The tamer appeared on the road ahead.
He was standing exactly in the center of the path with the specific posture of someone who had rehearsed this moment. His brush was under his arm. His expression had the prepared quality of a speech about to be delivered.
"Ey man," he said. "We meet again."
"Yeah," I said.
He looked at the Chimera beside my knee. The Chimera looked back at him with the mild attention of something that had been thinking.
"Chimera," he said, with the drama of someone calling a name across a significant distance despite standing ten feet away. "I have returned. Stronger. As promised."
He reached into his coat and produced—
"Chimera," I said, because the Chimera had begun moving.
Not toward me. Away from me.
It walked to the tamer with the unhurried calm of something that had made a decision and saw no reason to delay it. It sat down beside the tamer's left foot with the same finality it had previously deployed beside my right one.
The tamer looked down at it. Then at me. Then back down at it.
"Chimera?" I said.
"Meyer." The Chimera looked back at me. "I go now."
"You're—why?"
"Ey," it said simply.
"What about Ey?"
"Too tiring." Its tail moved once. "I don't want. Search for Ey. Walk is long. Search is long. Here, I like."
I looked at the tamer. The tamer looked at me with the expression of someone who had prepared for a confrontation and received something else entirely.
"I see," I said.
"Ey man. Will find Ey," the Chimera said, with the generous confidence of something delegating a task it had decided wasn't for it. "Chimera will wait."
"Right," I said.
"Pencil," the tamer said, finding his voice. He extended his hand. "I want my pencil back."
"Ey man pencil gone," the Chimera said, before I could answer. "Gold for pencil. Ey man has gold."
The tamer's extended hand did not move. His expression did not change. He was processing.
I reached into my pocket. I produced the gold bar. I placed it in his hand with the same solemnity he had originally placed the pencil in mine.
It felt strange. I should be feeling very reluctant to give him the gold bar. Yet, I wasn't. In this world, gold bar meant nothing. Why? I don't know. No point in thinking why. Don't overthink.
He looked at it.
He looked at me.
He looked at the gold bar again.
"Are you stuuuuuupid?!" He raged, standing on the road in the specific frozen quality of someone whose return arc had not included this outcome in any of its versions.
"Farewell," I said.
I walked past him.
Behind me, the Chimera's tail moved in its slow, deliberate arc. "Ey man," it called after me.
I looked back.
"Good luck," it said.
"Thank you," I said. And meant it.
I turned forward and kept walking. The lion fell into its two-pace-behind position. The fish adjusted its course slightly ahead. The crow relocated from my shoulder to the air above, circling once before settling back into its traveling configuration.
The tamer remained on the road behind us, holding a gold bar, standing next to a Chimera that had returned to him under conditions he hadn't anticipated and couldn't fully process.
I didn't look back again.
...
We walked for some more before the lion slowed.
I noticed before it stopped—the specific quality of something moving at a different rhythm, not falling behind but considering its options. I looked to my left.
The road ran beside a vast open plain here—grass stretching in every direction without interruption, the kind of expanse that went on long enough that the far edge was simply sky. The afternoon light moved across it in slow patterns.
The lion stopped walking.
It stood at the road's edge and looked at the plain with the unhurried attention of something that had found what it was looking for without having been aware it was looking.
I stopped.
"Found Ey?" I asked.
The lion was quiet for a moment, in the way of something composing a response worth the delivery.
"I have learned," it said finally, "that I do not need to find Ey."
"Why not?"
It turned to look at me with the serene certainty it brought to everything. "The world revolves around me," it said. "Ey is already here. It has always been here. It moves in a circle around me at all times." It looked back at the plain. "I simply needed to stop walking long enough to remember this."
I looked at the vast plain. I looked at the lion.
"That's," I said carefully, "one way to think about it."
"It is the correct way," the lion said, without malice.
It stepped off the road onto the grass. It walked several paces into the plain and turned to face the direction we'd come from, its mane catching the afternoon light with the specific quality of something that had found its position in the world and intended to hold it.
It did not look back at me. It was already somewhere else.
I turned forward.
Three of us now. The fish slightly ahead, the crow above.
...
The stream appeared on the right side of the road some time later—the same one where I had found the fish and the crow arguing about geometry three days ago and a lifetime of strange things previous.
