Years ago, when he was first selected for the Scout Corp, a class of the highest respect, he felt deeply honored and proud. He wore his uniform with a bearing he did not otherwise exude, and executed his duties with diligence and a sense of purpose. Always extremely thorough, he'd won acolades for his discoveries. But lately, he was beginning to have doubts. Not about the importance of what he was doing or its usefulness, but whether he wanted to only be a scout his entire life.

He couldn't remember when he first started to have the dreams. No one else ever talked about dreams, so he wasn't sure that's what they were. They felt real, like he was actually doing those things, adventures in far-flung places he never imagined when awake. His loyalty to the tribe was beyond reproach; nonetheless, he could no longer suppress the urge to go off on his own, to explore in the ways he'd been trained, but not for food, for himself.

The morning turned to midday, and still he sat. Presently, a bee occasioned nearby and stopped to gaze at him, a questioning look on his face. Momentarily, they recognized one another. Edgar asked, "Benjamin? Is that you?" It'd been a long time since last they met. With a broad smile, he flew down to sit next to him.

"What's with you?" Benji gibed. "Outa gas? I haven't seen you in this neck of the woods since,..., last summer. You lost?" he joked. Other bees raced by as though they knew exactly where they were going. Edgar admired their relentlessness and intensity. A few gave Benji a hard look as they went by, but he ignored them. He was a veteran; he'd done enough already that morning and deserved a break, as he saw it.

Edgar slid off the stone and stretched his legs. He'd lost track of time and they were stiff. "I don't know, Benji," he began, looking off to the trees surrounding the meadow. "Do you ever feel like you're wasting your life doing what you're doing? Seasonal work? Every day foraging, avoiding rain drops, always searching, searching, searching? Do you ever dream?"

Benji rustled his wings, a habit he had whenever he was required to be serious. He stared at the back of Edgar's head; his friend was not in his usual carefree mood. "Dreams?"

"Yes." Edgar turned to face him. "Do you see yourself doing things, different things, when you're asleep?"

Benji fidgeted, his stinger scraping the moss. Finally, he blurted, "I had what you call a dream once where I was flying over a meadow filled with every flower I'd ever seen, and yet I kept going. Past the meadow and into the forest and beyond. I didn't tire or get hungry, and, I never once thought about my tribe, of my duties and responsibilities. I just flew, past rivers and streams and mountain peaks. Looking down on the earth from far above, gliding on the warm, soft breeze." He trailed off, a wistful gaze come over his eyes.

Edgar kicked a pebble. "Yea," he said forcefully. "Something like that. I would never want be disloyal to my tribe, but, I'm becoming disillusioned with the whole scouting profession. I'm good at it. I know how to grid out an area and cover it completely, not wasting time on what I've learned from experience is a dead end. I can read the signs. But it's not enough anymore. There's a world out there. There's other pursuits, occupations, interests, things to learn, skills to master, testing your abilities, ones you didn't know you had. I do them in my dreams. But, I don't know where they come from; I've never known of anyone experiencing the things I've done in dreams."

Benjamin asked quietly, "What do you plan on doing about it? Pretend to go out scouting one day and never come back?"

Edgar gave him a start. The idea had been in the back of his mind, of course, but never had he openly confronted it. Now it was out there. But discussion would have to wait. His antennae twitched as he picked up the scent of his fellow scouts. He was the lead scout and so best be on his way. He always left earlier than the rest in order to mark his passing. In new territory, he was the trailblazer. They trusted his judgement and scoured the area as they went. As well, Benji was getting the evil eye from a head collector. They agreed to talk later at their secret hideout by the brook's edge, when the sun was below the tree line.

It'd been ingrained in him from birth, this way of life and his allegiance to the tribe, his family and friends. Traditions and codes of conduct passed down from generation to generation. He'd been content with his role in life. Why had matters come to this?

He trucked on, lost in thought, absently tracing the contour of a low hill. Farther from home than he'd been before, in unfamiliar territory, he caught a whiff of something dead and decaying ahead. The last few days had turned up empty; he needed a score to redeem himself, and the tribe could use it. Navigating around the roots of a tree, passing under an old, bent leaf, he came upon a stream several inches wide, moving quickly. According to the scout handbook: when encountering a waterway, do not attempt to cross unless a secure means to do so presents itself. Edgar saw none, but the smell of food on the other side persuaded him to look. The bank was littered with pieces of leaves and twigs, stones and the occasional boulder; it was hard going. Edgar was about to give up when he spotted a small branch lying across the stream. It was higher on his side, the other end just cleared the water. It was old and the bark was sloughing off in places revealing smooth spots, worn by weather and time, glistening with moisture near the other side. A pang of guilt over his now unveiled thoughts of walking out on the tribe impelled him to take a chance.

His experienced eye examined the curves and cracks and crevices; his antennae searched for signs of rot. Two tiny twig-stumps protruded. One midway aimed upstream; the second, on the other end, angled downstream at about a forty-five. He hid his satchel under a pile of stones and dirt and proceeded to climb onto the bridge. He dug into the lifeless bark, now glued to the bare skin. As he neared the middle, the width of the twig narrowed to not much wider than he. There, the sound of the rushing torrent filled his ears. He stopped moving and closed his eyes. The roar enclosed him. A gossamer mist so fine as to be like cobweb pulsed over his body, thrilling his every nerve. It was exhilarating.

He opened his eyes and sauntered down the slight grade. The cacophony waned quickly along with his concentration. He reflected on his body; he felt good about it, confident. No longer young and agile, he nonetheless could still do what needed to be done. In an instance of exhuberance, he stood to reach for the downward-facing twig-stump, its base encircled by bare, damp skin. As he clamped onto it, his feet slid sideways just enough to throw him off-balance. Jerking upright awkwardly, he fell against the segment of twig. At once it broke, sending him and it into the rushing water.

He plunged deeply into the stream. Gasping at the sharp cold, the air was forced out of him. Far above, the blue sky seemed smeared and oily. Never having been a very good swimmer, with a monumental effort, legs flailing, he nonetheless managed to reach the surface, the turbulence near the bank trying to push him out into the middle. Bobbing along, he kept his head up, his antennae dangling back across his body. Ahead he could see the stream widening to twice what it was at the bridge, and the water was more agitated, rapids without surcease. Death by drowning was not uncommon amongst his people, but he wasn't ready to go out that way. With all his might, he stroked and pulled and squirmed his way to the bank. Exhausted, on the verge of submitting to fate, he felt a strong hand grab his and pull.

His limp body was dragged onto the sandy bank; all he could hear was the roar of the stream. He lay there gasping and shivering. A deep voice asked smoothly, "Are you all right?"

Edgar looked up into the eyes of a huge creature at least twice his size. When he finally caught his breath, he sat up. All he could think of to say was, "Thank you."

"No problem," replied the colorful saviour. "I just happened to be getting a drink when I saw you jump in. Why did you do that? You could've drowned."

Irritated, Edgar said, " I didn't jump in. That stupid twig broke and I fell in." He didn't divulge that he'd lost his footing and slammed into it; he was embarrassed enough as it was. His scout uniform was soaked through and his muscles ached. Slowly, he gathered strength.

His hero of the moment said, "Come with me, I don't live far. You need to get out of those clothes before you catch pneumonia and get some warm food." Edgar nodded his head in agreement. With help from the stranger, he struggled to his feet and followed. In all his years of scouting, he'd never seen a creature like this before; although, he'd heard stories of such. His body was an iridescent green, streaked here and there with vivid browns. And wings, large wings neatly tucked under a stiff, strong back, protected.

The path winded through the grass and into the forest, over and under sticks and twigs and leaves. Not far? thought Edgar. Maybe for him. At long last they arrived at his dwelling beneath an exposed tree-root, a burrow in the ground with two ajoining rooms, a bedroom and workplace. In the largest, the living room, a hole had been dug to the surface to let the smoke out from the fireplace. He told Edgar to hang his clothes on the rack near it and gave him a towel to dry himself. He was offered a shirt, but it was so huge Edgar chose to tie the towel around his waist. The furniture was all made from sticks and twigs and swatches of fur and bits of feathers. Rustic as it was, the chair Edgar sat in was quite comfortable, giving to conform to his weary body.

As he straightened and cleaned his antennae, his host said, "My name is Bezoodlejoom, after my grandfather, but everybody calls me Scratch because of this scrape I got on my back from a fall. I was young and just learning the ropes." He smiled shyly and turned to show it off. It was a deep gouge that ran from his broad head halfway down his back. Edgar thought it must have been very painful, a near-death accident. Sratch proceeded to spoon some conconction from a stone pot sitting on a stand near the fireplace onto a leafy bowl and handed it to his guest, along with a short spoon made of stiff straw. It looked like thick gruel to Edgar, but he was famished and dove in. Unexpectedly, he found it delicious and satisfying. He was becoming himself, settling down, his shattered nerves finding solace in the hospitality of this large creature.

Beetles were well-known for their even dispositions and easy-going approach to life. They lived alone, occasionally taking a mate, but more often than not, choosing to remain solitary, living a quiet life of hermitage. They were loners who minded their own business and insisted others do the same. But Edgar could see that this one had been without company for a long time.

"What were you doing before you fell into the water?" asked Scratch. "Your clothes look official."

Edgar squeezed his uniform, it was still quite wet. "I'm a scout," he said proudly. "I scout for food for my tribe. In fact, I'm lead scout. My compatriots are far behind."

Scratch was suitably impressed. He knew of scouts, the breed, the skills required, the bravery needed, the dangers involved.

"I picked up a scent coming from the other side of the stream. This side. I spotted the bridge and went for it."

"You sure did," laughed Scratch.

Edgar started to fume, but then caught himself and laughed too. As though by magic, his absorption with his troubled dreams and the dismay they caused evaporated, lifting from his shoulders like so much smoke up the chimney. He felt solid, youthful, relaxed in the moment. The ache in his muscles was replaced by the sensation of well-being, a feeling and state of mind he hadn't known for some time. Scratch said, "I see this stew I put together is having the desired effect." He ladled more gruel into Edgar's bowl and handed him a cup of water, then went outside to fetch firewood from his stash.

Edgar took a break from eating to sit back and take it all in. The spacious room with its smooth, chiseled walls, lighting from crushed stones hung in baskets of translucent straw, and the careful arrangement of splendid furniture was quite comfortable, soothing, in fact, as though with that purpose in mind. The ceiling was high as befitting a being half-again as tall as he. And all this space and belongings were his, Scratch's. Edgar reflected on his own living situation. Besides the queen's palatial residence, the scouts' barracks was the most private; they even had their own kitchen. But it was nothing like this. Plus, he had a job to do, a mission, a set of duties and responsibilities to adhere to on a daily basis during the gathering time. There were no days off.

Scratch returned with enough wood in his arms to last a fortnight. Edgar put the bowl on the table in front of him and checked his clothes one more time. They were almost dry. Scratch dumped the wood next to the fireplace, turned to his guest and said, "Looks like rain, heavy. You might as well stay here tonight. You can sleep on the couch."

Edgar looked outside. The sun had gone behind the tree line and in its wake clouds were moving in. He remembered his rendezvous with Benji at their hideout. Just as well, he thought. He didn't feel in the mood now to discuss his problems. From where he was sitting he could feel a change in the weather through the open doorway; the air cooled and a breeze kicked up. He could hear dry leaves tumbling about. He said, "Thank you. I think that's a good idea." He wasn't sure what to do if he left anyway, and getting caught out in a deluge wouldn't help. Maybe in the morning an idea will emerge.

Scratch nodded and proceeded to roll a huge ball of something into the portal; it fit snugly. He then grabbed a leathery pouch, waved, said good night, and went into his bedroom. Momentarily, he came back to throw Edgar a blanket. "You probably won't need this with the fire going, but it's nice to have a cover over you." With that, he returned to his bedroom.

