Part 1, Chapter IV

Chapter IV. The Knot is Undone

She was a crafty one, that lady who first cared for me, when she kept me blindfolded.

When Kindred left, I was able to prop myself up grimacing at the numbness which ran all the way up one side of my body and scan my surroundings. The wagon was the length of two men and the width of one, dusty and poorly pieced together, for there were holes gaping between the floor planks. The canvas covering above was supported by a series of wooden ribs, from the middlemost of which hung a kerosene lamp. At the front of the carriage, a few gold-trimmed chests and trunks were stacked.

            Over to the chests I wormed, for my hands and feet remained bound. Kicking off my clogs, I lay on my back, raised my feet, and hooked the rope around my ankles on the corner of one heavy-looking trunks. Though it took some time, after I wiggled my feet enough, I was able to pull them free. I repeated the same action with the ropes that bound my hands.  

            Heart racing, I peeked out the back of the carriage and saw that all the wagons had been parked in a ring around the Northerners’ campsite, which they’d pitch in a shallow clearing. Around a blazing fire, blanket-heaped men and women lay strewn, fast asleep. When I was sure there was no one keeping shift, I hopped down from the carriage and, squatting, slipped around front of the wagon. With my head low and my eyes trained on the ground, I blindly plunged for the dense, black-bellied jungle ahead, my hope for shelter and refuge.

I nearly gained my freedom too, but just before I reached that savage threshold a pair of oversized boots loomed into my field of vision. Drawing up short, I found my eyeballs pressed against a thick belly. Slowly, I lifted my chin and the face came into view, though for the dimness I barely recognized him. Quagmire, eyes flashing with the scarlet light of the Northerners’ fire, towered over me, a club gripped in one hand.

            “Where you be scurrying ‘way too?”

            Brains and all, I would have been dashed to pieces on the spot, had my mouth not outrun my wit. “Where dost thou think?!” I snapped. “If you elect to tie a man up for howsoever many days, you could at least preserve his dignity by allowing him to relieve himself every now and then!”

            Quagmire blinked, turning his eyes to my unbound wrists. “Well you’re not going anywhere, like that, and it’ll do flop to have your wrists in a tie, won’t it?”

            “Let me go untied, then.”

            “And let you slip the knot? Sham! The two of us will go; I’m not taking either eye off you!”

            “It’d rather not.”

            “Here’s this, then,” from his belt, he unwound a balled-up length of rope and held it aloft. “I tie me up with one end and you with the other, then I let you go off to have yourself a piss.” He thumped the club against his thigh. “Any funny stuff, and I have me a braining!”

            So he tied one end of his rope to his wrist and the other to mine, and sent me marching into the brush. The rope was long, so I was able to get ten or eleven wings’ breadth from Quagmire.

            For a moment, I wondered how I might sever the bond which held me, when I spied bathing in the moonlight a palm with which I was familiar, whose tough bark Augustinians would use to carve their fruits. Over the tree’s bark I shimmied the rope, careful to catch it once it snapped so Quagmire would not feel an absence at my end of the rope. To this effect, I tied my end to a nearby bramble.

            “Hurry on with it, already!” squawked Quagmire.

            “A minute!” I replied. “The bladder’s shy when in company.”

            “Better tell it man up!”

            To bide some time, I lifted my frock to relieve myself, for it really had been a long ride in the back of the wagon and my bladder was at the point of rupture. That matter put aside, I ducked beneath a tangle of branches, careful not to cause any disturbance, for fear that it might alert Quagmire.

After plucking my way around in the darkness, I cleared the tangle and entered a dense net of ferns, bursting with starburst-shaped bromeliads that bounced gently in the nocturnal breeze. Through this path I crawled, moving only a few inches at a time, breast a-beat with internal flame.

