"That's right," said our people, throwing a side glance at Mother. "One of the Oldeners. Come on now, Grandpa, go on."

The Chechen also told us about forest ways, how to tell paths apart: which ones are for real and which are a figment, just green mist, a tangle of grasses, spells, and sorcery. He laid out all the signs. He told how the mermaid sings at dawn, burbles her watery songs; at first low-like, starting off deep: oooloo, oooloo, then up higher: ohouuaaa, ohouuaaa-then hold on, watch out, or she'll pull you in the river-and when the song reaches a whistle: iyee, iyee! run for your life, man. He told us about enchanted bark, and how you have to watch out for it; about the Snout that grabs people by their legs; and how to find the best rusht.

Then Benedikt spoke up. "Grandfather, have you seen the Slynx?"

Everyone looked at Benedikt like he was an idiot. No one said anything, though.

They saw the fearless old man off on his way, and it was again quiet in town. They put more guards on, but no one else attacked us from the south.

No, we mostly walk out east from the town. The woods there are bright, the grass is long and shiny. In the grasses there are sweet little blue flowers: if you pick them, wash them, beat them, comb and spin them, you can plait the threads and weave burlap. Mother, may she rest in peace, was all thumbs, everything tangled up in her hands. She cried when she had to spin thread, poured buckets of tears when she wove burlap. Before the Blast, she said, everything was different. You'd go to a deportmunt store, she said, take what you wanted, and if you didn't like it, you'd turn up your nose, not like now. This deportmunt store or bootick they had was something like a Warehouse, only there were more goods, and they didn't give things out only on Warehouse Days-the doors stood open all day long.