Clement, as he was called, was, in fact, a boy. He was Frem’s age, which is only one year older than Windston. Still, he was well over six feet tall – four inches over, to be precise – lanky and yet muscular, masculine and yet beautiful. He was a king, of sorts – or so he'd said – and he was out to catch a bird.

  “A parri bird,” he said. “Or the sunbird, as others have called it.”

  “Parri bird,” Windston repeated. He'd never heard of one.

  “The great golden firebird,” Clement said, eyes to the sky and swiveling side to side as he walked, as if walking on air or in a dream. He shut his eyes and smiled as if hit by a pleasant breeze. He wasn't sweating, despite the intense heat. He was no longer glowing. And it appeared as though he had forgotten about his prisoner, who still fidgeted here and there, although less so than before. “I'll claim him as my own, now, as I've passed the test.”

  “The test,” Windston repeated.

  Clement stepped in front of Windston, wheeled, and stopped. “Are you okay?” he asked him, looking first deeply into one eye, and then the other.

  Windston, who was still in a thick, hazy daze, simply stared dumb-like at the boy king.

  “You aren't,” he said. “Of course you aren't,” he said, wheeling again on one heel, balancing on it and then falling forward on the other as he started walking again. “Are you here alone?”

  Windston, who was seeing flashes of tangerines, pipers, dogs and mommies every time he blinked and sometimes when he didn't, suddenly remembered his friends. “No,” he said. “Bombo. And Frem. They're here. They're trapped. Stuck. Forever.”

  Clement chuckled. “Forever?” he asked. He wheeled again. “Where?”

  Windston raised a shaky arm and pointed. “The jungle,” he said.

  “The Witchee Woods, you mean,” Clement said. “I know this place,” he said. “I too have been ensnared by it. For a day, and almost another,” he said, shivering at the thought.

  “I cannot allow your friends to stay trapped in this place,” he shouted to himself. “But…” he said ponderously, “perhaps they aren't? After all,” he said, lifting the dog, which was now limp like a rag doll. “I do have this here in my hand. The spell must surely be broken, if only temporarily.”

  He looked at Windston and nodded once. “So,” he said, “if your friends are alive, we shall find them!”

  And then he was off. He was off with first a skip, then a leap, and then he was running again.

  The tangerine fell, and Windston ran after it again. It chased first the king, and then it went off on its own, where it disappeared at Bombo's feet.

  Bombo was lying there, on the ground, asleep and snoring.

  “Here!” came a cry from just a few dozen feet away. “I have found a green boy! Is he yours?”

  “Yes,” Windston squeaked before hacking and coughing. “Yes,” he said, “And I found Bombo.”

  The king came back with a limp creature in each hand; the dog, which he held by the foot, and Frem, who he held by the belt. He was smiling. “We have them. Now, we must get them to safety. East, I think. Yes, east! No, west!”

  And then they were off. The boy was hurrying off with the dog and Frem, and Windston was behind him wearing Bombo like a blanket.

  They scurried through and over brush and between trees. By the time they were out, they were simply covered in brambles.

  All but one; the dog simply was not there anymore.

  “There!” Clement exclaimed, Frem laid out at his feet on a sandy stretch of trail that divided the jungle from the pines. “We have made it, and all alive!

  “Except,” he said, looking all around. “No spellbound dog creature. Oh well. To camp we go!”

  With that, they marched. But first, they strapped Frem to Clement's back, and then each grabbed Bombo by a hand and hoisted him up so that only his feet dragged rather than his legs from the thighs down.

  The march wasn't a long one. They headed north less than half a mile, and then turned abruptly west on a small winding trail that stopped at a clearing of stumped pines and their logs, which were laid out around a deep pit in which was a fire, and over which spun fat roasting pigs on a spit.

  There were more men like Clement all about, only they were actually men. Their hair was different, though; whether it was jet black, any given shade of brown or blonde, it was never silver.

  “Hullo!” Clement shouted at the men, who were all, like him, pointy-eared, dressed in skins and adorned here and there (especially the outer seams of their pants) with feathers. He let Bombo's hand drop and bowed. “I have returned victorious. And here are my new friends, too!”

  “Ahoy!” most shouted. “Yip! Yip!” shouted the others.

  “My friends,” he said, “this is Windston, Bombo and Frem. We will feed them and let them rest, and then we will celebrate!”

  “Yip, yip, yip, yip!” they shouted, an arm raised and hopping as they spun and danced.

  Windston, whose eyelids were so heavy they could hardly stay open and whose lips were too heavy to smile, stumbled a few steps forward, wavered a bit, and then collapsed.

  He awoke to the steady thump of drums in unison, the smell of campfire and barbecue, and a brief glimpse of a tangerine that faded into embers.

