“Sloat, how far down does animal speech go in the Fourth Realm?” asked Roland as they trotted easily together through a forest. A dense, high canopy blocked enough sunshine to thin the forest floor of brambles and thickets. Beneath it, twisted saplings wrestled for the limited favors bestowed by the thin soil and the filtered sun. A carpet of low-growing bluebells tinkled like wind chimes as Roland brushed them.

Sloat squinted like a student trying to recall an old lesson that he had never quite mastered. “I am not sure. As I have heard it, all wild native Fourth Realm beings transform thought in some form. None of them use speech as we know it, but most can communicate.”

“How about that rabbit over there by the stump?”

“If it is native,” said Sloat. “All wild mammals can communicate save for those who wander in from lower realms.”

Prior to the rabbit, they had not seen a creature larger than a dragonfly since parting with the Droom at the lake. Savoring the absence of those pursuers, and any of the other death stalkers that seemed to abound in the realms, Roland felt positively chipper.

“There is one way to find out for sure.” He whistled at the rabbit. The little brown beast pricked up its ears and swiveled its head from side to side, sampling the air before scampering out of sight.

“Forgive me, but you have no gift with animals!” said Sloat, chuckling.

Roland laughed. What a refreshing contrast to his usual thin-skinned response to teasing or criticism. There were worse things than being caught with your cool down, such as lying to your friends like a moron and nearly getting them killed. When viewed from a distance with a clear head and time to reflect, he could see that. But that was the way with most maxims and ethical teachings. They were rather fragile. All of them talked a good game, but up close and under pressure, they shattered like glass. Fear and instinct could trample the finest pearls of wisdom to pieces.

The next time a similar situation comes up, will I freeze like I did at the river? How do you know? How do you practice not panicking?

Minutes later, Sloat cocked his head and put a finger to his lips. His smile assured Roland that whatever stealth he was requesting had nothing to do with Droom or any other kind of pursuit. At first Roland detected nothing but the rustling of last autumn’s crinkled leftovers stirred up by one of the rare breezes that penetrated the forest. Then came a high-pitched sound, so faint that he was not certain he had heard anything at all. The more Roland listened, the more it sounded like childish giggling.

The woodsman crept forward, signaling Roland to stay put. Sweeping aside a stand of feathery rushes, Sloat exposed a ball made up of five or six scuffling chipmunks. The ball broke apart as the animals dashed for cover. Only one remained where it stood, frozen to the spot by terror.

“A-a-are y-y-you Droons?” came a quivering squeak. The voice seemed to come from inside Roland’s head. He looked around to see who had spoken.

“Droom, you mean. I should say not,” said Sloat, apparently addressing the chipmunk. “I am Tishaaran.”

“Tisharman! They’re here!!” squeeked the high voice.

“They’re here! They’re here!” came other voices. The other chipmunks spilled back into view, leapfrogging and wrestling among themselves in their giddiness.

“I trust this is not the animals’ first line of defense,” said Sloat, shaking his head in mock disapproval.

Roland stared at the little beasts. In all this talk about speaking animals, he had been unable to rid his mind of picture books or cartoons where animals take on human expressions and postures. Some little kiddie fairy tale. But this was nothing like that. The chipmunks appeared no different than the rodents that he had so often seen brazenly raided picnic grounds and camp sites, begging for handouts. The clearly intelligible, squeaking words did not emanate from their mouths or a voice box. Rather, their speech traveled telepathically. The voices registered so faintly in Roland’s mind that, until he grew used to them, he could hardly separate them from his own thoughts.

I can’t believe I’m standing here listening to a bunch of silly chipmunks.

Suddenly the soprano chatter was broken by a much louder bass voice. “So you made it. We heard you might be coming, if you could shake off the red ghouls.”

Roland looked down but the nearest creature he could see was a barrel-chested bullfrog the size of a small terrier, green as a well-fertilized lawn. One eyelid arched completely over its forehead.

