samaritan.

Tuck nodded curtly. “Ma’am,” he said with a rove, uneven smile.

Emma stepped immediately to Will. “What happened?” she asked. “Is he hurt?”

“No, ma’am,” Tuck answered. “Just drunk is all.”

Emma placed a hand above her pounding heart and sighed relief. “I was so scared to see you leading him along the road, that way.”

Will snored lightly. Tuck grinned and told the tale. Afterward, he said, “You should have seen him, ma’am. All lit up and preachin’ from a soapbox. Right in the middle of main street.”

Emma shook her head sadly. “Sweet Jesus,” she said.

“Yeah,” Tuck grinned, “he was preachin’ the end of the world. Kept shoutin’ about a flood. Nearly got himself thrown in jail.”

Emma cut in. “Well, on that account, Mister Tucker, you can believe him. Did he say anything else?”

Tuck tipped back his hat and studied the woman through narrow eyes. “No,” he said at last. “Just said he was headed south. But, when he fell off his ass, I figured I should bring him to y’. He said you’d be here. Say,” he said, spying the basket, “you got anything left for a hungry Samaritan?”

Emma replied, “You shall have the whole basket, and with my thanks -- if you’ll but help me lay him up in the wagon.”

“Deal!” Tuck enthused.

He dismounted and took Will over his shoulder with a grunt. He said to Emma as he moved to the side of the wagon, “Guess he’ll be needin’ some coffee.”

“You just leave that to me, Mister Tucker. I’ll see his eyes brown with it.”

Tuck dumped his sleeping friend into the back of the buckboard. He said, straightening his hat, “Well, I reckon he’s in good hands.”

Tuck took the proffered basket of food, and noting the weight, he grunted with satisfaction.

Emma dismissed him. “The best, Mister Tucker. The best.”

The buckboard sat just inside the open barn, and Emma's mare whinnied from her stall. Outside, the rain fell with ferocious zeal. Upon the weathered back of the buckboard's seat sat Zami, Xar, Tosh, and Tax. Like a stone, Will slept in the buckboard bed, his snoring obscured by the dissonance of torrential rain.

Xar leaned forward with hands upon knees. She grumped, “He sleeps very loudly.”

Tax quipped, “My mother sleeps more loudly than he.”

Zami said, “I wish Emma would hurry back. She gave away all the food, and Tax is looking at me oddly.”

Xar prodded his ribs in response. “Silly Peck!”

“No, it’s true,” he said. “He keeps staring at my leg.” Flagging spirits lifted.

Tax growled, “I am very hungry.” He surprised Tosh with a sudden squeeze, earning a high note. He said, “I’m so hungry, I could eat this wog . . . tasteless as it seems.”

Tosh pouted, “Well, I’m hungry, too.”

Zami added in puckish jest, “And, I’m hungry three.”

Now that their spirits were soaring high, one more quip might bring on laughter. It was up to Xar. She said, “Poor hungry me; you three have this wog all carved up.” The laughter came.

Just then, Emma rushed in from the pouring rain. She set her burden at Will's feet, climbed up beside him, and wiped the rain-soaked hair from her face. She said to the four on the buckboard seat, “Thanks for watching over him.”

Xar replied earnestly, “We hope he wakes.”

“Oh . . . he will, dear.”

Emma drew the large wicker basket into the corner; she took the pitcher that was in it, and filled a glass with hot water. She set the pitcher aside, set down the glass, and found the spoon. Then, she opened a tin of mustard and stirred two heaping spoons of it into the water. This, she set carefully aside and positioned herself upon her knees. She looked down on the sodden lump that was Will and sighed.

“This will not be pretty,” she warned the four.

She gripped the black coat and pulled Will upright. She held his weight in her left hand, and with her right hand, she slapped Will smartly across the face. She slapped him again, and again. She shook him violently and put the back of her hand to his face. The girls closed their eyes to the violence and cowered in the arms of their own. They more than witnessed the abuse he took, as the buckboard rocked to and fro, the girls felt each stinging blow for themselves. The boys watched with interest.

Emma shouted into Will's face, “Wake up, you sorry old drunk! Wake up!”

She slapped him again, striking hard both from anger and fear. Will stirred, and moaned. His hands came up before his face, but they were brushed aside. Emma continued to lay her hand smartly upon his face until he peeked out from his stupor with one rheumy eye. Again, she shook him, lest he fall back asleep. A whole jug of rotgut whiskey was a lot, even for Will.

She yelled in his face, “Wake up, you sponge! I’ve a bone to pick with you. Wake up!”

Will mumbled, “Alright! Alright!”

“You keep those eyes open!” she demanded. “Look at me!”

Will shook his head; he pulled a heavy hand across his face. He recognized Emma's voice and tried to focus on her. His first attempt failed. When she shook him again, he opened both eyes to her. Emma's glance was an icy sword with a keen edge. What had he done, now? She held a glass to his lips.

“Where am I?” he croaked.

“South. Now, drink.”

Will permitted the hot liquid past his lips. More of it spilled down his throat than he wanted. It was tart in a way that made him gag. He choked and cursed.

With a wince, he asked, “What’s that for?” “‘Twill make you vomit.”

Then the pressure hit; it reached for his throat. His muscles contracted involuntarily. He swallowed hard and clamped a hasty hand atop his mouth. Emma shook him.

“Don’t fight it,” she told him.

But, fight it he did. He fought her grip, feeling like a lamb led to slaughter. There was one evil thing in the world that Will despised, and that was vomiting. Emma shook him; she pried his hand from his mouth.

“Let it out.” Emma 's voice rang in his ears.

Those must have been the magic words. Will could hold nothing back. He felt his insides rushing up his throat, and turned to lean over the side of the buckboard. Nothing could stand in the way, as everything inside him gushed painfully through his throat and nose. It was hateful; he thought it would never end.

When, at last, he came up gulping air, he was sober. He was angry, but he was sober. He was sober and embarrassed. Emma wiped his face with wet rags. Will had not felt this much like a small boy since . . . well . . . since he was a small boy.

Emma forced coffee down his throat until he gagged. Her ire was up. She bristled like a cat at the very hint of backtalk. When Will opened his mouth to protest, Emma silenced him with a barbed glance. She took him from the wagon and walked him around the barn as if he was one of her horses. Then, she poured more coffee down his throat. Will let her have her way. He was in no shape to fight, he was sure, and angry women, especially of Irish blood, were just too crazy.

Chapter Fifty The light had ebbed away, giving place to a howling cold wind that rattled pane and shutter. Rain beat against the house with a thousand angry fists. Yet, the interior was secure and safe, warmed by a homey flicker of gentle lamplight. Emma sat at her vanity, tugging her hair into a decorous design. Despite having locked horns with Will, her heart was now easy, and her spirit somewhat high.

Xar sat on the closed jewelry chest, absorbed in Emma's preening. Her blue doll gown, taken in with great care by Emma's nimble fingers, fit like glitter on gold. The cap of cat hair was a black river spilling down her back. Emma stopped to consider her diminutive guest; she looked altogether human.

Xar fingered the hem of her blue gown, happy that she looked so much like Emma.

Xar said, “I’ve never heard such a verbal cupping as you gave your Will. What strange words you use when you’re angry.”

Emma studied her beautiful otherworldly guest and smiled. “Oh, well, that was Gaelic, dear. Mind you, it’s not the way of a proper lady to curse - but, I’ve never been accused of being a proper lady.” She leaned over, with a twinkle in her eye, and confided, “I’ve been known to swear like a Portuguese sailor.”

Xar said, “I wish I was strong like you.”

“Dear sweet child,” said Emma. “I’m not strong at all. I’m a frightened old woman. Afraid to live another day without love. Will fills me up. He . . .” She searched her reflection with longing eyes. “I can only hope that there will be a place in his heart for me.”

Xar said gayly, “Zami says he loves me. What that means is, if I’m good, he’ll let me tag along.”

Emma replied, “Well you know, the sun can be so long in coming, but, oh, it warms you through and through.”

Emma lost herself within the momentary gloom of melancholy. It was as if she stood by an oasis, looking out upon, and being thoroughly defined by an unyielding desert. It was a dry and unrelenting prison of doubt. Would the desert of her heart ever know the lasting rains of love? Could those hot sands yet bloom? She came back to herself and smiled sweetly at Xar. “Well,” she said, “I can do no more with this hair. I best be off to prod the parson. And you, dear one, can call the rest. Oh, I’ve not been to a good wedding - a joining, I should say – in quite some time.”

Emma helped Xar to the floor and watched her run happily from the room. She tugged at her gown, and her resolve then stepped through the hall, and into the bath.

Not a thought stirred, nor a muscle. Will sat in a bubble bath, up to his chest in foam. Still stunned by the turn of events, a tide of emotion lapped against the rocky shore of his mind. The taste of mustard lingered in his throat, and his ears still rang from the dressing down he had received from Emma. In all his life, he had never felt so much like a spanked child. It seemed as if he stood with his nose in a corner. He understood very little of what Emma had said, but he knew he had been thoroughly put in his place. As he sat staring at the wallpaper, Emma stepped through the door. He was wrenched from his musing and his heart turned over in his chest. He submerged up to his chin.

“Damnation!” swore Will. “I’m still in the tub.”

Emma laughed. “And what could I possibly see that I haven’t already?”

“That ain’t the point.”

“Then what?” she asked.

“Well . . . a man’s gotta keep some mystery.”

Emma turned the chair by the tub and seated herself. A long silence ensued. She looked upon the man she loved with large wounded eyes. Will could feel himself shrinking beneath them. He looked up from the bubbles but found it hard to meet her gaze. At last, he spoke.

“If y’ come t’ cuss me out, agin, git on with it. Just do it in American. Leastwise, that way, I’ll know where I stand.”

She answered softly. “I’m through raving. I grant you, I was angry, but more than that, I was hurt. I was hurt, Will.” Her voice rose slightly, and Will could not help but wince at the pain in her words. “Why?” she continued. “Why, Will? Why would you take my heart, and just toss it by the way?” A tear rolled down her cheek. She sniffed and rubbed angrily at all the tears that might follow, not willing to relinquish what little composure she had left. “What were you thinking?” she went on. “Can’t you see how much I love you . . . how much I need you?” The tears came and she swore. “Damn! I’ve sprung a leak.”

Will was dumbfounded to hear Emma curse – in English. He sat up and passed her a towel.

“Thanks,” she sniffed.

Will said, “Emma, I’m sorry. I never wanted t’ see y’ hurt. Honest. I mean, I knew you’d be sad for a while, but I’s hopin’ you’d git past it all by an’ by. I . . .”

“It was my fault.”

“No . . .”

“It was. I pushed you and crowded you until I scared you away. But, I so wanted to be a part of your life.” She dabbed at tears. “Just do this thing for the children. Then . . . you can leave in the morning.

Nothing said. I’ll bind up my poor heart, and somehow, I’ll muddle through. Of course, I’ll pray for you every night, wherever you may be, that God will give you the care that I could not.”

Will answered, “Yer startin’ t’ rattle, Emma. Now, just shut up an’ listen a minute. It wasn’t in my heart t’ hurt y’. I thought, if I stayed, I’d hurt y’ for sure.”

“No, Will . . . how could you think . . ?”

“Just listen. You deserve better’n me.”

“But, I love you.”

“Let me talk a minute. I gotta say this.” Will collected his battered resolve, and pressed forward. “I won’t ever be nothin’ but a ol’ saddle tramp. I can’t live up t’ your expectations. Ever’ time I’s t’ tell y’ I don’t want a bath, or when I’s t’ rebuild m’ still, ‘cause that’s all I know, that’d hurt you more‘n my leavin’. An’ you sittin’ up here in this fine house, with all these fine things – well, you need a better man than I am t’ give y’ what y’ need. All I can do is hope you’ll be happy, ‘cause I gotta be my own man, an’ . . . that ain’t hardly enough for such a good woman.”

Emma echoed Will's words. “This fine house? These fine things? They’re baubles and trash.” She took Will's hand and squeezed it fervently. “The only value any of this has is sharing it with the one you love.”

Will recalled that she had paid the note on his property. He had no doubt of her sincerity or her propensity for sacrifice. Suddenly, he felt small and self-serving. His arguments seemed foolish. Emma was a torrent of clean, sweet water, able to slake all thirst. Beside her, Will was no more than a dry, stingy well. He looked away in shame. He fussed with the bubbles in his bath; he cleared his throat.

He said in a small, penitent voice, “I been a fool, Emma. I don’t expect y’ t’ forgive me, ‘cause you ain’t been nothin’ but a mighty fine woman. But, if you’ll let me make amends. I will.”

Emma said, “Do whatever is in your heart to do.”

Will looked up into her deep brown eyes with sudden resolve. He said, “What’s in m’ heart is t’ see yer never hurt agin.” He said, “ What’s in m’ heart is t’ see that yer happy an’ cared for, t’ see . . . t’ see . . .”

Emma had dropped his hand. She had soaped the brush and begun scrubbing Will's back. He said, “Ouch!”

“Just you hush,” said Emma. “Do you think all this dirt will simply float away?” She paused and sighed deeply. She focused her thoughts and continued. “Will, it’s alright to be your own man; I want you to be your own man. Build your still; I’ll not say a word. I might even have a drink with you. Roll around that old stump of yours; sleep in your clothes. Just leave a little room for me. Call my name, and I’ll come wallow with you. It’s okay if you miss a bath now and then. When you decide to take one, I’ll be happy to scrub your back. Go south, if that’s what you want, but take me with you. All I ask is that you love me enough to let me . . . tag along.” She placed the brush in Will's hand, lightly kissed his cheek, and softly said, “I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

Emma left the room, gently closing the door behind her. Will looked at the brush in his hand. He shrugged and finished his bath.

It was raining cats and dogs. Thunder shook the walls of Emma's house. Will sat at the top of the stairs fussing with a bow tie that seemed more like a hangman's noose. He gave up with a frustrated sigh. He caught sight of Emma's gown as she walked through the sitting room to south-den. He listened to Emma giving last minute directions to the four faerie children, gleaning clues to his part in the odd ritual to come. It pleased him that Emma sounded happy.

She said, “ . . . he’ll be angry, but I’ll just have to hope it will still be there when the weather breaks. If this was a proper home, I’d have a piano. I do play, you know, but I think this old harp will get us through.”

Then there was silence. Will supposed the faeries were speaking in their squeaky, mouselike voices. He turned his head and strained to hear, but nothing came to him. Emma said, “We’re all prepared. Now, where’s the parson?”

Will began to stand when a knock came to the front door. It was a harried and desperate noise. Will saw Emma's dress flash by the bottom of the stairs; he heard the increased noise of the rain as Emma opened the door. Will took a quiet position further down the stairs, curious to hear what was said.

“Oh, dear,” said Emma. “Is something wrong?”

The urgent voice that Will heard next was that of deputy sheriff Delaney. He said quickly, “Sheriff asked me t’ call; we’re calling on everyone. Um, town council met at sheriff Hurt's request. A miner rode in from up the valley talking about heavy rains . . . and . . . and, Witherspoon said something about a flood. Point is, we’re building a levy.”

“And, you’re asking for volunteers?” Emma prompted.

“Yes ‘m.”

“Alright,” Emma said. “I’ve some matters to finish, here, but, Will and I will be in just as soon as we can.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Will heard the door snick shut; he saw Emma hurry back to the kids. She said, “‘Tis alright, now, he’s gone. I’ll go fetch Will and come straight back.”

