Dungo’s complaint against the Rufoux was hardly unjustified, for lack and deprivation choked the Bedoua world. But neither did the clan’s circumstances hang as desperately as its leader made out, for the people had chosen this life, and they had learned to take much joy in what they could squeeze out of the dry lands.

Dungo simply showed the typical Bedoua outlook, beset by moaning one moment, in the thralls of gladness the next. Emotions ran high in the clan, seldom with guile, and the clicking sound Artur and his companions had heard always signaled a Bedoua’s pleasure. Only one, Krait, had learned to hide his mood, not only from strangers but also his clansmen; tinted lenses and heavy whiskers added to his concealment. But Dungo could be as expansive and full of good humor as a child, regaling a gathering of friends with long stories of past happenings, relating lessons to be learned from nature, or heaping attention upon his pets, Moss and Skree.

Their tamed rumidonts claimed the center of the Bedoua life; the clan’s shelter and sustenance came almost entirely from these animals, able to survive on the scraggly grass of the sands. The woven wool — soft enough for swaddling clothes but sturdy too to braid into ropes — made up all Bedoua clothing, as well as their tents, rugs and blankets. Cheese, milk and butter dominated their diets, although they also gathered wild grains that they baked whole into their bread, to help keep them regular.

Sylva, Dungo’s daughter, could talk with Dungo only. Her birth had muted her voice but left her intelligence, and she had developed a language of hieroglyphs and could communicate with him by writing. In that way she counseled him in secret, for no other man nor woman in Medialia could read or write.

“Yes, you must bed down in the tent of Dungo tonight, for already the night threatens those who venture outside,” said Dungo to the travelers. “Sylva and Krait as well, for the night has fallen too far to leave the tent, or Wolven will cast a bloody shadow upon the moon. Already the rumidonts have been hidden away and will not be released to graze again until dawn. My heart rejoices to invite you to stay with me; we will have a grand feast tonight, and talk of many wonders of the outside world.” He continued to play with his new treasure made of wood, and the clicking intensified.

Krait and Sylva had made up beds for all in the spacious tent. Artur chose one and casually tossed his knapsack upon it, but the Melics looked about at each other nervously. Theodoric realized that he had not thought ahead about night in the desert; he looked to Dungo and began.

“Begging your pardon, oh vizier, we offer you much thanks for your hospitality. You have opened your own home to us, and we confess our debt to your generosity. But, begging your pardon, we Melics were not made for the ground. Our security relies on the trees, given us by our god Drueed, and to sleep upon the ground would be impossible.”

Dungo broke in with great annoyance. “What say you? You will not stay in the tent of Dungo? And what trees do we have to offer you, or do you refuse the camp of the Bedoua as well? And what protection can we offer you against the ravening of Wolven? Any? No, none, not if you leave our tents! Do you expect to make the full day’s journey back to the forest lands? Will you outrun the vicious Wolven as you seek the cradling arms of Drueed? I hardly think! You will stay in my tent or you will not survive the morning!”

“But, great Dungo,” Theodoric began again.

“Come to think of it,” added Artur, “I feel a little cramped myself.” His adulthood spent sleeping alone made him dislike the idea of bunkmates.

“No! I will not hear of it!” Terror showed itself in Dungo’s eyes. “If your gods respect themselves at all, they would strike me down for sending you into the jaws of Wolven! Bedoua ways forbid it, to so mistreat a guest as to deny him not only a bed but also his life! You must stay, trees or no trees. See, we have much to eat and drink, delicacies such as you Melics have never known. The night will pass quickly, you will see! And you will not be torn to shreds, as well. You, girl, you must separate yourself and follow Sylva to the tent’s far side.”

“Picta,” said Picta.

“Sylva,” said Dungo, not understanding. With the Melic attitude toward sex, Picta in turn did not understand his directions, but she obeyed.

Theodoric looked to his clansmen and sat upon one of the beds in resignation. “The wind blows we know not from where, but we can see it directs the ways of the leaves.” Franken carefully assessed the rugs upon his bed. Picta tried lying on her side. Artur lay back on his pallet, his hands behind his head, and wondered what to do while Dungo’s voice filled the night air.

“Let me tell you of Wolven, wise Melics. All the Bedoua know of your philosophy, but maybe you have not heard of the ways of Wolven. Our god perhaps does not care for the gentility and benevolence of yours; ours may extract of his people a high price when they are found wanting. The appetite of Wolven finds its roots in the beginning of time, never to be satisfied. He awaits only to find the ignorant, or unwary, or unbelieving to exercise his wrathful judgment. His stealthy pace overtakes his victims without notice, and he can pull the very bones out of a man’s body! Through the nostrils! I have seen it done — or at least I have heard the tales. Stories to chill your blood, Melics! Even you, Artur of the Rufoux, your clan of warriors would cringe at the sight of Wolven!”