Still unused to matching intelligent, disembodied voices with authentic animals, Roland nudged Sloat, “Can frogs, you know, communicate?” he whispered.

“What did you say? Can we, can frogs communicate?!” spluttered the frog. “Just what do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know,” said Roland, blushing at the sudden hostility he had provoked. “I guess I thought it was only the higher animals like birds or mammals--”

“Higher animals!” shrieked the voice as the frog puffed itself up. “Higher animals! That’s it! Prepare to defend yourself, you fat-headed churl. I’ll take you on right now! You and me, one-on-one. We’ll see who is the higher animal!

”

“Please excuse us,” said Sloat, smiling. “We have traveled far and at a forced pace. Our exhaustion has blunted our good sense and perhaps our manners as well.”

“Hmmmph!” said the frog, still spoiling for a fight.

“I really am sorry,” stammered Roland. “I wasn’t thinking.”

The frog regarded him for a long time with belligerent eyes. “Don’t let it happen again,” it said at last, swelling its throat so greatly that it seemed ready to pop.

Feeling pressed to make conversation, Roland ventured, “So you animals heard we were coming.”

“Could have sworn I said so myself before this conversation grew so cock-eyed,” snapped the frog. “I don’t have any ears and I can hear better than you. I was going to invite you to follow me to an old abandoned bear den, just a ways down, on the river where it goes into the sea. That’s as close as we can come to any accommodations that might be somewhat to your liking.”

“Thank you, that would be most kind, Mr. . . .” started Sloat.

“Stonehopper. Packory Stonehopper. You can call me Packory.” Glancing over at Roland, he added, “He can call me ‘sir’.”

As they made their way down a shaded, fern-covered slope, Sloat said, “I was wondering if you might have any news regarding the wolves.”

“What would I know about wolves? They don’t live around here.”

“I was just hoping you might know something,” said Sloat, swallowing his disappointment.

“How about the Cold Flames?” asked Roland. “Do you know anything about that?”

“There’s plenty of talk, that’s for sure,” said Packory. “I hear they’ve been spotted up the coast out to the east, beyond the land of the Droom. We don’t get much news from out that way, but we’ve heard reports of purple flames there from several birds, not all of whom are indisputably stupid. I don’t know what to believe. So much weirdness going on in the realms, and so much flap-yapping, with rumors flying all the over the place! I hear you boys have been spreading a few of your own.”

Sloat seemed confused. “I do not know that we spread rumors,” he said, tentatively. “We do bring news of events that we cannot explain.”

Packory nodded. “Yeah, Cold Flames in the Second Realm. We heard. No one can make any sense of it at all. We know the natural laws. Cold Flames belong to the Fifth Realm. Can’t exist in the lower realms. Of course, some beasts will tell you flat out that no such realm as the Fifth exists or ever did. But the upshot is that everybody’s baffled and so the council was called. Birds are carrying the summons to all the beasts in the realm. We’re supposed to meet at this next full moon, at the Raintree.”

They scrambled across a ridge, and worked their way downhill through the forest until they came to a large cave. Carved deep into the wall of red rock coated with a thick skin of moss, it was large, rather damp in many spots, but serviceable.

This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you need,” said Packory. “Bears moved out a long time ago and don’t claim any attachment. I understand you types are a little prissy when it comes to water quality, but there’s a stream running just down that way that even you could handle. Got food?"

Sloat answered that they had plenty of provisions, thanks to Mageroy, and thanked him for his generosity. The frog then left them in peace, with a promise that he would return in the next day to see if they needed anything.

“What do we do now?” asked Roland, as they cut slabs of moss for bed cushions on the rock floor of the cave.

“Wait here until the animal council. We may learn something there.”

“But they don’t seem to know much about the wolves. And weren’t you the one who kept insisting we were supposed to focus our mission on the wolves and not get distracted by the Cold Flame stuff?”

