FSE

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First Chapter

In the Backwoods

*

It took less than five seconds for Owin's flowerbeds to shatter and collapse, as the uppermost shelf was broken in half from the impact by Cinnabar Rusk's fall. The pots, containing the sweetest and most delicious flowers, rained down over the next shelf, plunging the contents around so black soil cascaded - before he crushed it all too while making a clumsy attempt to jump forward in mid-air. He devastated the middle shelf before he landed with a heavy thud over the shopkeeper. Owin had about less than half the girth of Cinnabar. If the youth had not been so soft in his fat, the shopkeeper would probably have broken a few ribs. Instead, both Cinnabar and Owin panicked and ran to different corners as the entire shelf with flowerbeds collapsed over the dirt floor, followed by a rain of petals in numerous colours, all wasted.

Owin struggled up from beneath a plank. "My plants! My life! Curse you Cinnabar Rusk, you darn hawbuck! These are rare plants these days! Oh you slob! Brute! Guttersnipe! Pirate and robber! Highwaybuck!"

Cinnabar was already on his feet, supporting himself against the shopkeeper's desk. He avoided the mess caused by the weakness of the shelves on which he had climbed. It was all really Owin's fault. If the shopkeeper hadn't returned to the small store almost immediately after Rusk had tricked him out, he wouldn't have lost his balance and his butt would not have made the shelf crack. Simple.

"Bandit! Extortioner! Warlock! Bailiff!"

Ignoring Owin, who still had one leg trapped under rubbish, Cinnabar struggled to climb up on the desk, ogling over the store - which was named 'Owin Sal's Convenience Store' (marked by a green wooden sign hanging over the egg-shaped entry) - trying to find what had brought him there in the first place.

The store was not big, not like the two-storeyed 'General Community Store' down at central Ruskebó. There had been four shelves (now there were three), one containing the expensive flower petals, one for empty pots, plates and cutlery, one for small garden tools and one containing various types of vegetables and ingredients. There was also a wheelbarrow which used to contain potatoes, but now had a hollowed-out melon spooked like a Vulpean face.

Cinnabar guessed it was there because Owin wanted to prove something. Maybe that he wasn't as boring as everyone claimed? He turned his gaze up. If he wasn't already lop-eared, he would have lowered his ears, focusing on the hunt.

Your ancestors drove out the Lucaeans, he thought. Should you allow yourself to be bested by an insect, Cinnabar Rusk?

He sighed while Owin continued to struggle himself up. Maybe it had flown out of the door - why had he forgotten to shut it? - then disappearing out towards the blue skies? Forever gone? He smacked his little fist into his left palm. "Drats!" he grunted.

*

This had been a profoundly boring day. Art had been unavailable, having to help his mother preparing the religious incantations of the Midsummer's Pie. Since everyone else apart from Art were boring morons and out preparing for the great Solstice feast in three days, Cinnabar (who early on had found that labour was beneath his dignity) had instead spent the morning in his chamber at the uppermost floor, delving into 'The History of Races and Kingdoms' by Quomert Quothinos on his comfortable floor bed while straw-drinking from a flask of carrot juice.

This was the third time since last year that he was reading the book from the beginning to the end, though he had to admit it he read one, two, three (or twenty) random pages a'day. If the others just could understand how awesome the stories of the Elves were! This day, he had decided to re-read the part of the book that dealt with Elladan's War against the Giants, during the years when most of Ayrien had been covered with mountains of ice, and nothing green had been growing. It was one of the darkest parts of a very, very dark and disturbing book.

It had not worked however. He had still been bored. The sun was shining outside, a mild breeze stroking his fur through the door to the opened balcony. The world outside was green and flourishing with flowers and fruits, trees crowned in glorious leaves and birds singing. Maybe he should have started on the part of the scroll that told the tale of the Fay-folk and Elladan's Lake Crown - but that was one of the most boring and uneventful parts of the entire book, repetitive, cheerful and... stupid.

Something fitting for Art, though. He loved hearing details of the Elf Queen's flowery diadem and spring garments, of crystal shoes and faeries dancing in glowing spheres on the summer night's sky. Cinnabar's favourite chapters were those regarding the Niferene War, the reign of the mad king ephiqua (whose name always was scribbled over), Caël's war and the wars between the Council of Light and the two Dark Lords. These were dark, grim, exciting chapters, every sentence filled with blood, gore, chaos and mayhem.

It was fun reading about war, and Cinnabar imagined himself as a commander, gloriously leading the Elven hosts to battle while burning rocks shattered the Earth, while lightning struck down, while mountains collapsed and storms sunk entire navies to the bottom of the seas, how the seas themselves flooded and dragged down entire Elven civilizations to dark, silent graves.

