Satyrday, a Fable. Thursday, parts 3 & 4.

     The moon slept that night more deeply than she'd slept in days. Her exhaustion was coupled with depression and when she felt depressed, the only response was unconsciousness. The rhythmic suck and moan of the forest floor beneath her accompanied her dreams.
     Maxwell did not sleep that night, nor had he slept since his wings had been broken and he'd been brought to this place. He still ached, a now familiar pain which made him nauseous and dizzy. He watched the moon sleeping, her dim light waxing and waning as she breathed, and her presence gave him comfort. Below him, in the light the moon cast around her, he saw again the creatures he had watched all day.
     Starfish crept up the trunk of the tree on which he sat, and as they lurched toward him, he realized the true desperation of his condition. There would be nothing for him to do but submit to them when they reached him. For now, they stayed on the trunk, refusing to venture out on the branch he inhabited.
     He watched them approach the moon. A host of them slithered toward her, so many they covered the trunk of the tree in which she was caged. They crawled over one another, their groping points reaching out for anything they could fasten to, until they hunched at the place where the tree broke open into branches and surrounded the moon.
     They stayed there all night, and so Maxwell felt no need to interrupt the rhythms of her sleep. Instead, he watched her breathing and her dim illumination, rising and falling with the noise the reddish slime made as it quaked.
     As the first dim light of day filtered into the southern reach, chasing away the shreads of night still clinging to the treetops, the moon awoke. For a minute, she looked around her wildly, unaccustomed to this new place, and then she calmed. She had been moved. She was still all right.
     The calmness dissolved when she looked below. The ferns' black fronds waved in the wind, worms and toads and scorpions visible beneath them, At the tree's heart, a mass of starfish clung like a malignant growth, waving its free points, curling them up at her vaguely before withdrawing. Violently, she hit her side against the cage to wake herself. But it was no dream, this was where the owl had sent her, and she grunted in horror.
     At the first notice that the moon was awake, the starfish came alive. They began rolling towards her, separating from one another, taking different routes on the tree's branches. As she huddled in the center of her cage, she watched them come.
     "Ignore them," Maxwell called to her across the stand of trees. "Don't pay attention."
     The moon whirled around as though she'd been stung. "Who's that?" she asked in panic. "Who speaks from this place?"
     "I'm over here," said Maxwell. "Don't be afraid."
     "Don't be afraid?" the moon screamed.
     "I can't come closer," Maxwell said. "But listen to me carefully. Close your eyes. Pretend to be asleep."
     The moon did as she was told. She feigned unconsciousness, although she hardly needed to pretend. She swooned, the thoughts in her head racing through without stopping to be understood.
     The starfish hesitated. They wrapped themselves around the branches and waited. Maxwell watched them, disappointed. His plan hadn't worked. They were simply holding fast until the moon awoke again, and she couldn't maintain the façade of sleep forever.
     "Breathe deeply," Maxwell advised. "Shine with all the light you have." And the moon, her eyes closed, listening to a voice she'd never heard before, took deep draughts of fetid air. She glowed, and then became dark. She glowed more fiercely with each breath she took. She became dizzy, thought she might faint, but the voice encouraged her, told her to breathe more deeply still.
     As the light in the cage increased, the starfish cowered. With each incremental brightness, they flinched, as if the glow the moon gave off was dangerous to them. Maxwell watched as the light surged, and the starfish, one by one, moved back down the branches of the tree.
     "It's working," he cawed. "Don't stop. They hate the light."
     So the moon, her eyes still closed, glowed and glowed and glowed until she could do it no more. "It's all right," Maxwell called. "They're gone." She opened her eyes. She saw the last of them slither down the trunk beneath her and disappear among the waving black folds.
     "Thank you," the moon said. "Whoever you are."
     "I'm over here," Maxwell called, and the moon tried to see through the forest's branches. She thought she saw something, but it looked like a part of a tree. Beyond her, a small lump sat, darker than the branch.
     "Is that you?" the moon asked. "What are you?"
     "My name is Maxwell," the raven said. "Can't you see me? I;m a raven."
     "Come over here, then," the moon said. "Let me get a better look at you."
     "If only I could," Maxwell said, his voice mournful. "I can't move. The owl had his falcons break my wings."
     "Oh, no," the moon cried, horrified. "Oh, my heavenly body."
     And so Maxwell told the story of his mutilation. The moon wondered at the young bird's calm, amazed at the lack of bitterness in his voice.
     "I don't think it was you the owl wanted, but another raven named Deirdre. She came to tell me she had flown back to the meadowlands to get help."
     "I don't know anything about that," the young bird said.
     "Don't despair," the moon said, trying to be cheerful. "If the owl had the ravens move me here, I expect it's because he's feeling threatened." Yes, she thought. Deirdre! A feeling of great affection passed over her. Maxwell was thinking of other things.
     "Is there any way for you to help me?" he asked piteously? "I have no way to feed myself."
     "I don't see what I can do," she said. "I'm caged in this tree."
     "I'm afraid I'm going to die," the raven said.
     "There, there," the moon said kindly. "There, there."


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     In front of Derin, in the distance, so far away they looked like heat distortions on the horizon, the mountains shimmered. "How far?" he asked, pointing.
     "A good day's march," the fox said.
     "Then we should be marching," Matthew said. "And hoping for a good day."
     It was hot on the Plain. They'd awakened, bathed in sweat, throwing off the blankets which had barely kept them warm during the night. The temperature rose as they walked; the sand sifted under their feet. It seemed the heat ascended to the clouds and was reflected back, intensified.
     The boy thought of the mountains ahead, the ascent from this plain. There, his feet would touch rock and solid earth, something permanent. He hated this waste; the heat made him dizzy. It was one step after another, with no sense of forward motion, no landmarks to judge distance against. They might be walking in place, for all he knew.
     He stripped to a thin cloth around his waist, and still the sweat streaked his chest and back. The salt stung his eyes. A haze of fine sand hung in the air, and as he walked through it, it dissolved and rain in rivulets down his thighs and calves.
     Matthew reached in his pack and pulled out his panpipe. He begun to play, falling into step behind Derin, and his music picked up the cadence of their walking. It floated up to the vault of sky and hung there, a bright cloud of its own making. Against his will, Derin felt his bad temper begin to evaporate. The music was sly, infectious; it nagged at his mood, refusing to allow it room to grow. The melody Matthew played reminded the boy of the meadowlands, provided a tie to all he'd left behind.
     He thought of how Matthew would sit in the clearing's edge as day waned and play until animals came from the woodlands and the meadow, birds fluttered across the fading colors of the sky, mesmerized by the music. At moments like that, Matthew was hypnotic. His eyes would gleam in he gathering dusk. He would stand as if possessed, his hips would pick up the rhythm, and then his hooves began to move. As Derin watched him, feeling the music enter through a portal in the head more mystical than the ears, Matthew's horns would glint and seem to grow, the fleece on his hips become shaggier, until he was more animal than man. The music would throb in the clearing, sensual and cool, like the touch of a hand on burning skin. Derin had seen him change that mood with a few haunting bars , each breathy phase poised on the edge of attainment before it trembled and faded off. Then he would change keys again, alter the rhythm, and the dirge would become wry, insouciant, building in speed until the clearing was full of animals who shuddered and twitched, possessed as well.
     Vera's ears pointed, and she sniffed the air. It was as though she were remembering something from long ago. She tried to shake it off, but couldn't, and finally she turned to Matthew and glared at him. Without missing a note, the melody changed abruptly to a quicksilver tune Derin hadn't heard in years. It was a song the satyr taught him when he was a boy, and the old words came back to him and he sang.
   
                    There was a tortoise and a chub
                    Who swam all day in a wooden tub
                    Their life was simple as could be
                    The tub was theirs and the air was free

                    The tortoise had a magicshell
                    The chub had scales and a silver bell
                    Their cymbal was a lily pad
                    And they sang all day of the luck they had

                    And this is how the world is made
                    With fire and laughter, stone and wind
                    And this is how the music's played
                    We will sing this song till our throats give in

                    And when the turtle's stomach growled
                    The sun burned down or the water howled
                    The chub would bring him icy snow
                    A fly to eat or a boat to row

                    By day the sun, by night the moon
                    Though storms rain down, they'll leave us soon
                    And winter's cold will fade away
                    The deepest night will turn to day

                    And this is how the world is made
                    With fire and laughter, stone and wind
                    And this is how the music's played
                    We will sing this song till our throats give in

     By the time the song had ended, Derin was out of breath. They were moving more quickly. The music changed again, recalling the melody Motthew had played earlier, and this time Vera trembled from the tip of her nose to her tail. The boy felt light-headed, as though he were made of air. Around him, the sand took on subtle colorations, the yellow grains streaming into runs of red and blue. He was no longer tired, or dizzy from the heat. He thought he was floating above the surface of desert; the sand buoyed him up. Under him, so far away they seemed someone else's. his feet were dancing.
     He saw a smear of silver hair, the startling image of white skin, the flash of a collarbone. And he was running, Matthew behind him, whooping, both of them flying, throwing sand behind them like a smokescreen.



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     Like I said many times before, if you, mysterious reader, would like to see updates more often, do tell me.

Satyrday, a Fable. Thursday, parts 1 & 2.

THURSDAY

     Vera didn't sleep much that night. The boy and satyr rested on the sand, surrounded by the large boulders. They lay huddled in their blankets, for night on the Plain was very cold. The fox sat and watched them a long time, not thinking much of anything. The boy appeared dreamless, almost dead, as he lay on his back, the blanket tucked around his chin, his face turned upwards to the blank sky. The satyr rested on his side, his hindquarters bent at the hips and knees, his back to Derin.
     And then the fox's eyes clouded over, she ceased to look at her companions, and she was very far away. She was remembering, sifting though the past as one might walk along the beach, vacantly, stopping now and then to examine something which lies on the sand–a bright washed pebble, a piece of shell, each story distinct from all others, but connected by the great sea which has given it up.
     The longest hours of the night stretched before her. In the shifting winds which swept the plain, small pillars of sand rose up in a whirlwind and disappeared. If the bones of her children beneath her could understand, they would want her to rest. And so she lay beside the satyr and the boy and closed her eyes.