“Roland, our assignment was to reach the wolves. It seemed unwise to me to jeopardize that mission by getting sidetracked in Kal Shadir. With luck, our mission may now be accomplished, if the others eluded the Droom and reached their destination. If not, I suspect our only chance of reaching the wolves lies with the animals. If all animals have been summoned to this council, then it appears the wolves may come to us.” He paused as he put away his knife. “If we can learn something of the Cold Flames by attending this council, all the better.”

“So how long until the full moon?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” he groaned, looking around at the bleak and damp surroundings. “We have to lay low in here for two weeks?”

“Yes.”

“What about the Droom? That little magic trick back at the lake wouldn’t hold them for long? They’ll be here in no time, won’t they?”

“No. There are not nearly enough of them to venture into animal territory. Even if they were prowling around, we would have plenty of warning and allies.”

“You mean chipmunks and a frog? Yeah, I’ll sleep well tonight knowing they’ve got our backs.”

“Most animals shun contact with people, even if they have no reason to fear us. I suspect we have passed under the eyes of a great many beasts since we entered the animal domain. Some of them are extremely dangerous. I cannot imagine that a small Droom patrol would even think of challenging them.”

“Well, good,” said Roland, nodding. “That part’s good. So in the mean time, what’s there to do around here for two weeks?”

Sloat chuckled softly. “For as long as I have known you, you have complained of being pursued by constant danger. The instant you are free from it, you complain that there is nothing to do. Begging your pardon, but is there no pleasing you? If you prefer the danger, you know where to find it. If not, how about collecting some firewood?”

Sheepish over having sounded in his own ears like a spoiled teen, Roland vowed to complain no more.

He slept well on the moss that night, far better than he had expected. Following breakfast, and several more trips to collect firewood, he informed Sloat that he was going to check out the stream that Packory had mentioned.

The stream proved to be close by. It was hardly a stream—nothing more than a narrow ribbon of water that leapt and bounced from ledge to ledge like a silver stairway. After splashing the cold water on his face, and enjoying a long drink, Roland decided to follow it awhile. He scrambled and slid on his bottom down the steep ravine until the stream leveled out and joined with a larger one. As he did so, he several times caught glimpses through the trees of a huge body of water; either a very large lake or more likely an ocean, if his memory of the maps he had glimpsed served him.

The air smelled strange to Roland, wet and slightly fishy. With nothing better to do, he decided to go down to the shore and investigate. The way was difficult, as the vegetation was lush and the river bed filled with large boulders. But he found himself

enjoying the leisurely day, the warm sun and the swatches of white trillium woven into the ferns and moss.

At last he reached a narrow sand beach that opened up onto a small lagoon. On the other side of the lagoon lay a sugary white beach sparkling against a backdrop of a stunning emerald forest. Feeling lazy and somewhat drained from all the exertions of the previous weeks, Roland took off his shoes and socks and walked along the shore, letting the cold waves lap up over his toes and enjoying the silky sand that gave way under his feet.

He kept looking toward the woods on the far side of the lagoon. Although he could not put his finger on it, something about the place filled him with a promise of peace and contentment. It ‘d be neat to build a cabin here.

Such thoughts were broken, however, by a cry of pain and a wail and a bawling so pitiful it broke Roland’s heart to hear it. There across the lagoon, on the edge of the forest, stood a fawn, so gangly and unsteady in its movements that he guessed it to be only days old. It was pulling and gnawing at something near its feet, occasionally collapsing to the ground and writhing in agony. Peering closely, Roland discovered one of its forelegs was caught in a trap.

“Ow! Ow!” cried a voice that sounded like a two-year old child.

"It must be the fawn. A talking animal.

“What’s the matter little guy?” called Roland. “Are you caught in a trap?”

The fawn’s head jerked up to locate the source of the voice. Seeing Roland, it nodded and whimpered, “Ow, it hurts so bad. I think my foot is broke.”

Suddenly an alarm went off in Roland’s head. What is a steel trap doing in the animal domain? “Whose trap is it?” he asked. “Droom? Are the Droom around?”