  Clement was near him. Windston had been placed between two logs on an unrolled skin, and Clement was seated rocking on a stump beside it and stamping his foot, which was no longer bare, but in a leather moccasin.

  He sat up abruptly in a panic, reached for his sword, and found that it wasn’t there. He stood, woozy, collected himself, and then peered this way and that through blurry tears that had collected over his eyes while he slept.

  No Frem. No Bombo. But there was his sword, being handled by a man who carried it within the protective barrier of a deer skin. He was surrounded by a small crowd, which, like him, peered down curiously at the sword. One of them touched it and quickly recoiled, holding his finger.

  Clement laughed, and then he noticed Windston and clapped his back. “Look,” he said, “they marvel too closely.”

  “Give it!” Windston shouted.

  Clement laughed louder, and he let his head fall back so that he faced the sky, which was black and starry through a circled clearing in the otherwise plentiful tall pines. “Give it to him,” Clement said when he was finished laughing. “Hurry, now. Don't let him fear ill intentions we do not bear.”

  Windston stepped over one of the thick logs, holding out his hand; and then he snatched his sword as soon as it was close.

  The man who had been holding it ducked as if he worried it would hit him, or even touch him, as it passed not so far from his face.

  Windston hadn't noticed. He was just looking first up the blade, and then down it, to make sure it was his and as fine as he'd left it.

  “It's as good as new,” Clement assured him.

  Windston turned and glanced at him. The boy king was seated on a stump, legs-together and with his hands on his lap. From that position, he stood next to Windston, towering over him, as he peered down at the blade. With a hand, slowly, first showing it to Windston and then moving it toward the blade, he ran his fingers along the length of the blade, tapping it at the tip.

  “This is truly a marvelous weapon,” he said as Windston, who had grown uncomfortable with their closeness, backed two steps away. “Where did you come by it, if you don't mind my asking?”

  There was a pause, a brief moment during which Windston scanned the area again for his friends. He spotted Bombo first, a lump sleeping behind a log across from the fire. Frem was with him, in fact right next to him; he saw his hand draped over that very log. “I was found with it,” he said.

  “Were you a foundling?” Clement asked.

  Windston nodded. “I was. And this sword was found with me. Those who found me called me Windston Blade when they first named me. But then they changed my second name to Flowers, after themselves.”

  “Interesting,” Clement said. “And the goodies in the sack?” he asked.

  There was another pause, one during which Windston briefly winced at the idea of having had their things searched while they slept. “It's Frem's. He had them when we met.”

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Clement nodded slowly and blinked once for more than a second.

  Turning, he lifted a foot and rested it on his stump. From there, he stood on the log, still facing away, and then turned back and looked down at Windston with a smile. “What a curious finding,” he said. “As I fulfill my destiny and rise to meet my challenge, I find you in the Witchee Woods with a sword perhaps more peculiar and rarer than the legendary bird. On top of that, there are the trinkets in the sack, which are perhaps more a treasure than both combined.

  “It truly must be fate. However, there is no such thing as that. So then, who is behind this? Your girl, the tangerine?”

  “What?”

  “Or is it another? There are many powers in this world. Who is behind this meeting, and in such a strange place?”

  “I... don't know,” Windston admitted, confused.

  Clement hopped down from his stump and held up a hand so that the drummers stopped drumming, and the dancers looked at him. “Friends!” he shouted. “I have ingested the golden orb of the parri bird!”

  There was a sudden array of shouts and yips and cheers along with clapping and drum banging.

  “I will become one with this bird within the fortnight. Our peril is over. To the golden sun of the bird, we gaze!”

  More cheering, more drumming, more banging.

  “Our guests!” he said, gesturing at Bombo and Frem, who were stirring, and then Windston, “we have found in need. We will treat them until they are free of the weariness of the woods. To our fallen, we send love! Woe to our enemies, and woe to those who are thinking of becoming our enemies. Let us drink and be merry tonight! In three days, we head north and east, for that is where I feel the heart of this bird! Celebrate! Feast! We are ready to begin our fun!”

  More cheers. More yips. More excitement. More drumming and now also fluting.

  Bombo, who was now seated slumped on a log, held his head, wincing.

  Frem, who had reached out and was gripping at Bombo's wrist, pulled himself up slowly, teetering, before nearly collapsing; one of the dancers saw him and hurried over to stabilize him. To both, he gave flasks and a plate of food. They both sat side by side, staring at their plates as if drunk and near to passing out. Windston knew the feeling as he still slightly felt it. But, more than anything, he felt curious, about Clement, about what he'd said, and about what he'd meant.