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     "What do you have to say to me?" the owl asked, his eyes bright with interest. The ancient raven dropped to earth. The owl towered in front of her, but she didn't seem frightened.
     "I don't know much at this time," the crone said. "Members of the clan are beginning to talk against you, several in particular. I have heard it said your plan is doomed to fail."
     The owl's eyelids lowered as they did when he was thinking. The crone was unaware of the fury behind that thought.
     "There are more than one who question me," he said, his voice muffled, as if it were of no concern to him.
     "Yes, my lord. I've listened to many conversations since last night, and ravens who do not know each other are saying the same things."
     "It will not matter," he said. "I will clamp down so swiftly upon whomever questions me the others will understand they have no choice. And in a few short days nothing anyone could do will make a difference."
     There was silence in the clearing. The ancient raven and the owl stared at each other across the distance between them. "The old are either very foolish or very wise," the owl said. "Which are you?"
     I am not foolish enough to think myself wise," the crone said, and the owl was pleased with her response.
     "You speak well, the owl said. "What did you have in mind?"
     "I ask only that you allow me privately to serve you," she said. "I would act as a spy on your behalf."
     "Go then," the owl said, almost gently. "Bring me the names of those who speak or act against me. And if you should discover a connection between the three strangers I spoke of earlier and a member of the clan, it would be of special interest to me."
     "What will you do about them?" the crone asked.
     "I will deal with them, if they get this far," the owl said fiercely. "But before they arrive, I have ways to make their journey more difficult."
     "If I may be so bold to ask.  .  .  ."
     "You may not."
     In the darkness behind them, the sound of the ravens returning from the southern reach began to build in intensity.
     "They are coming," the crone said. "I have to go." She hesitated. "My lord, when the new kingdom is established, if there should be a post for me, I would humbly accept it, were you to offer."
     "Surely," the owl said, for he had nothing to lose in this. "In the meantime, keep your eyes open. I will await your report."
     The crone lowered her head. "My lord," she said, and flew away.
     The wind carried the sound of beating wings closer and closer to the owl. "It is done," he said. "The moon is in the southern reach." He thied to experience his pleasure, but every time he began to gloat, the knowledge of his betrayal stuck him in his throat. Unbeknownst to him, a raven had been working–slowly, carefully, with great foresight–against him.



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Who knew part 2 was short, and part 1 extra short? Not me! For I have only read this book once, and do not have perfect memories of how long each part is.

Satyrday, a Fable. Wednesday, parts 15 & 16.

     It was like the night before, but the owl was meaner, clearly more angry. Deirdre looked around her slowly, trying to see if the conversations of the past day had a visible effect upon the other ravens. If there were a change, she couldn't see one. All were silent, obedient, careful to show the owl complete attention and respect. He wasted no time.
     "It has been suggested to me that perhaps the punishment meted out last night was too severe," he said. Deirdre was instantly cautious: had he a plan to win back those who were turning against him? Did he even know of the dissenters? "But first, a more important matter. It seems there may be a further traitor in our midst, one who knows far more than a puny little imp. Which of you flew south beyond the boundaries given by me? Who passed into the southern reach?"
     Deirdre stayed quiet. She had flown there completely by accident and had told no one. She was safe. But still, this line of questioning piqued her interest. Why was the owl protective of the southern reach. There must be some secret, something none of the ravens knew. Since Maxwell's mutilation, they understood the south as a place of exile, although they hadn't an idea of the starfish or ferns.
     No one spoke. The owl's last words had been completely absorbed by the ravens' feathers, and a quiet like softly falling snow lay over the clearing.
     The owl was beside himself. He fumed below them. His great chest heaved. Since the weasels had come with their information, he'd been obsessed with the thought of betrayal. Which of them was it?
     "Listen," he said. "Tonight I was given information that strangers have entered the Outer Lands, are even now at the grave of the ancestors. Does one of you know something about this?"
     Deirdre's heart leapt in her throat. They had crossed the river! They were on the Plain of Desiccation. She could hardly contain herself; she felt like cawing jubilantly, like dancing on her branch. They had made it!
     "I WANT TO KNOW!" the owl thundered. "WHO ARE THESE THREE?"
     Three! Deirdre jumped. Who had they picked up?
     "Begging your pardon, sire," a sycophant murmured from a branch directly over the owl. "But if your worship doesn't know, how would we have the slightest guess?"
     "Shut your mouth, you imbecile. I don't want sugary words. I WANT SOME INFORMATION."
     The raven all but disappeared. Deirdre looked around, but it was clear that no one had a thing to say, out of fear, out of perversity, out of disdain.
     "It doesn't matter to me who they are," the owl said, making every effort to regain his composure. "I know what they look like, and how far they'd come. I will keep careful watch over their progress. I will look forward to their arrival in the forest. I will prepare a welcome they won't forget. Do they think I can be beaten at my own game, and in my own territory?" Deirdre shivered. She's hoped this news would frighten the owl, but fear seemed the farthest thing from his mind.
     "I await them with great anticipation," he said.
     "Now. In the interest of a free and open discussion, let me offer a trade. If whoever flew south without my permission will reveal himself, I will answer questions concerning the justice of my punishment of last night. I am not above reproach. I depend on your good will."
     As before, the ravens stirred on their branches, distrustful. None seemed willing to try him again. Maxwell's example wasn't easily forgotten.
     "None of you knows a thing about this," the owl said, his body beginning to shake with the tension of keeping his anger throttled. "All are completely innocent. No one flew south; no one knows about the strangers to the east." His breathing became harsher, and his talons dug more deeply into the ground.
     "I DON'T BELIEVE IT!" shrieked the owl. "NOT ONE WORD."
     The ravens began murmuring to one another. Never before had the owl appeared like this. Always icily cool, always under control, he had made decrees, handed down orders with total aplomb.
     "SILENCE!" he screamed. He shivered in his feathers. His eyes, blood-red, matched the crimson of his bib. Apoplexy, Deirdre thought with glee. Angina pectoris. But she was wrong. He was not about to die.
     "All right," he said, more under control. "Let's pretend your naïveté is real. But let this be known. I will not stop this inquisition, whether you be here or elsewhere. I will search until I find the traitor. And I will find him. If it means pulling your tongues out one by one, if it entails torturing you in view of the clan, I will discover who stands against me. Nothing can stand against me. You should have realized that years ago.
     "I want the moon moved to the southern reach," he said. "Tonight." The groan that arose from the ravens was unmistakable. "I want her taken from her tree and carried south. My falcons will show you where to put her. She can keep that broken-winged toadstool company. Are there any who question my command?"
     Yes, thought Deirdre, but she made no sound.



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     Whatever hope the moon felt at the disappearance and reemergence of her sister that afternoon was gone. The warmth she'd felt had long since dissipated. She was wretched, underfed, losing her silver sheen. She was trying to keep in shape, but there was nowhere to exercise. And she was very lonely. It seemed she hadn't spoken to a soul since Deirdre had left her the day before. Was that how long ago it was? In the forest, time was endless.
     From the distance, she heard a faint thunder which grew louder the more intently she listened. She'd heard that noise before. She'd been floating serenely in the sky, bothering no one, when that roar had crept up behind her. There was no mistaking it; the ravens were coming.
     They swooped at her from all directions. The wind made by their wings buffeted her, threw her against the branches of her cage, forced tears from her eyes. They settled around her, on the trees of the forest, on her own oak. And then, like the other day, the owl fell to earth and sat in the clearing below her. He was not friendly; he was not sarcastic. He was enraged.
     "You're being moved," he said unceremoniously. "Now. Tonight. And I don't want to hear a word from you." The ravens moved toward her. "No," he said. "Wait." His voice became more mellifluous. "Before they go to unnecessary trouble, I want to know if you've thought about my proposition."
     "Your proposition," the moon echoed dully.
     "I want to know where your sister sleeps," the owl said. "It is of great interest to me."
     Deirdre thought it very bold of him to ask this in front of the assemblage of ravens, for the owl had been at pains to let them know there was nothing he needed toward the completion of his quest except the moon, safely in his grasp. She was not even sure why he wanted to know there the sun slept, or what he would do with that information.
     The moon wavered in her cage, and Deirdre wondered if she'd been sufficiently worn down to give in, give up, tell the owl what he wanted to know. His tone became more wheedling. "You are beautiful," he said. "I have always admired you. But you grew weak and wan in your cage. Tell me what I want to know, and you will be freed. Together we will rule the night."
     "I cannot tell you," the moon said.
     "She has always been brighter than you, always has thought herself better than you. I give you the opportunity to rule over her, and you turn it down?"
     "She is not brighter than I, and I am far more beautiful."
     "Not any more, my lovely," the owl said cruelly. "You are tarnished and tame. You are like a beautifully groomed animal lost in a briar patch."
     "May you bite off your foul tongue at the root," the moon said. "Your breath infects the air."
     "I don't mean to insult you," the owl said. "I mean only to remind you of all you would give up. And for what? A sister who despises you, uses you, who all along had thought herself superior to you."
     "You miserable bloated bag of feathers," she said. "She may be many things, but she is still my sister."
     "You will suffer far worse where you are going than you have here," the owl said coldly. "Take her away from my sight."
     The falcons held back the branches, and a host of ravens entered the cage with their net. It was the same gauze, and it wrapped around the moon as though it had longed to return. She struggled against it, doing all she could to make herself more difficult to manage, but it was no use. She was lifted from the cage by the ravens, who now flocked through the opening made by the falcons. They struggled with their burden, for the moon was indeed heavy, and several times she felt herself being lowered, as though they couldn't garner the strength to get her free. But more and more ravens flew to the oak's top, tangled their talons in the net, and slowly she was lifted.
     She swung loose above the trees in a hammock of gauze, and the rolling motion as the ravens ascended and headed south sickened her. But she was free of her cage. She took deep breaths, shedding her pale light around her. It illuminated the tops of the Deadwood Forest, those broken branches which now, instead of holding her, seemed to be reaching up in farewell. It reflected off the ravens' underbellies, a sea of feathers.
     The journey lasted some time. She was quiet, listening to the harsh rasp of wind on the ravens' throats. They were struggling, tiring. Perhaps they'd drop her and she would float free, up through the clouds, away from all this. But she knew there were too many of them for that to happen, and replacements who flew behind, should and of those carrying her tire too much.
     They lowered her carefully at the appointed time, their wings outspread and floating on the wind. She felt herself dropping, and another tree surrounded her. The falcons strained against the branches, holding them, and finally the last raven released the gauze. It was whipped from under her, and she was alone again, listening to the faint flapping as the ravens headed north.
     She closed her eyes and listened to her heart. She was breathing shallowly now and her light was dim. Above the sound of her breathing, above the beating of her heart, she heard another noise like the ocean, a faint rising and falling of breath, waves beating themselves against a foreign shore.
     Miles to the north, the owl sat in the clearing, alone but for one raven who had left the entourage to return early. It was the withered crone, her black feathers rumpled and dusty. She was breathless, and she thought her old heart would give out on her before she could say what she'd come to say.
     "My lord," she ventured.
     The owl looked up at her as she hovered in the air inches from his beak. One snap would cut her in half. "Ancient one," he said. "I have never trusted the very old or the very young."
     "I would speak with you," she said. "I have some information you will want."



