And he knows that he dreams this story out of wandering out of night and the long singing he kept away from the People from Goldmoon from the Chieftain from Old Man himself, the weaver of blood, a dream that he cannot remember where the hawk scuttles over the ground, dragging its wing like a trophy, a kill, surrendered wind in its eyes. And as he approaches, the leopard, the hawk vanish like water, reflections of moon over moon at the heart of the place of the Staff. He follows each vanishing, awaiting the snares of the moon, and Old Man, he whispers, old man, I am learning this mapless country. But the wanderer travels through hunger's ambush, through the thirst of the country that drives away knowing and knowledge, and the words of the Old Man translate the country behind him but the country before him is rumors of water, is crystal arising distorted by moonlight, by thought and the absence of thought, and water arises like blue crystal before him. This time the dreaming is over, he thinks, and this time and this time but the water escapes him bearing the moons in its depths like memories, like the speculations of gods, until the water is standing before him and down in the water he sees himself looking upwards, the knotted moons at his shoulders, and kneeling to drink he drinks too long, for out of the water his arms are rising, terrible, cold as the wind, and drawing him downward to moons and to darkness to peace past remembering, peace that whispers join me my brother my double over his vanishing face, and the words of the Wanderer returning, drawing him