Storm knew he should return to the herd. His mother had forbidden him to wander at night. He turned back towards the lake…and froze. He was alone upon the plain! The entire ferryshaft herd had vanished. In a panic, Storm galloped in the direction of the lake. What if I’m lost? What if I can’t get back by nightfall? What if I am alone on the plain after dark? What if...?
The herd reappeared. Storm stared. Suddenly he understood. The plain isn’t flat. Now he knew how the animal had disappeared. Just a few steps in the right direction could put me out of sight of the herd…of the lake…of another animal. Beaming with his discovery, Storm galloped back to tell his mother.
However, So-fet did not share his enthusiasm. “What were you thinking, Storm? Leaving the herd at dusk?” She snuffled all over him to make sure he wasn’t hurt, then nipped hard at his ear. “Never do that again! Do you understand? Never!”
Storm understood only that he’d made his mother angry and somehow frightened, but he said nothing else until the next day, when he thought to ask about the strange animal.
So-fet stared at him. “You went looking for a strange animal on the plain?”
“Well, not exactly,” began Storm. “It disappeared, and—”
“Storm, you must never go chasing after strange animals again.”
“Why? What are they?”
“I don’t know what you saw,” said So-fet, “but—” Her mouth snapped shut. “Just do as I say, Storm. I love you, and I want you to live a long life.”
Storm snuggled against her, although he was not satisfied. If he’d had anyone else to ask about the animal, he would have asked, but Storm had no one. He spent more time than ever on the plains after his discovery. He found troughs that ran for great distances. They could hide an animal from view. He learned to lie still in a dip amid the tall grass. He learned, in his loneliness, how to spy.
“Storm,” he overheard one female snort. “Raindrop would have been a better name. I’ve seen foals like him come and go.”
“Perhaps,” whispered another, “but not with his color—”
“Oh, the fur, yes. It will probably attract attention from predators, but not before he kills his foolish mother.”
Several listeners gasped.
“So-fet is stubborn. When winter comes, she will try to feed that runt and eventually starve herself. I’ve seen it happen before. One ferryshaft cannot provide for herself and a growing foal in winter.”
“I heard she foaled early when she saw his father dead,” whispered one. “That’s why he’s so small and ugly. She should have named him Vearil—bad luck.”
They kept talking, but Storm stopped listening. He didn’t eavesdrop anymore after that. He didn’t listen to the other ferryshaft much at all.
Chapter 4. Pathar
Near evening of each day, the herd traveled to Chelby Lake to drink. The ferryshaft were in their best spirits, then. They told stories, gossiped, and played. Storm watched the other foals, hoping someone would invite him to join in. One day, he started to practice the game sholo, in which one tried to balance a stick on one’s nose for as long as possible. Normally, other foals tried to distract the player without actually touching him. Storm didn’t have anyone to distract him, so he walked along the muddy bank of the lake, balancing his stick. He hoped the others would see and be impressed, but they ignored him.
A few days later, he slipped while engaged in his solitary pastime, and toppled into the water. It was deeper than he’d expected, and for one panicked moment, he didn’t know which way was up. Then something grasped him by the back of the neck and hauled him to the bank. Storm looked up, dripping and trembling. He saw a male named Pathar—the most ancient ferryshaft in the herd, with fur more white than brown. Storm had often sat where he thought no one noticed him, listening to Pathar’s stories.
“Your instincts are fine, but your stroke is all wrong,” said Pathar. “Keep your head up. Move your legs like you’re walking. Don’t panic. Go on, let’s see you do it.”
“B-but,” Storm stammered, “I—I’ve never—swum—”
“And you never will unless you get back in the water. Go on.”
He did. By the end of the afternoon, he was swimming to Pathar’s satisfaction. That evening, he sat and listened to Pathar talk about edible roots to an attentive group of foals. None of them looked at Storm, but Pathar acknowledged him and even quizzed him afterwards.