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     If you made it this far, thanks for your patience. If you just stumbled upon this page, please find the first chapter and read form the beginning! It won't be hard to find.

Satyrday, a Fable. Wednesday, parts 13 & 14.

     The weasels, out of breath and frantic from their travel, returned to the owl that night and told him what they'd seen. He was still in the clearing he'd awakened in earlier, still in a foul mood at the disappointment he'd felt when the sun's light returned to earth.
     They crept from the underbrush, staying as close to the ground as possible so they seemed to the owl, who had been aware of their proximity long before they thought he was, like two furry snakes whose bellies dragged leaves and twigs behind them. "You're back," the owl said, his voice as closeto a growl as was possible for him. "You bring good news. No more ravens flying west, I trust."
     "Sire," one weasel said in a quaking voice. "It's worse than that." The owl's eyes opened more widely. "Three strangers approach the western reach."
     For a moment, the owl ceased to breathe. His eyelids drooped, and then they flew open, and their red fire blazed out at the weasels. He spread huge wings and beat them so that a cloud of dust rose from the ground, blinding the two frightened animals.
     "You come to tell me this?" the owl thundered. "Better it had been news of a reigning darkness. Better for you to have discovered where the sun spends her nights!"
     "We are sorry, my lord. We can only tell you when we know to be true." The weasel's voice was almost a whisper. "Today a fox, white as snow, and two strange creatures who walk upright, like bears, have reached the grave of the ancestors. One is slim and young, and practically hairless, a male. The other is older, with the hindquarters of a goat. Above the hips, he most resembles the other creature. They are very strange."
     "That's impossible," the owl said. "You're lying." He gave a cry and a volley of wings stained the air of the clearing. The falcons descended, thudding into the dirt around him.
     "They lie to me," the owl said to the falcons' leader. "They're perverse. It displeases me. Take them away."
     "My liege," one of the weasels said desperately. "Three creatures have arrived at the grave of the ancestors. I swear to you." The other weasel scuffed in the dirt, wildly looked around, and made a break for the forest. He thrashed in the underbrush, but the falcons were too quick for him, and his screams for mercy grew weaker.
     "Your friend seemed eager to depart," the owl said. "What did he have to fear, if you do not lie?"
     "You, my lord."
     "And are you frightened of me as well?" the owl asked.
     "T-t-t-terrified," the weasel stammered. "My lord, if I might say one thing. . . ." He stopped, asking permission, but the owl didn't say a word, just fixed him with his gaze. "I know this news angers you. And there is nothing I would not do to avoid your anger. Why then, if this were a lie, would I put my life in danger?"
     "What do you think?" the owl asked the assembled falcons, but as usual, none said anything. He turned to the weasel. "Perhaps you are telling the truth. Your logic is persuasive. Get out of here." The weasel disappeared, taking it as reward enough that he had escaped with his life.
     "Gather the ravens," the owl ordered. "Now. Be quick about it."
     As one, the falcons ascended and dispersed. They flew east and west, north and south, spreading the word of the owl's command.
     The owl remained where he was. His solitude did nothing for his mood. He seethed there on the forest floor, his breathing harsh and rabid, almost convulsive, wild thoughts racing through his brain. "A boy," he thought. "A BOY. It's impossible. No one has escaped the Keep." He would wait until the ravens were gathered. And then he would find out what they knew. His breathing grew harsher and deeper until he thought he would burst.



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     "It's true," Deirdre said. "I couldn't agree with you more. I didn't like the way he talked to us one bit."
     She's grown considerably more outspoken since the sun had disappeared that afternoon, had begun to talk to the other ravens, edging  around them cautiously to find out what they thought. She wasn't taking too large a chance in this, having overheard some conversations which gave her a great deal of hope.
     Many of the clan were upset by the owl's punishment of Maxwell, peremptory and vicious as it had been. For years, they had managed to maintain an image of the owl as just and fair, but his coldness, his insults of the night before made some begin to question him. Camps formed among those who were angry with the owl and those who blindly followed him. It was with a group teetering between these choices that Deirdre settled. She masked her voice, her ardent feelings, and tried to appear dispassionate.
     "Of course he has a right to say anything to us he wants," she said. "And to do anything he wants. He could torture each of us, one at a time. We're his, aren't we?"
     "It's not fair," a young raven named Condor said. "Not fair at all."
     "But what in this world is fair, young one?" a withered crone asked from a branch some distance away below Deirdre. "The idea of justice creates false hopes. There is only strength."
     "Wait a minute, wait a minute," another raven said. "What's this talk about torture?"
     "I asked whether you'd submit to torture," Deirdre asked.
     "Red herring, red herring!" the old crone cawed, hopping on her branch.
     "Are you hungry?" Condor asked solicitously, but the crone stared at him disdainfully.
     Deirdre was flustered and she backfeathered for a minute. The crone had a subtle mind and would bear watching. Deirdre had not expected to be called on her illogical leap. "I mean only this," she said. "Until now, we've been content with our part in the owl's general plan. He wants to rule the world, am I correct?" They nodded. "But would we still owe him our allegiance if we had reason to believe that in so doing we would contribute to our own demise?"
     "What?" Condor asked, baffled.
     "She meant would we follow him if we knew we'd die."
     "I hope not," Condor said. "I don't want to die."
     "Yes," the crone said, her voice deadly, deep, serious. "He is our lord and we must follow him, regardless of the cost. We bow before his power. He is stronger than we."
     "But strength on the part of another does not diminish the power of personal choice, even in those who are weak," Deirdre said. "And I believe–due to no fault of his–that the owl, from the beginning, was doomed to fail."
     "Would you say that again?" another raven asked, and Deirdre took a deep breath, and calmed herself. Nothing would be served by her impatience.
     "Let me put it another way. The world is changing," Deirdre said, and waited for a moment to see if she'd be contradicted, but nothing was said, and she continued. "It's laws are not set. But we know one thing for certain. There is balance to our lives. Now tell me if I'm wrong."
     Around her, the ravens turned to one another and argued. What, she thought, is this all about? She hadn't said anything the faintest bit controversial. When they quieted, the crone said, "Of course there's a balance. Of power."
     "What do you mean?" Condor asked. Deirdre was afraid she'd lose the attention of the group, which swung between her and the old witch, if she didn't move quickly.
     "We are ravens," she said.
     "Go on, go on," the crone said crossly.
     "And we are not alone in the world. There are other animals besides our clan."
     "Of course, you stupid cluck," the crone said.
     "My dear," Deirdre said harshly, letting her anger show for the first time. "Keep a leash on your runaway tongue, I listened to you when you delivered up your apothegms. Kindly do the same for me. Or I will take umbrage at your rudeness."
     "What?" Condor asked.
     "She'll get mad, you fool."
     Deirdre looked at them imperiously. "As I was saying. There is a balance. On one side there is sleep, and on the other, wakefulness. We fly and we sit. We eat and we void. These activities balance each other. Can you imagine a life of endless flying?"
     "We'd get pretty tired," Condor ventured.
     "Shut your crooked beak," the crone screamed, and she hopped on the branch and flapped her wings.
     "Likewise," Deirdre continued, "other things balance each other. We have friends and we have enemies. The jay is our friend, the hawk our enemy. And though many of you may be too young to remember life anywhere but here in the Forest, I am not. When we lived in the meadowlands, many years ago, there were things called seasons. Spring was a time when earth came alive, flowers bloomed, trees put out new leaves, we raised our broods."
     "What are flowers?" Condor asked, for he had never seen one.
     "Please, Condor," Deirdre said. "Let me finish. And later came a season called fall when the leaves fell from the trees, the flowers withered, and the earth came to rest. Those seasons oppose each other."
     "Like life and death," Condor said.
     "Exactly," Deirdre said. "It is the way things are. East has its west, and north its south; everything is defined by its opposite. And finally, if you will allow me to finish, there is night, and there is.  .  .  ."
     "Day," Condor blurted, as if it were the most important thing he'd ever said. Deirdre was pleased. She'd gotten through to the dumbest raven in the group, and if he understood, surely the others did as well.
     "There are those who rule and those who follow," the crone said. "Do not mistake your station."
     There was general unrest for a minute, and then the group quieted down. They seemed not to have heard what the old crone said.
     From the air above them all, a great whoosh was heard, and like a thunderbolt a falcon fell and landed with a slap against a thick branch. His hood was black as the night, and his eyes shone, beady and evil. "The owl orders you to the clearing of last night's meeting," he said, his voice steady as rock. "What were you talking about?"
     No one said a word, and Deirdre felt fear seep from the group like a rank odor. "We were speaking of the sun today," she said, "and how it dimmed. We were saying how soon it would be that the sun was gone completely."
     She's telling the truth?" the falcon asked.
     "Yes," said Condor. "We umbrage the sun's demise."
     Everyone hushed, and the falcon looked at Condor keenly. "What is your name, young one?" he asked.
     Condor quaked on his branch. "He means nothing," Deirdre said. "He doesn't even know the import of those words. He heard them in our conversation this evening and he lacks the ability to use them correctly."
     "That's right," the crone said. "He doesn't know what he's talking about. He's stupid as a stone. All of them are."
     "Old one," the falcon said. "May your wizened heart fail if you lie to me."
     "In that case, I have nothing to fear," answered the crone, and she flew in a huff into the sky.
     "Be off, all of you," the falcon said, and he rose and headed east, looking for other ravens.
     "Thank you," Condor said to Deirdre when the falcon had gone. "You saved my life."
     "It's nothing," Deirdre said. "It is I who should thank you. Your felicitous questions aided the successful conclusion of my argument."
     "What?" Condor said.