            When I was far enough from the camp that I considered simply pouncing to my feet and outrunning Quagmire, a noise in the brush launched a flock of gossiping birds into the night sky. Certain that I’d been detected, I was about to burst from my cover and take flight when I heart the thumping of footfalls up ahead. These were padded, unlike the clomping sounds made by the Northerners’ boots, and heavy. Too heavy. My fingers, knitted in the earth’s moist soil, in which yet lingered the heat of day, felt the ground shudder with each thud.

            I came to the verdict that fleeing the Northerners was a rash decision, for I knew not the lands of Augustine beyond an afternoon’s march from the temple, nor were the unmarked paths which would lead me back to its shelter known to me. The mysterious footsteps in the brush triggered new fears, for I’d heard of wicked and frightening things which lurked in parts of Augustine and gave not their hands in worship to Sol.

            So, my cleverness dealt a sound blow, I crept from the brush and into the clearing. There, but fifteen wings’ breadths from where I crouched, Quagmire and Orchid were engaged in an argument in the same spot I’d abandoned the former but minutes ago.

As the heart is apt to, between the fear of man and his earthly weapons, and fear of the twisted, unspeakable powers of the earth, I chose to fear man. Like an infant who crowns false when his mother lays upon the birthing stool, so I passed once more into the jungle’s sweltering womb. This time, I had just barely left the campfire’s light behind me when I burst into a sprint. I knew I would be heard, but slender and lithe as I was, I pitched the odds in my favour against the lumbersome Northerners.

How loud did my own steps seem! They echoed throughout the jungle, sending every living thing scampering. But then I realized it was not my own footsteps I was hearing, but a set just out of synchronization with my own, the likes of which caused all the earth beneath it to shiver and contract.

Then, ahead of me darted a pair of flashing orange streaks.

            To the ground I plunged, landing in a thicket. Beside me, a tree with stilted roots grew, draped in sprawling creepers. Into the thick of these roots I clambered and there I waited. Soaked in undrunk dew that collected on ferns and brush, my frock clung to my body like a second skin. I shivered, endeavoring not to make a sound.

            Into the bush there trod a creature, though from within my hidden nest I saw only its paws, which were long and elegant, each the size of my head. For a moment, the creature paused in front of the tree in which I was stored. Against my breastbone, my heart smashed. But for all my fears, the thing moved on, its footsteps taking it further away into the brush.

            My limbs relaxed with relief. It was just a cougar, I reasoned. I’d heard there were a few scattered in Augustine, nothing more than oversized cats on the prowl for whatever they might catch between their jowls. Though, I never expected them to be quite so large…

            A tingle brushed down the back of my neck. Hugging my chest, I turned to peer behind me. There were only more roots there, and beyond them, darkness. I twisted around to resume my surveillance -- and came face to face with a mouth full of fangs!

            Before me hovered the face of a cobra, tongue flickering from its unhinged maw, his body an ugly patchwork of every color beneath the sun’s belly. Its eyes were milky jade, never blinking nor straying from my face.  

            I made to grab for a stick to slay the thing, but then it spoke, “Why so quick to unmake, blessed one? Thou need not spill blood upon thy hands -- I am not thine enemy, but one of the blessed myself. An angel of Sol’s, and a bringer of luck to men whose paths I cross. From thy form, I divine that thou hast been touched by She, for thy looks are most comely, though thou art not of this garden without end.”

            The very shock of hearing the serpent’s voice caused all thoughts of slaying the thing to evaporate, leaving only repulsion and flesh-stilling fear. “Why, Sol is no god, and her angels are not divine! Some trick of wit animates thee. What a foul thing to call an angel!”

            But the serpent knew already the speculations through which my mind was working, for it said, “Abandon ye all thy musings, for no trick of another’s voice, nor craft of your own thoughts’ deviation, causes what thou beholdest even now! As for these looks of mine, thy eyes have smarted at first glance and caused thee to err. Look again, and see! Am I not lovelier than all things She hath made?”

