Passager by Jane Yolen Page B

eyes—and he would slowly swim up out of the dream and see the leaves of the trees outlined in the light of the moon or against the flickering ancient pattern of stars. Only, of course, once he was awake he could not remember his name.
    So he named himself: Star Boy. Moon Boy. Boy of the Falling Leaves. Whatever it was on that day or night that caught his fancy. Rabbit Boy. Badger Boy. Hawk-in-stoop Boy. Boy. He never said these names aloud.
    He did not think of himself in the intimate voice; did not think
I
am or
I
want or
I
will. It was always Star Boy is hungry or Moon Boy wants to sleep or Boy of the Falling Leaves drinks or Rabbit, Badger, Hawk-in-stoop Boy goes up the hill and over the dale. Only these were said in images, not words.
    Time for him was always
now
except in dreams. His history, all of the past, made no more sense to him than the dreams. And as more and more of his human words fell away—having no one to use them with—so did his need for past or future. His only memory was in dreams.

3. HAWK
    IT WAS THE TAG END OF FALL, AND THE SQUIRRELS had been busy storing up acorn mast, hiding things in holes, burying and unburying. The boy had watched. He had even tried imitating them, but could never recall where he had buried any of the nuts, except for one handful, which when unearthed tasted musky and smelled of dirt.

    A double V of late geese, noisy and aggravated, flew across the grey and lowering sky. He watched them for a long time, yearning for something. He did not know what. Shading his eyes with one dirty hand, he followed their progress until the last of them had disappeared behind a mountain.
    â€œHwonk,” he cried after them. Then louder, “Hwahoooonk.” He waited for a reply but none came. Unaccountably his right eye burned. He rubbed his fist in it and the fist was wet. Not a lot. But enough to make the dirt seem like filth.
    Abruptly, he turned and ran down a deer track to the nearby river. He plunged in, paddling awkwardly near the edge, where the water pooled and slipped under exposed tree roots. He brought water up in cupped hands and splashed it on his face.
    â€œHwonk,” he whispered to himself. Then he stood for a moment more. The cold water made his skin tingle pleasantly. When he climbed back up on the bank, the grass slippery underfoot, he shook himself all over like a dog and pushed the wet hair from his eyes.
    He hummed as he walked, not a song, not even anything resembling a melody. It had no words, but a kind of comforting buzz. Then he yawned, his hand going up to his mouth as if it had a memory of its own. Finding a comfortable climbing tree, one he had used before, he got up in it, nestled in the place where two great limbs forked, and fell asleep. That it was day did not stop him from napping. He was alone. He made his own rules about time.
    He had been asleep perhaps a quarter of an hour when a strange noise woke him; he did not move except to open his eyes. Caution had become a habit.
    The sound that awakened him was not yippy like foxes or the long, howling fall of the dogs. It had teased into his dream and had changed the dream so abruptly that he awoke.
    The call came closer.
    Carefully he rose up a bit from the nest in the fork of the tree and crawled out along a thick branch that overlooked a clearing.
    Suddenly something flapped over his head. He craned his neck and saw a hunting bird. She had a creamy breast and her tail had bands of alternating white and brown. Beak and talons flashed by him as she caught an updraft and landed near the top of a tall beech tree.
    â€œHwonk,” he whispered, though he knew this was never such a bird.
    No sooner had the falcon settled than the calling began again. It was an odd, unnatural, intrusive sound.
    The boy looked down. On the edge of the wood stood a man, rather like the one in his dream, the one with the sword. He was large, with wide shoulders and red-brown hair that covered his face. There was