The sun strokes Smoker’s back, pressing him down to the ground. It’s a pleasant sensation. Except there’s no ground visible. It’s covered with a thick layer of trash, greasy and loose to the touch. Yet, somehow, incredibly alluring. Smoker longs to dive in it, take in more and more of its smell, separating the layers of new scents until there, in the midst of it, a truly astounding aroma opens. Something is preventing him from giving in to this temptation. Must be the black glasses floating in midair. The sun turned them into two blinding flashes, but when Smoker approaches them he sees himself reflected: a pair of black white-breasted cats, one in each lens. He opens his mouth in astonishment and lets out a loud yelp. His reflections cry back at him mutely.
“There he is!”
One of the hunters stumbles. From high up in a tree, where the branches are thickest, someone’s fiery eyes are looking at them.
“There he is! Up there!”
The hunters, jostling each other, surround the tree.
“Burn it? Or chop it down? Or maybe . . .”
The creature hisses, feeling its way along the trunk. The hunters rattle the tree with the butts of their rifles. The tree groans. One of them passes his rifle to another and tries to climb up. The creature in the branches hisses even louder and then spits at him. The hunter crashes down, swearing. The creature giggles and coughs. Suddenly it cuts the laughter short and slithers down into the high grass.
The hunters dash after it, screaming. The hard carapace and the fiery hair of their quarry recede in the distance.
“After him!” the hunters yell, their boots thundering and splashing mud.
The grass snails tumble down as they run past.
“Get him! Tally-ho!”
The one who got the acid in the eye shouts the loudest. The entire Forest seems to shake from their screams.
Someone who has spent his whole life hiding in the hollow of a tree has been frightened by the commotion and the knocking. He digs in deeper into the rotted wood of his hideaway and uses the hook on the end of a stick to pull the food pouches closer, one by one. Each pouch, three layers of silky leaves cemented with his saliva, and the food in the middle, is priceless. It won’t do to leave them to chance. He allows one of them, the smallest, to remain exposed and even nudges it toward the opening, hoping that the invader finds it easily and goes away, satisfied, without trying to sniff out the rest.
Crookshank jumps up and down excitedly, peering into the river. “Please don’t let it be a dead dog, oh, please,” he begs, casting the net. The object is heavy and unwieldy. Huffing and sniffling from the effort, Crookshank pulls and pulls, until he manages to haul it completely out. He studies the river’s gift intently, then bounds up with a shout of joy. It’s a sleeping bag. A splendid sleeping bag, completely intact! It’s blue with yellow dots. Crookshank wrings the water out of it and hauls it away to dry in his safe place.
White-lipped Saära winds down his song and lies in wait. Bare legs squelching in the mud. Closer. Closer. He stretches his neck.
A human. Dirty white pants, dirty white sweater. Long hair the color of soot. Quite young. Not a youngling, but not an adult either. Saära crawls closer and jumps. His own scream catches up with him in the air as he twists and flops limply before his prey. Prey? Ha!
Hoist with his own petard, how sad. Saära complains until the changeling interrupts.
“Now cut it out.”
Then he stops scratching at the ground and sits down in the middle of the mandala he scored into the pliant dirt with his claws.
“Why,” he says, “do you walk into the trap like some common prey?”
“Curious,” the changeling explains. “And beautiful. Sing another one.”
Saära fumes silently. Singing for nothing? Not luring, not yearning? Shame, shame for evermore!
“All right,” he says finally. “But only if you come down with me. And give me something valuable in return.”
“Deal.”
The changeling rises. His hair is dripping mud on his shoulders and down the back, making it look painted. And he already stinks of the swamp.
“Let’s go,” Saära says, backing into the narrow opening of the burrow. “It’s right here.”
In the Dogheads’ cave, with the condensation of their breath dripping from the ceiling, torches sputtering, and the Chinese lanterns melting from the heat, Spotted Face addresses the throng.
“Tighten the collar on him! Four more holes! Who’s with me?”
They whine and shuffle their paws.
“Two more! Four! No, one! All of them!”
“Casting of lots!” someone shouts, springing up and knocking the torch out of the bracket with his head. “The lot shall decide!”
They put out the torch, spraying the burning crumbs around.
The tin can lands on the floor. They impatiently bump their heads trying to distinguish the number on top of it.
“Four,” the youngest one giggles. He’s no more than a puppy.