Edgar wasn't ready to call it a night just yet. He had some thinking to do. You learn things when scouting that aren't in the handbook. You begin to believe in fate, or rather, that your destiny is unknown. Breaking trail always invites the possibility of encountering something novel, never before imagined or anticipated either through hard historical records or anecdotally. Old scouts had plenty of stories to tell around the fires in the winter. Some were farfetched. The younger scouts always humored them, however, out of respect, and if they had even a little experience, they knew scouting was no walk in the park. And whatever could happen, would, eventually.

The grub and his adrenaline rush had done their job; he was crashing hard. Dreamily, he crawled under the blanket on the couch and let his body conform to its curved shape; the result, no doubt, of his large host sitting in the middle. In moments, he was fast asleep. The last things he heard were the crackling of the fireplace and the wind picking up.

He dreamed he was on a raft floating downstream on a mighty river. He held a long shaft with a rudder board on the end, steering his way down the center line, taking in the forest view, the sky a bright blue. Animals were swimming in it. Fortunately, they ignored his passage as though he was accepted as part of it all. The river curved and he followed it true, feeling the warm air on his bare chest, no scout uniform to interfere with its caress.

He woke to the smell of a strong yet pleasing aroma. Scratch was up, fueling the fire, preparing food. Edgar sat up, the blanket over his knees. Scratch handed him a cup of the hot, brown liquid. He said nothing, no grunts or groans or sounds of breathing. He sat in the stuffed chair across from Edgar with a steaming cup in his hand and sipped quietly, his eyes turned inward. He had much time for contemplation, thought Edgar. Or maybe he was just one of those guys who wakes up slowly. He knew a few.

Edgar donned his uniform, noticing it'd shrunk a little, in uncomfortable places. But it was flexible, in time it would stretch out. Scratch finished his cup and got up to get another. As he walked by, he said, "Good morning, my friend. Howdya sleep?"

"Like a rock. Thanks for the couch and the refuge. I didn't hear a thing. Did the storm hit?"

Scratch smiled, put his cup on the table, and rolled the big ball away from the portal. A rush of cool, damp air poured in. Edgar walked to the doorway and peered out. They were situated on a mound near the base of the tree, that and the leaves of the massive tree kept them from being inundated. Shocked, he had no words. It was devastation on a grand scale. Branches and twigs and mud and leaves and stones tumbled and bundled in a mish-mosh of mayhem. Nature recomposing the elements of the canvas for its own sake.

He hoped his scout team got back in time. Ordinarily, when he was acting as lead and smelled rain, he'd mark the trail end and turn back, warning his men to do the same. But, they could smell it coming too. Orders were to return home under those circumstances, no matter what. He expected they did that; there was nothing he could do about it anyway.

He went outside and climbed onto the root to get a better view. The narrow stream he'd attempted to ford had been widened to a veritable river several feet across. Streams and smaller versions cut through previously dry land as well, meandering around every hill and rock, and digging into crevices he'd traversed behind his host. The terrain was unrecognizable; it was a wasteland. He could only guess where the bridge he tried to cross once lay. A scout hones his ability to form mental maps of the topography--the lay of the land--he travels through automatically, without thinking about it. This is what makes the difference, and the best qualify for master scout. Edgar fell into that category. But as he gazed out as far as he could see, whatever maps he had of the surface features on the other side of the delta were meaningless.

He came back inside, dumbfounded, and poured himself another cup. A lost scout is a pathetic thing to behold. Scratch didn't have to take in the view; apparently, he was familiar with the scope and details of such transformations. Edgar stood by the fireplace, riveted by the flames, sipping from his mug. None of it was missed by Scratch, observing from his chair. He offered to fly him over the river and its tributaries to the land on the other side to see if he could recognize anything. Edgar snickered, he couldn't help it. His host was not a scout; he only went places he'd become familiar with. He apologized and thanked him, but it didn't matter. The downpour had erased his world, the landscape had experienced a dramatic transformation. His scent-path would be washed away as well. His mind processed the problem mechanically. If he had Scratch let him down on the furthest dry land and head in the opposite direction, navigating by the sun, he'd still have the same problem of the absence of scent-trails leading home. He had to confess to himself that he'd been so self-absorbed and preoccupied that he barely noticed his surroundings, and now those surroundings were completely changed, obliterating whatever landmarks he could recall. He could walk forever in that direction and pass right by his home and not notice.

His best chance was to wait for the land to dry. Then, scouts and workers will be sent out, leaving trails all over. Methodically, he could criss-cross the general vicinity, and maybe, in time, intersect one, but now, it was useles to try. He sat down to eat breakfast, more of the same, but it was comforting and filled his belly. He needed a plan, but none was forthcoming. Scratch quietly said, "No rain today, the sun'll be out soon. Have faith, my friend; don't surrender to circumstance. This has befallen you for a reason. See it as an opportunity to explore your deepest desires. To pursue paths of discovery, to find out about yourself. It burns within you and will not let you rest."

Edgar looked up sharply from his plate. How does he know that? I never mentioned anything about my dreams and how they caused me to question my life's work. How they tore at my allegiance to my tribe. Who is this guy?

Scratch got up and went into the other room, a workshop where he made the furniture and all else. Edgar finished his meal and put the plate on the table. He sat back, holding his cup in both hands, feeling washed out and useless, his main purpose in life no longer realizable; at least, not for the foreseeable future. Presently, Sratch reentered the spacious living room carrying a leathery pouch with strap attached. He placed it on the table. "Here," he said. "I found this in the woods one day and fixed it up, the strap was broken. To replace the one you lost."

Edgar didn't recall telling him that, but, he was delirious after his near-death swim and so could've mentioned it. But his curiosity waned quickly; he was getting used to his host's clairvoyance. Scratch grabbed two containers off a shelf, filled and sealed them, then set them beside the pouch. "Food and water for your journey." He then reclaimed his stuffed chair and cup, a sly smile on his lips.

Journey? thought Edgar. I haven't gotten over being cut off from my home yet. But I suppose I better get it together, toughen up. I'm a scout, after all.

"Where do you propose I journey to?" An unmistakable trace of sarcasm in his tone.

Scratch ignored it and said, "I'd head north, upriver. The forest to the east is dense and unfriendly to ones like yourself. Hostile tribes dwell there and don't take partial to strangers in their territory. They don't call it the Black Forest for nothing. With the storm's wind, there's bound to be downed trees. Look for one that crosses the river you can traverse, without falling in, to your side."

Edgar nodded assent, and the gibe brought him out from behind his self-pity, sobering his wit. He stuffed the containers into the pouch, feeling its sturdiness and texture. A valuable item he considered. A gift, something he was not familiar with. Gifts were infrequently given in his tribe, and then only for deeds done of merit. He thanked him with genuine warmth. Scratch had saved his life, given him sanctuary in the storm, fed him, and now this. He had nothing to offer in return, which he regretted. But he promised himself that some day he would.

Sunlight peeked through the doorway, promising a very different day, and the breeze was barely noticeable. Edgar drained his cup and stood, hoisting the satchel onto his shoulder. He was trying to feel confident and determined, but his will held back, refusing to let go of his life-long identity. Abruptly, he put a hand on his head, he'd lost his hat in the stream, his favorite; he felt incomplete without it. At once he smiled, seeing that as a gambit to find an excuse not to go, that he wasn't ready. But he couldn't stay, it wasn't his home. With a shake of his antennae, he bolstered himself, asserting his scout training. Practicality and fortitude would be his watchwords.

The awkward moment had come. He thanked his host profusely and walked to the doorway. Scratch stood next to him, they shook hands. "Good luck, dreamer. May you have safe passage. And if things go awry and you need a respite, you're always welcome at my door."

Edgar smiled, turned on his heel and ambled down the slope towards the river and its many squiggly tributaries. He gave the whole system of waterways a wide berth, not wanting to get caught in between any streams that only went so far. This brought him dangerously close to the eastern forest, the Black Forest, Scratch had called it. And it did look ominous with its twisted vines, thick undergrowth, and thorn-encrusted bushes. His antennae were busy searching, sifting, smelling for anything suspicious. And he listened like he never had before. No more was he preoccupied with torturous thoughts that debilitated his concentration and undermined his assertiveness. They'd become irrelevant; the quandary had resolved itself. On his own, he was in the here and now, for survival's sake, if nothing else.

The sun glinted over the tree line, warming his mood. He breathed deeply the clean air, ripe with smells of flowers awakening after the deluge. Fliers would be active soon, going about their day's work, ignoring him. He climbed to the top of a mound in the grass, to stop for a moment and reconnoiter. The forest to the north would take half-a-day's travel time; the sun would be at its highest. To the west was a desolate sight. Ridges of piled-up debris entangled every which way, separated by wide swaths of mud and stones. He could see that the river and its offspring persisted in earnest; its source could be days away. He gave up on ever reaching it, to circumvent and then cut diagonally across the broken landscape for home. By then, though, he thought, if it doesn't rain in the meantime, the land on the other side would most certainly be dry. He filed that under plan A and continued to work on plan B. A simple plan, really: just keep walking and don't get killed.

He trudged along, over sticks and rocks, under leaves and rain-beaten blades of grass, shaded by overhanging flowers, heading due north. Occasionally, he'd climb a gravelly hillock to see above the tall grass. The edge of the Black Forest curved away, opening up a vast, grassy plain to the northeast as far as the eye could see. He could spend the remainder of his life exploring it. But is that what he wanted? Encounters with other creatures, some friendly, some not; working odd jobs for room and board; learning new trades and skills, like furniture building. He thought of Scratch and how they met. He'd be dead now, drowned, if it wasn't for him. He'd been given his life back and couldn't let that be for naught by dwelling on the possible loss of his home. He may never find it again, he knew.

Bees raced about in their usual frantic way, butterflies of all colors and combinations thereof flitted wildly, and grasshoppers bounded along, all oblivious to his presence. He had yet to run into another like himself. Would the other be impressed by his uniform? Would he even know what it represents?

The sun was high and yet he was still far from the north forest. Curious, he thought, out here in the open it was difficult to gauge distances correctly. Or, maybe I'm just not covering as much ground as I thought I might. Either way, he wouldn't make it before dusk, too late to do anything except find a place to spend the night. He could've asked Scratch to fly him to the forest border. But then what? It was too early to cross, even if he was lucky enough to find the right bridge soon after. Besides, he needed this time to just walk and let his mind get aquainted with this new life. Scratch had helped him enough, he didn't want to impose more than he already had. And even though he had a generous nature, it was a long way to fly with him to carry. He might've said no.

He decided to stop for a bite and some water. Straight ahead was a raised mound enclosed by scrub grass, pointy and stiff. A safe place to rest. As he made his way, he heard footsteps behind him, large footsteps running fast. With all his speed he raced to a gnarly rock close by and dove under it, pulling grass and pieces of dead leaf over him. He peeked out through a hole in a leaf as the thunder approached. His eyes bulged as the biggest creature he ever saw ran by. It had long whiskers, a dark brown, furry body, four legs, menacing claws, and a long skinny tail that hung straight back. And that was nothing compared to what followed. He had a pursuer close behind, maybe three times as large and moving even faster. He had a huge head and teeth the length of twenty like Edgar lying in a line. Pointy ears, long brown fur and a massive tail whipping the air whizzed by. In a moment, they were gone; the dust settled.