And the birds had been tweeting outside - accompanied by a buzzing insect that had entered the room and placed itself on the ceiling. Rusk had slammed the book's cover together in anger, and rolled over on his back.

The insect had been some kind of butterfly, though he... kind of... thought it had a weird shape. Instead of two pairs of wings on either side of an elongated body, it had four wings shaped like triangles, with the sharp tips joined together to a round body which seemed to have several legs around it, grabbing the ceiling. The wings were semi-transparent, and distinctly metallic, coloured in gold, red and purple in rectangular patterns. It seemingly lacked head, though there was a round lens on the middle of its back, in the area where the four wings almost intersected.

Cinnabar had bounced up towards it, trying to get a better look.

The insect had not moved. It just stood there. Was it dead or tired? No, it gave out a very low buzzing noise. Crik, crik, crik! All the time. Even when it rested.

He had never seen a butterfly like that.

Uncle Duncan had told him that the glorious patricians of the great city of Mírra engaged in many pastimes, one being using nets to capture rare and beautiful insects, before impaling them on parchment and hanging them on the walls in illuminated gardens, so their guests could admire the beautiful wings of the insects.

Cinnabar's mind - there where he stood bouncing on his bed and panting with his nose - then attained a really glorious idea. Maybe he should capture the insect, impale it on a copper needle and then show it to Lyra Mársk? She would certainly find it more than interesting and consequently, she would finally realise that he - Cinnabar Rusk - was a worthy beau and that no other mate would be in question for the Solstice Celebrations.

Once again admiring his brilliance, he had moved out into the hallway and taken his mother's broom - the one which was bent so she could reach above the shelves and moist the walls until they were shiny - and proceeded to return (yes the insect had not moved, phew!), aiming to strike the little thing dead or unconscious with one well-aimed blow, a blow worthy of a Rusk!

The darned thing had fallen down, stretched out the wings and then spun around itself as it flew away in a straight line - out the balcony door. Cinnabar had fallen on his nose over his bed so it hurt in his chin and lower incisors. Tasting blood, he had stood up and shuddered, before seeing the darn thing hovering mid-air, the greyish lens still focused on him - as if it was making fun of him...

"You'll see," he'd grunted, brushed his palms over the chest fur and the vest, before grabbing the broom again and sneaking - almost on all four - towards his target, which skilfully and softly evaded him by moving out over the balcony, into the patchwork of bountiful leaves covering the nearest birch tree that grew from the first storey of the colony - all the way up to the fifth where Cinnabar, his younger siblings and his mother resided.

The insect had landed above him, farther than the broom could reach but just, underneath a branch of the tree. The lens directed towards the door, almost as if the little bugger was planning how to get into the room again. It buzzed as if it was irritated.

Cinnabar had spat on his hands, rubbing them together, before climbing out over the wooden rail of the balcony, puffing and inhaling air while climbing out on a... somewhat thick branch which grew towards his balcony. It ought to hold for his weight, after all it had carried him last year...

It had given up, and he had fallen down towards the hardened mud wall of the colony, rolling down on the floor, his nose up towards the blue sky which was there somewhere beyond the green patchwork of leaves, sunrays cutting through. The weird quadrangular insect descended down, hovering down, circulating gleefully above his chest.

Then it had sank down, as if it was about to... yes... it landed on the tear-stone, the Rusk heirloom which hung from the red leather necklace, resting over Cinnabar's heart. He lied still, remembering how to pretend death and to control his breath, feigning absolute fear. Now I'll get you, he thought.

The next moment, he had slapped himself over the face, and the weird insect had manoeuvred way above him, fleeing over the path around the fourth floor, downstairs to the third. Cinnabar had rushed up, following after it, even riding down the rails of the staircase, so his rear was splintered (and the venerable lady Violet Rusk, his mother's next-cousin's aunt, was forced to drop her flower and press herself against the stairs as her kinsfellow thundered down)!

He had landed in a clay pot, his right feet stuck in it as he tracked the insect into Owin's store. Dragging the pot loose, he had been scolded by Owin for making a ruckus. It was then he had told Owin that there was panic on the second floor since someone had spotted a Vulpean stalking around. The shop-keeper had rushed out, giving Cinnabar ample of time to take down that naughty little insect which so defied his aspirations, ah - wasn't it hovering above the flower shelves behind Owin's desk, the little bugger?

*

He jumped out from the desk, stretching out his short forelimb, grabbing after the butterfly which hovered deceivingly close... but still beyond his reach as he fell down on the hard floor, letting out a wheeze of pain as one of the toes on his foot took a hit. Nevertheless he went up, following after the little bugger out on the corridor leaping around the third level of the multi-storeyed colony. The last thing he heard was Owin yelling that he was a bastard and that he would tell Claudia and that she would pay dearly for the vandalism.

