It struck below the place where Tim stood, and hard enough to make the tussock shiver like jelly. On the bank, several of the watching mudmen hooted. Tim thought they were like spectators at a Saturdayafternoon Points match. The idea was so infuriating that it drove his fear out. What rushed in to fill the place where it had been was fury. Would the waterbeasts have him? He saw no way they would not. Yet if the fourshot the Widow had given him hadnt taken too much of a wetting, he might be able to make at least one of them pay for its breakfast. And if it doesnt fire, Ill turn it around and club the beast with the butt end until it tears my arm off my shoulder. The thing was crawling out of the water now, the claws at the ends of its stubby front legs tearing away clumps of reed and weed, leaving black gashes that quickly filled up with water. Its tailblackishgreen on top, white as a dead mans belly beneathdrove it ever forward and upward, slapping at the water and throwing fans of muddy filth in all directions. Above its snout was a nest of eyes that pulsed and bulged, pulsed and bulged. They never left Tims face. The long jaws gnashed; the teeth sounded like stones driven together. On the shoreseventy yards or a thousand wheels, it made no differencethe mudmen called again, seeming to cheer the monster on. Tim opened the cotton sack. His hands were steady and his fingers sure, although the thing had hauled half its length onto the little island and there was now only three feet between Tims sodden boots and those clicking teeth. He pulled back one of the hammers as the Widow had shown him, curled his finger around the trigger, and dropped to one knee. Now he and the approaching horror were on the same level. Tim could smell its rich carrion breath and see deep into its pulsing pink gullet. Yet Tim was smiling. He felt it stretching his lips, and he was glad. It was good to smile in ones final moments, so it was. He only wished it was the barony tax collector crawling up the bank, with his treacherous green familiar on his shoulder. Lets see howee like this, cully, Tim murmured, and pulled the trigger. There was such a huge bang that Tim at first believed the fourshot had exploded in his hand. Yet it wasnt the gun that exploded, but the reptiles hideous nest of eyes. They splattered blackishred ichor. The creature uttered an agonized roar and curled backward on its tail. Its short forelegs pawed the air. It fell into the water, thrashed, then rolled over, displaying its belly. A red cloud began to grow around its partially submerged head. Its hungry ancient grin had become a death rictus. In the trees, rudely awakened birds flapped and chattered and screamed down abuse. Still wrapped in that coldness (and still smiling, although he wasnt aware of it), Tim broke open the fourshot and removed the spent casing. It was smoking and warm to the touch. He grabbed the halfloaf, stuck the breadplug in his mouth, and thumbed one of the spare loads into the empty chamber. He snapped the pistol closed, then spat out the plug, which now had an oily taste. Come on! he shouted to the reptiles that were now swimming back and forth in agitated fashion (the hump marking the top of the submerged dragon had disappeared). Come have some more! Nor was this bravado. Tim discovered he actually wanted them to come. Nothingnot even his fathers ax, which he still carried in his belthad ever felt so divinely right to him as did the heavy weight of the fourshot in his left hand. From the shore came a sound Tim could not at first identify, not because it was strange but because it ran counter to all the assumptions he had made about those watching. The mudmen were clapping. When he turned to face them, the smoking gun still in his hand, they dropped to their knees, fisted their foreheads, and spoke the only word of which they seemed capable. That word was hile, one of the few which is exactly the same in both low and high speech, the one the Manni called finGan, or the first word; the one that set the world spinning. Is it possible . . . Tim Ross, son of Jack, looked from the kneeling mudmen on the bank to the antique (but very effective) weapon he still held. Is it possible they think . . . It was possible. More than possible, in fact. These people of the Fagonard believed he was a gunslinger. For several moments he was too stunned to move. He stared at them from the tussock where he had fought for his life (and might yet lose it); they knelt in high green reeds and oozy mud seventy yards away, fisted hands to their shaggy heads, and stared back. Finally some semblance of reason began to reassert itself, and Tim understood that he must use their belief while he still could. He groped for the stories his mama and his da had told him, and those the Widow Smack had read to her pupils from her precious books. Nothing quite seemed to fit the situation, however, until he recalled a fragment of an old story hed heard from Splinter Harry, one of the codgers who worked parttime at the sawmill. Halffoolish was Old Splint, apt to point a fingergun at you and pretend to pull the trigger, also prone to babbling nonsense in what he claimed was the high speech. He loved nothing better than talking about the men from Gilead who carried the big irons and went forth on quests. Oh, Harry, I only hope it was ka that put me in earshot on that particular noonrest. Hile, bondsmen! he cried to the mudmen on the bank. I see you very well! Rise in love and service! For a long moment, nothing happened. Then they rose and stood staring at him from deepsocketed and fundamentally exhausted eyes. Their sloping jaws hung almost to their breastbones in identical expressions of wonder. Tim saw that some carried primitive bows; others had bludgeons strapped to their sunken chests with woven vines. What do I say now? Sometimes, Tim thought, only the bald truth would do. Get me off this fucking island! he shouted. At first the mudmen only gaped at him. Then they drew together and palavered in a mixture of grunts, clicks, and unsettling growls. Just when Tim was beginning to believe the conference would go on forever, several of the tribesmen turned and sprinted off. Another, the tallest, turned to Tim and held out both of his hands. They were hands, although there were too many fingers on them and the palms were green with some mossy substance. The gesture they made was clear and emphatic Stay put. Tim nodded, then sat down on the tussock (like Sma Lady Muffin on her tuffin, he thought) and began munching the rest of his bread. He cocked an eye for the wakes of returning swimmers as he ate, and kept the fourshot in one hand. Flies and small bugs settled on his skin long enough to sip his sweat before flying off again. Tim thought that if something didnt happen soon, hed have to jump in the water just to get away from the irritating things, which were too quick to catch with a slap. Only who knew what else might be hiding in that murk, or creeping along the bottom? As he swallowed the last bite of bread, a rhythmic thudding began to pulse across the morningmisty swamp, startling more birds into flight. Some of these were surprisingly large, with pink plumage and long, thin legs that paddled the water as they fought their way into the air. They made high, ululating cries that sounded to Tim like the laughter of children who had lost their minds. Someones beating on the hollow log I wished for, not so long ago. The thought raised a tired grin. The pounding went on for five minutes or so, then ceased. The cullies on the bank were staring in the direction from which Tim had comea much younger Tim that had been, foolishly laughing and following a bad fairy named Armaneeta. The mudmen shaded their eyes against the sun, now shining fiercely through the overhanging foliage and burning off the mist. It was shaping to be another unnaturally hot day. Tim heard splashing, and it was not long before a queer, misshapen boat emerged from the unraveling mists. It had been cobbled together of woodscraps gleaned from gods knew where and rode low in the water, trailing long tangles of moss and waterweed. There was a mast but no sail; at the top, acting as lookout, was a boars head surrounded by a shifting skein of flies. Four of the swampdwellers rowed with paddles of some orange wood Tim did not recognize. A fifth stood at the prow, wearing a black silk top hat decorated with a red ribbon that trailed down over one bare shoulder. He peered ahead, sometimes waving left, sometimes right. The oarsmen followed his wigwagging with the efficiency of long practice, the boat swooping neatly between the tussocks that had led Tim into his present difficulty. When the boat approached the black stretch of still water where the dragon had been, the helmsman bent, then stood up with a grunt of effort. In his arms he held a dripping chunk of carcass that Tim assumed had not long ago been attached to the head decorating the mast. The helmsman cradled it, never minding the blood that smeared his shaggy chest and arms, peering down into the water. He uttered a sharp, hooting cry, followed by several rapid clicks. The crew shipped their oars. The boat maintained a little headway toward the tussock where Tim waited, but Helmsman paid no attention; he was still peering raptly into the water. With a quiet more shocking than the noisiest splash, a giant claw rose up, the talons halfclenched. Sai Helmsman laid the bloody chunk of boar into that demanding palm as gently as a mother lays her sleeping babe into its crib. The talons closed around the meat, squeezing out droplets of blood that pattered into the water. Then, as quietly as it had come, the claw disappeared, bearing its tribute. Now you know how to appease a dragon, Tim thought. It occurred to him that he was amassing a wonderful store of tales, ones that would hold not just Old Splint but the whole village of Tree in thrall. He wondered if he would ever live to tell them. The scow bumped the tussock. The oarsmen bent their heads and fisted their brows. Helmsman did the same. When he gestured to Tim from the boat, indicating that he should board, long strands of green and brown swung back and forth from his scrawny arm. More of this growth hung on his cheeks and straggled from his chin. Even his nostrils seemed plugged with vegetable matter, so that he had to breathe through his mouth. Not mudmen at all, Tim thought as he climbed into the boat. Theyre plantmen. Muties who are becoming a part of the swamp they live in. I say thankee, Tim told Helmsman, and touched the side of his fist to his own forehead. Hile! Helmsman replied. His lips spread in a grin. The few teeth thus revealed were green, but the grin was no less charming for that. We are wellmet, Tim said. Hile, Helmsman repeated, and then they all took it up, making the swamp ring Hile! Hile! Hile! Onshore (if ground that trembled and oozed at every step could be called shore), the tribe gathered around Tim. Their smell was earthy and enormous. Tim kept the fourshot in his hand, not because he intended to shoot or even threaten them with it, but because they so clearly wanted to see it. If any had reached out to actually touch it, he would have put it back in the bag, but none did. They grunted, they gestured, they made those chittering bird cries, but none of them spoke a word other than hile that Tim could understand. Yet when Tim spoke to them, he had no doubt that he was understood. He counted at least sixteen, all men and all muties. As well as plant life, most were supporting fungoid growths that looked like the shelf mushrooms Tim sometimes saw growing on the blossiewood hed hauled at the sawmill. They were also afflicted with boils and festering sores. A nearcertainty grew in Tim somewhere there might be womena fewbut there would be no children. This was a dying tribe. Soon the Fagonard would take them just as the bitch dragon had taken her