“No need,” said Will, stepping in behind her.

“Sweet Jesus!” she exclaimed. Her hand was pressed to her bosom as she turned to face Will. “You scared me. Oh, my heart.”

“Guilty conscience?” he quipped.

“Hah!” she answered, stepping back. “Well now, aren’t we a pretty picture? Oh, young Delaney came by . . .”

“I heard.”

“So, come along then; we must get these children wed and hurry to town.”

Will sighed. “I just got out o’ the tub. I ain’t in no real hurry t’ git wet agin.”

Emma placed her fists on her hips. “Willard Witherspoon,” she said gravely. “Don’t think that your duties end with the warning.”

“Hush,” said Will. “You’ll git t’ go. An’ I’ll be right beside y’ But, we gotta give some time to the kids.

Right?”

Emma stepped into Will's arms; she rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m just so worried,” she said.

“My friends . . .”

“I know.” Will took her arm into his, and gave a gentle pat to her hand. He smiled warmly, and when she tugged at her dress, Will led her into the sitting room.

He had to admit, the four youngsters were quite a handsome bunch. The boys were dapper gentlemen in top hats and tails. Genteel ladies were the girls, trussed in rivers of blue silk. Small black wigs gave the girls a human quality Will could warm to. They stood on the high sofa back, Zami with Xar, and Tax with Tosh. They greeted him cheerfully.

“Are we not glad to greet you, Will?” It was almost a song.

Will replied with a happy smile, and a curt nod. “Kids.”

Emma's broad smile illuminated the room. “I do so love a wedding,” she said. “Shall we begin?”

Will took his place at the end of the sofa toward south-den; Emma placed a large, worn Bible in his hands. She fussed excitedly with the frills on her gown, taking her place opposite Will. She cleared her throat and made the announcement.

“The parson will now open with scripture,” she said.

Will already felt lost; he looked between Emma and the big book in his hands. She stepped around the sofa and took the Bible from him. Quickly, she opened to a dog-eared page and handed the book back.

Will stared down at the page where Emma had it marked. It was the fifth chapter and twentieth verse of the book of Ephesians.

He cleared his throat, and read aloud.

“Giving thanks always for all things unto God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ; submitting yourselves one to another in the fear of God. Wives, submit yourselves to your own husbands, as unto the Lord. For the husband is the head of the wife, even as Christ is the head of the church: and he is the savior of the body. Therefore as the church is subject unto Christ, so let the wives be to their husbands in everything. Husbands, love your wives, even as Christ also loved the church, and gave himself for it; that . . .”

Emma took the book from Will's hands and replaced it with a sheet of paper. Will puzzled over the ornate cursive as Emma seated herself by her sewing table, and took the harp into her lap. She took a white feather and readied her hand above the harp.

“A moment,” said Emma, shifting her weight in the hard-backed chair. “Alright, I’m ready.”

A melody swelled in the warm air and became a march. A percussion of thunder followed. Light from the fireplace danced on the ceiling, and the children, two and two, marched slowly down the sofa back toward Will.

Will cleared his throat uncertainly, and read aloud, “Here, in the sight of God, and man, and . . . Shee, have we gathered in holy purpose, that separate hearts of love may unite in the bond of wedlock, and in so joining, become one. Such is the work of our heavenly Father, and it is marvelous in our eyes.

Therefore, what God has joined together, let no one divide.”

Will came to the end of the page. He turned it over, found no more, and turned to Emma.

Emma had laid the harp aside; she retrieved a spool of thread from her sewing basket and cut two lengths with a small knife. Will looked back to the happy children. They smiled patiently and clung to each other. The soft light from the fireplace gave Will the illusion that they danced in place. Will smiled at them, and Emma took her place by Will's side.

Zami stood unsteadily in the soft fabric at the end of the sofa, Xar's arm locked in his own. Tax stood just behind him in similar fashion. Emma gave a length of thread to each couple. Zami accepted the thread and took Xar's hand. He wrapped the thread about their wrists; Tax was next and did just the same.

Zami and Xar recited, “One heart, one life.”

Tax and Tosh recited, “One heart, one life.”

Will turned to Emma, whose radiant smile suggested the deed had been done. He turned back to the couples and concluded, “I now pronounce you husbands and wives.”

The couples embraced and drank from the first heady kiss of a new life.

Emma sighed, dabbed a happy tear with a lace kerchief, and laid her head on Will's shoulder. “Aren’t they adorable?” she whispered.

“They’ll do,” Will softly replied. “What’s next? I’m itchin’.”

Emma got the attention of the newlyweds. She lifted a broad wicker basket from the seat of the sofa.

Each new groom helped his new blushing bride into the basket. When they had properly seated themselves, Emma transported them into the dining room. Will shrugged, and followed. Emma set the basket on the table.

Zami took Xar by the hand, helping her to her feet. Tax stooped down, took Tosh by the waist, and lifted her from the basket. Emma set the basket aside and eagerly motioned Will to stand close. Will looked at the table, noting small treats of sausage and cheese surrounding a tall, unopened bottle of brandy. Emma turned to him with a twinkle in her eye.

She poured brandy into a small bowl, mixed it with water, then set it before the newlyweds. Will watched impatiently as thimbles were dipped. Each boy had a thimble; each boy took a sip and passed it to his mate. Each girl sipped and passed the thimble back. Emma pressed a small glass of brandy into Will's hand. Emma raised a glass to her guests, as a toast to their successful joining, then she turned the glass toward Will. She smiled sweetly, and to Will's amazement, took a sip. Will smiled broadly in response. He raised the glass to Emma, then to the newlyweds, then slammed down the tart red liquor.

He speared Emma with a secondary smile that said three things: sorry, I’ll sip the next one, thanks, and there is a next one coming, I hope. Emma paid him little mind but turned to the laughing couples instead.

“I’m sorry,” she confessed, “I’ve forgotten what comes next, the story or the dance.”

“I ain’t dancin’,” said Will.

Emma dismissed his disdain. “Just you shush,” she said with a nettled smile.

Zami leapt to his feet and called up in response, “We shall dance for you; we have much joy to dance.”

Leaping over meats and cheeses, Zami called out, “Let there be music.” He jumped again, spun Xar up to his side, and the two of them bowed grandly before their human hosts. Zami lifted himself back up to conclude, “The song, we leave to you.”

Will reached past Zami to nab a square of cheese and toss it into his mouth. He said around it, “I’ll do y’ some fiddlin’.”

The faeries looked to Emma, and Will followed their eyes into the silence. Abashed, Emma smiled sheepishly, confessing she had left his gun and fiddle in the cave.

“Oh, wait!” she said. “Can you play a mouth harp?”

“Does a bear sh . . . I mean . . . sure. Don’t ever’ one?”

There was a small delay in festivities as Emma ran to fetch the harmonica from her late husband's effects. It had been a while, but once Will began to play, he warmed to it quickly, giving vent to every

popular tune that he and Emma could recall. The wild, bacchanalian dance of the faeries, plus some additional brandy, finally inspired Will to rise up and give the widow a spin around the table. Hearts thumped merry and full; the cold beating of the rain went unheard. The pounding roar of thunder gave way to the stomping of Will's feet as he stoked his dancing engine.

The night seemed timeless. The telling of stories found its perfect place as all fell down to pant and rest. Tax told tales of monsters he had slain. Zami spoke of finding Rasha's dry bones. The girls spun tales of idyllic home life and Will spoke of a great war between brothers dressed in blue and grey. Tax became thoughtfully moody at the notion of loved ones dying; he recalled his little friend, Voy boy.

Finally, Emma told the tale of how she and Will had met throughout the course of their lives. In the process, Will discovered two new occasions of their meeting. He grumped superstitiously and everyone laughed.

Filled with song and dance, sated with cheese and brandy, the time for procession came at last. The moment ebbed through idle chatter. Emma excused herself and disappeared into the dark kitchen.

Seeing the lamp light flicker, and smelling the clammy odor of rain, Will also made excuse and stumbled through the kitchen to the back door. Emma stood in the half-opened door, a dank wind licking her hair into disarray. Will put a hand on her shoulder; she fell into his arms with a wet sniff.

Will asked, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just . . . beautiful,” she said. She turned in his arms and looked into his eyes. “Marriage is such a blessed institution. I guess I’m just not happy unless I have a man to do for.”

“You been married three times, that’s a whole lot o’ happiness t’ look back on.”

“That’s not exactly the response I was fishing for.”

“What you want me t’ say, do for me? I’m a long way from young and foolish,” said Will. “Just the thought o’ gittin’ hitched makes me shake in m’ boots. I couldn’t want for a finer woman, but . . .”

“Yes.” “Huh?” “Yes,” said Emma, frankly. “I’m saying yes.”

“Whoa, now . . .”

Emma sighed and laid her head on Will's shoulder. She straightened his crooked bow tie. “Oh, Will,” she said, “I’ll never press you again. It’s just that I want to spend the rest of my life by your side . . . and I want it to be right with God.” Will confessed, “Nothin’ wrong with that. I just gotta git some things straight in m’ head is all. This is somethin’ . . . y’ know . . . I gotta sneak up on.”

Emma quietly responded, “Well, when you ask, you know what my answer will be. Anyway, I’m warmed that you love me enough to check on me.”

Will grinned. “I’s worried you’s lettin’ that blame cat back in.”

Emma stretched. “Now that you mention it, I wonder what’s become of poor Coal. She’s been gone all day. That’s not like her, at all.”

Will submitted, “Cats do real good outdoors.”

“Well . . . best be getting back. We’ve the children to settle in.” She peered deeply into Will's eyes and draped her arms across his shoulders. She said, “I’m really proud of you, old man. Such a fine job you did tonight. Ever think of getting ordained?”

Will chuckled at the thought of himself with a collar to wear, and a Bible to thump. “It was you,” he answered. “You had ever’thin’ made up real nice.”

“Thank you.”

“An’ I hope,” said Will, “I’m not too forward when I say, you was mighty purty tonight.”

Emma kissed him.

They would not be carried; they insisted on doing it themselves. First, the boys would climb a stair, then they would turn to help their wives ascend. All along, they sang a processional song that neither Will nor Emma fully understood. His patience having fainted from sheer boredom, Will had occasion that night to count the stairs in Emma's house. At the eastern guest room, Will and Emma took positions to either side of the open door. The newlyweds had waxed silent and solemn. They rubbed their bare feet against the floor as if removing shoes. Then Zami's small voice rang out high and clear.

“Without truth, there is no home. Now, let us begin with confession. It is more than tradition, it is the flower of all faithful souls. I, Zamani, shall lead the way. My first thoughts were neither pure nor genuine. When I first met you,” he said to Xar, “I looked down on the Shee. I thought I was better.

Then, there was a time when I wished I had never met you. When I came to Earth,” he said turning to Will and Emma, “I despised humans, and thought of you as monsters. Such thoughts blacken a soul; they cause a single mind to divide. Such should have been my lot but for two things: the patience of my father and the devotion of my wife, Xarhn. I have learned to love and to care. I have called myself king but tonight, I let fall my crown. I humble myself before my father, my wife, and my friends. I offer my gratitude to Will and Emma, who have been our parents in a strange and testing world.”

Zami gave his place to Tax, who thought carefully before he spoke. “Listen, now,” said he, “and Takax will confess. My youth was dark and gave no light. Thoughts that seemed right then, I now cast away. I have grown up. I have taken my place. I have opened my eyes, and I have learned. Many are the wrongs of Takax. Many are the empty thoughts and hurtful arrogance. By my own pride, I chased the dearest of friends into the ugly mouth of death. Such will never again take place. In my blind selfserving, I ill-treated my first love. I have found a better love, and from me, Tosh will receive nothing but devoted love. I have said, if it can be done, I can do it. Now I say, I can do it better with the help of my friends. I have hated Zamani wrongfully and I am sorry.”

Xar took her place and said, “My confession is the best of all. I loved Zami from the first. I always will.

I love my family. I love my old friends, Tax and Tosh, my new friends Will and Emma, and the Maker of all.”

In a shy and quiet voice, Tosh spoke last. “My confession is last, but not small. There are many things I do not see or know. That is because Tax is my fullness. I love him completely.”

Everyone waited, but when Tosh said no more, Zami looked up at his human hosts with an invitation.

“Will and Emma, we would hear your confessions.”

Zami's small black eyes came to rest on Emma. She laughed nervously and cleared her throat. Well,” she said, “I guess, like most women, I’ve made more mistakes than I care to remember. I know I’ve been headstrong and proud, but I can’t help it; I’ve the Irish blood.” She paused to look Will square in the eye, then continued. “I’ve been known to nag . . . but, when I love a man, my love is undying and true. So, I guess this is my confession: Jesus is Lord, and I’m the best woman this old man could hope for.”

All eyes turned to Will, even as he reflected on Emma's ending. The thin veneer of a smile barely hid his dismay. He pried at the tight collar, and choking tie, while all stood patiently waiting for him to speak. The waiting stretched like warm taffy, until, too thin to stretch further, it snapped.

“What!?” said Will.

“We’ve all confessed,” said Emma. “We’re waiting on you.”

“I don’t know what t’ say,” Will answered, clearly aggravated.

“I’m sure we’re only interested in the truth, you know,” Emma replied. She cast a roving eye toward Xar and concluded, “like how you really feel about me.”

Emma's eyes twinkled and the children laughed merrily, but Will chafed at the weight of expectation.

“Damn,” he said. “I dunno! I told y’ I love y’ . . . but I ain’t got good sense. I shot the last woman I loved.”

Emma's reply was patent. “I would never give you cause, dear.”

“I know. I know, and you a good woman. I know it, but, damn it! Yer scarin' the tar out o’ me. Ever’ time I look in yer eyes, I see weddin’ bells.”

“Is that so bad, then?”

“No, now, I didn’t say that. It’s like a boy tryin’ t’ catch a wild animal he wants for a pet. I just gotta sneak up on it is all . . . catch it the right way.”

Emma smiled warmly. “You just take your time.”

Zami cut in, his smile was broad and satisfied. “Confession is good,” said he. “Now, let us all go inside.

There is a final ritual. I have kept it secret from all because I just made it up. Come. Come.”

Will was the last to enter the room. Emma quickly pulled the rocker away from the foot of the bed. She slid the rug beneath it to a position more central. The lamp on the table, she trimmed a bit lower. With a grunt at managing the bulk of her gown, Emma seated herself in the circle of faeries. Will hesitated, then with a shrug, sat beside Emma and folded his legs.

When Zami had the attention of everyone, he said, “I want, very much, that we should all rise up together.”

Emma asked him, “What is that?”

“Something Xar taught me,” was his reply. “It is a sharing of our thoughts and feelings.”

Xar piped in, “All we do is hold hands and close our eyes.”

Zami continued, “Everything ever we’ve felt or known will be yours and your hearts will be open to us.

You and Will have been so kind to us and we have so little to offer. I thought to give from what we have: a lasting bond.”

Emma smiled. “I’m game.”

Will hedged, “I don’t know . . .”

“Oh, don’t be a wet blanket,” said Emma. “I’ve never been bonded. Sounds fun.”

Will acquiesced with a shrug and said to Zami, “Well, just don’t go diggin’ too deep; I got things right where I want ‘em.”

