A skillful leap over the head of Garry Draperied Weasel, and Charles Overripe Feathers stood alone in the winners’ ring. A cheer went up from the croud of onlookers, and Weasel’s woman rushed to embrace Feathers, thereby claiming him as a mate in Weasel’s stead. These were the Eighteens, a group of graduates waiting for their reassignments. For nine years, these young men and women had lived on Yecto II, studying the various arts of leadership. After their nine years of rigorous schooling, the Eighteens were allowed a year of relaxation, in which time the men and women could form life-long romantic partnerships and compete against each other in games of strength, stealth, agility, endurance, and cleverness.

Now that the year was coming to a close, spirits were high and the tention was palpable. Those who lost in competitions were thought to be destined for small and insignificant planets. Those who failed to find a romantic partner on Yecto II were thought to have a harder time continuing their bloodline once they were relocated to what were to be their lifelong homes. Old friendships snapped and new ones were formed, but at night, they sang and danced as they had always done, rotating in circles under a clear, unblemished sky.

Standing away from the croud, Millwood Special Slug surveyed the scene with wide, curious eyes. Slug was a Seventeen, skinny, quiet, small for his age, and always overlooked. Slowly, tentatively, he made his way between two berley Eighteens at the edge of the group, weaving silently to where his friend, Weasel, stood forgotten in the shadow of Feathers’ victory.

“Come,” Slug spoke softly. No reply. “Weasel, let us have done with this place for a time.”

A hand on his foerarm at last brought the young man’s attention to the boy standing before him. With a nod, Weasel followed his friend, eyes fixed on the soft matting beneath their moccasinned feet. Slug looked for both of them, staying clear of any Eighteens Weasel might unwhittingly bump into on their way out. Walking through a beaded curtain, slug held it to one side that Weasel might pass unharrassed by the long hanging chains.

“Feathers will fall one day,” Slug spoke once they stood together in the open.

“We will all fall one day,” Weasel spoke in reply “whether it be age or one of life’s lessons, we will all be picked off one by one, Slug.”

“But, my friend,” Slug regarded him quizzically “Age does not make one fall as Feathers will, and life can do no more than wound us. Short of that, we are invinsible.

“Invinsible.” Weasel ran a hand affectionately over the top of the boy’s head. “Was it only a year ago I thought the same as you? Ah, but you will find, my friend, that the open sky is nothing more than the flat side of a giant blue sword. You will find that the strong survive while the weak fall in the thousands. Be gentle. Be fair and seak wisdom, but do not expect life’s basket to overflow with riches for you.”

“But Weasel,” Slug spoke earnestly “it already does. When I was a Nine, I wanted more than anything to be a leader, and without my asking them to, the teachers at Yecto II requested me. I want a comfortable place to sleep, food to eat, air to breathe, and at least one true friend in all the worlds. All of these I wanted, and all of these I have. Is the galaxy then such a tainted and hostile place as you say?”

“I can only hope you are right,” Weasel spoke, the traces of a sad smile tugging at his lips. “Prove me wrong, little optimist. For Creater’s sake, prove me wrong.”

“Some other day, perhaps,” Slug spoke agreeably. “But today was made for sailing.”

Together they walked to the river, and, untying two canoes from where they bobbed in the gentle water, they set off. Slug paddled his canoe in circles around his slowly-moving friend. Weasel had a right to be slow, even on such a swiftly fading Summer day as this. The loss of his woman hung heavy on him, and Slug thought he heard his friend’s canoe creaking slightly under the weight of so much sorrow. Life’s rhythm, however mysterious, had a certain predictability about it off which Slug thrived. After a gain, there came a loss. After the loss, there came a feeling of sorrow, and with the sorrow came one inergetic individual whose job it was to entertain the carrier of sorrow with his antics. Slug did not understand why this was, but he knew it fell to him to be that person for Weasel.

“Weasel!” he called after a time. “Look how the cloud dog chases his tail across the sky.” And still later, “Weasel! Look how that silver fish flashes like a moonbeam! See how he dances just beneath the surface? Surely none is as swift and clever as he!” And even later, “Why, look over there! Weasel, do you see that island?”

“Have you never before ventured this far?” Weasel asked, rewarding the boy with one of his rare smiles. “Ahead is the island of the lost. At least, that is what the storytellers say.”

“Island of the lost?” Slug asked, turning curious eyes to the jutting expanse of land before them. “Can that little place truly live up to such a sad epithet? Weasel, look! See how it holds its head out of the sea at such a jaunty angle? Why, I can almost swear it is winking at us!”

“Winking at us it may be,” Weasel spoke, “but all its promises of adventure are but rudely formed deceptions. Go to the island of the lost, boy, if you wish to sacrifice your hair. Go to the island of the lost, but be sure to leave a piece of your heart behind you in these waters, for it will be all that is left of you when the lost ones have done their worst and left you to die.”

A woman’s scream rent the air around them, and Weasel shuddered. “Turn back, Slug! We must leave this terrible place to its own corruption!”

“But Weasel,” Slug protested “somebody is in trouble! She needs our help.”

“What if it’s a trap?” Weasel asked with great impatience. “Besides, if the woman we heard really is in trouble, somebody from her island will soon come to remedy that.”

The scream came again, and Slug turned his canoe in the direction from which it came. “Of course somebody will come,” Slug spoke, for the idea that any human being could see another in distress and not come to his or her aid was alien to him. “But, Weasel, what if they are too late??

