“How careful we have become,” yawned Jasmine, gathering her blanket around her. “I remember a time when we were bolder.”
“Things are different now,” muttered Lief. “Now they are looking for us.” He shivered.
Barda glanced at him quickly, then turned away to mask the concern in his eyes. “We will sleep in turns. I will take the first watch,” he said.
Kree squawked.
“You need sleep too, Kree,” smiled Jasmine. “You are very tired. You cannot guard us all night long. You and Filli and I will watch together when Barda wakes us.”
She turned over and closed her eyes, her hand in Filli’s soft fur. Drowsily Lief watched as Kree began to flutter up to a tree branch above her head. Then the bird seemed to change his mind, wheeling and dropping back down to the grass. He hopped close to Jasmine and settled there, tucking his head under his wing.
Lief felt a small flicker of fear. “Barda,” he called softly. “Look at Kree.”
Barda, hunched beneath the blanket he had thrown around himself for warmth, stirred and turned around.
“Why is he sleeping on the ground instead of perching on a branch?” Lief whispered.
“Perhaps he does not like the trees,” Barda whispered back. “Jasmine said they were silent. And certainly they are strange. Have you noticed that they look exactly alike?”
Lief looked around him and realized that Barda was right. That was one of the reasons why the trees looked so odd. Every single one had the same straight, smooth trunk, the same three branches pointing to the sky, the same thick clusters of pale leaves. His spine tingled.
“Lief, stop worrying, I beg you!” Barda growled after a moment. “Whatever is troubling Kree, it is not enough to stop him from taking his rest. I suggest you follow his example. You will regret it if you do not. Your turn to keep watch will come soon enough.”
Slowly Lief pulled his blanket more tightly around him and lay down. For a minute or two he stared up at the star-spangled night sky framed by the pale leaves of the strange trees. Not a breath of wind stirred the leaves. No insects chirped. There was no sound at all except for Jasmine’s soft breathing.
His eyelids grew heavy. Soon he could not keep them open, and he did not try. If Kree is not afraid to sleep, neither am I, he thought. After all, what can befall us while Barda is keeping watch?
In moments he was asleep. So he did not see Barda’s head droop gently to his chest. He did not hear Barda’s quiet snores.
And he did not feel the passing of silent feet as the dwellers of the grove moved softly to the Dreaming Spring.
Lief was dreaming. The dream seemed very real. He was standing by the old pump in the forge yard. The yard was dark and deserted. It is night, he thought. Mother and Father will be inside at this hour. But the house was dark too, and though he called from the door, and again from the kitchen, no one answered.
Confused, but not yet frightened, he walked into the living room. Light from the full moon shone through the window. The curtains had not been drawn. That was odd. And things were lying on the floor: books and papers, scattered everywhere. His parents would never have left them that way.
Their bedroom was empty, the bed tumbled and unmade, clothing lying on the floor. There was a jar of dead flowers on the chest. Now he knew that something was wrong. In fear, he ran outside once more. The moon shone down on the empty yard. The forge gate was swinging. There was a mark on it. He could not quite see what it was. He moved closer, his heart thudding. Then he saw it.
Lief woke with a start. Sweat was beading his forehead, he was breathing fast, and his hands were trembling. He told himself that he had been dreaming, dreaming. There was nothing to fear.
Slowly he realized that the sky above him was pale and the stars had almost disappeared. It was nearly dawn. He had slept the night through. But — surely Jasmine, who had taken the second watch, had not forgotten to call him?
He glanced over to where he had seen Jasmine settling to rest the night before. She was still lying there, breathing quietly and evenly. Kree was huddled beside her. And not far away sat Barda, his back against a tree, his head on his chest. He too was sleeping soundly.
Lief almost laughed. So, despite their sensible plans, they had all slept. Perhaps it was as well. They needed rest, and as it happened, nothing had troubled them in the night.
He felt very thirsty. Silently he unrolled himself from his blanket, got up, and moved through the trees towards the spring. His bare feet made no noise at all on the soft grass. That was something else about the grove that was unusual, he realized — the trees seemed to shed no leaves or sticks at all.
He had almost reached the spring when he heard it: a soft splashing sound. Someone — or something — was drinking.
Lief’s hand crept to the hilt of his sword. He half-turned, thinking to wake Barda and Jasmine. But he was so near to the spring now that it seemed foolish not to at least peep at whatever had entered the grove. Holding his breath, he stole around the last tree and looked.
A plump shape was bent over the water, lapping. It was an animal of some kind — about as big as a large dog, but far rounder than any dog Lief had ever seen. Lief narrowed his eyes, struggling to see it clearly in the dim light. The creature was a rich, chestnut brown. It seemed to have no fur, and its ears were small and set close to its head. It had short, stubby back legs, and slender front paws. The skin on its back and sides was oddly marked, folded, and rippled.
What was it?
He took a step forward, and at the same moment the creature straightened, turned, and saw him.
Lief gazed at wide, startled dark eyes, whiskers stiff with fright, a pink, open mouth, and small front paws clasped together in fear, and the strangest feeling of pleasure and peace flowed through him. He could not understand it, but he knew one thing clearly: the creature was harmless, gentle, and very frightened.
“Do not be afraid,” he said in a low, soothing voice. “I will not harm you.”
The creature still stared at him. But Lief thought that some of the fear had left its eyes, to be replaced by curiosity.
“I will not harm you,” he repeated. “I am a friend.”
“What is your name?” the creature asked in a squeaky voice.
Lief jumped violently. It had not occurred to him that it could speak. “My name is Lief,” he said, without thinking.
“I am Little — I mean, Prin, daughter of the Kin,” said the creature. She stood upright and began waddling towards Lief, her short legs toiling across the grass, her front paws bent, her mouth curved into a sweet and hopeful smile.
Lief’s jaw dropped in astonishment. Waves of memory were flooding over him. No wonder he had felt that feeling of peace when first he saw Prin’s face. How could he not have realized before what she was?
Kin! The fabled flying creatures that every child in Del knew of. Had Lief not had a toy Kin, Monty, to sleep with from his earliest days? His mother had made Monty out of soft brown fabric stuffed with straw, and over the years the little creature had grown worn and battered. Now he was kept hidden away in a drawer with other treasures, well out of sight of teasing friends. But once he had been Lief’s trusted companion and comforter, carried around everywhere. How often in those days had Lief wished that Monty would come to life?
And this creature could be that wish come true, Lief thought. It could be Monty walking towards him over the grass. But surely — surely he had been told that the gentle, kindly Kin died out long ago? Surely they only existed now in old tales and picture books?