He almost completed a full run around the third level before the butterfly flew over the rail to the second. Cinnabar threw himself down over the rail and the wall, turning around so his head pointed down. He landed on his back over a wheelbarrow containing one head of cabbage, mashing it under his weight. The wheelbarrow itself fell on its side, and Cinnabar rolled off, only ending his slide when his waist - if it now could be called a waist - was met by the wooden poles of the rail that separated the second and first levels.

The damned little thing was still hovering above him. For a moment, Cinnabar feared that it would continue up-level again as it seemed to be uncertain whether it would stay where it was or gravitate up towards the third level again. Despite most of the colony being out on the fields preparing for the Solstice Festivities in three days, a small crowd of mostly elder Leporians had gathered around him, shaking their heads indignantly and muttering amongst themselves ('Oh Cinnabar, what a fat ball of useless fur!', 'Today's youth, slobbering around while the rest are working together', 'And this is Claudia's boy... well guess it's his uncle's influence. That one's a rotten carrot indeed!').

Cinnabar stretched his neck proudly, stood up and tried to hide the limp in his aching right foot. He brushed off the dust from his vest and did not honour the elders with one glance, despite that their mildly condemning eyes burnt through his skin like flames. Focus on your goal, Cinnabar Rusk, he reminded himself. You are descended from warriors, all these old farts have nothing on you!

Cinnabar walked away with injured dignity, almost managing to conceal the limp. Yes, they judged him for now, but what where their opinions? Cruel fate that had bestowed upon him to grow up in the vicinities of Ruskebó - that would however change soon, a future which he anticipated with shared expectations and dread.

He would leave this autumn - leave for the University of Glennenmór, the only seat of higher learning in the Republic. Leave Ruskebó, with its stupid, ignorant peasants. Leave his nagging mother and his irritating siblings. Leave Art. And leave Lyra. If I don't speak with her before I leave, someone else will... speak with her.

Seeing the butterfly hover slowly around the air before him, it was as if it needed to rest on the rail separating the second and first level. He gave out an angry hissing noise and he started to run after it again, albeit more slowly. A number of elders were ascending on the stairs down to the first level and he had to allow them to pass first. He found the butterfly flapping - or rather spinning - its wings mid-air, as if it wanted to make itself as visible as possible. He stalked it for yet another level down, this time more slowly. Whenever the insect threatened to vanish beyond his reach, it went pacific in the air. Having left the first level on the backside, Cinnabar found that they had left the colony and now where in the backwoods to the north-east, on the opposite end of the road to Ruskebó.

The landscape here was rugged and filled with rocks and stones which were popular for hide and seek amongst the young, and equally disliked by the parents. The inhabitants of the colony had nevertheless embarked on cutting down all the medium vegetation - to deny predators and illegal intruders the opportunity to sneak up from behind. At the peak of the warren, there had also been erected a watch-post, but it was always unmanned nowadays. Had not the Flower Valley been at peace for soon to be two hundred years - or twenty-four generations?

The backwoods area had been cleared from weeds and grass too, due to the young chewing on smaller plants. That left only the majestic trees, mostly of the pine and birch variety - the firs had been cut down since their bushy needle branches had provided a decent ambush position for potential threats. The birches provided light, gently filtered through their patch-work, while the pines were dark and imposing, stretching towards the skies far above the roof of the colony. It was said that they were the equivalent of thirty or forty storeys tall, though they were difficult to measure from the ground up.

These Emperor Trees were said to be used as construction material in Glennenmór, the Capitol of the Republic and the world's centre for the tiny-brained provincial countryside population who could not comprehend there was... something more... beyond the Rim. A sudden realisation came to Cinnabar - maybe the insect wasn't an insect? Maybe it was... a kind of... fairy? It certainly looked neither alike a fairy or an insect (though more like the latter), but one never knew - after all, had he ever seen one?

And there it was. The sunshine reflected on its wings as it hovered in the aperture between two massive pines - almost blinding Cinnabar. It looked like a child of the Sun, visiting Ayrien for the first time, curious and inquisitive at the world, rays reflecting out from the metallic wings. The only thing which was dark was the lens, still focusing on Cinnabar. It had turned black, as if it was protecting itself from the sunrays.

Then it headed straight away from the colony, deeper into the backwoods. Cinnabar started to run after it. He had forgotten why he originally had chased it - all he cared about was that this was fun and gave his body something to do while the intellect was starved. He wanted to know what this was for a critter, and could not accept that it simply vanished. Moreover, it seemed like it wanted him to chase it.