sacrificial chunk of boar. In the meantime, though, they were looking at him in a way he also recognized from his days in the sawmill. It was the way he and the rest of the boys looked at the foreman when the last job had been done and the next not yet assigned. The Fagonard tribe thought he was a gunslingerridiculous, he was only a kid, but there it wasand they were, at least for the time being, his to command. Easy enough for them, but Tim had never been a boss nor dreamed of being one. What did he want? If he asked them to take him back to the south end of the swamp, they would; he was sure of it. From there he believed he could find his way to the Ironwood Trail, which would in turn take him back to Tree Village. Back home. That was the reasonable thing, and Tim knew it. But when he got back, his mother would still be blind. Even Big Kellss capture would not change that. He, Tim Ross, would have dared much to no gain. Even worse, the Covenant Man might use his silver basin to watch him slink south, beaten. Hed laugh. Probably with his wretched pixie sitting on his shoulder, laughing right along with him. As he considered this, he minded something the Widow Smack used to say in happier days, when he was just a schoolboy whose biggest concern was to finish his chores before his da came back from the woods The only stupid question, my cullies, is the one you dont ask. Speaking slowly (and without much hope), Tim said Im on a quest to find Maerlyn, who is a great magician. I was told he has a house in the Endless Forest, but the man who told me so was . . . Was a bastard. Was a liar. Was a cruel trickster who passed the time cozening children. . . . was untrustworthy, he finished. Have you of the Fagonard ever heard of this Maerlyn? He may wear a tall cap the color of the sun. He expected headshakes or incomprehension. Instead, the members of the tribe moved away from him and formed a tight, jabbering circle. This went on for at least ten minutes, and on several occasions the discussion grew quite warm. At last they returned to where Tim waited. Crooked hands with soreraddled fingers pushed the erstwhile helmsman forward. This worthy was broadshouldered and sturdily built. Had he not grown up in the waterlogged poisonbowl that was the Fagonard, he might have been considered handsome. His eyes were bright with intelligence. On his chest, above his right nipple, an enormous infected sore bulged and trembled. He raised a finger in a way Tim recognized it was the Widow Smacks attend me gesture. Tim nodded and pointed the first two fingers of his right handthe one not holding the gunat his eyes, as the Widow had taught them. Helmsmanthe tribes best playactor, Tim surmisednodded back, then stroked the air below the straggly growth of intermixed stubble and weed on his chin. Tim felt a stab of excitement. A beard? Yes, he has a beard! Helmsman next stroked the air above his head, closing his fist as he did so, indicating not just a tall cap but a tall conical cap. Thats him! Tim actually laughed. Helmsman smiled, but Tim thought it a troubled smile. Several of the others jabbered and twittered. Helmsman motioned them quiet, then turned back to Tim. Before he could continue his dumbshow, however, the sore above his nipple burst open in a spray of pus and blood. From it crawled a spider the size of a robins egg. Helmsman grabbed it, crushed it, and tossed it aside. Then, as Tim watched with horrified fascination, he used one hand to push the wound wide. When the sides gaped like lips, he used his other hand to reach in and scoop out a slick mass of faintly throbbing eggs. He slatted these casually aside, ridding himself of them as a man might rid himself of a palmful of snot he has blown out of his nose on a cold morning. None of the others paid this any particular attention. They were waiting for the show to continue. With his sore attended to, Helmsman dropped to his hands and knees and began to make a series of predatory lunges this way and that, growling as he did so. He stopped and looked up at Tim, who shook his head. He was also struggling with his stomach. These people had just saved his life, and he reckoned it would be very impolite to puke in front of them. I dont understand that one, sai. Say sorry. Helmsman shrugged and got to his feet. The matted weeds growing from his chest were now beaded with blood. Again he made the beard and the tall conical cap. Again he dropped to the ground, snarling and making lunges. This time all the others joined him. The tribe briefly became a pack of dangerous animals, their laughter and obvious good cheer somewhat spoiling the illusion. Tim once more shook his head, feeling quite stupid. Helmsman did not look cheerful; he looked worried. He stood for a moment, hands on hips, thinking, then beckoned one of his fellow tribesmen forward. This one was tall, bald, and toothless. The two of them palavered at length. Then the tall man ran off, making great speed even though his legs were so severely bent that he rocked from side to side like a skiff in a swell. Helmsman beckoned two others forward and spoke to them. They also ran off. Helmsman then dropped to his hands and knees and recommenced his fierceanimal imitation. When he was done, he looked up at Tim with an expression that was close to pleading. Is it a dog? Tim ventured. At this, the remaining tribesmen laughed heartily. Helmsman got up and patted Tim on the shoulder with a sixfingered hand, as if to tell him not to take it to heart. Just tell me one thing, Tim said. Maerlyn . . . sai, is he real? Helmsman considered this, then flung his arms skyward in an exaggerated delah gesture. It was body language any Tree villager would have recognized Who knows? The two tribesmen who had run off together came back carrying a basket of woven reeds and a hemp shoulder strap to carry it with. They deposited it at Helmsmans feet, turned to Tim, saluted him, then stood back, grinning. Helmsman hunkered and motioned for Tim to do the same. The boy knew what the basket held even before Helmsman opened it. He could smell freshcooked meat and had to wipe his mouth on his sleeve to keep from drooling. The two men (or perhaps their women) had packed the Fagonard equivalent of a woodsmans lunch. Sliced pork had been layered with rounds of some orange vegetable that looked like squash. These were wrapped in thin green leaves to make breadless popkins. There were also strawberries and blueberries, fruits long gone by for the season in Tree. Thankeesai! Tim tapped his throat three times. This made them all laugh and tap their own throats. The tall tribesman returned. From one shoulder hung a waterskin. In his hand he carried a small purse of the finest, smoothest leather Tim had ever seen. The purse he gave to Helmsman. The waterskin he held out to the boy. Tim wasnt aware of how thirsty he was until he felt the skins weight and pressed his palms against its plump, gently yielding sides. He pulled the plug with his teeth, raised it on his elbow as did the men of his village, and drank deep. He expected it to be brackish (and perhaps buggy), but it was as cool and sweet as that which came from their own spring between the house and the barn. The tribesmen laughed and applauded. Tim saw a sore on the shoulder of Tallman getting ready to give birth, and was relieved when Helmsman tapped him on the shoulder, wanting him to look at something. It was the purse. There was some sort of metal seam running across the middle of it. When Helmsman pulled a tab attached to this seam, the purse opened like magic. Inside was a brushed metal disc the size of a small plate. There was writing on the top side that Tim couldnt read. Below the writing were three buttons. Helmsman pushed one of these, and a short stick emerged from the plate with a low whining sound. The tribesmen, who had gathered round in a loose semicircle, laughed and applauded some more. They were clearly having a wonderful time. Tim, with his thirst slaked and his feet on solid (semisolid, at least) ground, decided he was having a pretty good time himself. Is that from the Old People, sai? Helmsman nodded. Such things are held to be dangerous where I come from. Helmsman at first didnt seem to understand this, and from their puzzled expressions, none of the other plantfellas did, either. Then he laughed and made a sweeping gesture that took in everything the sky, the water, the oozing land upon which they stood. As if to say everything was dangerous. And in this place, Tim thought, everything probably is. Helmsman poked Tims chest, then gave an apologetic little shrug Sorry, but you must pay attention. All right, Tim said. Im watching. And forked two fingers at his eyes, which made them all chuckle and elbow each other, as if he had gotten off an especially good one. Helmsman pushed a second button. The disc beeped, which made the watchers murmur appreciatively. A red light came on below the buttons. Helmsman began to turn in a slow circle, holding the metal device out before him like an offering. Three quarters of the way around the circle, the device beeped again and the red light turned green. Helmsman pointed one overgrown finger in the direction the device was now pointing. As well as Tim could ken from the mostly hidden sun, this was north. Helmsman looked to see if Tim understood. Tim thought he did, but there was a problem. Theres water that way. I can swim, but . . . He bared his teeth and chomped them together, pointing toward the tussock where he had almost become some scaly things breakfast. They all laughed hard at this, none harder than Helmsman, who actually had to bend and grip his mossy knees to keep from falling over. Yar, Tim thought, very funny, I almost got eaten alive. When his throe had passed and Helmsman was able to stand up straight again, he pointed at the rickety boat. Oh, Tim said. I forgot about that. He was thinking that he made a very stupid gunslinger. Helmsman saw Tim onboard, then took his accustomed place beneath the pole where the decaying boars head had been. The crew took theirs. The food and water were handed in; the little leather case with the compass (if that was what it was) Tim had stowed in the Widows cotton sack. The fourshot went into his belt on his left hip, where it made a rough balance for the handax on his right side. There was a good deal of hileing back and forth, then Tallmanwho Tim believed was probably Headman, although Helmsman had done most of the communicatingapproached. He stood on the bank and looked solemnly at Tim in the boat. He forked two fingers at his eyes Attend me. I see you very well. And he did, although his eyes were growing heavy. He couldnt remember when he had last slept. Not last night, certainly. Headman shook his head, made the forkedfinger gesture againwith more emphasis this timeand deep in the recesses of Tims mind (perhaps even in his soul, that tiny shining splinter of ka), he seemed to hear a whisper. For the first time it occurred to him that it might not be his words that these swampfolk understood. Watch? Headman nodded; the others muttered agreement. There was no laughter or merriment in their faces now; they looked sorrowful and strangely childlike. Watch for what? Headman got down on his hands and knees and began turning in rapid circles. This time instead of growls, he made a series of doglike yipping sounds. Every now and then he stopped and raised his head in the northerly direction the device had pointed out, flaring his greencrusted nostrils, as if scenting the air. At last he rose and looked at Tim questioningly. All right, Tim said. He didnt know what Headman was trying to conveyor why all of them now looked so downcastbut he would remember. And he would know what Headman was trying so hard to show him, if he saw it. If he saw it, he might understand it. Sai, do you hear my thoughts? Headman nodded. They all nodded. Then thee knows I am no gunslinger. I