It was gold. It was huge and terrifying and covered with glowing fibers of pure light, like luminous fur. It rose from its dark lair beyond the sea and it came forward violently, like a predator. Its eyes were starry infinitudes. Its mouth was the Void where things vanish and do not reappear. Its nostrils exhaled the first air of the new day.

  Its paws touched first upon Cadillac Mountain, as Tex had known they would. Then it reached out and touched other peaks nearby, one by one, until the whole range above Mount Desert Island lay beneath its vast golden body. Briefly it rested a paw on Awonadjo Mountain, brushing the antenna of WURS; then with a single bound it leapt all the way across Cold Bay and landed on the aft deck of the Linear Bee.

  Tex felt the luminous fur brushing against him and he thought, Even for an afterlife trip, this is getting a little weird.

  "Arth Vawr," said Molly. "I'd like you to meet my husband Tex."

  Then the Dawn was staring at Tex and no shit, burning right through him. Tex was afraid to look back. But how could you avoid a gaze like that? The eyes glowed at him from everywhere. The mouth yawned black above him. For a moment Tex thought he had been swallowed up. Then from deep inside that space an Awareness spoke io him.

  YOU ARE THE ONE,

  said Arth Vawr,

  WHO IS CALLED BEAR.

  It didn't sound like a question and Tex was inclined not to answer it. But one great foot with claws that could possibly have shredded a planet came down beside him and he said weakly: "Yeah. I guess that's me."

  Arth Vawr said:

  I HAVE ALSO BEEN CALLED BEAR. I HAVE BEEN VENERATED. I HAVE BEEN FORGOTTEN. I HAVE BEEN PAINTED ON CAVE WALLS AND BURIED AND BETRAYED AND REMEMBERED AND EXHUMED. I HAVE DIED. I HAVE SLEPT. I HAVE REAWAKENED. I HAVE BEEN PASSED FROM ONE PEOPLE TO ANOTHER, AND MY APPEARANCE HAS BEEN ALTERED MANY TIMES. DON'T BE CONCERNED IF YOU FEEL A LITTLE DISORIENTED. IT GOES WITH THE TERRITORY.

  "Yeah, thanks," said Tex uncertainly. Arth Vawr turned to Molly.

  WAS IT YOU WHO SUMMONED ME?

  he asked. "I don't think so," she said. "Not lately, I mean."

  Arth Vawr said:

  THEN WHO?

  And with proper dramatic flair, Ludi climbed out onto the flying bridge, just over Tex's head. She was wrapped in a Chief Joseph blanket. Gene emerged behind her, in paisley boxer shorts. The skull pendant seemed to glow like moonlight above his heart.

  AH,

  said Arth Vawr.

  IT MUST BE THAT THE TIME HAS COME.

  Tex and Molly looked at one another. "The Time?" one of them said. Neither one was sure who. Arth Vawr made a sound like a heavenly sigh.

  MY DESTINY IS BOUNDED BY MY NATURE,

  he said.

  UNLIKE YOURS. I SHALL CONTINUE TO DO WHAT I CAN ONLY DO—AND WHAT ONLY I CAN DO—FOR AS LONG AS I AM CALLED BACK HERE. WHEN I AM NO LONGER NEEDED, OR FORGOTTEN AT LAST, OR ALLOWED TO SINK INTO NONEXISTENCE, THEN MY GREAT TASK MUST GO UNFULFILLED. BUT I AM HERE AGAIN, FOR AT LEAST THIS ONE MORE DAY. I MUST MOVE NOW.

  With that He leapt from the houseboat onto the shore, where His light like melting gold seemed to smother the dead chicken plant. Then He was gone, pressing inland. He got along pretty quickly, for a deity of his age.

  On the flying bridge, Ludi squeezed her arms tight, keeping warm in the cool ocean breeze. Gene stepped close and wrapped an arm around her. Light of incomparable purity washed over their two fresh faces, down their firm shoulders and their strong young arms.

  "Isn't it incredible?" she said. "I really can't remember a more amazing sunrise."

  They stared over the bay, past the mountains, into the blinding immanence of the newborn day.

  "What do you think He meant?" Molly asked Tex—whispering, though Gene and Ludi could not have heard her.

  Tex peered at the shoreline, where the ancient bear-god had merged, it seemed, with the sun-drenched Earth.