“Then she parishes,” Weasel spoke flatly. “Her soul leaves forever the grip of this depraved island, and we will have done her a service by leaving her to eternal sleep.”

Slug made no reply, devoting his energy instead to the task of paddling his canoe in the direction of the island with utmost speed. Weasel followed, looking all the time to the distant speck that was their home island and seeming to wish himself a million miles away. Four more powerful strokes, and Slug found himself face to face with a terrified young woman. The number sewn on the right shoulder of her strange garment told him she was mateless and an Eighteen, and the water filling her boat told him she was in immediate danger of drowning. The pale hughe of terror made her white skin even whiter, and her blue eyes were wide with terror.

“Please help me?” she implored them. “My brother is very rich. He would reward you.”

“Never mind that,” Slug spoke to her. “Weasel and I are also very rich. Come. Jump from your boat and swim up beside me. I will pull you on and you can ride with me to shore.”

“Jump from my boat?” the woman asked increjuless. “What do you think I am? A fish? I can’t swim!” Her small white hands fflew from the sides of her boat and clutched convulsively at her yellow hair.

“You can’t swim?” It was Slug’s turn for increjulity. “How do you stay cool in the summer, then?”

“We have air conditioning, idiot!” the woman shrieked at him. “Now, if you haven’t noticed, the water is getting my new dress all wet, and to top it all off, I’m drowning!”

“You must forgive my friend,” Weasel spoke, paddling his canoe up beside the woman and reaching to pull her out of hers. “Slug is young and easily distracted, but his heart is in the right place.”

Slug watched as Weasel pulled the grumbling woman from the wreckage of her boat. It was no wonder the thing was now sinking beneath the river’s surface like a stone. The wood was so thin and ornately carved with flowering plantlife and winged people, it was a wonder it had ever floated at all. More time had been spent on the craft’s appearance than it’s ability to ride the water. Slug said a silent goodbye to the tree that had made it as it was sucked away by the seemingly bottomless river.

Arranging the woman in front of him, Weasel began the arduous task of paddling around her. If Slug thought Weasel had been paddling slowly before, he could not remember. Comparatively, that pace had been a jaunt, a frolic, a brisk race. At last, Weasel gave up. Sliding out of the canoe, Weasel gripped it with one hand and swam both canoe and woman the remaining distance to shore. Tying his canoe to the dock, Weasel set foot on land before reaching down to help the woman regain her feet. She leaned heavily on him, causing the young man to nearly lose his footing.

Out and waiting by this time, Slug kept Weasel from falling in with a steady hand. This woman was unlike any on their home island, Slug knew. Not only were her looks so different, but she was unable to swim. Slug had never seen anybody lean on another the way she helplessly leaned on Weasel since he was a Six and his Grandmother would lean on his father. Grandmother had been a One Hundred and close to death. This woman, however, had many years left to live. Her breath smelled of spiced meat, and her waist and mammories were ample with years of sated appetite. Slug had seen equally built women on his home planet, but these were his Mother and Aunts. These women were Thirties and older who had born at least eight children each. With boy pulling man and man pulling woman, they all found themselves safe on land.

“Well,” the woman spoke brightly “that was inconvenient! I’ll tell you, boys, I thought I would die out there.”

“You could have survived at least six hours,” Slug told her, “if you would have left your boat to the fury of the river and treaded water.”

“Six hours?” the woman’s face wrinkled in a look that could have doubled for disgust or annoyance. “That’s like, forever! Now,” the woman’s voice seemed to croon as her blue orbs fixed on Weasel. “to whom do I owe my life this day? What do they call you, my hero?”

Slug watched in confusion as his friend’s dark eyes seemed to soften and melt under the pressure of the woman’s light ones. “I am called Garry Draperied Weasel,” he spoke with a soft reverence akin to worship. “And what did your venerable old mother name you, woman of the unfortunate vessel?”

“My name is Jane,” the woman told him, running the fingertips of her right hand along his jawline. “Jane Average.”

“Well then, Jane Jane Average,” Weasel spoke, catching the hand in both of his “I dare not stay on your island, but if you so wish it, you may come with me to mine.”

“Hmmm,” Jane Jane spoke thoughtfully “that could be fun. Let me just pack a few things, kay?”

“Fear not, Jane Jane,” Weasel spoke. “The women of my island will provide you with all you need.”

“Sounds great! Jane Jane spoke, bouncing a little on her feet. “And Garry? It’s only one Jane, not two.”

“Jane, then,” Weasel spoke agreeably. “Have you a canoe?”

“Nah,” the woman, Jane, spoke with a shrug. “But don’t worry, Garry dear. My dad has a sailboat he never uses. I’ll just go and get it.”

“Should I come with you?” Weasel asked. Surely I must ask your father if I may take his grown daughter across the river.”

“Like, don’t worry about it!” Jane spoke with a little laugh. “Daddy won’t even miss it, and besides, I’ve never gotten into trouble before. If he does figure out I’m gone, maybe I might actually get grounded!”

“What is this grounded you speak of?” Weasel asked, perplexed.

“Oh you know!” Jane spoke, squeezing Weasel’s arm. “No TV, no cell phone, no dates, no internet, and worst of all, no porsh!”

“Yours is a very strange island,” Slug spoke, looking at the woman before them who seemed to him but a child.”

“Oh honey,” Jane spoke, grabbing Slug’s chin and squeezing gently “you have no idea.”