Edgar decided to stay put to rest and eat. On opening the pouch, he saw a few cakes of some kind that Scratch had slipped in when he wasn't looking. Trying one, he found it delicious and ate ravenously. Then another, followed by only a couple of sips of water; he was rationing, of course. Worn from his ordeal, and still a bit shaken from almost drowning, he chose to nap for awhile. That decision triggered a strange and immediate effect. He relaxed fully, the tension in his shoulders and upper back disappeared, more so than he could recall. The stress and anxiety he wrestled to control unbound their hold on him. More deeply still, the restraints and inhibitions ingrained from birth drifted off with the morning dew as well.

When on a mission, he would be searching for food, the remains of some dead creature not too far gone or fruit on the ground or a whole list of edibles like seeds and flower buds. His body was usually tense, alert, focused with that in mind and not just for its own sake. But now, that sense of urgency and pressure evaporated. He reflected that they had once been a normal feature of his life, but considering his current situation, he had to ask himself, what use are they now? He would get to the forest when he got there and not before. Time was his to use as he saw fit. As he drifted off, he wondered what was in those cakes.

He dreamed he was riding on the back of Benji, his orange rings glistening in the bright, warm sun; soaring high above the ground, cruising over hill and dale, watching creatures far below scurry about. From this height, they looked like...

He awoke with a start; his instincts on full alert, adrenaline pumping. The sound of marching filled his ears. Peering through his makeshift enclosure, he saw nothing, but it was close by. His antennae rotated slowly until locking onto a direction. On the other side of this rock, he surmised, was the source of the footfalls, many footfalls. He crawled towards one end, he had to see what this was. He found a good spot to observe, but what he saw made no sense. Feet struck the ground, but not all at once. They landed one after the other after the other. He squirmed down further to tilt his head up. This was a single creature with many legs and feet, undulating along. Its head was almost out of sight when the final pair of legs came down. And off it went.

He rubbed his eyes, then opened the small canister Scratch had also slipped in unobserved. It was the brown liquid he first had that morning. He sat and drank, feeling its invigorating tingle. He mused about the comfort of Scratch's home, how nice that was. But it was not to be for him; at least, not yet. His perch faced west, the sun was partway down, it was time to move out.

He emerged from his fort, wiping debris from his clothes, shouldered the satchel and cautiously scanned the area. Seeing and sensing nothing moving, he angled further east for no particular reason. The terrain remained consistent, very little in the way of variation. The high grass had dried and was now standing straighter. He thought to climb one to reconnoitre, but, he could see the woods clearly enough, and whatever lay between would have to be dealt with however it could. He would not abandon everything. The fatalist code had served him well all these years. It kept fear at bay, which gave him the freedom to think clearly. He knew that to recoil into himself was to invite disaster.

The last hill cleared, he was near the forest edge. Young trees and small, sparse bushes poked up here and there. He had no idea what to expect, but if he was going to get around the river, one way or the other, it was in this direction. Since his departure from the relative safety of his rock enclosure, he'd been listening extra carefully. He dreaded turning a corner and running into whatever that was. Pushing through a clump of rough grass, he came to the crest of a steep incline leading to a wide valley, the last before the forest proper. He paused to catch his breath, have a drink of the brown liquid, and scan the area. It would take the rest of daylight to cross. He'd have to climb the other side to enter the woods. By then, for certain, he'd be ready for a good night's sleep.

He scrambled down the sand and gravel, sliding most of the way--a scouting skill he'd mastered long ago--then strode off across the valley. The terrain was completely different than where he'd been, clay and grit tightly packed, it was almost smooth. It was a flat, seamless desert. No sticks or stones hindered his path or, for that matter, offered protection, there was nowhere to hide. They were all stacked in a neat tumble along the bottom of the slope in both directions. And, faint though it was, he could see the same layout on the other side. After traveling about a third of the way across, slogging along, the flat, greasy, wet plain extending forever in all directions, his mind working all by itself, it suddenly dawned on him that this was a waterway, a gigantic river, as deep as the cliff face he'd slid down.

For the briefest of moments, his heart stopped, then his breath, and finally, he froze, standing stock still. He swiveled his head east and west, all was clear. And if it wasn't, if a river of water was about to descend on him, there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe that explains why there's no locals running around, he reasoned, shaking his head at his folly. The land behind him was closer, but what would be the good of turning around? He had no choice in any event. Steeling himself, he pushed on, as quickly as he could.

Halfway across, his antennae picked up vibrations coming fast in his direction from behind. The land on this side of the river had offered surprises; there was no reason to expect anything different now. The air grew more turbulent and the high-pitched sound it made almost brought him to his knees. It was nearby overhead, beating the air. He stopped, dropped his satchel, and looked upward, ready to fight. A large roundish body with broad, translucent wings was descending in a rush. It landed a few inches away, tucked its wings, and walked towards Edgar, its antennae twitching wildly.

"How ya' doing, bub?" he asked, a broad smile on his face. Edgar stood his ground and said nothing. He didn't know this guy and hadn't yet figured out the rules of this new land. "My name is Dosmendiazloom," he began, his voice gruff and gravelly, "but everybody calls me Turbo; I guess it's because I'm so flamboyant and good looking." Towering over Edgar, he could see he was nervous and not all that receptive. "I'm a friend of Scratch's," he said more quietly. "We got the word through the Scratch-line to be on the lookout for you. You Edgar, I presume?" Impatience working its way into his voice.

Edgar came out of his shock and smiled. "Yes. Yes. I'm Edgar."

"He said you'd be wearing a uniform. Looks good. What ya' need is a hat to go with it."

Before Edgar could tell about his hat, Turbo said, "But let's get down to it. You're in the middle of a flashflood runoff. A torrrent went through here a couple days ago. The storm came over the mountains and worked its way down, but this river got here first. Good thing for you, bub.

"Now here's what I suggest, unless you wanta keep hiking. It's getting on to dark, you must be tired and hungry. How 'bout I fly you to my place, it's nearby, just inside the forest. You could spend the night and tomorrow figure out where you're goin'."

Edgar was dumbfounded by the generosity and hospitality of these creatures. This one looked very similar to Scratch, but was all shiny black, and his head had a different shape. But he was easily as robust. Edgar thanked him and chose to accept his invitation, jokingly, as though anyone would choose to continue walking over a river bed. Never having done this before, Turbo had to talk him through it, how to sit and where, then yelled, "Hold on," and took flight.

The wind tugged at Edgar's satchel, his eyes teared, forcing him to close them to slits. He could only guess how high he was and gripped the tiny hairs at the nape of Turbo's neck that much harder. The woods came up fast. The punget smells overwhelmed him, his antennae twitched every which way. Dank with ground cover and much cooler than the sunny riverbed, it nonetheless enwrapped him in a soothing embrace. A vigorous tingling sensation coursed through his body. He felt larger somehow. They circled a clump of boulders and landed at its base where it met a massive, broad-leafed tree. Turbo bent down to let Edgar off and with arms outstretched bellowed, "Welcome to my home."

They trudged over thick layers of decaying leaves and sticks to an opening under an exposed root. No sunlight would be glinting through this doorway, they were in the dark of the woods. The layout was similar to Scratch's, one expansive living room with fireplace and two adjoining rooms. However, the furniture left a lot to be desired. It didn't have the craftmanship of Scratch's, but was serviceable, and the couch was bigger, wider. The lighting was more subdued, tiny stones packed together hanging from the ceiling emitted a cool light with a reddish tint; Scratch's were much brighter. But he refused to be critical, even to himself. He was most grateful and said as much.

Turbo offered a seat while he busied himself preparing food. Edgar dropped his stachel and collapsed into a chair that could've held several of him. He pushed himself back and let his feet dangle. "You picked a good day to show up," Turbo said. "I'm having a few friends over for dinner, casual-like. They should be here any..."

"Hello in there," a voice called from outside. "You home, Turbo?"

"Yea, come on in," he yelled. Then to Edgar said, "You'll like this guy. He's a quick wit, ordinarily."

In walked another like Turbo, only smaller and with colorful striped markings running left to right on his mud-brown back. Edgar noticed he had no discernable wings. "Hi, Jaloon. This is Edgar, gonna spend the night."

"Oh. The guy Scratch told us about. Howyadoin, Ed? Been walkin' long?"

"Yea, you could say that. But, thankfully, I was rescued."

Turbo handed them a cup of liquid that burned Edgar's mouth a little but tasted sweet. Almost immediately, he was revived, his whole body quickly thawing out from the stress of the day's experiences. His aches and pains subsided with each sip. He wanted to ask about the many-legged creature, but decided to wait, out of deference. The tight fist in his mind unclenched; he leaned back to abandon himself to the chair's enormity, feeling like a kid. Jaloon walked over to Turbo and began mildly haranguing him about his cooking style. Turbo said something back and they both erupted into laughter. Edgar sipped his drink.

A female voice called in to Turbo, "Is it safe to enter? You guys have your clothes on?"

In walked a diminutive creature, not much bigger than Edgar, with long, sleek antennae and the most outrageous wings. Varying shapes of yellow beginning at her lean body were cut off where they met the border. The patterns there were bright orange, all the same elongated elipses as on the yellow part, but scaled by size. This against a vivid, rich black. That was the outer side; the inner displayed the same shapes but all white against black. She was resplendent, Edgar was enthralled and amazed. He'd seen plenty of creatures like her over the years, but they were always fluttering madly along or too far away, and his mind was always on the job. He'd never taken the time to actually look at one, and never this close and personal.

Turbo said over his shoulder, "Fralene, this is Edgar. He's a friend of Scratch's; he'll be dining with us tonight."

Fralene walked over to Edgar and smiled, her wings folding nicely against her strong body. She sat next to him. As she stepped past, a delicate fragrance filled the air. Taller than he, she sat straight up as though of royal blood, her feet firmly on the floor. Edgar felt immediately embarrassed, but, from his position tucked back in the chair, he had a perfect view of her beauty. Warmly, she said, "Any friend of Scratch's is a friend of mine," and smiled. Edgar turned to jelly and smiled back.

"Where's Heater?" she called to the two in the kitchen. Engaged in repartee, they didn't hear her. Cupping her hands around her mouth, she yelled, "Hey, you two," shattering Edgar's image of the dainty flower. But before she could ask again, a creature who looked like a larger version of himself, almost, came jostling in carrying something. He ignored Edgar and Fralene, walked over to Turbo and handed him the package bundled in leaves. Turbo nodded thanks and set it off to the side. The new arrival then stepped around to the couch facing both Edgar and Fralene, grabbed a cup off the low table between them and poured a drink for her and himself. Before capping it, he looked up at Edgar and said in a thick, yet not unfriendly, voice, "My name's Heater. Want a refill?"

Edgar held out his cup as far as he could without moving his body, Heater easily made the reach. "So,..., you're Scratch's friend." he stated. "We were concerned for your welfare."

"Why," asked Edgar, genuinely curious at this point. He was seeing something he rarely experienced with his tribe or even his closest friends. Occasionally, when emotions bubbled forth uncontrollably, but it wasn't the usual custom among his people.

"Because Scratch said it was important." And that was that.

Does everybody know Scratch out here? Edgar wondered. And who exactly is he? Heater finally noticed Edgar's uniform and leaned forward, peering through bleary eyes. "You're a scout," he proclaimed roughly, pointing an accusatory finger. "A lost scout." Seeing the pain that caused on Edgar's face, he caught himself sharply. Fralene clicked her disapproval and gave Heater a sharp sideways glance. His demeanor slumped, and in a controlled, warm voice said, "I like your uniform," and nodded with a tight smile. He raised his cup, "Here's to scouts, brave ones all." He clinked cups with Edgar, Fralene joined in. Turbo and Jaloon brought plates piled high with food over to the table. The steamy smells were a mix of many pleasing aromas, and although most of it was unfamilar to Edgar, it all appeared appetizing. Turbo placed a stack of plates and spoons on one end of the table and said, "Dig in." He poured himself a drink and laughed heartily for no particular reason. The party was on.