The backwoods temporarily opened up into a grassy field of wetlands, a broad and lazy brook cutting through it, mosquitoes and dragonflies buzzing around over the wet grass. Cinnabar followed a path of half-rotten, moss-covered planks and crossed the brook at the log bridge, continuing towards a heap of rocks which then broke into new - and somewhat thicker - woodlands. The medium vegetation grew quick, it could take two years and a clear area was filled. Thus, during the winter season, the adult males of the colony had to survey the surrounding woodlands to see to it that the medium vegetation did not grow too thick. Wild foxes were the main threat, but even a weasel - an animal that could rip off the throat of a Leporian almost as fast as reaction allowed. There were other dangerous things as well, venomous snakes, frogs and lizards. Spiders and burn ants. Sometimes, wolves and bears entered the Valley, but they were quickly hunted down by the Rear Guard and disposed. Eagles built their nest in the Rim Mountains, which extended around the Flower Valley (and consequently the Republic). Then and then, they made forays out onto the fields to snatch a little-one, though last time it had happened in Ruskebó had been before Cinnabar had been born.

Then, there were the Enemy Nations. The Lucaeans, the Vulpeans, the Canaeans - barbarians considerably larger and with more physical stamina than Cinnabar's folk. They did not hesitate to eat Leporians if they had to or if they felt for it, and even unless that, there had been numerous wars between them until Gilbert Hassla had united the twenty Leporian tribes - previously inter-fighting tribal conglomerates, and then defeated the Lucaean Warlord Ibarrian at the Battle of Meswolde, on the 26th of Cárimar year 283 AS (After the Settlement), or - to take into account the majority of Leporians who did not keep an obsessive interest in the Settlement Calendar, two hundred and eighteen years ago.

Cinnabar's ancestor, Anton Rusk, had been the commander of the right flank of archers, sling throwers and spear infantry at Meswolde. His family had fought on both sides in the civil war which later led to the abolishment of the Hassla Monarchy and the replacement with the Republic. The first Chair of the Republic had been a Rusk too, a matriarch named Obyrante Rusk.

The person who had discovered the Valley originally had been a Mathyn Rusk, another one of Cinnabar's ancestors. He had led the Rusk Clan towards the north, then proceeding to invite other clans to follow, as they were badly pursued by the Enemy Nations. Despite that there was no love lost between the Leporian clans, Mathyn had invited them all to follow him, and one seventh of the entire Leporian Nation had done so. With danger for his own life, he had walked three thousand leagues around the world, finding Leporian groups to migrate - saying that the Leporian Nation either stuck together, or died off separately.

But his family was even older than that. His clan was one of the senior clans, heralding from an ancestor bigger than life itself.

Inside the Shrine of Ruskebó, there was a wooden relief that told the legend, with carved figures telling the tale. It told that the original nine Leporians were created by a being of light called 'the Lady of Summer', who swirled around with flowers in her hair, and who lived with them in a beautiful garden where lots of sweet flowers grew. She brought them love and happiness (she was depicted as a strangely Elvish-like lady with ram horns, hair cascading like sunrays, a crown of stars and a bow and arrow for some reason).

Then, they were abducted by a daemon, the Thief (depicted like a monster with vampire teeth, four clawed arms, a serpent's lower body, and a black and white eye), a being of darkness and despair, who had cursed the Leporians by forcing them to slave for him and serve his needs. He had also beaten and abused the first Leporians. A clever Leporian sought to befriend the Thief by flattering him, thus tricking the daemon to reveal the secret of speech and of his knowledge. Then, that clever young Leporian buck made the Thief a wonderful dinner, and filled it with sleep potion, so the Thief fell into a deep sleep.

The Leporian in question sought the key to the cage of his comrades, and let them loose. And so they fled from the dark cave of the Thief, through a swirling maze, out into liberty on a green island. Only one of them stayed, and as a punishment, the Thief flayed him alive.

The one who had liberated them became the leader of the first Leporians. He led the people far and wide, searching for the Goddess of Summer. But he never found her, and died bitter and heartbroken, having failed to reconcile with her.

His name had been Rusk.

Just Rusk.

And it had happened not hundreds of years ago - but thousands. When the world had been young and the Elven kings had held dominion. Before everything 'had gone bonkers', as uncle Duncan used to say.

Cinnabar held his hand around the tear-shaped crimson jewel hanging around his chest, swelling with pride. The others had said that his family most likely were descendants of a Leporian tribe with many murky roots, that the legend of the Goddess and the Thief was just a mythical tale, and that it was unclear even if Mathyn was their direct ancestor. They had teased him, avoided him, called him crazy. All except Art, who did not say much anyway.

That jewel however... as his mother's firstborn, he had learnt of his heritage. She had been given that jewel by her mother, Cinnabar's grandmother Jacinta, who had received it from her grandmother. And with it, Claudia had retold a tale for Cinnabar that he had to swear on his family name not to utter to anyone except his firstborn on their third birthday.

