Xarhn paced along the berribit overhang. Hot reds flashed in her skin; rainbow hues flashed from the nechsta petaled skirt as she spun on her heels in the early light. Sedge jangled dryly as she raked the paitcap from her head and sat heavily in the cleg to pout with teary eyes. Zamani stepped quietly through the barrier. It stung; his eyes popped wide, and it was a good thing, he thought, that the girl's back was to him.

He had been too absorbed in his thoughts, but just as the morn lights cleared the nhola mists, so had the barrier cleared his mind. He thought to pause a moment and collect his scattered composure, but Xarhn had already heard his movement upon the cleg. She spun to her feet, snatching her cap on the way up. Both brow and breast had flooded red, a bright warning that faded to brown at his broad smile.

“You’re late!” she scolded.

“I regret it.”

“You’re very late,” she insisted.

He explained, “Old Greebit caught me. Fighting monsters takes time.”

Xarhn smiled at his anecdotal manner, but the smile faded quickly as he limped toward her. She cried out, “You’re hurt!”

“Well, yeah. He tried to eat me.”

She gasped and pulled him into a tight embrace. When the unwarranted intimacy dawned on her, she stepped quickly away, reddening with embarrassment. “Did you kill it?” she asked.

“No. But, I will.”

Smiling again, she placed the cap on her head and bounced on her toes for effect. Long strands of sedge jangled dryly about her pointed ears. She asked, “Do you like it, Zami?”

“Very much, but my name is Zamani.”

“No longer,” she corrected, “you lost a piece of your name for being late.”

“Give it back.”

“No. It’s mine,” she beamed.

Zamani was game. Sort of. He smiled and responded with head tilted forward, and wide eyes cast up in teary humility. He said, “I’ll never be late again. May I have my name back?”

Xarhn folded her arms and turned an aloof gaze toward the sky. “No,” she said, “I own it. And, if you ever make me wait again, I’ll own the rest. Then you’ll belong to me.”

“Zamani belongs to Zamani,” he declared. “And for all I know, you only just arrived.”

“Have not; been here forever.”

Zamani smiled and patted the shroomsack at his side. Xarhn spun in a merry circle; hers was the color of great joy.

“Perhaps this will make the waiting of value,” he said, “or, did you weave your own?”

“Well?!” she prompted, facing him squarely. “Show me; don’t make me hurt you.”

“It is for school. Not until then shall you see it.”

“No!” she cried.

“Not until then.”

She pouted. “Very well, if you will not show me, you can eat morn meal with my family.”

“I agreed to school with you. Why should I do more?”

The question and Zamani's deadpan manner caught her off guard. “Very well,” she stammered, “then you can dance with me.”

“Silkhead! I’m hurt.”

Xarhn steadied herself, took a bold breath, and answered, “If you’re lame, then dance a lame dance.”

“Why don’t I just walk?” he politely insisted.

“Zami . . .”

“Zamani.”

“Zami! You don’t have to do so much, just watch where I go, and . . . sort of, gimp along after me.”

She gave him no time to answer. She spun away in graceful dance. The long strands of her cap swished this way and that as she danced quickly into the distance. Zamani had no choice but to follow. Besides that, Zamani was quite taken by her graceful movements. Thoroughly enthralled, he limped after her.

She danced along the overhang. Then, in a swirl of nechsta and a rattle of sedge, she sailed like a floater across the path, toward a row of sedge, straight and tall. From one end of the row to the other, Xarhn spun out her captivating dance. Then, with a sparkle of onyx eyes, she danced to the far side of the row. Zamani followed.

And there he was, standing in a field of zarglenuts. Before him stooped an adult Sith in the plain vestments of a worker. His steady hands reached into a furrow to place and cover a seed. Beyond the mon-Sith, Xarhn stood in the embrace of one who could only be her mother. From where he crouched, the mon-Sith smiled up at Zamani.

“So, you’re the boy from Zhereen,” he said. “We’ve heard all about you - all night long.” He cast his gaze toward Xarhn, who could, from her crimson flooding, only smile. His eyes turned back and narrowed. he prompted “Zamani, is it?”

“Yes.”

“I am Pax,” said the mon-Sith, “Teefa's own.”

Teefa served up the customary greeting, “Are we not pleased to meet you?”

Zamani responded, hiding his irritation behind the flourish of a courteous bow. He answered, “Is not the pleasure entirely mine?”

Pax lifted himself to stand on bare brown feet. He took Zamani by the shoulder and led him through the field. Ahead was the mon; Pax spoke the standard greeting. His hand was fatherly-firm on Zamani's shoulder as he said, “Are you not welcome at Pax-mon? Is not the haven of our home your own? Our lof is on the table; we held the morn meal til Xarhn could gather you to us.”