            Against my will, my eyes turned upon the beast. Indeed, the longer I gazed upon it, the more pleasing the serpent was to behold. Its patchwork armour shimmered in the moonlight and was transformed into ruby, emerald, sapphire, topaz, silver, and gold. Each scale was a precious stone, lovely to the eyes and rich in appearance.

            “Now look into my eyes, mortal, and see things lovelier still. In them are all secrets, which She alone hath power to loose and to mend.”

As I peered into its pale jade eyes, the serpent’s hiss became a woman‘s voice. “See thine own trail blazed into the face of the world -- I shall make you great indeed: a king within these lands and beyond.”

            “Don’t give it your eyes, boy!” a voice suddenly called out. “It’ll pluck them right out of the sockets!”

            My trance broke. I looked beyond the cobra and behold! -- there stood Orchid and Quagmire. The former bore a strange metal stick that was thicker at one end, and his companion, his head-smashing club. When I turned my face again to the snake, it was hideous in appearance once more, and from its open mouth dripped dark purple poison. Drawing its misshapen head back, it struck. Barely did I manage to throw myself to the ground and dodge that deadly blow!

            Blind and deaf, I bolted. Those roots which had once provided shelter were nearly the death of me, for the front of my frock became entangled in a stray branch, and I was forced to rip it free. Through the piercing brambles I stumbled, tearing skin from flesh, before I broke free and tripped into the bush, landing at Orchid’s feet. He deftly poured a casement of fine, black power into the tubular opening of his stick (which, as I would later learn, was called a rifle), followed by a small metal ball, and packed these down tight with an even smaller rod.

            Just as he finished with his weapon, from the woods there bounded a creature both terrifying and beautiful. It had the face and body of a lion, wise and regal, but for a mane it had not hair, but the scaly, gem-crusted mane of a cobra, and from its forehead rose a single horn of silver entwined with gold. Legs, long and shapely, carried the noble beast, and from its elegant feet I recognized it as that creature I’d glimpsed before.

            So I found the beast lovely, until a voice spoke, “And wilt thou wound me, alien?”

Though the voice came from the lion, its face made no movements; for that matter, the lion did not even appear to be breathing, nor did its fair eyes even focus on its quarry.

            “Have me the Crick!” breathed Quagmire. “What is that bugger?”

            “It’s a Chimera,” Orchid replied, “and I can guarantee you there’s never been a bigger pain in the a*s to walk this earth. How about showing your chops, Blessed One!”

            The beast turned, exposing its back to us. On its cobra’s mane was a living eye, which gaze unblinking at our party, and above its anus, it had for a tail the long and winding body of that treacherous serpent.

            “Well greeted, mortal!” spoke the serpent. “Thou beseem me familiar. Have we not crossed paths before?”

            Orchid fumbled in his pockets and retrieved a book of matches. “It’s been a long, dark day since then, praise be! Believe me, I hadn’t any intention of stopping in again anytime soon.”

            “How odd! Those who come face to face with me scarcely have the pleasure of doing so a second time. Allow me to correct my error.”

            Suddenly, the Chimera swung around with a mighty snarl, the lion’s jaws barred open as it bore down upon us with a mighty pounce. I fled not, but braced myself to be shred limb from limb -- when crack! A flash leapt from the muzzle Orchid’s rifle and the lion’s head exploded in a rupture of black gore. With half its skull blown away, it ploughed into the ground and slid for nearly ten wing’s breadth. At last it came to rest, its hind limbs mangled in a grove of stranglers, and what remained of its head splayed in a bed of bromeliads. Silver plumes hung in the air, swirling from the barrel of Orchid’s rifle.

Curiously, no grey, putrid slime that we call brain matter spilled from the lion’s head -- its skull was empty, save for a black, clotted fluid which now oozed down its noble maw and streaked the low-laying ferns for a full twinty wings’ breadth. I wished to approach the body and dip my hands in the strange fluid, to feel if it had the texture of blood, but Orchid held me back.

