Hita lounged over the rocky outcrop above the caves, basking in the winter sun. A few guarded at the edges, checking the sky for flying chick predators or an exploratory plane, and the land for thunder lizards or alien expeditions. The familiar images of their idle chatter nurtured Dante as his naked body soaked up the warmth. After a few lazy minutes, he sat up and hunched over a pile of edible stalks, ready for another attempt at peeling them for Friend. A few weeks before, the hita who had saved and looked after him during his illness, the one he had christened Friend, became lethargic and moody, coming and going on secret missions to the jungle and not letting him know the contents of the bundles it carried. One morning Friend didn’t turned up to accompany him to the large cave where the other creatures drank their breakfast broth. Dante found the hita who had taped his ribs and, after an endless concerned examination of his healed chest and shoulder, it directed him to a new cave.

To his surprise, all the sensual dancers of a few months before sat brooding in nests. The hita were hermaphrodites, male and female in one creature, and laid eggs. They created their nests as works of art, not only weaving them of reeds and sticks but also decorating with beads, colored string, feathers, dried flowers and the human hair. Dante noticed his own red and gold curls braided among the abstract patterns. He had let Friend chop his hair short and roughly trim his beard, donating his unruly mane as a thank you. The hita shared everything, no concept of ownership existed among them.

He had found Friend huddled deep in a nest in the middle of the colony. It sent him grumpy images, pointing out he should have brought food like the other hita who weren’t reproducing this season. For the last week, Dante had struggled with its favourite vegetable, now reaching the point where, after several hours work, he could present a stripped stalk.

Dante held the slippery cane between his knees and pulled at the peel with his hand. The stalk see-sawed back and forth, his stump waving in a useless effort to help. He could feel his lost fingers stretching and reaching, hoping to steady the stick. The illusion turned into a maddening, itching pain. Dante rubbed and scratched around the stub of his wrist then willed his disabled arm to rest in his lap. He returned to picking at the end of the stalk. It slithered through his knees and down to the rock.

"Oh, Gaia. Oh damn. I wish it wasn’t an illusion." Dante banged his head against his knees in frustration. The hita heard but ignored him, letting him work through his pain.

Dante picked up the stalk and placed it once again between his knees. The hita ripped the plants with their teeth but the taste burned sour in his human mouth. His stump floated up of its own accord, invisible fingers clutched the stick and held it fast. Dante stared in disbelief then a grin split his face. He closed his eyes.

His hand was there, he could feel each joint. Dante grasped the stalk between his left fingers and lifted it. He opened his eyes. The stick hung suspended in the air in front of him, then came an empty space and his stump. Dante laughed. His magic had taken a new turn, he created an invisible hand. He worried for a moment that this powerful magic would attract unwanted attention, then remembered all the entertainment he’d put on for the hita. No humans or wraiths had appeared. Besides he felt magic in the jungle and several of the clan along with his hita enemy, Shaman, created spells, a magic finder couldn’t possibly sort through all the enchantments.

A snout snaked in from his left side and swished back and forth between the end of Dante’s arm and the stick. The stalk remained suspended, his hand still felt like a hand.

"You’re not a human, you’re a shine," imaged Shaman with irritation. "This is a good spell, not useless like your Happy Song."

Its hot breath huffed down Dante’s neck. He scrambled back over the rock, the magic breaking, the stalk falling to the ground. The other hita sent waves of comfort but Dante refused to calm. Shaman and he had circled each other for months in a silent wary truce, each moving to opposite ends of the cave or leaving when the other appeared. Dante refused to let down his guard no matter how many waves of reassuring feelings the other hita sent.

"The clan says we must go walkabout. Together. To develop a good relationship," imaged Shaman in a wave of annoyance that seemed to hold a touch of sarcasm. "While Friend comforts and hatches the egg."

Dante narrowed his eyes and crossed his arms, then folded his good hand over his stump in protection. He sent back pictures of himself bringing Friend food and drink. "No, I can’t possibly go with you."

The other hita sent him images of feeding, washing and combing. They would look after Friend. Dante’s shoulder ached along the healed bite marks. He sent the hita a vision of Shaman attacking him in the jungle and leaving him to die. The clan sent back sorrow that Dante could think that Shaman would attack their human. Shaman also sent back a vigorous denial but Dante felt a twinge of guilt hidden in the middle. The creature had considered his murder.

The hita crowded about the two of them, pushing Shaman and Dante together. They signaled that the two of them should call a truce. His enemy held out a snout.

"The old handshake and make up, oh right," thought Dante.

He held out his stump, no need to risk his only hand. Shaman wound its trunk around Dante’s arm, then pulled him forward for a quick, light hug before loosening its snout. They both stood, arms limp at their sides. The others crowded round, trunks twining and hugging until the whole clan became one big tangle with Dante and Shaman at the middle. Warm feelings flew everywhere. Dante pushed away a sudden overwhelming sadness. He wouldn’t use up the fingers of his good hand counting the number of humans who had ever shown him half the love and acceptance these creatures gave as a natural part of themselves.