“It is so rare for one to visit from Zhereen,” piped Teefa. “You must tell all.”

Xarhn and her mother danced ahead. As they entered the mon, Xarhn smiled back over one shoulder. Perhaps it was a moment trapped in time; Zamani was moved by the glimmer in her eyes, by the rich brown of her joy that all but glowed. Rather than follow them, Pax led Zamani to the side of the conical dwelling, where lay a pile of blue-grey slate. They sat.

Pax said, “allow the girls to set the lof; they will call us soon enough. You and I must talk.”

Zamani could not resist the fatherly insistence of Pax; all he could do was sit and listen. He looked about and could see, in the distance, the neighbors of Pax-mon as they strained and pointed in his direction. He sensed their eagerness to meet the stranger from Zhereen. By now, he thought, all of Phar Sheeth must surely know.

Zamani turned to Pax and respectfully asked, “Of what shall we speak, mon-Sith?”

Pax leaned forward, plucked a blade of the cleg, and held it between finger and thumb. He studied the lacy green milfoil thoughtfully. The pause in Pax’ reply caused Zamani alarm; a hard knot formed in his stomach. Then Pax spoke.

He said, “My child. My treasure.”

“Very well,” agreed Zamani.

“No one belongs to Xarhn,” the mon-Sith continued. “Acklik, though much older, was her chosen, as he was the last free male. He left us some three hundred middays this last. A fever. We’ve all wept for Xarhn.” He straightened and looked Zamani squarely in the eye, placing weight on his next words, “Now, Zamani walks among us. Therefore tell me, will you care for her as she cares for you, or, will you hurt her by returning to the forest when you’ve tired of her?”

Zamani was stunned. Where did that come from? He had only agreed to go to school with the girl. The burden of a father's concern for his daughter was all well and good, but a single question occupied his mind. Had Xarhn betrayed his secret?

He asked, “She told you?”

“No, boy. I deduced as much from her incessant chatter, and the bag you carry - ‘shroomsack’, she called it - shrooms only grow in the forest. You see boy, I may farm zarglenuts, but,” and he paused to lean close, whispering conspiratorially, “I am a son of the Gathornes.”

Zamani's mouth fell open; he inspected the mon-Sith with the tight squint of incredulity tugging the corners of his eyes.

Pax continued, “Twice before the great battle of Mithal-Moun, my father explored the nhola forest. It really didn’t take much effort for me to see through your guise, for neither your dress nor your manner speak of Zhereen. Rather, they speak of a life apart, untouched. Now, you may indeed be from Zhereen, but my guess is you have not been within those walls for many seasons.”

Zamani slumped against the mon and exhaled. He confessed, “Your words are as true as your soul, mon-Sith. The nhola is my home. I just thought to . . . fit in.”

Pax looked toward the forest with a sigh. “To live in the forest,” he said dreamily. “What a life you must live. Don’t be ashamed.”

“I’m not. I . . .”

“Are there others?” Pax abruptly inquired.

“No.”

“Oh. Too bad.” He straightened, once more piercing the boy with his eyes. He said, “How courageous you are. You’ve done well for yourself, but now you can live among your kind. I’ll not ask how you braved the barrier, though I must admit to curiosity, but there is one thing I will ask of you.”

“Ask,” said Zamani.

“Accept my treasure as your own.”

Zamani opened his mouth to reply and found that he could not. His mind was blank. He had reeled from one blow after another. He could not have guessed that his guise was so shallow. He could not have guessed that upon his second morn past the barrier someone would offer him such a . . . gift. A girl. He opened his mouth once more to reply, and just then, Teefa called from within.

“Pax? Zamani?” she called.

“Yes,” answered the mon-Sith.

“We are ready.”

The hand was on Zamani's shoulder again. “Come,” said the father, “let us eat.”

Zamani had never seen the interior of a mon. He had slipped, unnoticed into Mithal-Moun, but this was his first time in a mon. His assumptions of how one would look inside were all wrong. The home was warm, earthy; the intricate weave of milksap vines afforded his eyes an array of rich variety.

Wrongly, he had assumed that the inside would be as circular as the outside. He was glad to be wrong. Altogether, this was a home he, himself, would inhabit. There were shelves, closets, and separate rooms off the main hall. From the center of the sedge flooring arose a round column of tightly woven sedge, sealed and reinforced by the application of zeowax. At the top of the column, where the dwelling narrowed, was a single small room accessible only by steps affixed to the wall.