That crimson crystal-like stone, the size of Cinnabar's hand, smooth and rounded, almost glowing with a blood-like quality in darkness, had been conquered by the first Rusk - that legendary Rusk - when he had tricked the Thief. And he had given it to his firstborn, a doe named Summer, upon his death-bed. And what he had said to his daughter was what Claudia had told Cinnabar three years ago.

"The legends are true, and if you ever doubt them, hold on to this my beloved child. Know that every word I told was truth. Know that this once belonged to the Thief the accursed, and know that I freed my people from darkness and fear. If you ever despair, hold on to this and know that my blood is flowing through your heart, that there is nothing that House Rusk cannot conquer or prevail!"

That was incidentally his family's words too, inscribed on the sign that welcomed travellers to Ruskebó. 'Nothing we cannot conquer or prevail!'

"Yes," Cinnabar grunted for himself, nodding towards the insect while raising his jewel. "My forefather," he said. "Took this my heirloom from the Thief, who cruelly oppressed my people! Look at it, you little bugger! There's nothing I cannot conquer!"

The butterfly closed in, the lens seemingly expanding and focusing in on the teardrop stone which Cinnabar held up for it. With his free hand, he plunged forward, grasping for the critter - which evaded his grip and moved far up alongside a tree, still however focusing at him. He sighed, stumbling back and forth with his arms authoritatively crossed behind his back.

"I will get you," he muttered angrily. "A Rusk is never backing down."

The insect flew around the tree in a loop before it buzzed deeper into the backwoods, Cinnabar plunging forward to it. I am not afraid, he thought. What can go wrong in a forest anyway?

*

It wasn't so that he was lost.

It was only that he was uncertain at which direction he would find his home colony. He knew that he usually should be able to manoeuvre by determining the positions of the Sun, and the two Moons. It had become a little cloudy however, and even if he could locate the sun by seeing the places where the rays pierced through the clouds, he had not paid any attention to it when the skies had still been blue, instead focusing his attention on the butterfly which now was gone.

It had suddenly gained speed massively, and disappeared far above the wood crowns. Even if Cinnabar had excellent vision (like most of his kin), he had seen it shrink to a small black spot against the white sheets, before finally vanishing. He had sat down on a fallen log, under which a purling brook flowed over smooth grey stones, when the realisation slowly dawned upon him that he was hungry, and that he had forgotten to bring with himself a bundle of roasted hay with apple and plum. His thoughts then wandered off to his home, and where it was - hadn't it been two-three hours since he'd entered the backwoods anyway?

...

I am not lost.

And no, he wasn't. Not when he had his trusty compass... which was located inside the inner left pocket of his west - not it wasn't! Drats! Oh... phew, it was in the inner right pocket. With slow hands, he brought it up - it consisted of two square-shaped metal-pieces placed on top of one another with two arrows, one on either side, and a type of magnetic round wheel in the middle. One side showed the cardinal directions, while the other contained a star map of copper which could be turned around depending on what date of the year it was.

The compass had been one of the gifts that Cinnabar had received from uncle Duncan - he had received it two years ago, recently before the Summer Solstice festivities of that year. His uncle had told Claudia it was meant as a birthday gift, but Duncan had come too late to celebrate Cinnabar's fourth birthday, so the Solstice had to do. The following day, they had taken a walk down the large meadow south of the colony. Cinnabar had been given a blindfold and then been led astray by Duncan - and had to use the compass to find his way home.

It had worked... well not so good. Instead of walking back to the colony, he had dabbled off towards the town of Ruskebó, one half-league south. It had not been his fault however, he had just misread the compass and followed the wider and more decorated back end of the silvery arrow. Compass designers should not - he had complained later - design compasses so they could be so easily misread!

Now he knew how to read it. It would work splendid. All he had to do was to move west, and he would come to Bruckebrook... then follow the stream down until he could see Ruskebó and then turn left towards the colony. Easy, right?

He held up the compass with both his hands, stood up on the log and peered towards the greyish blanket of clouds rolling above. There was a faint scent of ash and sulphur from the northern winds again, which signalled that there maybe would be 'foul rains' for the first time this summer. He imagined that most of the people in the colonies around Ruskebó soon would be busy setting up their sheets and curtains stretched over the crop fields - so the food wouldn't risk to be spoiled by the poisons brought by the rains.

Cinnabar took down the compass again. The arrow was spinning around... it was setting... no, it spun around again... He waited. Nothing happened. It was dead... or rather so alive that it was frantic, spinning around like crazy.

He breathed out. Put the compass back into his left right inner pocket again, and looked up towards the sky. If the compass was broken, it would lead him to the wrong way. If he followed this nameless little brook below him - no more than a trail of water - it would eventually flow into a larger brook that flowed into the Bruckebrook, and then it would be easy as pancake to get home to the colony.

