Nothing had changed. He was still in the midst of the copse that ought to have been a hundred paces closer to the gate. How could that be? He sought around him, hoping that he was mistaken. No, there were the other patrons, browsing or playing, just where he had last seen them. Off in the distance was that wonderful gazebo. This must be one of Bergold's Frustration Dreams. No matter how he tried, he would be unable to enjoy the rest of the park like everyone else seemed to be doing.

The yearning rose up in him like an upwelling of tears. How could he get to the gazebo if covering the distance wouldn't do it? It should not be impossible! Other people had reached it. Why couldn't he? He wanted very much to be in it. He could almost run his hands along the smooth rail.

To his surprise, the little screen house seemed to be coming closer to him. The scenery rolled by him on either side. He was moving without moving. This was zen. He waited eagerly until the stairs rose under his feet one at a time. He was in the gazebo! And, oh, what an amazing scene greeted him.

Beneath the gazebo was a Japanese garden full of delicate flowers and artful arrangements of rocks.

Slowly, carefully, Chuck leaned forward to settle his forearms along that rail, enjoying the cool shadow cast by the roof, and the birdsong that rolled around him like a silken carpet. Since he was new to this kind of meditation, the scene faded in and out every so often. Still, he managed to hold on to his place, fixing it in his mind.

Paths wound out from the garden, inviting him to consider the possibilities they offered. For the - moment, all he wanted to do was enjoy what he could see from there: the rippling brook under the mauve-painted bridge, the scattering of bronzed leaves on the grass, Morit and Blanda standing and looking up at him.

Chuck straightened up with a jerk. Why were those people following him? To his annoyance, the garden vanished, leaving the couple in stark relief, and revealing the hundreds of other people populating the garden. Chuck felt crowded.

All right, since he could bring the scenery to him now, he would go somewhere else, and concentrate on the wonderful garden in peace. He released the image and headed out toward the emptiest quarter where only a few people sat deep in their own contemplation. He chose a space equidistant from the nearest three, and sat down to chant.

No such luck. Morit and Blanda followed him doggedly, stopping about twenty feet away. The woman spread out a picnic cloth over an expanse of nothingness, and set a huge wicker basket down in the middle of it. Chuck tried to think of his mantra, of the lovely gardens, but all he could concentrate on was the homely clattering of dishes and her soft voice as she chattered to her husband. Morit didn't seem to be enjoying himself, but at least he wasn't talking.

Meditation was meant to close out the distractions of the world. Chuck was determined not to let the couple from Elysia spoil his entire day. He gritted his teeth and muttered "om" to himself until the gardens returned. He could pretend the intruders weren't there by turning his back on them. He could still hear Blanda, but she was a steady, low sound like the brook, a pleasant white noise. Ah.

The gazebo reappeared, and he found himself studying a spray of crisp, pink-and-purple orchids that drooped languidly from the edge of the sloping roof. Their color was brighter and more real than any pink or purple he had ever beheld in his ordinary life. Their shape, like lady's slippers but, well, different, made him want to sculpt them, but better still, to study and enjoy them for hours.

"Happy, happy, happy, happy . . ."

Chuck was startled again out of his reverie. That was unmistakably Mrs. Flannel's voice. He turned his head carefully, trying not to dispel the Japanese garden, which was already showing signs of shredding under the stress he felt pretending Morit and Blanda weren't there. The old woman had sat down in the very center of the gazebo floor with her pink-tights-covered legs tucked into an incredibly uncomfortable-looking double lotus and her hands, with thumbs and middle fingers touching, resting on her knees. The cool interior threatened to slip away. Chuck clawed at the carved panels with his mind, willing them to stay, but they scooted a dozen feet in a moment.

"Happy, happy, happy . . ."

Chuck growled under his breath.

"Shh, please," he hissed. She paid no attention. Spot, a handsome, brown, Capuchin monkey the size of a doll, stared frankly at him. The married couple were on his other side gazing at him with the intensity they'd watch a sideshow exhibit. "Shh!"