"I’ll get my things and say good-bye to Friend," he imaged, blinking back tears as he tried to untangle himself. The hita tightened their hugs, trying to comfort him. He struggled away.

"Alone," he sent to them and they let him go.

Shaman sent feelings of loneliness and loss, a beginning of understanding, before it untangled its snouts from his arms. Dante sent back his own regret as he picked up his stalks and slipped away to the cave entrance.

Dante sat head bowed and cross-legged beside Friend’s nest, toying with the stalks on the floor in front of him as he thought of all the reasons why he couldn’t possibly go on a walkabout.

Friend put a trunk around his shoulders and gave him a comforting squeeze.

"You sit as if in the van, waiting for the other humans to hurt you," it imaged.

"Humans could hurt you," replied Dante, showing a brief view of an imaginary massacre stopped by his protecting magic.

Friend showed the hita disappearing in the maze of the caves and blocking the entrances with spells and rocks until the enemy left. It sent reassuring pictures of him going away then coming back, not flying away forever like the healed vulture. Dante felt the truth, one of the advantages of telepathy.

Comforted, he straightened then grinned as he reached out his stump and picked up a stalk with his invisible hand. The hita sent back its amazement and approval. Dante proudly presented it with the vegetable. Friend rootled in the nest for a moment. A tiny face popped up from underneath it and grabbed the end of the stalk with a satisfied chomp.

"Your baby hatched," said Dante.

Friend moved to one side to give him a look. The tiny replica of its mother stretched up onto its feet as it munched, its head tipped up examining Dante as he examined it. Friend glowed with maternal pride. The baby finished its vegetable and gave its mother a gentle butt. The hita filled a snout from a nearby bowl of tiny blue fruit and indicated Dante should hold out his hand. Berries poured into his open palm. Dante concentrated and picked up a berry with an invisible thumb and finger. The fruit glided through the air to pop in the baby’s mouth. The little creature gulped then sent him an image of "more." Dante popped in one after another.

"I think I’ll call you Blueberry," he laughed. The hita didn’t name each other, visioning the creature referred to instead.

"Make your music for us," imaged Friend. "The Happy Song."

"You play along," replied Dante.

The nesting mothers perked up and readied their trunks, tuning up with a few squawks and huffs. The babies peeked out, waving their snouts and whooshing in imitation.

Dante began to sing to a horn and flute chorus. His words flew out and up, filling the air with shimmering colors and abstract swirls. All their minds combined to evoke memories and images for the words; red autumn leaves, sweet crackle berries, translucent green hita eggs, loving dances, sprinkled moons light, cold spring waters, double rainbows. The hita stared up with wonder, several holding up their wriggling, excited chicks for a better look. Dante lost himself in the joy of creation, all pain forgotten.

A snout touched his shoulder and Dante felt Shaman. The song ended and he turned beaming to the hita, his fear forgotten for a moment. Shaman sent a small feeling of happiness back, its own sorrow unable to withstand the beauty.

"Going walkabout now," it imaged.

The mothers sent waves of thanks. Dante laughed and bowed to them with a flourish of his good arm. The hita returned to animated chatter among themselves.

Friend’s baby lifted its trunks, asking Shaman to pick it up. Shaman gathered the chick into its arms and fed it a few of the berries. The baby sent a wave of love. Shaman stiffened and set the tiny hita down. Grief flowed as a vision came unbidden and unwanted. Its two children lying skinned in the middle of a destroyed village. Dante closed his eyes, trying to keep the joy of a few moments before but not succeeding. Sophia lay dead beside her mother, William hung flayed in the barn.

The baby wound itself around its mother, only understanding the emotions hurt. Friend

cuddled then tucked it underneath, deep in the safety of the nest. Other hita remembered horrors and hid their babies.

Desperate, apologetic emotion flooded from Shaman. It rushed from the room. A caretaker hita rushed after, ready to comfort the pain away. Dante glanced around the room and sighed, then slowly, with undercurrents of sadness and regret, he started to sing The Happy Song again, unsure he could manage to get through it without cracking into his own grief. The mothers rocked over their babies, their sympathetic tears swelling their trunks so they sounded more mellow and mournful. Soon all became lost in the song and the magic grew again. The babies peeped out and climbed into their mothers arms. Tears ran down Dante’s face as he sang, happy and sad mixed up together.

At the end, the hita sent vigorous waves of thanks, full of the consensus that the unhappy emotions had added to the depth of the song. Dante wiped his face with the back of his hand , shook his head and smiled as their critical acclaim dissolved into an animated visioning among themselves of other top notch performances they had participated in or heard about, none of which involved Dante. He performed for the connoisseurs of image and emotion.

"We’re heading north, get a cloak and hurry up," wafted from the corridor. Shaman had recovered.

Dante hugged Friend and Blueberry then headed to the cave where the hita stored the quilted cool weather coats that stuck to them like a second skin, making the humans think the northern hita were a different strain of animal, rather than the same one with an extra layer.

