And back in the saddle again, so to speak.  Anyway, been working on these for a while, so I hope you enjoy it.

As always, comments are appreciated and requested.

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continued from 'At Winter's end...'

            Toran looked around from where he was sitting astride his painted stallion, taking in the horrific scene before him. The sun was turning the sky yellow in the west, sinking toward the mountains.  At best, the three scouts had an hour of light left, then they would have no choice but to make camp for the night.  The new moon was only a couple days away, robbing the scouts of any chance of following the trail by moonlight.  But, if Toran hadn't been there, it was likely the other two scouts would need more than that to make a proper search through the clearing's chaos.  That of course, assumed that they would have done it at all.  Before the hooves of his horse, the southern trail passed through a wide space, almost a hundred feet across, shaped like a shallow bowl, edged by rocks and gullies almost all the way around, forming a natural camping place, safe and reasonably sheltered from the winds of the plains.  And doubtlessly, that is what the frontier traders had thought when they set up camp there.  Probably right up until the point they had been slaughtered.

            The smooth dirt and rock of the clearing had been churned up by many horses, puddles of blood staining the dusty ground black in several places, though there were no bodies, drag marks leading away suggesting that they had been removed.  Empty barrels and sacks had been scattered about as well, the large wagon charred black, obviously having been set ablaze.

            “Like I said," Graydon stated, waving a hand to indicate the devastation, “Its obvious what happened here."

            “Well, I guess I owe you an apology Thomas." Arthur said, looking around, his face pale under its tan.  “You are right.  It had to have been hybrids that hit this place."

            “Quiet." Toran said, and the other two looked at him in surprise.  The single word was not spoken with horror or as an angry denial in the face of evidence.  Instead, it was simply a statement, almost without emphasis.

            “Look, we both like the hybrids Toran, but..." Arthur started to say, but Toran shook his head, holding up a hand to silence the scout.

            “Shut up, both of you." Toran commanded, swinging down from his saddle and walking out into the clear space.  The other two scouts looked at each other in surprise, but complied with their young leader.  Crouching down, Toran looked at the tracks that crisscrossed the clearing, cocking his head, studying them critically.  “Graydon, where did you ride around here?"

            “I stayed beside the trail coming up so I didn't override the tracks, then I dismounted over there, by the wagon.  Once I looked around on foot a little, I galloped on up to the north, trying to catch up with whoever did this." Graydon replied, looking surprised at the question. “Why?"

            “This is all wrong." Toran said, speaking almost to himself, walking carefully across to the wagon, looking down the whole time.  Rubbing one hand along the top edge of the wagon, Toran rubbed his fingers together thoughtfully.  The side of the wagon was studded with many arrowheads, most attached to broken shafts, but there were a few that were still intact.  Plucking one of the whole arrows from the planks, turning it in his hands, the red-haired scout examined it closely.  Then, with a shake of his head, the young man peered inside the wagon, his eyes narrowing perceptively.

            “How do you mean, Toran?" Arthur asked after a few moments, looking confused.  “I can see the arrows from here, they are definitely of hybrid make.  I don't understand why, but they definitely burned this wagon and killed the traders."

            “No, they didn't." Toran replied, his voice distant, reaching into the wagon and lifting out a pole of wood, several feet long, one end splintered like something had been broken off from it.  In his other hand, the young scout lifted out a spearhead made of iron.  Between the two charred ends of the pole, finely tooled leather and beadwork could still be seen, the pattern clearly like to constellations on a clear night.  Crouching down again, Toran looked around once more, picking up a hand axe from a pile of fine dirt where it had been partially buried, the haft of the weapon obviously richly carved.  Rising back to his feet, Toran walked back towards the other scouts, shaking his head, clearly deep in thought.

            “Seriously Toran, I know this is hard, but how can you say that?" Graydon asked, looking impatient.  “I may not be the tracker you are, but I can read the signs here easily enough."