With everything he had, Chuck dragged the gazebo and garden back to him. He had to block out the distractions. He had influence at his command. Why not use it? He pictured a berm of earth curving two-thirds of the way around, in between him and the intruders. When he started to chant his mantra again, he could see the berm. It rose up through the green grass, burying the golden sprinkle of leaves, half the flowers, and most of the remaining floor of the summer house. There, he thought with satisfaction. Now he could have peace and quiet.

And quiet was exactly what he did have. As though shocked at his interference, all birdsong had ceased. The sound of the brook was gone, replaced by a sluggish seeping trickle like a drippy pipe. He couldn't see Mrs. Flannel or Morit and Blanda, but he had very little garden left to behold. Instead, It was a dark brown heap of dirt. In the midst of beauty he had managed to construct an eyesore, even to his third eye. Tension started to buckle the silk-smooth facade of his mental image. Chuck snapped out of his funk. He was ashamed of himself. The landscape was blighted, and it was all his fault. So what if there were other people around? It was hardly crowded. Enduring the presence of others, even if they were unwelcome, paled to . . . well, nothingness beside his crime of having marred the landscape he was enjoying. With a curt wave of his arms he dispelled the berm, hoping he hadn't done any lasting damage to the Gardens. All of nature seemed to breathe a deep sigh of relief. The birds began to sing again, and a lone cricket under the floor emitted its sweet, short chirps. A rushing gurgle told him the brook had been restored.

Chuck sat down hard on the floorboards. Now he was really ashamed and disgusted with himself.

Childishness of this depth was not at all what he'd hoped he'd find at the bottom of his psyche. All right, so he wasn't as spiritually advanced as the experienced visitors. They seemed to have no trouble shutting out stimuli. He couldn't do it! He was too aware of his surroundings. He would just have to work within his own comfort level. After all, as Keir had pointed out, this was just the beginning of his journey. He only hoped the person inside was nicer than he had been acting.

Chuck had to get away by himself, or he'd never be able to concentrate on anything but resentment.

He looked around for the remotest corner of the park. There had to be a corner, as dark and as lonely as he could find, if he had to walk for hours. There he wouldn't upset anyone else. He stood up and started walking, mindful to continue advancing through the landscape. He regretted leaving the little house behind, but serenity like that was not his to possess yet. Nor did he want to be reminded of how he had ruined it.

Luckily, Morit and Blanda's picnic was in full swing. At last the couple was too encumbered to pick up and follow him. The dark-browed man glanced up, stopping chewing in the middle of a deviled egg to glare at Chuck as he hurried away as though offended Chuck was giving him the slip.

Chuck shot him an apologetic smile, but didn't pause. Neither Mrs. Flannel nor Spot noticed when he rose. He glanced behind him, hoping that no one else would decide that he was more interesting than the Gardens.

Morit was upset when the Visitor left. His eyes shot daggers at Mrs. Flannel, now rising gently into the air on the strength of her chanting. He had counted on making an attempt when the Visitor was deep in meditation, and now that opportunity had been ruined. Curse Blanda, too. Morit couldn't go after Chuck Meadows now without calling awkward attention to himself. Blanda had spread out her picnic cloth on this patch of undifferentiated desolation, and was taking endless numbers of platters and bowls from the woven willow basket. He beheld them all with outrage. Blanda had overpacked, as usual. She couldn't intend him to eat this all! There must be enough food here for an army.

She knelt in the middle of the checkered square, arranging dishes on the red and white cloth. The pattern of her dress had changed from a plain blue dress to a red check that matched the cloth, but smaller. Her brown hair was arranged in a halo of curls around her head that bobbed while she gabbled to herself. The food smelled good. Morit couldn't stand to watch her for long. It was too homey, and he was not home. He was here on a deadly serious mission. He sprang up. Chuck Meadows was nearly out of sight.

