"What do you feel?" Pastel replied.

  In

  the black and gray stone room, marked by contrasts of light, and by the

  smoke from the burning of oil in basins and incense bouquets, the

  winged creature approached. With the characteristic ruffle of feathers,

  Paleato sat down on his folded hind legs. In his green toga and clump of

  feathers, he seemed simply to slump to the ground, next to Pastel's

  belongings. He raised an open hand, palm down, and brought it to the

  stone, stopping a hand's length away. He took a deep breath and said:

  "It's subtle, but I feel something. But to be honest it's mostly in you

  that I feel an... affinity with thaumaturgic energy."

  Pastel straightened up in the basin. "What?"

  "Here,

  you can try to loosen the dust with this brush." Paleato said, dodging

  the question. Pastel grabbed the brush but simply let it float in the

  water. "What do you mean you feel the... energy?"

  Paleato

  grabbed the brush with one hand and Pastel's arm with the other. The

  latter frowned but complied. The raven spoke in his soft, deep voice.

  "Do you see any light in this room?"

  Pastel sighed. "Another metaphor." He thought, impatient.

  Paleato

  gently scrubbed Pastel's arm with the brush, carefully avoiding the

  places where the infection was greatest. Pastel grimaced.

  "This

  pyramid is a huge mass of stone. Openings on its surface allow light to

  enter and penetrate the thickness of the stone before landing in this

  room. You see, the light enters and illuminates the wisps of smoke, it

  reflects on the stone, on the carpet, revealing its color and it

  reflects in your eyes, releasing its golden hues." Pastel blushed but

  said nothing, as the brush worked its way up to the fur on his shoulder.

  "As

  long as it doesn't touch anything, the light reveals nothing. In some

  temples, the light awakens myriads of reflections and colors, crossing

  time and space. In others, as on my plumage, it seems to disappear.

  Thaumaturgic energy is another kind of radiation, and some people are

  able to capture it and control its reflections. Your object is a bit

  like one of those basins that emit a very special light, and you're able

  to perceive its glow, feel its heat and understand the convection

  movements of the air around its little flame."

  Skeptical

  at first, Pastel suddenly felt moved. He hadn't yet said anything about

  the stone, about Mamalou, about his doubts and hopes, and yet the raven

  had put new words to a feeling he couldn't identify within himself. And

  above all, after months of doubts and uncertainty, believing himself to

  be an impostor, at last a look outside his clan suddenly reassured him.

  His throat tightened. He held back a sob of exhaustion and relief. A

  tear mingled with the bathwater. He relaxed at last, his breath ragged.

  Paleato had fallen silent, but continued to brush Pastel's coat gently.

  Suddenly, Pastel pulled himself together.

  "Eh...

  thanks, but I... I can handle the rest." He took the brush from the

  raven's hands, suddenly embarrassed. A drop of water fell onto the

  bird's arm but slipped off the hydrophobic plumage. He looked at

  Paleato, who smiled as he rose to his feet. "I've got lots of questions,

  Paleato." Pastel said quickly before the other could say it for him. He

  was suddenly aware of the transparency of his face. Might as well share

  his thoughts before he borrows them, Pastel thought, suddenly a little

  annoyed by the raven's prescience.

  The

  latter glanced at the column of light that had slightly crossed the

  room towards them. He said: "It's time for my prayer. It was a pleasure

  to meet you, Pastel. A mage will come to help you in a few moments. I'll

  also send a page to bring you food and wash your clothes. I wish you a

  good life."

  Pastel

  suddenly straightened up in his bath, stirring the water. "Wait!" The

  raven turned to him, just before exiting through the door they'd

  entered. "You..." Pastel searched for his words. "Please can you be the

  one to help me? Rather than this mage, I mean? Aren't you a mage

  yourself?"

  "I'm only a

  minor mage. I've got a lot to learn. The mages will be able to help you

  much better than I can. That's not my role in this temple."

  "Paleato!"

  The tone of Pastel's voice rose, but his timbre deepened. He opened his

  mouth but said nothing for a moment. He didn't search for words, he

  waited for them to come to him. He thought back to his dream several

  days earlier. The ruffling of feathers, its soundless howling in the

  dark. He put his wet hand on the stone, splashing his clothes. "I can't

  explain it, but it has to be you. It's important! Please."

  The

  raven remained motionless. He seemed disconcerted, his gaze focused on

  Pastel, he frowned. He was trying to see something Pastel couldn't.

