Free Moon-Flash by Patricia A. McKillip

glimpsed their freedom. They splashed through the shallows, skimming the boat with them, then hoisted themselves into it and rowed, while behind them a startled flock of yellow birds swept like a shower of leaves out of the trees.
    For a long while then they lost track of time. They let the river carry them through changeless days and starry nights. They slept on soft banks beneath their fur; they swam and fished and tasted strange fruit and counted the number of birds they had never seen before. They made pipes out of reeds and played them when they ran out of stories to tell. The Riverworld seemed as far away as the moon, and they left no traces of themselves along the river for anyone to follow.
    One night the breeze brought them a faint scent ofsmoke and roast fish that seemed to come from nowhere. In the morning, they searched the banks cautiously, but saw nothing, not even charred wood. Later that day as they sailed in a lazy silence, they heard what might have been a light flurry of tiny bells. They watched the shores sharply, but saw no one, until dusk, when a shadow in the sand seemed to detach itself from the twilight and move deeper into the night.
    “It might be an animal,” Terje said.
    “Animals don’t cook fish. They don’t wear bells.”
    “We thought we smelled fish. We thought we heard bells.”
    “People don’t think they hear bells in the middle of a desert. Either they do or they don’t,” Kyreol said. She was cross because she was afraid. But Terje only laughed, guiding the boat into shallows on the other side of the river. Maybe his laughter was reassuring to their shadow, for that night they saw a single flame on the shore across from them. The next morning they saw nothing at all. But at midmorning, as the sun peeled away the last of the night coolness and the river burned as brightly as the sky, they saw a figure striding across the sand dunes along the bank, keeping abreast of their boat.
    It vanished after a while, slipped in the wink of an eye back into the desert. But not before they heard again the teasing shake of bells.
    As they sat at their own fire at dusk, eating fruit and fish, a boy appeared out of the wind in front of them. He had settled himself cross-legged and laid a strange ball in front of Terje, before Kyreol, her mouth hanging open, realized that he hadn’t come out of the air.There were his footprints in the sand. But he had walked so quietly, as quietly as a bird’s wing brushing the evening.
    “Who are you?” she breathed. But he only shook his head, smiling, and prodded his gift. Terje touched it puzzedly. It was big, round, hard as a nut and hairy.
    “Maybe it’s some kind of drum,” Kyreol guessed, rapping it with her knuckles. She transferred her attention back to the boy. He was very tall, very thin, all bones and angles. His skin was dark, but not as dark as hers. He wore a length of black cloth tucked over one shoulder, under one arm, and draped down around his knees. The cloth looped up again, wound around his hips a few times, then was tucked back into itself to make a pocket. His eyes were very dark, his hair dark and curly; his smile was wide and very friendly. He stopped smiling briefly, to gaze back at them, and there was an imperious, watchful tilt to his face. Then his teeth flashed cheerfully, and he unfolded his bony fingers, pushed at the ball again.
    “It’s a game,” Terje guessed.
    “Where does he keep his bells?”
    Terje picked up the ball. He sniffed at it suddenly, then shook it. The boy laughed and held out his hand for it. In the firelight, pictures danced on the underside of his arm, telling a story from his wrist to his shoulder.
    He saw them staring and promptly pulled the cloth down around his waist. The story marched across his chest in vivid colors and odd shapes and then back down his other arm.
    Kyreol stared, fascinated. There were birds in the story, strange signs, bright lines of dots, intricate knotsof color. The