            “Don’t,” said he. “Just give him a minute; he’s wasn’t long for the maggots last time either.”

            Sure enough, the Chimera rose to its feet, half-gored head lolling to one side. Its villainous tail, that rascally serpent, briefly glared at us and hissed, “Damnation lend herself as thy w***e!” And with those words, the thing ran off into the woods a*s-first, dilapidated head bobbing all the way.

            “Full of good ole’ pals aren’t you, Orchid?” howled Quagmire, slapping his knee. “He took a lovin’ to you!”

            “Wouldn’t call him a pal o’ mine. Met him just once before, carving up this same road when my hair had a few less greys. One of Miss Sunshine’s pets, I would reckon. Said he’d grant me a bit o’ luck, last time. Want to know what I said?”

            “Let’s hear!”

            “I told him, ‘One thing’s good for another, so let me pay you this favour: best plug your ears!’, and I blew his head off in one shot, just so! Bugger got up a few minutes later and tore off; you can bet anything he’ll be back again once he finds himself another mute to play the head’s part!”

            “The lion’s head is just a decoy,” I said, emboldened by their reckless speech. “It has no life of its own -- it does not even breath! You would need to kill the snake in order to destroy it.”

            Just below my diaphragm, Orchid’s boot struck. To the ground I crumpled, teeth digging into my lip and drawing blood, but I refused to give the Northerners’ the satisfaction of hearing me weep or yowl. What little affection I had felt towards the men for protecting me fled as quickly as it had come.

            “Role around like a dog -- just about serves you right!” snapped Orchid, but there was a tint of laughter to his voice. “Didn’t Kindred tell you I’d lay flay you if you so much as stuck your peck out of the camp? Well, I’m not in a flaying mood, but believe me -- you’ll get yours. Here,” stretching out a hand, he helped me to my feet. “It’s a bloody good thing you’re walking, ‘else I might’ve tossed you in the ditch to rot. A bag boy’s no good laying on his side all day. Speaking of peck, by the way -- yours is rearing its ugly head right now.”

            Glancing down, I realized that when I’d ripped my frock, it had torn all the way up to my belly button and that my manhood was exposed, bloodied with scrapes from my flight through the brush. Hastening to conceal myself, I marched alongside Quagmire and Orchid, matching their stride pace-for-pace. By the time we returned to camp, dawn’s first light was already coloring the eastern sky.

            All thoughts and memories of the temple and those who worshipped beneath the sun disintegrated after I witnessed the Chimera’s head blown apart into a thousand chunks. That encounter caused me to realize that the jungle I now found myself in was not my Augustine, but part of a domain of strangers and strangeness, less of a home than the clothes I wore or the foreigners who held me.

            When we arrived at camp, Orchid gave me a set of northern-style clothes to wear -- an undershirt, boots, socks and shorts, and that peculiar garment the men up north call “trousers”.

            While I was putting these on, something fell from the back pocket of my shredded frock and winked at me from the grass. When I stooped to pluck it up, I found it was a small ring, and immediately I knew it had to be Eleanor’s parting gift. The ring was utilitarian in design and made of silver, too small to be furnished on a finger.  Upon it a word was engraved whose meaning I knew not at the time: Autumnus. There were some smaller engravings too, but I could not make out their meaning. I have the ring with me still -- take it, if you will: examine it for yourself, and you will see, though lovely it is, of how little use it would have been to me then.

            Without a wink of sleep to dampen my eyes, I emerged from the wagon just in time to have a crate shoved into my arms.

            “Take this,” said Orchid, “and make yourself useful. No more nodding your head in the wagon like a babe -- it’s all walking for you from hereon, son!”

            Already, the embarrassment of having to be rescued from the Chimera was setting in, so I was doubly bold when I said, “I would never ask for such comforts, sir. If I must, I shall march from here to Ambitus.”