Will took Emma's hand; Zami took hold on his little finger. Emma's little finger was held by Tosh, and the children completed the circle. When all other eyes were closed, Will reluctantly followed suit. At first, he felt nothing, but surprisingly soon, he felt relaxed and easy. A warmth spread throughout him as if he had bolted another glass of Emma's brandy.

Startling flashes illuminated the backs of his eyelids. He opened his eyes and looked around, then he closed them again. Yeah, they were real, alright. The storm still raged outside and Will was not altogether taken in by the faerie hand holding. At any rate, whether it was lightning or something in his eyes, it smacked of minor magnitude.

But the flashes became insistent and brighter. Will could hear his heart beating raggedly in his chest. It was a strange sensation. Will seemed to sense, as well, the beating of Emma's heart. Four small faerie hearts chorused from a swirling haze. It raced through his arms like the pounding of hammers, rattling his ribs in passing. It was strange, but very soon, the pounding coalesced into a single, hypnotic pulse.

It was not altogether unpleasant and Will was not inclined to be alarmed; he was just too warm and comfortable to care.

Whispers danced in his ears, like the musical notes of shattering crystal. Shadows of motion teased Will's perception. It was a dream just outside of his reach. There was an odd, new sensation, like floating. It was a lot like having his head on Pa's thinking stump; Will released his breath into an intoxicating sigh that caressed him, and filled him, and soothed. Then, all the emotions he had ever felt rushed in on him and fused into a single solid razor edge. Intense pleasure, intense pain; he felt them

both but could not distinguish the one from the other. It was unsettling, and yet, he was not quite prepared to pull away. Then, the pleasant sensation of floating, in a single beat of his heart, became a spinning that threatened to make him sick.

Floating, spinning, six hearts beat loudly as one. He felt overwhelming pleasure intermingled with equal proportions of the most exquisite pain. He was helpless against the onslaught. His feelings became solid. They had texture, shape, and hue. They circled his head like hungry harpies. Will wondered if something had gone terribly wrong. He wondered if he had accidentally fallen into hell. He wondered if he had, after all, been tricked into hell by the little man. Will was at a loss to express his fear. Everything he felt, he saw, and every vision had a sound, a smell, a taste. From his close-cropped hair to his spit shined boots, he felt it all. He had briefly considered swearing off whiskey in favor of rising up - but that was before reality failed him. That was before existence fell away from beneath him, left him spiraling into a churning sun. He inhaled the hot fumes of it and his silence screamed for the cold, sweet relief of the black universe.

Understanding came to Will like the crushing blow of a brick to the temple. He felt as though he existed somewhere behind his face and his eyes were nothing more than twin planets spinning through the refracted fires of his heart. Beneath could be seen the forms of Emma and the four faeries. His own body was there, clearly recognizable, and yet, somehow - it was not him. It was a familiar stranger. He viewed each being in its true, gem-like, clarity. The facets of their joys and their sorrows were fully exposed to him in the free-flowing fires of a new mind.

Like twisting, glowing fingers, each sound, each image, each and every one of the myriad emotions snaked out toward him and wrapped themselves around him like suffocating vines. He leapt with Zami, flying between giant, multicolored nholas. He squeezed overlarge breasts with the hands of Tax. He fell into the arms of Pax, knowing the warm security of a father's unconditional love. With Emma, Will knew the soul-deep satisfaction of seeing their first husband baptized. He knew the stubborn guilt of taking Bani's own from her. He lived the lives of these others; it felt as natural as living his own.

“It’s true, mother! It’s true, father! I’ve seen him walk through the barrier.”

“With pure souls, and open hands.”

“I can’t help who I am . . .”

“I am no one's enemy. I am not my father.”

“Xar is mine. Her home is with me.”

“Help! Somebody! Bani, help me!”

“Mine! Mine! Mine!”

“What a fine, manly voice you have.”

“Muscle-head! That’s not glamor; that’s the shield!” “‘Twas I who gave the buckeye. None other.”

“Heal him.”

“Take notes.”

“Oh, Will. I feel so alive. I had waited so long to hear your words. Fair, fair words. Did you mean what you said, all of it?” “. . . and I must return home. We may never see one another again, but here, I want you to have this.

It’s a buckeye.”

Will smiled upon those precious souls; they were clear and blue. He laughed with them; he cried with them. He gave himself to them. As if looking up, Will spied a part of himself he had never known. He yearned for it; he reached out and took it. When it came into his possession, it knocked him senseless.

He looked about, as if through newly opened, sleep-sticky eyes. He found himself on his knees before a sky as blue as forever. White, fleecy clouds raced from horizon to horizon. The sky filled him.

He noticed Emma by his side, struggling to comprehend. Beyond Emma, he saw Tax, Tosh, Xar, and Zami. Young Zami stared about him with saucer eyes and trembled. Will could relate to that; this was all too big and spooky. It dawned on him that the kids were no longer small; they were just as large as he was, just as large as Emma. Then, he wondered if perhaps he and Emma were actually the ones who had changed. Were they now faerie-sized? He looked into Emma's frightened eyes and opened his mouth to speak when a thunderous voice spilled across him. It came from everywhere and nowhere. It shook him to the very marrow of his bones.

“I am the God of all who live,” said the voice. “Heed my words, and mark them well. All flesh is mine to prove, but I have become a stranger among my peoples. I have called to deaf ears and entreated hearts too fat to feel. I knocked at their door and was turned away. None did recognize my voice. Yet will I come again and I will knock once more. They will hear the sound of my fist and they shall altogether know that it is I, the Lord. Even now, I seek my children and all who love the light. I have prepared for them a home where their door is ever open to me. Two paths lead home; I have called Zamani and Willard to lead my children.”

Will's head was bowed and his hands covered it. Will had quaked at the voice; he feared for his sanity.

A lengthy silence encouraged Will to look up and around. The great heaven was still blue; the fleecy white clouds raced by. He swallowed hard and heard someone whimper. All were on their faces except for himself and Zami. Will looked into Zami's black eyes; they were eyes filled with wonder and revelation.

“I can move,” said Zami. “I have power.”

When he had uttered those words, his image faded from view. He was gone like a mist, and as a fog burned away by the sun, he vanished. One by one, the other faeries disappeared as Zami had. Tax looked up and reached for Tosh, even as his hand turned to vapor. Tosh opened her eyes, but did not look up. She neither saw her own fade away nor herself. Xar looked for Zami, but he was gone. She turned frightened eyes toward Emma, as her face faded from view. Only Emma remained. Will reached for her, pulled her into his arms. She trembled as she hugged him fiercely, holding on for reassurance.

“Oh, Will,” she sobbed.

And he soothed, “There, now.”

He pulled her face to his and lightly kissed her lips. How fragile she seemed. He sought to calm her; he hoped his gentle caress would comfort and strengthen her. He was aware of the trembling; it was he that trembled. He knew, most assuredly, that he needed Emma's comfort as much as she needed his.

They turned to the sky that surrounded them, transfixed by their awe. Doggedly, they clung to one another, even as the clouds sailed by. The clouds passed on all sides; they seemed, as well, to pass right through them. The voice returned, but softer than before.

“You have questions in your heart. You have doubts.”

Will gulped, and answered. “Yes, Lord.”

“You wish to know that you will not fail me. Behold the furnace in which you are forged.”

The clear, bright firmament darkened with rain; hot bolts of lightning divided the sky and thunder crashed like the collision of worlds. A vision of Emma appeared; she stood soaked in the branches of an old oak. A muddy vortex swirled at her feet where once had stood the edifice of the Evanston orphanage.

“Love is the fire that refines . . .” said the voice.

Emma crouched on her tenuous perch, surveyed the churning flood, and stepped off. She was taken by the muddy undertow. “. . . and sacrifice will seal you to me.”

Emma opened her eyes and looked around. Her heart beat painfully within her bosom. Nothing could have prepared her for an audience with God; her head still reeled. With labored breathing, she glanced quickly down at the faeries. They were all on their feet. The stocky one, Tax, stood apart with a downcast face and slumped shoulders. Zami walked to him, threw his arms around him and hugged him tightly to himself. Emma looked at Will, then. He sat where he had been, unmoving and ashen. His eyes opened.

Suddenly, Will found himself in the guest bedroom. Thunder rocked the walls of Emma's house. He looked at the faeries and they seemed to be huddled in a distant knot. He looked at Emma; her lips were parted, her eyes wide. The dim, eerie lamplight faded as black, obliterating clouds swept in from the periphery of his vision.

Chapter Fifty-One Emma stepped into her bedroom, knotting a red flannel shirt at her waist. She smiled at the children and stepped into her boots. She laced them, with the occasional grunt, stepped to the mirror to check her coiled brown hair, then turned her attention to Will. Will was out cold on Emma's bed; he lay as still as a marble statue. The children sat quietly watching from the footboard. Zami studied Emma's face.

He felt guilty that Will had not yet awakened, but if she felt any anger, it did not show in her face. He

wished that Emma had a rainbow he might scan; at least then, he would know exactly where he stood.

Emma bent low over Will and considered his peaceful features, with a sad smile. His eyes moved beneath the lids and she hoped his dreams were sweet, but it worried her that he still slept. She had tried to wake him, but could not, and she had only gotten him into her bed with Zami's assistance. He appeared to be sleeping off a drunk, but Emma knew it could not be the brandy. Neither was it the rising up, for all had survived it intact, as well the audience with God. She suspected it had something to do with Zami, for after Will had collapsed, Zami had placed a hand upon Will's brow, and chanted strange words.

She turned to Zami, and calmly asked, “What did you do to him?”

Zami replied, “Only what the Maker instructed. I gave him the Phrava.”

“Well, I have to wake him up,” she said, straitening. “You newlyweds had best run along, now. Go; enjoy your honeymoons.”

Xar hopped from the footboard and walked the length of Will's body. She looked up into Emma's large smiling face and said, “We can help.”

“No, dear. This night belongs to you. Don’t let our problems weigh on your heart.”

Xar insisted. “We’re adults, now. It is our right to help those we care for. Please let us help.”

Such words from a young bride! They warmed Emma's heart. How could she say no?

“Very well, dear. I’ll just run and put on a pot of coffee.” She stooped and put forth a finger, lightly caressing the dainty face.

When Emma left the room, Zami joined his wife on the broad chest of the sleeping human. Tosh followed, leading her own by the hand, and together they considered the chin of the giant. Zami wrapped an arm about Xar's waist and pulled her close.

Tax complained, “This wog’s a mountain. How can we wake him?”

Quietly, Xar submitted, “I don’t know. I’m sure Zami will think of something.”

Zami hadn’t a clue. He chafed beneath their attention but held his tongue.

“I know,” said Tosh, a giggle in her voice. “Let’s jump up and down on his chest.”

With shrugs, they began to hop about. The hopping soon became a happy dance and high fun. The chest was hard; it had no give to it. Tax leaped through the air, turning on his side, to fall upon the chest with a hammering blow from his elbow. Laughing, the others fell into a happy tangle, and gulped for air.

Tosh rolled into the arms of her own, as did Xar. Tax grumped, “Well, that didn’t work. We should have had the woman do it.”

Zami added, “Or she could beat him as she did before.”

Xar chided, “You two are just giving up. We can do this; think.”

Zami said, “Very well. How about this? You girls climb up, each to one ear, and shout as loudly as you can.”

“Why us?” Tosh wanted to know.

“Because,” quipped Tax, “girls have the highest, most irritating voices.”

Tosh jumped to her feet; she pulled Xar up to her side. The girls stared indignantly as the boys rolled about in fits of laughter. In a lull, Tosh dropped icy words for Tax. “I’ll deal with you later,” she said.

Away went the girls. Each climbed a different side of the pillow beneath Will's head. At last, each girl braced herself by a big ear and began screaming in loud shrill voices. Will did not stir. They decided on a new plan. Xar moved around to join Tosh, and both shouted into the same ear, but all attempts failed.

The next bright idea involved Xar and Zami. Together, they pulled back the lid of one large eye.

Several of the lashes they held came out in their hands. Zami had reasoned that the introduction of light would induce wakefulness. They looked into the empty blue eye and called for a new plan.

Then Tax jumped to his feet. He took up his spear, and told the returning pair, “Make way for an expert.”

He scaled the large pillow, mounted the forehead and leaped to Will's upthrust chin. While Zami led the girls back to a safe distance, Tax looked across the broad expanse of Will's face with a sad shake of his head. He thought of the times he had voided himself in the soft cleg behind the point. The give in Will's slack features reminded him of the spongy cleg and Tax was glad his own face was not big enough to walk on. He glanced past his shoulder to his comrades, winked at Tosh, and hoisted the haft of his spear.

The lips parted and the chin moved; Tax reeled. Foul breath enveloped Tax, and he took a step back, clasping his arm across his face. There was nothing beneath his foot. He fell back across the human chest. He bounced with a total absence of grace. He rolled to an embarrassed tangle between Will's chest and right arm. Tax had taken a solid spill; his inclination was indignation. Like a furious flash of red rage, he leapt to his feet with a roar and drove his spear into the flesh of Will's arm.

What happened next was utter confusion. While, for a human, it was nothing more than a knee-jerk reaction, Zami's next moment seemed to be several in length. Will sat bolt upright in bed and Zami saw his feet pass through the air where his head had just been. He saw Xar's dainty feet protruding from blue silk. Her hand came from nowhere and soundly socked his left eye shut. Zami felt himself collide with Will's leg and bounce to one side. Then, he fell into the tangle of the girls. The three of them lay in a hopeless heap between Will's legs. As he attempted to disentangle himself, he heard Will cry out.

“Federals!” Will shouted.

The girls complained with grunts and squeals, Tax complained with human invective. Zami jumped to

his feet to help the girls as the confusion of a very long moment faded. Zami assessed the situation with one eye. Will loomed over them, staring down with empty, stupid eyes, and just as Tosh called out to her own, Emma rushed into the room.

“Here, now!” scolded Emma. “Whatever is all this din?”

Will answered in a dull, distant voice. “I been hit.”

It was then that Emma spied the tiny spear protruding from his arm. She saw the splash of blood that seeped into the fabric of his shirt, just above the elbow. Her faced pinched in horror.

Zami could feel Xar flinch beside him.

“Mary, mother of God!” wailed Emma. “What have you done?”

Without moving, Will snarled, “Damned Yankee sniper.”

Tax took the opportunity to join his wife and friends. He ran toward the foot of the bed, leaping nimbly over Will's leg. Emma looked at Tax with narrow eyes, as she deftly laid Will back into the pillow.

“Why did you do this?” she demanded of Tax. Xar answered, “It was an accident. Will moved and Tax fell.”

She turned her attention to Will's wound. “I have to stop the bleeding,” she said, pulling the spear from Will's arm and tossing it to the floor. She ripped the shirt sleeve away from the shoulder but Will's union suit was below. She pushed the sleeve up past his elbow and left the room.

Xar asked Zami, “Do you think she’ll be angry?”

“We’ve wounded her own,” answered he. “Could it be otherwise?”

Tax jumped back across Will's leg and jumped from the side of the bed. He did not wish to lose his spear; he had grown accustomed to it. The floor made his feet sting. “Ow!” he complained.

“Serves you right,” Tosh called to him.

“Tosh!” Xar snapped in surprise.

“Well,” Tosh shrugged in response, “it does.”