He started to follow, when Blanda's voice dragged him back.

"Isn't it lovely here, dear? It's not at all as I imagined it, but I'm so happy to see at last what the neighbors were talking about. You remember when they showed us their vacation pictures, don't you?

Images and images! We were there almost all the night, and I thought they were so pretty, though how they took pictures that lasted without chanting their mantras I don't know . . ." The stream of words puddled around his feet and held him as fast as a pool of glue. He tugged first at one shoe, then the other, then sat down on the cloth in resignation. ". . . But this is so much prettier than I thought. Don't you think so?"

"Looks like urban renewal," Morit growled, dropping his chin dejectedly into his hand. "I don't see a nightmare-cursed thing."

"Oh, but it is just beautiful. The nice man gave you your own mantra. You could see it if only you said your word a few times."

"Why aren't you chanting, then?"

Blanda smiled at him, and set a jar of pickles at one corner of the cloth. "Oh, darling, I did, but I guess I just don't need to do it for very long," she said.

Morit wouldn't doubt that. The woman was off in her own world half the time. It was probably connected to this miserable place, where everyone was enjoying themselves but him. He watched her take a bottle of artichoke hearts and a crock of olives, and arrange them artistically by the pickles.

"There's fountains all around us, my dear. They sound so nice. Tinkle tinkle tinkle! We'd like one in our garden, wouldn't we?"

"No, we would not," Morit said, irritatedly. "They're a nightmare's load of work, and it would keep changing into a log flume, or a swimming pool full of horrible little children. Besides, there's nothing here."

Blanda shook her head at him fondly. "Of course there is, my love. All you have to do to see it is say your little word a few times. I'm sure it's just right for you. Mine is. It's so nice and homey, just perfect for me. Whenever the images start to fade, I just say it to myself. It's 'bread.' Bread, bread, bread, bread . . . Oh, look, there's a unicorn! Try it, my love. You must see him. He's all white and blue, and his adorable little beard!"

Morit grumbled into his own beard. He wouldn't chant a mantra if his life depended on it. He tuned out Blanda's chatter, watching Chuck walking toward the remote end of the gardens. The Visitor receded into the distance, growing smaller and smaller. It was too much to hope he would just turn into a tiny point and vanish. Of all the strangers from the Waking World, Morit felt Chuck Meadows was the most dangerous. He seized power like a tyrant, and treated it like a trifle. The Dreamland could not remain intact in the continued presence of such a powerful entity. The place would shake apart before long, sending them all plummeting into chaos. He must be killed first. Now.

Morit knew his compatriots were lurking around. Plan MG, the scheme they had worked out for this place, must be put into play as soon as possible. Once everyone was isolated in his or her own thoughts, Morit's comrades could confront the Visitors one at a time. If they could not be scared back to the Waking World, they must die. Perfectly simple. All Morit had to do was wait for his contact.

Blanda was chattering about potato salad when a sinister-looking man with a mustache and wearing a black trench coat and slouch hat pulled low over his face appeared at their side. He didn't meet Morit's eye, but looked off into the middle distance. While his wife watched with curiosity on her mild face, Morit stood up, stared off into nothingness, and whispered under his breath to him.

"That one first," he said, cocking his head in the direction that Chuck had gone. A brief nod for an answer, and the man in black scurried away like a rat. Twenty yards away, he sidled up to another mysterious-looking man in a red trench coat. Both of them hurried furtively away to find others. Morit was pleased with himself. The word was spreading. The Visitors would be taken unaware. Morit sat down to watch the man in red not-looking at a similarly clad man in green.

"Who was that, dear?" Blanda asked, busy spooning the contents of a container of fruit gelatin into a ceramic bowl painted with tulips.

"No one," Morit said. "He was asking the time. I told him whose time it was."

"Oh, that was very nice of you, dear," she said, handing him a full plate of food. "Sit down, now, and have your lunch."