Giving himself an encouraging pat on the shoulder, he regained his confidence. And they say you need to have skills to be slagging around in the woods - bonkers! What you need is a keen brain, and you - Cinnabar Rusk - got the keenest brain around Ruskebó!

*

After having tried to follow the brook for around one hour, he eventually lost it as he came to a marsh, his feet soaked in moistly moss and vegetation. The rain was falling now, and yes, it was the kind of sticky rain that sort of stuck like a slimy film on the fur, burnt faintly in the nostrils of the snout and left a bitter, taste on the tongue - part urine, part ashes from a fire. He held his head lowered and had combed his lop ears over the eyes, for the foul rains made the eyes itch, burn and become red.

It was meaningless to ask most of the adults why the rains from the north were bitter. Their standard reply had just been 'Because it is so,and we have to deal with it.' Sometimes, they had added that one should not complain about the Flower Valley, and that he should shut up and focus more on tying up the tarpaulins above the hay crops, the pumpkin land, the carrot field, and most important of all, Pfilerhém's priced rhubarb cultivation.

The vegetation was thick and unruly around here. Large ferns, thick bushes and young trees growing close to one another. He had to move in a zigzag pattern, often stumbling over black and wet roots, blocks of stone strewn around below the moss, and getting stuck in water-filled holes with his feet. He shrugged haughtily, but his incisors were gritting. He was tired, and hungry.

And moreover... he felt watched.

The feeling was that there was something... someone behind him, someone following his every step. He tried to suppress the paranoia that crept on his spine. But yet... he could be very deep into the forest nos. And what to say that a predator hadn't gotten a trace of him... or even an enemy, sneaking over the Rim Mountains down to prey on the unsuspecting people of Ruskebó?

Now the realisation crept in... how exposed he was... how vulnerable, how foolish he had been. The shame for admitting that made him shudder. Well, no reason to cry for it, just try to access the situation logically and try to solve it. After all, there was _nothing_a Rusk could not conquer.

He had to make a weapon, and he had to make it discreetly and quick. He withstood the impulse to freeze and be quiet - like the wild rabbits, the likely ancestors of his people - and instead continued to tot forward a bit nonchalantly. He also started to hum on a melody which he made up as he continued, his eyes peering through the vegetation. He needed a stick to make himself a spear.

The idea to use a branch was immediately discarded. Most of them were too heavy, too clunky. Those that were fallen had most often decayed down to disgusting mush, and those which were fresh were hard and often stuck to roots (there was always a reserve of dried branches in the colony so the teeth - continuously growing - could be filed down and cleaned).

Coppice shots, however, were an entirely different matter. Some of them grew thick and hard, but they were overall lighter and more frequent than tree branches. And despite that the leaves were somewhat bitter, they did not _hurt_to swallow - like the spikes from fir branches (maybe that was why he was afraid - by the way - all the lush firs in the area made the area darker than it ought to be).

He found a bush which suited his ideals, for in its centre there were lots of sprouting shots stretching out everywhere. Continuing his humming, he pretended to cut a few leaves with his incisor teeth, while bending a branch with his arms until it cracked. Then he moved the weight between his feet, while gradually snipping off the shot until it was loose. After having done that, he continued on, in a seemingly nonchalant manner, toting and humming, eating a sticky leaf here, a sticky leaf there, while slowly turning the tip of the coppice shot into a lethal weapon, one which would penetrate through skin and pop out eyes...

Cinnabar froze. Wasn't it something that had cracked behind him, like twenty or thirty steps?

He sunk down into the vegetation. Threw a quick glance between the leaves of the bush. A quick shadow moved past two of the trees, soundlessly. There! No... wait, yes! It passed by again, something grey and furry... was there pointy ears there?

Maybe he should stay in the bush, and wait for whatever was out there to vanish? No! Hutching down, shivering, like a pathetic little bunny? Wasn't he a Rusk after all? And who knew, what was following him could just patiently wait him out, having him trapped there.

He lowered his back and widened his shoulders, preparing mentally to fight. He placed both hands around the spear, and then proceeded to stalk around the opposite end of the vegetation, slowly so he made as little sound as possible. He moved on all four, holding the spear close to his body which he pressed against the ground, in a counter-clockwise motion, aiming to move around the enemy and get a better look of them.

The landscape was crowned with a bluish haze of mist now, the trees and vegetation being black silhouettes. He could hear the screeching noise of birds far above. It made it easy to hide, but also difficult to see what was before him. While the rains had stopped, the smell of ash and sulphur was more prevalent now.

Moving over the wet moss, avoiding twigs that creaked, moving away vegetation, Cinnabar slowly approached his target, grey-white ragged fur, pointy ears, large tail. He readied the spear and prepared to plunge...

... someone grabbed the back of his vest and dragged him back, holding a flint dagger against his throat.

"Does your mother know you're out here, young Rusk?" a dark and low voice whispered.