Storm had no idea why a prominent elder had taken an interest in him, but he was determined not to lose Pathar’s attention. So-fet seemed just as confused, but pleased. “Be polite to him, Storm. Do everything he says. He can teach you things that I can’t.”
Storm was delighted to have someone else to talk to, even if Pathar did snap at him and occasionally ignored him for days. Storm learned about weather patterns, poisonous plants, and the habits of other animals. He learned about parts of the island he’d never visited—dense forests to the south, cliffs and ocean to the west. Pathar answered all of Storm’s questions until one day when Storm asked about Kuwee Island.
Kuwee was a hump of wooded land in Chelby Lake. Most of the tiny islands scattered near shore had no actual soil, just trees, but Kuwee Island had a narrow beach. What was more, it rose up to a hill that would have given a good view of the lakeshore for quite a distance. The island lay just far enough away to discourage a swim, but close enough to make a curious foal think about trying. As soon as So-fet heard that Storm had learned to swim, she told him that he must not go near Kuwee. She said it was forbidden, although she did not know why.
Pathar snorted when Storm mentioned the island. “There’s nothing over there,” he said. “Nothing but trees and dirt and a few caves.”
“Then why is it forbidden?” asked Storm. “What is everyone afraid of?”
Pathar hesitated. “They’re afraid of the past.”
The next day, Pathar approached Storm and So-fet shortly after they woke. Storm greeted him happily, but Pathar brushed him aside. “I have come to talk with your mother.” So-fet seemed startled, but she followed Pathar some distance away, where the two spoke in low voices. Storm felt he would die of curiosity before they returned.
“Your mother is willing for you to spend the day with me away from the herd,” Pathar told him. “Come.” Storm followed Pathar, glancing over his shoulder at his mother. She smiled, but he thought she looked unhappy.
“Pathar, where are we going?”
“To Groth.”
“What is Groth?”
Pathar didn’t answer.
Storm felt pleased to be on an adventure, even a mysterious one. Morning sunlight streamed over the plain as the two ferryshaft moved north along the edge of Chelby Wood. The breeze smelled of dew-soaked earth and grass. They saw groups of ferryshaft at first, some still sleeping, but soon they left the herd behind. Twice, they startled deer as large as themselves. They bounded away through the long grasses, putting birds and insects to flight.
The day was clear, and Storm could see far away cross the plain. He even saw the outline of the Red Cliffs off to their left. So-fet had told him that the herd would move there for winter. In the misty distance ahead, a mountain stood up against the sky. Between themselves and the mountain, Storm saw a dark border that might have been woodland.
They stopped often to rest. Storm had never traveled all day, and he grew tired. Pathar grumbled under his breath, “A fine pair we make—too old and too young—but maybe not too stupid.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Storm.
“Do you smell anything?” asked Pathar in his abrupt way.
“No—” Storm stopped. “Yes.” He did smell something. Sweet…alluring, yet a deep, instinctive fear stirred in his gut. “What is it?” he whispered.
“It is Groth,” said Pathar in a low voice.
The two ferryshaft had drifted into the wood beside the lake as they walked, and they emerged suddenly from the trees, blinking in the brighter light of an unexpected clearing. Stor
m looked into the strangest forest he’d ever seen. The plants looked like enormous, deep-throated flowers. Some were as tall as trees, hollow and heavy with collected rainwater. Others grew nearer the ground, forming bowls full of clear liquid. Their glossy stalks were dark green at the base, morphing to vivid pink around their speckled, lacy rims. Some looked very old, with thick, woody bases, while others were delicate and young with more vivid colors. Storm could see no other types of plants in the strange woodland. The ground was thick with the decaying remains of their bowls.
Pathar strolled, unperturbed, along the edge of the forest. “Groth eats things.”
Storm trotted beside him. “Things?”
“Mostly birds and small animals. They crawl into the bowls, drown, decay, and are absorbed.”
