"Many," said Broken Mountain, finding his voice again suddenly. He held up both his hands and flashed all his fingers--again, again, again. "More than us. Two, three, four times as many. Marching from south to north."
"And a little west," said Tree Of Wolves somberly.
"Toward us, you mean?"
"Maybe. Not--sure."
"Toward us, I think," said Broken Mountain. "Or us toward them. We might walk right into them if we don't take care."
"Other Ones out here?" Silver Cloud said, as though speaking only to himself. "But they don't like the open plains. This isn't their kind of country. There's nothing for them here. They should be staying closer to the sea. Are you sure about the feet, Tree Of Wolves? Broken Mountain?"
They nodded.
"They are crossing our path, but I think that they won't come toward us," said Tree Of Wolves.
"I think they will," Broken Mountain said.
"I think they don't know we're here."
"I think they do," said Broken Mountain.
Silver Cloud put his hands to his face and tugged at his beard--hard, so hard that it hurt. He peered into the east as though if he only looked intensely enough he would be able to see the band of Other Ones marching across the track his people meant to take. But all he saw was the rising glare of the morning.
Then he turned and his eyes met those of She Who Knows.
He expected that she would be looking at him in a smug, self-righteous, vindicated way. The unexpected midsummer snow had been a bad omen after all, hadn't it? And not only had he completely failed to predict its coming, he had also utterly misinterpreted its dire significance. I told you so, She Who Knows should be saying now. We are in great trouble and you are no longer fit to lead.
But to his amazement there was no trace of any such vindictiveness in She Who Knows' expression. Her face was dark with sorrow and silent tears were rolling down her cheeks.
She held her hand out toward him and there was something almost tender in the way she did it.
"Silver Cloud--" she said softly. "Oh, Silver Cloud."
She's not simply weeping for herself, Silver Cloud thought. Or for the danger to the tribe.
She's weeping for me, he realized in astonishment.
CHAPTER ONE - Loving
EDITH FELLOWES smoothed her working smock as she always did before opening the elaborately locked door and stepping across the invisible dividing line between the is and the is not. She carried her notebook and her pen although she no longer took notes except when she felt the absolute need for some report.
This time she also carried a suitcase. ("Some games for the boy," she had said, smiling, to the guard--who had long since stopped even thinking of questioning her and who waved her cheerfully on through the security barrier.)
And, as always, the ugly little boy knew that she had entered his private world, and he came running to her, crying, "Miss Fellowes--Miss Fellowes--" in his soft, slurring way.
"Timmie," she said, and ran her hand tenderly through the shaggy brown hair on his strangely shaped little head. "What's wrong?"
He said, "Where's Jerry? Will he be back to play with me today?"
"Not today, no."
"I'm sorry about what happened."
"I know you are, Timmie."
"And Jerry--?"
"Never mind about Jerry now, Timmie. Is that why you've been crying? Because you miss Jerry?"
He looked away. "Not just because of that, Miss Fellowes. I dreamed again."
"The same dream?" Miss Fellowes' lips set. Of course, the Jerry affair would bring back the dream.
He nodded. "The same dream, yes."
"Was it very bad this time?"
"Bad, yes. I was--outside. There were children there, lots of them. Jerry was there, too. They were all looking at me. Some were laughing, some were pointing at me and making faces, but some were nice to me. They said, Come on, come on, you can make it, Timmie. Just take one step at a time. Just keep on going and you'll be free. And I did. I walked right away from here into the outside. And I said, Now come and play with me, but then they turned all wavery and I couldn't see them any more, and I started sliding backward, back into here. I wasn't able to stop myself. I slid all the way back inside and there was a black wall all around me, and I couldn't move, I was stuck, I was--"
"Oh, how terrible. I'm sorry, Timmie. You know that I am."
His too-large teeth showed as he tried to smile, and his lips stretched wide, making his mouth seem to thrust even farther forward from his face than it actually did.
"When will I be big enough to go out there, Miss Fellowes? To really go outside? Not just in dreams?"
"Soon," she said softly, feeling her heart break. "Soon."
Miss Fellowes let him take her hand. She loved the warm touch of the thick dry skin of his palm against hers.
He tugged at her, drawing her inward, leading her through the three rooms that made up the whole of Stasis Section One--comfortable enough, yes, but an eternal prison for the ugly little boy all the seven (Was it seven? Who could be sure?) years of his life.
He led her to the one window, looking out onto a scrubby woodland section of the world of is (now hidden by night). There was a fence out there, and a dour glaring notice on a billboard, warning all and sundry to keep out on pain of this or that dire punishment.
Timmie pressed his nose against the window.
"Tell me what's out there again, Miss Fellowes."
"Better places. Nicer places," she said sadly.
