Zamani fled from his presence. He hurried along the narrow street, his mantle trailing him turbulently. It had all been a bad idea - a very bad idea. The Teller's words chased him like angry zeos, stinging him at will. He wanted to leave Thletix; he wanted to curl up in the guarded comfort of his forest refuge. Hot tears goaded him, blurring images into dark, biting shadows. He raked at them angrily. His strength had evaporated, and it scared him that he trembled uncontrollably.

Lies!

His mind raged against Yagi's words, but still, he felt as though his world had been pulled from beneath him. Did his Peck half make him an abomination? He had never in his life expected to hear such hurtful words from the lips of one who led the young. Damn Yagi! The stinging verdict would not leave his head.

‘You are unwanted.’

‘You are unwanted.’

‘You are unwanted.’

He stepped into the broad market boulevard, batting at tears that would not cease. Voices trailed; words fell into the dirt, and eyes, like arrows, pierced him from every quarter. Fingers pointed; fear-reddened hands were clenched before gaping mouths. It dawned on him that his costume was at fault. Surely, they must think some Dirt monster had escaped the forest. His bright red cap, his breastplate like a creature best kept behind the barrier, had frightened them.

The nearest of the market structures was the common, a large booth of sedge in better repair than the rest. Within its darkened interior, several mothers stooped over pyre cages laden with food in preparation of mid meal. An eating bench was before the common, and upon it sat Pax, consoling Xarhn in fatherly arms.

Zamani stamped up to them, removed Xarhn's skirt from his bag, and tossed it to the bench. They came to their feet. Xarhn's mouth opened; she might have called his name, but his head swam, and he could not be certain of anything at the moment. He felt like a prisoner in a dream. In the eyes of Pax, Zamani saw a gentle stirring that moved him to respond. He opened trembling lips, but his heart ached in a way that defied words. All the while, his head throbbed with the incessant demand of his legs: run . . . run . . . run!

So he ran. He ran from Yagi; he ran from a girl not strong enough to hold him; he ran from Pax, and from pain; he ran from the whole damnable Shee world. He ran from himself. He ran to the edge of Thletix and beyond; he ran past the Norsey to the ceremonial platform, to the far side of it, where he fell sobbing into the cleg. Lost and alone in a small meaningless life, his heart, at last, opened the portal of his fears, and all the bitter torrent spilled forth.

He rolled against the rough sedge work of the stage caring not at all that his bag of possessions lay scattered at his feet. He sat up, then, and sniffed away his weakness; he hugged his knees and buried his face in his arms. He had placed the stage between Yagi and his wounded heart. He had covered his face and his bitter pain. He rued the idiotic notion of leaving the safe walls of his forest fortress.

Then came the quiet voice of Pax, “Can I help you, son?”

Zamani sniffed wetly, “Don’t think so.”

Pax sat beside him. “Tell me, anyway,” he insisted soothingly.

Zamani answered from the shelter of his folded arms, “I hate this place! I should never have left the nholas.”

“Do you find all our world so troubling, or just a part of it?”

Zamani peered up at the Sith with one wet eye. Pax did not mock him; his manner was both gentle and concerned. It seemed to reach inside and pry loose the thing that worried him. The answer just spilled out.

“Yagi hates me,” he said. “He said I’ve no good to offer. He said death walks with me because I plucked a flower and made a gown for Xarhn. He bade me go.”

“Tellers can be wrong.”

Zamani wiped his eyes dry, and suggested, “You should be the Teller.”

Pax laughed, “Ha! Then I would tell old Yagi to climb into my pyre cage, for with all his hot air, my lof would bake in half the time.”

Zamani smiled away the last of his crying and gave a final sniff to his tears.

“Xarhn told me how you stood for her,” said Pax with a hand on the boy's shoulder; he went on to say, “I’m proud of you. Flower picking may be a serious crime, but I would never have guessed as much.”

“He said it was the Mother Soul, that I destroyed Phar Sheeth by taking it.”

Pax answered that with a shrug. “Then, we are ghosts,” he said. “This is what I see: you’ve tangled your feet in our cleg; you’ve bumped your head against an old hard wall. Should you leave us for so little cause?”

The reply nearly brought tears back to his eyes; the wound was still new and tender.

“Yagi said I’m an abomination; I’m unwanted.”

“Xarhn wants you,” said Pax. “More than that, she needs you. You mustn’t let the words of one bitter Sith burrow too deeply. The seed he would plant in you would become a weed of equal bitterness.”

Zamani hung his head and sighed. For the first time since fleeing to the nholas, he was lost.