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     Apologies for not posting anything for 2 months, but I promise I will make this up to you!

Satyrday, a Fable. Wednesday, parts 11 & 12.

     The weasels saw them coming and ducked out of sight. They slithered through the underbrush, bellies flat to the ground. They'd seen foxes before, but the other two creatures were unfamiliar to them. Through the network of reeds and rushes, the weasels watched the three pass, the strange white fox, the slim hairless one, the last with the hindquarters of a goat. They looked at one another, uncertain what to do, and crept toward the swamp.
     On its bank, they stopped and stared across the watery waste, searching the thickets for a glimpse of red eyes, the surface for a ripple. One of them crouched low and snarled, a rough invasion of the stillness, like wood cracking.
     They saw them before they could hear them. The swamp was disturbed by a low wave and then the eyes shone, reflected in the opaque water, doubling their number. The frogs looked like slowly moving scraps of log worn down by the ravages of weather, bulbous, dark, water streaming from their backs. They stopped several feet from the bank, but the wave continued until it lapped at the weasels' feet and washed back again.
     Silently they contemplated the shore, their underbellies pulsing like little hearts. "Have you seen them? The intruders?" one of the weasels whispered and the frogs shut their eyes once, together, so they glared out the water with fierce affirmation when they opened again.
     "What should we do?" the weasel whined. The frogs stared at them and the weasels shivered deep inside their coats. They knew the frogs would not harm them, but the vision of these specters filled even them with dread. The frogs felt nothing, no fear, no hurry, no anger. They glided undisturbed through the water of the swamp.
     "Should we tell the owl?"
     As before, the frogs blinked their eyes, once, red as freshly drawn blood. The weasels got out of there. They had tracks to make.



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     It was a formidable sight. The sand stretched before them, level as calm water. In the distance, a slight undulation was visible, rolling sand hills broken only by an occasional tuft of sharp grass. Behind them, the cattails and reeds, the low shrubs fell away until there was nothing but desert. It slithered up over Derin's feet, around Matthew's hooves as Vera padded along on top of it.
     "Was it always like this?" Matthew wanted to know.
     "No," Vera  said. "At one time the river spilled over the marsh and onto these plains in spring, and there were lakes and ponds like the ones in the meadowlands. But that was many years ago, before the owl. The animals who lived here have been taken west. It's desert almost all the way to the mountains."
     "And how far is that?" Derin asked.
     "We'll reach them tomorrow."
     Matthew groaned. "I hate the sand," he said. "I can hardly walk." He struggled along behind the others, stopping to dislodge the grains which wedged in the cleft of his hooves.
     For Derin, the walking was not much easier. The sand dragged him down. With each step, his feet disappeared, sinking into the desert, and his calves soon ached with the effort. "Can we stop soon?" he asked. "I've had it."
     "At least we can see who's watching us," Vera said. "There's nowhere to hide."
     "How much further are we going?" Derin asked again.
     "Just a little," Vera said. "I have something to show you."
     Matthew said nothing, but he silently agreed with the boy. He, too, was exhausted, and his head throbbed from the blow he'd taken in the river.
     Just when Derin thought he couldn't go any further, he heard the fox say, "Up ahead. Can you see it?"
     In the dim light of the failing day, the boy thought he could pick out something rising off the plain before him. It looked like a grove of trees, maybe a pond? Derin imagined fresh fruit bursting from the trees, a place to swim, a clear sky, the moon and stars hanging in equilibrium in the dark field of night. But as they drew closer, none of them speaking, he saw that what stood before them were rocks, not trees, irregular boulders arranged in an awkward circle. They looked like the bodies of large animals hunkered down on the plain, sleeping.
     After trudging through the flat, dimensionless sand, the boulders were a shock. Something mysterious about the place stopped Derin from asking questions. The stones had been placed here, that was clear, but by whom and for what reason? The tension between their monstrous shapes and their careful placement awed him.
     "It's the grave of the ancestors," Vera said. "When the wind took the animals from the meadowlands, it whirled them up in a large black funnel. But over the river it lost its center, and as it crossed the plain, animals rained from the sky, thousands of them. From the river to here and beyond, the ground was choked with bodies."
     "How do you know this?" Derin asked, in wonder.
     "All the animals west of the river know of the grave," Vera said. "Every snow fox who was taken by the whirlwind died. My children are buried here."
     "I'm sorry," the boy said. "I didn't know."
     "It can't be helped," the fox said. "It was years ago." She paused and looked west across the sand as if she could see over the mountains and into the Forest. "I hate him," she said. "I lost a brother and sister as well."
     What could they say after that? Matthew and Derin stood silent, waiting for Vera to speak again.
     "The owl did not take our sorrow into account," she said. "The animals who survived were of no use to him. The Deadwood Forest was filled with their keening. Not an animal was taken who did not lose some of her family. There was nothing he could do. And so he allowed those who wished to return to this place to bury the dead. None crossed the river; that was forbidden. They came, mourning, to this spot, and gathered the bones of our families and buried them here."
     "Deirdre told me of the wind," the boy said, "but nothing about this place."
     "The raven," Vera said absently, her mind elsewhere.
     "Yes," Matthew said. For the first time that day he thought of their frantic friend. He hoped she was getting some rest.
     "What I don't understand," the satyr said, "is why the owl was not destroyed long ago. If there was such sorrow, such anger, why do the animals follow him?"
     "An interesting question," Vera said. "One I wondered about for years." She looked older suddenly, as though this place aged and saddened her. "He's very powerful, you must never forget that. He caused the win to blow to bring them west. And they were so broken down. They had no families to retreat to. Most had no friends. Each was isolated from the others of his kind.
     "And the owl promised a new world where all would live peacefully together. They believed him. Perhaps they had no choice. There were confrontations, but the instigators disappeared and were never heard of again. Over the years, most of the animals taken by the wind died, of old age, disease, of grief. And the children seem to have forgotten. The owl and the Deadwood Forest are all they've ever known."
     Derin cleared his throat, and Vera and Matthew looked at him. He stared at his feet, and he kicked the sand so it sprayed in front of him.
     "I wondered.  .  .  ." he said, and cleared his throat again.
     "What, Derin?" Matthew asked.
     "Are any of my family buried here?"
     The fox looked away from them toward the west. Matthew's eyes suddenly burned. "No," he said.
     "I just wondered," Derin said.
     The three of them were silent, and the night came on. It was different on the Plain, sudden and swift., like the advent of a storm. There was no intermediary between earth and sky, no trees or rocks or water. And so it seemed to Derin, as he stood in the deepening chill, that one minute there had been light, and the next minute none.
     "Are we sleeping here tonight?" he asked.
     "Tomorrow night," Matthew said. "Tonight we're sleeping with the frogs in the swamp."
     "Very funny."
     "I can hear them croaking," the satyr said. "They're calling your name."
     Vera crouched by one of the largest rocks. She was silent and motionless, like a stone herself. The boy shrugged, took off his pack, and sat down. The air was cold, but still, the silence was immerse. The earth rose up to the sky, and the sky reached down so that Derin felt enfolded by enormous arms. Around him, in the dark, the thought he saw thousands of animals gather. In this magic circle of friends, they would be safe.



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More = later! Reminder once again to tell me if you want me to work faster.

Satyrday, a Fable. Wednesday, parts 9 & 10.

     The three were resting when an eerie stillness crept upon them from the east. The river calmed as though pressed by a large and powerful hand; it swept past them quickly, the current dizzying in its velocity, its surface no longer tongued by white water. It deepened past green to black, sucking all sound from the air. The wind died, the roaring of the river became a whisper, until they heard nothing but their own breathing and the solemn creak of firs and cedars shifting uncomfortably in the unearthly hush. They moved back from the river as darkness fell, seeking the harsh solidity of the trees' shelter.
     "Night comes early in these parts," Matthew said. Derin laughed nervously and pressed his back against the trunk of a fir. The air was grainy, as though it had taken the density of night, its muted weight. In that silence, each of them thought of the owl and the power of darkness. Derin looked up, expecting to see a vast black wingspread descend to them, talons tensed.
     He felt a surge of fear, and on his wrist a blue vein pulsed. He closed his eyes and tried to calm the racing of his heart. Vera crouched low between the two of them, her ears flattened against her head. She growled deep in her throat and her tail bristled. Her breathing, like Matthew's, was quick and shallow. As the darkness had come, so the day returned to them, moving from the east. First the wind's sighing resumed in the upper branches of the trees, and waves reared upon the river's surface. And then the grey light surrounded them, casting ashes on their faces.
     "What was it?" Derin asked.
     "I don't know," Matthew said. "I've never seen anything like it." They looked at Vera, half-expecting her to understand what had happened, but she shrugged and stared at the sky. "I thought we'd come to the end," she said. "I never expected to be grateful for this thin light. It only goes to show how little time is left. We should push on."