“Ow, ow!” sobbed the fawn. “No. No Droom here. Just those trappers. Men like you, only bad. Ow, I’ve been here so long. I’m starving; my throat is so dry! And it hurts so bad. I just want to die!”

Roland stood in the water, aching for the poor beast, wondering what he could do. “Is the water deep in the lagoon?” he asked.

The fawn screamed in agony, and collapsed in a miserable heap, its body wracked by sobs. “No, it’s not. Just kill me, please! Quick! I can’t stand it any more. Please have mercy on me!”

His heart totally dissolved by this time, Roland began to wade across. The fawn was right; the water rose only to about his knee and held steady until it grew shallow again as he approached the island. Fighting through clumps of seaweed, he said, “Hang on, little fella. I’ll get you out of there.”

Reaching the far shore, he found the sand there to be softer and more soothing than anything he could imagine. Indeed, he hardly seemed to be walking on it at all. It was more like floating.

As he bent down to look at the trapped leg of the sniffling, sobbing little beast, the fawn’s eyes flared wide, far wider than a fawn’s should. Those eyes fixed on him, and the pain and the misery dissolved into an intense, bright malice--a hatred so vivid it sent shivers down Roland’s spine. The deer blurred into a swirl of color that boiled and frothed into the shape of a serpent. It grew scales and leathery wings and reared up high into the sky and it reeked with the stench of a thousand fish washed up on a shore and rotting in the sun.

In panic, Roland turned and bolted back into the water, but saw to his horror that there was no lagoon any longer, no land on the other side. Nothing but empty sea. In fact, Roland found himself floundering in water with no bottom.

After billowing to an impossible height, filling the sky from horizon to horizon, the winged serpent screamed a high-pitched, savage wail and then plunged toward Roland. Unable to bear either the sound or the sight of the malevolent face that descended upon him, jaws agape, Roland tried to dive beneath the water. As he did so, a gust of wind blew through the water as if it were not there and a purple flash split the ocean. Explosions of light bombarded him from all sides. He suddenly felt as though he were hurtling through space, with planets, stars, and even galaxies rushing at him and racing past. The black space around him pulsated with moans, groans, laughter, and beautiful, haunting song.

When Roland failed to appear by the time Packory arrived to check on them that evening, Sloat had grown concerned. The two of them set out to trace Roland’s step. The trail from the cave to the stream was easy to follow, as was the route Roland had taken down the ravine. As the sun began to melt into the ocean, they arrived at the beach, where the hunt took a baffling turn.

Sloat, driven by concern for his friend, arrived at the sand some moments before Packory and saw the footprints disappearing into the water.

“We know he got this far,” he said, when the frog rejoined him. “Went in the water right here. Obviously waded one direction or the other. We’ll have to scout around to see where he came out.”

Packory looked at the prints and swallowed with great difficulty. “Where he came out? Surely, he knows about the Fifth Realm. He wouldn’t be so stupid as to. . .”

Sloat shot him a severe look as the frog’s voice trailed off. “What are you saying? What of the Fifth Realm?”

“Well, I mean, everyone knows. Why, that is drilled into us from the moment you pop out of the egg, or wherever it is you people pop out of. `Beware of the Fifth Realm.’ Whenever you visit the coast, you have to beware of the Fifth.”

“I thought you said many beasts do not believe there is such a thing as the Fifth Realm.”

“Yeah, I said that. And it's true. But a lot of us do believe. Even some of those who don’t have seen that floating island in the mist, with the blazing white sand beach, and they have more sense than to test whether the stories are true.”

Now it was Sloat’s turn to grow nervous. “I know very little of the Fifth other than that it is said to float in the seas beyond the Fourth. Why are we to beware the Fifth? No one in that land has any power over those in the lower realms.”

“So you don’t know,” said Packory, grimly.

“Do not know what? Speak plainly, I beg you. What is it that you fear?”

