football team. He excelled to such an extent that his team made its way to the national finals. There he was recruited by colleges, and he went to the best, the most famous and, unfortunately for him, the most exposed. He was measured and inspected almost daily. It could not go unnoticed that his body didn't change. He didn't gain weight. He didn't build muscle. He was exactly the same at allegedly nineteen and then twenty. He won national championships and trophies for his college, but the rumors leaked out, the media picked up the story, and 'the boy who could do no wrong' became 'one of them'. The tables turned quickly on him, and he was suddenly just as reviled as he'd been previously worshiped. Now he was considered a cheater, a phony, a fraud. They suspected him of being much older in years than he was. In fact, he had only been sixteen for a few years by that time, but he was hauled in one day and sent to be "studied".
Barque was a willing participant at first. Always eager, ever optimistic, he was certain they'd find their mistake and set him back on his great path to glory. They didn't. The poked and they prodded and they took lots of samples. They twisted and bent and they drilled lots of holes. They took lots of notes. They kept him a prisoner for who knows how long. All he knew was the food wasn't good and the gym was quite insufficient. He spent most of his time doing jump rope or push-ups or running. He would run for at least twenty miles every day. Finally they simply gave up. Putting him down was considered, but he had such charisma and such were the times they decided to dump him instead. He was lucky at that. Most of his generation were disposed of quite differently. It was an era of "Ultimate Purging".
In the forest he fit in right away. He'd come into the game right away and soon became Striker. He'd found this world to his liking and in a short time had almost completely forgotten the other. Now he sped on his way toward the Particular tree.
"This is good," he said to himself. "It's about time we had something new".
Six
Baudry was in a quandary. In order to get to the Particular Tree, he could either go straight ahead, across the Wide Open Field, or skirt around the edges, which would set him back nearly an entire day. The Field deserved its name. It stretched far across in every direction, almost a perfect circle, and contained little more than low-growing weeds and grasses. It was sometimes used for public gatherings, though these were few and far between. There was no government in Canopus, no organized society of any kind, really. There were no laws, only unwritten rules and customs, which were fairly self-evident, such as 'do unto others' and 'leave well enough alone'. There was practically no one in the forest who still believed in any kind of god. Where there was no fear and no death, there wasn't much of a need for safety valves.
What worried Baudry about crossing the Field was exposure. Once you stepped out into the plain, you were visible and very much so. Peering in from the edges he could easily see that there was no one out there at all. People generally stayed off it, leaving it to the rabbits, snakes, moles and squirrels. It was a happy hunting ground for raptors, but kind of a trap for people. Literally, a people trap, because once you were out there, you were sure to attract not only attention, but company. There were those who remained perched high up in the canopy, waiting and watching for for someone to brave the field and when someone did, down they'd come. Baudry knew the risk, but decided to take it. He didn't want to lose any time, and, saying a brief prayer of sorts that he would make it through at least largely untrammeled, he stepped out onto the plain.
Three steps. All he took was three steps in the open and there she was.
"Oh no," Baudry sighed, but it was already too late. There was no turning back now, because any companion you picked up in the field could only be left on the field if you crossed. Otherwise you could be stuck with them indefinitely.
"Boddery!" she screeched as she swung down from the branch of an overgrown apple tree and flung herself into the field before he could even consider running. Baudry had to pause for a moment to acknowledge her. Anything else would be extremely rude, he understood, but after a brief greeting he picked up his pace and began walking as steadily and as rapidly as he could across the vast lawn.
"Gooshga," he murmured. "You haven't grown".
"Well of course I haven't grown, you silly man," Gooshga cackled as she grabbed a hold of his left elbow and pulled herself alongside him. She was also sixty-four, and had been so for many years, perhaps as many as Baudry. He had met her before on occasion, and prepared himself as best he could for the impending onslaught.
"It's been too long, my friend," she informed him, as he mentally responded that it hadn't been anywhere near long enough.