Dante pushed between the curving racks, searching for his wraith cloak. His back banged against something hard. A buzz started up. He half-turned and saw Rotten’s correction rod swaying from the hook that held his cloak. Dante stumbled back in terror, falling in among the coats, covering his ears to block out the noise. His back screamed out in a muscle spasm, as if the rod had corrected him. Dante moaned, remembering another terror.

William had cried out in pain and collapsed to the floor of the barn. Wordless stood frozen and helpless, then ran to Martha in the kitchen. He stood by her as she worked, unable to speak, unable to gesture, he thought he would burst; words flooding the carpet, spells renting the air, sentences piercing the walls. Martha splattered apart with words as she smiled, chatted, and handed him a cookie. He tore back to the barn. William had curled into the kowtow, the best way of stretching his cramping back muscles. He swore at his useless assistant until the pain passed and he could order Dante to help him up.

Dante kowtowed, shivering at the buzzing as he tried to relax his muscles and work through the haze of his fear. No one had turned the rod on. No trainer or master was going to hurt him. It was an accident. He’d done it himself. Dante crawled forward, raised his shaking hand and flicked it off. He sagged in relief, most of the pain dispersed. The heavy woolly, weedy scent of the hita coats weighed down on him in the silence. Dante put his head on his knees.

He wasn’t any bodhisattva come to save the hita and overturn slavery. He was a cowardly bastard. The trainers knew, the worms of the dead were better. William was a man. He had died bravely, in agony, not telling them a thing. A lump formed in Dante’s throat. He sniffed back tears and changed his assessment of himself. Sniveling, cowardly bastard.

All the great warriors and mages in his childhood books and videos. Men never afraid, going bravely, nobly, to torture and death with only a twitch of a lip to show their contempt. Big and muscular was the only thing he had in common with them. They never hid in terror under a kitchen table or huddled naked among the coats in a storage room. They would resist until death with perhaps a few small moans, not kneel ready to do anything, say anything, absolutely anything, to avoid the pain. Dante covered his head with his arms.

He couldn’t go on a journey with a creature which, if it didn’t kill him outright, might lead him back to humans who would turn in a transpo soon as look at him. His weak, cowardly little heart only wished to rest warm and comfortable beside Friend’s nest, feeding Blueberry, singing happy songs for the mothers, as their warmth and love washed over him. What kind of man, what kind of hero, was that?

"Damn you to Hell," he shouted at the rod, at Rotten’s warped patriarchy, at his own father.

His words flew out of his mouth and crashed against the rod. It exploded with a loud pop, sparks raining everywhere. A coat burst into flames. Dante pulled it down, grabbed his cloak and slapped it against the garment until the fire died. The coats wavered in a cloud of sickly smoke. Dante coughed and spluttered, his eyes stinging, his throat raw, his back cramping. His cloak inflated into a wraith that wrapped itself around him before he could cry out and dragged him fighting and choking into the clear air of the hall. It floated in front of him as he leaned, gasping and wheezing, against a wall.

"Attacking other beings and starting a fire doesn’t seem a useful way to overcome fear, to my mind," remarked the wraith. "Understanding what frightens you seems to work much better."

"There’s no guesswork needed on what frightens me about the rod," said Dante. He looked up, wondering who spoke and staggered back. The wraith. Dante tensed and edged away along the wall.

"For instance, I have only ever had the best of intentions when it comes to you," said the wraith, floating in sync with his backward stumbles. "Your superstition makes me the enemy. I was sent to find you by a human who loves and thinks of you constantly."

"You lie. There is no such human," said Dante. The wraith closed its cowl and turned the hood to face away. The living stinging words bounced off it then dissolved.

"Your mother."

"I don’t have a mother." Dante paused. "Or a father."

"Yvonne."

Dante stopped. "No. Donating a bit of DNA doesn’t make her my mother."

"I understand little of the ways of aliens," said the being. "But I felt her yearning, her worry when she sent me. Her anguish when you became lost."

"I’ve no reason to trust you."

"I am Shine," said the wraith. It pulled back its hood for a moment and the glow of being yet not being filled the hall. "She prepares the cloak so I may stay for a longer time in the material world."

Dante shrugged though his suspicion softened. "You’ve found me. So what?"

"I am asked to bring you to her. She is your family."

"The only family I know wants to kill me or turn me into a golem. I’ve had this cloak a long time, why haven’t you appeared and told me this before?"

"Your rash use of your power trapped me in the wool." The cloak rippled with a shudder. "When in your delirium you freed me, you were too ill. Now you are well. I can help you. Protect you."

Dante saw the advantage, and the mention of his mother had peaked his curiosity. "Yes. The hita want me to go walkabout with my enemy."

"They are wise."

Dante snorted. "I doubt it." He sighed. "I suppose I can’t stay here forever, sponging off them and burning the place down. The smoke’s cleared. Let me get a backpack and another coat. But I’m coming back to stay, once this stupid field trip is over. Friend said I could."

"As you wish," said the wraith with a smile in its voice.