was but trying to spark my courage. Headman shook his head and smiled, as if this were of no account. He made the attend me gesture again, then clapped his arms around his soreridden torso and began an exaggerated shivering. The otherseven the seated crewmembers on the boatcopied him. After a little of this, Headman fell over on the ground (which squelched under his weight). The others copied this, too. Tim stared at this litter of bodies, astonished. At last, Headman stood up. Looked into Tims eyes. The look asked if Tim understood, and Tim was terribly afraid he did. Are you saying He found he couldnt finish, at least not aloud. It was too terrible. (Are you saying youre all going to die) Slowly, while looking gravely into his eyesyet smiling a little, just the sameHeadman nodded. Then Tim proved conclusively that he was no gunslinger. He began to cry. Helmsman pushed off with a long stick. The oarsmen on the left side turned the boat, and when it had reached open water, Helmsman gestured with both hands for them to row. Tim sat in the back and opened the food hamper. He ate a little because his belly was still hungry, but only a little, because the rest of him now wasnt. When he offered to pass the basket around, the oarsmen grinned their thanks but declined. The water was smooth, the steady rhythm of the oars lulling, and Tims eyes soon closed. He dreamed that his mother was shaking him and telling him it was morning, that if he stayed slugabed, hed be too late to help his da saddle the mollies. Is he alive, then? Tim asked, and the question was so absurd that Nell laughed. He was shaken awake, that much did happen, but not by his mother. It was Helmsman who was bending over him when he opened his eyes, the man smelling so powerfully of sweat and decaying vegetable matter that Tim had to stifle a sneeze. Nor was it morning. Quite the opposite the sun had crossed the sky and shone redly through stands of strange, gnarled trees that grew right out of the water. Those trees Tim could not have named, but he knew the ones growing on the slope beyond the place where the swamp boat had come to ground. They were ironwoods, and real giants. Deep drifts of orange and gold flowers grew around their bases. Tim thought his mother would swoon at their beauty, then remembered she would no longer be able to see them. They had come to the end of the Fagonard. Ahead were the true forest deeps. Helmsman helped Tim over the side of the boat, and two of the oarsmen handed out the basket of food and the waterskin. When his gunna was at Tims feetthis time on ground that didnt ooze or quakeHelmsman motioned for Tim to open the Widows cotton sack. When Tim did, Helmsman made a beeping sound that brought an appreciative chuckle from his crew. Tim took out the leather case that held the metal disc and tried to hand it over. Helmsman shook his head and pointed at Tim. The meaning was clear enough. Tim pulled the tab that opened the seam and took out the device. It was surprisingly heavy for something so thin, and eerily smooth. Mustnt drop it, he told himself. Ill come back this way and return it as Id return any borrowed dish or tool, back in the village. Which is to say, as it was when it was given to me. If I do that, Ill find them alive and well. They were watching to see if he remembered how to use it. Tim pushed the button that brought up the short stick, then the one that made the beep and the red light. There was no laughter or hooting this time; now it was serious business, perhaps even a matter of life and death. Tim began to turn slowly, and when he was facing a rising lane in the treeswhat might once have been a paththe red light changed to green and there was a second beep. Still north, Tim said. It shows the way even after sundown, does it? And if the trees are too thick to see Old Star and Old Mother? Helmsman nodded, patted Tim on the shoulder . . . then bent and kissed him swiftly and gently on the cheek. He stepped back, looking alarmed at his own temerity. Its all right, Tim said. Its fine. Helmsman dropped to one knee. The others had gotten out of the boat, and they did the same. They fisted their foreheads and cried Hile! Tim felt more tears rise and fought them back. He said Rise, bondsmen . . . if thats what you think you are. Rise in love and thanks. They rose and scrambled back into their boat. Tim raised the metal disc with the writing on it. Ill bring this back! Good as I found it! I will! Slowlybut still smiling, and that was somehow terribleHelmsman shook his head. He gave the boy a last fond and lingering look, then poled the ramshackle boat away from solid ground and into the unsteady part of the world that was their home. Tim stood watching it make its slow and stately turn south. When the crew raised their dripping paddles in salute, he waved. He watched them go until the boat was nothing but a phantom waver on the belt of fire laid down by the setting sun. He dashed warm tears from his eyes and restrained (barely) an urge to call them back. When the boat was gone, he slung his gunna about his slender body, turned in the direction the device had indicated, and began to walk deeper into the forest. Dark came. At first there was a moon, but its glow was only an untrustworthy glimmer by the time it reached the ground . . . and then that too was gone. There was a path, he was sure of it, but it was easy to wander to one side or the other. The first two times this happened he managed to avoid running into a tree, but not the third. He was thinking of Maerlyn, and how likely it was there was no such person, and smacked chestfirst into the bole of an ironwood. He held onto the silver disc, but the basket of food tumbled to the ground and spilled. Now Ill have to grope around on my hands and knees, and unless I stay here until morning, Ill still probably miss some of the Would you like a light, traveler? a womans voice asked. Tim would later tell himself he shouted in surprisefor dont we all have a tendency to massage our memories so they reflect our better selves?but the truth was a little balder he screamed in terror, dropped the disc, bolted to his feet, and was on the verge of taking to his heels (and never mind the trees he might crash into) when the part of him dedicated to survival intervened. If he ran, he would likely never be able to find the food scattered at the edge of the path. Or the disc, which he had promised to protect and bring back undamaged. It was the disc that spoke. A ridiculous idea, even a fairy the size of Armaneeta couldnt fit inside that thin plate of metal . . . but was it any more ridiculous than a boy on his own in the Endless Forest, searching for a mage who had to be long centuries dead? Who, even if alive, was likely thousands of wheels north of here, in that part of the world where the snow never melted? He looked for the greenglow and didnt see it. With his heart still hammering in his chest, Tim got down on his knees and felt around, touching a litter of leafwrapped pork popkins, discovering a small basket of berries (most spilled on the ground), discovering the hamper itself . . . but no silver disc. In despair, he cried Where in Nis are you? Here, traveler, the womans voice said. Perfectly composed. Coming from his left. Still on his hands and knees, he turned in that direction. Where? Here, traveler. Keep talking, will ya do. The voice was obliging. Here, traveler. Here, traveler, here, traveler. He reached toward the voice; his hand closed on the precious artifact. When he turned it over in his hand, he saw the green light. He cradled it to his chest, sweating. He thought he had never been so terrified, not even when he realized he was standing on the head of a dragon, nor so relieved. Here, traveler. Here, traveler. Here Ive got you, Tim said, feeling simultaneously foolish and not foolish at all. You can, um, be quiet now. Silence from the silver disc.


Tim sat still for perhaps five minutes, listening to the nightnoises of the forestnot so threatening as those in the swamp, at least so farand getting himself under control. Then he said, Yes, sai, Id like a light. The disc commenced the same low whining noise it made when it brought forth the stick, and suddenly a white light, so brilliant it made Tim temporarily blind, shone out. The trees leaped into being all around him, and some creature that had crept close without making a sound leaped back with a startled yark sound. Tims eyes were still too dazzled for him to get a good look, but he had an impression of a smoothfurred body andperhapsa squiggle of tail. A second stick had emerged from the plate. At the top, a small hooded bulge was producing that furious glare. It was like burning phosphorous, but unlike phosphorous, it did not burn out. Tim had no idea how sticks and lights could hide in a metal plate so thin, and didnt care. One thing he did care about. How long will it last, my lady? Your question is nonspecific, traveler. Rephrase. How long will the light last? Battery power is eightyeight percent. Projected life is seventy years, plus or minus two. Seventy years, Tim thought. That should be enough. He began picking up and repacking his gunna. With the bright glare to guide him, the path he was following was even clearer than it had been on the edge of the swamp, but it sloped steadily upward, and by midnight (if it was midnight; he had no way of telling), Tim was tired out in spite of his long sleep in the boat. The oppressive and unnatural heat continued, and that didnt help. Neither did the weight of the hamper and the waterskin. At last he sat, put the disc down beside him, opened the hamper, and munched one of the popkins. It was delicious. He considered a second, then reminded himself that he didnt know how long he would have to make these rations last. It also crossed his mind that the brilliant light shining from the disc could be seen by anything that happened to be in the vicinity, and some of those things might not be friendly. Would you turn the light off, lady? He wasnt sure she would respondhe had tried several conversational gambits in the last four or five hours, with no resultbut the light went off, plunging him into utter darkness. At once Tim seemed to sense living things all around himboars, woodswolves, vurts, mayhap a pooky or twoand he had to restrain an urge to ask for the light again. These ironwoods seemed to know it was Wide Earth in spite of the unnatural heat, and had sprinkled down plenty of yearend duff, mostly on the flowers that surrounded their bases, but also beyond them. Tim gathered up enough to make a jackleg bed and lay down upon it. Ive gone jippa, he thoughtthe unpleasant Tree term for people who lost their minds. But he didnt feel jippa. What he felt was full and content, although he missed the Fagonarders and worried about them. Im going to sleep, he said. Will you wake me if something comes, sai? She responded, but not in a way Tim understood Directive Nineteen. Thats the one after eighteen and before twenty, Tim thought, and closed his eyes. He began to drift at once. He thought to ask the disembodied female voice another question Did thee speak to the swamp people? But by then he was gone. In the deepest crease of the night, Tim Rosss part of the Endless Forest came alive with small, creeping forms. Within the sophisticated device marked North Central Positronics Portable Guidance Module DARIA, NCP1436345AN, the ghost in the machine marked the approach of these creatures but remained silent, sensing no danger. Tim slept on. The throckensix in allgathered around the slumbering boy in a loose semicircle. For a while they watched him with their strange goldringed eyes, but then they turned north and raised their snouts in the air. Above the northernmost reaches of MidWorld, where the snows never end and New Earth never comes, a great funnel had begun to form, turning in air lately arrived from the south that was far