Child of clay? “Actually,” I said, “my dad’s name was Will.”

Mason laughed.

Shadrach stared at me incomprehensively. “You were born of dust mixed with the water of life. Like all of us you are clay in the Potter’s hands.”

None of the others seemed surprised at this outburst of obscurity. I smiled. “Uh—sure, right. Whatever. The name’s Nick Seagrave.” I determined not to say more, though everyone’s eyes were asking for it.

“Join us,” the old geezer said. It sounded more like a command than an invitation and made me wish again I’d accepted Joshua’s offer. Shad turned and resumed his pace down the red road. The others fell in behind him.

What have I gotten myself into?

3

MASON GAVE MY SHOULDER a friendly nudge. “We’ll get you cleaned up after we stop for the night.”

I nodded but said nothing, staying at the back with everyone in view. We walked past what looked like overlarge plum trees, one of them filled with chirping birds shaped like meadowlarks but half again as large, exotically colored with reds and oranges and yellows and greens. The birds sang like a choir, harmonizing and blending beautifully.

Malaiki handed me a long orange vegetable of some sort, not a carrot, more like a sweet corn but without kernels. I took a bite.

“Tastes good,” I said. I hesitated, then took one of the blue fruits out of my pack and handed it to her.

“Senaba!” she said.

I looked at her blankly—did that mean “Thanks”?

“Senaba’s the name of the fruit,” Mason said. “It’s her favorite. Mine too.”

I reached into my pack and pulled out one for Mason, not letting on I had four more. As we walked, I continued sizing up these travelers. Who would be my ally? My adversary? Who could I trust?

Gray clouds moved in rapidly on us. Being from Oregon I knew what was about to happen. After a few light drops, the clouds broke open, and we ran for cover under some trees. It was still warm, but already everyone’s hair hung lank and dripping on their foreheads. I consoled myself that now everyone looked almost as messy as I did.

I sat near David under a fir tree, while the others took refuge under a thick maple. David handed me a thin, clear rain slicker from his pack. Probably fifty, David struck me as educated, confident, not easily persuaded, a man’s man. I imagined him at a big table hammering out a business deal. He wore the best hiking shoes money could buy. His was the finest backpack, large and sturdy, with lots of zippered pockets and two slots holding his water bottles. The others had worn and sagging backpacks, without frames, and fanny packs or little satchels or canteens hanging from their belts.