Orpheus III

Some days later, badly in need of food and rest, Orpheus reached the edge of a wood. There was no light beneath the trees and the path was vague. He hesitated, and looked around carefully. He knew that somewhere, a gatekeeper was watching him from the darkness. Slowly, he removed his cloak and lay down on the grass, pressing his nose to the cold earth. He raised his white tail and waved it back and forth, back and forth, until he heard a soft rustle in the leaves. Without raising his head, he said, "Silver trumpet, leaf of my heart, Bellmaster of the ancient ponds, 3-9-16-8-trout-in-the-stream Birchbeak."
"Stand up, Orpheus. We know your kin. They told us you were coming."

Stretched out on a bed of leaves, pipe resting in one paw, he listened to the crackling fire and hearty voices with deepening contentment. Manley caught his eye and pointed at the steaming pot on the grill. Shaking his head, Orpheus gave his bulging stomach a pat and grinned. The bear chuckled softly and turned his attention back to his jug of ale and his tambourine, picking up the thread of music here and there, as it suited him. The ragged voice of Hopkins the Kodiak carried the lilting song, and told them tales of the Easterly East. The air was thick with pipe smoke and the smell of steaming fur. And as the laughter and murmuring thrum chased away all the creaking sounds of the night, Orpheus let his eyelids droop until the trees above him seemed to bend down and shoo him off to sleep.

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