At last, sweet success!

Leafdew, as he calls them. A whole garden of the stuff, which means something wicked this way comes, and he needs to drink his fill quickly before the gardener, or if he's unlucky, the gardener's guard animals, or if he's doubly unlucky, the gardener's owner, shows up...

Lick, lick, lick. Mmm. Tastes like honeydew, and sends shivers of energy up and down his spine.

He licks the lowest leaf a few times, then moves on to the next tree, not wanting to take too noticeable an amount from any one plant. It's a little hard to stop each time, which is the main downside of leafdew.

That and he'll be super amped up for the rest of the day or night, which is far from the worst side effect but can get annoying if he would otherwise want to sleep. He's licked enough now to go back to "okay maybe I could eat," which means he's faced with a choice of whether he should trade-off more calories for more zip  and zow, which sounds good now that he considers it, after all he covered a lot of distance today and was lucky enough not to find any monsters so he deserves a few more licks, right?

What was that noise?

Oh shit, someone's moving through the garden, he held still too long and all the little stops along the way added up and it has officially stopped being early morning and become just regular morning.

Shit shit shit, but he's grinning as he runs, because he feels like he can run forever, he feels like he can run right off the planet, or whatever this weird world is, he feels like he could just jump right into the trees as he bursts through the stinging hedges surrounding the garden and leaps-

off a cliff, there was an actual cliff there what the 

"FUUUUUUUUUUUuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck?!"

The ground is obscured by the ever present mist, and he pinwheels arms and legs by instinct, then stops as his bow starts to slide off his shoulder. He turns wildly in mid-air, looking for something to grab onto... the cliffwall isn't too far, trees growing out of it... if he could just reach out and snag a particularly long branch...

The mist gets mistier and mistier. It is cold and wet and by the time he tumbles out of the cloud he's soaking wet.

He's floating. The tumbling was entirely momentum, and he's losing it, against the air in which he's floating.

There are - stars? Weirdly big stars? And... moons? Weirdly close moons, like, he can make out trees and rivers and stuff on the closest one over there?

Ok what the shit in ~4-6(?) years he's been in the Hedge there are weird days and there are weird days and this one just turned really weird and it's still just morning (sort of) why are there stars did he just pass through all the clouds, falling up instead of down and now he's in space?! He didn't know the Hedge had a space!

Oh, quick check, is he getting oxygen with all his gasping still terrified breaths?

Can he tell? (Yes, though.)

He's not passing out, and his lungs don't seem to be burning or anything, which is good enough for now.

Also, he's pretty cold from being soaked, but not, like, freezing or anything?

So... probably not space.

So he can... maybe... just relax, for a moment, and...

Wow.

It's pretty.

It's really pretty.

His breathing levels out, eventually. His pulse is still quicker than normal, but that's from the leafdew.

He drifts for a bit, if he can, and just... lets himself relax and be happy he's not dead, and look at pretty things.

What else does he see, besides the rivers-trees-stuff moon that's... probably not where he came from?

He looks around a bit more. Nothing bigger or closer than that moon, which means...

He doesn't know what it means. Maybe his Hedge is that moon?

Do any of the other moons look... less foresty? If he consults his deepest desires right now, not being surrounded by trees is... nice. At least 1/3 of why he's misty eyed while staring around at all the not-forest prettiness, looking to see what else catches his attention.

There are more moons! They are also surprisingly green and blue for moons but look pretty alive. That one has a desert though.

Hmm. Deserts are about as unforesty as you could get, but also not traditionally fun places to be, and now that the terror, shock, and serenity have all had their turns, he's starting to feel his old wariness returning.

He's not out of danger just because he's not falling off a cliff. In the Hedge ignorance is the enemy, and he's feeling pretty ignorant right about now. In a way, he's in more danger right now, floating calmly through not-space, than he's been in in years.

Others have told him that there are different parts to the Hedge than the one he was caught in. Parts where time didn't work the way he got used to, parts where it was all swampy or snowy instead of lush and green.

Whatever the rules are to this particular part, he'll have to learn them before he does anything too risky. Assuming he did come from the closest moon... assuming it's a tiny representation of his corner of the hedge, maybe? He should stick to what he knows, and experiment later.

Thus resolved, he tentatively starts to try and swim toward the moon, realizing only after his deliberation that he's not really sure if he even has a choice. Is the moon getting any closer?

Swimming... does not really work, or at least doesn't work enough that he can tell by indicators like the moon looking any closer. It can tire him out, though!

Aw geez.

Okay, not panicking yet. This is fine. He's actually quite cold, now that he has more spare mental space to take stock, but he's not injured and not hungry so he has time to figure things out.

Quick inventory check. Did his lucky rocks survive the fall without falling rising out of his pockets?

Wait shit, did any of his arrows? Their tips were stuck through the end of his sheathe for just such situations, but he hasn't tested their stuckness against freefall.

That's between him and his mysterious portal. The interlunar void sure didn't steal his stuff.

Okay, it seems most of his rocks made it through. He'll check which ones later.

Only one of his arrows was lost, leaving him with five. Not a lot, but he won't get far if he doesn't experiment.

He pulls his bow off his arm, then twists and tugs an arrow to pull it free from the leather quiver around his waist. He aims at the nearby moon... then twists around to shoot behind him.

He used to read a lot, back when he had books to read. And a lot of that reading included science stuff, though physics wasn't a big chunk. Still, if this works to move him closer to the moon, he would have no idea if it's because it should, or because things are weird here.

He takes a deep breath, nocks, and releases.

This might work, according to physics, but while he is closer to this moon than he has ever been to any moon before, it's not easy to tell if he's getting closer.

Oh, hey, coming out of the cloudbank over there is a... wooden... space... sailboat?

Part of him is wondering how it's moving. Another part is wishing he had his arrow back. Not that it would matter if some fae lord is captaining that thing, he's utterly screwed if that's the case, but if it's just some random Lost or Other...

One hand falls to ths dagger at his waist. Unlike his arrows, it wasn't made from harvested Hedgesstuff. It's from his world, a stainless steel 4 inch full tang forest knife that he saved up for a full year to get, and only was allowed to because he'd joined the Scouts. It's accumulated some knicks and chips over the years, but its sheathe has a pockef for its whetstone, and he keeps it sharp.

He knows if he has to use it, even against some minor fae, he's probably still done for. But it makes him feel braver, holding it and watching to see if the boat is coming for him or not.

The sailboat doesn't notice him right away. It drifts, crew climbing around in the rigging to point its sails this way and that with astonishing nimbleness, toward the moon with the desert he was eyeing.

When it does notice him, there's a bit of a shout, unless he's imagining it, and they shoot a rope in his direction.

Well. He probably doesn't accomplish anything by not taking it, if they mean him harm.

He puts his bow back over his shoulder, then waits for the rope to reach him and grabs tight when it gets close, heart hammering in his throat and eyes sharp for some sign of who or what the crew are.

They miss but not by much and apparently know how to wiggle a rope so it will go where they want. Once he has a hold of the rope they will start gently rolling it in.

They're humans, in a variety of colors but all pretty similar shapes: long-limbed athletes. They're lashed to their boat to avoid floating away. There are windows, but they're too small for anything very large to go missing through and many of them are shut, though a few open to see what's going on with the rescue.

This is almost certainly some fae plot.

He hasn't seen this many humans in one place since he entered the Hedge.

The idea that they're just... here, so brazenly doing this, just... doesn't really register as possible, and he's torn between guarded skepticism and gawking at the novelty of them. Not just their presence and numbers, but also their clothes... He's been wearing a navy buttonless button up shirt he was able to barter for a ~year ago, and a pair of khakis that were buried in a pile of pants and shorts and bathing suits he randomly stumbled on a few months back.

Whereas they're wearing...

Linen pants, all dipdyed in the same gradient of indigo-to-ecru, and some of them have fingerless leather gloves, and a range of shirt styles from "no" to "buttondown blouse worn open, tits semi-out" to "belted tunic".

Compared to the hodgepodge or worn out nature of everything he's seen on long-term Hedge inhabitants, so much of it is so similar that it has to be the result of civilization. Maybe in this part of the Hedge, there is a human town...?

"Hello?" he tries.

They look at each other, and not like that was an expected thing for him to say. Somebody goes and fetches a younger person, who looks like maybe a really gangly fourteen year old, and try repeating 'hello' to him. He frowns and shakes his head.

"Uh... Hola? Bonjour, shalom... miftik...?" He can't actually speak any other languages, but if he's lucky at least one person here is from his world or a similar one. Or, if they recognize that last one, conclusively not from his world, given he learned it from someone whose described home was very different from his.

The thought makes his pulse quicken, sets off an irregular cascade of subtle ones just above his conscious awareness but too indistinct to focus on right now.

They try a few words of their own, but no successful communication appears in the offing. They let him on the sailboat anyway.

Okay. No problem. People get along without knowing the same language all the time. He just has to... do what they do, and not do anything they don't, and hopefully he won't drastically offend anyone enough that they leave him to float out here again.

Assuming he's not set to be enslaved or something, in which case his alternative is floating in not-space and hoping they leave him alone to try and find safety on his own. All while hoping no one worse comes along.

He keeps looking around, still marveling at the presence of other humans around him. He tries to get a sense of their personalities or culture from the way they're interacting. Is there ongoing conversation between them, implying they do share a language rather than getting by on basic shared phrases? Do they seem stressed out? Suspicious of him? Eyeing his valuables?

The interior of the ship is about what you would expect if for some reason you spent a lot of time imagining a ship intended to operate in zero gravity without having to be pressurized at all. Lots of ways to tie things down and latch cupboards shut, plenty of storage on all sides of the passageways, some open doors as they usher him inside revealing hammocks and shelf-nest-things with roll-down nets to keep one inside, lots of spare rope and water barrels and so on. (They're sealing some of the water barrels they just filled in the cloud they were passing through and everyone doing this task is getting wet.)

They're not only talking to each other, they're singing. In a high register that mostly doesn't interfere with low conversation or booming long distance shouts, they are all singing a song. It's not a simple call and response sea-shanty, either. They all have good voices, they are all participating, and they all seem to have this - six-part? - chorale memorized. They are happy and bemused about him and do not appear inclined to theft nor expect him to knife them in the back.

At first he almost doesn't realize what's happening because he's so distracted by all the newness around him, and by getting used to moving around the inside of the ship by floating from one handhold to the next. He frowns slightly as the singing starts, a little irritated by the way they're slightly missing the keys they should be singing in, or botching the timing and emphasis of each chorale...

What comes to mind are memories of being taken to football games by his uncle a few times. Before every game, someone would sing the Star Spangled Banner. It's a pretty good song, for a national anthem, with some pretty popular and iconic renditions out there.

And the singers that would come out for each game, they were usually pretty talented. But none of the ones he heard sing it at the games ever gave a straightforward rendition. They all put their own flourishes, sang it to their own timing, some extra emphasis here, a prolonged pause there, and something about the combination of the song being so memorable and the occasional jarring off notes always made it more annoying than enjoyable, to him.

That's what listening to this not-sea-shanty is like. Objectively he can tell they have good singing voices, pleasant to listen to, but as a whole, somehow what he feels is dissatisfied, bordering on uncomfortable.