            Orchid clapped my shoulder and laughed. “Never been far from the nest, have you? You’re going to be a fun one to break in. Say, you got a name, boy?”

            “Kindred named me Dark.”

            “Course she did! That’d be our Kindred… tell her to go poke around someone else’s business, won’t you? Fine. Dark it is. A stage name like that will get them talking anyways.”

            “Stage name?”

            “Don’t be getting ahead of yourself, son. You’re just a pack mule and a stagehand for now -- keep your sniffer to ground where it belongs! Now off to the horses with you! Ho!”

            So I was driven around most of the morning, scrambling to load the wagons and hitch the horses. The latter task proved the more difficult, for though I’d seen travelers steer their horses past the temple’s steps, I knew not how the beasts were hitched. One, I think, didn’t take to me handling its tail -- a part of the horse’s anatomy which I would only later learn was not, in fact, part of the hitching process. And, in case there was ever any dispute on the matter, I should say that a horse’s teeth are every bit as vicious as they appear.

When Orchid took notice of my struggle, he came over to help. As he showed me how to fix the reigns and saddle, questions clawed at my throat, seeking escape. At last, I gave in and began to badger the man.

            “The woman who first tended for me -- what was her name?” I asked.

            “Kindred, wasn’t it? Thought you said she stuck you with a name.”

            “No; before that.”

            “Oh! That’d be my wife, Omar -- a real beaut, isn’t she? …Nevermind! Forgot about the blindfold. Well, you’ll meet her soon enough.”

            “Wife? But Eleanor -- .”

            “Trying to get me in trouble or something, boy? Hush, already!” he winked at me. “Wait a year or two and you’ll know exactly what I mean.”

            “How long until we reach Ambitus?”

            “Now there’s a question worth its weight in gold! It’s about a fortnight between South Augustine and Ambitus, so I’d reckon us another eleven days’ journey off.”

            We continued on like this for a while, until eventually he grew weary and told me to see Quagmire about breakfast.

            Within an hour, the Northerners’ camp had vanished and yet again we were moving along our unmarked trail. Evidently, Orchid still distrusted me, for he had me tied to one of the wagons’ axles.

While still bound, I was at least free to walk alongside the others. Though the morning air was cool, I warmed a little with each step, until the high-vaulted sun was perched directly above my head and my body was dappled in sweat. The heat stung my body, but my legs grew neither tired nor sore, and I found pleasure in the beauty of Sol’s garden. We’d entered a section of the jungle occupied by great and ancient trees, whose buttress roots rose before us like the arches supports of an organic cathedral, thrice as high as a man stands. Behemoths those trees were, bark creeping with every living vine and lecherous flower, and moss which the branches sported like coarse-woven beards.

            Behind me, I heard the hurried footsteps of another. A boy, perhaps a year or so younger than I, darted past, glanced over his shoulder, and came to a halt. He waited up ahead until my wagon approached, a half-empty bottle of Augustian wine in one hand.

            “Afternoon, chum!” he said, waving enthusiastically with his free hand. “Fancy I walk with you?”

            “If you wish.”

            Glancing at the ropes around my wrists, he fell into step alongside me, lifting the bottle to his lips for another sip. “You must be the new fellow, hey? Boys, you must be a runner for Orchid to tie you up all pat! Did anyone ever tell you yours ears -- .”

            “ -- They’re strange, yes,” I answered, annoyed.

            “Kindred tells me your name’s Dark -- that so?”

            “Yes.”

            “Her and me are best of chums -- sharing the same sheets, if you read me.”

            I cast my gaze upon him, noting his ungainly limbs and short stature, and decided he was fibbing.

            “She told me you weren’t big a talker either. So what do you do?”

            “Pardon?”

            “Well, you’re part o’ the crew now, so there’s got to be something you can do -- you know, play music, eat fire, cut a lady in a dress in half -- .”

            “ -- I beg your pardon?”

            “You know, showmanship. An act.”