Suddenly, Will scrambled back into the headboard; he sent Zami and the girls bouncing in all directions, like rag dolls. They flailed desperately. Tax, who in climbing back up had reached the edge of the bed, fell to the floor.

Will touched the wound in his arm; he stared at it in stock disbelief. “Flea festerin’ federals,” he grumbled. “Can’t hit y’ accept they miss the man beside y’. By God, if I had a purty nurse an’ he had a knot on his head, the world would be a better place.”

Emma rushed back in; she carried a small basin of water and some torn rags. She sat on the bed and positioned her load. She dipped a rag into the water and squeezed out the excess. As she took up Will's arm, he turned to her with a silly grin.

“I been shot,” said Will.

Emma answered sternly, “Just you sit still.”

She rubbed the damp cloth across his skin, removing blood, but when she looked to see if the wound would go on bleeding, she found no wound at all. She pulled Will's arm up close and looked again. To her amazement, she could find nothing.

“Well, I’ll swanee,” said she.

She dropped his arm and gaped. There was not even a scar. Did her eyes deceive her?

Will sighed. “That was some drink; I’ll have another.”

Emma stood and placed the basin and rags on the bedside table. She turned from Will to look at the one who touched him: Zami.

Zami explained, “He has the power to heal. That, and more. It is the Phrava.”

Will said, “I can’t pronounce it, but don’t take all day pourin’ it.”

Xar asked, “Emma, have we made you sad?”

“Oh, no, dear,” she replied. “I’m just . . . stunned.”

“Barkeep!” shouted Will.

Emma started and spun on her toes to face him. “Oh . . . shut up,” she said.

Tax gripped the covers at the edge of the bed. Give me a hand,” he called broadcast. Tosh bolted to his aide.

“Muscle-head,” she scolded.

Emma turned again to Zami, and asked, “Why is he drunk?”

Zami stepped forward to reply; Will noticed and laughed. “Oh look,” said Will. “Little people.”

Emma hated drunkenness. Otherworldly or not, she could not abide Will's condition.

“Will, hush!” she said irritably.

Zami explained, “He is not used to his new mind. He must find his way along many strange paths.”

“How long will this take?” she asked.

Zami answered with a shrug. “I do not know.”

Then, Will disappeared. Emma saw his legs vanish and turned in time to see him fade altogether. She reached for something to steady herself. “My God!” she exclaimed.

Zami quickly explained. “That is glamor, it is the power to go unseen. He is still there.”

As if in answer, Will called out, “Barkeep! Whiskey!”

Emma crossed herself. “Will, stop that!” she demanded. “You come back here. Right now; I mean it.”

Will materialized with a childish snicker. Emma placed a hand upon her brow as if it might get away from her. She stared feverishly into mid-air; this was, all of it, quite beyond her capacity. She turned suddenly to the door.

“I need some coffee,” she said.

Xar called to her, “Wait. Take me.”

Emma paused uncertainly, then turned to Xar. Gently, she lifted her into cradling arms and walked absently from the room.

Xar sat on the dining room table watching Emma. A china cup was poised at the human's lips. It shook.

Emma, angered by her trembling, returned the cup to its saucer.

Xar offered, “If Will is to serve the Maker, he will need the Phrava.”

Emma replied, “It’s all too wonderful for me, dear.” She tried the cup again.

Xar said brightly, “Now Will can do many things: glamor, healing, truth . . .”

“Yes. Yes, I recall from the rising up.” Emma sipped from the china cup.

Xar concluded, “Will has become a special man.”

Emma set the cup in the saucer and sighed. “Indeed,” she said. “I am so very happy for him, it’s just that I feel so . . . unimportant now.”

“But, you’re not,” Xar replied. “He’ll need you more than ever.”

“Sweet child,” said Emma, “I know you’re only trying to offer some comfort, but I’m sure I’d only get in his way. Don’t you see?” Emma waved her hands about as she explained, “Now, he can do . . . whatever; he can have . . . whoever. What can I do? Nothing.” Emma tried to laugh, but it died in her throat. “I can’t even nag at him, now. He has God to show him the way.”

Xar insisted, “No, you’re wrong . . .” but, her words were waved aside. She paused but briefly, then pressed on. “My Zami knows the Phrava. He, too, has the instruction of the Maker, but Zami doesn’t know it all. I have much to teach him yet.”

Emma leaned her head dejectedly into one hand and sighed into her coffee. She closed her eyes and allowed the steam to caress her face. She said without looking up, “At the last, as Will and I sat before God, he told us exactly what must be. I heard it with my own ears; I saw it with my own eyes.” She fell silent as she recalled the image of her muddy demise.

Xar submitted, “Our minds are not a perfect course for the river of the Maker's thoughts. Sometimes there is too much water and the banks are obscured.”

Emma looked up and smiled at Xar's choice of wording; the irony was not lost on her.

She replied sadly, “I know that all too well. God knows I would never willingly abandon my man, but even if Will begged me continue, I cannot.” Emma stared into the cooling cup; she softly cleared her throat, and explained. “You see, child, the Lord told Will that before he could serve him, he would have to give me up. He told him he would have to sacrifice this mere worldly love. I have a job to do, as well, you see. God has shown me what I must do to help Will and because I love him, I can do no less.”

Emma looked up through burgeoning tears. “I must step aside, and let him pass.”

Xar had no answer, though she grieved for the human. Whatever the Maker had instructed Emma to do, that was the thing that Emma must do. Xar dared not tell her otherwise.

“Just jump,” said Tax to Tosh. “I’ll catch you.”

She closed her eyes. And stepped off. The blue dress billowed as she fell. Deftly, Tax reached up to pluck his love from her descent. Tosh opened her eyes and every care was swept aside by the gentle smile on the lips of her own. Without preamble, Tax marched toward the door, his prize held tight. Tosh lay her head upon his shoulder and was content; she was assured that Tax would fill every need.

Zami was left alone with Will; the human had been quietly observing the ceiling. Zami chafed at his lot and wished his wife would return. He wished that Emma would come again and relieve him of this duty. Tax had Tosh; Emma had Xar. All Zami had was Will. How boring!

Zami sat on the footboard where he had been left. He leaned his head into his hands and sighed heavily.

How long would Xar and Emma be away, he wondered? How long would he be stuck with Will?

Would the depressing storm ever end? Would he ever know his joining night?

“Hey, you . . .”

Zami peered up into startled blue eyes.

Will said, “I can’t move.”

Zami answered as a matter of fact, “You have a new mind.”

“I have a new hangover,” snorted Will. “I’ll never touch brandy agin.”

Since Zami had nothing better to do at the moment, he allowed the conversation to continue.

“You may find it difficult. Eventually, you will take control. What do you remember?”

“Nothin’. Look, how long y’ think I’ma be laid up?”

“What do I know of humans?”

“Well, this better not be permanent,” said Will. He smiled a painful smile. “I got a powerful unsocial itch.”

“I’m sorry. It may not be long. Perhaps you should sleep.”

“If I don’t git t’ scratch purty soon, I’ll die.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Friend,” said Will, “I don’t suppose I could git you t’ scratch for me . . .”

“Where?” asked Zami. “‘Tween m’ legs.”

“No. There, I must draw the line.”

“Damn!” said Will. “Well, don’t expect no Christmas gifts.”

Emma walked into the room bearing Xar in her arms. She placed her cargo on the floor and moved directly to Will's side. Will was exactly where she had left him, leaned against the headboard. His head was slumped forward as if he slept. She raised his head and saw his eyes look into hers. Thinking he might be somewhat improved, Emma dropped her hand from Will's chin. His head rolled helplessly forward. She looked again, only to discover that Will slept with his eyes open. She gently lowered his head and turned to Zami.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I caused him to sleep.”

“Why?” “He itched,” said Zami.

“Can you wake him?”

Zami jumped from the footboard and walked to the edge of the bed. On the way, he touched Will's leg and said, “For a while, Will shall know trouble, but, then he shall know himself, and all shall be well.”

Emma helped Zami to the floor and straightened. She had another question on the tip of her tongue when she felt Will's hand groped along her back. As she turned, his hand found and gripped her arm.

She was jostled as Will used her arm to pull his weight upright in bed. His chin rested on his chest.

Emma pulled up his head to look into his eyes and the head fell back. She took the head in both hands and held it up.

“Oh, Dear,” she moaned. “Will, speak to me.” She got no answer.

Gently, she laid Will's head forward. Will gripped her arm again and gestured with the other hand.

Emma tried, but failed to guess what he wanted. Will stomped the floor angrily. He pulled himself to his feet using Emma for balance. No word of comfort would keep him on the bed and alarmed as she was, Emma could not help but let him struggle, for struggle was hope.

Xar and Zami slipped quietly from the room.

Emma spoke encouragingly, but Will seemed only to become angrier at his inability. His head lolled as he moved, he could not lift it. He could neither see nor speak. He took tentative steps on trembling legs; Emma helped and as he turned and took another step, his head rolled back across his shoulder. Emma brought it forward, gently. When his head rolled back again, Emma took a better position, where Will's arm was about her waist, and her arm was about his shoulder. In that way, at least, his head was cradled in her arm and rolled less when he took another step. Emma looked into blind, pleading eyes.

“Dear me,” she said. “This will never do. Try holding your head up with your hands while I steady you from behind.”

Will was scared. His sight faded in and out; he still could not speak. The new arrangement, however, seemed to work. Will held, and pointed his head here and there. He took small, uncertain steps as Emma braced him from behind. Then a gurgled sound issued from his throat. It was a laugh. Then, Will's voice returned; his vision cleared, and he was able to drop his hands without his head falling. He turned his head and looked around.

“Let go,” he instructed Emma. She complied.

He took a few steps, and exulted, “I’m doin’ it!”

“Sure, and that’s good,” soothed Emma. “But, don’t you go getting wild, now.”

“No, look! I’m doin’ it! I’m . . .”

Will toppled back against Emma, and all of her strength could not hold the two of them up. They fell to the floor together. Emma wanted to cry; she pulled Will into her arms and hugged him desperately. Will gasped as if for air, and tried not to ball like a baby.

He said, “I’m sorry, Emma. Are you alright?”

“Now, don’t you fret, dear. I’m sure I’m just fine.”

Will clenched his fists before his face. “Damn!” he swore. “What the hell is wrong with me!?”

“Now, now,” she soothed.

Then, “Emma . . .”

“Yes, love.”

“. . . I’m scared,” said Will.

“There, now. There, now. I’m right here.” She held him tight.

Emma pressed her face into Will's stubby hair and fought back tears. She wondered how long Will's strange dilemma would last. Perhaps, she thought, until she did what she had to do. She felt his fear and her own. She foreknew the painful and inevitable severance. She could bear it no more; hot tears fell on Will's shoulder.

Will twisted to the left and then to the right but he could not see her face as he sat between Emma's outstretched legs.

“Emma. Emma, come around here. Let me hold y’.”

She slowly disentangled herself and scooted around. Will turned to receive her into his arms. They held onto each other, and the moment, in defiance of time, itself.

Then Emma excused herself and went to the bath to wash her face. While she was away, Will tried to pull himself up onto the bed, but it was an act of futility. Without the use of his legs, Will was stuck on the floor. All he had managed to accomplish was to move the bed from its place.

When Emma returned, he knew her disapproval in no uncertain terms. Will hated that she had to help him up into bed, but their combined efforts put him on his back and Emma fussed with the pillows. She covered him with blankets and sat by his side.

Emma sighed heavily and said, “Will, I’m sure it’s only temporary. After all, you’ve been chosen to serve the Lord. But, my heart aches to see you this way.”

Demoralized, Will admitted, “It don’t hurt none; don’t feel a thing.”

Emma placed a finger on Will's lips. She continued. “It’s getting late and much as I hate to leave, I must be off to town.”

“No . . .” Will fearfully pleaded. “Don’t go.” He took her hands into his.

“Now, don’t you be worrying,” she said with a quiet smile. She placed his hands upon his covered chest and gave them an affectionate pat. “I’ve been through worse storms than this. Rest yourself. Get your strength back.”

Will took Emma's hands back and squeezed them desperately, begging, “Please. Please don’t go.”

She pulled away. She stood and turned, wiping away tears and her reluctance to leave. She steadied her resolve and turned back to Will with a gentle smile.

She chided half-heartedly, “Now, you’re just being selfish. You’ve been given a great office. Oh, and it’s truly grand to serve the Lord as you’ve been called to do. All I have is this flood: to help those poor folk in town.”

“I ain’t sayin’ not t’ help; just wait, an’ let me go with y’.”

“There’s no telling how long you’ll be laid up. No, Will, you just rest. I’ll be back by morning.”

Will reached for her, but she took a step back. Will was not getting through to her; he clenched his fist and continued. “They got the whole town t’ look to. All I got is you.”

“Just you listen to your silly self. Why, to hear you tell it, you’d think me incompetent. I’ve cared for you, haven’t I? Drunk, bruised, ill-tempered, screaming out of your mind . . .”

“Yeah, but this is a flood.” “. . . three husbands, hundreds of slobbering cows, four unworldly children. I’ve been through a war, two prairie fires, an Indian attack, a stampede, a drought, and at least one other flood that I can recall.

So, don’t you worry about me, Will Witherspoon. I’ll do just fine. I’ll bet you’d never guess, but, I swam the Missouri once. I’m a good swimmer.”

Will answered, “Even the best swimmers need someone near at hand. I couldn’t lay hear thinkin’ you might be callin’ for help, an’ me unable t’ move my legs. Damn it, Emma. I just found y’. Don’t make me lose y’ to this flood.”

“Shush,” was Emma's soft reply.

“No. Don’t shush me. I ain’t goin’ nowhere without y’, an’ God knows it.”

Emma studied Will's teary blue eyes. There was much that she could say; reason was on her side, but all she could manage was the simple truth, “I love you.”

She sat on the bed, leaned over and pressed her lips against his. Will took her face into his hands. He answered without reservation.

“An’ I love you . . . a right smart.”

She took his hands and searched his face. She asked with a happy twinkle in her eyes, “Would you blush if I gave you a gift?”

“Depends on the gift,” he stammered, deprived of the argument.

“It’s a necklace.”

Will frowned in confusion. “A necklace?”

“Yes, and if you’ll let the blood back to my hands, I’ll show you.”

Will noticed how he held her hands and grudgingly let go. Emma walked to the vanity, opening the lowest drawer. She pulled from it a locked jewelry chest, rough and plain. She produced a key and Will could hear the sound of the lock turning beneath her hand.

Emma returned with two identical necklaces. One, she held out for Will, the second, she draped across

her leg. Will took the wondrously crafted necklace into his hand. A single, pale gem depended from a heavy silver chain, held in place by a three-pronged claw of gold. Will studied the superb workmanship.

“This would be,” he said as if groping for a memory, “what yer great grandpa passed down.”

“Yes,” she replied, with a happy smile. “You know. It’s good to have no secrets between us. I’ve never shared these with any of my husbands. Though I loved them dearly, something in my heart bade me wait. They’re faerie stones, or so I’m told, and the story goes that between these two stones, two hearts become one. I want you to wear one, and I the other.”

She paused to pull the second necklace over her head, then concluded, “We shall always be together, no matter where we are.”

Will had never considered wearing a necklace; it seemed a thing only a woman should do. He cocked an eyebrow and flatly asked, “You want me t’ wear a necklace?”