            “So could anyone." Toran replied, brushing a hand along the beadwork of the shaft before looking up once more, gazing in the direction the trio had ridden in from, a faraway look in his eyes as if he were puzzling through something.  “You would have to be blind not to read the signs like that.  Even an easterner would be able to tell what happened here.  And if they did, they, like you, would take it as it appears from a distance and ride after whoever did this as fast as they could.  But even if they looked deeper, I doubt they would be able to say anything different.  Only a hybrid might know enough to do it."

            “Well, we don't happen to have a hybrid here." Graydon replied, rolling his eyes.

            “Obviously, you have forgotten who you are talking to." Toran said, giving him an annoyed look at his sarcasm, one finger brushing the bright feather braided into his hair. “I am a blood brother of the Sherok, and as close to a member of the Wolf tribe of the Southern Sands as a human can be.  And I can tell you with absolute certainty that none of this makes any sense."

            “I still don't understand." Arty replied, swinging down from his saddle and cutting off Graydon's annoyed reply.  After a moment or two, Graydon did likewise, joining the younger pair on the ground.

            “Look at the tracks." Toran said, pointing at the divots beside where he was standing. “They are all over the place, like the riders came from all directions, riding every which way.  They cross each other's trails more times than I can count.  Hybrids never ride like that when they fight; believe me, I know.  They always ride together, circling, so they don't risk tangling each other.  And look here," Toran knelt, pointing to a patch of earth more packed than the others, clearly showing a pattern of distinct U-shapes. “Every single one of the horses that rode here were shod with horseshoes." When Graydon looked perplexed at his explanation, Toran continued. “Hybrids don't shoe their horses.  Why would they?"  When the two other scouts looked around confused, Toran continued, “And then there is the wagon itself." Toran said, holding up the hand he had touched it with, the skin showing no black marks. “If the wagon had burned recently enough for their still to be blood everywhere, you would get soot all over the place from touching it."

            “Maybe the soot all got blown away, or washed off." Arty suggested, his voice showing what he really thought about his own suggestion.

            “Well, possible," Toran said, looking up at the sky.  “But it hasn't rained here for months, and if there had been enough wind to blow it away, then the hoof prints would have blown off too.  Besides, if the wagon had been burned after the fight, then why are the arrow shafts stuck in it in such good condition?"

            “You know, that is a damn good question." Arty replied, looking at Graydon with his eyebrows raised.  The older scout's face turned red with an blush, though whether he was angry or ashamed wasn't clear.  “I can't answer that."

            “There is another problem.  These weapons," Toran said, tossing the arrow he held to Arty. “Notice anything odd?"

            “Not rea..." Arty started to say, then his eyes narrowed and he looked at it more closely.  Feeling the wood of the shaft, the scout looked at the fletching with a critical gaze.  “Wait a minute..."

            “It certainly looks like a hybrid arrow to me." Graydon stated, peering at it over the other scout's shoulder.

            “Its a fake." Arty stated, sounding surprised.  “A really good one, but obviously a fake.  This shaft's perfectly straight, and too even all the way around, which means it was turned on a lathe, not carved by hand, and this fletching is tied on with woven cotton thread.  The hybrids use sinew; thread doesn't last long enough out here.  This is the sort of thing you would find in an exhibit or a traveling show back east."

            “Exactly." Toran said, then proffered the spear head and broken spear.  “This spear head is real enough, but its old, really old.  Its pitted like it was badly rusted, but its been cleaned and polished.  And I don't think it was ever attached to a spear shaft, and certainly not to this."

            “What makes you say that?" Graydon asked, but it was Arty that answered him.

            “The pitting goes all the way down to the base." Arty answered for the younger scout, tossing the arrow down at his feet so it stood straight up in the dirt. “The bindings would have protected some of it from the elements if it had been part of a spear."