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     As Vera had said, there was swamp on this side too. It stretched before them as they picked up their packs and headed west. Ice and water, moss-covered hillocks, the grooved trunks of cedars passed around them as in a dream. Derin had the feeling they'd gotten nowhere, but the river's thunder receded until its sound disappeared into the icy water. The fox, who was leading, turned, and Derin almost tripped over her. "It won't be long," she reassured them. "Don't worry."
     Matthew whistled strange fragmentary pieces of a song Derin hadn't heard before. A few notes rose into the air and hung stranded, waiting for others which never came. He seemed preoccupied, half-dazed, and the boy wondered if the wound on the satyr's forehead were more serious than it looked. Derin kept up with the fox, who wasted no time threading a passage through the water, but the satyr lagged behind. He dragged his hooves, splashing water before him, and the constant noise began to wear on the boy's nerves.
     He stopped and faced the satyr, waiting for him to catch up. "Are you all right, Matthew?" he asked, but Matthew didn't answer, splashed right past him, whistling.
     Derin took two quick steps, caught the satyr by the shoulder, and spun him around. "I asked if you were all right," he said. Matthew shrugged free. "I'm fine," he said. "Just thinking."
     Derin let him walk second, and he followed through the swamp, watching the rhythmic swing of the satyr's shoulders, listening to the occasional haunting notes without form or pattern. As he pulled his feet free of the mud, little whirlpools rushed to fill the emptiness. He thought of the say before, the declivity of silence he'd lain in. He glanced over his shoulder, suddenly afraid they were being followed, but he could see only the stately monotonous recession of cedars.
     He heard the fox call back to him and Matthew, telling them they were almost out of the swamp, and he began to notice the change. The water lapped below his knees, the mud had given way to something more solid, and ahead, dimly, the boy could see the air brighten. It was like coming to the end of a long evening. In the swamp the light was stolen by the cedars and water, but where the water ended, the grey light they'd become accustomed to resumed.
     Derin was beginning to breathe more easily, anxious to escape the walled-in closeness of the swamp, when he saw the eyes. They peered at him from a thicket of pepperbush some distance to the left. He grunted, as though he'd been struck in the stomach, and stopped short. They disappeared. He stood where he was, scarcely breathing, his arms arrested in midswing, and stared at the thicket, sure he'd imagined them. But they blinked at him once more, what seemed to him hundreds of gleaming eyes, read as coral, as amanitas, and then he heard a soft swishing, water rippling, as the frogs swam away.
     He yelled to Vera and Matthew, now climbing the steady slope out of the swamp, and began to run, thrashing through the water, drenching himself again.
     He fled from the water, past the two who stood waiting, and Matthew reached out and grabbed him, almost wrenching him off the ground.
     "Wait," the satyr said. "Hold on."
     "They're back there," Derin gasped, his eyes wide. "Let go of me." He pulled his arm loose, but the look on the satyr's face kept him from running again.
     "What did you see?" Matthew asked.
     "The frogs. There were hundreds of them. Let's get out of here."
     "Calm down," Matthew said. "Your mind's playing tricks on you."
     "I'm not so sure," Vera said. "We're in the Outer Lands, remember. I expect we'll be reported. You didn't think we'd sneak up on the owl without his knowing, did you?"
     "I didn't know what to expect," Matthew said.
     "You saw hundreds of frogs?" Vera asked. "What did they do?"
     "They were in a bush. I saw their eyes."
     "They didn't follow you?"
     "No," Derin said, calmer. "They swam off. To the south."
     "There's nothing to do but keep going," the fox said. "We'll have to be careful."
     The land beyond the swamp was low and marshy. Cattails, reeds, tall knife-edged grass grew from the ground. Derin walked between the others, and his eyes searched the reeds for the red eyes he was sure were watching them. They traveled more quickly now; even Vera was unnerved by the thoughts of animals out there recording their passage, unseen presences they could do nothing about. Matthew tried to whistle to break the tension, but he soon stopped. Low shrublike bushes, waist-high pines, manzanita, dotted the terrain. There were places for things to hide.
     "What else lives here?" Derin asked, and Vera answered without breaking stride, speaking into the hollow air before her. "I told you before," she said. "Snakes and scorpions. Some weasels. I've seen a wild boar or two, though not in years. Up ahead, when the ground becomes desert, there are fewer animals. Sand squirrels mostly and a few other clans who have learned to get along without much water."
     "Desert?" Matthew asked.
     "The Plain of Desiccation," Vera said. "We'll be there all too soon."



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     I apologize for taking this long for completing a simple task of copying a few pages. If you want me to do this thing faster, just SAY it.

Satyrday, a Fable. Wednesday, parts 7 & 8.

     As they stood on the bank looking out, the surface of water was troubled, a further turbulence not caused by the water roiling around rocks or submerged logs. To Derin, it looked as if the river's bottom had risen to the top. Fish began to surface, the glistening backs of dolphins, swordfish, the hard white shells of surf clams like stepping-stones. Holding parallel to the current, their sleek scaled and armored bodies shimmering in the grey light, they seemed like a rainbow rising from the water. Octopi wrapped their slithery suction-cupped tentacles around bluefish and halibut to keep them steady. Sponges the color of dried blood wedged between lobster and shark. Some of the fish brought seaweed in their mouths to use as anchors, to fasten them together. Derin watched in wonder as more and more creatures joined the rainbow, scallops and mussels mooring themselves to the sponges and eelgrass, spinning a web of byssus threads, barnacles anchoring themselves to mussels until a solid passage of fish appeared where there had been nothing but water.
     The river splashed over the bridge, spume was thrown high in the air, but the fish held against the river's tug. "Are you ready?" Vera asked.
     Without waiting for an answer, she waded into the water and deftly leapt up onto the backs of the fish. She slithered from cod to bluefish  and they rolled their large round eyes upwards as if to wish her well. Under her, the bridge rocked and swayed as the current ripped at it. She was drenched by the flying spray which hit the fishes' tails and swirled above her.
     Derin watched the fox, mesmerized, until Matthew gave him a shove, almost knocking him headfirst into the river. "Hurry!" Matthew said, "They can't hold forever."
     The boy thrashed through the few feet of water to where the bridge began. He put his hands on the back of a shark, irs kin rough as sandpaper, and lifted a foot out of the water. Balancing precariously, he stood, almost fell, crouched, and steadied himself. Beneath him, the bridge gave way a little, flexible, sinking into the water. He took a step and the fish held, another step, and another.
     The river was as cold as he remembered. Ice formed in his hair and crusted his eyelashes. He twisted to look and saw Matthew clambering up on the first fish. "Just keep going," Matthew screamed. "Don't look back."
     The fish were slippery, as though covered with slime, and his feet slid across their scaled surfaces. Ahead of him, he could dimly see the fox padding carefully across, shrouded by mist, and he tried to keep her in view. Below him, the surface of the bridge kept changing. He stepped from the soft bodies of fish to the harder rocklike shells of surf clams. Once he stepped on a skate and felt himself falling as its thin body refused to hold his weight, but he jumped to the back of a dolphin and continued.
     Refusing to follow Matthew's command, he looked behind him to see where the satyr was. His hooves were giving him trouble. They hurt the fish who writhed under the sharp wedged horn. Matthew saw the boy watching him, and tried to scream something, but Derin couldn't hear him. He could barely see the satyr's arms flailing in the air. The only sound he heard was the roaring of the river. It came from upstream, sweeping down upon him, borne on the back of the wind. Water sucked and nibbled at his feet, whitecaps slapped over the backs of fish before him, obscuring them in a wash of water. He couldn't see where he was stepping.
     Suddenly he realized he had lost sight of Vera through the flying spray, and when he turned, Matthew, too, was obscured. Below him, the bridge bucked, nothing but a loose confederation of slippery fish. He saw the tentacle of an octopus writhe in the air and he thought of the vines coming loose, the raft disintegrating, being thrown into the air and falling. The fish seemed to be moving under him, and the waves, lashing his ankles, rocked him as he stumbled forward.
     A wild fear seized him. He began to run, lunging ahead, wanting only the steadiness of ground beneath his feet. Out of the mist, he saw the opposite shore loom. Vera was safely there, looking back at him, anxiously awaiting his emergence from the river's fog.
     Underneath him, the fish cringed at his heavy tread, and then began to fall away. He was scrambling, hardly able to hear his own screaming. He was about twenty feet from the shore when the bridge disappeared altogether, and he was thrown into the water. It filled his ears, entered his mouth. The river slapped him down, under, but he struggled to the surface, his legs scissoring at the hip, his arms reaching out in broad strokes, not so much like swimming as like reaching a lifeline. He saw the land in front of him begin to move; he was being swept downstream.
     Vera ran up and down the bank yelling, but he couldn't make out the words. "Up!" she seemed to be screaming, and then he heard. "Stand up! Stand up!" He stopped swimming, bent at the hips, and hid feet touched bottom. Under him was a thick ooze, but it was firmer than water, and though the ooze tried to swallow his feet, he pulled them loose and the water sunk beneath him, now at his chest, his waist, his knees.
     He looked behind him for Matthew, and then he realized that as he'd run and scattered the fishes, he'd left nothing for Matthew to cross on. "No!" he screamed. "Matthew!" He stumbled upstream to where Vera was standing, looking out over the water.
     There was the satyr, struggling against the raging river. He was holding his own against the current; it was not sweeping him away, but he was making no progress toward shore. He looked like a horse bucking a floodtide. He reared from the water, and then disappeared into a trough as a hand of wave came down upon him.
     Wildly the boy looked around. Near the base of a fir near the water's edge, a vine hung. He ran to the tree, gasped its thick leathery bark in his hands. Above him, the branches swayed but refused to give up their hold on the vine. He jumped into the air, grabbing it, putting all his weight on the vine, and it began to slip. He hung there for a minute, and it ripped loose, throwing him on the ground, the vine rattling loose and falling over him.
     He threw his sodden pack from his shoulders and staggered into the water. It churned around his knees, his waist. "Matthew!" he yelled, and this time when the satyr reared above the waves, he saw the boy.
     Derin had wandered out so far the waves lapped at his elbow. He whirled the vine around his head and threw it toward the satyr. It fell short, was taken downriver. Hurriedly he hauled it in. This time, the boy threw upstream and the vine floated past Matthew as he grabbed out for it. The third time the throw was good. Whipped by the water, the vine raged into Matthew's outstretched hands and the boy flung himself backwards, holding on with all his strength. He almost lost his footing and went down, but moving slowly, he felt the water recede.
     The satyr stopped struggling against the current as soon as he gripped the vine, so the river took him, playing with him like so much debris. Water crashed over his head. The boy finally reached the shore and began to pull him in.
     Matthew was the biggest fish he had ever tried to land. Arm over arm, he grasped at the vine. His biceps ached, his breath came in short gasps, and just when he thought he could hold no longer against this weight, this river, this task, he saw Matthew touch bottom, unsteady as a tree limb in a storm, and plunge ashore.
     The satyr collapsed on the bank and slowly rolled over onto his back. His chest heaved as he tried to fill his lungs with air. He pushed himself up on an elbow and retched, salt water spilling from him. Derin knelt beside him, pushed the satyr's muddy hair back from his forehead where the blood streaked his nose and cheek.
     It was a superficial cut, but it bled crazily. Matthew lay back and pressed the heel of his hand against it to staunch the blood. He stared above him at the grey sky, the tops of the firs shaking with the wind.
     "A lovely swim," he gasped. "But it's good to be ashore."
     "Matthew," Derin said.
     "I was hoping for a minute you'd save me," he said to Vera, who crouched on his other side. "I've always wanted to ride a nymph."
     "Maybe some other time," the fox said, smiling.
     "I'll look forward to it," Matthew said, and closed his eyes. "Derin has all the luck."