Emma answered with brave humility, “I know you will because you love me. Now, hold it in your fist and look inside. You’ll see that it’s no ordinary trinket.”

Will closed his fist around the stone; it felt warm. With one eye, he looked in through the opening between thumb and forefinger. After a moment, he saw a faint light emanating from the stone. He marveled.

Laughing, Will said, “I see a light. It ain’t much, but it’s there.”

“Here,” said Emma. She took the necklace and pulled the chain over his head. Lovingly, she tucked the gem beneath Will's one-sleeved shirt. “Never take it off,” she submitted. “Promise.”

“I promise.”

“And one more thing,” she said, stepping away from the bed.

“What?”

“I must leave.”

“No,” said Will, caught off-guard by the sudden turn in conversation. “Don’t.”

“If I stay any longer, I’ll cry.”

Will felt a lump form in his chest. He felt the chill of finality settle upon him. He could not get up to take her in his arms. All he could do was beg helplessly. “Don’t leave me,” he pleaded.

“I’ll be alright,” she insisted. Her words were boldly spoken, but she did not believe them.

Will grumped, “Yeah, if the bridge don’t wash out.”

“Then, I’ll swim back.”

“You’ll git wet.”

She turned in the doorway for one last look. “I love you, Will,” she said softly before leaving.

Will yelled at the closed door. He pleaded for her return. He screamed until his voice grew hoarse, beating his unfeeling legs with angry fists. He thrashed about in bed like a beast in a trap. He swatted burning tears from his face. Then, he prayed.

Chapter Fifty-Two Zami lay in Xar's fragrant embrace. She sighed deeply, being nearly asleep, and Zami kissed her sweet face once more. Then, he rolled his head to the side, closed his eyes, and drifted away on gentle waves of bliss. All was quiet, and still; there was only his impression of rolling waves to move him. He was on an ocean; a fine salt spray played across his skin. He saw it briefly in his mind's eye, and then it was gone. Xar turned in his arms, and her warm breath kissed his ear.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Although two doors and a wide hallway separated them, Zami's insulated, dreamlike bliss came crashing down, as Will, again, desperate and hoarse, began calling his name. The noise of the human had gone on and on at regular intervals throughout the night. At first, it kept all of them awake, then only himself. He had stared at the faraway ceiling and imagined things he might do to quiet the noisome wog. He might have acted on any one of his thoughts, but he dared not leave Xar's side. His thought was that if he simply waited, if he practiced just a little patience, all the noise would go away.

That never happened; Will was at it again. Zami tried not to hear the pleas; he had tried for most of the night, but his ears were filled with hoarse screaming. Then, another sound came to Zami's ears. It was a loud thud that vibrated through the wood of the house.

Xar whispered, “He’s fallen. Go to him.”

“No.” From the far side of the pillow that separated the two couples, Tax called out, “Please! Go. Put him to sleep.”

Zami rolled up on one elbow. Obviously, no one slept. His warm bliss had drifted away on the tide of tedious necessity.

Xar urged him sleepily, “Zami . . . he may be hurt.”

Tax added, “We’ll never get to sleep with that wog bellowing all night.”

Zami asked under his breath, “Giving up so soon?”

A soft, merry giggle wafted across the pillow to his ears. Lightning flashed and drove all darkness from the room. Low thunder rumbled from a distance. Zami sat up and stared morosely at the bedroom door.

At this particular moment, more than any other, Zami wished he had no ties to the human. Xar sat up behind him and draped herself over his shoulders like a loose, warm mantle.

She yawned, “I’ll go with you if you like.”

Zami grumped, “No. I’ll go alone.” Then he asked, “Will you be awake when I return?”

“Perhaps. No.” “I’ve been saving a secret all night,” said Zami, “waiting for the perfect moment.”

“Tell me now.”

“I cannot.”

Xar sighed. “Of course you can, Peck. Just open your mouth and say it.”

“No. You must be awake when I return.”

“So, wake me,” she whined.

“Be awake,” said Zami, “or you’ll never know.”

“Know what?”

Zami laughed at her sleepy attempt to outwit him. “You can find out when I return if you’re awake.”

Xar fell back with a moan. She said in a sleepy pout, “Don’t be mean. I can’t hold my eyes open. Is it worth staying awake for?”

Zami stood, and quickly donned his joining suit. He stepped to the edge of the bed and dropped lightly to the floor. He said as he walked through the lightning illuminated room, “It’s worth your weight in gold.”

The door to Emma's room was not completely closed. Zami peered through the opening and saw Will lying upon his back, on the floor. Zami set his shoulder to the door and pushed until it gave. He was able to move it just enough to allow entry. He squeezed through and walked to the human's head. Zami could not help but notice the tears that streamed down the side of Will's face.

He asked, “Are you hurt?”

The large head rolled to face him, and Zami felt pressed, somewhat, beneath the intent, moist glare of Will's large blue eyes. Will pleaded softly, and with some hoarseness.

“Zamani,” he whispered. “Help me; I can’t move my legs.”

Zami replied, “I cannot heal you. There is nothing wrong.”

Will's voice snarled in pained frustration, “What do y’ mean, there’s nothin’ wrong? I’m a cripple, for Christ's sake.”

Zami answered patiently, “That which needs to be done, you alone must do.”

Will slammed a knotted fist into the floor and shouted at the ceiling. “I don’t know what t’ do! I don’t . . .” he sobbed, “. . . know what t’ do. Emma’s in danger; she needs me, an’ look at me . . . I can’t move.”

Zami was moved by Will's love for Emma. He said, “Will, listen to me. You must go into your mind.

You must find that voice that commands your legs, and speak it. Only you can do this.”

“I can’t; I already tried.”

“Try again,” Zami insisted. “Find the voice.”

Will pleaded, “Where? Tell me where.”

“I don’t know, Will. Only you can find the voice.”

Will asked desperately, “But, how!?”

Zami took a breath and calmed himself. He instructed, “Call to the voice. It may be faint, but it will answer.”

Will croaked, “I need help, not advice.”

Zami clearly saw Will's distress. He was saddened by the man's predicament. He was grieved by the man's inability. It was all so simple! He wished there was something he could do, but there was precious little. Zami asked, “Can you see anything when you close your eyes?”

Will sighed angrily. “I don’t know . . . the inside o’ my eyelids?”

“If you choose not to see, what can I do?”

Will took a deep breath, and closed his eyes to try again. “Okay, okay,” he said. “Here goes. I . . . see a boat. I’m in a boat, an’ no matter how hard I pull, I can’t git t’ shore.”

Zami temporized, with a shrug, “Don’t go to shore. Go the other way.” Zami waited.

Will strained to see inside his mind, to hold the image of the boat. He labored to turn the boat around in his head. “It’s dark,” he said. “Cold. Everthin’ is strange.”

Zami said, “If you discover a thing, it is no longer strange.” Zami winced at the lameness of his words, but he hoped they might be of some use. At any rate, the human was trying. Zami raked his thoughts for words of comfort. He said, then, “Wherever you go, your own light and warmth go with you.”

Will rolled back his head, and clamped his eyes the more tightly shut. The human's efforts seemed monumental; Zami was impressed. It seemed as though Will might cry; his breath caught in his throat.

Will gasped repeatedly; his flesh trembled. Zami wished to spur him on; he wished there was something wise he might say to help the human succeed, but he found nothing in all his memory. He shook off the mounting tension.

Zami said to Will, at last, “I shall tell you one thing of which I am convinced. The Maker makes all things possible.”

Will relaxed, and turned to face Zami. He said, “Okay, little friend. No need t’ hang on; I’ll do what I can. I’ll just jump in m’ boat an’ keep on rowin’.” Will tried to smile, hoping it conveyed his thanks. “If I git anywhere, I’ll let y’ know.”

Zami left without another word. When he climbed up on the bed, he found Xar sitting, and fully dressed. She was wide awake, and sitting beside her were Tax and Tosh.

Zami asked, “Can none of you sleep.”

Tax answered, “How can we sleep with you talking of gold?”

Xar bounded to her feet; she stood before him and drilled him with anxious black eyes. “Have you discovered gold?” she asked. “Can we go home?”

Tax and Tosh stood nearby, smiling expectantly. Zami enjoyed having what they craved. How could he let such a moment of joy slip past him? An impish laugh tickled the back of his throat, seeking egress.

He relished the moment, drinking from their hopeful eyes as one burning with thirst.

He beamed capriciously, “I should let you guess, I think.”

Xar took his lapels into her hands and pulled him into her face. She said, “Don’t make me hurt you; give!”

Tax stepped in to pry Zami loose. He took hold of Zami's lapels and drew him down into his glowering face. He said, “Xar would never hurt you, but I just might. Tell all, and tell quickly, lest I snap you in half like the skinny slat that you are.”

Tosh squeezed in between them. She said, “Please, Zami, don’t make us beg.”

Zami had not lost his happiness. He knew Tax might beat him senseless, but he also knew that Tax would not risk the good news. Zami relished having what his dearest and nearest needed, and he had them right where he wanted them. He nodded to all, the bearer of glad tidings.

Zami smiled at his rapt audience, and quietly instructed, “Seat yourselves, and listen well.”

He sat on the broad expanse of the bed and folded his legs like a happy sage. So eager to hear the news were his friends, they all but sat on his lap. He looked into each face in turn, tweaking the suspense.

When at last, they seemed fit to explode, Zami delivered his news.

He said, “I saw it when we rose up with the humans. I’m surprised none of you saw it.”

“Saw what?” Tax demanded.

“The place of hidden gold - in the man's mind.”

“I saw nothing in the man's mind,” said Tax. “Nor I,” agreed Tosh.

Zami asked, “Do you remember the mists, those great grey voids?”

Xar clarified, “That was when he drank.”

Tosh added, “There were so many!”

“Yes,” Zami agreed happily, “but, did none of you bother to look within?”

“I thought I saw . . . something,” Tosh answered, “but, I couldn’t understand. I got dizzy and gave up.”

Zami bragged, “Well, I did not give up. Dim though they were, I saw his thoughts. I saw his forgotten memories.”

“Short version,” demanded Tax. “Where’s the gold?”

Zami answered, “Between two rocks.”

Reaching faces went slack; eyes widened in disbelief. This was not what Zami had hoped for. Instead of delight, there was dismay. There was a stunned silence that begged redemption.

Zami quickly amended, “Well, I didn’t see it all, but I do know that he hid gold near his dwelling, between two rocks.”

Tax railed, “That could be anywhere! This whole wretched world is littered with rocks!”

Zami stared into three disgruntled faces and sighed. His gift had not been well received. Perhaps he had not presented it with enough conviction. Oh, well!

Zami shrugged and spread his hands. “We know where to start.”

Xar brightened like a snapping ember. She turned to Tosh and Tax with a determination that was riveting. “He’s right,” she proclaimed boldly. “We know where to start, and home calls to me. Should we give up before we’ve even tried?”

Tax looked into Xar's burning black eyes and found encouragement. “Right,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

On a whim, Zami asked, “Will the mighty Tax brave the pounding rain?”

Tax sat back on his hands as if slapped. “Good point,” he faltered.

Tosh suggested, “We should wait for the rain to end.”

Tax agreed. “Yeah. Maybe, it’ll be done by morning.”

Zami added, “And Emma will feed us: we can begin the adventure refreshed.”

Xar startled them when she adamantly stated, “No. I will not wait. Neither will I eat or sleep until I find that gold.” She speared Tax and Zami with accusing eyes. “You and Tax may cower behind these walls, but I shall not. I’m not afraid, and I’m sure Tosh will go along. We’re not frightened boys.”

Tosh looked up startled. She wanted to say “Actually, I am frightened,” but for the sake of friendship, she managed to agree. “I’ll go,” she said without conviction.

The rain was heavy, each big drop. The wind could blow them all away. The lightning could easily transform them into four sizzling Shee. However, no amount of argument altered Xar's intent, nor that of the more timid Tosh, who had been emboldened by Xar's blossoming fire. In the end, there was nothing for Tax and Zami to do but to agree, and go along. They donned their silver suits and placed the suits of joining over them in hopes of keeping the machinery dry. Each of them fashioned a small bag to hold the pells they planned to find. Tax used his spear to break the glass window left of the front door. While Tax worked to remove the shards, Zami cut four broad leaves from the indoor plant which they had climbed to reach the window. Holding the leaves above their heads, they leapt into the driving rain and pressed toward the cabin.

The wind and the rain made travel a grueling chore. Their leaves offered scant protection; their silver suits absorbed the cold and made them tremble terribly. They reached the southern hill of the Witherspoon property. They looked up and perceived the maple trees that stood sentinel. It was the first landmark on their arduous adventure, and their hearts rejoiced to know they had gotten that far.

Climbing the hill had proved exhausting. The violent wind, shrieking and laughing in their ears, had ripped away the protection of the leaves. It ripped away the complaints from their lips and left them humbled. They huddled and groped, taking hold of anything they could find to pull themselves forward. The lightning startled them; the pounding thunder frightened them. They were out in the middle of the storm, and there was nothing left but to press on.

Below the hill, Zami turned his miserable troop west, into the mountain and its thick mantle of conifers.

From there, they turned north again. They struggled over roots; they hacked a path through dense undergrowth. In the pine forest, there were more solid handholds, therefore the going was somewhat improved. They were able to seek respite behind the towering trees. The march to Will's cabin seemed endless, yet, no one complained. No one fell behind. Zami's heart was gladdened by the courage of his wife, and friends. Against such overwhelming odds, they persevered. They marched on and on, shoulders into the wind. Courage and tenacity held them together in their desperate hour. They focused not on their discomfort, but simply on putting one foot in front of the other. Then at last, weak and spent, they came to Will's barn. They gratefully tumbled into the protection of it.

No sooner did Emma wipe the rain from her eyes than they filled again. Her hat had been borne away on the wind, and now, her hair lay in plastered knots across her face. She felt another sandbag being pressed into her hands and blindly accepted it. She fell forward, and placed it soundly, if not awkwardly, in the side of the levy. She had no time for physical grace; slick mud and pummeling rain demanded lean action. She gave no place to hope; that was a luxury she could ill afford. She stood as one among the press, and all worked tirelessly against time, and rising ruin. Each one of them fought

bravely to save their town, and their homes, all too aware of the muddy water that lapped at the top of the levy, and ran down through their coats.

Against the roar of rain and thunder, words were useless, but the work went on, as it had for hours, dogged and desperate. They flew at the dark enemy, placing sandbag after sandbag. Neighbors toppled over one another in their rush to stay the rising tide. Bruised and bruising bodies had moved against Emma, sometimes over, sometimes under. The pressure was frantic, a madness illuminated by fiery arrows from an angry god. It was too little, too late, but though the levy was a pitiful and hasty construction, it was all that Evanston had.

Everyone Emma knew was there, lined along the levy, belaboring a silent panic. At first, Emma had been wedged between the pastor and the sheriff; now, she worked elbow to elbow with saloon girls. For a brief time, she had worked beside the youngest Evans. Mud was in her mouth, and the painful ache of storm burned inside her ears. She fell with another bag and struggled to her knees. She turned for another bag and found the Doctor in her face. He gripped his collar and hat tenaciously, and Emma leaned close to hear his shouted words.

“Come with me!”

“What?”

“Come with me!”