Morit shook his head in disbelief. Blanda could be so very dense. But that suited his purposes. He didn't want a wife who would meddle and prevent him from getting his way.

The order that had just gone out should be put into effect before the afternoon was out. Wait until Chuck Meadows was vulnerable, then strike! He looked forward to celebrating victory by evening. A toast to their success seemed appropriate. Blanda handed him a filled mug and he swigged it without looking at it. He spat a stream of red out into the nothingness. Fruit punch! Ugh!

Chapter 14.

Chuck stumbled on the featureless expanse that stretched out before him like endless misery. He didn't mean to be selfish and spoil things for everyone else. But this journey was supposed to have been special for him and him alone. He'd worked hard to get to this particular place and this time. It was unjust of Persemid to accuse him of being uncooperative, but he couldn't deny his resentment at always having other people to consider, even here, in the privacy of his own mind, where he ought to be able to be alone if he wanted. Well, that was normal, wasn't it? He would have thought that in his own personal seeking he could have an experience that was just for him.

And if there were five seekers, why wasn't there one guide per person? How much trouble would that be? The astral plane, or the Dreamland, as everyone here insisted on calling it, seemed to be designed to fulfill the needs of people like him from the Waking World. But it wasn't working that way. No one here cared exclusively for him. Keir was friendly and businesslike, but his attention was pulled in too many directions. When Chuck really wanted to talk to someone, there was nobody there.

If he wanted to be lonely he could have stayed home!

He felt like sitting down and crying like a little child. Keir was right. Chuck's depression was interfering with his ability to seek out truth and contentment. He needed to work out his feelings, but he couldn't do it in front of other people. He needed a safe place to sit. Not just alone, but safe. He kept walking.

At last, everyone who was even remotely nearby was sitting with their backs to him. To stave off the feelings of hopelessness, Chuck muttered his mantra to himself just to hear a voice. Though he didn't feel he deserved it, the colors returned, and grass grew under his feet.

The lovely gardens were far behind him. Ahead was a tall, deep forest, so tall that it took his breath away just to look at it. The very tops of the trees disappeared into the sky. Every shaggy, silvery- brown trunk was too wide for him to wrap his arms around. The roots humped up as high as his head, and the crowns were so far above him they were a blur. All he could properly see of the forest roof was a dappled mosaic of dark brown, green, blue, and sparkling white-gold. The earthy smell of moist bark and leaf mould joined the other scents mingling in the sweet air, as the light, crisp rustling of leaves rose underneath the other sounds of nature. His footsteps made little noise. Each was swallowed up by the overwhelming ambience of the forest like a droplet of oil settling into a pool. This place felt big.

Or, perhaps, it was because he was very small. Chuck looked down at himself. The sleeves of his jeans and shirt had shrunk up until he was wearing shorts and a short-sleeved T-shirt. The arms and legs that stuck out were smooth and thin. He felt his chin. No beard. He was a little boy again.

Chuck ought to have felt nervous, walking into deep woods without a guide or a map, but he felt perfectly safe. This was the right kind of deep forest, the kind in which he could look for Pooh Bear and all the imaginary friends from books he had read when he was a little boy. This place seemed so familiar. But that was impossible, of course. This was a dream forest, made up by thought. There wasn't a real tree in the place. It was pretty convincing, though. The farther in Chuck walked, the more he had to let go of his skepticism and accept what he saw. Was there a reality beyond real?

The atmosphere in the forest surrounding him was serene, calm and mature, like sitting on the lap of a favorite aunt. It recalled to Chuck that time of innocence in his life, when nothing was ever really wrong, and all troubles could be made better with a kiss or a cookie. Back then he could be anything he imagined himself to be. Reality didn't intrude itself and ruin everything just because it could. In this place he felt so warm and welcomed-just the way he wanted to remember childhood-that he sat down with his knees up and his back against one of those tall roots and wept from his heart.