At first he chalks it up to the unfamiliar and stressful situation he's in, but after the third chorale he becomes more consciously aware of the feeling, and his frown deepens.

Why would he feel that way about a song he's never even heard before?

Wait... are they singing in English?

No, definitely not, but somehow he can still understand them!

"What the hell," he whispers, then shuts up so he can pay more attention to each verse.

Most of the song is actually just pretty oo-ing and aa-ing, but the chorus goes, "Sing of our fortune, to be here today! To look at the sky and to sail it! Sing of our fortune to eat bread and sing, to love one another and dream!" - it rhymes in the original.

He hurries away from any of the people singing and toward two people speaking in a corner careful not to trip over any of the ropes tied around things to keep them in place.

...Nope, he can't suddenly understand their language. He thinks it's the same one, the structure and sounds are similar enough, but...

Wait, one of them just said "eat." He recognizes it from the song, it's the same word... there must be some magic at work here, some magic of this part of the Hedge or maybe even the boat that makes their music legible...

The background thoughts are taking up more space as more and more thoughts cascade and bump against each other, the tiny confusions fusing into a growing lump with a constant pull on his attention that becomes impossible to ignore, and suddenly, between one blink and the next, the world seems to shift around him as he sees everything with fresh eyes.

The crew have no Hedge scars.

They have some scars, their hands are rough from their labor, there are regular scars here and there, signs of accidental injuries, or maybe even combat...

But...

He floats in a daze over to one of the shirtless men, gaze on the dark skin of his muscular arm. It's practically pristine, with none of the white scratches he's seen on everyone in the Hedge. The newest person he ever met in the Hedge had only been there for a few days, and they already had a couple lines on their cheeks and the backs of their hands.

Danny's own body has accumulated dozens of white lines over the years, so dense and numerous that they practically form sleeves along his arms and shoulders. Most of the thorns and brambles in the Hedge won't cut deep enough to bleed, but every bush you rub against will prick you at least once, and from what he heard of other parts of the Hedge that's universal. It's inherent to what the Hedge is, a fundamental property of its... manifestation of... something, he forgot the exact words the Lost had used to describe it.

Which must mean...

His arms feel weak, and he angles himself so that his back finds a wall for him to slide down to the floor, out of everyone's way. His bow hangs to the side and arrows digging uncomfortably into his lower back.

He's not in the Hedge. Somehow, maybe even mid-fall... he made it out.

He's escaped.

He attracted some attention when he suddenly rushed over to the people having the conversation but when he doesn't do anything weird and seems calm everybody goes back to what they were doing. A middle-aged lady beckons him in a direction.

Danny tries to discreetly wipe his face, takes a deep breath, then swallows and takes another, less watery one. He shouldn't jump to conclusions. This could all still be a trick or... maybe what he heard before was wrong, or maybe these people spend all their time in flying boats...

Still, he feels light as a feather when he lifts himself up to follow the woman, and it's not all because of the weird gravity of this place.

Walking doesn't work super well; he should probably imitate her in grabbing handholds and throwing himself down the hall.

She shows him to a room with hammocks. Would he like this hammock? Or at least that's one plausible understanding of her gestures.

Yeah, he's been mostly imitating whatever he sees other people doing as best he can, though they're clearly more adept at doing it without bumping into things. 

He looks at the hammock, still feeling emotionally wobbly. This would be... for him? He could just sleep here. Without having to worry about... anything?

He wipes at his eyes again, and nods to the woman, hoping that translates. He considers trying to communicate with her through some of the words he's somehow learned... Fortune, love dream? But he's pretty sure that would just confuse her, so he just unstrings his bow, then ties it and his quiver to the hammock before tentatively lying in it so that its ropes surround and keep him in place.

He's pretty sure he won't be able to sleep. He's still amped up from the leafdew, and he's surrounded by strangers, and the muffled singing continues to mildly grate on him, and the floaty sensations are hard to get used to.

Plus, despite everything, he can't quite trust that this is all going to end well for him.

But it's been a long day, his body has gone through many different emotions in the past hour, and at the very least, closing his eyes with one hand wrapped around his dagger handle lets him doze.

He will be obliged to sleep through crew members who are using the same room, but they just go in, sleep, and leave; they politely have all their wild orgies in other rooms.

He wakes every time someone else enters or leaves, but only glances around, clutching his knife, before relaxing again as he confirms that nothing is threatening him.

He also wakes randomly on his own, from dreams of finding himself back in the Hedge.

Sometimes there's a bird singing in his dreams, and the song is beautiful, the melody similar to the song the sailors are singing, but with better timing and in all the proper notes. He wakes from these dreams slightly more irritated with the singing each time, and wishes he could plug his ears with something.

Each time he wakes, his hands move to his lucky rocks and arrows and bow, assuring himself they're still there.

Each time he dozes, his hand loosens around his knife handle, but doesn't move away.

They'll let him sleep as long as he seems to want to. People on all sleep shifts use these hammocks.

Eventually wakes and doesn't drift back into half-consciousness for a while. He hears creaking wood as the boat subtly shifts, and muted footsteps and conversation from other parts of the ship, the breaths of others sleeping around him.

There's something... nostalgic about it. Deep memories of being a kid and lying in bed and hearing people still up elsewhere in the house. Hearing people around, period, feels strange, and makes his chest ache as he breathes in.

The day started so normally. It's hard to know what to do next, what he should be feeling, given how much has changed.

Eventually he gets restless at the thought of continuing to lie there in ignorance of what comes next, and he carefully eases his way out of the hammock, then back the way he came, moving toward the upper decks. Toward the open sky, if no one stops him, so he can grab a rope to tie back around himself and see where the ship is headed.

His emergence causes a bit of a hubbub!

Not too long after he begins causing this hubbub, a redheaded girl - thirteen? Maybe fifteen? - bursts forth from the crowd, beaming at him. "Good morning! I'm Chesabit, I'm new - so where are you from, what's your name?"

He did his best to understand if the hubbub was an indication that he should go back down, but there's nothing that seems threatening in it, and the restless part of him stuck its chin up at the idea of staying shut in any longer.

Until the sudden surprise, and relief, of someone else speaking English shocks him into a smile.

"Hey, good morning." Is it? Or is she just saying it because he woke up? "Man, it's a relief to hear someone else speaking English. I was wondering how far I ended up from home." A brief surge of something in his chest, something that hitches his breath. He'll think about that later, when he can ask more questions. "Nice to meet you, Chesabit. I'm Danny, from New York. Do you know New York? America?" His gaze drops from her face to her hands, and a note of confusion threads through him again.

He doesn't see any Hedge scars on her either.

She is completely scar-free. Her complexion is as perfect as a baby's.

"No, I've never heard of it, the captain just made me knowing your languages. And six weeks early but they worked out the math and it'll all shake out all right. You're not far from Ivory. How'd you get here?"

His heart sinks, and then he blinks, wondering if he missed a word, or if she's speaking some dialect that has different grammar than he's used to. "I came from the Hedge... sorry, hang on, the captain made you... learn my language? While I was sleeping? How does that work?"

"...same way it always does? I wasn't due to be made till after the next two ports but we've got slack in the supplies, and nobody knew anything you spoke, so here I am."

"...I think we're still missing each other, but I'm happy enough that it works as well as it does, and that they sent you." It would be even more surprising if it worked perfectly; all the magic he's ever seen has some weirdness that came with it too, or would cause some further down the line. He knows some fae can walk through people's dreams, and it's possible she did that to learn his language, which would also explain some of the mixed words.

Maybe he should ask about the singing? No, not important right now. "So, uh, is it okay if I ask what's going to happen to me?"

"Unless you have some huge objection to being put off at the next port that's sure what's easiest for us. But it's possible you'd want to stay aboard a little longer to learn more Cluster so you won't have to hope someone on the round also has plans to make a new person sometime soon and can throw in your language on top."

Right, whatever they did for her to learn his language is probably hard or expensive in some way, and they probably wouldn't be able to spare a translator just walking around with him all day...

"Learning the language is probably a good idea," he says. "I don't mean to impose, I'm really grateful you guys picked me up, but it would also probably be good to know more about the ports... moons? You'll be stopping in, so I know if I'll be welcome at any of them." He looks around for a place for them to sit, and wonders if the gawkers would get tired of watching the conversation if they can't understand what they're saying. "Would you mind explaining a bit more about this world, and what the next few places you'll be stopping are like?"

"Rounds," she says. "Is the most literal translation. Moons doesn't seem right to me but I don't think I've ever seen a moon so I couldn't say why. We go to trade hubs, nowhere weird, and the next stop isn't a really strict proleround where they'll be picky about how you were made. The one after that is, though, they won't let you disembark unless you have a whole pedigree." She rolls her eyes.

Sitting is impossible but they can park in an alcove.

It reminds him a bit of sitting on a bunk bed during summer camp to talk with his friend Matt after hours in their cabin, except the content is more like his halting exchanges with some of the people he met in the Hedge. "Let me see if all that translated okay... so when you said round earlier you didn't mean like..." His mind grasps for the word, comes up empty. Doctors make rounds... what are 'rounds' actually? Turns in a game... points where things start? Or stop, in the doctor's case. "...Stops, you meant the, uh, not-moons... small planets? Which are where you make stops, but you meant the small planets themselves.

"And each port you go to is at a trade hub on a round, but it's not the port that matters, it's the type of round it's on. And the next round won't care where I'm from, but the one after that is a... proleround." Does it matter what a prole is? "And prolerounds care about where I'm from. So they won't let me off the ship without... a passport? Documents showing I'm not a criminal? Something like that?"

He gets a sinking feeling as he considers that, the obvious next thought being... "Also, what do you guys use for money? I don't have much of value, except maybe a couple of my lucky rocks." He pulls out a few to show her.

Sharpy is an obsidian arrowhead that never seems to chip the way most would. He found embedded in a tree maybe a year ago, after which it thanked him for pulling it out and offered him one of three boons, all of which sounded like too-good-to-be-true traps. It got mad when he tried to politely decline, and so he assured it the arrowhead was payment enough, which mollified it enough that he could leave. He's been saving it in case he needs something sharper to tie around the end of one of his arrows.

Shiny is a piece of white stone unlike any he saw on Earth. It soaks in light when exposed to it, then slowly leaks it out through the crack across the surface over the course of a few hours. He found it shining in a river one night, and it's saved his hide a few times. He gives it an affectionate rub, glad it made it through the fall.

Skipper is a really great skipping stone. He's not sure if it has any special properties, but it feels really good in his hand, and he just knows that when he finally throws it it's gonna bounce at least a dozen times.

Then there's Ruby, which may in fact be an actual ruby the length of his pinky, but he has no idea what those look like when uncut or unpolished. It's a pretty, deep red color, in any case, and was given to him as a gift by one of the Lost he befriended years ago.

"We've got all kinds of money on board, since we're a sail, but I gotta admit I don't recognize those and wouldn't know what they're worth! Prolerounds don't care where exactly, they care what you're like and if they can be sure that's how you are, does that make sense? Way more than 'not a criminal', they're so picky. I think I have enough documentation to go to ground on some of them but nobody on board more than ten years old does except a couple of the officers, the proleround didn't use to be in this area and only drifted in around then..."