  Finally, he murmured. "Apprentice thaumaturge. I don't understand what

  you're telling me, but I understand that I have to listen to you... at

  least for now."

  Pastel

  sank into the water, exhaling. He'd been holding his breath. It was

  like when he'd interrupted the foxes' fight in the house basket the day

  before he left for Ternoulie. He'd let a sudden intuition speak for him.

  "But

  I still have to go and pray. I'll be back to put on the sacred moss

  ointment afterwards. You can finish washing, drying off and eating in

  the meantime. "

  The raven disappeared.

  Pastel

  resumed his cleaning with increased vigor, reassured by the emotion

  that had suddenly taken hold of him. It was as if he was certain that if

  someone other than Paleato helped him, something terrible would happen.

  It was as if he'd come very close to a nightmare. He thought back to

  his dream, but the memories were fading. He thought about the ruffling

  of feathers, then looked around. He suddenly found himself ridiculous,

  naked in a bath in the heart of the temple of a god he didn't know.

  "What

  am I doing here?" Pastel sighed. The silence of the stone room

  contrasted with the bustle and life of the jungle outside. Pastel looked

  down at his water-soaked red fur.

  "What

  am I doing?" Pastel repeated to himself. Ever since he'd left the

  mountains, ever since he'd entered this jungle, he'd felt helpless so

  often. Always waiting for others to help him, guide him, he told

  himself.

  "I know how

  to fight, I'm not stupid, I'm a hunter, descended from a line of

  priestesses... why do I feel so lost?" He thought back to Tamo, on the

  roof, gazing up at the sky. Despite the expression of his doubts, he

  seemed driven by a solid resolve, by the certainty that he was doing the

  right thing for the survival of the foxes and the clan.

  The

  fox gritted his teeth. He wished he could have held Tamo against him.

  Thinking of the warmth of his body and the softness of his fur, he

  suddenly felt cold. Cold in the heart of this temple of light and

  shadow. Pastel quickly rubbed the rest of his body and got out of the

  bath. He looked around and found a neatly folded towel nearby. It

  smelled of incense and fresh pepper. His chest tightened as he thought

  back longingly to the plains. He remembered their runs through the

  grass, breathless, fire in their souls, light. He remembered the Tamo of

  his childhood, his eyes sparkling with joy, mischievous and bright.

  As

  he got dressed, he heard a familiar voice behind him. "No, no, no! Why

  take a bath if you're going to put your soiled clothes back on?"

  He

  turned around. The capibara who had greeted him at the temple entrance

  was standing at the door with a cabaret of food, a discouraged

  expression on his face.

  "But... they're not soiled... I wash them often."

  "Tsss, you don't understand. There's washing and .

  You've washed in Syra's sacred tears and you're going to be touched by

  the sacred moss. Your clothes must also be washed in the tears!"

  "But... what should I wear then? I have to get back to the... to home by the end of the day."

  "You

  were supposed to wear the toga you just used like a common rag! Your

  clothes will have je time to dry before you leave." Cackled the

  rough-haired little man as he set the tray down on a low table. Pastel

  then noticed a towel on his arm.

  "Your towel is here... but hey, you don't need it anymore... you need a toga now" muttered the disgruntled capibara.

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  "I'm sorry I can wear this toga..."

  "Don't

  be silly it's all wet and wrinkled now tsss! I'll be back with a toga."

  He said as he walked out quickly, his gait swaying.

  Pastel

  sighed and hesitated for a moment between staying naked and putting on

  the toga. He finally chose to wear the garment without tying it and

  settled down to eat. On the small tray, in small black bowls, he

  curiously discovered a cup of rice, what appeared to be pickled

  vegetables, a cup of tea and a strange brownish substance that seemed to

  be a mixture of beans, root vegetables and boiled greens. He took a

  mouthful with the help of a small wooden spoon but nearly choked, seized

  by a burst of coughing.

  "Aarrgh!"

  He let out, tears welling up in his eyes before swallowing a handful of

  rice to calm the fire that had taken hold of his throat. He'd never

  eaten anything so spicy before.

  "All

  foreigners have the same reaction, the first time. It cleanses the

  insides!" Said the Capibara, who had just wobbled back, a toga in his

  hands. "But you'll see, when you get home, you'll find everything

  bland."

  "Thank you," Pastel managed to say, struggling to recover from his first mouthful.

  Syra's

  servant left with his clothes, but not before Pastel had subtly taken

  hold of the stone. He ate his meal slowly, but with the last few

  mouthfuls he finally perceived interesting nuances of flavor behind the

  unbearable combustion of his taste buds.