  Clement, like the rest of the men, grabbed trays and walked the rounds from dish to dish on stumps surrounding the spit until their plates were full. When he returned to his stump, he beckoned Windston to fill a plate. After he did, he returned and sat on the log beside Clement's stump, beside his sword, which Clement stared at for moments at a time as if he couldn't help it.

  When he was finished eating, he set his plate down on a log beside him and looked once more at Windston's sword.

  Windston, who was nearly finished eating himself, asked him if he wanted to hold it.

  “I do,” he said.

  Bombo and Frem, who had now themselves eaten, both headed toward Windston and sat next to him. They were both still shaky, and Bombo's legs quivered as he sat.

  They both tensed as Clement bent down and grabbed the sword, which he did without flinching; and then he marveled at it, smiling, looking it up and down.

  “It's solid,” he said, “and yet it isn't matter, but energy.” He stood on his stump and swung the blade this way and that. It popped and sizzled and lit aflame, all white in the center, and glowing brightly.

  The others, Clement's men, watched him and spoke among themselves. It was clear none of them had seen anything like the blade, and they noticed that it appeared their master hadn't either.

  “It's strange,” Clement said, “that it appears to be energy in stasis, and yet it's not. That,” he said, “would be simple enough to do. Any man or woman of power could probably pull off the task of making such a blade if they practiced enough with enough diligence. But still; the shape would not be that of a sword, but rather simply a straight beam jagged with flames. This is shaped like a sword, and it is not in stasis, but rather slowed so that it appears to be.” He admired it further, and more closely, and swiped at it with his hand, and popped it with little sparks that came from his fingers as he snapped at it. “This pure energy is slowed and shaped like a sword… but what is this energy?”

  He hopped down from his stump and then lunged at a tree behind him, which he stuck with the blade.

  There was a loud popping sound, and then a whooshing. As he stood there, his hair rose like static, and then the tree began to gray where the blade impaled it. It blackened, and soon that graying and blacking overtook the tree, which wilted, and then, after enough time, shriveled and began to crumble.

  He kicked it over, and it fell away from the camp, although dropping bits and pieces of what had been limbs, which fell apart like ash, withering into dust.

  “It's an energy like I've never felt. It's an energy that draws lesser energy toward greater energy, blends them into one energy, even if that energy is matter. So, it is certain that this energy is nothing more than concentrated focus of intent – intent to draw weaker things into it. Whoever made this is very dangerous. Very, very dangerous.”

  “Why do you say that?” Frem asked.

  “Because whoever made this has not only a complete or near complete understanding of the nature of physical energetic reality, but a godly control of his own focus of intent. That knowledge paired with that ability indicates that the maker of this sword as the ability to effectively change reality as he sees fit.”

  “Why do you say he?” Frem asked while Windston simply stared at Clement, whose hair still stuck out with static, and whose skin sparked here and there.

  “Because the energy that flows here is masculine in origin; that much I can feel, though the rest of what should be obvious has been shrouded, likely by the maker.”

  “So, the person is strong,” Frem said, shrugging and looking at Windston. “So are we.”

  “No, Frem, I don’t think you understand. The existence of this sword means there exists or once did a man who could destroy us all with a mere thought.” He paused, swung the sword once more, and then flipped it around so that the hilt faced Windston. “But he's probably no more. At least, he no longer exists within matter, but rather as an energy that shapes it from another focus of reality.

  “So, this sword is a trinket of a golden past. A blessed relic, a useful and dangerous tool. Keep it in good hands, or do not keep it at all.”

  Windston didn't say anything, just reached for and grabbed the sword, stared at it.

  “How do you know all of that?” Frem asked. “You only looked at it.”

  Clement smiled and shrugged. “The bird has changed me; it appears as though I can know what it knows if I choose. Though I don’t know that this is a permanent change in me, and I fear that I know that it must not be.” He sat back on his stump, but this time he did so facing the boys and Bombo. He looked first at Bombo, smiling, and then at Frem. “I'm glad to see you two awake. You must be made of hearty stuffs. I feared you might sleep for days.”

  “Who is this wizard?” Bombo asked, almost a growl. “And what happened?” he asked Windston. “To me. To you. To Frem.”

  “We got stuck in the Witchee Wood,” Windston said. He nodded toward Clement. “He saved us.”

  “How?”

  “He caught the dog,” Windston said.

  Both Frem and Bombo jerked their heads toward him and stared at him wide-eyed. “How?” Bombo asked again.

  Frem's face twisted into something like disgust. “Yeah, right!” he said.

  “It's true,” Clement said. “I caught the dog, and not for the first time. For I had been stuck in those woods myself, as I told your friend. For a day, almost more.”

  Frem stood but almost collapsed again. It didn't stop him from pointing a finger, smiling, and saying, “Yeah freaking right! Nobody could catch that dog! Nobody! I know that for a fact! I tried!”