"It sort of makes sense." It leaves him pretty screwed either way, since he can't really prove anything to anyone about what he's "like." He puts his rocks away, trying to parse the "ten years old" comment. He hasn't seen any kids around until he met her, maybe the rest are just staying out of the way...

"How quickly do the rounds move, compared to the ship? If I get off on the next one, would you guys be coming back around before it drifts away, or not? And if proleround won't let me off, what about the round after that?"

"Oh, rounds are lots slower than sails. They don't move with the wind, they just... go. It's really complicated to explain, I know all about it but I have no idea where I'd start to describe it to you... we'd hit the next round again a dozen times before it made sense to rethink our route. What round is New York on?"

"Earth. We call it a planet, but it's where everyone lives. We have one other 'round' nearby, our moon, but no one lives there, it's too small and has no air. All the other rounds in our solar system are way too far to sail to. Well, you could, but it would take months or years. And a very different kind of ship." He smiles. "Our space isn't as friendly as yours."

"It has... no... air?" she blinks. "It's... all water...?"

"Oh, no, no water either. It's totally empty between the moons and planets, the rounds I mean, and the stars."

"Empty in a way where there - look here, I don't think that makes sense. Air's what fills a hole if you dig one and you can't dig a hole that doesn't happen to."

"Sure, but the air comes from somewhere, right? If there's some that goes in the hole you dig, there's a bit less that was somewhere else. I think my world's space is something like what you'd get if all the air gets stuck in a few really deep holes, which Earth is one of."

"You're from... a... hole. - no, you know what, I don't think I believe you, that's just too farfetched. There is no way you will ever be able to live on a proleround but we can let you off at the next stop, okay?"

He's a little taken aback at her abrupt dismissal, but after a moment he realizes these people may be as ignorant of other worlds as most people on Earth were.

He took for granted by the casual way they brought him on board that, if they don't mean him ill, they're used to random people from the Hedge appearing in need of help.

That and the obvious oddness of this place made him assume they'd be open to the idea of other odd things.

But of course it's not odd to them. And he should probably be treating this more like... like an alien landing in the ocean back on Earth and being pulled into a fishing boat. If the alien looks human, why would anyone assume he was anything other than an unfortunate castaway?

"Right. Well, whatever you can teach me of your language and w-and the rounds, before then, I'd appreciate it. What's the deal with your music, anyway?"

"What about it?"

"I can understand it. Or at least, I think I can." He repeats what he heard. "That meant 'to look at the sky and to sail it,' right?"

"Yes. So you know a little Central already, great, what gives you trouble with it?"

"I don't,  though. I mean other than that song I know nothing, and I only heard any when I got on the boat." He's getting a sinking feeling...

"Had you maybe heard a translation?"

"No."

The sinking feeling is getting worse. She's not acting like there's some obvious answer, here. So it's not the boat or the song or the world.

It's him. 

Or rather, it's some Hedge magic he brought with him. Something inherent to the part he was in, maybe, or something he saw or ate or, more likely, heard...

Damn it. This one's not dangerous at least, but what other magic is hiding inside him like booby traps, waiting for the right trigger? How many things did he eat or touch thinking he got lucky enough to find something without any weird effects?

And how long will it last? Forever? Or is it "recent"...

"Can you try... if this isn't weird, if it's not offensive to ask..." Alien, he's an alien in a normal world who's being mistaken for someone of another... country, or something. "Could you sing me a song?"

"I don't know any in English, but I can sing you something in Central or Spollan or Aamiqun or Tlanibek or - do you care what kind of song at all?"

"Is Central the most common language? Actually, whatever is spoken most on the round you'll be dropping me off. Please."

"I mean, most people will speak most things, but Central's got the widest spread, yeah." She tips her head and takes a deep breath and sings.

"I want a lover with eyes like a star
With fingers that dance when they spin
With a smile that draws every eye to her face in whatever room she is in*
I want a lover with wits like a vine
Who sings like the daydream she is
Who awakens anew and leaps on me at once with her eagerness now to be mine
And as soon as my lover who's aging
Who's wrinkled and no longer spry
Is buried beside all the past lovers out by the roses, 'twill be time to try
To make myself this perfect lover
Who's beautiful, brilliant and bold,
And if I am better than my wife at this, then she'll love me still when I am old!"

*I tried not to rhyme but it didn't work.

Once again, Danny has the immediate feeling of offness as he listens to her sing. Chesabit's voice is fine, but he has to restrain himself from shifting uncomfortably, and he realizes he's frowning. He quickly schools his expression, not wanting to offend her, but... he's sure there's a better way to sing this, he didn't consider himself a music snob before but it's so obvious even if he can't articulate why...

Still, grating as the song is, he understands the meaning of its words on some deep level that makes it easy to remember each. Not every word translates one to one, there are differences in the languages that make some concepts single words that English would have to stretch into multiple, but he also feels like he's getting the subtle differences in the meaning of the words from English equivalents.

Despite the weirdness of learning a language through song, and the irritation he feels from the unartful rendition, he also still feels warmth creeping up his neck from the subject matter. It's not particularly explicit, but it still manages to be evocative, and make him extra aware of the women on the ship.

He's been trying not to focus on them too much. It's hard to tell if everyone is really as attractive as they seem, or if it's just his unfamiliarity with being around so many people again.

He clears his throat once she finishes, and tries to piece together the words he's learned into a phrase he doesn't mind saying. "I want bread. What room is mine? I, uh, no fortune. Eagerness to try... better fortune. How was that? Did it make sense?"

She winces. "Barely! Are you saying you... understand Central but only if it's a song - I didn't even know that was possible -"

"Yeah, it seems kind of ridiculous to me too, but I..." He almost says don't know how else to explain it, but that wouldn't be true. "I think it's pretty easy to test. Could you..." Ugh, it's actually kind of hard to ask this knowing it'll probably sound off again... "Could you sing more? A different song, uh, maybe not a... love song?"

"Mm-hm, sure." She sings one about beekeeping and collecting honey.

His arms fidget as he listens, trying to ignore the mental stumbling sensations around each verse and focus on the words, which are marginally more likely to be generally practical than the previous song's. "Good morning, I'm eager to labor for room and bread. I'm fearless of bees." 

"Oh, of course you can have some chores on the ship, if you know how, what are your skills?"

What are his skills...?

"I can climb," he says after a few moments of thought. "I can weave nets and tie knots. I've done a lot of hunting and field dressing, though someone would probably have to teach me what's safe to eat or not, or what pelts are worth cleaning. I... don't know if there are pirates around here, or situations where fighting would be valuable, but I've made it through a few."

He tries to think of something else, but most of the skills he's developed over the years in the Hedge aren't likely to be useful here, and before that... "I know some math? And science, though... uh, not all of it might be the same here, I guess. I can make a fire in a few different ways, and cook okay, I think. I made a raft once. I made a hang glider too, but that one didn't go as well. Still, it mostly worked." He shrugs. "I spent the past few years surviving in the woods, basically, and before that a lot of my time was spent reading and... kind of training to survive in the woods, except most of the stuff I had to learn to survive I wasn't taught."

"...okay, and which of those things do you know how to do without gravity?"

"...I'm a fast learner?"

"Okay, let's go see if you can be useful in the galley. Don't even try with the fire, fire on a ship is awful, but you can peel things or something."

Peeling is easy! He's peeled so many things. Some chopping and mashing and grinding, too.

Hm. Those last two probably are harder without gravity.

...what are we peeling/chopping/etc?

The cook, when Chesabit shows Danny to the galley, is doing baked potatoes and (through Chesabit translating) sets Danny to scissoring some scallions to stuff into them, under a bowl shaped to keep at least most of the scallion rings from flying about the room while letting Danny get his hands in there. "We eat a lot of baked potatoes, they're good ship food," volunteers Chesabit, accepting a net full of hot stuffed ones to go distribute to crew members. "Back in a minute."

The ship chorus, which the chef is participating in, is presently about a round that passed through an unusually huge rainstorm and flooded dramatically.

His hands are actually rather nimble, and he wasn't exaggerating when he said he was a fast learner. After a few minutes of trial and error while carefully watching the way the others work, he's not obviously messing up anymore, and a few minutes after that he gets confident enough to even work faster than some of his neighbors are.

It's a little surreal, working with others to do something so casual without having to constantly look over his shoulder. The companionship, and clear sense of comradery, almost makes it fun...

...if not for the singing.

He almost cuts himself a couple times just from the distraction of it, and has to remind himself that at least he's learning the language. He'll be very prepared for all sorts of weather related conversations.

The next song is about different kinds of knots.

This probably isn't worse than having to learn the language normally, though in another couple hours he might change his mind.

He internally crosses his fingers for a song about money, or hunting, or world-traveling-home-seeking-aliens.

By the time the kitchen has stopped slinging baked potatoes and started slinging something like cornbread or tamales (they bake in corn husks, since there's no way to keep them from floating around inside the oven compartments) they have gotten to a song that features somebody's trip to market. It has an improvisational section and sometimes he doesn't hear what has been added to the increasingly unwieldy shopping list till it's been repeated a couple times in the pre-chorus.

Okay, this is better. He's a little surprised that he recognizes all the food being mentioned, and reminds himself not to make too many assumptions. So far the stuff he's handled has been mostly like what he'd expect on earth, though the corn is in colors he's never seen. He hopes he can eat it safely.

By the end of the market song the he's got a headache, or maybe it's the unfamiliar feeling of being in a relatively crowded space. His thoughts are getting scattered every few seconds, and he excuses himself with a few of his new words ("Rest now, return later") and floats his way back up to the ship deck for some fresh air and hopefully a break from the music?

There's a hull, not so much a deck. He can, if he likes, exit to the hull, and tie himself on and watch the rounds and suns.

He'll do that for a bit, yeah.

There's still singing out here, since there's people operating the sails - it requires a lot of active and three-dimensional maintenance to keep the ship going in the right direction - but it's a little more distant than the echoing inside, at least.

God, don't their throats get tired?

It's fine. It's not all around him anymore, and while his headache doesn't fade, he feels his muscles slowly relaxing.

He's just going to drift a bit, and try not to worry about how bad this musical aversion might get. Or what other surprises might be waiting to mark him as unfit to be around others.

How close is the round now, anyway?

They might get there in a day or two.

Right. A day or two, to learn enough of the language that he can get by in whatever society is waiting for him on the round, because the life of a sailor seems not for him.

Unless the music gets more tolerable, he's pretty sure he'll lose his mind eventually.

He thought he dodged the madness, in the Hedge. Everyone else he met was touched by it, one way or another, sooner or later, but he really thought he made it through okay, all things considered.

Okay. That's enough of that.

He's alive. He's still human, he thinks. He's mostly sane. He's got all his limbs. He's even still got most of his awesome rocks.

And he's out of the Hedge.

That's a miracle all on its own, and he's going to appreciate it much more when he's around people who aren't singing all the time.

Plus, he needs better goals. He's not just going to get enough language to get by. He's gong to try and find someone who's aware of other worlds and how to get to them.

And, he's going to teach people here about the fae and the Hedge, and what to look out for if they end up there.

It's something he promised, years ago. A promise to the world, and to himself, for if he made it back home. No matter how crazy people might think him, it would be worth doing if even a single other person who heard him remembered, when they needed to.