            “And this isn't even a spear shaft." Toran said, brushing his fingers along the beadwork reverently.  “Its a ceremonial staff belonging to the Ter'drin clan.  The beadwork is a dead giveaway.  The Ter'drin are shaman and healers, dedicated to peace and the preservation of life.  Ter'drin don't even go hunting.  And even if it is real, this tomahawk shouldn't be here, not this far south."

            “Why not?" Graydon inquired, his face now bright red with embarrassment.  “I thought tomahawks were common among the tribes."

            “In the north maybe; the southern tribes don't use them." Toran explained. “Again, why would they?  Don't do a lot of good out here.  They are only really useful in thick woodlands, like those in the northern territories."

            “Ok, I admit it." The older man said, holding up his hands.  “I made some bad assumptions.  But what do you think happened, if it wasn't the hybrids.  I mean, there is way too much blood for that to be fake."

            “Bandits maybe?" Arty asked, looking around as if trying to gauge what could have happened.  “I mean, they could easily have gotten all of this stuff just by holding up a traveling show on their way west."

            “I don't think so." Toran replied, looking around once again. “These sorts of hybrid weapons and tools fetch more money than trader's goods do, especially back east, even if they are probably stolen.  And besides, they are in too good of condition for that.  Traveling shows always want things to look crude; I suppose to play to the crowd's prejudices.  Besides, arrows that are this good of fakes are specialty items, and probably expensive.  Bandits don't waste that kind of money."

            “Who else then?" Graydon asked, his expression puzzled.

            “I'm not sure." Toran replied, running a hand thoughtfully along the beadwork of the staff.  “I have a better question though; why go to all this trouble?  If they can afford to waste the money to acquire hybrid weapons like this, why hit a group of traders selling common goods?  And why the raids on ranches and farms?"

            “Its like they are just trying to stir up trouble, and trying really hard to get the hybrids blamed for it." Arty replied, nodding in agreement. “But again, that doesn't make sense; the hybrids have been mostly keeping to themselves since the territories were formed.  There hasn't been an incident in what?  Thirty years?  Longer?  Any ideas Toran?"

            “I don't know what to think." Toran stated after a moment, a cold, sick feeling forming a rock in his stomach as he went to his stallion and tied the hybrid weapons to his gear. “Whoever is doing this obviously has a lot of resources.  But, they don't know the hybrids well enough to get the details right, but they are ambitious enough to try, which definitely points towards easterners, probably those who have never seen a hybrid in the flesh.  My question is, what do they hope to gain?  I don't like this, whatever it is."  The other scouts nodded their agreement and Toran swung himself up into the saddle.  “Graydon, ride back to the Colonel's camp, and tell him about this.  Arty and I will ride on a ways and see if we can find anything more while there is still light left."

            “Right." Graydon said as the other scouts mounted up. “I'll see you later."

            When the older scout had ridden away back down the southern path, Arty and Toran turned their horses back to the north.  The two younger scouts rode back up the road in silence for a while, the minutes passing quickly until they were beyond the spring, the pair taking either side of the trail, looking around them to see if they could spot anything else, but the plain was silent and empty.  A half hour later, with the sky purpling with the end of sunset, the pair found a place to camp, dismounting in the edge of a defile at the base of a rise, one of the first outliers of the distant foothills.  They went without a fire, not wanting to draw attention to themselves, laying out their bedrolls while their horses ate from the grain all of the scouts carried.  Finally, lying down under the night sky, Arty spoke, his voice carrying the tone of someone who had a lot on his mind, and was trying to sort through it.

            “Toran, can I ask you something?" He began and the red haired teen looked over at him curiously, giving a nod.  “Do you think its possible for the hybrids and us to ever truly live in peace?" When Toran raised an eyebrow at him, the scout continued.  “I don't mean people like us, I mean the rest of mankind.  Even out here, you and me are the exception.  I was born back east, in the cities of Torius, and its so...different."  After a pause, the older scout continued, sounding distant, like he was dredging up painful memories.  “Back there, its...everything is so busy, so regimented and fast.  Everything has to be done on schedule, and there is always someone trying to take something from someone else; money, property, even jobs.  You have to watch your step everywhere, and if you can't keep up, you lose everything.  From what little I have seen of the life the hybrids live, its nothing like that.  I figured you would know better than anyone."