Cinnabar knew who it was.

*

The Hare was always out around here. He was moving at the margins of the northern towns of Mársk, Ruskebó and Thálresia, up the broken and forest-covered hills to the northern side of the jagged Rim Mountains.

Some claimed that he actually came from the Other Side, that he had migrated to the Valley around ten years ago, that he wasn't even a real Leporian. Others said that he came from the other end of the Valley, had done his service in the Rim Guard and then decided to live the remainder of his life out in the wilderness.

His legs and arms were longer than any other Leporian Rusk had seen, his head somewhat taller and his ears longer, though one had been jacked by something sharp. His fur was brown, with grey and black patterns seamlessly flowing into the brown. The front side had white fur - just like the moustache before his snout was an unruly storm of white hair, which also crowned the top of his head between the ears.

Over his head and back, he wore a cape made from a badger's pelt, with the badger's skull drawn like a hood over his head, his ears sticking out through the eyes of the predator. Otherwise, the Hare did not wear any clothes.

The rains had started again, so they had sought shelter in the opening under a massive rock that stuck out diagonally from the ground. The Hare had wedged in his wandering staff between the stony ground and the rock. A small clay pot stewed hanging over a smouldering little fire.

"So," Cinnabar said, "you are still around here, eh Mr Hare?"

The Hare did not reply, instead taking up a large, dried leaf, taking the wooden ladle and then pouring up some of the stew over the leaf. He then rolled it all up and gave it to Cinnabar.

"Eat," he said.

Cinnabar shrugged and tasted it. It was mushy and tasted horrendously. The son of Claudia Rusk stretched out his toes, warming them before the fire.

"You do not have any spices?" Cinnabar suggested. "This was pretty tasteless."

The Hare scoffed. "Let me have it then."

"I'm sorry... but..."

The Hare took the leaf-roll back and started to eat on it.

"Why didn't you show yourself clearly, Mr Hare?" Cinnabar inquired.

"I thought I did?" the Hare answered.

A breeze blew up, making glow from the fire swirl around the stew-pot. The Hare peered as he moved the ladle around.

"No you did not. You sneaked up on me and put your knife against my throat."

"Call that a lesson," the Hare shrugged. "You're too loud. You talk too much, young Rusk."

"Cinnabar thanks. My name is Cinnabar. What is yours?"

The Hare gave Cinnabar a glance as harsh as the flint of his dagger, his yellow eyes not betraying one thought.

"Just call me Hare," the Hare answered.

"You're sure you don't have any other food... everything out there tastes sulphur and..."

"You're not that hungry anyway, young Rusk," the Hare explained for Cinnabar what Cinnabar needed.

"Am I not the one to judge that?" Cinnabar asked, not without a hint of slight in his voice.

The Hare smacked his toes with the ladle.

"Ouch! That hurt! Don't hit me, I'll be mature in one year! If this been then, I would've have battered you!"

"Keep your voice down, Cinnabar!" the Hare hissed, his voice consisting of sudden breaths, hoarse little thrusts.

"But why? There's no predators around here now."

"No. But shut up anyway."

"If there aren't any predators around, why should I shut up?"

The Hare made a sanctimonious look. "Oh if it wasn't for your mother!"

"What's it with my mother?" Cinnabar asked.

The Hare did not reply, instead ignoring him and taking up another leaf, making himself another mushy-roll (why didn't he make crunchy-rolls, they had a much better consistence?). Cinnabar realised he might have been disrespectful towards the Hare, so he kept quiet until the Hare had eaten his mushy-roll and lightened his pipe - a thing as long as his forearms, entirely slender and marked with engravings.

"What's it with my mother?" Cinnabar repeated. The old ranger did not even turn a glance towards him.

"You're probably more alike your father," the Hare said.

"Father lives in Glennenmór," Cinnabar said, "he's a lawyer, and has written a treatise on Common Law. The government has used him as an advisor. I'm also going to Glennenmór, to study at the University. Mother ensured I learnt how to read, and Duncan taught me."

The Hare broke a little smile. "Duncan you say? I knew him very well once."

"He visited us last year's Solstice. You think he's coming this year too?"

"He's travelled far beyond the Rim. Very far," the Hare said, and spat out a little tobacco.

"Is it true as he says," Cinnabar tried to uphold the conversation, "that he's met the mermaids? That he's travelled to the Djinn Wastes, to Mírra and to High Caëlion itself and met the Council of Light?"

"He speaks about much. Like you, young Rusk."

"But I need to know, Mr Hare!"

"Duncan was a good Rim scout. I trusted him. Haven't met him for five years."

"Is it true as they say that you are from beyond the Rim?"

"What does it matter?" the Hare replied. "Important is not where you're from, young Rusk, but how you live your life. I prefer to live in the forest, with the trees. Trees don't ask questions."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I just think it's awkward when it's quiet."