too warm. As it began to breathe like a lung, it sucked up a moit of frigid air from below and began to turn faster, creating a selfsustaining energy pump. Soon the outer edges found the Path of the Beam, which Guidance Module DARIA read electronically and which Tim Ross saw as a faint path through the woods. The Beam tasted the storm, found it good, and sucked it in. The starkblast began to move south, slowly at first, then faster. Tim awoke to birdsong and sat up, rubbing his eyes. For a moment he didnt know where he was, but the sight of the hamper and the greenish shafts of sunlight falling through the high tops of the ironwood trees soon set him in place. He stood up, started to step off the path to do his morning necessary, then paused. He saw several tight little bundles of scat around the place where he had slept, and wondered what had come to investigate him in the night. Something smaller than wolves, he thought. Let that be enough. He unbuttoned his flies and took care of his business. When he was finished, he repacked the hamper (a little surprised that his visitors hadnt raided it), had a drink from the waterskin, and picked up the silver disc. His eye fell on the third button. The Widow Smack spoke up inside his head, telling him not to push it, to leave well enough alone, but Tim decided this was advice he would disregard. If he had paid attention to wellmeaning advice, he wouldnt be here. Of course, his mother might also have her sight . . . but Big Kells would still be his steppa. He supposed all of life was full of similar trades. Hoping the damned thing wouldnt explode, Tim pushed the button. Hello, traveler! the womans voice said. Tim began to hello her back, but she went on without acknowledging him. Welcome to DARIA, a guidance service of North Central Positronics. You are on the Beam of the Cat, sometimes known as the Beam of the Lion or of the Tyger. You are also on the Way of the Bird, known variously as the Way of the Eagle, the Way of the Hawk, and the Way of the Vulturine. All things serve the Beam! So they do say, Tim agreed, so wonderstruck he was hardly aware he was speaking. Although no one knows what it means. You have left Waypoint Nine, in Fagonard Swamp. There is no Dogan in Fagonard Swamp, but there is a charging station. If you need a charging station, say yes and I will compute your course. If you do not need a charging station, say continue. Continue, Tim said. Lady . . . Daria . . . I seek Maerlyn She overrode him. The next Dogan on the current course is on the North Forest Kinnock, also known as the Northern Aerie. The charging station at the North Forest Kinnock Dogan is offline. Disturbance in the Beam suggests magic at that location. There may also be Changed Life at that location. Detour is recommended. If you would like to detour, say detour and I will compute the necessary changes. If you would like to visit the North Forest Kinnock Dogan, also known as the Northern Aerie, say continue. Tim considered the choices. If the Dariathing was suggesting a detour, this Doganplace was probably dangerous. On the other hand, wasnt magic exactly what he had come in search of? Magic, or a miracle? And hed already stood on the head of a dragon. How much more dangerous could the North Forest Kinnock Dogan be? Maybe a lot, he admitted to himself . . . but he had his fathers ax, he had his fathers lucky coin, and he had a fourshot. One that worked, and had already drawn blood. Continue, he said. The distance to the North Forest Kinnock Dogan is fifty miles, or fortyfivepointfortyfive wheels. The terrain is moderate. Weather conditions . . . Daria paused. There was a loud click. Then Directive Nineteen. What is Directive Nineteen, Daria? To bypass Directive Nineteen, speak your password. You may be asked to spell. I dont know what that means. Are you sure you would not like me to plot a detour, traveler? I am detecting a strong disturbance in the Beam, indicating deep magic. Is it white magic or black? It was as close as Tim could come to asking a question the voice from the plate probably wouldnt understand Is it Maerlyn or is it the man who got Mama and me into this mess? When there was no answer for ten seconds, Tim began to believe there would be no answer at all . . . or another repetition of Directive Nineteen, which really amounted to the same thing. But an answer came back, although it did him little good. Both, said Daria. His way continued upward, and the heat continued, as well. By noon, Tim was too tired and hungry to go on. He had tried several times to engage Daria in conversation, but she had once again gone silent. Pushing the third button did not help, although her navigation function seemed unimpaired; when he deliberately turned to the right or left of the discernible path leading ever deeper into the woods (and ever upward), the green light turned red. When he turned back, the green reappeared. He ate from the hamper, then settled in for a nap. When he awoke, it was late afternoon and a little cooler. He reslung the hamper on his back (it was lighter now), shouldered the waterskin, and pushed ahead. The afternoon was short and the twilight even shorter. The night held fewer terrors for him, partly because he had already survived one, but mostly because, when he called for the light, Daria provided it. And after the heat of the day, the cool of evening was refreshing. Tim went on for a good many hours before he began to tire again. He was gathering some duff to sleep on until daylight when Daria spoke up. There is a scenic opportunity ahead, traveler. If you wish to take advantage of this scenic opportunity, say continue. If you do not wish to observe, say no. Tim had been in the act of putting the hamper on the ground. Now he picked it up again, intrigued. Continue, he said. The discs bright light went out, but after Tims eyes had a chance to adjust, he saw light up ahead. Only moonlight, but far brighter than that which filtered through the trees overhanging the path. Use the green navigation sensor, Daria said. Move quietly. The scenic opportunity is one mile, or pointeight wheels, north of your current location. With that, she clicked off. Tim moved as quietly as he could, but to himself he sounded very loud. In the end, it probably made no difference. The path opened into the first large clearing he had come to since entering the forest, and the beings occupying it took no notice of him at all. There were six billybumblers sitting on a fallen ironwood tree, with their snouts raised to the crescent moon. Their eyes gleamed like jewels. Throcken were hardly ever seen in Tree these days, and to see even one was considered extremely lucky. Tim never had. Several of his friends claimed to have glimpsed them at play in the fields, or in the blossie groves, but he suspected they were fibbing. And now . . . to see a full halfdozen . . . They were, he thought, far more beautiful than the treacherous Armaneeta, because the only magic about them was the plain magic of living things. These were the creatures that surrounded me last nightI know they were. He approached them as in a dream, knowing he would probably frighten them away, but helpless to stay where he was. They did not move. He stretched his hand out to one, ignoring the doleful voice in his head (it sounded like the Widows) telling him he would certainly be bitten. The bumbler did not bite, but when it felt Tims fingers in the dense fur below the shelf of its jaw, it seemed to awake. It leaped from the log. The others did the same. They began to chase around his feet and between his legs, nipping at each other and uttering highpitched barks that made Tim laugh. One looked over its shoulder at him . . . and seemed to laugh back. They left him and raced to the center of the clearing. There they made a moving ring in the moonlight, their faint shadows dancing and weaving. They all stopped at once and rose on their hind legs with their paws outstretched, looking for all the world like little furry men. Beneath the cold smile of the crescent moon, they all faced north, along the Path of the Beam. Youre wonderful! Tim called. They turned to him, concentration broken. Wunnerful! one of them said . . . and then they all raced into the trees. It happened so quickly that Tim could almost believe he had imagined the whole thing. Almost. He made camp in the clearing that night, hoping they might return. And, as he drifted toward sleep, he remembered something the Widow Smack had said about the unseasonably warm weather. Its probably nothing . . . unless you see Sir Throcken dancing in the starlight or looking north with his muzzle upraised. He had seen not just one bumbler but a full halfdozen doing both. Tim sat up. The Widow had said those things were a sign of somethingwhat? A stunblast? That was close, but not quite Starkblast, he said. That was it. Starkblast, Daria said, startling him more wide awake than ever. A fastmoving storm of great power. Its features include steep and sudden drops in temperature accompanied by strong winds. It has been known to cause major destruction and loss of life in civilized portions of the world. In primitive areas, entire tribes have been wiped out. This definition of starkblast has been a service of North Central Positronics. Tim lay down again on his bed of duff, arms crossed behind his head, looking up at the circle of stars this clearing made visible. A service of North Central Positronics, was it? Well . . . maybe. He had an idea it might really have been a service of Daria. She was a marvelous machine (although he wasnt sure a machine was all she was), but there were things she wasnt allowed to tell him. He had an idea she might be hinting at some things, though. Was she leading him on, as the Covenant Man and Armaneeta had done? Tim had to admit it was a possibility, but he didnt really believe it. He thoughtpossibly because he was just a stupid kid, ready to believe anythingthat maybe she hadnt had anyone to talk to for a long time, and had taken a shine to him. One thing he knew for sure if there was a terrible storm coming, he would do well to finish his business quickly, and then get undercover. But where would be safe? This led his musings back to the Fagonard tribe. They werent a bit safe . . . as they knew, for hadnt they already imitated the bumblers for him? He had promised himself he would recognize what they were trying to show him if it was put before him, and he had. The storm was comingthe starkblast. They knew it, probably from the bumblers, and they expected it to kill them. With such thoughts in his mind, Tim guessed it would be a long time before he could get to sleep, but five minutes later he was lost to the world. He dreamed of throcken dancing in the moonlight. He began to think of Daria as his companion, although she didnt speak much, and when she did, Tim didnt always understand why (or what in Naar she was talking about). Once it was a series of numbers. Once she told him she would be offline because she was searching for satellite and suggested he stop. He did, and for half an hour the plate seemed completely deadno lights, no voice. Just when hed begun to believe she really had died, the green light came back on, the little stick reappeared, and Daria announced, I have reestablished satellite link. Wish you joy of it, Tim replied. Several times, she offered to calculate a detour. This Tim continued to decline. And once, near the end of the second day after leaving the Fagonard, she recited a bit of verse See the Eagles brilliant eye, And wings on which he holds the sky! He spies the land and spies the sea And even spies a child like me. If he lived to be a hundred (which, given his current mad errand, Tim doubted was in the cards), he thought he would never forget the things he saw on the three days he and Daria trudged ever upward in the continuing heat. The path, once vague, became a clear lane, one