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Although both Tymmon and Lonfar had often given their word never to venture into the forest, on this particular day they had allowed their village friends to persuade them to forget their promises.
    “We’ll go only as far as the river,” the boys had said. “ ‘Tis not dangerous now at midday, and the Sombrous River is a thing to see. Unless you are afraid.”
    So of course they had no choice but to go, and the forest and river had indeed been things to see and remember. The forest was beautiful, Tymmon remembered—and awful. He could still recall how the tall trees marched away in every direction, like colonnades of noble pillars in some immense cathedral. A cathedral roofed by endlessly overlapping green canopies, through which rays of spangled sunlight slanted downward like shining pathways to heaven. He could remember how the rough bark of the surrounding trunks wore, on one side, a green velvet mantle of mosses, and how beds of small, soft-hued flowers made bright carpets on the damp forest floor.
    But there were other memories—of dense clumps of underbrush that rustled threateningly as they passed, and of strange haunting cries, like those of a lost soul that now and then echoed faintly through the still air. But most frightening of all were the endless twistings and turnings, crossings and recrossings of the forest trails. He could still picture quite clearly in his mind’s eye how the pathways, like long green tunnels each looking exactly like the last, led off in every direction—tempting the intruder to follow—into an endless forest maze from which there would be no rescue or return.
    Many times that day Tymmon’s heart had swollen with a terrible anxiety, the deep instinctive fear of being hopelessly and endlessly lost. But the village boys had known which trails to follow, and after a time they had come out upon the banks of a wide river and eventually returned safely to the open farmland. But that daring forest visit had been in the company of others and in daylight. And now it was night, a night as deep as death and seemingly as endless.
    Curled up in a ball against the tree trunk, Tymmon slept but little, tortured by cold and thirst and fear. As the hours crept by, thirst became the greatest torment. He had not drunk since the night before and now his throat was parched and dry and his tongue felt swollen. When he slept he dreamt of water, and when he awakened his mind returned again and again to the river he had visited on that long-ago expedition.
    But to try to find the river at night and alone would surely be hopeless, and terribly dangerous as well. Even so, at one point the torment of his thirst became so unbearable that he made up his mind to go in search of water.
    He would get to his feet, he decided, and feel his way through the night until he found the river. But he had gone no more than a few steps before the solid unbroken darkness and the faint mysterious sounds, like that of stealthy motion, overcame his resolve, and he found himself again crouched against the tree trunk, trembling with fear.
    He would wait until the first light of dawn, he told himself, and then he would go to the river. But when morning came the need for water was no longer his greatest problem. Sometime in the small hours of the morning it had begun to rain, and there was water all around him. Now his greatest need was for warmth and shelter.
    Having drunk from one of the small pools that had sprung up in the deeper hollows of the forest floor, and eaten a few mouthfuls of his rapidly dwindling supply of food, Tymmon retied his bundle, got to his feet, and started down the nearest green tunnel—but to where?
    He could go on, and if he were fortunate he might eventually find the river. He would then have plenty of water—but what of food, and shelter from the rain and cold? And what if he could not find his way out? And what if, in his lost and lonely wanderings, he came upon a huge black bear or a pack of gray