Some time during the evening of animated conversation, the likes of which Edgar had only known amongst the older scouts telling stories and arguing fine points, he found himself standing near the fireplace, transfixed by the orange and blue flames. Fralene, cup in hand, joined him. He recalled Scratch's reason for his nickname and suspected Turbo to have one equally significant. "What about Heater?" he asked her. She laughed at first, then told him of Heater's habit of questioning and challenging plans and strategies that the leaders of his tribe had put forth. He turned up the heat. A little too much for his own good. Because of that, he was labeled a malcontent and troublemaker and eventually exiled, banished, to live a solitary life. Which, as it turned out, he preferred; Heater was a loner who liked living alone.

Edgar strained to understand. The idea of one of his kind on his own seemed impossible. And yet, it was at the crux of his dilemma. Growing up, he'd been taught that life had no meaning outside the tribe. A member couldn't exist alone. But, though of a different kind, here was Heater.

As the festivities wore on, Edgar found himself unable to talk coherently. That seemed to be the case with the others as well, though good-natured gibing and spontaneous laughter continued unabated. But the time had come to call it a night. Jaloon and Fralene left together after saying their good-byes. He would accompany her home, for safety's sake. Heater finished one more cup and slammed it on the table. Turbo laughed. Apparently, this was Heater's signal that he had had enough. He stood, swaying to and fro, and shook Edgar's hand, saying, "If you ever need a place to crash, you're welcome at my place. It's not as splendid as here," Turbo snickered, Heater shot him an empty glare, "but, it's better than sleeping out in the open. Take care, my friend." And with that, he staggered to the doorway, turned to wave, his face hard and unsmiling, and was gone. He wasn't afraid to walk in the dark; anybody would have to be nuts to tangle with him, even in his condition.

Edgar offered to help clear the table, but Turbo waved him off. "Tomorrow will do just fine," he mumbled. "I have to wash them outside anyway. You can help me with that, if you like." Edgar had trouble guessing people's ages, but he could see now, fatigue having deepened the lines in his face, that Turbo was probably twice his age or more. He looked exhausted but pleased; the evening's convivial atmosphere had worked its magic. He put his cup down and said, "Here's the couch, Edgar. There's spare blankets under the table; help yourself." With that, he rose slowly, his sharp-barbed antennae drooping on either side of his body, took a deep breath, then walked over to a large ball very similar to Scratch's, and rolled it into the roundish doorway, sealing it almost completely, leaving just enough space for air to get in. He waved as he walked by, heading for the bedroom.

Edgar sat gazing at the fire, feeling its warmth more so now that the door was closed. The lighting had been squelched; objects took on shadowy counterparts. The wood crackled and popped once in a while, but otherwise, the profound quiet brought stillness. His aches and pains from his march through mud and sand no longer plagued him, but he knew on the morrow the story would be quite different. Contemplation eluded him, his mind was a jumble of random images and fragments of remembered sentences. He had no plan for tomorrow; he was living one day at a time. Using his coat for a pillow, he crawled under a blanket and was soon fast asleep. The only dream he recalled was a vague one. He was walking through a dense fog, not knowing what lay beyond, taking his chances. His body felt heavy, each step was laborious. But he kept walking, forcing himself to go on, straight ahead.

Some time in the middle of the night, he awoke, anxiety trembling his body. Thinking that activity would stifle it, he rose to put wood on the fire, but to no avail. He was having trouble breathing and had an almost irresistible impulse to run outside. Without bothering to try, he knew the doorstop was too massive for him to roll away. He fought to regain control. His scout training included techniques for just such an emergency, something that could happen on a mission if a scout accidentally found himself in a dangerous or life-threatening situation. He sat up and focused on breathing in and out with his abdomen, slowly and as deeply as he could. He remembered reading in the handbook that the feeling of not being able to breath was an illusion brought on by fear, a groundless fear conceived in the mind and emotions. But what about real fear that had a basis in fact, one that existed in truth but wasn't externally real? Trepidation about the future, for instance? How can one tell the difference? You don't feel anxious for nothing. He had to put his finger on it, it was how he was.

He paced the room, focusing on details, commenting to himself as he went. Examining a wicker chair near the back, the words lost scout popped into his head. He cringed, tightening his chest. Again, the difficulty breathing. Am I truly lost? he asked himself. Will I never see home again? Have I lost everything I cared about? Am I as good as exiled? Do I want to be?

He tried lying down again, but the moment his head hit the pillow, he had the overwhleming impression that he would smother if he did so. Abruptly, he sat up, and with the blanket over his knees, concentrated on the sounds of the fire. After a time, exhausted, his nerves strained, he fell sleep.

Startled awake by the loud thunking sound of Turbo throwing wood on the fire, he rubbed his eyes and noticed the anxiety was gone. In its place, however, was a panging sensation in his head and a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. His muscles ached but he was familiar with that from the many excursions into unknown territory he'd taken. Turbo went into the kitchen and returned with a steaming cup of the brown liquid reminiscent of what Scratch was fond of and handed it to Edgar, saying nothing, not even bothering to look him in the eyes. He plopped into a chair with his own cup and sipped, his eyes turned inward as Scratch had done. Is this a common feature of their kind, wondered Edgar. Or is it only a coincidence? His mind refused to process the questions, fogged over and stupefied as it was. They sat quietly, drinking by careful sips as though a swallow or gulp might cause unforeseeable injury. Gradually, stubbornly, in sharp, sudden fits, his head began to clear, the throbbing somehow fusing with whatever was in his drink.

The table was still filled with the remains of last evening's feast. The prospect of helping Turbo with the cleanup made him nauseous. He had no idea what time of day it was but hoped it was early. Turbo finally raised his head and studied Edgar. A wry smile on his face, he went into the kitchen and returned with some powder in his hand which he dropped into Edgar's cup. Briefly, it made a fizzing sound, then dissolved. Edgar took a sip. Then another. The urge to lie down overcame him and he did so, putting his cup on the table. Turbo said nothing. The only sound was the fire, soothing and peaceful. An overwhelming sense of well-being supplanted the pains and discomforts racking his body. If he did this all the time, he thought, it would take some getting used to.

Turbo scraped portions from various plates onto another and went into the kitchen. Food was on the way, Edgar surmised; however, that didn't sound like a good idea just yet. But, what did he know? Perhaps eating might be the best thing. While it was heating up in a stone pot, Turbo rolled the ball of whatever from the doorway. It was barely light, but, they were under a tree in the woods, so it could be any time as far as he knew. The cool air drifted in. With surprising ease, he sat up, feeling rested and reasonably clear-headed. He quickly donned his coat against the abrupt change in temperature. He didn't believe it was really that cold out, even here in the dark of the woods; he just felt more susceptible to it, for some reason.

Turbo offered to show him around, he was rather proud of his set-up. He explained that in the winter, because of the girth of the tree and its long branches, the snow never made it all the way to the base. On those rare occasions when it did, he had a way in and out. They went through the extra room used for a workshop and storage to a tunnel at the rear, reminding Edgar of the ones at his home. It sloped upward to a wood covering, which Turbo slid aside.

Scrambling out, Edgar could see that they were far above the front door and closer to the tree. The winters were harsh but bearable, he told him, and they didn't last long. Occasionally, the chimney would get covered by blowing snow and he'd have to come out to clear it. Except for Fralene, who winters down south in warm, flowery country, his friends visited by tree route, climbing and crawling across the canopy underneath snow-covered branches. Also, a network of tunnels was maintained, each outlet near a tree. He stowed firewood and food in the extra room, enough to get him through. And, of course, plenty of ingredients for the brown morning drink and whatever they had the previous evening.

Edgar was impressed. Here was a creature living alone who nonetheless had figured out how to take care of himself. He assumed that to be the case with the others as well. Turbo probably had lots of friends who lived by themselves. He was curious about their lifestyles, how they managed, what he could learn. Especially Heater's. They were a community of individuals who shared common interests. Friends who enjoyed each other's company.

Feeling a sudden chill in the air, they returned to the warmth of the living room. They talked over breakfast about life in the woods, what he should look out for, and what Edgar planned on doing. He stated his initial goal: to reach home by circumventing or crossing the river and its many tributaries. By his tone of voice, it sounded memorized; to forget it would mean he truly was lost. It gave him a sense of purpose, which he desperately needed. Along the way, however, he anticipated the new and unusual, even the bizarre. No one of his clan had ever ventured this far from home, and definitely, no one had ever crossed a waterway such as he did to enter a foreign land so dissimilar to what he was used to.

Turbo had no idea where the river started. He assumed its source was underground, so all Edgar had to do was find that spot. Simple. The wind from the storm had blown down a few trees--he heard them fall--but there was no certainty they'd fallen the right way. Still, he could keep an eye out for those. Edgar agreed with him that the ground on his side, the plains region, was probably dry by now, but because of the time of year, rain was bound to fall again soon. He had nothing else to say that could help Edgar. Having places to go, he told him he could stay as long as wished, until he was ready. Edgar gave that some thought, he was quite comfortable where he was, but knew that to procrastinate would only make things more difficult, weaken his resolve. He had to keep going. He thanked Turbo profusely and told him to thank Scratch when he saw him. Turbo refilled his containers of food with leftovers and his brown liquid one. He spied Scratch's cakes, what was left of them, and laughed. He brought a few of his own out from the kitchen and dropped them in with you'll like these even better. He refused to say what was in them, and Edgar didn't press it; he rather enjoyed them.

He shouldered his satchel, made for the door and sniffed, his antennae scanned the area. Hesitant but nonetheless determined, he shook Turbo's hand and forcing a hearty farewell, walked down the gentle slope, across layers of decaying leaves and sticks, and out into the forest.

It was difficult to see the sun through the heavy canopy, but Turbo had pointed out north and that seemed to be the best way to go. But as he trudged along, under leaves and sticks and around moss, stones, and mushrooms, he wondered if perhaps his river had curved away to the west. He'd lost sight of it on his airborne trip, preoccupied as he was with holding on. As far as he knew, it might've dove underground at the forest edge. So, he changed course, angling westerly. He'd gotten off the prescribed path and, strangely, felt he was making a mistake.

He stopped in the midle of a cluster of orange-grey mushrooms to think about it. Taking a seat on a mossy stone, he had a cup of morning drink and one of Turbo's cakes. The sounds of the forest filled the air, each seeming to take turns to sing or croak or sqreech or vibrate at an incredible rate. The sense of mistake was not clairvoyance, he decided, but rather the feeling he'd known since becoming a scout whenever he'd venture outside the lines, as he called them. The plan for that day would be determined at a group meeting and everyone knew his part. To go outside the lines was to violate that. It was a thought habit that intentionally suppressed his will, his individuality, his freedom. He took another bite and tried to delve more deeply. It was necessary, he believed. There were so many involved on missions, if they acted on their own to do whatever they wished, there'd be chaos and possibly starvation for the tribe. Everybody had a job to do and the continuation of his people depended on it being carried out to the letter.

But now, here, it worked against him and wasn't needed. He drained his cup and dropped it and the rest of the cake into his bag. He'd made up his mind. If the river still existed, he'd find it most directly by heading due west. A few steps away from the mushroom clump, his head cleared as though a veil of some kind had been lifted. In fact, he felt sharper than he ever had before; at least, in distant memory. He attributed it to the punctuated recovery from last evening. At the same time, he realized that this should've been his direction in the first place. Common sense.

He came across creatures smaller than himself, but not too often, not the rule of the day or place. Others resembling Scratch and Turbo, only differently colored, sizes varying, some had wings, others not. They seemed to be in the majority; at least, around here, in the forest borderlands. Good, he thought; they were easy to get along with. Abandoned webs were plentiful, a way of life that brought out both the engineer and the artist, not to mention, the acrobat.

