“Don’t do that,” Quon said. “The GuideBook says once you retreat on the road you may not manage ever to turn around again.”

Tired of being bumped and bruised, after a while I said nothing to the people walking the wrong way. It seemed pointless. Shad and Malaiki sometimes stopped travelers and spoke with them. But it was Quon who seemed most intent on talking with the strangers. It frustrated me, because the more the three of them stopped and talked, the less ground we covered.

After a couple of hours talking with a half-dozen people in a group headed east, I tapped Shad on the shoulder. “Let’s get moving,” I said. “We’re wasting time.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said, looking at me coolly.

Soon the group was up to a dozen, asking questions and listening as we talked about the King. One conversation led to the next. We set up camp early and invited the group to have dinner with us, seriously depleting our rations. Eight of them stayed up around the fire, talking until the early hours of the morning.

I awoke to a harsh copper-colored sky. Already townspeople sat around the crackling fire, talking, discussing, debating about the Woodsman and the King and the chasm and the flying reptile. Quon was the center of attention—everyone looked at him when he spoke. Large black birds circled above, as if watching us, overseeing the gathering.

David took charge, moved everyone away from the tents, packed them up and announced, “We’re leaving. We’ve got places to go.”

Shad held up his hand, watching and listening to Quon talk with the villagers, like a musician watching his protégé perform. I broke off some bone-hard branches of a manzanita tree and drew near to put them in the fire. A stinging cloud of smoke burst out for a moment, watering my eyes. I stayed close to listen, drawn by the passion in Quon’s voice.

“There are many false roads,” he said, “but one true road. The Woodsman walked the bloody tree for us and bridged the great chasm.”

“I’ve read the stories of the Woodsman,” said a young man, who looked like a college student. “He inspires me. He was a fine moral teacher. But no more.”

“Read the TravelGuide,” Quon said, turning roast marmot on a spit over the fire. “The Woodsman claimed to be the World-Maker. If he was, you should believe him. If he wasn’t, you should reject him as a liar or a madman. Either way, the one thing you can’t believe is that he was just a fine moral teacher.”

“Don’t tell us what we can’t believe,” said someone standing on the edge of the circle, a man with a fist for a face, hard and pinched. “We’ve already heard this story, and we’re weary of words. It’s time to party.”