Once he started, he couldn't stop until it was all out. He let his head hang over and his shoulders shake. Sometimes he hated being an adult. He missed the simple joy of not worrying about anything.

Daddy and Mommy would always make everything better. He could make all monsters vanish just by closing his eyes and pulling the covers over his head. How often he wished he could do that in his daily life! He wept for lost innocence, not caring if the Easter Bunny was real, but of having lost the magic that went with thinking that it was. He wished he could go back to the age before he knew what death was, or fear, or injustice. Maybe that time never existed, but a part of him had always felt that it had.

The torrents that fell from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks were like a healing rain. He cried and cried, letting out regret, resentment, loss and fear in hot drops that burned tracks down his cheeks, until his tears formed a river that flowed away from his feet. He stared at the sparkling strand. Was he the source of all that? That was impossible. Look at the way it kept flowing, even though he was no longer crying.

He sat still to admire the unconscious beauty of it, neither sad nor happy. Poets talked about the way streams chuckled, rivers roared, brooks chattered. How did they know how the waterways felt? He listened to this one, really listened as he hadn't done since he was small. Its music sounded sad to him at first, but in a while he began to understand the happiness in its song. The pulse of life was there, deep and slow like the rhythm of the Gardens. Little flashes of light glinting off the surface of the water drove deeply into his eyes and awoke bright memories in his mind. Skating with his brothers.

Playing catch with his father. Smearing gobs of red and blue clay down the wall. Being kissed by a dozen sweet-smelling aunts, one after another. Maybe his childhood hadn't been perfect, but there were good things to remember, now that he did remember some of them. He turned the treasured memories over in his mind like precious gems. They had existed. He had focused so long on the wrong things that they were poisoning him. He took in a deep, slow lungful of air. No breath, nor moment of enlightenment, had ever tasted as sweet. Simple as that. His vulnerable moment had done him more good than a hundred doctors. He could never have let himself go like that if there had been anyone else nearby at all.

A bird broke into liquid warbling overhead. Chuck's head snapped up as he sought the singer, drinking in the sound like nectar. A dark fragment flitted from one part of the jigsaw-puzzle forest crown to another, calling raucously. He started to hear other things: whispering, a rustling in the brush, the crack of a thin branch breaking, all coming from the same direction. It made him curious to know what was in there. Perhaps it was some wonderful creature out of his same childhood fantasies.Chuck tiptoed along, reluctant to break the spell of the forest. Another crack sounded, nearer than before. Over to the left a little, Chuck thought. He turned and went towards it.

The rustling sound popped up near him, and kept pace as he moved. It was only a tiny noise.

Perhaps there was a chipmunk or inquiring squirrel, hoping he had a crumb or two to drop. Chuck felt in his pockets. Not a thing. He sent a mental apology to the unseen animal. Since this place was the sum of everyone's memories and fantasies, was it possible that he might see one of the characters from children's books? Roo had been a favorite of his when he was very small; he might have had to ride in his mother's pouch, but he enjoyed adventures. This was beginning to have all the earmarks of an adventure. A quote from somewhere tapped at his memory, but not enough to come clear into his conscious mind.

The lush undergrowth of leaves and vines thinned, making the going easier. Up ahead, Chuck spotted a shaft of light penetrating down toward a clearing on the forest floor. Another crack sounded, definitely coming from that direction. Chuck hurried up, hoping to spot whatever it was before it got away. He heard another sharp clatter, just as he broke through into the beaten circle of earth.

It was empty. The beam of light drew a circle like a spotlight in the center of the clearing, rendering everything at the rim too dark to see. Shadows started flitting at the edge of Chuck's vision.

"Hello?" he called. "Who's there?" More and more silent figures joined the first ones. It began to dawn on him that maybe, just maybe, these weren't the old friends he was hoping to find. The circle of light started to shrink, just a little at a time, but inexorably closing in, as the shadows began to move towards him. He suddenly realized he was surrounded. Chuck cast around desperately, looking for a gap in the ring.

