Racing against the Ghost
Wind, we skirted the country around Charin, and the woods inhabited by
the terrible Ya-men, birdlike creatures who turn cannibal when the Ghost
Wind blows.
Later the trail wound through thicker forests of indigo trees and
grayish-purple brushwood, and at night we heard the howls of the catmen
of these latitudes. At night we set guards about the caravan, and the
dark spaces and shadows were filled with noises and queer smells and
rustlings.
Nevertheless, the day's marches and the night watches passed without
event until the night I shared guard with Cuinn. I had posted myself at
the edge of the camp, the fire behind me. The men were sleeping rolls of
snores, huddled close around the fire. The animals, hobbled with double
ropes, front feet to hind feet, shifted uneasily and let out long
uncanny whines.
I heard Cuinn pacing behind me. I heard a rustle at the edge of the
forest, a stir and whisper beyond the trees, and turned to speak to him,
then saw him slipping away toward the outskirts of the clearing.
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