            “You are mistaken. I’m only here as a ‘pack mule’.”

            That cracked him up. “Come on, Dark, you can’t be in the troop unless you have an act! Not to worry -- we’ll have you patched up like a proper player in no time!”

            “What about you?”

            Crimson flashed across the boy’s cheeks.

            “I happen to be a jack of all trades,” he said. “Juggling, fire-swallowing, singing… you name it, and I can guarantee I’ve tried it! See, the trouble is, I don’t exactly have a spot in the program yet, per say. Still working on that. But one day…” he paused, drew a crumpled cap from his pocket, and pulled it down over his eyes. “I’m a lackey myself, just like you. Say, mind if I stash my booze in this wagon? Had myself a gulp too many last night and slept it… had to sprint all the way up here!”

            As Sol descended into the world below and began her treacherous journey through lands which see no living thing, our party came to rest and pitched camp for the evening. I sat apart from the others and ate my portion in silence. Beneath one of the wagons I fell asleep, and in the morning, the cycle began again.

            There are some wistful-minded individuals, in both Augustine and Ambitus, who stand in awe of the glory of performers, and envy those who serve them on their journeys of renown. I shall say this only once: the life of a lackey for men and women of the arts is hardly auspicious. Not only was I charged with the task of loading and unloading the wagons at each stop we made, but I was also required to help snare game for our meal every night, and when the jungle became so dense that the wagons could no longer move forward, the other lackey-boy and I were shooed ahead, armed with axes to cut a clean path through tree and shrub.

            From this activity, I learned much about my companion, for I am sorry to report that the lad never shut up. His name was Denthilde and he was nearly seventeen, he liked girls very much, and he was attached to the idea of acquiring one for a wife. He could play thirteen different instruments and juggle, and on our trip thus far he had consumed a total of four bottles of liquor. He’d been born in Ambitus, and his father had been wealthy until something called the stock market crashed. There was never need for him to ask me about my own history , as he could talk about himself ‘til his mouth grew sore, and this suited me just fine.

            Throughout my work, I remained under supervision, and whenever we were on the move, I was always tied to the axle of the wagon, even though no aspiration remained in me to return to my former home.

            “They’ll keep all eyes on you for the first bit,” Denthilde told me. “Labour’s worth nearly more than the money we make. If Orchid can get it for nothing, he will. It’s on the underhand, but nobody gives it half a glance. Take me, for instance! Daddy sold me for three sovereigns half when he caught me filibustering with pretty little Julie -- the neighbour’s girl, and that’s the truth for you!”

            “Did they bind you as well?” I asked.

            “For the first bit, of course. But don’t worry -- you’ll slip the knot soon!”

            On the second night after my attempted escape, as I lay curled in a bed of ferns with tarnished underbelly of a wagon suspended above my head, I heard from a distance the sound of an instrument being played. I could not sleep, since my limbs were charged from fresh air and exercise, so I slipped from beneath the carriage and followed the sound to the other side of the camp.

            Perched high upon a soaring buttress root sat an old Northern man his crumpled, pale face speckled with the stirring shadows of the canopy above. In his lap he held his instrument: it had a long neck and a glossy wooden body, whose shape was like a woman. He even caressed it as he might a woman, tenderly plucking upon six silver strings where the thing had its navel. The sounds it produced were harsh and at other times soft, and yet somehow these played together in perfect harmony, each note flowing into the next and weaving together to a slow and longing-filled tune.

            When he spotted me, the Northerner slid one hand across the instrument’s neck, bringing the song to an end with a low squeak. Without word or signal communicated between us, I clambered up the root’s spine and squatted beside him. He turned his face upon me, and I saw that from his bloodshot eyes drained a dark, sickly fluid that trailed down the front of his grizzled beard. He had a calm and friendly countenance, however, and I felt no hesitation in speaking to him.

            “What does one call this instrument, Master?”