“That’s my room,” said Xarhn, suddenly at his elbow.

Then Teefa stood before him with a smile. She said, “Zamani, will you honor my table?”

“This way . . .” began Pax, but was quickly cut off.

“I’ll do it,” said Xarhn, possessively clutching Zamani's arm.

She would allow no competition. She led him to the far side of the central column. There was the table. Just a simple slab of slate balanced on a stone, but it was laden with lof and morn meal fixings. Around the slate were four fat pillows, elaborately adorned. The hand that held the sewing spine was as obviously gifted as Xarhn was with dance. When all were seated, Pax spoke.

“Our good Teefa,” he said, “has spared nothing, but given all that our guest should be honored. The Maker of all has not spared, but given all that we should honor Him. Let us eat.”

Xarhn sat close to Zamani. Before him, she placed an orange nutpot filled with steaming tay porridge. Porridge was new to Zamani; he eyed it politely but dubiously. Pax tore pieces of lof and passed them around the table. Xarhn placed lof neatly by Zamani's nutpot, adding a simple slat utensil to eat with.

Zamani had never received such attention. Teefa poured and passed the milksap, then set a honeypot in the center. Through all the fuss, Zamani had not considered his appetite; he was content to sit and watch. The morn meal ritual was simple and genuine. Now he was glad that Xarhn had tricked him.

“Eat, boy!” command Pax, while spreading his lof with honey.

Teefa asked, “Will you tell us of Zhereen? Are you so different from us, there?”

Zamani looked up from the gooey porridge and was seized by a single casual glance of the mon-Sith. It was a glance that might have said, ‘honest words are as precious as those who are nourished by them.’ He liked Xarhn's father. He felt . . . admiration. Would that his own father had been like Pax.

“I’ve not seen the inside of Zhereen for seventeen seasons,” he confessed. “My home is in the nholas.”

Teefa dropped her lof, staring in wide-eyed amazement between Zamani and Xarhn. She turned to Pax.

“It’s true, mother,” Xarhn enthused. “It’s true, father! I’ve seen him walk through the barrier!”

Teefa gasped, hiding her gaping mouth with both hands. She turned to her own with imploring eyes. She reached for her husband, and he took her hand in his. Zamani watched Teefa's erratic flooding compared her colors to the more stable browns of Pax and decided that Xarhn took after her mother more than her father.

“There now, sweet Teefa,” consoled her own. “I’m sure the barrier is still quite strong.”

They sat in silence, Zamani stealing a glance at the lovely Xarhn. He did not recall her being so close to him. In fact, if she was any closer, he thought, she would be on the other side of him. He could sense the tension his confession had brought on; it sat like a weight on his shoulders. He tasted the porridge in an attempt to redirect his focus. It was a horrible paste that cried out for moost. One mouthful was quite enough; all he could do was stir the awful gruel. Then the silence was shattered like stricken slate.

“How?” asked the mother.

Now all eyes were on him; he could feel their need to know before he looked up from the bland morn meal. Pax had orange temples, as well his daughter, but Teefa exhibited the hues of embarrassment.

Xarhn turned to him with a gentle prompt, “Yes, tell us.”

The eyes of Pax were patient eyes; they asked, ‘is there some trick to it?’

Zamani took a breath and answered, “I . . . just take the pain. It hurts less each time I go through.”

Teefa continued, “Is it a hard life in the forest?”

“No.”

“There are supposed to be monsters in the forest,” she said, flooding fear. “Those great flying things.”

Zamani soothed, “Fear not; no floater would ever eat a Sith.” Secretly, he wished he had a floater with him just to suck up the awful tay.

Xarhn asked, “Why?”

“They have no mouths.”

“But, how do you live?” Teefa wanted to know, “Where do you sleep? What do you eat?”

Xarhn cried out excitedly, nudging Zamani in the ribs, “Ooh! Did you bring some sweet? Give it up, Zami.”

He corrected her, all but spelling it out, “Za-ma-ni.”

“Zami.”

“Child. Child ” chided Pax. “Leave the boy at least his name.”

That sounded very much like a loaded statement to Zamani, who pulled his bag and began loosening the stays.

Pax continued, “Xarhn told us about the ‘sweet’. We find it hard to believe that any food would,” and he turned to Xarhn, “rainbow-flood the mouth.”

Zamani turned an incredulous eye on Xarhn, noted that she had flooded the colors her mother had just moments earlier.

Her smile, though crimson, was accompanied by a defensive glint in her onyx eyes. She straightened and said adamantly, “Well! It’s true!”