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     There was no longer any doubt about it, the sun thought. Something had happened to her sister. Another day had passed, and the clouds below her were, if anything, darker, more dense. Yesterday, as she'd traveled west, she kept looking for a break in the grey blanket beneath her, but not once did she get a glimpse of earth. It was time to take this matter upon herself.
     The sun did not like to travel. She had a regular course, and the slow curve of her motion over the earth, fixed and familiar, pleased her. She disliked disruption in her routine, but she saw no way around this. If her fool sister had gone on another of her journeys and had gotten in trouble, the sun would have to be the one to rescue her.
     So it was with a good deal of disgruntlement that she left her orbit and went to look for the moon. She knew the value of her light to the earth, that her trip would have to be quick.
     Under the cloud cover, the earth turned dark. It was just past midday, but night descended like the blade of a hunting knife. Derin, Matthew, and Vera stood up in alarm. They huddled together, waiting for the world to end, sure their journey had some too late. In the Deadwood Forest, the moon hung caged in her oak and she cried out as the blackness settled over the trees. Around her for miles, she heard the ravens awaken from their daytime sleep and take to the sky. The noise of wings, of hoarse cawing tore at her. The owl, alone in a clearing to the moon's north, puffed his feathers in wonder. Had his plan come to fruition so quickly, days sooner than he had planned? The world was his! He gave a cry, a high shriek, which rang throughout the Forest.
     And Deirdre, where was she? As the false night settled, she awoke with the other ravens, but as they went screaming into the sky, she stayed on her branch, folding her wings around her more tightly. It's only a nightmare, she thought. he sun does not disappear in the middle of the day. And she closed her eyes and tried to sleep again, but the ravens wheeling in the air above her, the shriek of the owl which curdled the air, disturbed her.
     So the world waited, breathless, while the sun disappeared. From the meadowlands, there the jay flew in circles screaming, "Hobnail! Milquestoast! Pigeonfeathers!" to the southern reaches of the Deadwood Forest where Maxwell, his wings broken, sat on a branch, terrified of the starfish who lunged through the blackness below him, everything was plunged into premature and unexpected darkness.
     The sun's journey lasted only a short while. She soared above the earth until it was a darkened ball floating free in space. Ahead of her, the lights of other suns glowed and shimmered. She flew among them, looking everywhere for the moon, past great balls of molten lava, spinning frantically, trying to hold their centers. She saw other planets with moons and suns, they as barren as her planet had been years ago. Some moons were full and bright and others were odd shapes, lopsided ellipses, irregular blobs of light. And here and there, she saw the moons from which her sister had taken the vain idea of changing shape. She looked in the galaxies of fire and air, she hunted the confederations of stars and moons, but no matter where she looked, no matter who she asked, her sister was nowhere to be found, had not been seen.
     The further the sun flew from earth, the more anxious she became, and the more convinced that somehow–but how?– her sister was not out here in the vast reaches of space, but under that cover of cloud, on the surface of the earth itself. And that was the one place the sun could not go. It would be dangerous enough to the earth is her sister were there.
     She swung full circled and headed back. From around her, a brilliant nimbus shone. She illumined the bottom of black holes. She cowed the other suns and moons, still unsure of themselves and their power. And with the speed of light, she hurtled back to earth.
     As she came closer, slowed down, jolted back into her orbit, the earth below the layer of clouds brightened. The terrified moon gave a sigh of relief. The ravens settled back to an uneasy sleep. And the owl rained curses around him. He cursed the moon and her sister; he cursed the fact that his plan had not yet reached a conclusion. For a moment, he had been ruler of the world. The darkness at midday had thrilled him with a sense of his strength. He swelled in the darkness: power, lust, pleasure were his. But the light had returned. He would have to wait.
     Below her, the sun saw the clouds seethe. They were impenetrable. "Are you there, little sister?" she thought. "Is it there you have come to rest?" The moon felt a strange tugging at her heart, as though someone were speaking to her, but around her, the forest was silent as it had ever been. She was alone, she was bereft, but in the midst of her despair, she felt a slight warmth, a tinge of hope.



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End for now. More = later!

P.S. In the last paragraph, the sun's thoughts were not quoted. I consider that a mistake, so correction ensued.

Satyrday, a Fable. Wednesday, parts 5 & 6.

     Derin was taken by the water as though he were a leaf. He fought to the surface for air against the long tendrils of river wrapping themselves around his legs, pulling him under. The tendrils snaked after him, never let him go. He tumbled in the though, a shell, a tiny pebble.
     His body no longer felt the water's coldness. He felt no pain at all. As he relaxed, he felt a deep peace envelop him. He ceased fighting, let himself be taken by the current, and he drifted, weightless, just conscious enough to see the strange rock swim toward him. The water blurred his vision, but he made out the rock's elongated shape, tapering away at the end, covered with white weeds at the other. As it approached, the boy saw it wasn't a rock at all. Her hair streamed in the water, fanning out behind her, over her shoulders, and he followed the sleek curve of her body until, at the hips, she became a fish, covered with grey scales, honing down to the final finned flare as she dissolved into water.
     Vera darted under him, her long arms stroking in front of her, and he tightened his legs around her as she swam between them. He felt her scales under his thighs. He reached down, held her shoulders with both hands, and she surged toward the surface.
     The dark skin of water grew closer and broke around his head in a crown of spray. Together, they left the surface of river and rose into the air. Vera arched her back, and using her hands to scatter the surface, dove again into the river. Derin caught a glimpse of spray, of the shore toward which they headed, and he gasped, coughing deeply, before the silver-grey water closed around him. Again Vera broke the surface, allowing Derin time to breathe, and together they swam toward land.
     The rush of wind and water on his face drew him awake. Under him, the nymph rolled and twisted around snags, rocks, dangerous stretches of current. He tightened his thighs, locked his ankles as she bucked beneath him. The water flashed from his back as though it could no longer harm him.
     In the air, into the water they rocked. Tall firs loomed from the muddy banks, the sky hung low over the river. When they reached water shallow enough for Derin to stand in, Vera rolled, throwing the boy on his side. For a moment, Derin floundered, but then his foot hit bottom. Splashing, coughing, he staggered the few remaining feet to shore and fell on his knees in the mud. Behind him, he heard a rasp coarse as rock ground against sand, and when he turned he saw the fox drag herself from the water, gasping. She came and lay beside him, looked at him once with her large grey eyes before she closed them, and the boy reached out and ran his hand the length of her soiled sodden fur, in wonder, in disappointment. When Matthew found him, Derin was alone. The fox, after resting, had left him on the bank, but Derin was not thinking of the solid ground beneath him. He stared at the river's roiling surface, remembering the leaps from the water, the wild bucking of the nymph under him, the touch of her smooth scales against his skin. He was in an undiscovered country, trying to follow the course of a map which has not yet been drawn.