            He lifted the instrument so that moonlight struck its body, sensuously tracing its deep and exaggerated curves. “It’s a guitar,” he answered.

            “Its sound is …” I began, but came up short for words. Wonderful, was what I had been going to say, but somehow there was an emptiness to this description which would could not capture what I heard.

            “I feel the same,” he said. “There are just some things we weren’t meant to put words to.”

            Once more, he began to play, strumming softly this time. The whole while I sat enraptured beside him, unable and unwilling to move from the spot. Finally, he paused and asked: “You must be Dark, I take it?”

            “Yes, I am.”

            To my surprise, he laid the guitar in my lap. Along its silver strings I ran my finger, pausing at the very top of the neck to stroke the smooth wood finish.

“You’ve spent enough time looking at her already. Aren’t you going to play her?”

            “Are you sure?” I asked, reverently feeling the strings beneath my fingers. I almost feared they were made of glass, and might shatter with my touch!

            “Of course! Go on -- let yourself get used to the feel.”

            Eagerly, I propped the guitar on one knee and gripped the neck with my left hand, but before I could begin to play, the old man broke in, “No, you’ve got it wrong! On your left knee -- and hold the neck higher!”

            He showed me where to place my fingers along the neck, and how by manipulating different strings I could control what sounds the instrument made. Then, without further word, he left me on my own.

            Despite his brief tutorial, I still felt unsure of myself, but without further hesitation I launched headlong into strumming upon that magnificent guitar, praying to a nameless deity that I would not make a fool of myself. On and on I strummed, sometimes softly and other times harshly. My song, if it could even be called that, had neither rhythm nor melody; rather, it was like the pulse of my own soul, which was here loud and fervent and at other times soft; sometimes harmonious and other times discordant, as if through that music I were working through and sketching out some internal anthem that pounded in the dark recess of my breast.

            I know not for how long I played, but at some point, weariness overcame me and it seemed as though the contents of my mind had been poured out and spent, for all at once the desire to make music fled and my fingers went slack against the strings.

            Without saying a word, I handed my master his guitar and bowed my head. He seemed to be studying me, though his sickly eyes appeared meek in the deluded, milky light of Luna’s cheek.

“You have much light and darkness inside you for one your age, though it’s not enough yet -- but what you do have, you can refine. When you get to my age, you’ll have light and darkness to spare.”          

            “What do you mean by light and darkness?”

            “It’s not something I can explain, but the more you experience it, the better you’ll understand,” his gaze shifted to the guitar. “Do not be offended, young one, but I wish to be alone. Come see me tomorrow night.”

            “Yes, Master.”

            As I slid down from my perch upon the root, I caught sight of a pinprick of fire some fifteen wings’ breadth or so away. It pulsated, and for a moment I saw aglow the outline of a man’s face.

            “You and Mechias had yourselves a swell time, I hope,” said Orchid as I drew near. He had a pipe dangling from his mouth, the smouldering ashes of which smelt like cherrywood and smoke.

            I paused, for his face was sunken in shadow and I could not distinguish whether or not his countenance was one of anger. “I heard his music,” I answered, “and joined him out of curiosity. I had no intention of running away again, if that’s where your suspicious lie.”

            Orchid snorted and blew a ring of smoke at my face. “Not even close. Nice playing, by the way -- for a newbie. Want a hot mug of cider or something?”

            His offer so baffled me that I assumed he was joking and tried to brush past him to return to camp, but instead he grabbed me by my shirt front and pulled me close.

“Look. I’m not bothering with the rope anymore, you hear? You’re one of us now. I want you up front and helping with the trees. It’s rough going from hereon up.”

            “Why only now? You could have done so earlier!”

            “I’d no way of figuring whether you’d stick around or not.” A half-grin tugged at his lips as he took a drag on his pipe. “But now the matter’s a-settled and clear. No way you’re going back to that damned temple now; there’s already a bit of crazy in your eyes.”

            And with that he walked away, humming a tune to himself.