While he strolled, he visualized the landscape around the clay-bottomed ravine he'd been crossing from the viewpoint on Turbo's back; he didn't have his eyes closed the whole time. It occurred to him that maybe his river didn't come from underground. Overflow at that postion, a low spot in the downward bank, could've caused it. In which case, he was already above it. Confidant that he understood how it worked, he corrected course again, now heading southwest. That feeling of wrongdoing, of the danger of dispensing with the approved plan, of the certainty of trouble and tragedy by doing so, didn't follow his decision this time; he smiled.

Pushing on relentlessly, enjoying the workout his body was getting, he hiked over and under everything the forest floor could throw at him. As he rounded a craggy boulder, a trail emerged ahead he could see as though illuminated by the sun, winding its way through the trees. A flat path in a turbulent sea of dead and dying underbrush, mushroom patches, fallen thorns, flower petals, and clumps of moss. He was learning. Pleased with himself, he relaxed even more so, taking out a cake and nibbling as he went, listening to the myriad creature sounds. A swarm of bees raced by, intent on the day's work; butterflies flitted overhead in their wild search for just the right buds. The sky was busy with fliers, some with two wings, others with four, of every size and description imaginable, and a few that were not. The forest was full of life, he thought, marveling at its vibrancy.

Feeling fatigued by his pace, he decided to take a meal break, sitting down in a clump of rough grass, obscured from all around. He spooned out some of Turbo's leftovers and poured a cup of the brown liquid that helped to keep him going. The air was warm; scents from all directions enveloped him. He daydreamed about home and wondered if he'd ever see it again. The thought depressed him and he quickly dismissed it as non-productive. He'd make it, it was just a matter of time. Finished eating and rested, he put everything away, shouldered his satchel and stood. From the top of the clump, he could see over the tips of the leaves. He was stunned. Not too distant, crossing his path ahead, creatures that looked remarkably like Heater were marching one behind the other in lockstep. He dropped to his knees and listened; their footfalls were indiscernable. Peering through the blades, he watched as they filed along, their numbers never ceasing.

He didn't know what to do. Could they detect his scent? The smell of his food? He considered scurrying back to the last tree and climbing. As he was about to make a run for it, the stiff clump of roughage parted. Standing before him was Heater, his eyes mean and serious. He whispered, "C'mon. Follow me."

The two ran to the nearest tree, Edgar having trouble keeping up, and climbed to the first high branch. "What are you doing here?" Heater asked, annoyed but not angry.

Edgar finally caught his breath and replied, "I was trying to get home. This seemed the most direct route."

"A route that might be your last. I thought you said you were going north. If I knew you were comin' this way, I'd o' talked you out of it. That's my old tribe. I got the word they were relocating to a new site. I wanted to find out where. If it's close to my friends, where we live, they'd need to be warned. My tribe isn't like yours. They hunt live prey, that's their main diet. If they see you in that scout uniform, they'll figure your tribe is trying to move in on their territory and rip you to pieces."

Edgar blanched at the idea. His people were gatherers and scavengers--foragers. He'd heard of others who killed for food but had never met any, until now. "Okay," Heater said, running a hand over his head, "as long as you're here, come with me. We can follow them along the tree route. Stay close and don't fall. How are those claws of yours? Can you grip tight?"

Edgar showed him, they were tiny compared to Heater's, but they got him up here. Together, they winded their way above the marching throng. They'd been heading southerly, but at a fork, turned east. Heater cursed under his breath. "Not good," he whispered. But at a break in the foliage, changed course due west. After a time, they came upon the opening mound. They sat and watched. At the base of the elevated hole was a berm of hard gravel, and beyond that, guards bigger than Heater. He felt relieved. But Edgar could tell by his face that he also felt sadness and nostalgia. He was once a part of their life, shared their ups and downs, but no more. Steeling himself, a trace of anger, even hatred, briefly coursing his features, he turned to Edgar and whispered, "We're near the edge of the forest, let's keep going. You'll be out and heading southwest."

The two traveled on, Edgar getting the hang of the tree route. He wished he thought to try it earlier, it would've save him a lot of grief hiking over all the debris. Hunger gnawed at Edgar's stomach. He attempted to retrieve a cake from his satchel and almost fell. "Heater," he called. "Hold it a second, wouldya'? I gotta get one of these Turbo cakes."

"You have Turbo cakes?" Heater asked excitedly, a dumb smile on his face. "You got one for me?" He held out his huge hand. Although Edgar would've given him one anyway, Heater wasn't the kind of guy who took no for an answer. Besides, Edgar probably owed him his life. He placed one in his paw and on they went, chewing and walking; Heater leading at a deliberately slow pace. Down below, the riverbed he'd been crossing curved northerly and narrowed considerably. Partially covered with leaves and twigs, he was thankful he didn't have to deal with it again.

At last they reached the border tree, big and fat and as tall as any inside, maybe taller. They sat for a while consuming all the cakes and drinking most of the brown liquid. Rested and fed, Heater pointed at a landmark tree, fractured by lightning, as the direction he should head. From their perch, they could see that no waterways crossed his path and the ground was dry.

They climbed down to the bottom. Edgar asked, "How are you going to get back?"

"Oh, I'll skirt the edge to Turbo's place; I need a drink. You take care of yourself now, little buddy. I'll tell Scratch you got this far."

Edgar thought of his savior from drowning with a pang in his heart. "I wish I could've seen your home. I'll bet it's fabulous."

Heater threw back his head and laughed, "Maybe next time." He stood for a moment with a smile, taking Edgar in. "I like your uniform," he said warmly, quietly. Then turned and strode off, moving fast through the brush with ease like a phantom. He could see the path clearly, no doubt, Edgar mused. Within moments, Heater was gone, out of sight. Edgar faced southwest, the broken, scorched tree visible from anywhere, its dead branches broken off, angling every which way, and began his journey across the featureless landscape.

It was going to be a long haul, he knew. Expanding his sky view of the area, he guessed it would take two days to arrive somewhere in their range. Scouts would be out. With luck, he'd cross one of their trails. He trudged along, utilizing his new-found skill of seeing a path. Fresh blades of grass from the rain broke through the surface here and there. Blowdown of twigs and leaves from the forest covered the ground. Under and over, under and over, he walked, thinking of nothing, wondering with feelings if this was what he was meant to do. He'd had a taste of solitary life, its freedom and challenges. Saw how very different Heater was compared to how he'd be as a member of his tribe. Lockstepping behind another, mindlessly following on a hunt, searching for live prey, and knew, in his heart, that Heater wasn't like that. He wasn't a killer. But although he'd been set free to be himself, he still missed the comaraderie and mutual sense of purpose that came with belonging to a tribe. On your own, you had your own purpose, explored your individuality, made your own mistakes. Your life was in your hands.

The sun was on its way down. At his present pace, considering periodic detours for the impenetrable, he might reach the ruined tree before dark. A good place to camp for the night. Past the extent of the forest debris, going got considerably easier. But even so, he continued at the leisurely rate he'd been going. There was no rush now, he thought. He'd get there when he got there, and could use the time to think. All his life he'd been a dutiful scout--made master scout his second year--and only recently experienced the strange dreams, fantasies of doing things he never imagined when awake. He struggled to know his true destiny, what path he should take. Could he see it as clearly as a path through the jungle? Through the turbulence of his thoughts?

His antennae picked up movement to his left, not far off. He scrambled under the overhanging edge of a rock, pulling dead grass over him. Presently, a long, narrow version of Turbo--one of his kind--hobbled by, its hind leg awkwardly bent. His wing coverings were bordered by a milky-orange line, and his head was a yellowish-orange, a big black spot encircled by red in the middle of it. Edgar couldn't help himself, he scurried out and waved the creature down. "Hey," he yelled, "you look like you need help. What's wrong with your leg?"

The creature swiveled his head over his shoulder and took Edgar in. Then turned and walked towards him, dragging his leg. He stared intently, considering. "You're that scout everyone's been talking about, aren't you?"

Edgar was flabbergasted, frozen in space. In spite of his injury, the stranger smiled and said, "My name's Branzeloodlezoom, but everyone calls me Streak. My dad worked where they make the chemicals for light. But I don't think that's why. There's a reason, it'll come to me."

Edgar believed he would go on talking forever, it had that feel to it. He repeated the question, "Are you hurt? Your leg looks badly damaged."

"Oh, yeah. I think I fractured it coming in for a landing, caught a crosswind at ground level. You have to careful for that. I remember during that wind storm a few months back. I got stuck..."

Edgar interrupted, he had to. "Is it painful? We could straighten it out and tie some sticks to it, until you get home."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that. My home's not far, I live with a couple friends. But, if you think it'll help. It doesn't hurt as badly as it looks, but, if you think it'll help."

To shut him up if nothing else, Edgar gathered three stiff, straight pieces of straw and searched his satchel for something to wrap around them. He'd forgotten. His satchel was long gone and those strips of cord he carried for just such an emergency were gone with it. He had no choice. He tore the sleeves off his uniform and used them to bound Streak's leg, after moving it back into place. A painful procedure ordinarily, but Streak never flinched. In fact, he continued to talk through it, what he'd been doing prior to the accident: he'd been coming home in the dark when it happened, the ill-timed landing for a drink. Since then, he'd been walking, flying was difficult with a bum leg, throws you off balance. But he liked walking. "You don't often think to do that," he said. "But there's so much to see from this height, the ground, I mean, you know, well, of course you know, you can't fly." And so forth.

Finished, Edgar looked at his uniform coat, now missing the arms. Pulling the one-piece down over his head, he smiled. He looked tough, rough, befitting a frontier explorer. Streak invited him home, but Edgar, thanking him, declined, saying he was in a hurry to get home himself. Shouldering his sack, he waved and moved off. Streak stood for a while, yelling some story about Scratch until he was out of earshot.

Feeling more vigorous in his new attire, he picked up the pace. His destination was the tree and he intended to make it before sunset. He rummaged in his sack for a cake, but to no avail; his belly grumbled its disappointment. He had some of Turbo's leftovers remaining, but he wanted to hold off for as long as he could. Unfamiliar creatures, bright orange with black spots and long segmented antennae, chewed ravenously on the coarse leaves of a plant. They ignored him as he passed. He would have to do the same; find food as he was trained to do. Thorny bushes sprouted here and there, their fruit was not yet ripe, but he ate them anyway. Something in his stomach was better than nothing. A grasshopper bounded over him and then a black cricket going the other way. Neither paused to say hello. That's how it was here; everybody minded his own business, almost to a fault. Drooping yellow flowers flourished in the aftermath of the storm, they grew everywhere. Purples and lavenders covered the hill far to the north, the sun shining directly on them. They shimmered as a breeze went by, it was a glorious sight, undulating as though one creature. He recalled the beast with many legs, he never found out what that was, forgot to ask. Perhaps the older scouts might know.

The air was heating up, he slowed his pace to compensate. The ground was indeed dry, too dry, in fact. He was hoping to come across a watering hole, but in the meantime, he had to rely on what moisture he could get from chewing on certain types of leaves. The sun was descending behind the treeline far to the west, dusk was falling. The lightning tree was close, but he'd have to hurry to arrive before nightfall. However, he didn't care for the idea--hurrying--so he started to look for a safe place to camp. Before long, he came upon a small hillock topped by stiff grass. He climbed the sandy mound and pushed his way through. In its center was a pile of dead grass, soft and sandy-colored. He scanned the area in all directions but sensed nothing moving. He sat, finally, and devoured the leftovers. That was it, he was out food; at least, that which he carried. He lay down, a handful of straw for a pillow, pulled the dry grass over him, and stared up at the sky. A few stars poked out in the twilight, the black background was vivid, like Turbo's back in the firelight. He opened himself to it and let go. You couldn't see this in the dense forest, he thought. How he'd taken it for granted all these years. What else had he missed?