            “You're right." Toran replied, laying back with his hands behind his head.  “Its nothing like that." Both were silent for a little while, then Toran finally answered.  “Honest, I don't know, Arty.  On the one hand, out here, in the territories, we have proven that it can work, that we can live in peace within sight of each other.  But the people out here don't fit in, in the rest of society, I mean.  I guess we just don't belong.  I really hope we can find a way, someday.  There is so much of value the hybrids have to offer, if everyone else would just be willing to learn."

            “I know." Arty said, giving a yawn and laying back, drawing the blanket up to his chin.  “I envy you, you know?  I respect the hybrids, and I have learned as much as I can about their way of life.  But… you've lived it.  I would give anything to do that, even for a little while."

            “One day, I'll make sure you get the chance." Toran said as the other scout nodded, his eyes closing with sleep.  But, though he had been in the saddle all day in the heat, the teen didn't feel sleepy, not yet.  Being out here, drawing ever closer to the red rock of the mountains stirred too many fond memories for him to drop off.  And, as he lay, looking up at the stars laid out above him, one in particular rose in his mind, and he smiled, closing his eyes, letting the memory take him back there, living the moments again as he drifted towards sleep...

***

            Toran rode his borrowed mare up the hillside, nervousness making a whole flock of butterflies take flight in his stomach, despite the fact that Senyr rode at his side on a horse of his own.  The red haired teenager knew that he really didn't have much to be nervous about.  After all, this whole trip had been the wolf's idea, an invitation that Toran had accepted without needing to think twice.  This had all really started back in the spring, on a night not long after the one where the wolf had returned.  They had intended to spend the nighttime hours talking and exploring as they had often done, and they had started out that way, with the two of them sitting side by side in their favorite spot in the boulder field, watching the stars come out.  But, the next thing Toran knew, he had been waking up just before dawn, his head resting on Senyr's shoulder, the wolf's head resting against it, both of them having fallen asleep where they sat, too many nights spent awake after days of work having driven them into exhaustion.  Heartily embarrassed, Toran had hurried to wake Senyr, the pair laughing about it when they realized what had happened, even as they scrambled to head back to their homes.  The next time they had met up, they had spent the night talking about what they could do, since they obviously couldn't keep burning the candle at both ends like that.  It had been Senyr who had finally suggested a marvelous idea.

            Toran still marveled at how easy it had been to convince his father to let him spend his days the way he wanted.  His argument, when he had brought it up, had been that he had been helping his father and the hands with the herd since he was eight or nine, and since he was getting close to being an adult, Toran had suggested to his father that it would be a good idea for him to start learning the range of their ranch by sight, memorizing how the land was shaped so that he could know where lost cattle would congregate.  At first, Toran's father had looked at him with an appraising look, a look that had lasted so long that Toran was sure he would see right through the ploy.  Then, finally, after a few long minutes had passed, the rancher had nodded slowly, giving his consent.

            He had said that he supposed Toran was old enough to be out on his own, as long as he only did it a couple of days a week.  That statement had made Toran want to leap for joy.  That very night, he had told Senyr the good news and he and the wolf had parted ways early so he could retrieve his horse.  The next day, no longer constrained to the boulder field or the gully network, the pair had spent the day riding all over the plains together, only parting ways when the horizon was red with sundown.  And every chance they had gotten after that, they had spent whole days together, riding all over the place.  And, though he knew the excuse he had given his father could only last so long, Toran had savored those days.  The long, hot summer days spent with his friend had been even better than he had hoped.  He had learned so much from Senyr over the weeks they had been doing this, from how to eat yucca and cactus, to how to find the hidden underground reservoirs of water, far from rivers and springs.  And he had in turn taught Senyr the ranching skills that he had had to master, the wolf eventually getting so good with a lasso that he had actually caught a jackrabbit with one, a triumph which had subsequently become an early dinner for the pair of them.

