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time of it back there in good old Merilon.”
    “Bah!” Angrily turning his gaze from the primping Simkin, Mosiah peered out from the shelter of the shield into the flying sand and howling wind. “I didn’t know storms like this struck the Borderland. How long will it last?” he asked coldly, making it clear he was talking to Simkin only because he needed information. “And keep your answer brief!” he added bitterly.
    “They don’t, and a long, long time,” replied Simkin.
    “What?” Mosiah demanded irritably. “Say what you mean.”
    “I did,” retorted Simkin, offended. “You told me to make it brief.”
    “Well, maybe not that brief,” Mosiah amended, feeling more and more uneasy the longer he stayed here. Although it was nearly midday, it was almost dark as night and growing increasingly darker. Though protected by the shield, he could tell that the force of the wind was rising, not abating. It was costing him more and more of his Life energy to keep the magical bubble around them. He could feel his strength beginning to drain and he knew he wouldn’t be able to hold it in position much longer.
    “Are you going to insult me anymore?” Simkin demanded loftily. “Because if you are, I won’t say a word.”
    “No,” muttered Mosiah.
    “And you’re sorry you accused me of treachery?”
    Mosiah didn’t answer.
    Simkin, placing his hands behind his back, gazed out into the raging wind. “I wonder how far one would get out there before being hurled into something large and solid like an oak….”
    “All right, I’m sorry!” Mosiah said sullenly. “Now tell me what’s going on!”
    “Very well.” Simkin sniffed. “They
never
have storms on the Borderland. Has to do with the magical boundaries or some such thing. And therefore as to how long this particular storm will last, I have a presentiment that it will last a long, long time. Much longer, I imagine, than any of us would care to consider.”
    This last was spoken in low tones, Simkin’s face growing increasingly more solemn as he stared out the magical shield into the wind-driven sand.
    “Can we walk in this thing?” Simkin asked suddenly. “Can you move
it
and us with it?”
    “I suppose so,” Mosiah said reluctantly “Although it will take a lot of energy and I’m feeling pretty weak as it is—”
    “Don’t worry. We won’t be here long,” Simkin interrupted “Head over in that direction.” He pointed.
    “You know, you could help me keep this shield in place.” Mosiah said as they floundered through the sand. He had absolutely no idea where they were going, being completely unable to see anything.
    “Couldn’t possibly,” Simkin said “Far too fatigued. Having your clothes blown off, then blown back on inside out and upside down takes a great deal out of one. It’s not far.”
    “What isn’t?”
    “The statue of the catalyst, of course. I thought that was what you came to see?”
    “How did you know—? Oh, skip it,” Mosiah said tiredly, stumbling as the sand shifted out from beneath his feet. “You said you come here a lot Why? What do you do?”
    “I keep the catalyst company, of course,” Simkin said, regarding Mosiah with a self-righteous air. “Something you are too busy to do. Just because the poor man’s been turned to stone doesn’t mean he doesn’t have feelings. Must get frightfully boring, standing there all day, staring out into nothing. Pigeons landing on your head, that sort of thing. Might be different if the pigeons were interesting. But they’re such wretched conversationalists. Then I should think their feet must tickle, don’t you?”
    Mosiah slipped and fell. Reaching down, Simkin hauled him upright. “Not far,” the young man said reassuringly. “Almost there.”
    “So, what do you … uh … talk about?” Mosiah asked, feeling unaccountably guilty. He knew that those sentenced to the Turning were, in actuality, still living, but he had never considered that it might be