From the earliest moment that Vah could remember, he had been worried. In his distant memories, his mother would soothe him:

"The banyo fruit will grow again, the rains will fall, the yucca grow, and all is well atop the trees."

She was comforting him because Vah had heard an elder tell a story about how a black muntjac had stolen the panther's tail, and so the panther cursed every green thing that the muntjac ate, that it might never grow. Yet when the forest no longer grew, the panther realized that its prey was all starving to death, and when his prey was gone, he too would starve, last and alone. Only then did the panther lift the curse, and in thanks the muntjac left the panther's tail outside his cave, tied around a fresh banyo fruit. Vah had awoken in his high hammock from a dream where it was all happening again, except no one could find the panther to lift the curse.

When Vah reached an age to realize that such powers were impossible—merely the stuff of stories—his worry only moved; it never departed. Even when he could not say what bothered him, when his stomach was full and he languored in the high trees of their home forests listening to the songs of his people, fear was never entirely gone. Now, a greater power than that of the panther had come, and it was his brothers who wielded it. The dread of it hung in his chest, the old familiar fear grown heavier.

Always, his fears had felt lightest in a tree-top alone, staring at the sky or the ocean, letting the breeze touch his skin. His brothers—Isecan especially—often called for him to follow along with them, but he preferred to be alone in the swaying branches. He had never married. Though he had longed for a mate, and the sight of this or that young vienu filled his mind, the thought of performing the rites and rituals overwhelmed him. When he tried to imagine it, he felt like he couldn't breathe, and sweat would drip from his forehead and burn his eyes on even the mildest of nights. He'd always blamed the rites for never pursuing a mate in earnest, but now he knew that it wasn't just the rites. It was the fear itself, like a living thing, like a tail that clung to him, but no muntjac could steal it.

His older brothers had always made him feel safest, especially when their parents went to the roots. They never held his moodiness against him or gave up on asking him to go with them to singings and gatherings. For that, he was grateful.

Findel made good on his word to take counsel with Vah—or at least talk with him. In truth, there was little to counsel over. The weeks had given them time to weave and braid new clothing from chewed and broken plant fibers, and the unnaturally tall plants provided some shelter from the wind. Isecan and his party were still gone, so it was likely the land was wide. As the rest regained strength, some set out on their own short trips to explore the nearby landscape. A few even went down to the seaside, returning with kelp from the shore. Findel continued to meditate by the pool, and sometimes Vah would join him. There it was that they would speak of what the future might hold, though they avoided talking of what the past had taken from them.

"We must forget," Findel said. "So that we can dream anew."

***

One evening, Vah and Findel were walking back to the tir when they saw a group of three vien running toward the camp from the southeast. One of them was carrying something, and by their speed and expressions, they were excited. Findel and Vah picked up their own pace, and they arrived just behind the group.

Someone laughed. It was the first laugh Vah had heard in many months—not a bitter laugh at fate, but a laugh of joy, a sincere laugh. It felt like the crack of thunder, the onset of rain after a drought. Others around the camp stood up from where they were sitting or lying, craning their necks to see the reason for such a marvelous, forgotten sound.

Seeing Findel and Vah, the trio of vien rushed up to them, holding out a sapling tree.

A tree! A blasted, struggling, wind-bent conifer sapling with reddish-brown bark and dark clustered needles. It was the first tree Vah had seen in weeks upon weeks, and he found himself clenching his jaw as a choking sensation filled his throat. Tears welled in his eyes. Their people were meant to live in the forest, by the bounty of the woods and not this wind-blasted land.

"Come!" Findel said. He turned toward the tir and started climbing. By the excited expressions of those crowding around, it appeared everyone knew exactly what Findel intended, and Vah followed behind. Everyone near enough to be aware of the commotion was soon hurrying up the tir. The crest of the tir was just a rocky irregular bald where not even moss grew. There, Findel knelt and scraped as much soil as he could into a crack between two broken slabs of rock. Taking the sapling, he planted it there, not even able to fully cover the little taproot.