  Clement, whose smile as Frem spoke progressively became a chuckle, looked at Windston and said, “Tell him! Tell him what I did!”

  “It's true,” Windston said. “He caught the dog on the log. I saw it myself.”

  “Bull,” Frem said.

  “How?” Bombo asked.

  “It was easy. He was looking at Windston and I jumped up and snatched him, like this!” he said, lurching forward in a flash and returning with a back flip to his stump, only now he was holding something; it was Frem's sack containing the keys to the Adombodee.

  “Hey, give that back!” Frem yelled, standing again.

  “With pleasure,” Clement said, tossing the bag in the air, jumping, twirling, and kicking it so that it landed directly into Frem's outstretched hand.

  But he wasn't finished; he dove forward again and swooped past Bombo; behind him, he landed with a roll and kicked first the ground and then a nearby tree so that he landed back on his stump again, this time after three back flips, three twirls, and on only one foot. On that foot, he jumped and flipped backward, landed on his stump on his hands, and there he stayed, upside down, his silver hair falling all about his face and beyond it, where it rested on and around the stump.

  Bombo felt around at his vest and then his pants. “You steal my gold!” he shouted, pointing at Clement.

  Clement used only one hand to stand and, with the other, reached into his pants pocket and produced a coin sack, which he threw up to his feet; he used those feet to juggle the bag.

  His men, much to Windston's amazement, hardly paid any attention to these feats. At the most, a few of them took turns imitating Clement, and not so badly.

  He juggled the sack only a few times before kicking it back to Bombo, dropping into a couple upside down push ups, pushing off hard so that he flew up in the air, flipping backward three times and landing in a sit on his stump. “Now do you doubt that I caught that dog?”

  “Yes!” Frem said. “Because I can do crap like that, and I didn't catch him.”

  Clement shrugged. “Maybe I do it faster.”

  “Bull!” Frem yelled, standing again. “We can race right now!”

  Clement laughed. “Boy Frem, you are so funny. You are still but teetering slightly away from death, and yet you want to have a race over pride. I see how you survived the woods for… how long?”

  Bombo swallowed. “I think for weeks,” he said. “Two or three. Maybe. Maybe more.”

  “What?!” Clement exclaimed.

  “I think so too,” Windston said while Frem sulked.

  “Why?” Clement asked.

  “Why?” Bombo asked. “Why not? How not? We were stuck. It was like a dream that would not end. A nightmare.”

  “Okay, okay, okay,” Clement said, shaking his head. “How many times did you eat the food?”

  “Every time,” Frem said. “Man, that food was good.”

  “That,” Clement said, pointing, “was your problem. You ate the food. See, I ate it once, and then I skipped it, but it was too late. I slept the first night, and then almost ate the food again because I was starving but left instead.”

  “Left?”

  “You can break the chain if you skip the food. Skip the food and run, either for the exit, or for the center if you're daring. I was daring. But that’s another matter, a secret I should keep until the day I die.”

  As humored as Windston was by the whole conversation, he couldn't stop thinking about his sword and that giant bird that chased Clement when he had that orb. “You should tell us about the bird,” Windston said. He gestured at Frem and Bombo. “They don't even know about it.”

  “Neither do you, to be fair,” Clement said.

  Windston shrugged. “I've at least seen it.”

  “Yeah,” Clement said. “That you have. But there's a lot more to it. And I swear I wouldn't tell you, for I haven't told anyone everything I know – not even my men. But you three are also secret keepers. Or, two of you are.”

  “I know their secrets too,” Bombo said, crossing his arms.

  Frem rolled his eyes and Windston felt sorry for having kept the secret of the keys for so long.

  “Three, then. Regardless, I feel like I can trust you, for you are ignorantly wandering – this I can surely tell – and into what is perhaps your doom, or worse.

  “So, my tale is this: I became king and immediately left my cousin as regent so that I might seek out and find the legendary parri bird, the firebird, in Gorrals.”

  “Where did you leave?” Frem asked.

  The king answered: “Mannley.”

  “Where is that?” Frem asked again.

  “It's far away. West beyond the mountains of Galsia, north beyond that land. It's at the edge of the wilds where drakuls lie on the banks of muddy shores all about long rivers. It is a sacred land, a holy land, and yet no god rules it. It is the last land of the Freeland elves, the last land of the last elves, as far as we can tell.” He parted his hair and revealed pointed ears. “It is my kingdom, my home, and I am its Heath.”

  “Heath?” Bombo repeated.

  “King, if you will. We call it by a different name but it means the same.

  “Still,” the king continued. “I tell my story and you shall listen. For you asked, I am king, and I will have my way.”