No reason to wait until he gets to Earth for that. He'll just need to make sure he can navigate the culture here, first.

He takes another look around, enjoying the beauty of this strange world again, letting himself bask in the feeling of being somewhere that his younger self would have absolutely loved to explore.

Then he heads back inside to see if there's still food that they need help preparing.

The kitchen operates around the clock, since the sails do and the crew must. They're baking eggs in their shells and serving them with sliced cheese and bread rolls; the bread rolls are baked all stuck together around a roughly spherical rock which has protrusions sufficient to wedge in the oven but come out again easily if turned.

He's not actually hungry yet, the leafdew is going to sustain him for a while, but it's been so long since he had any sort of cheese or bread that he happily takes one to try.

He forces himself to keep chewing and swallow, then take another bite. He doesn't want to waste their food, or seem ungrateful.

But it's hard. It's like the music all over again, but on his tastebuds...

No, the food tastes fine, really. Almost good? Almost. He can sort of sense that it's something he would otherwise enjoy.

But the feeling of offness is there again. Not in the texture, not even in the flavor, which is only slightly different than what his brain was expecting from distant memories of breakfast sandwiches from Dunkin Donuts or Burger King.

It's the lack of something more. It's like whatever he's eating is... empty or lifeless in some vital way. Like he's just eating paper that's shaped and flavored to seem like real food.

He's not sure what he's going to do if all food is like this for him, now. He can probably avoid music, but  once the leafdew is out of his system, forcing himself through meals three times a day is going to suuuuuck.

He manages to finish his food, then starts wandering the ship, searching for any areas where songs he hasn't heard before are being sung.

They haven't repeated any songs yet, actually, they all seem to know a ton of them. The most useful vocabulary he comes across is a song about building a house, since it has measurements and stuff.

Oh man, yeah, numbers. He forgot about numbers. It would probably be useful to know the full arithmetic set.

If he happens to spot Chesabit and she's free, he'll ask if there are any nursery songs she can sing him about numbers or farm animals or household appliances or whatever.

"Songs for... sick people...?"

"Huh, 'nurse'ry, I never thought of it like that... but no, I mean for babies. Or really young kids, you know, to teach them basic words."

"I don't know any of those, sorry, kids aren't very popular on ships!"

"Right... wait, have you lived on ships your whole life?"

"...I was made yesterday, remember?"

"Okay so just to be super clear when you say 'made' you mean literally made. Like you didn't exist before yesterday. You're... one day old. And... a robot?" That would kind of explain how she learned his language in a day.

Wait no it wouldn't. Not without them also having a way to pull knowledge from him, which sounds more like... a fetch?

Don't fetches not know they're fetches? Isn't that the point?

But maybe that's not how it works here. Or his information was bad in the first place.

The sheer weight of his ignorance feels overwhelming, suddenly, heart pounding as everything around him feels slightly less real than it had a minute ago.

Maybe he didn't leave the Hedge after all.

"I don't know what a robot is. I'm a normal person and one day old. I'm pretty sure I told you this - how else would I know a language nobody knew we were going to need till you showed up?"

"A robot is like... a machine. Where I'm from 'making' people other than through birth, as babies, is... not a thing. Neither is instantly learning new languages." Neither are robots that could pass as human, but it was probably possible, at least. Hell, maybe they figured it out after he left.

"I assumed your people used magic, like..." Come to think of it he hasn't seen any magic here yet. The ship seems magical, but only because this whole place is weird. "How did you learn my language? And how exactly were you 'made?'"

"...uh, a lot of those questions are... just... wrong? They have wrong assumptions about the world in them. Just to be clear there. I didn't learn your language, I was made knowing it. The captain made me; my plans were already mostly drawn up but I'm here a bit early specifically to talk to you. I didn't exist and then I did. People don't... give birth? That's a livestock thing. Presumably also wild animals. And whoever made you was clearly awful since you've got all these confusions and problems on top of having been left floating in the air."

He is rapidly switching back to "none of these people are actually human," regardless of what they might look like.

Her last words also make it clear that explaining where he's actually from is going to probably not go better than last time, if people here can be actually made to have whatever knowledge their creators want.

There's a part of him that learned to question everything his senses told him, that's held constant vigilence against fae glamour for years now, and it only has been able to work because it took certain things for granted. Those things include his history, his memories, his sense of self. Otherwise he would have descended into a solipsistic madness years ago, unsure if New York and his life there had been real.

He's seen it happen to others. He made a deal with himself that it wouldn't happen to him.

Which maybe isn't something totally sane people do to begin with. But it's worked out okay. He thinks.

In any case, it's the main reason all this isn't sending him down a spiral of existential doubt, and instead making him realize with a sinking feeling that he's going to sound a special kind of crazy to people here when he starts talking about the Hedge. Or not "crazy," maybe, just... obviously delusional for understandable reasons.

Hell, he's now realizing that just talking about Earth probably made her assume he was... "made" with fake memories?

This is so much worse than a human-looking-alien landing in the ocean by a fishing boat.

Or... is it possible she doesn't actually know the truth?

They made her to speak with him. She knows she was made, but... if she's the only one they expect him to talk to, she could be unknowingly misleading him about how their world actually works, after being "made with" knowledge that's incomplete or just false.

But they've treated him with nothing but kindness so far, and if he assumes they've got sinister plans then there's not much he can do about it right now.

"Does that happen often?" he finally asks. "People being made like... with fake memories, left to die?"

He almost said "like me," but that would have been too close to a lie by giving her the impression he believed it about himself.

"No! It's not normal at all! Even outside of prolerounds someone has to be a few generations down of strange to do something awful like that. If you were from a cannibal round and had escaped into the air somehow, that'd be one thing, but there aren't any places that bad in this whole sector."

Cannibal round is definitely going in the box of "things he'll ask about later." 

It's a big box.

"...how much of a commotion is it going to cause on the round I'm going to if people think that's where I'm from? Will I be mostly ignored, or taken to police or... some kind of social services, or political leaders?"

Please don't say dissected.

"If they thought you were from a cannibal round? Well, cannibals often make people at complete random, it doesn't mean anything about you - so it'd mean no one was quite sure of you but they wouldn't expect you to be a cannibal too, not with regular food around. If you want to be let alone somewhere to be a woodcutter or a farmhand I don't think you'll have any trouble with that."

He feels himself relax... slightly. "What if they just learn how I was found, and assume some terrible person made me with weird beliefs and left me floating? Is there something they would try to do to figure out where I'm from?"

"If you don't have anything for them to go on about the nature of the terrible person? I don't think there's a good way to find out. I guess they might look into what ships have been passing through the area and see who would have had a chance to make you or pick you up and might be guilty of doing the one or not doing the other but honestly I don't expect them to ever be found. What a senseless crime, though, usually people who make somebody badly want something out of the arrangement..."

What she's picturing seems similar to parents abandoning a child in an alley, after years of brainwashing. It's not a comfortable way to imagine people thinking of him, but he's still probably missing some context.

"Why are new people normally made, and who decides? You said you weren't going to be made so soon, whose decision was that? Do you have parents on board?" He hesitates. "Do you even use that word, for people?"

"...parents? That's for... no, that's for kids, I'm not a kid and don't have parents. On the ship it's the captain's decision and he made me. I was planned to replace someone who's going to retire."

Distant memories of dystopian books tickle the corners of his attention, but far closer are stories of how fae society treats captured humans. People on the boat seem happy enough, and the way she talks makes it seem like they consider what she thinks was done to him a crime, which is promising about other sorts of social norms for how people are treated... except maybe on the cannibal rounds, or the "prolerounds," which she might not know as much about.

Still, he has to ask. "Do you have to replace them? If you decide you don't want to be a sailor, do you... owe the captain labor or anything?"

"Wow, no, if he made a mistake and I turned out not to want to be a sailor that'd be his problem!"

Okay. That's pretty reassuring. Though if he made a mistake... 

"So people can just make any kind of person they want, whenever? What you like, what you know... how you look?" It would explain why everyone on the ship is so athletic and attractive. "What you're good at? Anything else?"

"...everything? If you don't specify something it gets filled in at random so that's a terrible way to go about it. But if you're bad at it and pick things that don't gel together you get a lot of drift."

He's not sure what "drift" implies, exactly, but he's having trouble prioritizing what questions to ask next.

"Can I see someone being made? Or whatever the place where people are made is like, before they're finished? I think a lot of my questions will get answered faster that way." He may have even more additional questions after, of course.

"- no, you can't see someone being made! We don't need anybody else, I was already early! And don't get it into your head to make anyone yourself either, who knows how that would end up. It doesn't look like anything in advance, I don't know what you're imagining - it's not like we're, I don't know, built out of straw -"

I was thinking twigs and glamour, actually. Or grown in a big cloning vat.

It's a fairly specific denial, the kind he's learned to listen for...

"Look," he says after a moment. Alien in the ocean who they think is a baby left by a garbage bin with fake memories. "I know you were made with a bunch of knowledge, so a lot of things probably seem really obvious to you. Like the gravity thing. But to me, the idea of people just appearing out of nothing is... very obviously magic. Does that word translate? Do you have something you'd call magic here, or... sorcery, or witchcraft, or even something like miracles?"

"No... I mean, I agree that the word magic fits how people are made, in English, but we don't have any other things like it."

Huh. He would be surprised if that's the case, but maybe the rest is just weird physics? "Is it... expensive, to make someone? Does it take a lot of work or effort? What stops people from making slaves?"

"Wait, let me guess: there are slave rounds, like cannibal ones?"

"I think... the connotations of 'slave' are wrong? Like, I'm made to do my job and want to do my job and maintain ship discipline by following orders from the captain, right, and if he made it so I... didn't like it... that would just be a mistake, and given that I do like it he doesn't need to do anything else to make me stay. And he was made by the last captain himself, there's no way for the ship to slide into being horrible for no reason since it didn't start that way. Prolerounds are a little more like what you're thinking, but still not quite it. It takes a lot of effort to make people well and almost none to do it badly."

"Yeah, that's what I was afraid of. I'm not really against making people who like certain things and then having those things around for them to do. I think I just have... uh..." He runs a hand through his hair, trying to find a way to describe what years of reading science fiction, followed by some sideways glances and brief encounters with what the fae do,  have left him with.  "A lot of borrowed, speculative wisdom, gut feelings, and bad memories about what happens if a whole society does something kind of like what you're describing. Less if I know they can do it perfectly, but not, like, zero?"

He sighs. "And if it requires effort to do it well, then I bet people won't always do it well. Though I guess if you only make people who would only make people if they would put lots of effort in... maybe that works. But I guess I expect it to go much better in some places, like this ship, but get stuck in a bad place elsewhere."

"Well, I mean, when nobody's trying to make everything work out well, you wind up with things working out badly, I don't see how that wouldn't wind up being the case really. We're certainly not stopping on any cannibal rounds and even if we did we wouldn't send you off on one."

"Appreciated."

He wonders how much of a problem this will actually be on the round he ends up on. So long as people aren't being forced to do anything, it's... hopefully fine?

"Oh, back to my original question, sort of... if you don't have songs for newly made people, do you have songs about, uh, making people, at least?" That would be a very different question, where he's from.