Was it just his imagination, or did he hear low, sinister chuckles? He tried to convince himself it was just the wind or the leaves, or some calling bird. He didn't do that good a job. When another laugh broke out, almost underneath his ear, he jumped, and bolted out of the circle. Branches whipped and cut at his face. Chuck raised his arms to shield his eyes, and charged blindly forward. He hoped he was making back toward the path that had led him here, but at the moment he didn't care. He heard roaring behind him as whatever was back there sounded like it was threshing down whole trees to get at him.

How could he get out of this place? He cast about for his path, and found nothing but bracken, ferns and roots that grabbed for his feet and made him trip. Hissing sounds made him flinch leftwards. When he glanced to his right, he discovered quills eight inches long and as thick as his finger embedded in the bark of a tree just where he had been standing. He plunged away into the forest, chased by howls and fearsome crunching noises. There were giant porcupines in this forest!

Chuck realized he was still muttering his mantra to himself. He stopped chanting. That should put an end to this dangerous vision. Nothing happened. Or, rather, nothing didn't happen. He was so startled that the forest hadn't faded into emptiness that he almost stopped running. He was trapped!

This reality had become too convincing for him just to be able to drop out of it. What an irony! He'd had so much trouble reaching the meditative state in the first place; now he couldn't get out of it even when he wanted to.

He had no time to think. Arrows thudded into the trees nearest him. Hunters had joined the porcupines in pursuit of him. He ducked and started crawling over the bracken on elbows and knees, hoping nothing his pursuers were shooting could penetrate the undergrowth. Behind him, he heard war cries, like those of angry native villagers in the movies. Then, the screams grew shriller than the howling of tornadoes. Overhead, a creature zoomed in on him. It was like a naked woman, but she had bat's wings, rows of teeth like a shark, and claws like a wolverine. She screamed, bearing in on him with those claws outstretched, aiming for his neck. Chuck flattened himself and rolled under a rosebush. He would rather be scratched by thorns than risk worse injuries.

Thwarted, the fury shrieked angrily, zoomed upward, and became a human-sized propeller plane, like one from World War II. It immediately began strafing the ground behind him with fire from mounted twin machine guns. The plane had a painted shark's mouth on the forward fuselage that opened and laughed at him over the engine noise. Chuck flipped over onto his belly and crawled faster than he ever thought he could. This was Bergold's changeableness striking all over again. Each new threat was more horrible and dangerous than the next. Could he die of fright? This was a ridiculous situation-because of the mutable nature of the Dreamland he might never know what it was that killed him!

Out of the corners of his eyes, Chuck saw the shadows gathering again, hurrying to head him off and surround him again. Crawling was too slow a means of escape. He clambered to his feet and started running. In the distance he heard a solid twang!, followed by a sound like pyeeew! A rock the size of an automobile came hurtling over his head and thudded down, shaking the earth, and crushing a bush like a man might crush an empty can underfoot. Shards of wood flew up, whipping past his ears.

More gigantic rocks hit the ground, hemming him in. Chuck started running this way and that, but every escape was cut off as he jumped back to avoid being crushed. The shadows flitted between the stones, cutting off his meager light, looming in on him. A blanket of blackness surrounded him. He threw up his hands to ward it off, and a heavy paw in the darkness struck him on the shoulder.

Oof. Chuck folded halfway up as his knees wavered. More blows rained down on him. He protected his head with his arms and tried to push his way out. Arms roughly shoved him back into the middle of the circle and continued to pound on him.

"Who are you?" he cried. No one answered. He tried to hit back. His arms felt heavy, lethargic, as if he was swinging through molasses. If he did connect, the force of his punches was absorbed by thick fur, like a bear's. What were these things?

