He carried on like this for two weeks.

At dusk, he learned to climb to the tops of trees to watch the sun set over the horizon, casting brilliant oranges and pinks, purples and blues. The birds up there retreated from his clumsy shimmying. The fluttered to trees not too far away. From there, they watched him steal their eggs for supper.

Bun did not know how to make fire, but he did know how to crack an egg over his teeth, and so he did just that, drinking the nutritious yolks.

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At night, Bun would return to the ground. There he often remembered Choggo shaking his maracas under the moon. Somehow that memory was clearer to him than the others. At times, he was hard pressed to find a good memory of his mother or father, and so Choggo also came to his mind dearer than any other. He hung on to that in image of Choggo shaking his maracas under the moon in his mind’s eye like a child clutching a kite while standing in the middle of a wild hurricane.

And this new journey was something like a hurricane, wasn’t it? Here was the untamed. The unknown. The uncontrollable. Who knew what treasures Bun would discover on the other end of this mysterious forest?

The next morning, Bun found out.