Tired at last, she sat down under a scrub oak, leaning her head against its bark, closing her eyes. "A young man had washed dishes for some time," Budeph began, tying, as always, his story to the species of oak, "when, quite unexpectedly one day...."

"HELP!" came the scream from the river.

********

"What was that?" Cort asked Sue as together they crossed the large field with the river running through it.

"Sounds like...like...annsail to me," Sue replied, cocking her head.

Cort ran toward the river, surprised to find such a deep gorge in the midst of the gently rolling Pennsylvania farm field. He looked downward the 300 or so feet to where a woman clung to a large boulder in the midst of roiling rapids. "What the....!" he exclaimed. "How did THIS get here in The Village?"

Sue just shook her head silently, not at all surprised.

Cort studied the steep sides of the gorge, then remarked, "If we go down, there may be no way out."

"Back," Sue corrected.

His brow creased. He looked at her seriously. "I might get...wet," he said.

She smiled. "I've learned to live with that."

"You have?" he said, shocked. "You... you never...said...."

"I know," she replied, blowing a long breath on his star then, with a slow, circular motion, polishing it with her black satin bandana. Tipping her chin to look into his tanned face, she continued very softly, "It has it's....good...points." Sliding one slender finger through his gun belt, she said, "Come," and, totally ignoring the flight of arrows, led him across the suspension bridge towards the woods.

"What... what about annsail?" he managed to ask.

Sue the extremely Vile looked down through the large cracks in the bridge planking, "Terry will come....probably."

He followed her deep into the woods. She seemed to be looking for something. "Ah!" she said at last. "Here's one."

"One what?" Cort asked.

"Why," she said, lowering her lashes as a smile curved her red lips, "a bear oak, of course."

"A bear oak? What's so special about a bear oak?" he wondered.

She, strangely, like others of the cast, had a sudden encyclopedic knowledge of all things oakish. She ran the tip of her pink tongue across her lower lip, dragging his eyes along its path. "Quercus ilicifolia," she murmured.

His seagreen eyes widened a bit. With some effort, he turned to look at the large tree. "Why is there a 'T' carved on its trunk?" he asked.

"It's the 'Trysting' tree," she said, running her finger down the vertical shaft of the deeply carved letter.

Cort staggered a bit, his eyes darting side to side. "Where is Joimus?" he asked, barely able to speak.

"She's busy with... pigs," Sue laughed. "How ELSE do you think I've gotten such stuff in this epi?"

"We may suffer for this," he added.

"Truly," she agreed, "but it's worth it, don't you think?" She removed her finger from the T and traced along his mouth with it, then settled down in the deep grasses amongst the large roots, smiling up at him.

Chaps creaking, he sank to his knees in front of her. "If...if...," he stammered, "we are to be the Tuck Everlasting folk, are we not, then, rosy-cheeked, virginal teenagers?"

She leaned back a bit more. "We can...pretend," she sighed. And that is how Sue the Vile, in the role of 15 year old, white-lace-clad Winnie Foster, became...alas... Sinnie.

Meanwhile, back in the roiling river wild that ran through it, annsail was growing weaker. All night her fingers had curled around the sharp edges of the boulder as the giant chunks from the dynamited dam hurtled past, mixed with the enormous tree trunks from the logjam that had finally broken loose when the migrating herd of albino porcupines had attempted to cross it to reach their breeding grounds on the far side of the river that ran through it. That, alas, of course meant that the rapids were also filled with the less-than-happy forms of multitudes of flailing albino porcupines.

Just when she thought it couldn't get any worse...a thought one should never, ever, ever think in an EPI, for Pete's sake!...Jackonel Crowethor decided it was time to open the gates and flush all the sludge out of his factory. As she looked back upstream, she saw a tidal wall of, um, brown, sweeping toward her.

Terry had left to spend the night fly fishing by flashlight downstream, just out of earshot. He thought his beloved was safely asleep in the soft clover he had gathered and mounded into bedding for her. He watched her snuggle down and covered her with his camo jacket, bending low to kiss her ear before he walked toward the river, whistling softly as he went, glad there were so few land mines to avoid. He had no way of knowing, since she had never disclosed it to him, but annsail had secret ambitions to be an Olympic river rapid body surfer. No way could she remain on her bed of clover so close to such magnificent rapids. She lay quietly, watching Terry's form disappear into the night, then rose and quickly stripped off her Fuegan gown, revealing the wet suit she wore beneath it, the very one she had worn in the last Mardi Gras parade she had been able to attend in between getting her PhD in subalternative conflagulation and her servitude with the pirates.