Oh, how many toes will my new neighbor have
To stand on while we till the field?
Ten, ten for the generations afore me, who have tilled this round.
Oh, how many tongues will my new neighbor know,
To sing with while we reap the field?
Nine, nine, the same as mine, and then one more the sailors found.
Oh, how many trades will my new neighbor work,
To keep busy in the fallow field?
Eight, eight, so none will rust, to smith and weave and more besides.
Oh, how many skills will my new neighbor hone,
To enjoy while summer* grows the field?
Seven, seven, to share with me, to sing and dance and more to charm.
Oh, how many lovers will my new neighbor take,
From those who already work the field?
Six, six, me and that houseful and him, to snuggle warm against the snow.
Oh, how many fingers on my new neighbor's hand,
To hold the tools that work the field?
Five, five, on either side, and pray they stay all ten in place.
Oh, how many hours will my new neighbor sleep
Each sleep when we have tilled the field?
Four, four, enough to dream, enough to waken fresh again.
Oh, how many times will my new neighbor sit
Each day to eat what grows in our field?
Three, three, we'll have bread and stew, with herbs and onions.
Oh, how many eyes will my neighbor see with
When first they gaze upon our field?
Two, two, and they'll be brown, and sparkle in the sunshine.
Oh, how many will my new neighbor be
When I write all of these choices down in our field?
One, one, and content to be
Until another new neighbor needs to be
To come and join us on our field.

Well, that was a useful song on a number of levels. Its musical appeal continued to be lost on him, but he got a lot of words he expects to be useful to know, and he got some subtle distinctions in meanings that were good to know, and...

"You all only sleep four hours a day?" he asks first. Some of the other questions might just be about what specific areas are used to, like brown eyes.

(He's not sure what to think of the bit about lovers. It's come up a few times in the songs around him, now that he thinks of it, and he should probably ask about that soon, even if it makes him blush, but it sure sounds like people here have sex a lot. With lots of people.)

"Some older folks need six, but yeah, it turns out you can make people who get along great on just four."

"Huh. I've known people who sleep just an hour, and people who go months without sleep but then sleep for a whole week straight, but those were due to magic, or... I guess you could argue they weren't human anymore, though still people." Mostly.

"And is there anything I should know about having non-brown eyes?" He points a thumb at his green ones. "Am I going to weird people out, on the round?"

"No, I think the person in the song just likes brown eyes. There are lots of different colors."

"Got it. Well, thanks. If there are any other songs like that I think they'd be useful, otherwise I guess I'll head back to help out in the kitchen some more... unless there's something else I can help with?" He suddenly realizes there's something else he should know. "Actually, I just thought of soemthing. What do most people die of, on the rounds? What should I look out for?"

"People get old and get tumors or their hearts wear out, usually. Or accidents, so don't, uh, try to tame feral horses if you suck at that."

"Right. Uh... another question that just occurred to me... what's the most advanced piece of technology you know of?"

"Do you mean, like, most recently invented?"

"Not really? On Earth the most recent inventions were sometimes, like... better ways to cook things, or clean. But they came after things like rocket ships, which are much more complicated and important. But maybe it'll still be useful to know the most recent few too."

"Well, I don't know what a rocket ship is. The ship we're on is, you know, a bit old but not obsolete at all. I don't know what the... least obsolete... technology is, though."

"Fair enough. I guess I can get a lot out of just asking if 'electricity,' or 'radio,' or 'car' translate?"

"Electricity is another word for lightning? Radio I don't know at all. Car like a wagon?"

Yeah, that's about what he figured.

"Something like that."

He didn't watch much Star Trek back home. The original series was too campy, and the newer shows seemed like there was always a lot going on that he had to start from earlier to get. But his neighbor Michelle and her dad were big fans, and he remembers debates around the dinner table about the Prime Directive.

He should probably think about this more before he says anything further.

"Alright, that's all the questions I have for now, thanks. Do you have any for me, or should I go back to the kitchen?"

"Go ahead, they said you've been helpful!"

He smiles, and waves before heading to the kitchen to do that. The smile fades as the ever-present singing gets more audible, and he takes a deep breath as if preparing to plunge into cold water before floating the rest of the way there.

He helps out with cooking, picking up as many words as he can and occasionally testing food in case any of it is more bearable than others. If nothing else diverts him, he'll take a break when he can't stand the music any longer and check if bathing or laundry are things that people here have figured out how to do without gravity.

They're pretty creative within the constraints of having to do everything in low tech zero gravity. Lots of sticky doughs and pastes that will stay in a bowl till pulled out, lots of potatoes and gourds cooked whole, lots of wrapping things in other things. They set him to stuffing slices of cheese in between the leaves of cabbages without taking the leaves off of the plant; as he finishes each one it goes in the oven to be cooked that way.

They have water, and they have an area of the ship where they soak cloths in it and rub themselves and each other down. None of them are all that smelly even when they don't keep on top of this task too well. Maybe they were just made with inoffensive natural odors. If he asks, he will find that they do a bit of laundry when passing through clouds - that's also when they refill their water barrels - on the outside of the ship, scrubbing against laundry-related surfaces attached to the hull. One reason they don't all wear much clothing is that they can't count on clouds happening at any predictable interval.

Makes sense! He'll keep an eye out in case they fly through any clouds on the way to the round. The longer he spent in the Hedge, the less he found dirt and grime sticking to him or his clothing, but the deep green smell of the its forests has become infused into everything he has, and much as he's been enjoying the wider variety of the ship, he's vaguely aware of the fact that he's still carrying its scent with him if anyone gets close. He's too used to it for it to be an irritation, but he's not sure how others experience it. 

He takes another trip to the ship's hull to get a break from all the singing, then spends another few hours helping out in the kitchen.

It's apparently been a whole number of centiwakes* since the captain was made, so they're having a little not-a-birthday-because-it-wasn't-a-birth-or-a-day party. They've got a bunch of dry sausages and fruit preserves and cheese that are apparently irritating enough to store on a ship that they're not routine fare but here they are. Danny is to stuff these buns with jam and butter and stick them on around a baking sphere.

* days, except they don't have days in the astronomical sense

It's his first party in ~five? years, and he enjoys the energy of it more than the food, which he enjoys the construction of more than the eating of. He even resolves to join in on any singing that might take place, in an effort to show his gratitude and appreciation for the captain and crew.

There is singing! Apparently there are songs specifically about how much they like their captain and his great deeds.

Seems appropriate! Though singing with others is harder than expected, as he's driven by some inner sense to emphasizing different parts of the melody or shift the beat slightly to do them the "proper" way. 

Luckily the others' voices drown his out, and he can join in on the overall feeling of comradery by focusing on things like slapping a hand against the ship at the appropriate beat. Still, the urge to join the revelry mixes with the frustration of the songs' discordance, and he finds himself arranging some of the words he's learned so far in his head, then waiting for a gap between songs to sing some verses of his own:

This captain leads a joyful crew

Who fill their ship with song!

With caring hearts

And skillful hands

They saved a stranger lost!

They pick up on this. They're no slouches at improvisation and will carry on with the tune to elaborate on how the captain then made a translator and there was plenty of slack to feed her because of his excellent management and now the stranger is working in the galley.

Danny feels warmth expanding in his chest as various people pick up new lines to add to the song. It feels good to be part of this, part of something he's never experienced even back home. If he ever makes it back, he's definitely going to introduce the idea of celebrating people through song.

Eventually the discordance of the music becomes too hard to ignore again, and he makes his way out to the hull again while he can still smile through the headache. He's still smiling as he floats alongside the ship, rope tied around his waist.

Something he missed a lot, turns out.

As he drifts, he lets himself face some of the worries and fears that have been buried by the daily adventure of surviving in the Hedge.

He knew time flowed differently there. He heard that people taken to Arcadia, the true realm of the fae, often emerged decades later than they should have, while others returned to the same hour they left.

He'd hoped that, if he ever returned home, he wouldn't be too far off, timewise. A couple years, he could maybe play off. But too much or too little would make things much more complicated, and might even cut him off entirely from family and friends.

Now that he's (possibly) out of the Hedge, he's not sure how time flows here relative to Earth. And being reminded of what it feels like to be part of humanity again makes it harder to ignore the fact that... he probably won't be able to return to his old life, even if he does make it home.

The round is noticeably bigger since the last time he was out here. He tries to think of anything else he should do, before he's dropped off.

A part of him doesn't want to be dropped off. Doesn't want to face the new uncertainties and dangers of what's waiting there.

But he knows he can't stay on the ship, even if he finds a useful job and can learn to bear the singing. He needs to learn more about this world and its strange people-making magic and its rounds, needs to figure out if it's actually real. And if there's a way to get home from here.

And if not, he'll have plenty of time to decide whether he wants to spend his life being a sailor.

Or, hard as it is to imagine at the moment, if he'll want to try his luck with the Hedge again.

He eventually pulls himself back into the ship, then goes to find Chesabit in case she's free for another talk.

She's on the hull, scrambling around the sails. She maneuvers over to him when she spots him.

"Heya. Is there any sort of map or chart of where the ship has been traveling, so I could find the general area you guys saw me floating again if I need to?"

"Well, it's pretty hard to find a specific patch of air again, since all the things in the air are moving all the time! But the general area, sure." She'll hop inside with him and show him the nav charts, which are stupid complicated and notated incredibly arcanely. She summarizes the important information for him (so many days along a route from this round to that one, curving on average toward a third, if you want another epicycle curve again less than that to this fourth one).

He does his best to just focus on her summary, trying to memorize the names of the rounds and number of days. Is there by chance any paper he can have, to write the relevant bits? Enough that if he learns more later he can figure it out, or show someone else?

She can find a spare scrap and scratch it out for him.

"Thanks." He puts it in his quiver, using an arrow to carefully pin it to the bottom.

He's sure it would be hard to find the portal again, and he's not sure what would happen if he goes through it... assuming it even stays in one place and stays open. He'd have to be prepared to plummet a long way after.

But he feels better having it than not, and asks if he can help her with the sails as thanks.

"You... almost certainly don't know how."

"Probably, but... I'm a fast learner?" He smiles. "I can also head back to the kitchens if it'll be too much hassle to teach."

"...I think you probably shouldn't claim to be a fast learner since you may not be accurately comparing with people who were better-made, and even if you were made well sailing a ship this size is very complicated and involves a fair amount of talking to each other so we can coordinate. Kitchens is better or if you're bored with it you could do cleaning."

"Ah, the communication might be an issue, yeah, unless everyone sings to coordinate."

He lets the 'better made' comment pass. For all he knows it's true, though he would be surprised. He was quick to pick things up even before his time in the Hedge, usually sailing through advanced classes despite constantly reading under his desk, and if anything the life and death nature of the place sharpened his knack. Or maybe it was some magic thing.

If everyone here is actually as good at learning, he'd expect their tech level not to be so low. Maybe the world is still new, or maybe there's some other thing keeping them stuck without electricity, but for now he'll just go help clean so he can pick up new skills, and maybe new songs.

New songs are perpetually available.

The way they handle human waste in zero gravity without plastic, electricity, or other modern conveniences is pretty gross. It doesn't seem to bother the people who have this as their main job.