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     Vera battled her way upriver in search of fish. The water pulled at her, surging over her body as if she were a stone or a log blocking its natural course. She was exhausted. Her arms ached with the strain of swimming and her hips were bruised from carrying Derin to land. Her hair swirled in the currents, now hazing her sight, now swept backwards off her shoulders so she felt the rush of water fresh on her face. At times her struggle seemed useless, as though she were being inexorably swept downstream against all her best efforts. But she kept swimming, flexing her sinuous tail, flicking the great caudal fin in the icy water.
     It was a crazy idea, but it just might work. They would take some convincing, for fish were stubborn and proud, inclined to silence, but they would not be frightened by the owl. Vera doubted they even knew of him. In the Deadwood Forest there was no water, and fish were the only animals who had no place in the owl's plans.
     Ahead of her, in the shallows of a spot where the river bent and left in its wake a small pool of less turbulent water, she saw the torpedolike shapes of fish. They hung in the pool as if suspended by strings, barely moving their fins. Under them, on the sand of the river's bottomm were hundreds of shellfish, lobsters in their mottled green armor, the fluted shells of scallops, a colony of mussels, shiny and blue-black, studded with limpets and barnacles, attached to one another by golden byssus threads. They were silent under the dark canopy of swordfish and blues, sea bass, halibut, the square slatelike tail-whipped forms of skate.
     Vera hurried toward them, wanting the quiet of their undisturbed water. If I can rest for a minute, she thought, I'll be fine again. But the sight of this strange half-fish swimming toward them threw the fish into confusion. They panicked. Swordfish swept to the water's surface and leapt, arching, flinging spray toward the clouds, slapping the water with their tails as they fell. Other fish swam upstream, fighting the current. The shellfish scattered across the bottom, mussels and scallops clattering like waterlogged castanets. The calm Vera had expected turned into a turbulent series of cross-currents, a slap in the face.
     She called to them, worried she'd lost them all. She gasped for breath; her words were bubbles of sound only she could hear, for the fish were too far away, frantically trying to escape her.
     She darted upstream but she couldn't catch them. This river was their home, and they were built for swimming, their sleek long forms adapted perfectly to the water. Vera let her arms drop, and felt the water take her. She twisted until she was headed downstream, then floated in the current, resting. When she was close to the shallows where the fish had been, she came alive again and swam there, letting herself sink almost to the bottom. She couldn't remember ever having been so tired.
     Vera crossed her eyes and opened them only after she felt the water push against her, crowding her. On the sand below, the shellfish had gathered, the lobsters' claws waving up at her like ominous underwater plants. She could see the scallops' twin rows of tiny blue eyes watching as they barely opened their shells. Above her, the bluefish and swordfish, halibut and skate had returned, and for a minute she was the one who was frightened, surrounded. They stared at her, their cold round eyes unnervingly lidless. What were they thinking? The lobsters peered up from under their horned ridge of chiton, antennae quivering in the slightly moving water.
     "I didn't mean to frighten you before," Vera said. "I'm sorry."
     The fish said nothing. Streams of bubbles filtered from their mouths as they waited for her to speak again.
     "I'm a sea nymph," Vera explained, and suddenly felt ridiculous, riding this water, trapped between skate and lobster. "Listen," she said. "I've come to help. I know why the river's so wild, why the current is stronger and the water colder."
     She remembered seeing great schools of fish lying on the bottom of a pond, irradiated by the full moon's glow upon the water's skin, their scales shining like silver. She had seen fish surge to the surface and break through, throwing themselves toward the moon, splashing the silver drops of water into the air in homage, desperate longing. "The moon's been wrenched from the sky," she said. "Stolen. She's held captive on land, miles to the west."
     A bluefish with cold ded eyes interrupted her. "In this ruver there are no directions but upstream and down."
     "There are creatures whose lives are not so simple," she said. "A great horned owl who lives in a place called the Deadwood Forest had kidnapped the moon. Without her, the world's gone crazy. There aren't any tides. The river's running wild."
     "You can say that again," a swordfish said. "It's worth your life to get caught in the current these days."
     "I need your help," Vera said. "Or you'll never again have the moon's gold shadow cast upon this water. I have no idea what will happen to the river if she isn't rescued."
     She was sure of it. A startled, frightened look shone from the fishes' eyes. They eddied in the water, looking at one another. Their tails twitched. Under them, all the scallops and mussels snapped open and shut. Vera saw a school of shrimp, translucent, almost impossible to find in the dimness, their pairs of legs jerking spastically.
     The water around her began to churn and Vera was afraid they would all burst loose again, flying in different directions, upstream and down, the only life they knew.
     "Please," she said. "Come with me. Help me."
     The water calmed again, and Vera felt the force of all those eyes upon her, but now they were not so indifferent or cold. They pleaded with her in return, as she had pleaded with them.
     "What would you have us do?" a swordfish asked.
     "I have two friends who do not swim," Vera began.
     "We have no friends who do not swim," the swordfish said, his eyes wild with confusion and distrust.
     "Listen to me," Vera said, losing patience. "We're going to rescue the moon. There isn't tom for quibbling."
     "Why don't you swim them across?" a skate asked.
     "Because teh water's too cold," Vera said. "They'd freeze. They're warm-blooded creatures."
     "And why don't you find someone else?"
     "There is no one else," she said firmly.



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     Here are some lines to take out of context:

—"he tightened his thighs, locked his ankles as she bucked beneath him"
—"she came and laid down beside him"

     Just because I could.

Satyrday, a Fable. Wednesday, parts 1 & 2.

WEDNESDAY

 
     The owl called the congregation of ravens for the early hours of the day, past midnight. As the darkness grew in intensity, the owl seemed to bloat. His golden eyes bulged and took on a reddish tinge, as though the beating of his heart had become so frantic that the blood moving through his veins had nowhere to go but into his eyes. He puffed in the clearing, his feathers bristling, until the bulk of his body was overpowering.
     In small groups, the ravens arrived. Word had gone out that afternoon that the owl wished to speak with them, and the place and time were transmitted with a flick of wing, a blink of a red eye.
     The meeting was held in another clearing, several miles from where the moon hung caged. Deirdre arrived late, but she was not the last. The owl sad dead-center, silent as an idol, and the glossy birds landed on trees and bushes around him, even in the edges of the clearing, all eyes intent upon the horned tyrant.
     Deirdre was grateful she'd gotten there at all. When she returned from the swamp, she'd fallen asleep, in plain view, a silly mistake, but one she could do nothing about. She's been awakened by a rustling in the limbs above her, and when she opened her eyes, she saw a small group of ravens perched above. It was already dark and their eyes shone down at her like live coals.
     "Sleeping late," one of them said.
     "Yes," she said, "I overslept," although she'd gotten barely six hours of rest.
     They flew off, one after another, and when all had abandoned her, she flew after them. Now they sat, surrounding the owl, waiting for him to speak.
     He was waiting as well, but Deirdre didn't know why. A few ravens straggled in late, and the owl fixed each one with his glassy bulbous stare, as if to question their right to remain alive. Deirdre began to get edgy; the encounter was eerie, like a showdown. When she thought she'd burst, two weasels came slinking through the underbrush and entered the clearing, remaining some distance form the owl. He looked down at them imperiously as they sank to earth, their eyes to him.
     "You're late," he said, his voice conveying his displeasure. "You've kept us waiting."
     One of the weasels spoke in a quavering voice. "We're sorry, my lord. We received your summons late, and we, as you know, cannot fly."
     "I know you can't fly," the owl thundered. His gaze left the cowering weasels and slowly took in the ravens. He thought how they looked like a night sky, those blinking eyes like thousands of read stars. Not a raven moved as he surveyed them. Paranoid, Deirdre thought he stared too long at her, and did her best to appear inconspicuous.
     "My friends here have something of interest to say," the owl said, nodding to the weasels.
     "We are just poor weasels from the Outer Lands," the second weasel said. "We live on the plain to the east of the mountains."
     "They can see what you are, you sniveling fool," the owl said. "Get to the point."
     "Yes, my lord," the weasel said, shaking with fright.
     "We've seen a raven fly out over the plain where we live, headed for the Swollen River," the second said. "And later we've seen him return."
     "So you think it's a 'he'?" the owl asked, interested.
     "We don't know for sure," the first weasel replied.
     "Go on," the owl ordered.
     "Twice in the last two days," the second hastened to add. "Since the moon was stolen."
     "What else?" the owl asked.
     "There's nothing else to say," the first weasel said. "That's all we know."
     The owl was exasperated. "Look around you. Do you see the raven who flew east?"
     The weasels were a model of concentration. Deirdre thought they were stalling, but still tried to shrink into her feathers, to disguise herself. They took forever, looking closely from the clearing to the bushes to the tree limbs. Finally the second one spoke.
     "It's no use, my lord. I can't tell the difference between them."
     "May your bones rot in darkness," the owl said. "Get out of here." With great haste and equal relief, the weasels slunk from the clearing and disappeared.
     "So," the owl said, frowning. "There seems to be a traitor in our midst. I have given strict orders that none of you should leave the Outer Lands. The Swollen River and the meadowlands beyond are alien territory. According to these weasels, someone has disobeyed me. Which one of you was it? I won't deal harshly with you if your explanation is fair and true."
     None of the ravens moved for a minute or two, and then all heads began to turn, each bird glancing at his neighbors with suspicion. Deirdre looked right and left as well, trying to appear as unruffled, as critical as her fellows did. Ah, self-righteousness, she thought. Has there ever been such a concentration of it?
     She was alarmed by this turn of affairs, but not particularly frightened. She felt she'd done nothing to give herself away. True, she was an outcast of sorts, having no particular companions among the other members of her clan and thus was vulnerable to suspicion. No other raven would defend her is she were called to account; none could say, "No, my lord, the raven Deirdre is your good and faithful servant. She was with me at the time in question." And since Deirdre could not offer this to any of them, she felt herself alone. But aside from the small group who had caught her sleeping earlier that evening, she was sure there were none who could accuse her.
     Out of the darkness behind her and slightly to her right, the voice of a very young raven filtered past
     "My lord," the raven said, his voice shaking badly. "Perhaps it was I."
     "Come here," the owl ordered, his voice as heavy as lead.
     A flapping emerged from the night, and a small handsome raven flew past Deirdre. He landed some feet from the owl, doing his best to square his wings and face his master.
     "What is your name?" the owl asked.
     "Maxwell," the raven said bravely. In the deepness if the night, Deirdre thought she could see blue highlights flashing amid his feathers.
     "No, my lord. They both perished in the ice storm of the winter."
     "Have you any neighbors or companions who can vouch for you?" the owl said severely.
     Maxwell looked behind him for assistance. "There are some I fly with," he said. "Bingor and Tera."
     "Are you here?" the owl roared, his voice coming back at him, echoing off the tall dead trees.
     There was no reply, only he deepest silence in which Deirdre could feel her blood pulsing in her throat.
     The owl looked down at Maxwell, a strange gloat in his eyes. They seemed to have become more red, almost as red as the ravens' eyes, "No one will speak for you," he said. So, Deirdre thought, it has come to this.
     "Bingor," the little raven implored, turning to look behind him at the hosts of his people.
     "Silence!" the owl ordered. "You flew east?"
     "Yes, my lord." The raven had lost his composure. He shivered in the darkness until Deirdre thought the earth picked up his fright and began trembling in empathy.
     "Against my orders?"
     "No, my lord, I did not disobey you. I was visiting the graves of the ancestors," he said bravely, "the ones who died in the great wind."
     The owl's chest swelled. "You crossed the Swollen River?"
     "No, my lord. I visited the graves on the Plain of Desiccation, the graves of those who dropped form the wind when it passed over the river. My mother and father often took me there, and since they died.  .  .  ."
     "An act of filial devotion, then?"
     "Yes, my lord."
     "I don't believe you," the owl said harshly. "Why was it never reported to me before?"
     "I don't know," Maxwell said. "I didn't know I was doing anything wrong."
     "You flew with this Bingor?"
     "No, my lord, I went alone. I could find no one who would go with me."
     "They were wiser than you, my son," the owl said. He called, and from the darkness behind him, three falcons swooped from the highest branches of a very tall oak. "Take him to the southern forest," the owl said. He paused for effect. None of the ravens knew of this place, except Deirdre. She shuddered on her branch, drawing herself tighter.
     "And break his wings," the owl said.
     Deirdre cried out in alarm.
     "Who was that?" the owl shrieked.
     "It was nothing, my lord," Deirdre said. "I have a cramp in my claw."
     "Take him away," the owl said. "Take him from my sight."
     Deirdre heard a soft noise in the distance, like weeping. Whoever grieved had not grieved enough to speak on Maxwell's behalf, but still Deirdre felt great pity. And she was beside herself with indecision. If she spoke up, if she offered herself in his place, she knew the owl would not spare the young bird. She would be killed, and he would still be banished and mutilated. And she would be abandoning the satyr and the boy.
     The falcons bound the raven and took off, each of them holding a rope. They hovered above the clearing, displaying their captive, before heading south.
     "Let that be a lesson to you," the owl said.
     "But my lord, if I may humbly ask a question," a raven said from a branch to Deirdre's right.
     "You may ask," the owl said.
     "The young one did not cross the Swollen River, if what he said was true."
     "But who would speak up for him?" the owl asked. "Not one of you. NOT A SINGLE ONE. You are a cowardly flea-infested lot, and it makes me sick to look at you."
     There was total silence. The raven who had spoken did not speak again.
     "Now leave me," the owl thundered. "All of you."
     As Deirdre rose in the air, it was like the whirlwind which had carried her west. Thousands of ravens surrounded her, and she was buffered by fierce currents. All was wing and beak and flashing eye. The sky reverberated with harsh breathing and cawing. Ravens collided in the air and fell away from each other, screaming. Feathers torn loose from their wings drifted below them. Bruised and battered, all left the clearing, Deirdre with them. She remembered the night she had been taken by the wind. Her parents lay below her on the ground, broken and bleeding, calling her name.