“I can see where your strength fails,” said Pax. “Too long have you lived in the nholas, alone: with no father and no mother. It has just been Zamani, and now Yagi has robbed you of even that. You have no one to reach for, no one to fall back on. Let’s make a deal.”

The Sith smiled broadly and kneaded the young shoulder beneath his dirt worn hand. “You tell me how Yagi has you so rattled - for the problem, I know, is more than a flower - and I will give you the one thing that is mine to give: the arms of a father.”

Zamani had never known a father's arms; he fell into them gratefully, and they covered him completely. That timely and wonderful embrace drew the pain from his heart and charged him with new strength. The cruel churning of the day ceased, and he sensed a peace he had not known since that day he was sure the barrier was between him and the Sith who murdered his mother.

“Xarhn bade me tell Yagi the truth,” he said, “and, I had hoped Yagi would respect me for that. It is not for the flower that he hates me, but for who I am.”

“And, who are you?” prompted Pax.

Zamani hesitated, he really didn’t want to go there again so soon. He said, “My mother was a Peck.”

The embrace tightened and Pax said, “This very morn I knew you for one of my own.”

“I can’t help that I am Gathorne. That doesn’t make me bad, does it?”

“No,” was the soothing answer. “You’ve seen my fields. You’ve seen how the nuts are tied to form pots of all shapes and sizes. Can you guess which will grow big, or which will be small?”

“No.”

“It matters not, Zamani, for each one can hold something good.”

Zamani asked, “Does Yagi hate you?”

Pax sat straight and released Zamani. He turned where he sat to face the boy eye to eye.

“Let me tell you about Yagi,” he said. “He has never forgiven us the death of his father and mother. He never will. His is a bitter soul, but that is not true with others. I accept you and others will too. The sad time of iron and blood is long past, and Zamani is a tall pot holding much that is good. In fact, from such a tall pot, there might be no end to the good.”

“Yagi doesn’t know you're not pure, does he?”

“No. After the battle, Yagi made it his mission to eliminate the unpure, to put an end to our existence. He found many of us, and while there is no proof, I am afraid many of us were slain by his own hand. I was very small at the time, and my father had served Mithal-Moun on countless occasions. Ragezeg sometimes played with me when our fathers met. It was to Mithal-Moun I was taken to escape the bloody hand of Yagi. Ragezeg hid me there; later, he formed my pait and gave me Teefa. No one knows this save me, the Mithal, and you.”

Pax leaned back against the stage and paused. Zamani struggled to take it in, that such as Yagi could live among the Shee, that no one had sought to stop him. Pax stretched, and yawned lazily, then continued.

“Now, Yagi greets me daily in the market; he barters for my wares. He took me as a son when his own died of the fever.” Pax lingered in his past, Zamani watched his eyes wander from memory to memory, then he returned with a sigh. “Someday,” said Pax, “I will be summoned to Yagi-mon, and he will be on his bed. I will take him in my arms and lift him on his pillow. He will bless me, and I will kiss his cheek. Then, I will whisper in his ear that he has loved a Gathorne, and I will close his eyes.”

Zamani searched the eyes of Pax and found there no evil. Within the eyes of Pax, Yagi would find forgiveness. Zamani carefully considered his next words. He did not want everyone to know who his father was, but perhaps Pax deserved to know. He did not wish to tell another and be hurt again, but he felt good about Pax. If Yagi could find forgiveness with Pax, maybe he could as well. It was a thin hope, but perhaps Pax would not turn cold at the mention of the undoer's name. His chest was tight at the thought of it; it felt as though a band of iron pressed his ribs into his lungs. He took a deep breath; he took a chance.

“I must tell you more,” he said.

“Speak it.”

He paused to gather strength, then spoke the words, “I am the son of Rasha and Elimar.”

There! He had said it. But, now what? He watched Pax closely as the information sank in. He looked for any clue as to how the news was received. He waited nervously for the first response. There was no flooding of white or red. The eyes of Pax beheld him, but they did not accuse.

“You were born late,” said Pax. “Rasha and Ragezeg are of like seasons.”

“He murdered my mother.”

There was a hint of green upon Pax as he said, “Your loss touches me. Indeed, Rasha may have gone mad, but yours is not your father's mind. I feel that you are destined for greater things, that all of us will benefit from the goodness within you.”

Zamani bowed his head. Pax knew it all and did not despise him. He confessed, “I feel better now – relieved.”

“Yes, it is a heavy burden you’ve thrown off. Take it up no more. Now, I should return to my daughter. I really came for her, you know; when you broke from her arms, you broke her heart. She feared you were lost. I knew that if you returned now to the forest, it would crush her. You know there is no one for her save yourself?”