“I don’t …” began Artur, but he didn’t get far.

“Oh, such a terrible being is Wolven!” said Dungo with much mystery in his voice. Krait stood behind him impassively, his eyes hidden from view. “From the very beginning he desired only to covet and steal, to kill and destroy. But so did he gain his power, and how he maintains control over the Bedoua! For if he finds any man or woman, or child, or even rumidont from the Bedoua camp under the full moon, he wipes it forever from the memory of the Earth. What a devilish thing is Wolven! What a curse upon the northern sands! But though he would wipe out the Bedoua if he could, as well he slaughters our enemies who seek the Bedoua among the dunes. So lucky that our sharp-eyed sentries discovered you before dusk! For under the light of the moon there would have been no hiding from Wolven!”

“So we have been told,” said Theodoric. “And more so, that when a Bedoua comes upon a traveler as the full moon rises, he also will kill him outright.”

“Oh, indeed, to be found by the light of the full moon promises sure death!”

“A wonderful opportunity for your father, were he here,” Theodoric commented to Artur.

“What? Oh, yeah,” Artur said, and let his mind wander again.

“Yes! So true, the Bedoua distribute generously of their mercy!” Dungo continued. “Better to be killed by your fellow man than murdered upon the ferocious teeth of that villain Wolven. For he takes his victims by the head and tears at their throats with his vicious claws. He leaves them gasping for air as he gnaws out their entrails. Then he might tear off each finger and each toe, displaying the dismembered feet and hands before the eyes of his victim, to watch every digit disappear. He might, if his grace overflows that night, then suck the eyeballs out of the man’s head, to spare him the anguish of witnessing more of his pain. Wolven leaves an empty skin behind, evidence of his crimes, defying any who might bring him to justice. Then he blows across the deserts to his lair with a ghostly howl. ‘Never shall his stomach cease gnawing at his heart.’ ”

Outside a swelling and waning chorus arose to greet the cool night air. “Sand crickets,” said Dungo. “As long as they sing, it is a good sign.”

Aachen shuddered, and Picta lay on her side with a slight smile. Every now and then Artur’s snoring would jar him awake. Cheeses and bread lay about in abundance, and Sylva handed cups of fresh milk to all who would take them. Mienrade, the Melic who had accompanied Franken to the mouth of the Alluvia, took a drink and studied its taste. The chief composer of the clan, he tended to think of everything in terms of chords and harmonies, what would complement well and what would not. He pulled a flagon out of his knapsack and squeezed a few drops into his drink. From his pocket came a wooden straw, a device he had invented when he tried once to devise a particularly small whistle, and he stirred and took a sip.

Dungo had actually stopped talking to watch Mienrade at work. Mienrade smiled and offered his cup back to the Bedoua, who sniffed carefully before drinking himself. With no idea how to work the straw, he simply used the side of the cup.

“Ha-haaaa! What name do you give this divine elixir? Can it be ambrosia itself?” he exclaimed loudly.

Artur shot upright, wide awake at the ruckus.

“I don’t know. I added honey, the sweetness of the Melic table. The mixture has never been tasted before tonight,” said Mienrade.

“Then we have been visited by a night of truly the greatest blessing! Oh, what a night, and a full moon at that! Let Wolven try to take away the glory of this night, and the days that follow! Now, I have decided, that settles everything! Krait, take note! In the morning you and Humus leave for the Rufoux camp, and you will do whatever you can to help the girl! Take some of this delicious brew with you; perhaps it performs magic upon the stomach as well as the tongue! We must talk more about the Aoten, they remain a much different matter, but all in due time! For now, we save the girl! Yes, for we have tonight spent the most fortunate night in the history of the Bedoua, the night the desert was made a land of milk and —” and Dungo hesitated, seeking help.

Dungo may well have talked all the rest of the night, but Artur would never know. So heavily did sleep bear down upon him — after the draining journey, his arrest and interrogation and the long conversation — even Dungo’s bombast did not stir him. Franken, after much study, struck upon rolling up the rugs that made his bed, so he could lay on top, his arms and legs dangling somewhat, in the semblance of sleeping on a branch. All the Melics followed suit and slept as soundly as if they had been in their own trees, with the exception of Picta, who somehow had dozed off on the ground.