  "Offhand," he told her, "I'd venture to say old Arth Vawr is fixing to kick ass and take names."

  wildlife sightings

  The light of dawn struck a sign declaring free territory deep in the unincorporated township of Applemont. Near the sign it fell upon Wild Jag Eckhart's dirty brown Suburban, where it annoyed the yearling wolf (whom Eckhart, as a private joke, had named Hoot) already in ill temper at having been locked in the rear compartment for the past hour. Eckhart had arisen in darkness and brewed a strong thermos jug of coffee and begun loading canisters with unusual care into the backseat. The coffee was for later, to help pass the hours until nightfall. The canisters were for later than that. The wolf was for company. Eckhart had decided he loved the animal. There is no knowing how the wolf felt about Eckhart in return. Thus far it had not taken any bites out of him, though the temptation must surely have arisen.

  By the time the sun began to clear the hemlocks along the paved state highway, the Suburban was breezing past the Irving Mart outside the main entrance to the Goddin Base. Eckhart recognized a couple of the pickups parked outside, but decided not to stop and say hey. He turned onto a road that ran northward, along the chain-link and barbed-wire perimeter fence. His radio caused the dashboard to vibrate, pumping out the base line of some love song over 92 MOOSE.

  DEATH & COMIX

  On WURS, Indigo Jones began his show with a wrap-up of local news. He liked to get this out of the way early, so he could get down to raving about politics.

  "It says here that down in Pickup City," he said—you could tell he was skimming—"the Ravens Motorcycle Club has announced the opening of a Retox Center. Apparently it's for folks trying to kick the 12-step habit. The Center will hold a two-day intensive workshop this weekend, and your admission fee of $89.50 covers both nutrients and inspirational videos, including Sam Peckinpah's The Wild Bunch, considered by many to be the greatest American film. Whatever happened to Citizen Kane? I guess the world marches on, folks. Participants are advised to bring their own sleeping bags. Here's a little thing by Ned Lagin called Seastones, and it says here this is the original February 1975 version. Enjoy."

  Saintstephen Bax and Shadow Malqvist shook their heads at each other. They had possibly never been awake this early in their lives. And look what they had been missing. Thistle Herne, rising from her nest of magazines on the official Pod sofa, said: "Who does that person's voice remind you of?"

  "L. Ron Hubbard," said Saintstephen.

  "The guy in Crash Test Dummies," said Shadow.

  "Jimmy Carl Black," said Ari, a local elf. "The Indian of the group."

  Saintstephen swung an arm around and pretended to cuff him. "What you been listening to, boy?" he said.

  "You guys," said Thistle, shaking her head.

  Over the radio, Grace Slick and David Crosby seemed to be experiencing simultaneous personality crises.

  "Crank that sucker up," shouted Saintstephen. "I love it."

  Shadow ignored him. He was poring over a defunct serial comic called Anima. "I can't believe it," he said. "They've got lutkvisk in here."

  Across the big open room of the Pod Lodge, Guillermo Goban sat alone and in silence before the computer workstation. "What's going on here?" he said. "What're they doing?"

  Shadow and Saintstephen glanced over, squinted at the huge Radius monitor, and went back to their previous amusements.

  "Just poking around," said Shadow.

  "They're a bunch of lightweights," said Saintstephen. "Looking for us, probably."

  "Yeah," said Shadow. "But their LAN thinks we're just another node. So not to worry."

  Guillermo looked worried anyway. Thistle offered him a can of Jolt and he shook his head. "Don't need it," he said. He was dressed in olive coveralls. He looked like something between a guerrilla and a tree surgeon.

  "Nervous?" asked Thistle, sympathetically.

  He smiled at her. It was a handsome, winning smile, with just enough hint of soul-deep suffering to really reel them in. Thistle wasn't buying it.

  "Don't blow our cover if you get caught," she said. "It'll piss off Syzygy."

  "Yeah," said Ari.

  Guillermo lowered his eyes, perhaps recalling those deer remains—bones and skin, tied with an apron string. He said: "I'll take your secret to my grave."

  The door opened and Gus the timber wolf trotted in, wagging his tail, and began hunting for stray Cheez-Its. He was followed by Jesse Openhood. Today Jesse's black hair had a hawk feather braided into it. He looked unusually sharp-eyed and present.

  "Did you see?" he asked them—or perhaps only said rhetorically, to the Lodge at large. "One of the death traps has been broken."

  "Cool," said Shadow.

  "Which one?" said Ari.