The fish slowed.
It stood at the road's edge and looked at the water with the expression of someone returning to something they had left for reasons that had seemed sufficient at the time and now seemed less so.
"I like water more than land," it said.
"I know," I said.
"Walking is fun." It watched the stream move. "But I really need to learn how to swim."
"You can't—" I stopped. "You already know how to swim. You're a fish."
"I need to learn properly," it said, with the specific dignity of someone who had identified a gap in their education. "To be eaten by sharks."
I looked at it.
"You want to be eaten by sharks," I said.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Then I will become shark."
Huh?
I stood on the road beside a stream in a world where apples floated and cows were planted in rows and cities ran without governments, and I considered whether this was the strangest thing I had been told since arriving.
It was competitive.
"That's not how—" I started.
The fish was already in the water.
It turned once to look at me from the stream's surface. "Ey man," it said.
"Yes?"
"Don't overthink."
Then it submerged.
I watched the water settle back into its ordinary motion, unbothered and continuous, as if a fish that had spent three days walking on land and discussing philosophy on a road had not just entered it with ambitions about sharks.
I stood there for a moment longer than I needed to.
Then I walked.
...
Two of us now. The crow circling above, occasionally landing on my shoulder despite the established preference.
The road was quieter with fewer companions. Not bad quiet—just the specific quality of reduced noise when something that was present is no longer present and the remaining space hasn't filled yet.
I walked.
The crow descended and landed on the road ahead of me, on its wings, legs pointing upward in its natural configuration. It was standing—or doing what the crow did instead of standing—in front of a large rock at the road's edge. The rock was flat on top, weathered smooth, positioned at an angle that caught the light evenly.
I stopped.
The crow did not look at me. It was looking at the rock with the focused assessment of a professional evaluating a workspace.
"This is my stop, Meyer," it said.
"What caught your mind?"
It turned its head—upside down, from its position—and looked at me with the sideways attention it always had when it was being direct.
"This stone," it said, "is perfect to practice my wingstand."
I looked at the rock. It was a rock. Flat on top. Stable. The ideal surface for a crow that preferred to rest on its wings rather than its feet.
"Right," I said.
"The angle is good," the crow added, with the satisfaction of someone who had found exactly what they needed without having known they were looking for it.
I looked at the crow. I thought about telling it that the wingstand was the wrong orientation, that crows were supposed to land on their feet, that the natural posture of a bird involved feet down and not feet up. I thought about how many times I had been wrong about what was natural in this world.
I said nothing.
"Safe travels, Ey man," the crow said. Then it stepped—or whatever the motion was—onto the rock and adjusted its position with the focused attention of someone beginning a practice session.
I walked past it.
One of us now.
...
The farm appeared on the horizon as the sun was beginning its afternoon decline, still happy, still aggressive, still personally invested.
The beef flower field came into view first—rows of them, moving in the breeze with the motion I had learned not to look at directly. Then the house, low and unplanned, added to over time by someone with intentions. Then the figure in the field, crouched over a hole in the ground, moving with the focused economy of someone doing routine work.
Cast Ration looked up as I approached.
He looked at me. He looked at the road behind me. He looked back at me and smiled.
"Brother-buddy Meyer," he said. "You're back."
"I'm back," I said.
"And? And?"
"I delivered the message," I said. "Cass Ration Jr. Sr. says hello." I paused. "He also says to tell Cass Ration Jr. about his upgraded dingalong."
Cast Ration's eyes widened in excitement. He nodded slowly, with the solemn gravity of someone receiving important information.
"The upgraded dingalong," he said.
"Yes."
He absorbed this. Then he looked at the field, then at me, then at the road where the animals weren't.
"Did you find Ey?" He asked.
I thought about the Chimera deciding the search was too tiring. The lion standing in its plain. The fish submerging toward its shark ambitions. The crow settling onto a perfect rock.
"Not yet," I said.
Cast Ration smiled with the complete warmth of someone for whom this was the best possible answer.
"That's Ey," he said simply.
I looked at him.
I looked at the beef flower field.
I looked at the house where Cass Ration Jr. was presumably inside, doing something with the focused efficiency she brought to everything.
"Yeah," I said.
I suppose it was.
"Oh boy, I can't wait for the upgraded dingalong!"
I walked toward the house.