            Then, a few weeks ago, right about midsummer, Senyr had surprised him with the offer that had led him here.  That day, while watching the sun set behind the mountains, the young wolf had asked if Toran wanted to come out to the camp of his tribe for a visit, saying that his family wanted to meet the unusual human that had become such a close friend.  Toran had immediately agreed without giving it more than a passing thought, only realizing after they had parted company that he had no idea how they would pull it off.  During the summers, the wolfish tribe made camp at a bend in a river that was about three days away from the ranch house, which meant that the invitation to come out to the camp really was an invitation to spend the week, or more, out there.  It hadn't exactly been the thought of the time that had given him pause, after all, if he could have chosen, he wouldn't have ever left his friend's company.  Rather, it was his father; always his father.  The one time over the summer that he had arrived back at the ranch well after sunset, his day with Senyr having lasted longer than he thought, his father had threatened to tan his hide the next day and forbidden him from riding for a couple weeks.  If that had been his reaction to coming back an hour late, he couldn't imagine what his father would do if he left for a week at a time.  Shoot him dead, probably.

            Glancing over at the tawny wolf who rode at his side, Toran couldn't help but smile when he thought about the solution his ever-helpful friend had suggested.  On Senyr's advice, he had told his father that he had already covered the land within a day's ride of the house, and had then made the point that the cattle often were allowed to range out farther than that.  If he was going to put his knowledge to good use, he had said, he had to at least see out there for himself.

            His father had flat out refused at first, in a tone that allowed for no argument.  But then, to the teenager's surprise, one of the ranch hands, a sandy haired man named Jace, had spoken up, saying that Toran did have a point.  A few of the others had chimed in, agreeing with Jace as well and reluctantly, his father had allowed the possibility that his son had a point, and Toran had felt immensely grateful to the hand that had supported him, though he caught his mother looking at him with a half-knowing smile, as if she suspected the real reason he had been riding out so much.  He should have known she would catch on, after all, he always came back from spending his days with the young wolf beaming widely.  But, his father had laid out a condition, one that very nearly got Toran in trouble.  His father had insisted that one of the hands go with him the first time, to make sure he knew what he was doing out there, and, since Jace had shown such concern, he should be the one to do it.  The trip had been easy enough at first, since Senyr had taught him everything he would need to know already.  Actually, he knew enough by now that he could have probably gotten by with nothing but the usual contents of his saddle bags.  But, when the human pair had camped for the evening, Toran had caught sight of Senyr, the young wolf having ridden in closer than was remotely prudent, only Jace's involved lecture about building a proper campfire having kept him from seeing the wolf.

            Pretending to be going to get more dry sage for kindling, Toran had managed a short conversation with Senyr, and the wolf had ridden off quickly after giving him a hug, not allowing the man to catch sight of him.  It turned out alright in the end, Jace, none the wiser, had reported to Toran's father that Toran was a natural, and without any more reasonable objections, his father had given his blessing for Toran to go out alone.  Since then, he had spent longer and longer stretches out on the plain, always at least a day with Senyr, though the wolf couldn't spend all his time away from his tribe any more than Toran could spend it away from the ranch.  Finally, last week, he had told his father he wanted to spend a good long stretch out on the plain by himself.  For a few moments, his father had given him such a critical look that the teen had figured that he was going to flat out deny him the chance and he was all set to beg and plead when his father had finally spoken.  To Toran's surprise, he had agreed, saying that Toran was going to have to get used to doing that on the cattle drives before long anyway, so he might as well do it now.  But he made Toran swear, hand on heart, that he wouldn't go too far west, and that if he didn't come back by the end of the ninth day, he would never be let out of sight of the ranch again.