Carefully she made her way down the 300 feet of sheer cliff to the rapids, wading out until the crashing white waters swirled about her waist. Her timing was bad. It was at that exact moment that the dam exploded and the log jam broke under the weight of the albino porcupine herd. She was trapped! Concrete chunks and logs zipped past her, forcing her to the downstream side of the large, central boulder. With the dam broken, the water level rose and her feet were no longer able to reach the riverbed. Surely, she thought, Terry will notice and will come.

How could she know that he had stumbled over the half-buried lever of the hidden entrance to the mine shaft, dropping and breaking his flashlight. He fell flat, his fly fishing lines becoming almost inextricably entangled around and around his equipment. All night, instead of happily casting his lines out into the river, he had rolled about in the field, struggling and struggling to achieve final disentanglement. By the time the lavender trails of dawn were spreading across the sky, he had resorted to biting through the lines with his teeth, thinking fearful thoughts of how sometimes wild animals freed themselves from traps.

At last he gained his feet, standing in the morning light, yards and yards of fishing line lying about his combat boots as though he were in some giant bowl of spaghetti.

Fly fishing was out. His thoughts turned back to clovery things, to where his love lay sleeping. Swiftly he strode through the tall grasses, reaching the suspension bridge just as Cort and Sue finished crossing and headed off toward the woods. He stopped a moment, almost calling to them in concern. Did they not know of the danger? Did they not care? He put one boot on the bridge, intending to go after them, but a faint, gurgling cry for help reached his ears. He looked down through the bridge cracks, electrified by the sight of his annsail clinging to the rock far, far below. With expert eyes he took in the sight of the concrete dam chunks, the giant logs, the albino porcupines, the oncoming tidal wave of, um, brown. If ever there were not a moment to lose, this was that moment.

He thought of Maximus' glorious swan dive off the brink of Victoria Falls, and surely that would be the fastest way down, but there were way too many rocks and the water was not really deep enough. He could rappel down the cliff, but that, too, would take precious seconds. Only a single recourse remained. Quickly he chopped through the ropes suspending the bridge and, holding onto the end plank, swished in a wide, downward arc. As he passed over the center of the river, he let go, landing in an easy crouch atop annsail's boulder.

She had not seen him coming, so for her it was as though her beloved had dropped out of the sky. She would have smiled in delight were it not for the fact of the wall of, um, brown, looming only yards away behind his back. "Terry, LOOK!" she spluttered through crashing rapid sploshes.

He jerked his head around, eyeing the oncoming crudwall. Unbeknownst to annsail, he had actually BEEN the gold medalist in Olympic log vaulting. In one smooth motion, Terry leaned forward, wrapping his left arm around annsail, pulling her up to him. With his right arm, he gripped the end of a long log as it hurtled past the boulder. Jamming the log downward, he flipped both himself and annsail up and to the left where they were deposited in a heap quite near the bed of clover. Soaked and panting, they lay there, just holding onto oneanother, their cheeks pressed together.

Finally opening her eyes, annsail noticed the nearness of the soft clover mound. Indicating it to Terry with a slight jerk of her head, she whispered softly, "She owes me big time." With a low chuckle and not letting go of annsail, Terry rolled over to the mound.

Bertannon had dozed a bit, missing the ending of the scrub oak story. Budeph waited silently, studying her quiet loveliness. When she awoke, quite refreshed, he extended his hand, helping her to her feet. Together they wandered ever more deeply into the forest. Finally he halted beneath an oak with large, strong branches low to the ground. Plucking one of its sharp- ended leaves, he twirled its stem between thumb and forefinger, considering it quietly.

"Is this a Northern Red Oak?" Bertannon asked.

Smiling, pleased at her knowledge, he nodded. "Quercus rubra Maxima," he added.

"Quercus Maxima?" she queried. "That sounds like an old racetrack the General once mentioned."