He gripped her arm with a strength that surprised her and led her out of the press. Wind buffeted them, ankle-deep water fought their steps; the storm whipped them mercilessly so that they could not look ahead of themselves. Their slow trek brought them, at last, to the church, a hasty haven for the wounded. Though glad to be indoors, Emma was immediately saddened to see so many hurt. Ida Breckne and young Cathy Stark were making broad, slow circuits among the pews, attempting to comfort. Some had fallen with broken bones, while others had simply fallen from exhaustion. A fearful sobbing filled the room.

The Doctor quickly threw off his slicker and hat. “Help me!” he commanded.

For the next hour and a half, Emma helped the Doctor in his rounds. There were three broken bones, several rather large open wounds, and one corneal laceration. Cases of exhaustion were delegated to Ida and Cathy. Doc Herschel kept Emma close. She presented herself wet and cold, and the best she could do was to wipe the hair from her face. Her mind was blank; all of it seemed like a long, long dream. As she helped with a concussion, the double doors flew open. New cases were led in and placed in pews.

The last to enter was Ned Burtram, Hank's older brother. He bore a deep and lengthy gash upon his left leg.

In the lull that followed, Emma sank, exhausted, into a front pew. She accepted a cup of coffee from Ida, quietly thanking her. It was thin and tasteless, but the heat of it pleased her. She looked longingly at the simple cross on the back wall and did not notice when the Doctor slipped into the seat beside her.

The Doctor whispered, “You do good work.”

Startled, Emma replied, “Oh. Thanks.”

“Give any thought to my suggestion? I could surely use a good nurse.”

A nervous laugh slipped past her lips. An awkward silence followed. She answered, “I’m no spring chicken, Doc, but your offer is kind. I’ll not take it casually.”

Doctor Herschel opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again, as the double doors burst open. Sheriff Hurt stomped into the church, with the gale at a respectful distance. He marched down the aisle tossing rapid instructions over his shoulders to four burly men. Like the gears of a well-oiled machine, the four men walked among the pews, lifting patients and walking out with them. The sheriff splashed forward through half an inch of standing flood water.

“Doc!” he bellowed. “Oh, there you are. We got to move. Now.” Standing, the Doctor commented mildly, “I take it the situation hasn’t improved.”

“You got that right. I want everyone on the hill, and I don’t mean day after tomorrow.”

Emma asked, “How bad is it?”

The sheriff removed his sodden hat and slapped his leg with it angrily. He growled, “Walks are pullin’ free, foundations are slippin’ . . . I got kids stuck on the top floor of the orphanage. Damn! If I just had a boat!”

Having thoroughly explored the barn while their suits dried, Zami, Tax, Tosh, and Xar sat in a tight circle, assessing the situation. The floor of the barn was damp, but not wet. It was very dark; they had trouble seeing one another.

Zami said, “I don’t think that all of us should search. The storm is still fierce.” As if to add emphasis to his words, lightning illuminated the barn with a burning white flash, and the crack of thunder that followed brought loose hay from the shabby loft overhead. “Only one of us need go. Since I got us stuck here, it is my place to get us back.”

Xar refused emphatically. “No. I’m looking too.”

Zami flatly protested, “You are not.”

“I am most determined,” she answered adamantly. “Home calls to me. I will go.”

Zami irritably shouted his reply. “Did our little walk here teach you nothing? How many times did I have to stop and pick you up? How many times did I take your hand to keep you from slipping?”

“If you did not enjoy the help due your mate,” she snapped, “you should have gone on without me.” A burning gap grew between Zami and Xar. Tax quipped, “Hey, isn’t it written somewhere that wives must be obedient?”

Tosh said to him, “Oh . . . shut up.”

Tax suggested, “Listen, all of you are lightweights. I am least likely to be carried off by the wind.”

“But, you can’t do it alone,” said Tosh. “This land is filled with rocks. How fast can only one of us find gold?”

Tax agreed. “Right. I think Zami and I should take turns.”

“Good,” said Zami. “Now that it’s settled . . .”

“Nothing is settled,” Xar argued. “Four can do more than two.”

Zami jumped to his feet and shouted. “Argh! Xar, think! None of you do that well with water. Have you forgotten the pond?”

Xar said, “Look at me; I’m wet. I don’t see how I can get much wetter.”

Tax stood beside Zami and rested a heavy forearm on his bony shoulder. He said, “You girls do us a great disservice. As your husbands, we wish only to protect you. Don’t break our hearts. Leave us the dignity of our devotion.”

Tosh answered, “Eloquent but lame.”

Xar stood and proclaimed, “I’m going, and no one can stop me.”

Tosh stood and held Xar's hand. “If Xar goes, I go,” she announced.

Silence fell upon the circle of four. Tax’ simple speech had touched the girls, but they could not, at the moment, show it; they had to have a place in the greater scheme of things. Boys looked at girls; girls looked at boys, and in the glare of sudden lightning, wives glowered at husbands. Thunder voiced the frustration that Zami and Tax felt.

Squinting up through the darkness, Tosh recited the joining pledge to Tax. “One heart, one life.”

Xar repeated the pledge for Zami. “One heart, one life.”

Tax threw his hands to the rafters. He turned in a circle, not knowing in which direction he might best point a husband's frustrated will. He turned to Zami and said, “Put them to sleep.”

“I should,” agreed Zami.

Xar took a belligerent stance. “Try it,” she dared, “but remember, I share your mind. In fact, I don’t think you can.”

Zami turned away and threw up his hands. “This has gone too far,” he said. “We are not competing; this is not a game. We are not here to see which of us can face the greatest danger.”

Xar would not back down. “Go ahead; put us to sleep. It’s the only way we’ll be left behind.”

Zami could not see any good in exposing Xar to more distress and danger. He had gone beyond mere frustration to red rage. His anger spilled up his throat like a bad taste. It pulsed in the fists he held before his stony face. He turned, and turned again, having nowhere to turn.

Tax said, “Do ‘em. Do ‘em” Zami took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He closed his eyes, seeking calm. He turned and jabbed the finger of his mind toward the girls, and commanded them to sleep. They stood with open eyes. He spoke the word of power; they remained standing. Having failed, all Zami had left to him was the shout of total consternation. As the unlikely victory dawned upon Xar and Tosh, they turned to one another and shared the triumph in their usual manner: hopping and giggling.

Tax gaped in utter disbelief. He fell against an overlarge support of rough, grey wood, and threw an arm across his eyes in honest horror. He croaked, “If we cannot command our own wives, how can we face the Shee?”

Xar stepped forward to answer, “You should not seek to command; that is for brags and spunkies. We are not something other, at some place apart. We are part of you.”

Tosh pulled Tax into her arms and added to Xar's declaration. “If you want us to believe that you really love us, then share. Share everything.”

Zami looked into the adamant face of his wife, with admiration. He truly did love her, and he realized that he must obey all the laws of love. Xar had spoken boldly; everything she had told him was true. He could feel the truth of it. Her defense of the truth was admirable, and he could not help but smile.

He said, “I think we should leave our suits here while we search.”

Chapter Fifty-Three

Will followed a plain, broad path; his new mind scared him but he pressed on. His heart was screaming at him. Get your legs, it said, save Emma! He was afloat above the path; he moved easily along the way. It was a beautiful, frightening mental conduit of nothingness that reasoned with the older Will.

Stay, it reasoned; rest, it said. Why the effort? The voice of reason scared him, for it commanded him not to try. It offended him, for it told him that Emma would be fine without him. Will hated the voice.

Emma was in danger. He took the voice in his hands and squeezed. He choked the throat of it until he had wrung the last drop of life from it. He threw it at his feet and looked up. There, he saw what he presumed to be his soul. He could make neither heads nor tails of the creature but Will felt certain it would be of more help than the inner voice.

He reached; he grasped firmly; he hauled himself up and out of his mind. At once, he found himself before the panorama of blue sky and marching clouds. With a shudder, he thought the nothingness of his older self not so scary, after all.

A gracious, quiet voice thundered through his being, tender in its inquiry. “Have you done nothing of which I commanded you to do?”

Will realized that he had failed not himself, not Emma, but God. He fell on his face. He trembled uncontrollably. That was the story of his life: he had never taken the steps he needed to take. He had always been a day late and a dollar short. Now, he felt about as low as a man could get. He hated himself. He deserved whatever was to come, and as awful as it was to imagine that God could grind him to powder, God was and always would be a righteous God. Will could see it no other way; in his heart, he knew that God could do no wrong.

The gentle voice shook him a second time. “Your new mind scares you.”

“Y . . . yes, Lord.”

“Let this encourage you. I have given you a mind that will not permit you to fail me. All that you need to serve me, I have freely given. Look within.”

Will cautiously complained, “But . . . I can’t move my legs . . .”

“Your legs will move.”

“But, how?” pressed Will. “I don’t understand . . .”

“Faith, Will; faith will move your legs. Now, hear me, for I shall not speak with you again until I speak with you face to face in my new world. I will bring this valley down, and I will cause the mountain to fall in upon itself. Go quickly to the cave that is south of you and go between the stones.”

Will raised his face to the sky. He pushed tears aside, and asked, “But, what about Emma, Lord? I love her.”

The voice flashed like a hot bolt; the thunder of it threw him back. “I have put her life in your hands.”

Will blinked and the sky turned to muddy rage. He saw Main Street flooded; he saw Emma and the Doctor, Ned Burtram between them. They pressed against the current as they followed others toward Evans Hill. The torrent, like a snake, snapped at their heels. Each step was taken with painfully exaggerated care. Emma looked up; Will could see the horror in her eyes as a wall of muddy water and sandbags struck the three of them like a fist. They were driven into the post and railing that fronted the jail. Emma wrapped one arm around the failing post; with her free hand, she held tenaciously to the Doctor's vest. She struggled to keep her head above water.

“No!” cried Will. The vision was gone.

He found himself on the floor in Emma's bedroom. He thrashed wildly with all four limbs. It took but a moment to find his feet and Will was off and running. He slammed through the door to the other room and donned the long coat and hat. He raced down the stairs, through the kitchen and out into the rain.

The barn doors stood open. His boots flew from beneath him; he hit the dark interior in a bone-jarring slide. He heard the shuffle and snort of spooked horses in their stalls. Which horse really didn’t matter; Will took the first one he came to, threw himself on its bareback and kicked it to a frantic gallop. He headed for the bridge.

One hand locked in the tangled mane, the other hand holding his hat upon his head, Will bared his teeth into the pounding rain. He pushed his mount for all its speed. The cold, dismal light of dawn was barely detectable when Will pulled up just short of the bridge. His mount danced apprehensively in the frothing flood. Muddy waters covered the road, churning dangerously high. The muddy swell beat vehemently against the north face of the bridge, tossing a great wall of gray foam high above the failing roof. Will studied the water that ran through the bridge and gauged the eastern exit. It was high, and the current perilously swift, but he was game for the effort. He had to reach Emma.

The horse reared in fright, turned to flee as a terrible grinding noise accosted Will's rain-battered ears.

He turned the horse back around to look. What he saw was disturbing. As he steadied his mount, the west end of the bridge pulled free. It swung south with the torrent, disappearing beneath the spray.

Simultaneously, the east end lifted toward Will. It stood on end for one unbelievable heartbeat and was instantly sucked into the gnashing maw of the raging river. Before Will's eyes, a whole covered bridge was horribly chewed into a thousand useless pieces.

“Damn!” shouted Will, barely hearing the sound of his voice over the roar of the river. “Damn! Damn!

Damn!”

He turned and drove the horse north, merciless in his urgency. The beating in his chest hurt. It was like the second hand in a large brass clock. He cut through shallower waters; he made for the pond on his property. His land was higher than Evanston and more northerly than Evans Hill. There was a small rowboat tied there; that boat would be his ticket to town. He kicked for speed, veering toward his cabin, then turning north again at the shallow bend in the creek.

The pond was a small lake; it was badly swollen. The old tree, to which the boat was tied, stood far out from solid ground. He eased the reluctant animal toward the tree, but its instinctual fear held him back.

Time was running out. He slid from the horses back and released it. As the animal turned back to land, Will was drawn under. He surfaced, paddled, turned and looked. There was the boat just a few feet from him. It was capsized. Will unsheathed his Bowie and cut the rope. Panic pulled the little boat. Will could still see the images of Emma's plight; they had been burned upon his mind's eye.

Having righted the boat, Will rolled his hat into a pocket inside his coat. There was no time to lose; he raced to save the life of someone precious. With desperate strength, Will heaved the boat over his head and ran for the river. His best hope lay in being far enough north for the current to carry him over to Evans Hill. He ran hard and steady, knowing what he must do. He played out the scenario in his head again and again. The single oar in the small boat offered little advantage, but he could use it like a rudder to face forward. His greatest fear was coming ashore south of town. If he could just make it to Evans Hill, from there, he might use the storefronts for handholds as he sought out and sundered his love from the greedy swell. He had run as far as he dared; he stopped at the swirling brink of mayhem to catch his breath. He gulped air through the driving rain. His body cramped from exertion, but his heart hurt more. No time, no time, he told himself.

He cast the boat out into the mad river, threw himself inside and groped for the oar. He yanked it from its place and thrust it into the raging, muddy beast. The rain hammered him. It numbed his senses and pooled in the boat. Will could only hope, now - hope that his course was true, hope that his boat did not flounder and sink. He looked into the rain for any sign of orientation; he beat his oar against the might of the flood.

Like an open hand, the frigid limbs of a leafless tree appeared from the unrelenting gray wall and slapped his floundering craft. Sharp branches raked Will's face, first one limb, then another as Will fought to keep control. For one breathless moment, Will lost all bearing. His boat turned in the swell, threatened to go under. Will plowed the current with his oar. He saw the great scary tree sink silently to his right, like a ghost slipping back into the grave. Will knew then that his bearing was true. He was happy, but his struggle was far from over. He gasped for air, got rainwater instead; his chest ached savagely. His small craft was quickly filling with water and his course threatened more of the same.

The gray downpour pressed him into the river.

To his soul's delight, Will noticed a darker shade of gray. It was up ahead; it was, in fact, the hulking knob of Evans Hill, beckoning through the gray wall of rain. He could not make out the house but he saw faint, wavering spots that might be windows. He fought his way toward the hill; shapes became clearer and Will detected movement. Will laughed into the shroud of rain; he was that much closer to Emma.

He cared not that the rain ran down his throat. He would soon be with the woman he loved. The craft banged into the hill; Will pulled it to ground and laid it over. Before him, now, was the camp of the townsfolk. They hunkered from the rain in tattered flapping tents, no more than rags on poles. Some of them did not have that much; they huddled in the pouring rain, forlornly watching their livelihoods wash away. Will wondered why Evans House had not allowed them in.

Will ran among the sodden townsfolk, through the abating rain, calling Emma's name. He dared to hope. Beneath hastily erected shelters, he passed through the midst of scared, wounded, and crying survivors. They had their own problems; they hardly heard him above the rain. Will spied Emma's preacher, soaked and shivering, as he doled out what comforts he had. The preacher had been among the mob that laughed him from his soapbox, and while he himself had not laughed, Will recalled the embarrassed pinching of his face. The preacher stood up from a trembling couple and Will pulled him around by the shoulder. His eyes were hollow, lost.