  He

  removed the toga, rubbed his coat to speed up drying, then slipped on

  the dry toga, the stone back in the warmth of his armpit fur. The line

  of light falling from the skylight was narrower and now very close to

  the bath. It was here that he noticed that the water he had left was

  slightly veiled by the dirt his fur had disgorged into it. A little

  embarrassed, he crouched down beside the bath to look for a way to empty

  the contents. "There must be another of those fish to drink my filth,

  just like at the entrance." Murmured the fox.

  "Panther's left hind leg, there's a wooden rod that uncorks the tank." Said the raven in a soft voice behind Pastel.

  Pastel

  gasped, losing his balance, his arms tracing circles in the air.

  "OOoouuuaaaaAAAAaa!" Feeling himself fall, he threw himself forward to

  catch him just barely on the opposite edge of the bath, suspended above

  the water. "Pfffffffff..." He sighed through gritted teeth as he rose to

  his feet, safe and dry.

  "I

  hope you ate well." Said the raven, moving towards him with a

  characteristic ruffle of feathers. He sketched a discreet smile as he

  looked the fox up and down. Pastel stood in the line of light and his

  fur shone unequivocally a rich, warm coppery. "There was a comb here...

  but that's not important." Said the raven.

  "Oh..." with one hand Pastel stroked his head to touch his ruffled fur.

  "Good. You can follow me. I'll prepare the moss pomade."

  They

  left the room and walked down another corridor, through a large hall

  decorated with statues and from which a massive stone staircase led up

  into the depths of the pyramid. They continued straight on until they

  reached another room bathed in light. "This pyramid must be full of

  holes." Pastel thought. This time, the smell of incense was mingled with

  the fresh scent of chlorophyll.

  "Sit

  here," said the raven, pointing to a stone bench covered with cushions.

  The raven went to a tablel and took a small bowl in which he mixed a

  substance with a wooden stick.

  Returning

  to Pastel, he said: "I'm going to put the Syra moss on your wounds.

  Then I'll apply a bandage. But you'll have to come back tomorrow to

  remove the dried ointment, wash and apply some more. You'll come back

  the next day and the day after that, and then we'll see." Pastel nodded

  but couldn't hold back a frown. Every day spent here was a day he was

  not with Tamo and his sister.

  Paleato

  flew through the column of light. For half a second, his plumage lit up

  in vivid purples and brilliant blues, then turned dark as shadow. A

  misplaced flutter of the eyelids and the fox would have seen nothing.

  Pastel wondered what the raven looked like when he was outside, wings

  outstretched in the tropical sun. "Did he ever come out of the pyramid?"

  wondered the fox as the other sat down beside him.

  "Your arm," said the raven. Pastel held out his arm.

  "You

  had questions." Said the raven as he applied a green paste to a wound

  on Pastel's arm. Pastel felt immediate relief. It was cool and soft. The

  bird's gestures were delicate. He was habitually careful not to brush

  against the fox with his dark feathers. "That doesn't sound very

  practical", Pastel thought, before replying: "Yes. I need to know more

  about this energy. I need to better control... feel... or I don't know

  what you'd call it, but I need to be able to listen to the... the

  stone."

  "What's the story behind this stone?" Paleato asked, his eyes on his task. Pastel was gradually becoming covered in green spots.

  The

  stone was cool under his arm. "If you want to give me a sign that I

  should or shouldn't say something, now's the time," Pastel thought to

  the small object under his arm. Nothing happened, so after taking a deep

  breath, the fox answered the raven's question: "I come from the steppes

  north of the ash mountains. My people call it the cradle of clouds. For

  as long as there have been clouds, foxes have lived in this land,

  sailing through the seasons, following the hordes... and my clan has

  always been guided by a priest or priestess who, aided by the stone, in

  communication with the spirits and our ancestors, could predict where to

  move our village, how to avoid ephemeral rivers and other important

  information. But the last prediction my priestess... Mamalou, my

  great-grandmother, made was to tell us that she saw the end of history

  and that something terrible was going to happen and that..." The raven

  continued to silently apply the paste. Pastel sensed he was listening

  carefully. He continued, "And that she could only see my future... that I

  had to take up the burden of the stone."

  Paleato

  nodded silently, lost in thought. Pastel's heart was racing. He was

  anxious to tell his story to a stranger, but excited to find the ear of

  someone who, at last, might be able to give him some answers.