"Very similar," he agreed, "and it was on a blistering afternoon one July that the Roman officer lingered atop the hill, his fingers idly stroking the mane of his mount, as he impressed the sight of warm pink stones into his memory. The ends of his deeply red cape fluttered slightly in the breeze as, reluctantly, he turned his eyes toward the north."

At this very moment a happy General pulled open the curtains of his bedroom window, gazing out at the peaceful pastoral scene. From his location in the second story of the yellow farmhouse, he could see across the tops of the enormous cornfield that stretched away towards the distant woodlands.

"How...unusual," he said softly to himself, his seagreen eyes studying the large, interlocking circles. He had heard tales of such things happening in wheat, and had, indeed, often left little person-sized pathways himself through more than one such field, but these massive bendings now before him were, to his farmer's soul, a terrible waste of crop and he was glad it was merely corn.

Surely those men tossing the small white ball around in the largest of the circles could have found some better location for their sport? His thoughts were interrupted by Jotha's arrival at the door. He turned, sensing her presence before she spoke, and smiled at the sight of her. She had arisen earlier to take advantage of the rare epiopportunity actually to cook something for his breakfast. Other than last night's apple pie, the only food to have passed his lips in some weeks was Her Martiness' muffin crumb in the horsemound, so he was, understandably, looking forward to the meal.

Marvelous scents of waffles, bacon, eggs scrambled with Velveeta and canned mushrooms, even his favorite honey almond pastries Martvy had thoughtfully sent over, wafted up the stairs, causing him to salivate almost as much as the sight of Jotha in her freshly-laundered pale yellow gossamer gown. The delicate fabric had so often been bruised and torn that several large chunks had come off in the tub, resulting in a much shorter gown with one shoulder completely missing. "I like it," he rumbled, sliding one large palm around her waist.

Together they walked down the hall. As they passed the locked bathroom, a blue glow shown through the crack under the door. Jotha frowned, holding tightly to Maxathon's forearm. The thought of Sid as a plasma ball with all the powers of a young Kentimus was unbearable. "Eat quickly, my dear," she said, adding urgently, "while you still remember how."

Budeph led Bertannon on to the next tree, a willow oak. Smacking his palm against its trunk, he pronounced, "A good street tree, tolerant of heat, drought, and air pollution. In a large city in the south of Australia," he began, "a young man, marked over his body with the outward signs of his inward anger, led his fellows into the dripping darkness of the underpass."

Some time had passed since Sinnie had leaned back against the Quercus ilicifolia, and in that time she had amply demonstrated by action rather than word, the inherent meaning that lay in the name. Cort, barely recovered, had finally been able to sit upright again. For the first time he noticed the small spring tucked neatly between two large roots of the tree. "What's this?" he said, dipping his hand into the cool waters then splashing his face.

"Did you not see the movie?" Sinnie asked.

"No," he replied, "I was chained to a fountain while it was in wide release."

Sinnie reached down, cupping her palm into the small pool, lifting it to her lips and drinking deeply. "Then you do not...know," she said, more to herself, actually, than to her companion. She looked at him, her chin sparkly with spring dribbles, and said, "You must decide if you want to drink."

"I AM thirsty!" he replied, catching one of her dribbles on his fingertip. What she did not explain was that, were he to drink from the spring at the base of the Quercus ilicifolia, he would spend eternity joined with her, lost in realms of pure vile-ility, with no way either out or back.

"Then...drink, my love," she invited, a strange smile curving her red lips.

He dipped his hand into the spring, lifting it then toward his mouth. Budeph burst through the underbrush shouting,"NOooOoOooooooOoooo!" Startled, Cort's fingers parted just enough to let the spring water escape onto his lap. Sinnie's eyes narrowed in anger and frustration. Budeph and Bertannon had been propitiously close enough by that he had instantly recognized the species of oak beneath which the leathered couple sat and, knowing Sue as well as he did, also knew immediately what her intentions must be.

"What's going on?" Cort said, confused.

But Budeph just stood there, hands on his hips, glaring down at the unrepentant Sinnie. "How COULD you?" he growled.

She shrugged, and giving her hair a bit of a fluff, retorted, "How could I not?"