Zamani's eyes darted up. “Yes,” he acknowledged.

“What would she be without you, but truly unwanted?”

Zamani turned within himself and saw only grief, sympathy, and desire for Xarhn. He then realized that Pax had planted words like seeds; he had crafted them to become markers to guide his thoughts. He had naught but respect for Pax.

He answered, “I will not forsake her.” Then, with mounting resolve, he added, “And none will ever see Rasha in me. Never will I destroy, or undo, but my hands will open to all people.”

Pax stood. “Your words refresh me, son. I’ll just run along and comfort my daughter with this good news.”

Following Pax to his feet, he reached out and caught Pax by the elbow as he turned to leave. Something burned in him; something wanted out. It needed to explode. He had already been bold to thoroughly expose himself as he had; his hesitation was brief.

“Pax . . .”

“Yes,” said Pax patiently.

“I wish you had been my father.”

Pax turned, and hugged him tightly; he kissed his cheek. Then, smiling, he said quietly at arm's length, “In my heart, am I not?”

Pax departed, leaving Zamani to ponder his words. They resounded in his ears like the crystal notes of a perfect song frozen in place. They filled him with heady music; they filled him with purpose. Like a fire, he felt a blazing newness course through him, consuming the stubble of dead thoughts. He stooped to gather possessions into the shroomsack, absorbed in the bright middle distance of a burning, new mind - lost to the play of motion in the air.

“Ahem.”

Zamani looked up from his bag to see the three boys he had met earlier. They stood above him; each bore something in hand. Takax held lof; Vreatt and Voytk each carried a pot.

“We brought you mid meal,” said Takax in an assured manner. “Voytk has soup of egg and shar; Vreatt brings milksap.”

“I do thank you,” he answered mildly, “but, I have food of my own.”

Voytk stepped forward in sudden enthusiastic animation. “From the forest?” he asked.

Zamani peered up into three open faces. Yes, he thought, the news was out. Everyone knew. The three moved in; as Takax seated himself, the others followed his lead.

Quite after the fact, Zamani casually invited them to, “Have a seat.”

Vreatt leaned forward and said, “Xarhn spilled the seeds, but your secret is safe with us.”

Voytk very nearly sang, “May we taste your food?”

Zamani studied them with a smile. Why not, he thought to himself? He crossed his legs and grandly announced, “I will share, and we four shall feast.” He turned to the stocky Takax and said, “Break your lof.”

He handed each of them a strip of jerky. Takax chewed robustly; Vreatt nibbled judiciously; Voytk simply inhaled. They seemed pleased.

Vreatt asked, “What is it?”

Zamani replied capriciously, “Monster meat.”

Voytk stared at him with wide, unbelieving eyes; Vreatt ended a long pause with a nervous cough. Takax cocked his head in surprised appraisal and bit off another mouthful.

“It’s good,” he said.

Then, lof was passed around and used to scoop the thick soup into laughing faces. Zamani was warmed by their camaraderie. The boys accepted him, and that felt good.

Voytk took a sip of the white milksap and asked, “Will you tell us about the nholas?”

“What I can’t understand,” injected Takax, “is how you got through the barrier. Put my hand to it, once. Threw me on my back. Hurt bad,” he said with a short guttural laugh, “I learned my lesson good.”

“He just walks right through it - pretty as you please,” said Xarhn, coming around the stage, with life and glitter in her onyx eyes. The smile on her face spoke of tears gently wiped away. She stood behind Takax, hands clasped before her. Her eyes searched his own as he scanned her rainbow. She bounced eagerly up on her toes. He placed his hand on the cleg by his knee, and she sprang to his side, with a quick kiss for his cheek. She cast about with narrowing eyes in broadcast challenge.

She said smartly, “I hope you Spunkies left something for me.”

“You just missed the monster meat,” said Voytk.

“I’ll monster you,” she replied, and with an elbow to Zamani's ribs, she buoyantly demanded, “Food. Now.”

To the boy's great delight, Zamani passed around more of his strange forest food – naming and explaining as he went. Xarhn, of course, could not get enough sweet. The soup was spiced with Moost, the milksap with Anik, and when the Chelt was divvied up, they raved.

He explained to them, “This is made from milksap.”

“No! How?” was Vreatt's reply.

“Well, you put it in a sedge pot - the weave must be tight - and you just let it sit. The longer it sits, the better it tastes.”

“Show my mother,” said Voytk, “I could eat this forever.”

“More,” Xarhn gayly piped. “Now.”