I stepped across an Indian, another, a third.

Then was clear space, the wood, Guarin.

There was no sound save only the constant sound of this forest by night when a million million insects waken.
He took my hand and drew me into the brake and wilderness.

There was no path.

I followed him over I know not what of twined root and thick ancient soil, a powder and flake that gave under foot, to a hidden, rocky shelf that broke and came again and broke and came again.