  "The east."

  "What does that mean?" said Guillermo. His voice was measured, but spooked.

  "It's means time's a-wasting," said Jesse. "Something out there's going to kick some ass today. Take some names."

  Gus wrapped up a quick patrol of the room, disappointed. He had found only pretzels and the remains of a peanut butter sandwich.

  "Come on, boy," Jesse told him. "Let's go down to the Long House and throw some beers in the cooler."

  SOULS UP FOR GRABS

  Sun bounced off the corrugated metal sides of the converted hangar at the Goddin Forest Research Station. Inside, Burdock Herne was presiding over a get-acquainted breakfast. The food was mediocre but abundant, served buffet-style in the vast cavern where once B-52's had parked. The guest list included not only Gulf Atlantic employees but also representatives of the local community, including

  Donna di Fuora, Chair of the Dublin County

  Chamber of Commerce

  Rev. Hobart Banebook, member of the local clergy

  Samantha Sorensen, reporter for Channel 5 News

  "You know, it's very important to us," Herne recited, "to be genuinely active and involved members of the community. We want to be good citizens. We want to be good neighbors."

  "No complaints here," said di Fuora. "I think the initial concern some of the locals felt has dissipated, especially since your company underwrote the construction of a new high school gymnasium."

  Herne slapped the table, palm down. It was a startling gesture to those seated within Richter-range, but not out of proportion with the man himself.

  "That's exactly what I'm talking about," he declared. "That's what I mean by being a good neighbor. In addition to creating high-wage jobs, of course. A new gymnasium? Excellent work there, Sauvage."

  Chas Sauvage sat two chairs down from Herne, pressed between the flesh of Banebook and the spinning tape recorder of that reporter. What was her name? All Chas could think of was Gidget. He turned and gave her a confident, clubby sort of wink. She looked back in surprise. Chas didn't care. He sensed a crisp wind blowing his way. He tacked smartly to return the C.E.O.'s smile.

  "Thank you, sir," he said. "But you know, I have to thank Reverend Banebook here for making us aware of situations of that type. The Reverend—"

  "Please," Banebook said, waving a fork laden with scrambled eggs, "everybody, call me Hoot."

  "Hoot," said Herne, decisively.

  "—has his finger," Chas continued, "very much on the local pulse. Ear to the ground. Very little escapes his notice."

  Hoot nodded as he chewed; his fleshy cheeks pouched out squirrelishly.

  "Well, then, Hoot," said Herne, "any concerns out there now you'd like to share with us?"

  "Nothing that comes to mind," said Banebook. "Apart from the usual community issues."

  A moment followed that was like a hollow container of possibilities, out of which might have rumbled anything, or nothing much. The Channel 5 reporter—whose name was not Gidget—gave destiny a nudge by repeating into her recorder: "The usual community issues." Then she pointed the recorder at Hoot, thereby coming between Chas Sauvage and a speared sausage.

  Banebook gestured with dangerous expansiveness, given the bulk of his upper body. "I'm talking about the battle for the minds and souls of our youth," he said. "For example, the popular notion of the forest as some kind of holy sanctuary."

  "We at Gulf Atlantic," Burdock Herne declared, "are fully committed to the idea that the forests of this country are not just vital economic resources, they are part of the sacred patrimony we will hand down to our children and our grandchildren."

  Herne smiled past Banebook to meet Chas's stern eye. Chas gave a very slight shake of the head.

  Banebook said, "That's an interesting way of putting it." He selected his words with the care of a child prying the good bits out of a pizza. "And I suppose I would only differ with you when it comes to your use of the term sacred. I'm sure folks down in Texas are more levelheaded about things like this. But here in what remains, your fine efforts notwithstanding, a wild and unsettled part of the country, there is a certain body of opinion—especially among the young—that there is something sacrosanct, something shall we say divine, about these woods around here. To put it bluntly, you're up against a gang of tree-worshipers. You can't so much as crank up a chainsaw without some trust-fund hippie quoting Thoreau at you. I realize you're a businessman, Mr. Herne, and you have to answer to the concerns of all your customers. But I ask you: don't you find a certain ominous note—a certain moral danger—in dealing with modern-day practitioners of the oldest blasphemy in the world?"

  Herne wore a look of unalloyed fascination. You might (with due caution) have used the term rapture. Never in his life, his expression seemed to say, had he heard words of such finely whetted reason as those uttered by the Reverend Banebook. Even Hoot himself appeared to find the C.E.O.'s attentiveness a trifle unnerving.