He closed his eyes, stretching out his hands. In moments, what they all expected began. The tree shuddered, but it grew slowly, unlike the supple sorrel plants and the soft lichen. It looked like the stem resisted, twisting and contorting. And then a sound broke from Findel's throat, a single note, a single burst of music sustained, the first note of the first music the Vien had known since the monsters came.

The tree burst upward, its root cleaving between the rocks, shattering them. Its trunk widened and surged upward. Within an hour, its shade dominated the tir-top, and pine cones nearly a foot long hung from its branches. Moments later, they fell around them, piling in crevasses of rock. The Vien broke them apart and planted the seeds. Findel stretched out his hands to the tir, and the trees grew. Laughter rose, not isolated now, but the voice of a people raised in exultation as a forest grew all down the sides of the tir.

A vienu among them, Eyethne by name, had been a great singer in times before but had not sung since the flight. Now she raised her voice in new song beneath the stars of that strange land, and in her song she named the land Findeluvié, for Findel stood with his arms outstretched as if in Embrace, singing the trees upward. And Eyethne sang the song of it, of how Findel called the trees forth with the music of the Wellspring.

But Vah noticed the strange, raised veins of color creeping up Findel's wrists and neck, the viridian and yellow pigments spreading across his flesh.

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***

Findel knelt next to the Wellspring, the pool of disturbed water releasing its perpetual column of steam to be tattered by the wind above the vale. The sky was clear blue. The air had grown even colder and the wind bit harder in the nearly two months since the calling forth of the trees. Findel had to raise every day's food, for the tender plants died overnight, and the Vien people huddled together in wooden shelters for warmth, cutting down fresh-grown trees for the purpose and weaving blankets of twisted fibers from the stalks of the plants Findel grew.

They did not speak of what they had lost in their old home, but Vah knew he couldn't be the only one who dreamed of the warmth and comfort of the old woods, where the days were hot and the night breezes cool, and clothes served for beauty and modesty but not for warmth. There, they had eaten of the fruits of the forest and heard the insects and the birds and the moving of the wild creatures as they grazed beneath the canopy. The muntjacs would eat from Vah's hand. . .

They had never known the snow that fell from the heavens. They did not even have a word for it, nor the bitterness of its cold.

These memories occupied Vah's mind as he walked down the slope into the Vale of the Wellspring. He did not like it in the Vale, even though Findel had sung concentric rings of the red-barked conifers around the disturbed waters, blocking the wind and the snows even more.

"Brother," Vah said. Findel allowed no one to come into the vale. Vah disregarded such commands, and Findel did not appear bothered by it anymore. Vah's older brother opened his eyes. The discoloration had spread across his face, and raised bumps had formed.

"Brother," he replied. Vah had brought him food in a carved wooden bowel—sorrel and strawberries, frozen now after the walk. He held out the bowl to Findel, who took it from him with a smile and set it beside himself on the ground, paying it no more heed.

"When will we search for Isecan? He is still not back. . .you said—"

"I know what I said, Vah. I am worried about him too. I sent enough of our people that no mere accident should have kept them from sending word. I could sense them for long, but I cannot now."

"Sense them?"

"There is much of the Current you don't understand. I wish you did, for I could use your companionship in it. You I could trust."

Vah didn't know what trust had to do with it, but his first concern was Isecan.

"You could tell where they were?"

"No, not exactly. But Isecan grasped the Current, and I felt that touch."

"But he no longer grasps it?"

"He does not. I have not sensed it for some time."

Vah's heart sank. Why was Findel only telling him, now? Without the Wellspring, Isecan and the others would die out there. Had tragedy already befallen them? Were their bodies frozen out there? Before he asked Findel those anxious questions, another thought occurred to him:

"Can you sense me?"

"No. I cannot."