            For a moment or two, as the pair paused on the hilltop, Toran looked back, feeling immensely guilty as he looked at the distant buildings of the ranch, no more than smudges amid the grass and dirt.  He had made the promise without hesitation, his heart soaring high in his chest, even though he fully intended to break it, at least the first part.  But now that he was actually riding away, it was starting to gnaw at him.  But that feeling lasted only as long as it took to look at Senyr, the young wolf flashing him a toothy grin.  Returning the smile, Toran nudged his horse on down the far side of the hill, side by side with his friend.  The idea of keeping his promise not to go westward, when doing so meant several days in the company of his best friend, was nothing short of ludicrous.

            “Just thinking about the fact that I am breaking my promise to my dad." Toran explained and the wolf chuckled.

            “Well, I won't tell him, if you don't." Senyr said and Toran laughed at the joke.

            “I guess there is no sense in getting skinned alive, is there?" Toran replied, making the wolf laugh as well.  “I kind of like having my skin where it is."

            “None at all." Senyr answered, shading his eyes as he looked ahead in the dying sunlight.  “There is a good camping place up there, between those two hills.  We shouldn't push the horses too hard in this heat.  Its not like we have to hurry to get to the camp."

            “Sounds good to me." Toran said, grinning, looking for the spot that his friend indicated.  He thought he could see it, but the sun was shining into his eyes, so he shrugged, letting Senyr lead.  It actually only took them a few more minutes of riding to reach it, a sheltered alcove beside a shallow pool, a shaded scoop in the ground where rain and dew seemed to collect, boulders and trees surrounding it.  Letting their horses stray for grass, the pair made a fire ring out of rocks, then split up the preparations.  While Senyr, still a touch more skilled with fire starting than Toran, busied himself with the campfire, Toran set about clearing rocks from a space for their bedrolls.  Unrolling the large blanket that served as an outer cover for his bedroll, he spread it on the ground, covering the dirt and grass, then laid out his blankets on it.  Without even thinking about what he was doing, he unrolled Senyr's hide roll right beside his own, so that they shared the blanket between them.  Only after he had settled them into place did he pause, looking at the arrangement curiously.

            When he had camped with Jace, the hand had insisted they set up their bedrolls on the opposite sides of the campfire, and on the occasions when his father had brought Toran along to Fort McKinnon, the group had always slept apart, scattered around the fire and the wagon.  So why hadn't he done that this time?  For a fleeting moment, he thought about rearranging the bedrolls, but he didn't even make the slightest move to do it, his hands seeming to think the idea silly.  Puzzled, he turned around and walked back to the fire, finding the wolf already skewering strips of meat for roasting over the crackling flames and Toran sat down beside his friend, still lost in thought.  It didn't make sense...

            Everything he had seen, everything he had been taught, told him to set up the bedrolls apart.  And yet, as if it was some instinct he hadn't known he possessed had taken over suddenly, he had laid them side by side instead, and not just side by side, but nearly touching.  But then, as he sat beside Senyr, the pair enjoying the cooling evening as they roasted their dinner in companionable silence, the memory of that night where they had accidentally nodded off came back to him.  That night, they had slept side by side, practically using each other as a pillow.  Was that it then?  They had already accidentally slept side by side, so naturally, that was just how they slept?  Nonsense.  Still, somehow, it felt like the right thing to do, and if either of them didn't want it that way, then they could adjust it when they bedded down for the night anyway.

            “Senyr," Toran began, taking the skewer the wolf offered him and testing it with his finger and thumb, “What exactly are we going to do while we are visiting your tribe?"

            “What do you mean?" The wolf asked, turning his food over, the meat hissing and popping as fat dripped into the fire.

            “Well, we can't spend the whole time goofing off..." Toran continued, returning the meat to the heat, listening to the appetizing sizzle.

            “True." Senyr replied, nodding as he understood what Toran was asking. “Well, everyone helps out during the day.  My clan, the Sherok usually go out hunting, or else help the Koros tend the horses."