Thankfully years of living in the woods pretty well inured him to gross things, though over the years he noticed he didn't need to "go" as often as he used to. He thought part of that might be from Hedge food being so nourishing, but he's never been sure whether it was that or some weird time stuff. He supposes he'll find out soon enough.

There are other cleaning tasks if he prefers; they scrub away things trying to grow on the hull and they haul kitchen scraps to the composter to be offloaded when they dock and so on.

He'll give a bit of time to each, wanting to broaden the variety of skills he picks up. It's why he originally joined the Scouts; the idea of collecting skills really appealed to him, even if most of them would be worthless in his adult life.

Or at least, what he thought that would be, back on Earth.

He seems most welcome on the scrubber team; they cover so much surface area that it's not so conspicuous that he has less zero-g practice and is the slowest guy on the crew.

Being slower than the others gives him something to strive for, and he treats it as a competition, watching close so he can note what they do with their bodies, then trying to copy them.

Proprioception was his latest "favorite word," before he got swallowed by the Hedge. It's something he always felt most keenly when learning new things, his attention spread like a fine mist throughout his body.

Each movement of his limbs, when and how much he shifts his mass, even how he orients his torso and waist... each is a little experiment, feeding him over a dozen points of data, prompting him to try new things with the next movement, then the next, then the next.

It's fun. Fun like learning to swim, to swing between branches, to run through the Hedge, body angling for the gaps to minimize how torn up he'd get with each step. Each time he notices himself moving a little more smoothly, a little more efficiently, he feels a burst of satisfaction that drives him to do it again, but even better.

Then he will improve noticeably over the course of the shift! People will smile at him.

Their destination round looms larger in the distance.

He does his best to practice their speech between songs, glad the grammar of the language came through as well as the meanings of each word.

On the downside, he finds himself lapsing into a sort of singsong tone without meaning to, and amusing as this might be, he also finds it a bit embarrassing. He has to spend something like three times the effort and focus to speak their language in a normal cadence.

They seem to think it's quirky but not offensive or anything for him to go tuneful when conversing.

Well that's a relief, but he worries it'll be different on the round. He'll already have enough attention drawn to him as is, and any sign he was "made wrong" in one way might count against him in other ones.

It's easier to bear the singing out here, and he doesn't tire easily, so he just keeps working as long as they do, trying to rid himself of the singing accent while also incorporating new words into his sentences... with mixed results at best.

They work for kind of a long time. Not all their waking hours, but their waking hours are about twenty in a row, so.

At about the four hour mark he starts to flag, and realizes he has no idea how long he's been awake for, whether his earlier doze would even count, or how long he's been working. Which isn't actually unusual for him, what's unusual is having others around that he can compare to.

...right, the four hours of sleep thing. Whatever (hopefully impermanent?) lingering effects are still on him from the Hedge, he's feeling sleepy now, and finally says goodbye and makes his way to the sleeping room he was shown before.

His hammock is available. There's a couple people squeezed into another hammock together in the same room.

Danny eyes them as he passes, suddenly very aware of his body as he secures himself in his hammock.

It's been a while since he cuddled anyone like that.

He closes his eyes, trying to drift off despite the memories that rise up like lonely bubbles in a deep, still pond.

Amy was the first girl he had a crush on that he actually felt confident enough to let know that he had a crush on her. They held hands a few times between classes, kissed twice, and had plans to do a Real Date near the end of the summer break when he'd get back from the camp that he never ended up getting back from.

He's not sure how long he was in the Hedge before he met Pella, but he'd been on his third set of scavenged clothes after outgrowing or wearing out the previous ones. He'd met a couple dozen Lost by that point, some of which had been around his age, some of which had also spoken English. But she was the first he found surviving in the Hedge alone, and he met her after his second attempt to travel with others had ended disastrously, and was back to surviving solo as well. 

Somehow they didn't immediately scare each other off, despite her glowing amber eyes and him nearly skewering her with an arrow. She'd put her hands above her head in a gesture so familiar and clear that it stopped him from shooting a second. Apparently that's what made her decide to trust him. It took a little longer to trust her, but once he saw what she could do in a fight it became a lot easier to take for granted that if she'd wanted to hurt him, he wouldn't have been able to stop her. Not while knowing as little as he did about what she could do.

In the end the Hedge took that choice away from both of them. But they'd had a happy few months together, first. The happiest of his time in the Hedge, really.

It was harder to be alone, for a long time after that. And it's harder not to notice how alone he is even here, surrounded by people again.

Eventually he manages to drift off to sleep...

He dreams of the Hedge.

There's no despair. No anger. No fear.

Because of course he'd find himself back here, sooner or later.

Where else could he ever be, really?

It's a part of the Hedge he's never been to before, and he feels mildly surprised by how it retains the lack of gravity from the place he was dreaming about. A flying ship with a singing crew... he wonders if he'll remember them for long, or if the details will fade as most dreams eventually do.

A few minutes of experimentation show it's not entirely weightless. He can walk without floating away, but a strong, deliberate leap will take him from the edge of one floating island to another. He's a little curious about all the structures he sees, until he suddenly remembers to be afraid. He'll instead pass the time gently pushing off from one tree to another, trying to avoid the thorns and brambles as he searches for a safe vantage point to do some observation, keeping an eye out for whatever strange new plants or animals might be around here...

When he finally wakes up on the ship again, it's more disorienting than reappearing in the Hedge had been.

He lies wrapped in his hammock for a few minutes, breathing hard and sweating slightly, heart pounding.

It's hard to tell how long he's been asleep just yet, but he quickly untangles himself and launches himself around the inside of the ship, reassuring himself that it's all real, that he won't float from one room to another and back out into the floating forests.

The rooms all connect as one would expect based on having lived on the ship for some time.

And everyone seems... normal? Or about as things seemed... however long ago it was he fell asleep?

How long did he sleep? He has the language and knowledge now to check, via how soon they'll be at the round.

They're expecting to dock on the round in another ten hours!

Right, so... roughly seven hours?

He makes his way toward the lavatory, then does his best to convince himself his dream was just a dream, and that the ship is real. Another stint in the kitchen may help... he's still not hungry yet, but maybe in a few hours of peeling and chopping and so on, he'll be tempted by something that he wouldn't hate eating.

They've got coconuts to celebrate the approach of the round! They have something of a party game where a bunch of crew members crowd around a coconut to be cracked open with straws and all try to get as much of the coconut water as possible and make way for the next batch for the next coconut; then the kitchen staff roast the coconut meat and serve it with fruit leather and dry sausages.

That does look fun! He'll focus on helping preparations first, but if there seems to be enough coconuts for everyone to try, he'll happily try to catch a mouthful of the water through a straw.

There are lots of coconuts but he has some stiff competition for the coconut water. He can have all the coconut meat he wants though.

He takes a tentative bite, and yep, it's like chewing on soggy, slimy rubber. He tries using his front teeth to break off a piece of the very edge, which seems obviously crisp, and it's... slightly better? Enough that he can sort of appreciate the flavor, though it still feels lacking in some deep way.

Still, he'll snack as he works, now and then, occasionally practicing his Cluster.

And without much further ado, they dock at Creekcross, a round with lots of streams on it branching and rejoining in the bumpy terrain. They don't touch down the whole ship - instead they tether it to a sturdy tower full of pulley-operated platforms and stairs, no more than three stories high. The tethering process is pretty involved but people nonessential to it including Danny are welcome to hop onto the tower - gravity reasserts itself just above the roof - and head out.

He does his best to thank everyone he recognizes, particularly the captain if he's around, and double checks none of his rocks or arrows floated loose before he he slings his bow over his shoulder and finds Chesabit for a more personal goodbye. "I'll keep an eye out for this ship coming back, if I can. If you're still on it next time it's here, maybe I'll have some money and can thank you better. But until then, I want you to know I really appreciate all your help, and am sorry if being made early causes you any problems. If you hadn't been around, all this would have been a lot harder for me."

"It was really interesting to meet you and I hope you make yourself a great life here or wherever you settle down!" she says earnestly.

"Same to you, if we don't see each other again."

And then he hops, feels a moment of surreal memory from his dream as he feels gravity reassert its claim on him little by little, and then looks around to get his bearings.

The gravity assertion actually kicks in really suddenly, but he himself moves across the boundary gradually, so it works out the same. It's a little bit not totally unlike being half-underwater.

The tower, and a couple similar towers, are surrounded by a warehouse and market complex. Loading and unloading is underway on another smaller ship docked over there. They're taking on heaps of sphagnum moss (Danny will recognize it from the bathroom facilities he's been using) and some fabric and sacks of some kind of food, and discharging crates full of books and a few one-off items that may have been individually sent for.

He spends some time just observing people, the way they move, what they're wearing, the sorts of things that are being transferred from place to place. How obviously out of place is he, here, in his buttonless collared shirt and somewhat tattered pants? Is there a market area that sells animal hides or meat, in any state of preparation? Weapons or hunting gear? Does he see or hear anyone offering pay for work? 

Pants are not uncommon, though both sexes are, with the benefit of gravity, sometimes wearing skirt-things or robe-things. Looks like mostly linen. Collars don't seem to be popular but there are plenty of sunhats. The food area of the marketplace has on offer lots of preparations of chicken and fish, and will also carve pieces off whole recognizable pigs and cows for customers. Leather per se looks rare but there's plenty of hair-on hide offered in the form of shoes and bags and fleeces and furs and suchlike. If he could read it would be a lot easier to tell if anyone's hiring. This particular market has fishing gear but not weapons suitable for hunting land animals.

Part of him hopes some magic reveals itself that helps him learn to read new languages quickly too, but somehow he doubts it. Meanwhile he'll take some confidence from the way it seems hunting animals might be a source of money for him, and makes his way past the port and deeper into the city, also on the lookout for any shops that might sell anything that looks magical (despite what Chesabit said), or a place that sells rocks or stones or gems of any kind, just in case there's anyone around that can tell him what his rocks are worth, if anything.

There's a souvenir and curiosity shop over there which has pretty rocks! Nothing looks magical at all.

He'll walk in just in case...

"Hello." He tries extra hard not to sing-speak, and isn't quite sure how well he's succeeding. Cluster, the Central dialect in particular, just sounds and feels inherently musical to him. "I wonder if you would buy this, how much?" He empties all his stones onto the counter.

A few didn't make it, but along with Sharpy the obsidian arrowhead, Shiny the glowing stone, Skipper the round flat stone, and Ruby the maybe ruby, there's also Drippy, a riverstone that drips water seemingly forever so long as he squeezes it, and Spiral, a turquoise spiral seashell that actually sounded like the ocean when he first held it up to his ear despite being nowhere near one, but has since only ever sounded like the last place he was before he listened to it.

He briefly holds it up to his ear to confirm that he can vaguely hear faint song, the words too quiet to make out. He'll only demonstrate the special properties of the stones after he hears whether they're worth anything without them, first.

"- wow!" says the proprietor, picking up Shiny first. "I can give you eighty for this, maybe more, let me get a blanket and see how bright it is in the dark, okay?"

"Go ahead. It works better the longer it's in the light." He thinks back to the prices he saw on the way here. Would 80 get him a quality pair of shoes, a new set of clothes, and a sturdy bag with any leftover? How many moderately priced meat based meals would it get him if he just spent it all on food?

80 would get him all of those! On food alone with meat included it'd last weeks.