The Hare threw two quick glances at his sides, and sniffed. Then he wrinkled his nose.

"They've probably covered all of Ruskebó in blankets now," Cinnabar tried to joke.

"M-hm," the Hare noted.

"I wonder why the rains from the north are foul?" Cinnabar asked no one in particular. "Uncle Duncan said someone said it was because the giants and trolls are farting so much! My mother however, she told me that there never were foul rains before the great earthquake... but that was before she was born so she's only been told that by grandmother."

"You should rest, young Rusk. You must save your stamina. You've got three and a half leagues home."

Cinnabar crossed his arms. "I won't get tired from speaking, Mr Hare!"

"You're getting me tired with your blathering."

Cinnabar went quiet. For a full minute.

"Why aren't you living in Ruskebó, Mr Hare?"

The Hare reignited his pipe, so its opening was glowing warmly. Then without a word he gave the hollow stick to Cinnabar.

"May... I?"

"Yes young Rusk. Try it. Inhale."

Cinnabar breathed in and moved the narrow end of the pipe - made from cork - to his right nostril. He remembered that he had received a slap from his mother when he was three for chewing on Duncan's pipe. Back then, he had been told that filling the lungs with smoke could lead to suffocation.

"You're doing it wrong," the Hare said and winked, not without a hint of amusement in his voice.

"How should I do then?"

"Breathe out first, but not all of it. Then simply breathe."

Cinnabar did as instructed, and felt how a tender and yet invigorating smoke filled his lung system. The Hare said to him to breathe out slowly, and then place the entry of the pipe against his left nostril. He felt exhilarated.

"May I?" the Hare said. He took back the pipe, and inhaled from it himself. When he had done so, he sighed and turned towards the sturdy adolescent.

"I don't like people. That's why I'm away from the towns."

"But how do you feed yourself?"

"Nature provides me with everything I need, and I don't need to cover it with blankets," the Hare answered.

"But you are living as a wild rabbit!" Cinnabar protested. "Exposed and all in the wilderness. You don't even have a tent! You never long for a comfy bed?"

"I've never slept in one. So I don't know what I'm missing... who knows, maybe I'll lose my love for the forest?"

"But you're living like an animal, Mr Hare!"

The Hare seemed to be thoughtful for a moment. Then he put up his right hand, holding all five fingers up.

"This," he said, "are the possessions that I own. My cape, my staff, my dagger and my pot with its ladle." He moved up his other hand, holding up five fingers. "Make it six. If we count the ladle separately."

"Make it Seven," Cinnabar added. The Hare looked up, bemused.

"Seven?"

"With your tobacco."

"It's nature's tobacco."

"You've not bought it, Mr Hare?"

The Hare shook his head. "Picked," he said.

"Where?" Cinnabar inquired, crossing his arms. " I've never heard it grows around here."

"It does," the Hare said.

"Where?"

A mischievous glimmer appeared over the Hare's eyes. "Where three talons are gripping for diamonds, and rivers flow still. Where teeth got feet and east and west embrace. If you solve this riddle, young Rusk, I will take you there."

Rusk sat silent, pondering what the Hare had said, while the elderly hermit wrapped himself in his cape for a nap.

Later, the Hare escorted Rusk back to his home colony, through misty marshes and thick walls of brushwood intersected by birches stretching towards the clouds. Cinnabar thought he was being led towards Bruckebrook, but instead he learnt that they moved south, and eventually they turned west - following Naeria, the Blue Moon which was partially visible behind the clouds.

They came to the path between the town of Ruskebó and the home colony, the silhouette visible beyond the soft rolling hills and fences of the irrigated landscapes on both sides of the Bruckebrook.

At the edge of the backwoods, the Hare bid farewell.

"Farewell young Rusk," he said. "Good luck with this year's Summer's Solstice!"

"Wait!" Cinnabar had implored as the Hare already had turned his back towards him, preparing to bounce back into the backwoods. The Hare had raised one ear but not turned around, staying still with his back straight-arched.

"Yes?" the Hare asked.

"It's below the Snow-crown!" Cinnabar answered the riddle. "Just at the northern-most part of the Rim. On the further end. Right?"

The Hare stood silent, seemingly thinking. "You are cleverer than you might think, young Rusk. Next year, if you survive this winter, I will take you there. And we'll pick tobacco! Farewell!"

"But I'm going away to University the next year!" Cinnabar let out.

The Hare was already gone.

Cinnabar sighed, looking up to Naeria. The azure half-halo of the moon revealed a glimmering gem wrapped in white patterns. His gaze turned from it towards the stepstone-pyramid shaped colony. He thought about his mother, and about Owin's convenience store...

Now the difficult things will start, he thought.