Several weeks passed. Hem had forgotten what had transpired since he had last sat and reflected on anything, and that was just fine because nothing had happened anyway. He was thinking mostly of his youth for some reason because that’s just what he did now on this long uninteresting journey with Breema.

Hem had met Breema long after he had departed Gilba Gilba for the Wild World and so he could not share the peculiar memories he’d made in his childhood. And who wanted to hear childhood memories anyway? Only those who featured in them.

Hem put aside his narrator’s ruminations for a moment and looked at his surroundings. Breema was away for a moment, bartering with the village’s Barter Man over some such item or another. It was not important to Hem, who had no need for items at the moment. He was seated on a stump near the Sea Town’s square, an open-air market lookin’ sorta place that carried the salty smells of the Heated Ocean. He inhaled, reminding himself every breath was not the woody pine scent of his childhood, but one of freedom.

He glanced at his feet and into the eyes of the Burnished Goldens that were arrayed before him, swaying gently in the sea breeze and vibrant. Red and orange were set against a faded collection of green leaves like a sunset in the jungle. He could not smell their sharpness from here but he knew if he bent down to pick one of them the rest would suddenly blast their unmistakable scent into the air. Hem was fascinated with these apparently conscious flowers that peered at him with almost prescient curiosity.

Breema still had not emerged from the Barter Man’s Barter Tent. It was a small structure and probably could not hold more than three batrtererererrrrerererrs at a time. She had said it would not take longer than a few dockets but bartering was an inexact practice. Any man could barter a first round, but who could last well into the later masteries? Breema could and Hem loved watching the art unfold. However, due to the size situation, Hem had to wait outside and ponder whether this scene was in any remote way the sign of a writer’s diligent practice.