Storm shuddered. “Why don’t the birds and animals climb out before they drown?”
“Because,” said Pathar, “the water in their bowls is sweet with sap. Some say the sap is poison, that it causes insanity or sleep.” Pathar examined one of the bowls critically. “It is also said that those who drink will dream the future.” Pathar bent and drank.
Chapter 5. Dream the Future
Storm spent a sleepless night beside Pathar in Chelby Wood. “If I die,” Pathar whispered, “you must follow the edge of the lake back to the herd.”
“Why did you do it?” whispered Storm. “Why?”
Pathar didn’t answer. He trembled so violently that his worn teeth knocked together. Sometimes his breathing grew so shallow that Storm feared it would stop. He twitched and whimpered. Once he got up and wandered with sightless, staring eyes through the trees. Storm had to keep him from walking into the lake or back towards Groth.
“Coden?” whispered Pathar. “Is that you?”
Storm had never felt so wretched or so frightened. Towards dawn, Pathar lay down and grew still. Storm lay down beside him and slept.
“Well, get up.”
Storm opened his eyes. Pathar was looking down at him. It was near noon. “Pathar!” Storm wobbled to his feet. “I thought— Why did you—?”
“We’ll need to hurry if we want to get back to the herd before dark.” He was already starting away, and Storm had to trot to keep up. He didn’t know what to say.
“Pathar, why did you do that?”
“Do what?” Pathar didn’t look at him, but he had an odd little smile on his face.
“I thought you were going to die,” said Storm.
“That bad?”
Storm stopped moving. “I don’t understand why you did that. I don’t understand anything about you. Why do you talk to me? Why do you teach me things? Everyone else thinks I’m bad luck, that I’m going to die this winter, that I’m going to get my mother killed.” He stopped. He hadn’t meant to say those things.
Pathar turned. “But you don’t believe them.”
“No,” hissed Storm between clenched teeth. He could feel the unfamiliar sensation of his fur bristling and his ears settling against his head.
“You’re young to be so angry,” said Pathar.
“I’m not angry!” shouted Storm. I’m lonely, and you’re not my friend. I don’t know what you are.
“You’re not going to die this winter.”
Storm stared at him. “Did you really see the future?”
“Maybe.”
Storm brought his ears up and his tail down. He came forward meekly, curious, the tightness gone from his chest and head.
“I dreamed many things,” said Pathar, “the past, perhaps the future. My own death, I think. I don’t understand most of what I saw, but I understand enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“Enough for hope.” Pathar nipped at him like a foal, surprising him so much that Storm nearly fell over. In the end, they played tag through the woods and raced each other through the grass until dusk, when they rejoined the ferryshaft herd.
Chapter 6. Snow and Mushrooms
Two days later, the first frost killed much of the grass, and the herd started south. They were restless and excited. Fights broke out more frequently, occasionally with biting and kicking. Everyone’s fur had grown thicker, so they were well-padded.
One evening, they arrived on the banks of the largest river Storm had ever seen. “This is the Igby River,” So-fet told him. “The herd will follow it to the winter feeding grounds.” Tall trees grew along the edge. On the far shore, Storm glimpsed the Southern Forests, of which Pathar had spoken. The dense trees looked dark and mysterious. The herd traveled along the bank all day, throwing up dust and trampling the dry, brown grass.
Storm woke a little before dawn in unfamiliar surroundings. He felt the boulder at his back and remembered. The winter feeding grounds. He’d gone to sleep beside So-fet at the foot of the cliffs—a sheltered area that the ferryshaft called the Boulder Mazes. When they’d arrived last night, Storm had been too exhausted to do more than glance around before lying down to sleep.
So-fet was not with him this morning. Storm heard the sounds of the herd and started picking his way towards them through the boulders. He found the other ferryshaft on the edge of the plain beside the belt of trees that bordered the river. Their behavior puzzled him. They were not sleeping or eating. None of the youngsters fought or played. A few adults paced. Others talked in low voices.