"Ever?"

"No." Findel shook his head. "When I am close to the others, I can feel the Current flowing into them, sustaining them, even if they do not grasp it. But I sense no such thing with you. That is why I know you speak the truth that you cannot sense it. I believe it is why you were unmarked by the water as well."

"What are we going to do about Isecan. We should search."

"This decision has tormented my mind for weeks, now. But we cannot search."

"What do you mean?" Vah was annoyed. His brother was supposed to be taking counsel with him.

"I sent some of our strongest, halest people with him. We do not know how far they went, or exactly where, or what befell them. If they encountered a threat. . ."

"You're afraid."

"For our people. As should you be. We are the last."

"So we hide here in this desolate place forever? It is getting colder, day by day. "

"I know. I am trying to think of a solution."

"Maybe this was just a place to rest, not to stay. It is warmer in the south."

"Go south,—" Findel said, and his brow showed wrinkles of anger "—so that the quth come upon us again and finish their fell feast. This desolate land may be the only thing that protects us."

Vah clenched his jaw. Despite his irritation, he knew that Findel was not wrong.

"So what do we do?"

"I told you, I am trying to think of a solution. I am. . . trying to understand more of what is possible. The Wellspring will be our salvation."

"You can't be sure. . . How can you know?"

Findel shook his head.

"Could someone without eyes understand the hue of a violet plucked in the evening?"

Vah didn't answer. There was no need.

"I am sorry, brother," Findel said. "Truly, I could use your fellowship in this. You always looked at things differently from me—and from Isecan for that matter. I feel so alone. Things are not how I would wish."

"I think we can all say as much," Vah replied, staring at the steam as it dissipated in the north wind far above.

***

That evening, Vah sat in a great ring of their people as they ate of the food Findel had brought forth. A fire burned in the center of the ring, casting its flickering light. Vah's nose ran, and he heard the coughing and wheezing of those gathered around. Not even Eyethne sang. Findel had started the fire, for even with shelter the air had grown so cold. The Vien hated fire. Their noses streamed snot, and every so often they stood and fled the smoke to breath easy again. They had stories of ancient times when forests had burned, bringing desolation, yet it was the assault of the smoke—the running noses, the hacking coughs, the stinging eyes—that lay at the root of their dislike.

Vah had a hard time concentrating, but not just because of the sting of the smoke. In the firelight, with the faces of his people ringing him around, he had to admit to himself the truth of what he had been observing. His people were changing.

The Vien had always had hair as translucent as the dew, sometimes clouding to white in old age—white like the finest of clouds, the purest of wildflowers, or shells dried on the sea strand. Like their hair, in youth their skin also had little color. It was translucent, even showing the veins of their life's blood, fine spiderwebs flowing through them, and the thin layers of pale flesh beneath.

Yet now, he looked at those around the fire and saw color creeping into their hair. For some, it was a yellowish hue like the sun at midday, but others it was the dark of night, or even the hues of the fire blazing between them. The color was creeping down from the roots of their hair as fast as it grew, so it had taken long to become obvious. It was not merely their hair—their skin, too, was changing, flushing or darkening. It was not the same as what was happening to Findel, for their skin remained smooth and soft. While there were hints of iridescent green in Findel's hair, it was not uniform, just as the streaks and hardened textures of his skin were irregular or patterned.

Something was coming over his people. Slowly, and as imperceptibly as he could, Vah reached to his shoulders and plucked one of his long hairs. He glanced at it between his fingers. It was clear all the way to the root. Whatever was happening to his people was not happening to him. He had stared at himself in the open water of the stream, but he looked the same as always. What changes would be wrought upon them as time passed? He had already seen how readily they had regained their strength. It had taken him longer. He still did not feel recovered from their exile. The others also appeared to tolerate the cold far better than he, though they suffered as well. That might be the simple result of a naturally weaker frame, but he suspected otherwise.

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