I lay back on my side, propped up by my left arm, and began to read. I was amazed to find stories and warnings concerning all the different roads I’d walked, all the dead ends I’d pursued.

“Look,” I said to Victoria. “It talks about the chasm, the crossing, the scroll. It says the red road is stained with the Woodsman’s blood. Why didn’t anyone ever tell me these things?”

“Perhaps they did and you didn’t hear them,” Shad said.

I kept flipping through the pages. It was thick and the print was small.

“There’s so much in this book,” I said.

“No more nor less than the King knows we need,” Shad said. “Let’s go.” Everyone got up but Quon, already lost in the pages of the book. I had to pull him up, and even then he kept his nose in the book as he walked. I had to occasionally grab his arm to keep him from stumbling. Half the time he didn’t even notice.

At twilight the afterglow of the red sun touched the landscape, adding a rosy tint to the predominant blues and greens of the hillsides. As I sat admiring the view, I felt something tickle my right hand.

“What the …? Frodo!”

I picked him up and watched his toothy grin. I threw him up in the air and caught him. “I thought I’d never see you again, boy. You couldn’t have crossed the chasm. What’s going on?”

“Remember what Shad said,” Malaiki replied, petting Frodo. “We cross the chasm, yet somehow we walk in the same land we used to.”

I held Frodo up and let him lick my face. “I have to admit it’s awfully good to see you again, little fella.”

We walked on in the pitch-black night. I’d voted to set up camp two hours earlier, and I didn’t appreciate the fact we were still walking—Shad had insisted, saying he thought the King wanted us to keep going.

Does he think he’s the only one the King speaks to? I grew weary of Shad’s bossiness.

The ground sloped under us, and we all slowed down under the moonless sky.

“Is this one of the riverbeds the King’s messenger told us of?” Malaiki asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“Yes,” Shad said. I heard him low to the ground beside me and felt his hand brush over my feet. “I feel stones. We must pick them up.”

With youthful enthusiasm the old man groped about the dried-up riverbed. He bumped into Quon, also on his knees, and both of them laughed.

“Tell Frodo to stop licking my face,” Quon said, snickering. “Or he may end up in tomorrow’s stew.”