As he wondered, the sky grew a deeper black and bright, crisp stars appeared from horizon to horizon. A thick milky band stretched down the middle. What grandeur, he thought. Lost in its overwhelming embrace, he slowly drifted off to sleep. His first dream was a nightmare. He was running through the woods as fast as he could, crashing through foliage, blades of grass slapping him in the face, not knowing where he was going. Close behind and getting closer, Heater's tribe was after him; he could hear their footfalls distinctly now, they had no fear, certain they would catch him. The woods around him seethed with menacing killers; they were trying to out-flank him. He tripped, sprawing in the dirt. Bruised and confused, he rose to run again pell-mell into the dense jungle.

He tossed and turned until finally the dream switched to another. He fell into a stream that carried him along through rapids and whirlpools, ever trying to draw him under. But he resisted and fought, furiously, swimming as best he could for the near bank. Exhausted, unable to move his arms and legs, a hand grabbed his and dragged him onto the sandy beach. Breathing hard, he looked up to see a large, roundish figure encircled by a glowing light, his face unreadable.

He awoke with a start to sniffing and grunt sounds coming from the north. It stopped momentarily, then heavy movement. As it neared, he covered himself completely with straw and held his breath. It was large, whatever it was, and probably didn't care about him, but he wasn't taking any chances. It stopped again, snorted, and then moved on, heading south. When its footfalls could no longer be heard, he relaxed. Off to the east he could see dawn approaching. The sky was orange and red and yellow with the slightest hint of the blue that was to be. Another good day, he thought. I can make it.

He sat up, brushing grass from his uniform, and opened the container of brown liquid. Barely enough for a couple of swallows, he drank it slowly, sipping as though the answer to all his questions. As he watched the sun rise over the distant hills, he felt a tingling of warm air. His senses sharpened by the magical drink, he decided it was best to be on his way; it was going to be a hot one on the open plain.

He hiked along, feeling strength in his body, his legs, depsite not having eaten as yet. He considered throwing away the empty containers of Scratch's to rid himself of their weight, but changed his mind. They were now memorabilia, keepsakes and reminders, as was the satchel itself, a gift made by him. The air was busy with fliers and the ground with hoppers and crawlers of every variety. Engrossed with searching for food or just traveling somewhere, they all ignored his passage. By midday, he reached the scorched and broken tree, standing alone, a striking instance of nature's fury. Hungry and light-headed, he spied a berry bush nearby and made for it. They were bittersweet with an acrid aftertaste, and their pulpy texture made them difficult to chew. But he forced them down and filled his sack with as many as he could stuff in it.

He had no landmark to guide him now; he was on his own. He climbed a gravelly mound to scan the terrain, searching for anything recognizable in the distance. One tree off to the north had a familiar look to it. Had he ever gone that far on a scouting mission? he asked himself. Off to the south stood a cluster of berry bushes on a hill. As he stared, his mind formed a mental image of the entire area from above, an ability he only recently acquired. Somewhere in between, he concluded, must be it, my home. He slid down the mound and headed in that direction.

High above, the sun beat down, wearing on his nerves. Irritated, he wished he had his wide-brimmed hat. Coming across another bush whose fruit was further along, he gorged himself, replacing them for the bitter ones in his pack. Over and under, relentlessly, he hiked; doggedly following the path he saw before him. But as he approached the area he believed was his home range, he began to feel he was making a mistake. A dark pall of misgivings and dread weighed down on him, he shortened his stride. Uncertainty buzzed in his chest. Presently, he stopped and stood, gazing in that direction. Munching on a berry, he asked himself out loud, "Is this really what I want to do?" He recalled how, in his younger days, he burst with pride when selected for the scout corp, a caste given respect and gratitude, even adulation by the youngsters. But then those dreams started, fantasies of living a completely different life. Where did they come from? How did things no one in my tribe ever experienced get into my head?

It all felt so restrictive now, his life as a scout. Duty, missions, rules, the handbook. Living in a barracks with scores of other scouts. But there was always that sense of purpose to light the way. To give him strength through adversity. To buoy him when he felt like surrendering to failure. Without purpose, what did he have? He decided to confront the issue head on. He'd find his home, then see.

He trudged on, his pace, leisurely. The sun was before him, halfway down the sky. He wasn't worried. If he found nothing to signify his homesite--no scout trails in the dirt--he'd just fold up under the stars and dream.

A loud buzzing sound approached from behind, quickly gaining. He'd been listening to bees racing to and fro, stopping to graze on flower patches, all day, but this vibration had a familiar tone. He stopped and turned. Racing towards him was his best friend, Benji, coming in for a hard landing, his trademark. "What in the dung balls are you doing?" he asked, staring incredulously. "Where have you been? Your whole tribe figured you drowned in the storm. They held a memorial for you and a few others who didn't make it. Where have you been?"

Edgar sat on a flat stone, Benji joined him. Quietly, with a warm smile on his face, Edgar said, "Remember those dreams I was telling you about? I think I found who put them there." Benji gave him some nectar, a genuine pleasure after those berries, and insisted on hearing everything. Edgar narrated, leaving out not a single detail of note, including the talkative character whose leg he bound. When he finished, Benji gaped. He asked, quietly, "Well, what now? Have you made up your mind what to do? What path to take?"

Edgar swallowed some nectar, staring at the ground. After a long pause, he said, "It's all the same path. It's how we see it that matters. Freedom to be yourself and live the way you want, from day to day, means nothing without purpose. To have the whole tribe behind me, giving me moral support, allows me to act for something larger than myself. I'm not sure I understand that yet; I've had a lot to think about the last few days. But I know now, if I ever choose to walk away from it all, I can do that, without the fear that I might be making a mistake."

They sat for a while chit-chatting, enjoying each other's company, catching up. The sun was beginning to fade. "They'll probably have a celebration when they see you," laughed Benji. "Edgar, the master scout, risen from the dead." He knew where his home mound was and offered to fly him the rest of the way. With relief, Edgar gratefully accepted.

The watery colors of the sky above the western hills shifted from shades of reds and pinks to yellows and light green. On Benji's broad back, he stared intently; it struck a chord, vaguely recalling a dream. He recognized the varied fragrances in the air distinctly, and gazed down on his home range with eyes wide open. A warm feeling filled his belly, and gladness, his heart. In sight of the mound, he became excited; his chest tightened as he fought back tears. But as they neared, despite his feelings, he knew deep down inside that nothing would ever be the same.

The news came as it always does in these parts, somebody passing through. When Scratch heard that Edgar had rejoined his tribe, he was busy stacking firewood, his chore for the day as it would be for several more. Winter would be on them soon, the days were mostly cloudy with only an occcasional shaft of sunlight to tease, and the nights were already near freezing. A friend, on his way south, had stopped by and helped out. Scratch invited him to dinner and warm lodging for the night, as per custom and in appreciation. The tellers, as Scratch called them, visited those in the community they were familiar with. By the interplay of host and teller, all news would eventually be known by all.

Over dinner, this one stitched together pieces of accounts from various others in a most enjoyable fashion. Right up to Edgar's leaving the forest, heading southwest, and the point of meeting an extraordinarily talkative fellow who lived on the plains. Scratch beamed with approval when told how Edgar had bound his fractured leg. After that encounter, they had no direct knowledge of his fate. That was two months ago. But word filtered through and eventually made its way to the deep forest. Edgar was lauded as a hero and stories of his odyssey were told over and over, especially to the young, who yearned to hear of faraway places, sparking the imagination and setting the seeds for wanderlust. He was chosen chief-of-scouts and inspired the other scouts to dig deep for the grit to venture farther than they ordinarily would. Scouting for the tribe transformed from just a job among many in the grand design to a vocation, a reason to live. It gave them a sense of purpose.

It was getting late, Scratch needed to be up early to continue storing wood. He rolled a huge ball of something into the doorway, leaving chiseled cracks for ventilation, and tossed his guest a blanket. The fireplace was going good, the couch facing it would be plenty warm. He went into his bedroom and lay down. In spite of his fatigue, the news of Edgar had roused him. He struggled in his tiredness to recall when he'd first sent out the archetypes of dreams of discovery. They would resonate with but a few, he knew, their combined complexity homed in on a unique group only, those on the cusp of realization. But at that moment, as though the dirt floor had given way, he plunged more deeply into an even earlier period.

His mind went all the way back to when he was young and he and his parents were traveling downriver by boat. It was his first adventure, the river was slow and several others were onboard. He knew someone must be steering it, but being young, he didn't care, enthralled by the sights on the banks and beyond as they slid along, silently except for the sheering sound where the boat met the water. Too young then to know why they were traveling so, with all the belongings they could carry. Others were similarly encumbered. They had come from high in the mountains, of that he knew, but his parents hardly ever talked about it afterwards. He'd overhear them occasionaly, when they thought he was a sleep, reminisce about their home in the mountains and the beauty of their surroundings.

With time, after several homes had proved unsatisfactory for one reason or another, he never quite knew, they'd settled in not far from where he presently lived. He was entering full growth when his parents began to teach him their ways of the mind. Asking why they hadn't sooner, their reply was simply that they'd been preparing him from birth. This only piqued his curiosity further about why they'd left the hills. One night, after dinner and a few of his mother's special cakes, the story came out. They asked him if he'd noticed that no others of his kind in the area have the same gold-green coloring on their backs? He confessed that he hadn't but never thought much of it; the same thing happened in other places. They told him they were of a special class capable of seeing into and affecting other realms of reality. It was in their blood. This practice had aided others of all kinds and their class were sought after.

One day, a few came at first, scouts, and then more from higher up the mountain. They moved in and, although welcomed with open arms, demanded priority over the choicest food sources. Larger and overbearing, they were very aggresive about it. Those of his parent's class were seen to give strength and cohesion to a common resistance, a force of will that interconnected the entire community of like-minded creatures; they were the custodians of the culture. Inevitably, however, they were forced out by threats and acts of violence. That was why they and their friends were on that boat.

After a few years of training, during which he showed an exceptional gift, his parents passed away. First his father came down sick one winter and never recovered. His mother, worn from the experience, succumbed to grief and sadness not much later. He buried them beside one another behind the house they built at the base of a huge tree, its long limbs covered with broad leaves in the summer. He stayed for the following winter, practicing the arts and spells, keeping to himself, working alone. Everything reminded him of them; he fought to focus his mind on the present, but it proved draining. In the spring, he moved out, taking only what he could carry, including personal things his parents had treasured. All in the area let him know that their home would be treated with the respect of a shrine and the grounds cared for.

He lived in the woods for a while, sleeping wherever he could. He did this for a year while honing his skills with mind and spirit. One day as he hiked along, enjoying the fragrances of the budding season, a golden leaf streaked with green landed in his path, a holdover from the distant autumn, finally finding its way to the earth. That was the sign he'd been waiting for. He dragged the leaf aside and dug his home where he now lies in bed.

Exhausted by these memories, he drifted off to sleep. In Dreamland, he met his parents sitting on a flat, moss-covered stone in the forest, the sight of their mountain behind them. They were younger, holding hands; they smiled when they saw him walking towards them. He smiled back, a warm flush filling his entire body. He knelt before them, head bowed, crying softly. His father placed a hand on his head, his mother caressed his neck in that spot that soothed him when a child and felt distressed. Nothing was said or needed to be.

A stiff and weary Scratch emerged from his bedroom, groping for the pot of dark liquid simmering near the fireplace, its fire now almost extinguished. He poured a cup unsteadily, took a sip, put it down on the table, then stoked the fire, poking the embers to life. His guest moaned and then sat-up, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Scratch handed him a cup of the morning drink, then plopped into a well-cushioned chair.