Will shouted, “Have you seen Emma?�

The short man seemed somewhat more diminished by the flood. He pointed a heavy hand toward a larger huddle further down the hill. Will narrowed his eyes in that direction. He made out several men standing at the edge of the water. They busied themselves hauling a wagon up from the flood. The wheels had been removed to make a raft of it. Will stumbled into the larger camp; he inquired of each wretch he passed. He got blank looks, listless shrugs, and cold indifference. No one had seen Emma.

Will paused to watch the wounded being carried up from the wagon. Those who were hurt were carried up the hill; those who were dead were laid beside other corpses. Will noticed there were no sheets to cover the dead. It was then that he heard the wailing of mourners. He had been caught up in his own dilemma, too caught up to see the tribulation of the town. Now that he saw it, he felt for them. The wounded, the dead, the cowering survivors littered Evans Hill. A knot formed in Will's stomach as he pushed through the keening crowd.

He spotted the broad shoulders of Tooley Cox, a railroad man, and occasional customer. Tooley had sought him out when the duties of being a father and husband had threatened to overwhelm. Will listened to his complaints and sold him whiskey. He saw him, now, as a smaller man, bedraggled and hunkering in a lean-to. Will moved to face him and stopped cold. Will fell to his knees beside the whimpering man; he was stunned to see the corpse of Tooley's twelve-year-old son, Timmy. Tooley

clutched the small body in a bear grip of wordless grief. Timmy's skin was unnervingly still and white; his open eyes saw nothing. Tooley turned his slack face up to Will.

“Gone . . . gone . . .” moaned Tooley.

Will wanted to cry. He knew Timmy to be a good boy, sweet-tempered, gentle and honest. It broke Will's heart to see him so cold and white. He stretched out a trembling hand to smooth back the hair from Timmy's face and close the wide, empty eyes. Poor Timmy! If he was a better man, he thought, he might be able to comfort this grieving father. But, what could he do or say to ease Tooley's pain? What could he offer to fill the void? Nothing, that’s what. Will pulled a heavy hand across his face and stood to leave.

Will found the sheriff sitting morosely on the planks of a makeshift raft. His face was gaunt, his expression hollow. Like the others, sheriff Hurt had difficulty answering. It was as if Will's questions brought them back to themselves, to the very place they did not want to be. Will gripped the big man's shoulders and shook him. He had to repeat the question.

“Hurt,” he asked, “Where’s Emma?”

The tired man behind the badge looked slowly up. His eyes took a moment longer to focus. He shrugged an apology, and said, “Behind me when the levee broke . . . Doc and Ned . . . I’m sorry.”

Will had wasted too much time; his course lay down-current. Will ran back to his boat; he prayed in his heart for Emma's safety. He prayed hard as the current took him. The river cast him at ripped buildings, at structures bent and swaying. As his small craft settled into the middle of the flood, Will heard from behind him a man shouting from the hill. It was Tooley.

“He’s alive!” Tooley shouted. “He’s alive!”

Although the rain had lessened considerably, the flood, unabated, raged on. Will's small boat turned in the current without control. He spun madly, then slammed into the groaning wreck of the old church. It was there that Will lost the boat. It was sucked out from under him. Will found himself dropping down Main Street with nothing more than a piece of church wall to stay the breach between life and death.

Muddy water filled his throat.

He gripped his portion of the church, hoping to remain upright; the angry river hurled him past the unfinished courthouse, then punched him through the north corner of the jail. That same corner was swept along beside him, it hammered him brutally when he fell into the brick edifice of the bank. The saloon flashed by – in halves. Gagging on muddy water, Will sought purchase among the detritus. He clawed and scratched a route along the surface, all while the black clouds of unconsciousness thundered at the outer edges of his perception.

A roughly vertical post came into view; Will took it. He reached with both arms and hugged it to him with desperate strength. Sputtering, he pulled himself to the top balcony of Ferguson's Feed and Grain, now but two feet above the swell. The balcony rippled from the force of the current beneath it. He was glad to share his rippling raft with a scared, wet gopher rat.

He spit mud from his mouth and stood to get his bearings. The balcony, suspended by its northern brace, bobbed dangerously on the flood. Across the way, Will could see the roof of the school. A

gnarled, ancient oak leaned away from the school, reaching for the orphanage nearby. It came quite close. There stood one matron and five clinging children on the roof of the orphanage. Emma stood in the boughs of the oak. Having advanced as far as possible, she was still unable to reach across.

She reached into the boughs above her head, seeking a way to leap from the tree to the roof. Will had just focused his eyes on her; he had just filled his lungs to call her name when the orphanage collapsed.

The roof spun away into the froth with a sickening silence. The matron reached to embrace her charge and they were gone. The corner of the roof went down and five small, wide-eyed faces disappeared.

What was left, splintered away. The roof of the school followed next, struck the tree and passed around on either side. Only the great old oak was left.

Emma watched the roof vanish. One good woman and five dear children died before her eyes. She felt the tree quake and watched the school roof follow down the river. It was all too much. Why must the innocent die? She turned her face into the pouring rain and vented all the anger and frustration of wasted life.

Will called to her. “Emma! Emma!”

She turned to find the voice that called her name. Her foot slipped.

He called in alarm, gripping a section of balcony railing, “Emma!”

She wrapped her arms around the thick limb, steadied herself. She wiped the hair from her face and looked through the rain to see Will on the balcony of the feed and grain. She wasn’t at all surprised.

Just one more thing to tick her off! Why did he have to come? She did not want to see him drown, too.

Will shouted, “Hang on, Emma. I’m comin’ over.”

“No!” she called above the roar of churning water. “You old fool.”

“Stay put,” Will instructed, seeking a way across.

Emma pleaded through a sudden lull,“Will, you’ve got a mission. I’ll be in the way. Remember the vision. There has to be a sacrifice. That’s the only way you can go on: if I die.”

Will answered, “Damn if that’s true! I love you, Emma. I ain’t goin’ nowhere without y’.”

She knew there was no arguing. Will would try to get across and die in the attempt. Emma could not bear to see him swallowed by the flood. She would have to jump before he could think of a plan; she would have to jump before he could collect himself enough to jump in after her. She had to do it – to save him. She shifted her weight; the current raged below her feet; Will seemed ready to jump. She had to distract him.

Emma shouted over returning rain, “You knot-headed old man. Even if you get across, just where do you think we’ll be going from here?”

“You might have a point,” he answered, stepping back for a running start. “But, it sounds like more naggin’ to me.”

“At least find some rope,” Emma shouted He snapped his fingers and spun on his heels; he could search the top floor of the feed and grain but he had to be quick.

A dark whisper gripped his heart. It ran through him like a cold fire, saying, “I love you, Will.”

Fearfully, he wheeled. Lightning seared the air just above him; thunder shook his bones. With hot white clarity, Will saw the very thing he feared the most. Crouching on the limb, Emma stepped into the swell and vanished.

Wailing to match the thunder, Will bolted to the end of the balcony and took flight. Maddened heartbeats seemed eternities long; the brassy bile of failure burned his throat. The angry river took him with a slap that filled his mouth with cold mud. It stopped his ears and scrubbed his eyes. Blind and desperate, Will clawed his way into the flood. He kicked with his legs, he reached with his arms, he groped with his hands, and he forced the pain in his lungs to a back shelf in an unsuspected closet of his mind.

The soul-deep roar of the river shook his bones, addled his brain. He was held in a thick brown tumult while fear pushed him relentlessly forward. It was not the fear that one feels for oneself; it was the fear of failing someone cherished and dear. Will feared for Emma. Every second, every heartbeat mattered painfully. His body screamed for air.

Then the miracle happened. It was a miracle beyond the telling. Although his senses failed him, he knew in his heart that he held Emma in his arms. He hugged her tightly to him and kicked hard for life.

He kicked and kicked and the rest followed quickly. Will did not think; there was no time for that. Will simply did what there was to do. That, too, seemed miraculous to Will as he broke the surface of the flood and gulped sweet air. He loosed himself from its cold grip and brought Emma's head above the water.

Finding a willow root in his hand, Will thankfully crawled up from the surging mud, drawing his love from death's maw one weary foot at a time. Lightning scorched the sky, thunder rocked the earth but Emma lay before him like cold white marble. Will drew her up into his arms, staggered to the cave and fell.

He prayed a ragged prayer. “Please, God . . . let her live . . . let her live.”

Will gave no thought to the rekindled fury of the storm, nor to the fateful course that brought him precisely to the cave. Mind and heart bent to one clear and critical point: Emma must live. He had come so very close to pushing her away, to leaving her, to losing her. It could have happened so easily but Will was thankful it did not. Instead, Will had discovered a love that was deeper than the flood, a need that burned hotter than any bolt from heaven. If Emma died now, how could he live? He knelt beside her, placed her head gingerly upon his lap. He desired Emma's life more than his own, and his ragged prayer became a desperate chant.

“Let her live let her live let her live . . .”

A sudden spewing of water from Emma's lungs brought a joyous smile to Will's haggard face. He raked the tears from his eyes, happy to see her returning rose. She rolled to her hands and knees. She

wretched painfully as Will held her, loudly gasping. Like a thousand burning brands, thanksgiving sprang from his heart. He relished the life that coursed through his love as Emma fell back against him and wrestled the darkness to make sense of it all. Will could feel her confusion; Emma turned to face him and fell into his arms and drank of his comfort. She squeezed him into her bosom as if she would never let him go. To be alive, to be together: that was cause for joy.

He whispered in her ear, “We have to go.”

The earth shook beneath them, dislodged dust rained down in the cave. On the ledge, behind Will, Emma spied the bundled gun and fiddle. Reaching with the swiftness of instinct, she took it in a tightfisted grip, even as Will was pulling her to her feet. Will clutched Emma's hand and pulled her through the lightless cave, taking a course that memory alone dictated. The vibrations of the violent earth moved up through their feet to their knees.

Behind them, stalactites broke free from the high vaults and fell with an ominous, nearly continuous roar. Will and Emma raced through the darkness. Ahead of them, a pool stood out against the hard black mask of doom. It seemed to faintly glow. On an island at the pool's center, four black pillars rose up through a mist.

Leaping, Will and Emma landed, with a splash, at the edge of the rocky mound. Behind them, the ceiling fell in. They scurried up the hill and threw themselves between the stones. The roar of the collapsing cave ended. Silence cuffed their ears. Emptiness bathed them in pastel grays. Doom, like wild snapping dogs at their heels, had suddenly vanished. It no longer existed. In fact, nothing existed.

Then, they fell to the ground in a painful heap. Like the bright and timeless flash of inspiration, a new and solid reality materialized. It knocked the wind from them. Will saw taunting desert sand; he reached for Emma and lost consciousness.

Chapter Fifty-Four Zami found the gold. Heavy rain had beaten the girls into a state of exhaustion; only he and Tax remained to search. As Tax combed the grounds west of the dwelling – his progress dogged and methodical – Zami also flagged. He climbed beneath the cover of the well for shelter; he shivered on the precipice of a black descent. He held and rubbed his arms; he rocked to and fro. He stared morosely into the lightless shaft. In the opposing wall, just below the edge, Zami noticed that a stone was missing. From the void issued a leather strap. And so it was that Zami found the gold.

He lay on his stomach, groping for the dark cache. It was just beyond his reach.

His large friend came to mind but Zami could not call out above the din of rain.

Just where, behind the dwelling, Tax might be, he could not hazard a guess.

Rather than hunt his friend, Zami doubled his effort to reach the gold. He balanced on the bones of his hips, teetering dangerously, and stretched out his arms. The strap came into his grip, but in reaching it, he had tipped too far

forward. The weight of his legs was no longer sufficient to balance him on the edge of the well.

He slipped into the well and was forced balance his entire weight on the palms of his hands. He should have sought his friend. Now it was too late; he would have kicked himself but he was in no position for that. He attempted to push himself back up; two problems were immediately obvious. One: his arms were not long enough. Two: the inside of the well was slippery; when he pushed himself up, he slid back down. All that he was able to do was keep from falling all the way in.

Where was Tax when you needed him!?

“Now, don’t you look ridiculous?” quipped Tax. His sudden appearance startled Zami but he was grateful Tax was there. “Do you think you might lend a hand?” asked Zami.

Tax leaned over the edge with a smile. “I can lend two,” he answered. “I just wish to savor the moment.”

Zami spoke in frustration. “If you let me fall, the gold will fall, too.”

“Well now, Why didn’t you say so?”

Tax grabbed Zami by the heels and hauled him straight up. Then, he took the strap from Zami's strained hand and lifted it with his free arm. The old pouch was large and heavy but Tax pulled it up with ease. Zami rolled away from the edge; Tax sat facing him and placed the bag between them. Zami opened the bag and Tax scooped out a small nugget of gold. Its brightness was stark against the dismal dawn.

Upon examination, some of the gold seemed too small for use, while other pieces seemed overlarge but it was gold and their boyish laughter echoed down the shaft of the well. Home was at hand – home and family. They would make the large gold fit. They would saw, chip, hack, and melt - whatever it took. Home was so close they could taste it. Vigor renewed, Tax and Zami jumped from the well and headed for the barn. Tax towed the gold, while Zami walked with unmasked excitement beside his friend.

Tax bellowed in the open doorway, “Rise up, you loafers! Tax brings you gold!”

Tosh flew to the arms of her husband. “Oh, Tax!” she cried out. “I thought you would never return. The rain . . .”

“But, I did. How could I not?” “. . . and you found the gold.”

“With a little help from my friend,” said Tax, turning to place a large hand on

Zami's shoulder.

Zami grinned. He cared not at all how the story was told; they had the gold. Home was at hand; good riddance to Earth. Xar struggled to rise from a sound sleep as Zami spilled the contents of the pouch into the hay. She stumbled up to him, rubbing sleepy eyes, and he took her into his arms. She could well have dozed in his happy embrace. Zami knew how utterly tired Xar was, for she had poured herself into the search more than the rest of them. She had exhausted herself.

Zami sat her gently by the open pouch – Tax and Tosh were pillaging its precious burden – and placed in her hand a small, bright nugget.

“You found the gold,” she yawned.

Tosh giggled excitedly. “Gold. Home.”

Zami said, with quiet contentment, “let’s just take what we can use and leave.”

Tax replied, “I say we keep it all. Who knows when next we’ll run out?”

Tosh held a large nugget beneath his nose and said, “Our pockets aren’t this big.”

“Well! Nit!” Tax laughed. He took the nugget into his hand and weighed it with an appreciative smile. “Gold is soft; we can cut it. Take all is my vote.”

Tosh speared him with stony, black eyes. “Did you just call me a name?”

Delighted, Tax laughed again. Tosh settled, Xar shook off her sleep, and all went to work. While the girls sorted and packed the smallest pells, Tax and Zami cut the larger ones into manageable measures. The usable fruit of their labor filled four waist bags which they fastened securely to the stomach plates of their silver suits.

What was left over occupied two additional bags; Zami took one and Tax the other. They placed pells in the appropriate pockets, and checked their other pockets to be sure the gems were secure. They were ready to leave.

“Well, come on,” urged Xar. “What are we waiting for?”

The knobs were set. Zami nodded and four switches snapped in unison. Four empty spaces sucked air. It made a soft sound that no one heard. As if in tribute of their passing, lightning flashed four times and thunder laughed.

