1

           A huge shadow loomed up in the early morning fog moving silently.  It passed between two tents and paused, listening for the faint sound of gentle breathing then continued on.   Several hundred long paces later the wind wafted the smell of freshly baked bread to the shadow and there was a rumbling loud enough for the three young girls working at a huge clay oven to turn to face the intruder.  As one they smiled at the huge young man that appeared out of the mist.

           Nat returned the smile shyly and accepted the already prepared basket covered with the standard red and white checked cloth.  Hooking it over one well-muscled forearm he bobbed his head to the trio then turned for a nearby open walled building.  Behind him the three girls sighed as the each fantasized about the powerful surfer boy that only day before they would have considered out of their league.

2

           The girls were sisters and their new situation was so much better than their lives back in San Francisco that they still wondered if it was a dream.  With their parents dead, the three had left their Nevada home town looking for a better life in the city.  All they’d found was the degradation too many young girls find when smooth-talking young men offer to help as they stepped off the bus.  The fact that they were moderately attractive triples brought them to the attention of a pimp by the name of Marcus.  Within a week they were hooked on drugs and willing to do anything, even each other, to get more.

          Then Ghost Archer happened.

          Marcus sent one of his boys to pick them up and drive them over to Pac-Bell Park and offered no explanation as he ordered them to get out.  Already gathered were many other girls the trio had encountered while on the streets and none seemed to be the wiser about what was happening.

          The tall Ghost Archer just appear in their midst and gave them donuts and coffee before making his sales pitch.  The triples didn’t even have to look at each other as they simultaneously stepped over to the ‘go’ side of the lot.  It was the wisest thing they’d ever done.  Now their ‘moderate’ good looks had become the ethereal beauty of the elves thanks to the Archer.

           Nat Ryan, so tall and handsome, with the tan of a dedicated surfer and eyes the color of the sea, had been only a dream to them back then.  Now they were surrounded by other elves, once human, and the young ‘still’ human Nat had become the object of gentle competition between the sisters.  Each sighed as the object of their desire bent to one side to get a grip on the handle of a specially made pallet stacked with lumber.

           Muscles bunched under his smooth skin and the pallet rose into the air as if it weighed nothing.  Settling it on his shoulder the young man turned and headed back into the mist, doing a little dance just before he faded from their sight.

          “You’d have more luck if you concentrated on boys that will be staying here,” a voice said.  They all turned and grinned sheepishly at Liz.

 
3

           Passing the tents once again, Nat all but tiptoed then broke back into his stride as he approached the next tree.  Setting his load down carefully he returned to the small two-tent campsite.  He placed the picnic basket beside the one with the closed flaps, extracted a loaf of bread and a couple of pieces of fruit then paused to listen.  Inside it was silent so he pivoted and returned to the pallet load of lumber.

           He faced the east, looking out across the mist shrouded lake, as he leaned against the wood.  The sun was not quite up but the glow told him it was only a matter of a few moments.  Resting the two oranges on the stack he tore into the hot bread just as the sun crested the distant hills.  Everything between vanished as his eyes adjusted to the new glare.  He turned his head away and glanced as the closed tent.  The sun wouldn’t reach it for another half hour or so.  Plenty of time for him to get the floor laid.  Licking the last crumbs from his fingers he stooped to knot his rope around the bail Archer had installed on the pallet.

           Taking up the two oranges in one hand and the rope’s end in the other he stepped away from the lumber and looked up.   A branch was just to his left and about a hundred feet up.  His legs coiled and he sprang, aiming for the limb.  As with all the great trees in this forest, the branch at the bole was better than a meter wide and gave Nat plenty of room to move around.  Nestling the oranges on a depression near the trunk, Nat stepped out onto the limb.

           Hand over hand, like hauling up a bucket of water, the young surfer raised the pallet and its two tons of lumber up setting it down, balanced, on the broad branch.  With a snap of his fingers the metal bands popped with a metallic twang and Nat pulled them free, wadding them into a ball the size of one of the oranges.  From there it was just lay-out.

           While he worked, Nat, as usual, began to hum to himself, his mind relaxed and in neutral for the repetitive task that occupied him.  Just as the sun touched the closed flap of the tent, he laid out the last of the floor boards and took up his paddle drill. 

           With a bag of wooden pegs slung over one shoulder, he knelt and began drilling the inch wide hole through first the lumber then straight on into the live tree.  After blowing out the shavings, he took a peg from the bag and pushed it flush with his thumb, something that took anyone else a wooden mallet and a dozen smacks to do.

         "Lost,” he muttered.  “On a painted sky, where the clouds are hung for the poet’s eye.”  His voice rose slowly in a song never heard on this world.  “You may find him . . .  If you may find him.”

           He moved to the next hole, lost in the music.

           “There, on a distant shore, by the wings of dreams through an open door,” he continued.  A second voice joined in, in perfect harmony.

          "You may know him . . . if you may . . .”

           Nat rose to his feet and offered a hand to Wren Collins who stood as if suspended in air a few feet from the platform.  Gently he pulled her to him and she settled lightly on the freshly made floor.

           “Be,” they sang together.  “As a page the aches for a word which speaks on a theme that is timeless.”

            Wren accepted his hand and arm around her slender waist as they began a slow dance around the platform.

          “While the Sun God will make for your day,” they continued.

           Neither noticed the shavings or litter of scrap wood as they danced nor did they so much as touch any of the obstacles.   The huge young man moved with incredible grace leading the stunning young woman in time with their song.

          “Sing,” they chorused.  “As a song in search of a voice that is silent . . . And the one God will make for your way . . .”

           Nat’s voice rose at that point and Wren softened hers but a hundred yards away the camp of the elves just coming awake paused to listen.

          “And we danced,” he swept her from her feet in a spin then set her down lightly.  “To a whispered voice, overheard by the soul undertook by the heart. You may know it, if you may know it.”

          Nat stopped just at the edge of the platform and looked down, noticing the gathering elves for the first time.  Face flaming he stepped back, spinning Wren to the center of the floor.  For a moment he held her looking down into her eyes.

           “I didn’t think anyone knew that song,” he whispered.

           She smiled very slightly, “You would be surprised what I know.”

          Without thought she reached up and brushed wood shavings from Nat’s short blonde hair.  As usual, he was dressed in cut-offs and a muscle shirt, his body giving a whole new meaning to the term ‘muscle’.  She looked fresh, her beautiful face untouched by makeup, her curly black hair just beginning to coil up again after her morning bath.  She was dressed very much like her large companion in black shorts and an armless white tee shirt with a sports bra beneath.  Where he was barefoot, she protected her feet with white socks and scuffed boondockers.  She let her hand drop.

           “Need help?” she asked, cocking her head to look up at him through the corners of her brown eyes.

          Nat grinned.  “Always.”