            “The Koros?" Toran repeated curiously, not recognizing the word.

            “One of the other clans." Senyr explained, tearing off a strip of meat with his teeth and chewing the bite. “The Koros, the people of the Horse, have the greatest connection to our animals and tend to our herds.  We've always shared a close kinship with them."

            “I would imagine so," Toran started to say, following suit and biting off a chunk of sizzling meat, almost drooling at the succulent taste.  “What about the others?"

            “Well," Senyr said, smiling and swallowing his bite. “The Kanos, the people of the Earth, share a connection to things that grow, so they tend crops.  The Ter'drin, the people of the Moon, speak to the other world, and so are our shaman and healers." Pausing to drink from his water skin, the wolf continued.  “The Oro'en, the children of the sea; they are the best at fishing and sailing, but as you might imagine there are not many of them in our tribe.  Then there are the Oro'Shan, the children of the mountains.  They are by far the toughest and strongest of us, and can fight better than anyone I know.  The last clan is the She'to, the people of the wind.  Never try and race a She'to; they are so fast when they run that I sometimes swear they can fly.  When we hunt, they help keep us downwind.  But honestly, everyone helps out with whatever is needed."

            “That actually sounds really appealing." Toran stated, his mouth full.  Swallowing his bite, he looked up at the sky, picking out the familiar shapes of the constellations.  Then, as his eye traced a shooting star, he suddenly remembered something.  “Senyr, I have been wanting to ask you something for a while, but I keep forgetting." Nodding for him to go on, the young wolf tore another strip off his skewer. “Do you have any idea what it means if you keep seeing the same thing while spiritwalking?"

            “What do you mean?" Senyr asked, tossing his empty skewer back onto the fire, the fat on it crackling merrily, bringing a delicious scent to the smoke.

            “Well, over the last couple of weeks, I have spiritwalked in my dreams four times, and each time, its exactly the same.  I thought it was just a normal dream, because it happened more than once, but they have all been just as vivid as the other times I have walked, and I guess...I guess I just know that its right." Toran said, finishing off the rest of his meal as well. “In these visions, its like I am flying over a river at night, the water silver in the moonlight, but its nowhere I have walked before, and I can't recognize the mountains in the distance.  I can see a wide space of rapids down below me, and plenty of fish swimming in the water and even some deer in the hills.  But in the dream, its like I am missing something, and I am looking for it.  But I never seem to find it, whatever it is.  At first, I didn't think much of it, but now, after seeing it so many times?  I can't help but worry about it."

            “Well, if it is a spiritwalk," Senyr began, pushing the logs over with a stick to let the fire die down to coals, “And it does sound like it is, then your spirit is reaching out for something.  It does happen sometimes; usually, when it is insistent like that, it means that whatever it is, is something very important that you are missing.  But I don't know why your spirit would be searching in the place you are describing.  I can't even guess where it might be.  When we get to camp, we can ask the Ter'drin.  They would know more about it than anyone."

            “How do you mean?" Toran asked, looking over at his friend curiously.

            “Well, when we spiritwalk," Senyr began, leaning back in a stretch.  “We are touching the other world, the spirit world.  And that is the province of the Ter'drin."

            I hadn't thought of that." Toran admitted, then gave a thunderous yawn, a shiver running down his back.  The combination of the cooling night and the warm heat of his dinner in his belly was making him drowsy and Senyr gave him a sympathetic grin. “Sorry.  Its nothing to do with what we are talking about.  I'm just sleepy."

            “We probably should be getting to bed." The wolf agreed, suppressing a yawn of his own.  Pausing long enough to kick some dirt over the coals, the pair got up and headed for their bedrolls, the wolf seeming not to think the arrangement any more odd than Toran's instincts did.  And, Toran had to admit, lying side by side with his wolf friend, a clear night above them and a whole week of being in each other's company ahead, made for a very pleasant experience...

