Such outrages were repeated across the land, driving peculiars out of normal society and into bands like the one Ymeene had joined. It was no utopia; they lived together because they could trust no one else. Their village leader was a peculiar named Tombs, a red-bearded giant cursed with the squeaky voice of a sparrow. His tenor made it difficult for others to take him seriously, but he took himself quite seriously, and never let anyone forget that he sat on the Council of Important Peculiars.6

Ymeene avoided Tombs, having developed something of an allergy to prideful men, and instead spent her days with her funny, occasionally headless friend, Englebert. She helped him till the camp’s vegetable patch and collect wood for cook fires, and he helped her get to know the other peculiars. They took to Ymeene instantly, and she began to think of the camp as her adopted home and the peculiars as her second family. She told them about life as a hawk and amused them with her trick of repeating things—once looping a moment where Tombs tripped over a sleeping dog until the whole village hurt from laughing—and they regaled her with tales of peculiardom’s colorful history. There was, for a while, peace. It was the happiest time Ymeene could remember.

Every few days, though, the village’s tranquil bubble was punctured by woeful tidings from the outside world. Desperate peculiars arrived in a steady stream, seeking refuge from terror and persecution. Each had a familiar tale to tell: they had lived peacefully among normals their whole lives, until one day they were accused of some absurd crime and chased out, lucky to escape with their lives. (Like the unfortunate sisters of Stitch, not all were so lucky.) The peculiars welcomed the new arrivals just as they had welcome Ymeene, but after nearly a month of influx the village swelled from fifteen peculiars to fifty. There wasn’t enough space or food for things to continue this way indefinitely, and a sense of foreboding began to weigh heavily upon the peculiars.

One day another representative from the Council of Important Peculiars arrived. He wore a grim expression and disappeared into Tombs’s tent for hours, and when he and Tombs finally emerged, they gathered everyone together to deliver some distressing news. The normals had already driven peculiars out of many of their towns and villages, and now they had decided to drive them out of Oddfordshire altogether. They had assembled a force of armed fighters that would soon be on the peculiars’ doorstep. The question now was whether to fight or flee.

Needless to say, the peculiars were alarmed, and not a little hesitant.

A young woman looked around them and said, “This hill and these flimsy tents aren’t worth dying for. Why don’t we pack our things and go hide in the woods?”

“I don’t know about all of you,” said Tombs, “but I’m tired of running. I say we stand and fight. We must reclaim our dignity!”