that for several wheels was bordered by crumbling rock walls. Once, for a space of almost an hour, the corridor in the sky above that lane was filled with thousands of huge red birds flying south, as if in migration. But surely, Tim thought, they must come to rest in the Endless Forest. For no birds like that had ever been seen above the village of Tree. Once four blue deer less than two feet high crossed the path ahead of him, seeming to take no notice of the thunderstruck boy who stood staring at these mutie dwarfs. And once they came to a field filled with giant yellow mushrooms standing four feet high, with caps the size of umbrellas. Are they good to eat, Daria? Tim asked, for he was reaching the end of the goods in the hamper. Does thee know? No, traveler, Daria replied. They are poison. If you even brush their dust on your skin, you will die of seizures. I advise extreme caution. This was advice Tim took, even holding his breath until he was past that deadly grove filled with treacherous, sunshiny death. Near the end of the third day, he emerged on the edge of a narrow chasm that fell away for a thousand feet or more. He could not see the bottom, for it was filled with a drift of white flowers. They were so thick that he at first mistook them for a cloud that had fallen to earth. The smell that wafted up to him was fantastically sweet. A rock bridge spanned this gorge, on the other side passing through a waterfall that glowed bloodred in the reflected light of the setting sun. Am I meant to cross that? Tim asked faintly. It looked not much wider than a barnbeam . . . and, in the middle, not much thicker. No answer from Daria, but the steadily glowing green light was answer enough. Maybe in the morning, Tim said, knowing he would not sleep for thinking about it, but also not wanting to chance it so close to days end. The idea of having to negotiate the last part of that lofty causeway in the dark was terrifying. I advise you to cross now, Daria told him, and continue to the North Forest Kinnock Dogan with all possible speed. Detour is no longer possible. Looking at the gorge with its chancy bridge, Tim hardly needed the voice from the plate to tell him that a detour was no longer possible. But still . . . Why cant I wait until morning? Surely it would be safer. Directive Nineteen. A click louder than any he had heard before came from the plate and then Daria added, But I advise speed, Tim. He had several times asked her to call him by name rather than as traveler. This was the first time she had done so, and it convinced him. He left the Fagonard tribes basketnot without some regretbecause he thought it might unbalance him. He tucked the last two popkins into his shirt, slung the waterskin over his back, then checked to make sure both the fourshot and his fathers handax were firmly in place on either hip. He approached the stone causeway, looked down into the banks of white flowers, and saw the first shadows of evening beginning to pool there. He imagined himself making that one youcannevertakeitback misstep; saw himself whirling his arms in a fruitless effort to keep his balance; felt his feet first losing the rock and then running on air; heard his scream as the fall began. There would be a few moments to regret all the life he might have lived, and then Daria, he said in a small, sick voice, do I have to? No answer, which was answer enough. Tim stepped out over the drop. The sound of his bootheels on rock was very loud. He didnt want to look down, but had no choice; if he didnt mind where he was going, he would be doomed for sure. The rock bridge was as wide as a village path when he began, but by the time he got to the middleas he had feared, although he had hoped it was just his eyes playing tricksit was only the width of his shorboots. He tried walking with his arms outstretched, but a breeze came blowing down the gorge, billowing his shirt and making him feel like a kite about to lift off. He lowered them and walked on, heeltotoe and heeltotoe, wavering from side to side. He became convinced his heart was beating its last frenzied beats, his mind thinking its last random thoughts. Mama will never know what happened to me. Halfway across, the bridge was at its narrowest, also its thinnest. Tim could feel its fragility through his feet, and could hear the wind playing its pitch pipe along its eroded underside. Now each time he took a step, he had to swing a boot out over the drop. Dont freeze, he told himself, but he knew that if he hesitated, he might do just that. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw movement below, and he did hesitate. Long, leathery tentacles were emerging from the flowers. They were slategray on top and as pink as burned skin underneath. They rose toward him in a wavery dancefirst two, then four, then eight, then a forest of them. Daria again said, I advise speed, Tim. He forced himself to start walking again. Slowly at first, but faster as the tentacles continued to close in. Surely no beast had a thousandfoot reach, no matter how monstrous the body hiding down there in the flowers, but when Tim saw the tentacles thinning out and stretching to reach even higher, he began to hurry. And when the longest of them reached the underside of the bridge and began to fumble its way along it, he broke into a run. The waterfallno longer red, now a fading pinkishorangethundered ahead of him. Cold spray spattered his hot face. Tim felt something caress his boot, seeking purchase, and threw himself forward at the water with an inarticulate yell. There was one moment of freezing coldit encased his body like a gloveand then he was on the other side of the falls and back on solid ground. One of the tentacles came through. It reared up like a snake, dripping . . . and then withdrew. Daria! Are you all right? Im waterproof, Daria replied with something that sounded suspiciously like smugness. Tim picked himself up and looked around. He was in a little rock cave. Written on one wall, in paint that once might have been red but had over the years (or perhaps centuries) faded to a dull rust, was this cryptic notation JOHN 316 FEER HELL HOPE FOR HEVEN MAN JESUS Ahead of him was a short stone staircase filled with fading sunset light. To one side of it was a litter of tin cans and bits of broken machinerysprings, wires, broken glass, and chunks of green board covered with squiggles of metal. On the other side of the stairs was a grinning skeleton with what looked like an ancient canteen draped over its ribcage. Hello, Tim! that grin seemed to say. Welcome to the far side of the world! Want a drink of dust? I have plenty! Tim climbed the stairs, skittering past the relic. He knew perfectly well it wouldnt come to life and try to snare him by the boot, as the tentacles from the flowers had tried to do; dead was dead. Still, it seemed safer to skitter. When he emerged, he saw that the path once more entered the woods, but he wouldnt be there for long. Not far ahead, the great old trees pulled back and the long, long upslope he had been climbing ended in a clearing far larger than the one where the bumblers had danced. There an enormous tower made of metal girders rose into the sky. At the top was a blinking red light. You have almost reached your destination, Daria said. The North Forest Kinnock Dogan is three wheels ahead. That click came again, even louder than before. You really must hurry, Tim. As Tim stood looking at the tower with its blinking light, the breeze that had so frightened him while crossing the rock bridge came again, only this time its breath was chilly. He looked up into the sky and saw the clouds that had been lazing toward the south were now racing. Its the starkblast, Daria, isnt it? The starkblast is coming. Daria didnt reply, but Tim didnt need her to. He began to run. By the time he reached the Dogan clearing, he was out of breath and only able to trot, in spite of his sense of urgency. The wind continued to rise, pushing against him, and the high branches of the ironwood trees had begun to whisper. The air was still warm, but Tim didnt think it would stay that way for long. He needed to get undercover, and he hoped to do so in this Doganthing. But when he entered the clearing, he barely spared a glance for the round, metalroofed building which stood at the base of the skeletal tower with its blinking light. He had seen something else that took all his attention, and stole his breath. Am I seeing that? Am I really seeing that? Gods, he whispered. The path, as it crossed the clearing, was paved in some smooth dark material, so bright that it reflected both the trees dancing in the rising wind and the sunsettinged clouds flowing overhead. It ended at a rock precipice. The whole world seemed to end there, and to begin again a hundred wheels or more distant. In between was a great chasm of rushing air in which leaves danced and swirled. There were binrusties as well. They rose and twisted helplessly in the eddies and currents. Some were obviously dead, the wings ripped from their bodies. Tim hardly noticed the great chasm and the dying birds, either. To the left of the metal road, about three yards from the place where the world dropped off into nothingness, there stood a round cage made of steel bars. Overturned in front of it was a battered tin bucket he knew all too well. In the cage, pacing slowly around a hole in the center, was an enormous tyger. It saw the staring, gapemouthed boy and approached the bars. Its eyes were as large as Points balls, but a brilliant green instead of blue. On its hide, stripes of dark orange alternated with those of richest midnight black. Its ears were cocked. Its snout wrinkled back from long white teeth. It growled. The sound was low, like a silk garment being ripped slowly up a seam. It could have been a greeting . . . but Tim somehow doubted it. Around its neck was a silver collar. From this hung two objects. One looked like a playing card. The other was a key with a strange twisted shape. Tim had no idea how long he stood captured by those fabulous emerald eyes, or how long he might have remained so, but the extreme peril of his situation announced itself in a series of low, thudding explosions. Whats that? Trees on the far side of the Great Canyon, Daria said. Extreme rapid temperature change is causing them to implode. Seek shelter, Tim. The starkblastwhat else? How long before it gets here? Less than an hour. There was another of those loud clicks. I may have to shut down. No! I have violated Directive Nineteen. All I can say in my defense is that its been a very long time since I have had anyone to talk to. Click! Thenmore worrisome, more ominousClunk! What about the tyger? Is it the Guardian of the Beam? As soon as he articulated the idea, Tim was filled with horror. I cant leave a Guardian of the Beam out here to die in the starkblast! The Guardian of the Beam at this end is Aslan, Daria said. Aslan is a lion, and if he still lives, he is far from here, in the land of endless snows. This tyger is . . . Directive Nineteen! Then an even louder clunk as she overrode the directive, at what cost Tim did not know. This tyger is the magic of which I spoke. Never mind it. Seek shelter! Good luck, Tim. You have been my fr Not a click this time, nor a clunk, but an awful crunch. Smoke drifted up from the plate and the green light went out. Daria! Nothing. Daria, come back! But Daria was gone. The artillery sounds made by the dying trees were still far across that cloudy gap in the world, but there could be no doubt that they were approaching. The wind continued to strengthen, growing ever colder. High above, a final batch of clouds was boiling past. Behind them was an awful violet clarity in which the first stars had begun to appear. The whisper of the wind in the high branches of the surrounding trees had risen to an unhappy chorus of sighs. It was as if the ironwoods knew their