***

            Toran was flying high once more, looking down on the world as if he were a bird, swift and free on the wind, riding the air currents.  The stars seemed to surround him in an endless field of black, not as if he were flying beneath a starry dome as in other dreams, but rather like he was among them, part of them.  But that detail was nothing, compared to the sight that was down below him.  In the distance ahead, he saw the deep purple outline of mountains he could never name, but knew at once.  Down below, the silvery river cut across the wide, hilly plain like a shining ribbon in the moonlight, rapids tossing and dancing across the water.  His sight seemed almost to draw closer to its surface, seeking the familiar scaly forms of trout, the shapes he knew would be there, each outlined, glowing in his sight as all living things seemed to, bright even among the silver water.  Distantly, though so far away they would be only indistinct smudges to his eyes, he could see a herd of deer, as clear and distinct as if he stood beside them.  And, once again, he felt it, the hollow feeling of loss.  Almost willing the feeling to go away, Toran tried not to think about it, tried not to think about how awful and forlorn it made him feel.  But there was no escaping it, it was a part of him, as surely as his arms and legs were part of him.

            Desperate to end the sorrowful feeling, he cast his eyes far and wide, seeking for anything that would end the ache.  But this time, something was different.  This time, when his eyes saw nothing below him, and he felt the lonely sadness grow once more, he turned his sight to the stars above, soaring high into the night, away from the river.  And then, suddenly, he felt something near him, something so different from the animals and plants he saw below.  This was almost a presence, like someone was standing at his shoulder, seeing what he saw.  Surprised, he reached out to it in the dream, but at first, it didn't respond, as if whoever it was, was asleep, or simply didn't see him.  Curious, Toran pushed against it, trying to understand just what it was.  And then, suddenly, like a dam had broken, sudden warmth seemed to flood him, banishing the sorrow, and he felt the other presence wake, seeing him, perceiving him in an instant.

            To his surprise, the other presence immediately reached out for him in return, almost eagerly reaching for him, and the feeling of missing something disappeared, replaced by a strange, satisfied sensation, almost as if the thing that he was missing had suddenly been returned to him and joy suddenly seemed to light up the night, a brilliance shining from him.  A wind seemed to pick up in the dream, but far from driving them apart, Toran and the other presence danced upon the wind, side by side, letting it carry them far away...

            Toran awoke with a jolt, a gasp leaving his lungs, his eyes opening wide, looking around in surprise, half rising under his blanket.  The night was still dark, the coals of the fire long dead, only moonlight and starlight to be seen.  For a moment, Toran wondered what had brought him out of the dream so suddenly, but then, something lightly brushed against the back of his leg, making him jump.  Flipping the edge of the blanket away from him, he looked down and let out a breath of relief.  It was only Senyr's tail, the tawny wolf's fifth limb twitching in his sleep.  It took Toran a couple of heartbeats to realize the significance of that thought, but when he did, he suddenly felt the odd, thrillingly warmth from his dream shiver its way up his spine once more.  Somehow, almost as if they had planned it, Toran and Senyr had shifted in their sleep, their blankets and skins pushed just so, until they had been lying with their backs resting against one another, which explained how the wolf's tail had come to brush his legs like that.

            Smiling, Toran lay back down, shifting backward slightly, pushing gently against his friend so Senyr wouldn't shift away from him by accident in their dreams.  Flipping the blanket back over him, he made sure it overlapped with the edge of Senyr's hide blanket, preserving the warmth the pair were sharing, keeping the cool night air at bay.  Closing his eyes, Toran felt sleep crawling over him once more and he willingly surrendered, even as the wolf's twitching tail brushed his leg again.  Just before he drifted into dreams, a sudden thought occurred to him.  Somehow, though he knew he would never be able to explain how, he knew that the spiritwalking dream that had so troubled him wouldn't come again.  Smiling at that pleasant thought, Toran pulled the edge of the blanket up to his chin and drifted off to sleep...