Camping with Bombo is different from camping alone. Bombo is a self-proclaimed bush ranger. Even abroad, in foreign lands with alien flora, fauna and fiends, Bombo can tell through a brief trial and error which leaves are medicines, roots are foods, and which berries are poison. He can weave a rope by braiding various barks, stems and/or stalks. He can craft a trap, or tools out of fallen limbs. He can tell which trees are full of honey and which are dead and dry inside. He can even make calls out of reeds to attract deer, bunnies, turkeys and even hogs. He can trap fish and track elusive creatures. There had been no vendors so far, but he had begun to repay the boys by other means than gold.

  Frem, of course, already knew all of these things. Or so he said. Whenever Bombo would kneel down to craft or braid this or that to lay a snare or trap, Frem would kneel beside him and start reaching over and fiddling with what he was doing. He'd always start by contesting Bombo's method, but eventually, he always stepped back and said something like, “Well, you can do it that way, I guess. But there are better ways.”

  Bombo ignored him. He sang songs about him, and about other things. Despite that Freeland Valasian was clearly not his mother tongue (Sarian was, and his words were heavy and thick with the accent), he seemed to have a knack for creating songs in the language on the fly. Frem was his favorite topic, and the songs usually wrapped things up with relatable lessons as to why Frem shouldn't do whatever it was he was doing.

  Perhaps more prevalent even than his helpfulness was Bombo's need to vent about Boulder on a daily basis. Boulder, this giant from the wilds in Kreuger, this marauder, this bandit, this raper, this thief, this murderer, was out there somewhere even now, and Bombo would not rest until he found him.

  “Boulder, this giant, hits his club into men, women and children like Frem hits poor trees with magic. Only his club hits heavier, and it's covered with spikes. Flails,” he said, his voice still deep despite the rise in pitch on inflection, “hang from this club. Skulls are sewn into it. Glass is in it. And there are wires like metal thorns.” He stopped and shook his head. “I see this with my eyes. I race to fight him. But I never catch him.”

  “Cool,” Frem said. “Too bad I don't use magic,” he said with a shrug.

  “He runs a gang of gangs,” Bombo continued, ignoring Frem. “A gang of gangs and gangs. These men... even if they do not know Boulder, they fear him, and they follow what he says. They know his name. He is their chieftain, and they will follow what he demands despite his warring, his thieving, his slaughter.”

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  “We should find him,” Windston said.

  Frem rolled his eyes, poked at what was a dwindling fire with a stick.

  “I will challenge him to fight me to the death,” Bombo said. “One on one, with you boys or not.”

  “Why?” Windston asked. “Why not just gang up on him? Isn't that what he did to your city?”

  Bombo chuckled, and then he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. “What he has done to my people, I hate to recall. Even still, I see it when I close my eyes. Even in a blink, I see this giant, this man, as he stands tall holding the great treasure of my kingdom – the black lion mane. He holds it and laughs while my sweet family, my sweet friends... they burn – he burned them all. And then he steals from my kingdom that greatest treasure, the black lion mane, while Bombo stands wrapped in ropes and chains by lesser men. I cannot move. I cannot... find the strength then.” He lowered his face so that his features were hidden in shadow.

  “What's so great about a lion mane?” Frem asked.

  “It is more than a mane,” Bombo said. “Maybe you will see. Maybe you will stick with me and watch what the crown of my people can do. You will know then, the magical power of this mane. For even without it, it gives me bites, claws, and a ferocity even Boulder cannot withstand. Imagine what it would do if...” But his voice trailed there, and he left it at that, resting his chin on what were massive hands balled in a fist, his elbows propped on his knees, the stump upon which he sat, wide and strong, looking small and squashed beneath him.

  Windston was swiveling his sword in the dirt, and watched the dirt collect around the tip wherever it went. “Does Boulder wear the mane?” he asked.

  Bombo shrugged. “He is not worthy. But maybe he has it on. I don't know this. Maybe he steals many crowns. There are kingdoms all over the world. Maybe he goes about to and from and takes what he pleases. Maybe.” He shrugged again. “He can keep them. But not mine.”

  Frem whistled a sustained tone that dropped off at the end. “Wow,” he said. “Not sure I'd travel the whole world looking for a stinking lion skin, but hey.”

  “Mane,” Windston corrected.

  “But hey,” Frem said louder, “if I didn't have anything at all worth doing, like Bombo, maybe I would.”

  “What is your problem?” Windston asked.

  “He is very obnoxious boy,” Bombo said after a long sigh. “But he is but a boy, and I do my best to remember this. Maybe he should thank the gods for this.”

  “There are no gods,” Frem said. He was staring up at something, and Windston followed his gaze to the red star, which was twinkling extra bright that night.

  He looked down after that, and there was a pause before he got up and found his way to a soft spot on the ground where he lay on the reed blanket Bombo had woven for him. There, he sulked, thinking about how much he couldn't stand Bombo, who also sulked, but not about Frem.

  Windston didn't sulk. He didn't care. He was more of staring and thinking, wondering what it was he felt at the back of his mind, that tip of what was an iceberg of what felt like memory possibly related to that red star, and even Bombo and Frem by the feel of it. But the more he dug at it, the more the sensation faded. And so, he just sat there, staring.