long, long lives were coming to an end. A great woodsman was on the way, swinging an ax made of wind. Tim took another look at the tyger (it had resumed its slow and stately pacing, as if Tim had been worth only momentary consideration), then hurried to the Dogan. Small round windows of real glassvery thick, from the lookmarched around its circumference at the height of Tims head. The door was also metal. There was no knob or latch, only a slot like a narrow mouth. Above the slot, on a rusting steel plate, was this NORTH CENTRAL POSITRONICS, LTD. North Forest Kinnock Bend Quadrant OUTPOST 9 Low Security USE KEYCARD These words were hard for him to make out, because they were in a weird mixture of High and Low Speech. What had been scrawled below them, however, was easy All here are dead. At the base of the door was a box that looked like the one Tims mother had for her little trinkets and keepsakes, only of metal instead of wood. He tried to open it, but it was locked. Engraved upon it were letters Tim couldnt read. There was a keyhole of odd shapelike the letter but no key. He tried to lift the box and couldnt. It might have been anchored to the ground at the top of a buried stone post. A dead binrusty smacked the side of Tims face. More feathered corpses flew past, turning over and over in the increasingly lively air. Some struck the side of the Dogan and fell around him. Tim read the last words on the steel plate again USE KEYCARD. If he had any doubt about what such a thing might be, he had only to look at the slot just below the words. He thought he even knew what a keycard looked like, for he believed he had just seen it, along with a more recognizable key that might fit the shaped keyhole of the metal box. Two keysand possible salvationhanging around the neck of a tyger that could probably swallow him down in three bites. And, since there had been no food that Tim could see in the cage, it might only take two. This was smelling more and more like a practical joke, although only a very cruel man would find such a joke amusing. The sort of fellow who might use a bad fairy to lure a boy into a dangerous swamp, perhaps. What to do? Was there anything he could do? Tim would have liked to ask Daria, but he was terribly afraid his friend in the platea good fairy to match the Covenant Mans bad onewas dead, killed by Directive Nineteen. Slowly, he approached the cage, now having to lean against the wind. The tyger saw him and came padding around the hole in the middle to stand by the door of the cage. It lowered its great head and stared at him with its lambent eyes. The wind rippled its thick coat, making the stripes waver and seem to change places. The tin bucket should have rolled away in the wind, but it didnt. Like the steel box, it seemed anchored in place. The bucket he left for me back home, so I could see his lies and believe them. The whole thing had been a joke, and under this bucket he would find the point of it, that final clever linelike I cant fork hay with a spoon! or So then I turned her over and warmed the other sidethat was supposed to make folks roar with laughter. But since it was the end, why not? He could use a laugh. Tim grasped the bucket and lifted it. He expected to find the Covenant Mans magic wand beneath, but no. The joke was better than that. It was another key, this one large and ornately carved. Like the Covenant Mans seeingbasin and the tygers collar, it was made of silver. A note had been attached to the keys head with a bit of twine. Across the gorge, the trees cracked and boomed. Now dust came rolling up from the chasm in giant clouds that were whipped away in ribbons like smoke. The Covenant Mans note was brief Greetings, Brave and Resourceful Boy! Welcome to the North Forest Kinnock, which was once known as the Gateway of OutWorld. Here I have left you a troublesome Tyger. He is VERY hungry! But as you may have guessed, the Key to SHELTER hangs about his Neck.


As you may have also guessed, this Key opens the Cage. Use it if you dare! With all regards to your Mother (whose New Husband will visit her SOON), I remain your Faithful Servant! RFMB The manif he was a manwho left Tim that note was surprised by very little, but he might have been surprised by the smile on the boys face as he rose to his feet with the key in his hand and booted away the tin bucket. It rose and flew off on the rising wind, which had now almost reached gale force. Its purpose had been served, and all the magic was out of it. Tim looked at the tyger. The tyger looked at Tim. It seemed completely unaware of the rising storm. Its tail swished slowly back and forth. He thinks Id rather be blown away or die of the cold than face your claws and teeth. Perhaps he didnt see this. Tim drew the fourshot from his belt. It did for the fishthing in the swamp, and Im sure it would do for you, Sai Tyger. Tim was once more amazed by how right the gun felt. Its function was so simple, so clear. All it wanted to do was shoot. And when Tim held it, shooting was all he wanted to do. But. Oh, he saw it, Tim said, and smiled more widely. He could hardly feel the corners of his mouth drawing up, because the skin on his face had begun to grow numb from the cold. Yar, he saw it very well. Did he think I would get so far as this? Perhaps not. Did he think that if I did, Id shoot you to live? Why not? He would. But why send a boy? Why, when hes probably hung a thousand men and cut a hundred throats and turned who knows how many poor widows like my mama out on the land? Can you answer that, Sai Tyger? The tyger only stared, head lowered and tail swishing slowly from side to side. Tim put the fourshot back into his belt with one hand; with the other he slid the ornate silver key into the lock on the cages curved door. Sai Tyger, I offer a bargain. Let me use the key around your neck to open yon shelter and well both live. But if you tear me to shreds, well both die. Does thee kennit? Give me a sign if thee does. The tyger gave no sign. It only stared at him. Tim really hadnt expected one, and perhaps he didnt need one. There would be water if God willed it. I love you, Mama, he said, and turned the key. There was a thud as the ancient tumblers turned. Tim grasped the door and pulled it open on hinges that uttered a thin screaming sound. Then he stood back with his hands at his sides. For a moment the tyger stood where it was, as if suspicious. Then it padded out of the cage. He and Tim regarded each other beneath the deepening purple sky while the wind howled and the marching explosions neared. They regarded each other like gunslingers. The tyger began to walk forward. Tim took one step back, but understood if he took another his nerve would break and he would take to his heels. So he stood where he was. Come, thee. Here is Tim, son of Big Jack Ross. Instead of tearing out Tims throat, the tyger sat down and raised its head to expose its collar and the keys that hung from it. Tim did not hesitate. Later he might be able to afford the luxury of amazement, but not now. The wind was growing stronger by the second, and if he didnt act fast, hed be lifted and blown into the trees, where he would probably be impaled. The tyger was heavier, but it would follow soon enough. The key that looked like a card and the key that looked like an were welded to the silver collar, but the collars clasp was easy enough. Tim squeezed its sides at the indentations and the collar dropped off. He had a moment to register the fact that the tyger was still wearing a collarthis one made of pink hide where the fur had been rubbed awayand then he was hurrying to the Dogans metal door. He lifted the keycard and inserted it. Nothing happened. He turned it around and tried it the other way. Still nothing. The wind gusted, a cold dead hand that slammed him into the door and started his nose bleeding. He pushed back from it, turned the card upside down, and tried again. Still nothing. Tim suddenly remembered something Daria had saidhad it only been three days ago? North Forest Kinnock Dogan is offline. Tim guessed he now knew what that meant. The flasher on the tower of metal girders might still be working, but down here the sparkpower that had run the place was out. He had dared the tyger, and the tyger had responded by not eating him, but the Dogan was locked. They were going to die out here just the same. It was the end of the joke, and somewhere the man in black was laughing. He turned and saw the tyger pushing its nose against the metal box with the engraving on top. The beast looked up, then nuzzled the box again. All right, Tim said. Why not? He knelt close enough to the tygers lowered head to feel its warm breath puffing against his cold cheek. He tried the key. It fit the lock perfectly. For a moment he had a clear memory of using the key the Covenant Man had given him to open Kellss trunk. Then he turned this one, heard the click, and lifted the lid. Hoping for salvation. Instead of that, he saw three items that seemed of no earthly use to him a large white feather, a small brown bottle, and a plain cotton napkin of the sort that were laid out on the long tables behind the Tree meeting hall before each years Reaptide dinner. The wind had passed gale force; a ghostly screaming had begun as it blew through the crisscrossing girders of the metal tower. The feather whirled out of the box, but before it could fly away, the tyger stretched out its neck and snatched it in its teeth. It turned to the boy, holding it out. Tim took it and stuck it in his belt beside his fathers handax, not really thinking about it. He began to creep away from the Dogan on his hands and knees. Flying into the trees and being struck through by a branch would not be a pleasant way to die, but it might be betterquickerthan having the life crushed out of him against the Dogan while that deadly wind crept through his skin and into his vitals, freezing them. The tyger growled; that sound of slowly ripping silk. Tim started to turn his head and was slammed into the Dogan. He fought to catch another breath, but the wind kept trying to rip it out of his mouth and nose. Now it was the napkin the tyger was holding out, and as Tim finally whooped air into his lungs (it numbed his throat as it went down), he saw a surprising thing. Sai Tyger had picked the napkin up by the corner, and it had unfolded to four times its former size. Thats impossible. Except he was seeing it. Unless his eyesnow gushing water that froze on his cheekswere deceiving him, the napkin in the tygers jaws had grown to the size of a towel. Tim reached out for it. The tyger held on until it saw the thing firmly clutched in Tims numb fist, then let go. The gale was howling around them, now hard enough to make even a sixhundredpound tyger brace against it, but the napkin that was now a towel hung limply from Tims hand, as if in a dead calm. Tim stared at the tyger. It stared back, seemingly at complete ease with itself and the howling world around it. The boy found himself thinking of the tin bucket, which had done as well for seeing as the Covenant Mans silver basin. In the proper hand, he had said, any object can be magic. Mayhap even a humble swatch of cotton. It was still doubledat least doubled. Tim unfolded it again, and the towel became a tablecloth. He held it up in front of him, and although the rising gale continued to storm past on both sides, the air between his face and the hanging cloth was dead calm. And warm. Tim grabbed the tablecloth that had been a napkin in both hands, shook it, and it opened once again. Now it was a sheet, and it lay easily on the ground even though a storm of dust, twigs, and dead binrusties flew past it and on either side. The sound of all that loose gunna striking the curved side of the Dogan was like hail. Tim started to crawl beneath the sheet, then hesitated, looking into the tygers brilliant green eyes. He also looked at the thick