Packory sighed hopelessly. “True, the spirits of the Fifth have no powers in the lower realms. Except for those who can hear them. That is why you have to beware on the coast. The spirit realm appears and disappears when it will along the Fourth Realm shores. Completely random, so they say. Never lingers for more than a few minutes at a time. I myself have seen it once, or at least if it wasn’t that, I must have ingested some hallucinatory weed.

“Oh, they call to you. They make you want to go over there. Make you desperate to go over there. Which is why we’re taught from our earliest days, when you step into the water on the coast, never set foot on land except where you entered the water.” He turned to Sloat, who saw deep fear in their formerly cocky guide. “What was he doing down here? If anyone had said anything about coming all the way down to the beach, we certainly would have warned you. Oh, this could be awful! Do you have any idea what we are talking about here?”

“Tell me,” said Sloat, grimly.

“The story is that there are spirits in the Fifth Realm who feed on fear and pain. Why, they’ve been starving for centuries, for eons, since the forging of the realm bonds in the dawn of the world. Except for whomever or whatever they can lure over there. Mostly just dumb animals that wandered up from the lower realms, because for many generations all of us in the Fourth have known better than to expose ourselves to their lures. And the fear and pain of dumb animals is poor food compared to that provided by beings with conscious self-awareness.

“Sloat, the spirits of the Fifth have been craving us for centuries. For countless ages they have suffered the deep pangs of starvation, longing for real food. If Roland is there, can you imagine what he is in for?”

Sloat nodded quietly, his throat absolutely dry.

“No you can’t!” cried Packory. “You cannot imagine. Nor can I. A centuries-old hunger let loose upon him? By creatures whose powers we cannot even fathom? No, Sloat, we cannot imagine, and I tell you it is a good thing for us we cannot.”

Sloat grasped for shards of hope floating in this sea of despair. “Do you know this? Or are these just tales? Who among you has ever seen the Fifth, or known anyone who has?”

“Oh, you’re right there. We have no proof of this, no firsthand experience. Not in our generation, nor our grandparents’. The stories of the Fifth have been handed down for countless centuries, as far as I know. But they have always been handed down as true, at least in my family, and the fear has been passed down with the stories. No one ever tells them without their knees shaking, their hearts thrashing in their throats, and their bellies hollow.”

“I do not doubt you, Packory,” said Sloat. “If Roland has indeed gone into the Fifth, that is evil news beyond bearing. It says little for the prowess of Tishaara that such a fate could befall one under our tutelage and protection, one entirely ignorant of the realms. If it is true, I will forever rue the day that we turned and fled from the Droom rather than giving ourselves up to them.

“But before I will concede that such a fate has befallen him, I will run the beach for half a day in each direction from here. I shall camp here tonight and begin in the morning. If I fail to find evidence of Roland’s emergence from the water, I will accept that I have dishonored myself and my people by letting such a fate befall him.”

On the evening of the second night, having found no sign of Roland in the sand, Sloat sat on the beach, alone, weeping bitterly.

He spent nearly two weeks camping on the shore, in what he knew was a futile exercise. Each day he carefully combed the shoreline for miles in either direction, far past his initial examination, searching for any sign of a footprint. At night, he sat upon the beach under starlight or moonlight, kindling no fire, staring out into the ocean.

Regret hung upon him like a wet sandbag. Countless times, he replayed the moment when Roland took off to fill the canteens, as if he could somehow retrieve the past. He had let him go, without a thought, into unspeakable horror. Roland had been under his care and guidance, and while he knew that his ability to protect the young man was limited, particularly in the strange realms, this, at least, was one danger that could easily have been avoided. How had it happened that no one had reminded him of the perils of the Fifth Realm? Not that Sloat had been all that clear himself as to the danger. But all it would have taken was a single word of warning.

Or perhaps not. Perhaps there was a power in the Spirit Realm so great that the only defense against it was to stay away from the coast altogether. Miles away. Sloat could only stare off into the dim horizon in a vain search for any evidence of this cursed land called the Fifth Realm.