The proprietor disappears under a tablecloth. "Wow! Where did you get this?"

"The Hedge. It's where I came from before arriving here, but not where I'm from originally."

Part of him winces internally, knowing such a straight answer might just lead to more questions and maybe even have him viewed as crazy sooner or later. But while he's not sure if he qualifies as fully Lost or not anymore, even the idea of straight lying feels like tearing a hole in his soul, or leaving a his back exposed to a charging animal.

"Eighty might be reasonable, but I'll have to look around a bit more before deciding." It seems like a lot of money given what it can buy for him, but he still has no sense of scale for how easy money is to get here, and right now he's mostly trying to get a sense of what his "emergency fund" is if he needs one. "Any offers for the others?"

"I've never even heard of the round." The proprietor reappears from under the tablecloth, touches the ruby. "Are any of the others more special than they look or just the glowing one?"

Danny is about to explain that the ruby one doesn't, then suddenly has a concern about saying a stone isn't magic before selling it to someone who finds out it is. Not just because it means he misses out on more money it would be worth, but because some of the stones he found in the Hedge had magic effects that weren't exactly fun or pleasant...

Shit, does this mean he shouldn't sell any of them? Even Shiny might give people cancer or something...

Double shit, what if it brings the fae?

Ugh, why didn't he think of think of that sooner, it's exactly the sort of thing the Gentry would do in case anyone brings a souvenir from the Hedge back to their world...

"I'm sorry, I just realized selling these may be a bad idea." He quickly recollects his stones. "Thank you for your time."

He leaves and starts walking again, jaw tight and heart hammering at the near miss. Bad enough if some fae hunting party finds and drags him to Arcadia, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself if someone else gets taken because of him.

Ugh. Not only does this mean he shouldn't sell the stones, he's not even sure if destroying them would help or not.

"Come back if you change your mind!" calls the proprietor.

Danny lifts a hand in a distracted wave over his shoulder, then starts walking for a while, lost in dark thoughts of what might happen if the fae come looking for him. Just as he'd started to emotionally accept that this place is actually real, and not some elaborate trap, he's got a different set of worries now, each person he sees someone he feels a need to protect rather than be suspicious of.

He's heard harrowing stories from those who escaped Arcadia, gaze constantly over their shoulder, and he finds himself doing it now, looking around and behind him as if expecting a fae hunting party or stalker to show up at any minute.

Nope. Just people, Hollywood-pretty of all adult-height ages busy with their business and travel.

Eventually he'll be away from the settlement around the harbor and walking among farms. There's sheep. There's wheat. There's potatoes.

It's a good thing he learned how people here are made before he arrived; a ship full of extremely attractive people was weird enough, and he would be much more confident all this was more directly "fake."

Now that he has a different, more specific worry, it's almost like that new worry is taking the energy from the earlier one. Like there's some kind of... conservation of worry, between all the ways the fae might be trying to get him.

But the change in scenery slows his steps and pulls him out of his head a little. He spends a few minutes enjoying the idyllic calm of it all, and suddenly has a new worry.

Back home, hunting was something you needed a permit for, and you could only get those during certain periods of time. He saw some dense woods from the ship, but he's not sure if he'll be allowed to hunt it freely.

He decides to stop at the door of one of the nearby farmhouses and knock.

A woman who looks about fifty (so she's probably not more than thirty-five, chronologically) answers the door. "Hello there!"

"Hello," he sings, then clears his throat and speaks more deliberately. "I am not from this round. I wonder about hunting..." Legal wasn't in any of the songs. "Allowed? Where, when?"

"Hunting for what?"

"Anything?" He gestures to his bow. "Animals, birds. Maybe fish?"

"You can fish as much as you want. You shouldn't bow-hunt without a group, because you might accidentally shoot someone if you were alone and no one was checking for others and if you were too stealthy you might get shot yourself."

For an instant, he has the absurd mental images of a forest full of stealthy people all accidentally shooting each other, like something out of Loony Tunes. Maybe I should invent hunting jackets.

"Thanks, I'll remember that. But it's allowed?"

"You mustn't hunt a farm animal, but no one owns the wild ones."

"Glad to hear. And do farms need extra work hands, sometimes? Yours or others?"

"You can pick up some work when the harvest comes in but farms generally... have the number of people they need during less busy times..."

Context clues help him guess the meaning of words he hasn't learned through song yet, and he nods, sighing, He figured as much, but it seemed worth checking, as a backup plan. "How long until next harvest?"

"Oh, different things at different times. If you're going to be near here then my wheat comes in in another thirty wakes weather permitting."

A good reminder that he'll need to carefully track "wakes" in some method other than his own sleeping patterns, or else he'll drift too far off schedule from everyone else. "Maybe I'll see you then. Oh, excuse my manners. I'm Danny."

"Ashimba."

"Good fortune, Ashimba."

He continues walking, spirits lifted from the good news and simple (and successfully navigated) human interaction. He knows he shouldn't be less on guard because of things like that, but one thing he quickly learned in the Hedge is that real constant vigilance is exhausting, and is better as a series of triggers to look out for, notice, and react appropriately to.

Just because he realized the risk his rocks pose doesn't mean they suddenly became a new risk, and he resolves to think about them more when he has more immediate concerns taken care of (and hopefully more ideas about what might even be possible, in this strange place).

He walks with one eye on the horizon for any sort of wooded area, and one on the sky.

It didn't hit him immediately, upon leaving the ship. He had too many new things to look at on the ground.

But the sky is...

They sky is full of rounds, and suns, and distant thunderheads. It's blue, but it looks more like a fantasy painting of a sky than like a real sky.

It's hard to tell how surreal it would feel even if it wasn't so obviously different from Earth's. But strange as it is, it's still beautiful... and similar enough that he feels a deep shift in his stomach that rises up in a warm wave and spreads through his chest.

He missed the sky. He missed its blueness, he missed clouds, he missed the sun... and these many suns don't feel different enough to care, in this moment, that they're not his.

He keeps walking, searching for forests and taking in the sky and letting the emotional waves gently crash through him.

Eventually he gets past the cultivated area and finds some trees. They look totally normal unless they are more than about thirty-five feet tall and then their branches act weird up there.

Sup, weird-trees? How's the air up there?

He guesses the height where they start to grow weird is where the gravity disappears. He'll have to test that out at some point... carefully.

His observations are consistent with this guess, at least.

The woods don't look cultivated but nor do they look really remote. Some trees are old but none are ancient behemoths. There are paths, if not very substantial ones. People probably come in here for wood and mushrooms and herbs pretty regularly.

He'll follow one of the paths for a bit, part of him suddenly wondering why the gravity on this "round" is about as strong as the Hedge's, or Earth's for that matter, so far as he can remember. Given how small it is it must be more dense, but... what are the odds that the round is so much smaller but exactly the right density for gravity to feel so similar?

Something to think about later. For now he's going to keep eyes and ears trained for any signs of small game. After the dense, thorny foliage of the Hedge, his instincts are to naturally minimize contact with greenery, which would result in him moving very quietly through the trees, bow still over his shoulder. If he finds any mushrooms or wild berries or vegetables before he finds spoor, he'll stop at those. He'll also keep his eye out for any clusters of vines he can cut to weave a basic carrying basket, as well as any long, relatively straight branches. 

There are mushrooms - it rained recently. There's some creepers creeping up a few trees that he might be able to weave were he so inclined. No obvious berries besides a juniper bush.

Squirrel!

Squirrel!

Is it holding still?

Haha no.

Next time, squirrel. Next time.

If he's got a vinesack and some mushrooms in them, he'll still keep an eye out for a long stick or two, but meanwhile he can hang the loose sack from one of his pants' belt loops and he'll draw his bow and knock an arrow so he can be ready for the next animal.

He'll also keep an ear trained for any running water; rivers attract animals, or might be a way to find beavers if there are any here. Back on Earth, beavers make for a good intersection of small animals with valuable hides, and he saw some pelts that might have been beaver pelts in the market. (He really needs to learn to read soon. He would probably have asked one of the merchants a bunch of questions, if he'd felt less Overwhelm from all the Everything).

Does he want this muskrat?

That'll do. He's never eaten a muskrat before, but heard some of his dad's friends debating what animal they tasted similar to (no consensus was reached, but no one implied they tasted bad).

He nocks the arrow, then slowly pulls back until he can feel the strain and takes aim...

...and holds, a learned reflexive caution, watching for any unusual behavior, anything that might indicate that it has some magic or might not be what it seems...

...it's just muskratting? Doing as the muskrats do?

It's just hanging out, yup.

Release.

Now he has a dead muskrat.

He watches the body a bit, then looks around, feeling antsy.

It's too easy.

It didn't teleport around when he blinked.

It didn't shoot a stream of boiling and/or freezing water at him.

It didn't burst into bloodthirsty hummingbirds instead of dying.

It just died.

He feels odd as he looks down at the muskrat, like he should apologize. Instead he takes out his arrow, checks to see if it's damaged, cleans it if not, then uses his knife to start field dressing the muskrat (he'll save skinning for later).

Hunting got way harder in the Hedge, but also a bit easier given the life and death circumstances. Now that that's missing, it's gotten way easier... and a bit harder, maybe.

He cleans his hands in the stream while the corpse finishes draining, looks around again for a good stick and more vines to tie the carcass to one end and his loose basket to the other, then hoist them onto his shoulders, shifting the stick to balance the weight before he retraces his steps toward the path he left.

The feeling of off-ness stays with him. It's been waxing and waning since he arrived, but it's getting harder to ignore. Something feels off about all this, and the problem is that he'd probably feel this way even if it's all just normal enough to be strange for him after the pasts few years...

It still feels off. It feels fake.

Maybe he'll get attacked by a boar in a second, and the feeling that things are too safe will disappear. Maybe he'll see someone get "made" when he gets back to town, and the process will look... not understandable, exactly, but less like that everyone he meets is a hastily constructed fetch.

Or maybe he'll see something obvious, something like trees growing in sudden odd shapes as the gravity abruptly disappears above a certain height, and it'll be impossible to deny that this whole world of breathable space and small moon that can be walked on as if they're planets is a carefully constructed fake. A zoo for humans maybe, where the exhibits are able to wander. Or instead of a zoo, an experiment. Or something that's none of those things, but weirder and worse than he can imagine.

He almost hopes a boar attacks him on his way out of the woods.

There's a good stick over there. A rustle that might be a deer in the distance. A cawing crow.

Right.

A long walk back to town, then.

It's right where he left it.

Might he have luck finding either a butcher or some place that's selling hides, who he could offer to sell its meat and hide to? He'd skin it himself so he could split it between them, unless he gets lucky and someone wants to just buy the whole thing for the value of both the meat and the hide.

(If he spots anyone selling mushrooms, he'd also show them his and ask if they're safe to eat and how much they might sell for.)

Butchery per se doesn't seem to be... a thing. He can find a furrier who'll take it but he doesn't want the meat.

This mushroom seller says that one is poisonous, that one he might be allergic to if he's older than he looks, and those ones are probably fine unless he found them growing on thus and such a kind of dead tree in which case they're a different kind he should not eat.

Ok, maybe this place isn't a zoo where humans just easily get whatever they want or need including other humans.