spikes of its teeth, which its muzzle did not quite cover, before raising the corner of the magic cloth. Come on. Get under here. Theres no wind or cold. But you knew that, Sai Tyger. Didnt you? The tyger crouched, extended its admirable claws, and crawled forward on its belly until it was beneath the sheet. Tim felt something like a nest of wires brush down his arm as the tyger made itself comfortable whiskers. He shivered. Then the long furred length of the beast was lying against the side of his body. It was very large, and half its body still lay outside the thin white covering. Tim half rose, fighting the wind that buffeted his head and shoulders as they emerged into the open air, and shook the sheet again. There was a rippling sound as it once more unfolded, this time becoming the size of a lakeboats mainsail. Now its hem lay almost at the base of the tygers cage. The world roared and the air raged, but beneath the sheet, all was still. Except, that was, for Tims pounding heart. When that began to settle, he felt another heart pounding slowly against his ribcage. And heard a low, rough rumble. The tyger was purring. Were safe, arent we? Tim asked it. The tyger looked at him for a moment, then closed its eyes. It seemed to Tim answer enough. Night came, and the full fury of the starkblast came with it. Beyond the strong magic that had at first looked to be no more than a humble napkin, the cold grew apace, driven by a wind that was soon blowing at well over one hundred wheels an hour. The windows of the Dogan grew inchthick cataracts of frost. The ironwood trees behind it first imploded inward, then toppled backward, then blew southward in a deadly cloud of branches, splinters, and entire treetrunks. Beside Tim, his bedmate snoozed on, oblivious. Its body relaxed and spread as its sleep deepened, pushing Tim toward the edge of their covering. At one point he found himself actually elbowing the tyger, the way one might elbow any fellow sleeper who is trying to steal all the covers. The tyger made a furry growling sound and flexed its claws, but moved away a bit. Thankeesai, Tim whispered. An hour after sunsetor perhaps it was two; Tims sense of time had gotten losta ghastly screeching sound joined the howl of the wind. The tyger opened its eyes. Tim cautiously pulled down the top edge of the sheet and looked out. The tower above the Dogan had begun to bend. He watched, fascinated, as the bend became a lean. Then, almost too fast to see, the tower disintegrated. At one moment it was there; at the next it was flying bars and spears of steel thrown by the wind into a wide lane of what had been, only that day, a forest of ironwood trees. The Dogan will go next, Tim thought, but it didnt. The Dogan stayed, as it had for a thousand years. It was a night he never forgot, but one so fabulously strange that he could never describe it . . . or even remember rationally, as we remember the mundane events of our lives. Full understanding only returned to him in his dreams, and he dreamed of the starkblast until the end of his life. Nor were they nightmares. These were good dreams. They were dreams of safety. It was warm beneath the sheet, and the sleeping bulk of his bunkmate made it even warmer. At some point he slipped down their covering enough to see a trillion stars sprawled across the dome of the sky, more than he had ever seen in his life. It was as if the storm had blown tiny holes in the world above the world, and turned it into a sieve. Shining through was all the brilliant mystery of creation. Perhaps such things were not meant for human eyes, but Tim felt sure he had been granted a special dispensation to look, for he was under a blanket of magic, and lying next to a creature even the most credulous villagers in Tree would have dismissed as mythical. He felt awe as he looked up at those stars, but also a deep and abiding contentment, such as he had felt as a child, awakening in the night, safe and warm beneath his quilt, drowsing half in and half out of sleep, listening to the wind sing its lonely song of other places and other lives. Time is a keyhole, he thought as he looked up at the stars. Yes, I think so. We sometimes bend and peer through it. And the wind we feel on our cheeks when we dothe wind that blows through the keyholeis the breath of all the living universe. The wind roared across the empty sky, the cold deepened, but Tim Ross lay safe and warm, with a tyger sleeping beside him. At some point he slipped away himself, into a rest that was deep and satisfying and untroubled by dreams. As he went, he felt that he was very wee, and flying on the wind that blew through times keyhole. Away from the edge of the Great Canyon, over the Endless Forest and the Fagonard, above the Ironwood Trail, past Treejust a brave little nestle of lights from where he rode the windand farther, farther, oh, very much farther, across the entire reach of MidWorld to where a huge ebony Tower reared itself into the heavens. I will go there! Someday I will! It was his last thought before sleep took him. In the morning, the steady shriek of the wind had lowered to a drone. Tims bladder was full. He pushed back the sheet, crawled out onto ground that had been swept clean all the way to the bone of underlying rock, and hurried around the Dogan with his breath emerging from his mouth in bursts of white vapor that were immediately yanked away by the wind. The other side of the Dogan was in the lee of that wind, but it was cold, cold. His urine steamed, and by the time he finished, the puddle on the ground was starting to freeze. He hurried back, fighting the wind for every step and shivering all over. By the time he crawled back beneath the magic sheet and into the blessed warmth, his teeth were chattering. He wrapped his arms around the tygers heavily muscled body without even thinking, and had only a moments fright when its eyes and mouth opened. A tongue that looked as long as a rug runner and as pink as a New Earth rose emerged. It licked the side of his face and Tim shivered again, not from fright but from memory his father rubbing his cheek against Tims early in the morning, before Big Ross filled the basin and scraped his face smooth. He said he would never grow a beard like his partners, said twouldnt suit him. The tyger lowered its head and began to sniff at the collar of his shirt. Tim laughed as its whiskers tickled his neck. Then he remembered the last two popkins. Ill share, he said, although we know thee could have both if thee wanted. He gave one of the popkins to the tyger. It disappeared at once, but the beast only watched as Tim went to work on the other one. He ate it as fast as he could, just in case Sai Tyger changed its mind. Then he pulled the sheet over his head and drowsed off again. When he woke the second time, he guessed it might be noon. The wind had dropped still more, and when he poked his head out, the air was a trifle warmer. Still, he guessed the false summer the Widow Smack had been so right to distrust was now gone for good. As was the last of his food. What did thee eat in there? Tim asked the tyger. This question led naturally to another. And how long was thee caged? The tyger rose to its feet, walked a little distance toward the cage, and then stretched first one rear leg and then the other. It walked farther toward the edge of the Great Canyon, where it did its own necessary. When it had finished, it sniffed the bars of its prison, then turned from the cage as though it were of no interest, and came back to where Tim lay propped on his elbows, watching. It regarded him somberlyso it seemed to Timwith its green eyes, then lowered its head and nosed back the magic sheet that had sheltered them from the starkblast. The metal box lay beneath. Tim couldnt remember picking it up, but he must have; if it had been left where it was, it would have blown away. That made him think of the feather. It was still safely tucked in his belt. He took it out and examined it closely, running his fingers over its rich thickness. It might have been a hawk feather . . . if, that was, it had been half the size. Or if he had ever seen a white hawk, which he had not. This came from an eagle, didnt it? Tim asked. Gans blood, it did. The tyger seemed uninterested in the feather, although it had been eager enough to snatch it from the breath of the rising storm last evening. The long, yellowfuzzed snout lowered and pushed the box at Tims hip. Then it looked at him. Tim opened the box. The only thing left inside was the brown bottle, which looked like the sort that might contain medicine. Tim picked it up and immediately felt a tingle in his fingertips, very like the one hed felt in the Covenant Mans magic wand when he passed it back and forth over the tin bucket. Shall I open it? For its certain thee cant. The tyger sat, its green eyes fixed unwaveringly on the tiny bottle. Those eyes seemed to glow from within, as if its very brain burned with magic. Carefully, Tim unscrewed the top. When he took it off, he saw a small transparent dropper fixed beneath. The tyger opened its mouth. The meaning was clear enough, but . . . How much? Tim asked. Id not poison thee for the world. The tyger only sat with its head slightly uptilted and its mouth open, looking like a baby bird waiting to receive a worm. After a little experimentationhed never used a dropper before, although hed seen a larger, cruder version that Destry called a bullsquirterTim got some of the fluid into the little tube. It sucked up almost all the liquid in the bottle, for there was only a bit. He held it over the tygers mouth, heart beating hard. He thought he knew what was going to happen, for he had heard many legends of skinmen, but it was impossible to be sure the tyger was an enchanted human. Ill put it in drop by drop, he told the tyger. If you want me to stop before its gone, close thy mouth. Give me a sign if you understand. But, as before, the tyger gave no sign. It only sat, waiting. One drop . . . two . . . three . . . the little tube halfempty now . . . four . . . fi Suddenly the tygers skin began to ripple and bulge, as if creatures were trapped beneath and struggling to get out. The snout melted away to reveal its cage of teeth, then reknit itself so completely that its mouth was sealed over. Then it gave a muffled roar of either pain or outrage, seeming to shake the clearing. Tim scooted away on his bottom, terrified. The green eyes began to bulge in and out, as if on springs. The lashing tail was yanked inward, reappeared, was yanked inward again. The tyger staggered away, this time toward the precipice at the edge of the Great Canyon. Stop! Tim screamed. Theell fall over! The tyger lurched drunkenly along the edge, one paw actually going over and dislodging a spall of pebbles. It walked behind the cage that had held it, the stripes first blurring, then fading. Its head was changing shape. White emerged, and then, above it, a brilliant yellow where its snout had been. Tim could hear a grinding sound as the very bones inside its body rearranged themselves. On the far side of the cage, the tyger roared again, but halfway through, the roar became a very human cry. The blurring, changing creature reared up on its back legs, and where there had been paws, Tim now saw a pair of ancient black boots. The claws became silver siguls moons, crosses, spirals. The yellow top of the tygers head continued to grow until it became the conical hat Tim had seen in the tin pail. The white below it, where the tygers bib had been, turned into a beard that sparkled in the cold and windy sunshine. It sparkled because it was full of rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and diamonds. Then the tyger was gone, and Maerlyn of the Eld stood revealed before the wondering boy. He was not smiling, as he had been in Tims vision of him . . . but of course that had never been his vision at all. It had been the Covenant