Martvy, it seemed, just could not get enough comforting. Manfully, Jeffius spent the entire night in the attempt as she delicately showed him many new ways of comforting that he had never before thought of. She, of course, justified it all to herself as merely her noble efforts to protect him from slash. As dawn spread its lavender trails across the sky, Jeffius had rolled onto his back, gasping, "Martvy, I don't think I am quite capable of one more moment of comforting."

Smiling at him, she said, "Rest a bit, my dear, whilst I whip up a batch of honey almond pastries to send over to the yellow farmhouse." Though admittedly curious as to whyever she would DO that, he immediately sank into an exhausted slumber. Softly she padded the 39 steps to her kitchen. How lucky she was that everywhere she went was exactly 39 steps. It left her mind free to think of...other... things, like possible plots to plot.

"Uthne, come back!" Lt. Jeffarry called. Uthne, however, squared her little shoulders and kept walking. Sadly, Jeffarry looked at the single black crowe feather in his fingers. He must find some way to make her believe in him again. He would make everything right, would give her back the crowe feather, and she would be his once more. Until that day, he would tuck the feather safely into the breast pocket of his suit coat, carrying it with him everywhere as a badge of yet-unredeemed dishonor.

How recently they had sat, side by side, legs dangling down the cliffwall, watching the dawn rise lavenderly above the swirling rapids. How could he have known how deeply his decision not to fling himself heedlessly down amongst the chunks of concrete, the massive logs and albino porcupines to save the hapless annsail would affect his Uthne? He was a prudent, careful man and once having risked and lost everything he held dear, was not eager to do so again. How was he to have known that it was the very fact that he HAD risked everything that so attracted Uthne to him? And, so, he had hesitated there on the brink of the cliff, weighing in the balances his possible dismemberment and/or impalement.

While he hesitated, Terry had detached the suspension bridge and swung down into the gorge. Uthne, plucking a tail feather from a passing crowe, had handed it to him, her lips set in a grim line. "Here," she had said, her voice all stern and cold, "you have today earned only...this."

Weary of heart and soul, he mounted his camel and set off across the vast, desolate pastureland. Hours later, throat parched, face blistered by the merciless eastern Pennsylvania sun, he fell, lying semiconscious amongst the tall grasses. A handsome, muscular African man who happened to be passing through Bucks County on his journey homeward from Rome, stopped, lifted Jeffarry's head, and as was his habit when saving the lives of waylaid European males, chewed a bit more on the white maggots and then spread them carefully over Jeffarry's cracked and bleeding lips. Feeling the slight wiggle of a few of the less masticated maggots, Jeffarry's eyes flickered open.

Abou Juba smiled. "All better now?" he asked. Jeffarry raised his hand weakly to his lips. "No," Abou Juba said, "they will heal it. You will see." Jeffarry, though, had serious doubts about his ability to let the maggots writhe about on his lips for the next several weeks. Abou Juba helped the man stand, supporting him with one strong arm. "Why," Abou Juba asked, "have I found you, half-dead, crossing this vast, desolate pasture?"

Jeffarry reached silently into his coat pocket, drawing forth the black feather. "This," he said, accidentally swallowing 3 of the larger maggots as he formed the word.

"A feather?" Abou Juba said, puzzled.

"Not just any feather," Jeffarry continued, "a CROWE feather." Jeffarry looked at the feather grimly. "Unless I do something, this is how Uthne will remember me."

"You do not wish to be remembered as a Crowe?" Abou Juba asked, still puzzled.

"I will always be remembered as a Crowe," Jeffarry explained, "it is the FEATHER I do not wish to be remembered as."

Abou Juba nodded, beginning to understand. "You will need your strength, then," he pronounced. Lifting his head, he caught the distant scent of honey almond pastries on the wind. Easily, he hefted the weakened man into his arms, and carrying him, loped upwind toward the source of the scent.

Maxathon again leaned back in his chair. How marvelous to be in the midst of an epi with FOOD! A thud sounded at the door and he went to investigate. Abou Juba had kicked it, his arms being full of Lt. Jeffarry. Maxathon stood there, mouth agape, staring. Abou Juba nearly dropped Jeffarry. The African was the first to find his voice. "I knew I would see you again," he said, grinning from ear to ear, "but not yet...not yet!"

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