As if in answer, the ground started to roll under his feet. A new round of Sleeper influence! Maybe it would put an end to this meditation. Instead, the change only let him see it better.

Lightning split the sky, parting the forest crown. In the flash of gray light, Chuck saw the faces of his assailants, and suddenly wished he couldn't. They were eight feet tall, covered with dark brown, shaggy fur. Their hands were huge paws with eight claws apiece. And their faces! Orange eyes the size of his palm with sideways-slitted pupils glowed like search lamps. Their yellow teeth were sharp as broken glass. Through them, a blood-red tongue licked out, almost touching Chuck's face. Their breath was as potent a weapon, smelling of week-old sewage. He staggered, his heart pounding with fear.

Monsters! Real monsters! He started punching at them blindly, wanting them to go away, wanting to be left alone in peace. But their paws pounded down on his shoulders, struck him in the ribcage, bruised his head and face. He didn't have his adult muscles to protect him. Chuck was battered over and over until his knees gave way. Feet as well as paws began to strike him now. He fell full length onto a blanket of leaves.

His hands curled into the crunchy mass. Oh, why wasn't this a real blanket! That was what he used to use to protect himself against monsters in his room at night. His grandfather had always told him that if he pulled his blanket over his head nothing could ever harm him.

He must have been thinking hard enough to wake up the influence, because the cushion of leaves softened and melted together into a pale-blue coverlet. Avoiding kicks from the monsters, Chuck rolled underneath the blanket and desperately clutched it around him.

Go away! he thought at the monsters. Scram! Bug off! The monsters shuffled around, sniffing and growling ferociously. He squeezed his eyes shut. The roaring got louder as they realized they could no longer see him. His heart pounded so loudly he was sure they could hear it.

Where was everyone else? There had been thousands of people in the Gardens before. Why did none of them see that he was under attack? He had been left all alone to face peril. It wasn't fair. No matter what happened to him, it was all wrong. He heard snarling not inches from his head. He felt like such a coward, but what could he do against beasts with long sharp teeth and claws? He hoped his grandfather had been right. He wished his mother was there to put her calming hand on his shoulder, to rub his back and drive away the demons. Chuck could almost feel her hand on his back, and hear her soft voice. Instead, he heard the monsters snarling, and trembled. He was glad the blanket prevented anyone from seeing him just now. Tears wet his cheeks and seeped into the pillow suddenly underneath his head. The pounding in his chest turned into sobs that wracked his body with spasms.

He was afraid. Any moment now they would tear him apart and eat him.

When the tears stopped, Chuck felt a sense of utter relief. He didn't have to look down at himself to know he wasn't a little boy any longer, but that was all right. He was happy to be a grown man. If there was no one else there, he would face his demons alone. He could do it.

Chuck sat up and pulled the covers off. They vanished into the leaves on the forest floor. He looked around, ready to spring up and do battle, no matter what happened to him. But the growling noises had stopped. The hairy beasts were gone. Another bearlike being rose up beside him. Chuck felt a surge of panic for a moment, but as soon as reason returned he realized the being was a man-sized Winnie the Pooh. Round and golden, it stood rocking on its heels, its tummy stuck out like a little child's. It cocked its head and its black, shoe-button eyes gazed at him sympathetically.

"Do you feel better now?" it asked in Keir's voice.

"Yes," Chuck said, and cleared his throat. "Yes, I do."

"Then, come with me." It held out its hand to him. "I need your help with the others." It helped Chuck to his feet, and led him to a leaf-strewn path. Not a trace of the monsters remained. The sun peeked through the trees, lighting their way to the edge, a long walk, but calming to Chuck's mind.

The forest looked more beautiful than ever before, the narrow aisle lit up more like a cathedral now than a dark alley.

Chapter 15

As they came out of the woods, the teddy bear shrank, and turned from golden to gray. Keir resumed his familiar appearance of a little, bearded man in a homespun tunic and sandals.

"Why did you look different back there?" Chuck asked.