Mans glammer, meant to lead him on to destruction. The real Maerlyn looked at Tim with kindness, but also with gravity. The wind blew his robe of white silk around a body so thin it could have been little more than a skeleton. Tim got on one knee, bowed his head, and raised a trembling fist to his brow. He tried to say Hile, Maerlyn, but his voice had deserted him, and he could manage nothing but a dusty croak. Rise, Tim, son of Jack, the mage said. But before you do, put the cap back on the bottle. Theres a few drops left, I wot, and youll want them. Tim raised his head and looked questioningly at the tall figure standing beside the cage that had held him. For thy mother, said Maerlyn. For thy mothers eyes. Say true? Tim whispered. True as the Turtle that holds up the world. Youve come a goodly way, youve shown great braveryand not a little foolishness, but well pass that, since they often go together, especially in the youngand youve freed me from a shape Ive been caught in for many and manya. For that you must be rewarded. Now cap the bottle and get on your feet. Thankee, Tim said. His hands were trembling and his eyes were blurred with tears, but he managed to get the cap on the bottle without spilling what was left. I thought you were a Guardian of the Beam, so I did, but Daria told me different. And who is Daria? A prisoner, like you. Locked in a little machine the people of the Fagonard gave me. I think shes dead. Sorry for your loss, son. She was my friend, Tim said simply. Maerlyn nodded. Its a sad world, Tim Ross. As for me, since this is the Beam of the Lion, twas his little joke to put me in the shape of a great cat. Although not in the shape of Aslan, for thats magic not even he can do . . . although hed like to, aye. Or slay Aslan and all the other Guardians, so the Beams collapse. The Covenant Man, Tim whispered. Maerlyn threw back his head and laughed. His conical cap stayed on, which Tim thought magical in itself. Nay, nay, not he. Little magic and long lifes all hes capable of. No, Tim, theres one far greater than he of the broad cloak. When the Great One points his finger from where he bides, the Broad Cloak scurries. But sending you was none of the Red Kings bidding, and the one you call the Covenant Man will pay for his foolery, Im sure. Hes too valuable to kill, but to hurt? To punish? Aye, I think so. What will he do to him? This Red King? Best not to know, but of one thing you can be sure no one in Tree will ever see him again. His taxcollecting days are finally over. And will my mother . . . will she really be able to see again? Aye, for you have done me fine. Nor will I be the last youll serve in your life. He pointed at Tims belt. Thats only the first gun youll wear, and the lightest. Tim looked at the fourshot, but it was his fathers ax he took from his belt. Guns are not for such as me, sai. Im just a village boy. Ill be a woodcutter, like my father. Trees my place, and Ill stay there. The old mage looked at him shrewdly. You say so with the ax in your hand, but would you say so if twas the gun? Would your heart say so? Dont answer, for I see the truth in your eyes. Ka will take you far from Tree Village. But I love it, Tim whispered. Theell bide there yet awhile, so be not fashed. But hear me well, and obey. He put his hands on his knees and leaned his tall, scrawny body toward Tim. His beard lashed in the dying wind, and the jewels caught in it flickered like fire. His face was gaunt, like the Covenant Mans, but illuminated by gravity instead of malicious humor, and by kindness rather than cruelty. When you return to your cottagea trip that will be much faster than the one you made to get here, and far less riskyyou will go to your mother and put the last drops from the bottle in her eyes. Then you must give thy fathers ax to her. Do you understand me? His coin youll wear all your lifeyoull be buried with it yet around your neckbut give the ax to thy mother. Do it at once. WWhy? The wild tangle of Maerlyns brows drew together; his mouth turned down at the corners; suddenly the kindness was gone, replaced by a frightening obduracy. Not yours to ask, boy. When ka comes, it comes like the windlike the starkblast. Will you obey? Yes, Tim said, frightened. Ill give it to her as you say. Good. The mage turned to the sheet beneath which they had slept and raised his hands over it. The end near the cage flipped up with a brisk ruffling sound, folded over, and was suddenly half the size it had been. It flipped up again and became the size of a tablecloth. Tim thought the women of Tree would much like to have magic like that when beds needed to be made, and wondered if such an idea were blasphemy. No, no, Im sure youre right, Maerlyn said absently. But twould go wrong and cause hijinks. Magics full of tricks, even for an old fellow like me. Sai . . . is it true you live backwards in time? Maerlyn raised his hands in amused irritation; the sleeves of his robe slipped back, revealing arms as thin and white as birch branches. Everyone thinks so, and if I said different, theyd still think it, wouldnt they? I live as I live, Tim, and the truth is, Im mostly retired these days. Have you also heard of my magical house in the woods? Aye! And if I told you I lived in a cave with nothing but a single table and a pallet on the floor, and if you told others that, would they believe you? Tim considered this, and shook his head. No. They wouldnt. I doubt folk will believe I met you at all. Thats their business. As for yours . . . are you ready to go back? May I ask one more question? The mage raised a single finger. Only one. For Ive been here many long years in yon cagewhich you see keeps its place to the very inch, in spite of how hard the wind blewand Im tired of shitting in that hole. Living monksimple is all very fine, but theres a limit. Ask your question. How did the Red King catch thee? He cant catch anyone, Timhes himself caught, pent at the top of the Dark Tower. But he has his powers, and he has his emissaries. The one you met is far from the greatest of them. A man came to my cave. I was fooled into believing he was a wandering peddler, for his magic was strong. Magic lent to him by the King, as you must ken. Tim risked another question. Magic stronger than yours? Nay, but . . . Maerlyn sighed and looked up at the morning sky. Tim was astounded to realize that the magician was embarrassed. I was drunk. Oh, Tim said in a small voice. He could think of nothing else to say. Enough palaver, said the mage. Sit on the dibbin. The? Maerlyn gestured at what was sometimes a napkin, sometimes a sheet, and was now a tablecloth. That. And dont worry about dirtying it with your boots. Its been used by many far more travelstained than thee. Tim had been worried about exactly that, but he stepped onto the tablecloth and then sat down. Now the feather. Take it in your hands. Its from the tail of Garuda, the eagle who guards the other end of this Beam. Or so I was told, although as a wee one myselfyes, I was once wee, Tim, son of JackI was also told that babies were found under cabbages in the garden. Tim barely heard this. He took the feather which the tyger had saved from flying away into the wind, and held it. Maerlyn regarded him from beneath his tall yellow cap. When thee gets home, whats the first thing theell do? Put the drops in Mamas eyes. Good, and the second? Give her my das ax. Dont forget. The old man leaned forward and kissed Tims brow. For a moment the whole world flared as brilliantly in the boys eyes as the stars at the height of the starkblast. For a moment it was all there. Thees a brave boy with a stout heartas others will see and come to call you. Now go with my thanks, and fly away home. FFFly? How? How does thee walk? Just think of it. Think of home. A thousand wrinkles flowed from the corners of the old mans eyes as he broke into a radiant grin. For, as someone or other famous once said, theres no place like home. See it! See it very well! So Tim thought of the cottage where he had grown up, and the room where he had all his life fallen asleep listening to the wind outside, telling its stories of other places and other lives. He thought of the barn where Misty and Bitsy were stabled, and hoped someone was feeding them. Straw Willem, perhaps. He thought of the spring where he had drawn so many buckets of water. He thought most of all of his mother her sturdy body with its wide shoulders, her chestnut hair, her eyes when they had been full of laughter instead of worry and woe. He thought, How I miss you, Mama . . . and when he did, the tablecloth rose from the rocky ground and hovered over its shadow. Tim gasped. The cloth rocked, then turned. Now he was higher than Maerlyns cap, and the magician had to look up at him. What if I fall? Tim cried. Maerlyn laughed. Sooner or later, we all do. For now, hold tight to the feather! The dibbin wont spill thee, so just hold tight to the feather and think of home! Tim clutched it before him and thought of Tree the high street, the smithy with the burial parlor between it and the cemetery, the farms, the sawmill by the river, the Widows cottage, andmost of allhis own plot and place. The dibbin rose higher, floated above the Dogan for several moments (as if deciding), then headed south along the track of the starkblast. It moved slowly at first, but when its shadow fell over the tangled, frostrimed deadfalls that had lately been a million acres of virgin forest, it began to go faster. A terrible thought came to Tim what if the starkblast had rolled over Tree, freezing it solid and killing everyone, including Nell Ross? He turned to call his question back to Maerlyn, but Maerlyn was already gone. Tim saw him once more, but when that happened, Tim was an old man himself. And that is a story for another day. The dibbin rose until the world below was spread out like a map. Yet the magic that had protected Tim and his furry bedmate from the storm still held, and although he could hear the last of the starkblasts cold breath whooshing all around him, he was perfectly warm. He sat crosslegged on his transport like a young prince of the Mohaine on an elephaunt, the Feather of Garuda held out before him. He felt like Garuda, soaring above a great tract of wildland that looked like a giant dress of a green so dark it was almost black. Yet a gray scar ran through it, as if the dress had been slashed to reveal a dirty underskirt beneath. The starkblast had ruined everything it had touched, although the forest as a whole was very little hurt. The lane of destruction was no more than forty wheels wide. Yet forty wheels wide had been enough to lay waste to the Fagonard. The black swampwater had become yellowishwhite cataracts of ice. The gray, knotted trees that had grown out of that water had all been knocked over. The tussocks were no longer green; now they looked like tangles of milky glass. Run aground on one of them and lying on its side was the tribes boat. Tim thought of Helmsman and Headman and all the others, and burst into bitter tears. If not for them, he would be lying frozen on one of those tussocks five hundred feet below. The people of the swamp had fed him, and they had gifted him with Daria, his good fairy. It was not fair, it was not fair, it was not fair. So cried his childs heart, and then his childs heart died a little. For that is also the way of the world. Before leaving the swamp behind, he saw something else that hurt his heart a large blackened patch where the ice had been melted. Sooty chunks of ice floated around a vast, plated corse lying on its side like the beached boat. It was the dragon that had spared him. Tim could imagineaye, all too wellhow she must have fought the cold with blasts of her fiery breath, but in the end the starkblast had taken her, as it had everything else in the Fagonard. It was now a place of frozen death. Above the Ironwood Trail, the dibbin began to descend.