Wrapped in a blanket, holding his cup with both hands, and enveloped by the comforting sounds of crackling, he recalled the day he met Edgar. He'd been preparing a meal when the urge to visit his watering hole overtook him. Putting the food aside, he went there directly. As he neared, he sensed a presence, one who had been receptive to his projection. Standing at his usual spot on the bank, upstream he could see a creature walking gingerly across a bent twig, joining the far bank with his. He was almost at its end when suddenly he slipped. Reflexively, he grabbed a short upright. In the process, he lost footing once more, causing him to crash hard against the thin stick. At once it snapped, propelling him headlong into the turbulent stream. Plunging deeply, he surfaced, gasping for air. Struggling to stay afloat in the rapid-moving water, he'd almost given up when he swirled near Scratch. Stepping into the stream, Scratch grabbed a hand and pulled him onto the sandy beach. He knew then--by the touch, perhaps--he was meant to be here and at this time. It was like other coincidences he'd encountered in life, when a power behind the scenes seemed to control events, a power far greater than what he could comprehend.

After breakfast and a few more cups, Scratch was ready for the day's chore. The teller offered to help for one more day, at least, for his hospitality. Scratch thanked him but declined, saying he thought there'd be an early winter and that he best be on his way. He rolled back the ball wedged in the doorway and, as if to corroborate, a crisp fall breeze, tinted with icy-moisture, filled the room. The teller finished his cup, donned his coat, shouldered his bag, and stepped out into a mostly cloudy day, the barest hint of weak sunlight lancing through a crack to the east. They shook hands. Scratch smiled and handed him a bag of his special cakes for the journey, and as though a door had been closed, they parted. Scratch to the woodpile and the teller to the south.

Life went like this. Finding, gathering, and stacking firewood, interspersed with working in his shop on new furniture and repairing the old, meticulously preparing meals, and practicing his arts, experiencing other dimensions of time and space. Occasionally, a visitor would stop by with stories to tell and news to relate. Not all were heading south; some chose to sleep away the winter in the northern forest, burrowed deep in the ground under the thick covering of decaying leaves and layers of twigs and sticks, or hidden behind protective bark or moss.

The firewood project secured--he always added one stack more than was ordinarily needed, just in case--he was checking stores when the first snowflakes began to fall. Though back in his anteroom, he could hear them land ever so gently on the dead leaves of his great tree. He rolled the ball away enough to squeeze outside and stood under the lean-to protecting the firewood. He enjoyed singling out flakes and watching their wiggly, buffeted path to the ground. Some would hit others and stick, and together they'd twist and turn to their final resting place. The initial landers did not melt. In no time, the familiar landscape was obliterated, replaced by a cold, smooth, undulating whiteness. He knew that by morning, even the discernable bumps and dips would be gone. The many parts, the tiniest of pieces, connected now by an all-embracing sheet, continuous in all directions. The remnants of all that once lived--evokers of memories--cloaked from sight, enveloped, to return whence they came, to find new purpose in future dreamers.

He felt no dread. Winter was not something to be endured and struggled through. For him, it was a quiet time of solitude, of feeling the tiniest details of everyday life. Seldom were there any visitors or tellers, but when they did come, it was a special occasion. The expression of self was so much more vivid and visceral, in a most open and relaxing way, than the usual socializing in other seasons. Perhaps it was the warmth of the fire, or by necessity. To go out to it, to be open to it, the winter and its snow, takes strength of will far surpassing that needed at other times. He found it cleansing and learned respect. Its aloofness and indifference demanded no less.

He plugged the hole, stuffing strips of fur in the bottommost vent-cuts and returned to his work, checking stores. He had his meals planned and knew how much of each ingredient he'd need. When he completed that task, he looked around his home, mentally checking off his list. For light, he had plenty of those peculiar crushed stones found near waterways. Milky as it was, like the full moon on a clear night, it was how he liked it. What caused their luminous behavior he could never figure out, in spite of hours by the fireplace sipping his brown liquid and eating cakes thinking about it. He decided something lived in the stone that made the whole crystal vibrate just so. He made up other reasons just as fanciful, but none ever satisfied. They worked for his parents and they'd showed him where and how to gather them. That was all that mattered in the end.

Having scanned the area, he decided he was ready for winter. He listened to the soft simmer of snow falling, covering the world, and threw another piece of wood on the fire.

Heater woke with a start and peered around quickly, straining to see in the dim light. Was it real? he thought. Or was it again something only in my mind? He'd fallen asleep in a chair in his sparsely furnished living room, the fireplace almost cold, embers twinkled like orange eyes peeking out from the darkness. He roused himself and went to work rekindling, taking his time, forcing himself to concentrate on that single job. Hovering over it, watching the flames lick the wood, he felt a crawling sensation up his back. When the fire was ready, he fed it larger chunks until it was roaring once again. He hesitated to turn around, then laughed at himself. Crouched down, he spun wildly and yelled a challenge to no one and nothing. He stood slowly, taking it all in, letting himself feel his full height, breathed deeply, then went into the kitchen area to prepare his morning wake-up drink.

He'd fashioned--carved and scraped--a pot and handle from a hard, smooth, whitish material lighter than rock of the same size, but a good deal tougher. He found it shortly after he left the tribe when walking along the edge of a stream, not knowing where he was going or caring. He kept it for that reason, never imagining he'd eventually make a pot out of it. That was Scratch's inspiration. He handled it when visiting one time, feeling its texture and strength, its hardness, and pronounced, "This would make a nice pot for morning drink." It shimmered colors as the firelight flickered off it. Burn marks marred its bottom now and up the outer curve to mid-pot. They cleaned off easily, but he hardly ever bothered anymore. Half-filled with the brown liquid, he hung it on the stone hook that swung into the fire, then plopped back down into his favorite chair, choosing to surrender to brooding while he waited.

None of his furniture had he built. He'd found pieces of wood on the forest floor that vaguely resembled two chairs and a couch big enough to accomodate his long body. He did go to the trouble of padding them with feathers and scraps of fur from a carcass he'd come across, but that was it. Artistry came second to utility; at least, it seemed that way now. His initial euphoria at his newfound freedom had waned. Talks with Scratch had been helpful in getting over the emotional instability of a separate identity. But he could see he needed to work on himself, by himself. He was comfortable; that's all that mattered. His bed was a flat slab of soft wood from the inner core of the tree struck by lightning, covered in swaths of fur, resting on pebbles at the corners. Blankets of dried, braided grass entwining strips of scraped underleaf were made by others who knew how, gifts from the diverse community after he arrived, an outcast and alone. They became friends and he respected and honored their friendship, reciprocating whenever he could, which usually meant moving or lifting something heavy.

He adopted the custom of carving out a home beneath the exposed root of a broad-leaf tree, digging the chimney to come out on higher ground on the upper side of the root. A back tunnel opened beyond that, in case the front entrance was blocked or if the chimney was covered over. His contribution was the entranceway: Instead of the arched portal leading directly to the outside, a tunnel turned sharply to the left beneath the root, opening to the forest farther down. Two plugs, one stoppering the outside portal and the other between the living room and the tunnel all but guaranteed no winter draft, much less wind, would invade his warm space. It worked pretty good and was sensible. He needed sensible at that time.

Using a matted swath of twined straw to grab the handle, he poured himself a cup. Winter was upon them in the northern forest. Working physically helped him clear his mind and calm his feelings, so long ago his extra chamber had been filled with more than enough firewood and supplies. Wax-leaf canisters of water lined one wall; if any of it went bad, there'd be plenty of snow to melt. And those stones that shined, he'd made up several thin-leafed baskets to contain them, which he hung around the large living room. The leaves gave the light a yellowish tint, which he found relaxing. In his bedroom, a pile sat on a chunk of dried wood--he called it a table--next to his bed, illuminating with a creamy white the chiseled contours.

He knew what his tribe was doing now, socializing, living off stores mutually acquired, all receiving an equal share. The comaraderie, the conversation, the playfulness reverberating through the group. But he also remembered how they got those goods, what they did to acquire them, and it made him sick. He was of their ilk by dint of birth and learning, teachings of their way ingrained as though by nature. At first, in the beginning, long ago. But with time and generations, the teachings were no longer necessary.

He liked his life now, solitudinous though it was; he didn't need to kill anymore, to hack someone to bits. He never liked it in the first place and oftentimes feigned participation. But that was life, their life. But it troubled him deeply; he wondered if there could be some other, more satisfying, way. The excitement and exhilaration he once knew when young and about to embark on a raid had gone, replaced by the cries of mercy from their victims echoing in his mind. But they were ruthless, showing none. He began to voice disagreement at strategy meetings of those about to partake in the hunt. He would try to discourage killing certain kinds of creatures. His reasons, though baldly stated, were never clear to the rest. As a result, he was shunned and labeled a troublemaker and suspected of not fulfilling his obligation as a member of the tribe. His heart was not in it, the right place. Eventually, he was excepted from hunting expeditions altogether. This set him off even more. He was a warrior; to be told to stay home because he wasn't bloodthirsty enough enflamed him. He protested vehemently to the council of elders. That was the final affront, challenging a decison by a hunt master. They were outraged. Consequently, and on recommendations from hunt leaders, he was forced out, ostracized, turned away from the tribe.

He sat drinking hot brown liquid made from ground, dried, tawny-colored mushrooms that grew in the dung of large animals, everyone's favorite morning drink, and at just about any any other time of the day too when a pick-me-up was needed. Along with it, he munched Turbo-cakes. They were similar to Scratch's but had a few extra ingredients that gave them a tangy flavor.

Sitting thus by the fire, he thought to visit someone, to go outside to greet the brisk air and examine the first snowfall of the season. Because of the thick canopy enveloping the northern forest, he knew what he would find: snow would barely have made it down to the middle branches with virtually none on the lowest. On the ground of decaying leaves and tangles of twigs, it would be spotty at best, marking where the canopy overlap was sparsest, an inverted travel map for a tree runner. But the warm fire, the hot drink and delicious cakes held him fast in his comfortable chair, a private world of quiet solitude. About to be interrupted.

A length of thick twine with a pebble tied to its end hung through a hole next to his outside door. Inside, suspended by u-shaped twigs, it was laid across the roof to the opposite wall, then running the length of the tunnel to another hole adajacent his top door. It passed through and its end was tied to a bundle of pebbles. When the outside rope was pulled, the bag sucked partway into the hole. When released, its abrupt drop made a kalump sound. When visitors came, they pulled the cord, then let themselves in, replugging the hole behind. If the inner door wasn't opened by then with Heater standing there to welcome them, they knocked. If no answer, they left, perhaps leaving a gift of something or a payback.

And there it was--the interruption. Kalumpkalumpkalump; three of them in rapid succession. That particular calling card belonged to an old friend from the day when a band of them would sneak away from a strategy meeting and go to their secret swimming hole. Just the five of them, lazing about in the grass on a hot day, the sun low on the horizon, shafting and streaking through the thick, leaf-covered branches wherever it could find passage. At nightfall, they'd sneak back into the complex warren by way of a zig-zag tunnel. One end began at a young broad-leaf tree--a clear landmark for those who knew--and the other in an old, abandoned storage room, walled off from the inside at the very rear of the multitiered nest of tunnels, storage facilities, work shops, barracks of soldiers and scouts, and individual rooms for the queen, her entourage, the council of elders, and leaders of the hunt and overseers of distribution. It was a well-oiled and organized society where everybody knew his place, his job, and his responsibilities. Most of all, loyalty to the tribe was paramount and any violation thereof was deemed a grave affront--a crime against the tribe, in fact.

However, none of the five ever considered play an act of treason. They were stout warriors all and had nothing to be ashamed of. Play was part of their nature and needed to be exercised at least as much as tracking prey, killing and dismembering. It was their way and no one questioned it. Not directly, at any rate.