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     In the morning's dim light, Derin stood with Matthew and Vera, looking down at the Swollen River. By day, the water was molten rock, not mud. Blue-grey, like the hottest part of a fire, it laughed at them. A few boulders jutted from the water, their sleek black backs like seals. Around the rocks, the river churned, flinging spray high into the air. There were no islands, no sandbars, nothing but the deep channel.
     Derin walked down the rise. His ankle was completely healed, good as it had ever been; even the bruise had disappeared.  He knelt by the river's side and put a hand in the water. It felt like swiftly flowing ice. Down the bank, cedars gave way to tall firs which crowded to the river's edge. Across from him, Derin could make out the thin line of the opposite shore, marked by a rise of trees.
     He climbed the bank again and pointed to what he'd seen.
     "It's swamp at first," Vera said, "just like this side. But it's much more narrow. We'll have some wading to do when we get across. From here on there's nothing like the meadowlands again. You're in for a geography lesson."
     "You said there were mountains," Derin said.
     "That's right," the fox said. "That's where I live. They're at least two days away. After the swamp, we'll get to the Plain of Desiccation. Dry, dusty, hot and nasty. Not much lives there. I've seen a few weasels, and scorpions of course. Wild board. They're all in league with the owl, so we'll have to be careful. And there are other pitfalls. Like getting lost in the sand, Just one hill after the next, nothing to even give you the sense you're moving."
     "Sounds like fun," Matthew said. "I can't wait."
     "After that, we'll get to the mountains, a bit more hospitable terrain, I promise. And I know them backwards and forwards. They're beautiful, but of course I'm prejudiced."
     "And then?" Derin asked.
     "Then you're on your own," Vera said. "I'll take you as far as the mountains, but I won't go into the Forest."
     "The Deadwood Forest," Matthew said.
     "That's right," the fox said. "A vast tangle of dead trees and bushes, the most desolate place you could imagine. Nothing grows there. It used to be full of oaks and maples, before the owl came to power. I wouldn't go near it."
     "We'd better get started," Matthew said. "It's going to take time to build the raft." Long into the night, they had talked about how to cross the river, and Matthew had convinced them his was the best solution. They would need logs, and vines to lash the logs together, and a bit of luck.
     The three of them left the overlook and descended to where they'd slept. The only logs they'd found were fallen cedars, big around as Matthew's armspan, heavier than he and the boy could even lift. "The firs will be better," Matthew said, rummaging in his pack for the ax head. "They'll float higher in the water. Derin, go south along the bank and look for vines we can use. They should be old and weathered, nothing too young or they'll snap. I'll find a handle for this and get to work on the logs." Derin stood and watched as Matthew honed the ax head with whetstone, found a piece of cedar to use as a handle, and bound the head to it with rawhide. "Go on," Matthew said. "Get going."
     Derin walked along the rise, the river on his left rushing much faster than he was walking. Firs rose around him. He looked for vines which matched Matthew's instructions, but there were none, nothing but the straight druidical presence of the trees, their needled branches drooping toward the ground. The light under the firs was like the swamp's, a mottled green.
     As Derin walked, he peered across at the other side, trying to imagine it. From Vera's description, it was unlike anything he'd even dreamed about, a harsh and forbidding landscape over which the owl brooded like a malevolent cloud. Crossing the river seemed impossible. He thought of the three of them, huddled together on their flimsy raft, buffeted by those waves which even now rose and fell like the foaming backs of stallions, flinging spray sky-high. Behind him, he heard the first crack of a tree. The satyr's voice rang out, and then Derin listened to the slow crunsh as it fell, breaking the branches of other firs, the slam it made as it hit the ground.
     He shaded his eyes with his hands. There, above him, he saw what looked like a tangle of vines. It festooned the upper branches, hanging down toward him, taunting.
     Derin shrugged and rubbed his hands together. He took a few steps back, approached the fir, and jumped. He wrapped his arms and legs around the trunk and inched his way up, raising his knees, hugging the fir, and grabbing above him with his arms. The rough bark scratched his legs, but he kept climbing until finally he could reach up and hold onto a branch. His legs let go, and he hung there by both arms. The branch creaked, bending downward, but it held. Kicking against the trunk to gain some leverage, he managed to swing a leg over the branch, and wrestled into a sitting position.
     He started upwards, breathing harshly. The vines still hung above him, up where the fir broke open and gave way to the sky. When he'd rested, he crouched on the branch, close to the trunk, holding on to other branches above him for balance. He climbed quickly, the fir providing an awkward ladder. Matthew would have to be satisfied with these. He wasn't going to climb another tree.
     The closer he got to the vines, the odder they looked to him. They were smooth and shiny, grey and black. He was five feet from them when he realized they weren't vines at all. The entire tangle began to writhe above him, and the snakes' tapered heads appeared, waving in the air, their eyes red pinpricks of light. Derin pulled away, crouching on the branch he'd been straining to leave. He grabbed it with both hands and swung free, reaching with his toe for a safe hold below him. He found the branch, let go and tottered, lost his balance. He crashed against the trunk and fell, but he managed to grab a branch, and he hung there, almost wrenching his shoulders from their sockets when the tree ceased to give.
     He looked above him. The snakes had made no move toward him, and he hurriedly let himself down from branch to branch, until he hung from the lowest one and let himself fall. He sprang to his feet, ready to run. Above him, the snakes were motionless, their heads hidden, looking again like a tangle of vine.
     He caught his breath; for him, the owl was everywhere. Perhaps the snakes had not been threatening at all, simply a nest of tree vipers disturbed by his ascent. But he wasn't about to climb again to find out. The menace in their twisting heads had not been imagined, and whether they belonged to the owl or simply to themselves, they meant him only ill. He made his way back up the riverbank toward the place where the heave of Matthew's ax was again audible.
     The river leapt to challenge him, and his face was wet with salt spray. "We're crossing you," he said. At his feet, the ground rustled. Sand grains and tiny stones rose from the earth and bounced off his legs. The river continued in its deep channel from north to south, ignoring his threat.



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Sorry for not working on this for so long. More = later!