“Storm!” He turned to see So-fet coming towards him with a relieved expression.
“What’s happening, Mother?” he asked when she stood beside him.
“Oh, Storm.” So-fet glanced toward the river. “Come away from here. I’ll show you some good grass.” Still wondering, Storm followed her away from the herd and back into the boulders. The Red Cliffs rose above them—majestic and intimidating. A strange group of animals fled as the ferryshaft approached—white, fluffy creatures about two-thirds the size of a grown ferryshaft.
“Those are sheep,” So-fet told him. “Some ferryshaft eat them in winter, but they are hard to catch.”
The pair sighted a narrow vale in the cliff, and So-fet moved towards it, threading her way among the boulders. They found a grassy space, sheltered from frost and fed by a tiny spring. Storm and So-fet fed for a time without speaking. Finally Storm said, “Mother, what’s happening back there?”
“A conference. It happens every year.”
“Who—?”
“Storm, do you remember when you were little how I used to find mushrooms for you? You wanted to find them yourself, but you were too young. You would have eaten the poisonous ones. Eventually, I taught you which ones were right to eat. Then I wouldn’t find mushrooms for you anymore, and you had to find them yourself. It was nicer when I did all the work for you, but once you knew, you could never go back. This conference and what it represents—it’s like the mushrooms. Do you understand?”
Storm understood only that his mother would answer no more questions. He meant to ask Pathar about the conference, but did not see him that day. In the meantime, the winter feeding grounds were an interesting place. So-fet forbade Storm to climb the cliffs or to cross the river, but otherwise he had more freedom than ever before. He was particularly fascinated by the caves. Some had large, open mouths, and ferryshaft used them for shelter. Others had small, black openings that connected to winding tunnels. During the first few days at the cliffs, Storm could not muster enough courage to do more than stare timidly into their depths.
The first snow delighted Storm, even though So-fet warned him that it meant the beginning of hunger. They slept in the caves and emerged each morning to heavier layers of white. Then one night the river froze, and a nightmare began.
Chapter 7. Horror
Storm woke to a world of glistening ice. The snow had transformed boulders into giant mushrooms, trees into knobby skeletons, and the plain into a white desert of silver sand. As he emerged from his cave, he saw a group of foals heading towards the river. They seemed excited, and Storm followed them.
The river was solid! Ice had choked the banks for days, but now th
e river was hard enough to walk on. One two-year-old foal gave a whoop of glee and called to his friends. “Look everyone! The river’s frozen! Come out and play!” Storm watched in amazement as the foal floundered for a moment, but finally got his balance. He was soon joined by his companions, who slid and capered on the ice.
The sun was well up now, and most of the ferryshaft had gathered along the northern shore. The adults were heavier and less resilient than their offspring, and most preferred to watch from the bank. The bravest foals had found a hill from which they could slide down onto the ice. Storm joined in the fun. In their excitement, several of the other foals even spoke to him or laughed with him when they bumped into each other.
The oldest foals played games of skating tag farther out from the bank. They flew back and forth as though on wings. Storm watched, enchanted. He tried to imitate their movements, but his legs kept coasting out from under him. He watched the games of ice tag, and laughed and pranced and called encouragement to the fastest foals. He forgot everything else. He even forgot to be angry for all the times they’d made him feel like an outcast. Storm thought this was the most fun he’d ever had, perhaps the best day of his life.
Then someone screamed—not a laughing scream, but a strangled cry of fear. Storm heard someone whisper, “creasia.” He turned to see a number of large animals emerging from the trees on the opposite side of the river. They were about the height of a ferryshaft, but heavier and longer. They looked like a larger version of the oories he’d seen in Chelby Wood—small, shy cats that hunted rodents and birds. These new animals resembled the oory only in form. They were neither small nor shy.
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