He recalled that hot summer day when they conspired to overthrow the queen and free their people. It didn't start off that way.

They were at the swimming hole laying about, drying off in the evening heat and talked about what it must be like for other creatures whose nature was to live alone with no one to answer to, no imposed code of conduct and honor inculacted from birth, strictly enforced and believed in with all the zeal of religious fanatics. It was their way. Somehow, they saw individual freedom as contemptible, cowardly, and the way of those unable to form allegiances, a transcendent force shared by all in the tribe.

As usual, their chide of creatures who lived alone always began with dismissive insults poked at their appearance, the foods they ate, the homes they lived in, and the laziness and disorder of their lifestyles. They would laugh uproariously, at first. But after a time, the humor and mild contempt would wring itself out and a pervasive silence would fill the void, the gentle brook running through their swimming hole the only sound.

The largest of them all, Bruiser, stood and paced a circle around the pool, stepping easily through the shallow filler stream. He plucked a length of field grass and began breaking it into tiny bits, tossing them into the pool with a quick, jabbing motion. He was irritated. They'd been here before, the impasse. After a spate of belittling remarks, each taking his turn tryng to best the last, they spiraled in on what they intuited as the unspoken, mutual problem.

Stumpy, sitting on a moss-covered stone, leaning against the cliff-face that served to conceal their pool, voiced what was on everyone's mind: "I'm sick of this crap, fed-up. It rubs me the wrong way. The hunt leaders have been calling all the shots lately, deciding who to attack. Nobody has a say. Killing prey and leaving their bodies behind, that's just plain wrong." He paused for a bit, leaned forward, absently threw a pebble into the pool, and in a low voice repeated, "It's just plain wrong. Everybody is up in arms about it; we're hunters who eat what we kill, not leave it to rot in the sun. We were just following orders, like good soldiers, but going against the code in the process. Don't they know that?"

Jumping to his feet, he picked up a large rock and threw it high over the swirling pool of water. When it landed in the middle, a crown-shaped splash flew upwards. Jagged and misshapen in every respect though it was, the myriad patterns emerged out of one another like sliding sheets of vanishing thickness, and collectively formed a crown. When the heavy drops had all collapsed--the last loud shearing sound catching up to the barely audible initial ones--the spherical sound wave passed over them all. The effect transformed their mood as though a call-to-order bell had rung. Stumpy waddled to the spot where the crushed, light-giving stones were scattered, picked up a handful and artlessly tossed them into the water. A casual gesture belying his present temper. They layed about the pool, staring at their hands or twisting blades of grass or digging at the dry, summer dirt--looking down towards the ground.

Heater and Stumpy had become best friends in their youth. As the story went, it'd been just the two of them out on a hunt of their own, when a poisonous horror of a creature dropped from a branch, landed on Stumpy, wrapped his long legs around him and started to squeeze. Heater came up quickly from behind and grabbed the multi-legged assailant around the neck. He leveraged his already considerable body strength by wrapping his powerful legs around a rock and, just as the creature's stinger was coming down towards his friend's abdomen, snapped his neck. It was a close call. He owed his life to Heater and discovered that friendship was a more compelling allegiance than the tribe itself. Now, as he stood, he was working things out that they all felt and were troubled by. Everyone waited for him to speak, you could feel it in the air.

How he got his nickname had become a required lesson taught during elementary training in what not to do. Although physical training was empahsized, to be sure, one had to be a proficient, extremely well-disciplined, and highly-skilled killer; the mental training pervaded it and gave it the cohesion and order it needed.

When very young, practicing his stealth, sneaking up on imaginary prey, he caught his ankle in a tight loop of wiregrass. As though a monstrous hand had grabbed him, pulling and yanking only tightened its grip, causing its sharp edge to cut into the hard, outer sheath covering the softer inner flesh. Young and inexperienced, he tried jerking his leg, which only dug the loop in more deeply. It never occurred to him to calm down--no danger lurked--sit and take his time unraveling it. He was just playing, after all. But his imagination wouldn't quit. What if predators were upon him? The grass was on fire? To escape, a matter of life or death? These stray thoughts drove him to desperation, exacerbating the situation, leading to panic. He yanked harder, tightening the loop's firm grasp even more. By the time his rescuers got him home, part of his foot was infected and had to be removed. Hence, the nickname--Stumpy. He looks back on that time and shakes his head at his greenness. Since then, nothing and no one has ever caused him to panic.

"We've become killers just to kill, as though that were an end in itself," he went on. "Our larder is full to overflowing, we've built new chambers, and yet we continue to hunt. We know this winter will be early, the signs are there, early and long, but that's what we've already prepared for. These hunts are extermination hunts. We're being used, the whole warrior force, the hunt leaders and the council are using us for their own ends, whatever that is. It doesn't make sense otherwise, to change the rules, the code we live by, after generations of its success. They're in it together. Territory, reputation, overthrowing the queen? She and her advisors are supposed to have control over food gathering and distribution."

"It's true that we're killing more prey than we need; it's unnecessary; there's no practical reason for it," interjected Bruiser in his booming voice, standing in the shallow stream. "Let them live for a later day. But right now, and for some time to come--I've seen the storage areas too--there's isn't any need." He splashed water on his face and chest, it didn't seem to cool him off any. "That's how we've always hunted, our way. Each creature is an offering, and we honor that. They're only food afterwards, when their spirits have returned to the earth. When our larders are bare, we won't have anything to put in them. We'll have to travel to the edge of the forest to find game. So what is the strategy here?"

He was obviously annoyed, and when Bruiser got annoyed, everybody listened. "And those who take part in an expedition are supposed to be given an even share. That's how it's always been. But I've been noticing lately the leaders getting far more and a few others who don't have any particular grand position. They're just ordinary warriors, status-wise, like us."

Twitch, he had a nervous eye when he got excited, said, "They're informants, I'm sure of it. I watched them on the last couple of raids spying on certain others and then reporting to the hunt leader." An ominous silence undercut the babbling of the stream as it filled the pool. Finally, he said, "They were eyeballing you, Heater."

Heater's head jerked up. "Why?" he asked. "What are they up to?" His outrage blossomed in a rush, "Spying on me, what arrogance!"

"What if the queen's in on it, whatever it is?" wondered Slider out loud. He never talked much, the quiet type. He could move as fast sideways as he could forward, that's how he got his name.

"You know," began Twitch, the cynical one who, nonetheless, was often right. "That would make sense, in a way. I mean, the hunt leaders and their informants aren't exactly trying to hide what they're doing. Everybody in the corp can see it and are troubled by it; only they're afraid to speak up. They sense things are in transition, a power shift, and don't want to be caught on the wrong side. A lot of them have families, I don't blame them. We've nearly cleared out every creature in the southwest sector. It was like the hunt leader was trying to see how far he could go, killing prey by the dozens. A grumbling is happening through the troops that's hard to overlook. I fear a major crack-down is coming."

"I have an idea," said Heater, now fully engaged. He was in the habit of voicing his opinion at strategy meetings before a hunt and was warned not to protest so much and so loudly, it gave the younger ones the belief that it was allowed. This only stirred him up more. He was going out, risking his life, killing for the tribe, returning with food, and they're telling him he has no right to contribute to the plan? To offer alternative suggestions? To ask simple questions, like: Why are we killing more than we need? He felt he was within his rights and his tirades generated a lot of heat. That's how he got his name.

Having no ideas of their own, being short on information and unsure what to do about it, they listened. His ideas were sometimes brash; actually, often brash, and reckless and so were usually received with a degree of reservation. But now, they were passed those concerns. Something serious that affected them all, including the rest of the tribe, was happening behind the scenes and they needed to find out what that was before it was too late. "We need an excuse to get away for a couple of days and visit Scratch. I have a feeling he knows what's going on. He always does. How that is, I don't know. But he's one of them. Their backs are of many different colors, his is a bright golden-green. They can see patterns we can't, and reveal connections that to us may seem impossible. If we tell him everything that's been going on, he might be able to show us the big picture. Besides, he gets information from all over, from many different kinds spread throughout the community, as they call it. All we know is what we're doing. Outside our realm could be the cause of all the suspicious activity."

It took only seconds for them to agree. Bruiser said he'd talk to the chief-of-the hunt, tell him he wanted to take a small group out into the west to do a survey. No hunt leader has ever turned Bruiser down, especially when it concerned what seemed like legitimate operations. While he was meeting with the chief hunter, the rest were packing their satchels with provisions for the long hike.

They moved out at first light. Trained and experienced at forced marches, they covered ground quickly, silently, finding their path through the ground cover. Nobody spoke. They reached the southern edge of the forest and took their first break. The sun was midway up. After a quick bite and sip of water, they lay back on the clover and passed out immediately. Minutes went by, accentuated by their deep breathing. Then, almost as one, they awoke and sat up. Took another sip of water, and proceeded on the next leg. They took the tree route along a branch that interlaced with that of another on the other side of the ravine, now flowing, low, but flowing, from summer's rains high up on the mountain to the north. They hit the ground moving fast; they wanted to arrive at Scratch's before nightfall.

The stars were just beginning to come out when they reached Scratch's abode. He was alone, thank goodness, and invited them in, offering seats and drinks, which they accepted gratefully. He also put a plate of his cakes on the table in front of the couch. They were close to exhaustion and much appreciated the hospitality, the comfortable furniture, and the heat from the fireplace. He rolled a ball of something into the round door portal to keep the heat in, arranged small piles of the bright stones around in certain places, and when all the ceremonies and preparations were completed, they relaxed, drinks in hand.

No one said anything. Where would they start? It was Heater's idea, so he finally spoke up. He related the background and context of their situation. His friends joined in and before long, they were all contributing at once, spontaneously finishing each other's sentences as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Instances, fragments of things seen and said, insights and inferences, clues and hints, traces that ran through it all, things they didn't know they knew, rose to the surface.

Something about Scratch brought that out. Was it his personality? Did it somehow make you smarter to be in his presence? Did his profound openness and warmth encourage and evoke it? Nobdy knew and they didn't care; results were all that mattered. Without saying a word, he helped their minds clear away the confusing debris associated with the main thoughts, and things they'd glossed over at the time of their occurence as being irrelevant, suddenly made sense. Connections formed between once previously believed to be separate events, subtle though they may be.

The large living room filled with the smells of stale sweat and the flush of sour adrenaline. Sratch pulled the door-plug open a bit to air it out and relieve the tension. After a time, and several drinks and cakes, the group wound down. Fatigue and strain were finally taking their tolls. They stood in a circle and played a game with their hands to see who got the couch--Slider. For the rest, Scratch spread out blankets on the dirt floor to which they added their traveling mats. The door was plugged, the fire was banked, and the light-stone bags covered, leaving the three small piles with their cool, milky light to watch over them.

Scratch had told them nothing, not a word of comment or insight. He went into his bedroom and knelt before the carved images of his parents and the personal possessions of theirs he'd taken when he left their home. A pile of stones lay on the table next to his bed giving him all the light he needed. Gathering himself, he invoked a spell that would enable him to enter the spirit realm where he could travel freely over vast distances and with no physical hindrances. He had his personal allies in that world who he contacted, feeling for their auras.

Domain of Spirits:
An ephemeral dimension where beings who have transcended the physical dwell. On the other side are beings who have never experienced corporeality. Those who have known life on this side are far more powerful than those who have not. This situtation has created something of a rift in the spirit world. And along with it, jealousy and hatred.
What are they capable of? They can see the minds of those beings on the material plane, they can see thought. They can also see the networks or webs of interelationships surrounding those people. Beyond that, they have many gifts and talents--powers--that those on other planes of existence simply wouldn't understand.