The zeo hive smelled musty. The sudden silence hurt their ears. It almost seemed the same to them, as if they had not come back at all. Absence of the roar of rain and thunder was the telling point. They looked about the familiar dwelling in the nholas and drank it in with greedy eyes. They were home, at last. Zami was the first to switch off. He noted, with immense satisfaction, that their rainbow hues had returned. The group shared a smile, as the moment called for quiet reverence. Beyond the happy gloom of the empty hive, there was a door, and the siren light of midday. The girls raced, giggling to the porch. Tax shrugged, as if to

say, girls will be girls. Husbands followed wives into the light.

Zami stopped cold in his tracks; Tax exhaled uncharacteristic shock. The girls stood mute before them as they stared in disbelief at the sad state of their world.

The joy that was theirs, just a moment before, had been swept aside in the blink of an eye. Black smoke billowed beyond the nholas, to pool at the top of the sky, the acrid smell of it insulted their nostrils. Day lights struggled at the boundary of the smoke. Where they touched it, they fell. It sickened them. Xar turned to Zami, with tears in her eyes.

“What’s happening?” she pleaded.

Zami could do nothing more than take her in his arms; he had no answers. The four of them looked to one another as they pondered the unbelievable. Now that they stood in the quiet haven of their home, they were reluctant to venture forth.

The answer was out there, beyond the barrier. They each knew in their heart that they would not like the answer to Xar's question.

Phar Sheeth had always been dependable, immutable as stone. Like his wife and friends, Zami could not understand. Every fiber of his body, every bastion of his soul, rebelled against the concept of disaster in Phar Sheeth. A low groan issued through the forest; the nholas swayed.

Zami swallowed hard. He said, “I must know what this means.”

From a small nhola at the edge of the forest, Thletix, as well as all the mons, could be seen. A vision of total destruction assaulted them, there, upon their new perch.

It hit them like a fist. It reached into their chests, squeezing their hearts with fingers of cold iron. Tax fell to his knees; raising face and fists to the sky, he howled. Tosh and Xar fell into a tangle and sobbed. Zami stood and gaped. How could this happen? Who could have done such a thing? Fires burned everywhere; black smoke billowed. Before them lay their world, razed and ruined.

Suddenly Xar cried out, “Father!”

She leapt to her feet and from the voal of their perch. Rainbow wings sprouted midair as she flew to her mon on the cleg below. Tax and Tosh flew away to their separate mons; Zami followed Xar. He came to rest on the smoldering, blackened cleg. Before the charred rubble that once had been Pax-mon, Xar lay upon her face. She wept bitterly. Fire still burned in the doorway and barred access. The top of the mon had fallen in. Smoke billowed from the hole. Zami took Xar into his arms; he wept with her. Xar's sobbing rocked him, it shook him deeply. Zami closed his tear-stung eyes and looked inside the mon. It would be a grizzly chore, but he had to know. He threw his mind into the fire.

There was a corpse in the main hall. It was blackened beyond description. Small flames nibbled cracked skin like methodical parasites. By the shape of the pait,

Zami knew it was Teefa. There was no other body inside. It grieved him but he had to tell Xar. He whispered in her ear and hugged her tightly to him as her sorrow broke her heart in two.

How much time passed, Zami could not tell, but Xar's tortured wailing had waned to the occasional whimper. Zami wondered what Tax and Tosh would find. He wondered if anyone would be found alive. He puzzled over the cruelty, and the purpose, of this attack. Rasha was dead; the Pucha were gone. Yet, there was a heartless enemy that killed and burned. What monster had arisen from the underworld of Phar Sheeth? As he comforted Xar, many things made themselves known to him. It was as if the rest of the world was only now appearing.

He noted Xar's deep green skin. He raised a hand before his eyes; he saw red and knew that rage might soon overpower him. Floaters wafted above the cleg, avoiding smoke in their mindless drive to survive. Large forest zeos floated over smashed zarglenuts, sucking nectar from bruised flowers. Zami knew that if the barrier was down, then Mithal-Moun must surely have been breached.

A tremor raced through his flesh. Xar, flooding white, sought Zami's eyes. A low, grating sound came from below the dirt. It became a pitched groan that issued from all directions. The noise grew painfully loud and Zami watched in horror as a crack snaked its way up and across the sky. Lights fell to the cleg, and then, there was calm. Xar was white, nearly in shock. Zami shook her; he needed her full attention.

He spoke sternly. “Xar! We must leave. We must find whoever lives and leave before this world falls in on us. Xar!” The white faded; she sniffed and nodded. “Yes,” she managed to say.

Together, they flew to Charchon-mon. The scene, there, was gruesome. Rikchi, having knelt to protect her child, died in that very position. A rusting pike affixed both mother and child to the cleg. Xar turned away and gagged. Charchon's throat had been cut, yet, he had managed to crawl to his wife. A trail of blood ended at his colorless corpse. A transparent hand had reached out to rest upon a transparent heel. Zami turned away, queasy, and led Xar away from the grizzly scene.

Vureedi-mon was gutted and in flames; they found no dead. Kikok, they found dead in the doorway of his smoldering mon. They flew, next, to Tazig-mon, where they found Tosh upon the cleg, rocking slowly to and fro. Her mouth worked without making sound, her face was a vacuous white. Her dead father lay across her lap. Zami healed her and Xar held her in comforting arms. As they stood, another tremor shook their world. Another crack appeared and pieces of sky rained down.

The three of them flew to Yagi-mon. They found it empty. Without delay, they moved on to Voyun-mon. There, too, they found only ash. They flew to Thletix.

The complete and unmitigated destruction of the former center of Phar Sheeth both sickened and angered. Zivith had been horribly slain. Also, found among the ruins were Shirpa, Vreatt, Tuito, Voyun, Ragezeg, and Shinshar. Simple tools were clasped in their lifeless hands. Zami looked around on the corpses. They had died defending their world, but nowhere did Zami see a corpse of the enemy. Phar Sheeth had been suddenly and completely overwhelmed.

The carnage was complete. Not even the innocent young had been spared. Xar bolted through the tumbled ruin of the Norsey. Zami followed to find her draped across the small, glassy corpse of her baby brother. Tosh simply knelt in the open doorway and flooded white. Again, Zami had to heal them; he calmed them and imparted courage. Phar Sheeth trembled and Zami scanned as far as his inner vision would permit. He found Tax on the far side of the stage.

He commanded the girls, “Stay here,” and he flew to Tax. Tax sat in the heavy floods of green and red. He wept bitterly. Zami held a respectful silence as he crouched before him. Tax held the body of Tinokta in his left arm; he held the body of Breegah in his right arm. He looked up at Zami through swollen eyes. He looked back at father and mother and pulled them close.

As his sobbing slowed, Phar Sheeth quaked.

Zami said softly, “I grieve your loss.”

Tax hugged them closer still; he kissed each one upon the head. His crying settled into gasps for air, as he gently laid each body aside. He wiped his tears from a face of stone; his eyes hardened with the glint polished iron. Zami could feel his friend's rage. It reared up like a wounded animal, poised to prey upon any so foolish as to cross its path.

He spoke in a low, hissing growl. “I vow . . . whoever has done this shall know my wrath!”

Zami told him, “The world falls in on us. We must find the living and flee.”

Tax demanded, “Who remains?”

Zami counted in his head, and answered, “Of the dead I have seen, I cannot account for eight: Pax, Xuri, Zetl, Yagi, Vureedi, Djidna, Glokt, and Shabani.”

“I know where they are,” said Tax. “They’ve been taken below. And, I know what we must do, but if we find them, what then? They cannot escape to Dirt; we can only save ourselves.”

Zami stood and stated, “The way below is through Zhereen. The arms of war are in a chamber above my home. Let us first arm ourselves, then, let us find the living. If we cannot escape together, we can die together.”

Tax smiled, “And, the bastards who did this can die as well.”

Zami collected his group and led them back to the hive. As they approached, yet another horror assailed them. Upon the bole of the nhola that jutted up through Zami's home, a body depended from a creeper that had been tied about one ankle. It was the body of Yagi, transparent in death. The thick hatch that sealed his secret chamber had been thrown open. Zami switched off and climbed down inside. The others stood in a close knot, averting their eyes from the Teller's corpse. They made not a sound, nor moved until Zami returned. He climbed up bearing an uncapped torch.

“It’s gone,” he said. “All of it.”

Tax raised his spear, and growled, “More than these, we need not. I have my spear and you have your knife.”

Xar submitted, “We have our suits to shield us.”

“And our glamor to hide us,” added Tosh.

Tax responded, “Glamor, I cannot do, but I need it not. They shall see the face of him who is their end. They shall die twice for their sins.”

“Very well,” said Zami. “Let us go first to Mithal-Moun. We may find something of use.”

They flashed through descending nholas, avoiding tangled flowers as they pushed themselves for speed. Although Mithal-Moun was built from ancient stones, it stood no more. They shot past the massive mound to land upon scorched cleg.

Mithal-Moun had burned; its stones had tumbled in upon themselves. All that remained were blackened rocks, one upon another. They faced a ruin that none could recognize, a thing totally and brutally destroyed. Even its thick iron had fallen in the attack. As they stood and gaped in raw astonishment, Zami wondered, what power could have done such a thing?

Tax demanded, “What could have done this?”

Zami answered, “I know not, but we have no time to ponder such things. We must fly.”

As if to drive the point home, Phar Sheeth quaked. They took wing and set a course for Zhereen. They had not gone far when Tax called out, pointing his spear toward the hels. A slow, shuffling caravan moved between the hels and the old Peck boarding. The four of them hovered silently and observed. At the head of the procession, six rainbow Shee stumbled forward at the prodding of wickedly barbed spears. There were nine darkly robed and hooded figures driving them. Five massive dwarves brought up the rear. They were dressed in dirty rags and walked with no sense of cadence; all their stomping was out of step. Upon the backs of

the dwarves were bags filled with the stolen arms. For weapons, they carried pikes and heavy clubs.

Zami commanded his troop to the hels, and there, they came to rest, unnoticed, behind the four pillars.

Zami whispered into the huddle, “We need a plan.”

Tax grated, “They don’t expect us. Surprise is ours.”

“Very well,” said Zami. He turned to the girls and added, “Tax and I will fall on them from behind. Their attention will be on us. When we have divided them from our own, you girls fly in and lead the Shee back here.” He looked to Tax for confirmation.

“Works for me,” Tax growled, a bloodthirsty smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Xar said, “I’m ready.”

“Me, too,” agreed Tosh.

Zami hefted the torch, saying, “I guess we don’t need this.”

He tossed the torch between the pillars of black stone. To the astonishment of all, a black hole opened and caught the torch with a soft sucking sound. The torch vanished and the hole disappeared.

It dawned upon them all, but Zami said it. “We have our escape; pyre gems open the way. Lead them into the circle,” he told the girls. “Take them, left hand and right, and walk them through.”

Tax growled, “Enough talk. We strike now.”

Like an angry zeo, Zami dove among the brutish dwarves. He drew his ruby handled knife and pulled it through warty flesh. He screamed wildly and spiraled up to dive again. A gross and guttural howl rose among the dwarves. A heavy pike met Zami on his second pass. Although the suit protected him, the force of the dwarve's pike drove Zami back. He righted and dove again. From his mind, fingers of Phravic force needled the enemy into a stampede. Though Zami no longer needed to speak the words of power, he spoke them all the same.

He shouted, “Sluagh! Hobbedy! Bwabachod!”

The great hairy dwarves fell into a panic. Zami slashed them again and again, his pent up rage, at last, spilling forth.

Tax landed solidly amidst the hooded figures. He raised his spear above his head

and hailed them. “Come now! fight me and die!”

White, twisted faces glowered from beneath grey-black hoods. An evil wail issued from phlegm-laden throats as the Pecks rushed upon Tax. They brandished barbed spears and wicked, curved blades above their heads. As if he saw himself in a dream, Tax calmly watched his hands wreak utter demolition on the pitiful Pucha horde. Limbs snapped and bodies flew without wings; they fell far too easily. Tax killed and mourned the loss: he wanted more. At this rate, the fight would end before he could sate his rage.

Xar, Tosh, and the six survivors reached the stones. Pax, brutally handled, stumbled and fell. The hels shook violently. The tall, black stones swayed dangerously. Xar took her father into her arms and pulled him to his feet. He smiled weakly, but she could see in his eyes that he understood her sense of urgency. She took her father's hand in her right; she took Xuri's hand in her left.

She gave both hands an assuring squeeze and stepped between the stones. A black doorway opened to receive them.

Tosh took Glokt and Djidna in hand. She held them close and stepped through, but the battle beyond the stones still raged; Zetl and Vureedi feared to move. They cowered nervously and clung to one another as they viewed the great fray. Tax threw cloaked bodies through the air like so many stuffed dolls, while Zami struck again and again at the underworld giants.

Above them, great chunks of sky detached and fell in a mighty hail of destruction that jangled the very marrow of their bones. Shee flying, dwarves roaring, the world literally coming apart at the seams – it was all too fantastic to believe.

The last of the dwarves fell, silent and still. Zami ran to the stones, took two hands into his and called to Tax, “Tax! Let’s go!” He turned and led his charge through the black circle.

A single, cloaked Peck remained, tall for its loathsome breed. The sky crashed all about. Standing was a dance and shouting above the din was next to futile. As Phar Sheeth fell down around him, Tax faced the last of his enemies. He would kill this one once for his father, and then he would kill it again for his mother; he would not let it die until he was fully sated.

The Peck stood still, a barbed spear in its hand; it stood beyond the fruit of Tax’ vengeance, and assessed him. Tax could not see the face that watched him from beneath the hood. He stood as still as his enemy; he stood and waited, burning within himself until his rage exploded past his lips.

“Come!” he screamed. “Are you afraid to die?”

The Peck raised its free hand and the hood fell back. Tax took a step forward, then stopped. He gaped in confused consternation. This was no Peck; this was Shabani, his first love, whose face was as red with rage as his. She walked slowly forward;

she laughed and spit. She pointed the barbed spear at Tax’ broad, silver chest.

“Yes, look at me!” she snarled. “Gape, you fool! But, I am not the monster, here.

Shabani looks; the monster is before her.” Her advance did not falter; she gripped the wicked spear in both hands. “You ripped my heart from me, I hate you for that, and I will see you in death!”

She rushed in. Her wail sent a chill through Tax’ body. He could not move as Shabani's spear struck his shield, bearing the full force of her charge. Her wild rush knocked him back, but not off his feet. The spear snapped in two and momentum took Shabani past him. As Tax staggered back, he turned.

Shabani lay across a fallen Peck. The curved blade that Tax had thrust through its back now protruded through the breast of his first love. His mind was numb to the world that crashed around him. He fell to his knees beside her and gently touched her cheek. He wiped away the blood that welled from the corner of her mouth and fought back burning tears. Her eyes rolled toward him but did not focus; her face turned ashen beneath his hand. The pained and hateful expression faded from her face as Tax bent his ear to her parted lips.

“I loved you,” she said.

Shabani coughed and died; the light bled from her eyes. Tax stood slowly, a pounding emptiness in his chest. He could not understand; his mouth worked in silent confusion as he shook his head ponderously from side to side.

Voiceless, he turned to the stones. He did not see them dance on end as he stumbled toward them. He did not see the top of the sky bury the nhola forest.

Phar Sheeth's death rattle penetrated bone, but Tax could not hear it. A tear rolled down his face, mingling blood and ash. Doom sighed and its breath beat vehemently upon his back. Tax set his jaw and strode between the falling stones.

The End