"Where's your flute?" she asked, peering into his shoulder bag. "I don't see it in here. Have you left it behind? We could go fetch it together. Yes, let's do that," and she tugged at him, but he was considerably stronger and held out, and soon she relented. If she had been able to pull him back into the trees at that point, she could have remained by his side for years and he wasn't going to let that happen, no matter what. He glanced down at the tiny, shriveled creature, her hair all a tangle of gray and white, her wrinkles innumerable. She looked much older than he did. She had not aged well in the outer world. Rumor had it she had lived on the streets, had suffered many hardships and struggled through a difficult incarnation. Now she was here she was happy all the time, and that was only part of the problem.
"We'll make you another flute," she decided after he had refused to respond.
"I've got my sticks, do you see?" she continued, and held out a hollowed out branchlet and a few twigs. "We could make beautiful music together, yes, beautiful, with me on my drums and you on your flute. We did it one time before, did we not? Oh yes, I believe that we did. I would remember such a thing, I certainly would."
Baudry remembered as well. It happened years before, in the days of his innocence, as he liked to express it, before he became fully aware of the implications of their plight. They would remain here forever. They wouldn't ever change, not really. Things might happen, things that would stick, but you'd better be careful what you wished for.
"I heard that the Still People found a new way," she whispered, as if there was somebody else within earshot.
"So I'm told," Baudry replied, and immediately cursed himself for speaking up.
"Yes, a new way," Gooshga went on. "They're making brandy now too, along with the wine. It was all in the straining, they say. Up in the hills they're cranking it out by the barrel. Yes, they have barrels! That's what's new. Someone named Cooper, I think, had figured it out. Why, I can't even make me a basket that holds, and up there, those people have barrels. It makes you wonder now, doesn't it?"
It didn't make him wonder. Not really. Well, maybe a little. Take modern day people and make them live in the stone age, with nothing but wood, plants and rocks, and what do you expect them to do? Of course they will learn how to make things the old way. Of course they'll revert and remember. Now the Still People, as Baudry knew well, liked to stay drunk all the time. It was their way, their solution, and they kept to themselves, didn't bother anyone. Baudry didn't like to go there. There was something indelibly sad about them.
Gazing ahead he could not see the far edge of the forest. It was going to be a very long afternoon. Gooshga would not stop talking. That was her way, the way of all leeches out here in the Field. There would be gossip, and rumors and no letting go. If he wasn't especially careful, he could easily end up saying the wrong words, words which might condemn him to her company even longer. There was a way, a right way, and a wrong way as well. Gooshga was wily. She was sure she could prompt him to say those wrong words.
"You want me to go on my merry way now?" she pestered him, but he knew better than to utter "I do". Best to say nothing, keep the mouth closed.
"Would you like to play with my buddy?" she asked, holding out a small, intricately carved and painted wooden figure of a person. Baudry scanned the object closely. It was very well made, he had to admit. It looked like the work of a master
. There were a number of these in the forests, people who carved figurines which served as a kind of currency as well as a past-time. Others would collect them, trade them, play with them, make up stories about them. Some of the figures were mythical and were said to even have powers. A lot of nonsense was said in this place, he reflected.
"I call him my buddy," Gooshga went on, waving the toy in front of his face, "but he's much more than that. You know who he is, I can tell, and you're right. It's Frijana the Wild. Yes, yes. THE Frijana, the last of her kind. Her sisters were consigned to fire in the last great Freak Out, remember? When the Cave Dwellers came out and rampaged from across the lake. There was the big fire and they threw all her sisters in it. This is the very Frijana that made it out of there undamaged."
Gooshga examined the toy once again before thrusting it back into her skirt. Next she pulled out a stack of identical oak leaves.
"Twenty one," she declared. "All alike. It's not something you see every day."
Again Baudry looked but this time he wasn't intrigued. He'd almost believed the Frijana and wondered how she had got it. Such possessions were rare and not freely given, and stealing was very uncommon. Who would have