  "That's

  very interesting..." the bird finally said. Pastel noticed that a

  snippet of curiosity seemed to have crept into Paleato's calm, measured

  tone.

  "... I don't

  mean to be hurtful but... there are many magical objects with which we

  can interact in different ways: playing with the elements, moving things

  around, altering thoughts, sensations and other such abilities. Every

  magical objet is different, but I've never, to this day, heard of an

  object capable of predicting the future. It would be... it would be

  incredible, but I don't understand how it could exist." The raven

  pondered. Pastel couldn't contain a frown, disappointed by the bird's

  answer. This time, Paleato didn't seem to notice the fox's emotions and

  added: "I only glanced at your stone briefly, but I must admit I

  perceived something very original and subtle. It was like... like a

  mirror." Pastel was suddenly more attentive.

  "What do you mean by mirror?"

  "As

  if the stone was reflecting back to me an echo of my emotions and

  sensations. It's very subtle though. Perhaps it's a tool of

  introspection that allows you to make better decisions..."

  Pastel

  sighed and shook his head: "No, I... I felt things that had nothing to

  do with... I mean. It wasn't just a reflection of my emotions, it was as

  if... as if sometimes I found my emotions but other times the stone

  sent me different images. As if someone else or something was trying to

  tell me something. And sometimes I dream of.... I don't know how to say

  it. My ancestors have always spoken of stone as that through which the

  ancestors and spirits of the plains speak to us and guide us from their

  world, beyond time."

  Paleato had guided Pastel's gestures as he spoke to gradually cover his whole body with ointment and bandage.

  "The

  gods and spirits have plans for us. If the priestess of your clan has

  named you successor, which I imagine is an important privilege, her

  wisdom was probably right. This is often the kind of sign the spirits

  send us. They guide us but never speak to us as you suggest your stone

  speaks to your people. And what is it telling you now?"

  "That's

  the problem: Nothing. I can't control when it... talks to me, or how,

  and it's always like a storm of images, sensations and emotions."

  "Hmmm,"

  croaked the Raven. "It's curious because when she invited you to

  persuade me, to convince me, earlier, I didn't feel anything in

  particular and yet I'm a minor mage." Paleato stood up and looked at

  Pastel's bandages, he was thinking.

  "And what does that mean, minor mage?" Pastel asked.

  "It's

  a step in the quest for Syra's light. I joined the temple when I was

  still a chick, and I've been working on mastering thaumaturgic energy

  ever since. Today I'm no longer an apprentice, but I still have a lot to

  learn." He paused to think. His gaze crossed the room, then landed on

  Pastel again, sparkling.

  "We're

  going to try something!" Said the raven as he walked over to a piece of

  wooden furniture in the corner of the room. It was a long piece of

  lacquered wood, dark and covered with a multitude of small drawers. The

  raven bent down and, without looking, habitually pulled out one of the

  drawers and brought out a small thing that Pastel couldn't see clearly.

  Paleato

  approached and Pastel finally noticed a tiny jade statuette between two

  fingers. "This magical object has only one function: to resonate. It's a

  useful toy for children entering the cult of Syra. I've spent a lot of

  time with it."

  Paleato

  opened his palm and, with his other hand, placed the jade statuette

  inside. It was a tiny and green little panther. Suddenly, the jade

  glowed a rich, vibrant green from within, before slowly fading and

  lighting up again, pulsating "This object enables us to learn to control

  our relationship with thaumaturgic energy." The statuette faded. "Try

  it. Give me your paw." Pastel reached out apprehensively. The statuette

  was warm after its passage through the bird's palm. Nothing happened.

  "Ehh... what now?" asked Pastel.

  "Concentrate

  on your heart. Feel its beat. Think about the warmth of your blood

  flowing through it. Now focus on your arm. Imagine warmth rising from

  your heart to your hand. Now imagine that the statuette is an extension

  of your hand and that the hea..." The raven suddenly paused as the

  little jade panther flashed for a second like a bolt of lightning,

  making all the shadows in the room disappear. It faded away, but by the

  time their eyes adjusted to the returning half-light, the object made a

  few jolts, flashing strobe lights, each time illuminating the entire

  room. Pastel shrieked and dropped the statuette on the carpet, blinking,

  momentarily dazzled by the fiery green glow.

  Paleato

  quickly turned his head towards the opening in the room, concern in his

  eyes. He bent down to pick up the statuette and looked intently at the

  fox, whose face showed a look of amazement. Pastel noticed the feathers

  on the raven's head swelling gently, his whole body growing in size,

  while his eyes shone with anger.