  "I only bring this up," Hoot said, "because of the emphasis being given to so-called environmental issues in the media nowadays." He paused; he waited. Still Herne did not react.

  "It's the kids I'm worried about, Mr. Herne," Hoot went on. (Gidget's recording would reveal a faint but perceptible timbre of desperation in his voice.) "The rising generation. Souls up for grabs, is how I look at them. Are you a father yourself, Mr. Herne?"

  All at once—jarring the gestalt of the breakfast table—Herne raised his hand to shoulder level. He held it there a moment, as though calling for quiet, for thunderous silence; then he eased it slowly back down. He placed the large palm flat, fingers splayed, on the table.

  "I assure you, Hoot," he said, smiling with the attractive lethality of a laser beam, "that we will take these heathen eco-kooks and crush them into the very ground they worship until their shit comes oozing out of their eyeballs."

  The hand on the table rotated clockwise and then counterclockwise, as though reducing something imaginary to the consistency of wood pulp soaking in a vat of sulfuric acid.

  DAY CARE & OTHER ITEMS

  ON THE DOMESTIC AGENDA

  Gene Deere excused himself early. He had to go home and feed his bear. He had taken to calling the bear Tex, despite his intention not to grow attached to it. When he arrived at his rented bungalow he found that Tex had knocked down the barrier at the foot of the steps and climbed to the master bedroom and defecated on a recent issue of Nature. Then he had gone to sleep on the unmade bed.

  "I thought wild bears shat in the woods," said Gene—softly, so as not to wake Tex, who would become excited and possibly claw a hole through his chinos.

  Tunes from Ludi's damned Music of Your Life station ran through his head. "Moon River." "Some Enchanted Evening." Music of whose life? he wondered.

  His own, if something didn't change.

  For an instant he had a hellish vision: himself spending the rest of his mortal existence listening to low-fidelity recordings over a crappy clock radio in somebody's walk-up apartment. Or worse: aboard a missing hippie's houseboat.

  What a horrifying concept, thought Gene, shaking his head.

  He was not aware that he was smiling.

  COLLAPSE OF THE WAVE PACKET

  The Witches of Pickup City processed into the magic circle behind Pippa Rede's Lighthouse through the opening in the east and turned clockwise, deosil, to close it behind them. While the circle was intact, no malign or unsympathetic spirits could gain entry. Invited guests only, please. After the women were in their places and the circle safely closed, Syzygy Prague, the high priestess, peered around at them—seven in all, quite good for short notice (it helped that so few local Witches held ordinary jobs)—and she said portentously: "Today we will take extra precautions."

  Her accent, usually dormant, returned strongly at certain times. Pippa wondered whether Syzygy turned it on and off deliberately, for theurgic effect. If so, it worked. She sounded exotic and somewhat dangerous. Witchy, in a word.

  "This is a Time that is not time," she declared, "in a Place that is not a place. I stand at the threshold between this world and the Other, between the manifest and the possible."

  She reached into a pocket of her deep violet sweatshirt (the day was too warm for cloaks) and drew out her athame, or ceremonial blade. Most Witches take pains to acquire an athame of just the right sort: proper wood for the handle, ritually cured steel, sigils of power on the haft. Syzygy used a plain kitchen knife. The other women imagined that this was the knife with which she had (famously) hacked the deer up. In their minds, this charged the athame with special and rather hideous energy. In actuality, the knife was a nicked-up old thing of no culinary value. Generally speaking with magic it is the mental component that is most crucial.

  Syzygy moved slowly around the circle, stopping at each of the four quarters and tapping the soil three times with the blade. In the east she said: "I call upon you, Powers of Air, to witness this rite and to guard our company."

  In the south she called upon the Powers of Fire; in the west and north, Water and Earth. Then, kneeling, she swept off her 99¢ cowboy bandana and laid it on the tree-stump altar. From a pocket of her jeans she produced a pair of votive candles, white and red—the Goddess and the God—which she placed on the altar cloth and lit with a blue-tip safety match scraped on a thumbnail. Through the flames she passed a sprig of dry catmint. The smoke smelled uncannily like sage, which did not grow so well this far north. At least three Witches made mental notes to remember this. So many books about magic seemed to be written with the climate of California in mind. Always the adaptable one, our Syzygy.