"Do people on this round eat animals?" he asks, wondering if he's committed some obvious social blunder. How weirded out or offended does the furrier seem?

"Oh, sure, but - there's no way to serve a muskrat recognizably, by the time you get the bones out it's just going to be minced meat, and I don't personally want to have it for dinner myself." He doesn't seem particularly alarmed, just like he's definitely noticed that Danny's foreign.

"Fair," Danny quiet-sings, frowning slightly. "Do you know any places that might want it?"

"Hm, my friend with the glassworks down that way keeps a perpetual stew and puts all kinds of oddments in, bring her the skinned critter and she might take it."

"Thank you! How much for the pelt, then? I can skin it myself if it matters." He wonders if he's coming across as too... stingy? Aggressive? He'll have to keep in mind that his social skills have definitely eroded over the years. "Sorry if this isn't how things are normally done here. My name is Danny."

"I'm Prash. I'll give you seven if you skin it yourself."

One muskrat pelt, coming right up.

Once finished, he asks, "Are there any pelts in particular you'd pay extra for, or anything you wouldn't want?"

"Rabbit sells best. I got a piebald deer once, that went for a nice chunk of money, but you can't really count on running across anything in a funny color."

A what deer? One that's an unusual color, apparently. "Right. Maybe I'll see you again soon, then."

What does the money he's handed in exchange for the pelt look like?

Little clay coins glazed in pretty colors.

Neat, so long as these look like what he's seen others paying for things with, he's probably not being scammed because he's an obvious foreigner who was "made" weirdly.

He'll say goodbye, then head off in the direction of the glassworks, being extra careful with the skinned muskrat as he keeps his head on a swivel, suddenly extra aware of the weight of the coins and rocks in his pockets.

It's been years since he was in New York and had to be vigilant against pickpockets, but apparently some habits die hard.

Nobody tries to pick his pocket, and, yes, everyone uses the colorful clay coins.

Glassworks! There are lots of dishes available for sale in the shopfront.

It's probably going to be a while before he's in a situation where he needs such things, but he does find his gaze roving over them, re-amazed at the evidence that he's back in civilization.

He's extra careful not to let the meat touch anything as he makes his way inside and to whomever seems to be in charge.

"Hello there, sir! Can I help you?"

"Hello! I'm Danny, and new to this round. I was told you might be interested in buying this for your stew?"

"Ooh, what is that?"

He repeats the word that Prash used for "muskrat," then adds, "If there are other animals you'd appreciate having meat from, I can watch for them."

"My favorite's pheasant but they're not common in the woods near here, you have to go halfway around the round for it." He counts out some coins for the muskrat.

"Thank you. Is there a place you'd suggest travelers sleep, if they'll be here a while?"

"Barn loft, maybe? If you're not here to visit anyone in particular who'll put you up."

"Oh. There isn't a... place travelers pay to sleep?" If he ever makes enough money, maybe he can run the round's first motel. Not that he knows anything about running a motel.

Come to think if it, if Creekcross had enough travelers to make a motel profitable someone else would probably have opened something similar by now...

"I think sailors usually sleep on their boats or have arrangements with someone in the harbor and everyone else asks about barn lofts."

"And... eventually the people sleeping in barn lofts leave the round, usually? Or save enough money to buy their own house?"

"Or move in with an existing household." Debone debone debone.

Well, there's always that.

Danny has only ever lived in the city. Trips upstate to go camping and participate in Scout activities prepared him somewhat for survival in the Hedge, but didn't give much of a sense of how normal rural goes, back on Earth.

On the plus side, he's feeling more confident he can get by, here. And he's definitely glad he ended up somewhere relatively simple, compared to one of this world's cities.

But he's starting to guess that some of the things he's going to need will be elsewhere, unless he's wrong about what else this round has to offer.

"Is there anyone you know who was made to be a... lover of knowledge, on this round?" He's not sure if philosopher translates the same, but... "Or someone who searches for truth about everything?"

"Hm, there isn't a big research institute here. I'd probably look on Rabbitround for that. It's the one with a continent shaped kind of like a rabbit."

Yeah, that's probably a good place to start. "Got it, thanks. Is there any other kinds of meat you'd pay for, or wouldn't? And do you know anyone else who would buy meat of any kind?"

"I'll try most things as long as the animal wasn't particularly pestilent. I'm not a fan of deer, though, and that you can most likely offload to someone who's going to roast it for sale, like, well, anywhere with a spit and a firepit out front."

"I'll keep that in mind. Good fortune."

He takes his leave and heads for the airship docks, checking for a well along the way where he can wash his hands and have a drink.

Once he arrives at the docks, he'll ask someone if they know any ships hat regularly head from here to Rabbitround, how long a trip it is, and how frequent they are.

"There's a small sail that takes passengers back and forth, should be here in four wakes unless they're delayed."

Four wakes, which would be... three and a half wakes for him?

"How much does it cost, each way?"

"Depends if you work the trip and if you bring your own food, I think."

"And if you don't do either?" He wants to ensure he's prepared for the worst, in case he can't stock up on food or he's got no skills they'll take as payment.

"Probably ballpark a hundred fifty, but I've not taken the trip personally."

"Thanks."

Okay. So he probably won't get passage unless he works. Hopefully working in the kitchen is enough, though he'll be at a couple disadvantages.

One, if they sing as much as the last ship, he might have trouble staying sane if he's not allowed to take enough breaks.

Two, he sleeps about 7 hours a night instead of four. Which, combined with the first, might make it hard for him to pull his weight.

And three, he's obviously new to all this, and possibly visibly "badly made" in some way. It might be hard to convince a captain he can pull his weight even if he can.

First things first. How much money does he have, and how much does a good travel bag cost?

He has seven from the hide and two and a half for the muskrat meat. A bag will be eight to twelve depending on how picky he is.

He can't count how many times he wished he had a good bag in the Hedge. He lost the one he entered with in a riddle contest (and feels lucky he didn't lose more), and can make do with makeshift baskets or sacks...

...but would a torso sized, relatively waterproof bag with multiple pockets perhaps closer to the 8 range than the 12? He's not expecting zippers but he'll take anything that's securely sealable.

They don't have very good waterproofing technology but if waxed canvas and buttons will do the trick he can get one secondhand ("but freshly waxed!") for eleven.

Back to the mushroom seller he'll go, in case all the mushrooms he collected are worth 1.5 money together.

And even if not, he'll ask for extra detailed descriptions of what sorts of mushrooms would make for good forage.

And then he'll head back to the forest, stopping along the way to ask Ashimba if she has spare room in any of her farm's buildings for him to sleep when he gets tired.

The mushrooms are worth .8 money all together.

Ashimba will let him have the hayloft and a spare sheet. She apologizes for the state of the floor in a way that might be a hint that he could pay his rent by sweeping the barn but might not.

Sweep it he shall, just in case.

With 10.3 moneys in hand and another hypothetical 7 if he gets another muskrat he can also maybe look into buying some luxuries after the bag, like a pillow. The hammocks on the ship were the best he's slept in years, but being back in gravity makes him realize how much stuff he's missing that he might be able to enjoy again, eventually.

But first, to the forest! Where he'll keep a careful eye out for mushrooms, nuts, berries, or animals, while taking a new path toward the river.

(And an extra eye out for squirrels.)

There's some nuts! Relatedly, there's a squirrel. He's not within its flight distance yet.

By the end of his first archery lesson, his friend Josh had casually put an orange on top of his target while they picked up arrows, then bet five bucks to any takers that Danny could hit it before his quiver ran out. Danny took aim without really expecting to hit it, despite having made the class's only bullseye earlier.

He still remembers the instuctor's skepticism that he hadn't handled a bow before that day. When he tried explaining that he read a lot of books about archery, some of which were really descriptive in ways that turned out to be accurate, the man's skepticism became more amused, like he thought they were in on a joke together.

He thought of that orange often, in the Hedge. He got it on his first shot, and it hadn't felt harder than any other shots before, once he'd learned how to handle the bow. Some factors change, not just wind or arrow, but also how tight the bow is strung, how tired he is. He sometimes misses his target, if it's small enough, because he has to adjust to something he didn't expect.

He thinks of those little things now as he carefully takes out an arrow, avoiding any sudden movements, then takes aim. A headshot will minimize damage to the pelt, or any organs that might ruin the meat. He's not sure if it's worth the risk of missing, but...

He slowwwwly nocks and aims...

Then releases.

The squirrel plops to the ground. Something he can't see startles in the ferns beyond and runs away.

Eh, a squirrel in hand is possibly worth a whatever in the bush.

He recovers his arrow, then field dresses the squirrel and ties it to his stick and keeps going, collecting any more nuts and things along the way to the river.

Plenty of nuts. Those might be blueberries there.

He'll collect them, and tentatively try some, despite still only being at Okay Maybe I Can Eat...

Bleagh. Like oversweet, tiny sacks of wet mulch.

He picks the rest of them anyway, hoping it's just his weird lingering Hedge madness and they're actually good berries.

Also hoping that touch of madness fades, eventually.

River? Muskrats? Piebald deer, perchance?

River! It's got fish in it, and a couple ducks over there.

Ducks! Oh man he missed ducks. Somehow he never encountered anything remotely duck-like, in the Hedge.

It makes him feel a bit bad to think of just shooting them right away...

He'll try scooping the fish up in his basket, first. He can enjoy their quacks in the meantime.

He'll test how easy it is to stand in the riverbed (callused feet carefully stepping to avoid putting his weight on anything too sharp or unsteady), and if the current isn't too strong, will stand for a few minutes, basket underwater, and wait for a fish to wander close enough to get scooped up.

Hopefully before his feet go numb.

The fish do not want to go in the basket. The river's not too strong, at least, though it is pretty cold.

Fiddlesticks. Time for his secret weapon.

He goes back over to the riverbank and shakes his feet to get some circulation flowing, then puts his basket down and takes one of the berries out of his pocket. He squishes it a bit, then walks back into the river and kneels, bait held firmly at the base of two fingers as he cups his hands together and waits.

Does he want this minnow?

...he'll wait a little longer, as the feeling leaves his hands and feet, in case another fish comes to nibble too.

Just little ones.

Alright, this is supposed to work by closing his fingers around the sides of a fish that's effectively already swimming in his grasp, but if he's got a few tiny ones nibbling, he'll sloooowly bring his other hand in behind them, then abruptly close his fist.

They all spook.

Okay, he's clearly out of practice with fishing and his hands and feet are cold. He's going to shoot the ducks.

Probably just one of them, really, since he expects others to spook as soon as he dries his hands, shakes the warmth back into them, then shoots the first?

Yup, he nails a duck in the wing - it moved - and the other one takes off in alarm.

He curses and hurries over to end its suffering from up close with a second shot to the chest, doing his best to track it as it flails around.

The second shot cracks his arrow. He has a bit of a wade to get to the wounded duck, as it wasn't obligingly near the shore when he went after it, but he can get it without getting anything above his waist too wet.

Ugh. He carries the duck back to the rest of his stuff, cleans it and his surviving arrow, then ties it to his stick opposite the squirrel and starts his trip back to town.

It's no harder to find than before.

Will his recent acquaintances buy squirrel pelt, duck feathers, and two kinds of meat, or know who will?

He'll hold onto the berries and nuts for now.