With his eyes closed, the sunlight was pink. If he concentrated, he could almost imagine himself there. The breeze barely warmer and wetter than the plains. If he stretched out his hand, he could feel the caress of tall grass. The only thing missing was the horizon over the undulating grass, on which, it was said, you could run right up to the clouds.

  Pastel had walked for weeks in the mountains, which, though different from the steppes, shared flowers, horizons and breezes in its valleys.

  A few days earlier, Pastel had left the Guideans' territory. The agile goats and lynx had stopped at the edge of some low clouds.

  "These clouds are not like the others. This is the forest breathing." A lynx in gray and gold clothing handed him dried provisions as she spoke, her gaze plunged into the forest, which took on ever brighter hues as it drew closer.

  "You'll soon see. The forest is its own climate. You must think of it as a creature of which you will soon become a part. In its bowels, it's easy to let yourself be digested at little more slowly than a ration of dried meat." Metal beads rattled in her clothes as she turned to the steppe fox. "Be careful, please Pastel." She took his hand. "Listen to me carefully, remember? Go down south, follow the rivers and then the path east to Ternoulie. Your people will no doubt be there."

  Another companion, a goat with powerful legs, added: "And watch out for the tiny little critters everywhere. Sleep in a hammock and watch out for electronic eels...".

  "Thank you, my friends. Thank you for your help, you will remain in my heart with the memory of your deep river-colored skies." Pastel replied, smiling and hugging the lynx close to him.

  "Above all, keep the horizon and its endlessness in your heart, for it is rare in this jungle. The Gideans will always be there for our steppe friends. We'll be praying for you and those of yours who are alive or gone."

  Pastel was alone again and breathing new air. A shudder ran through him. From the sweetness of his memories he fell into the present of his rage. The rage that had carried him so far. The one that would bring him back to his own. As he squeezed his eyes shut, black and white replaced pink. All his muscles contracted and he let out a howl toward the jungle.

  Pastel opened his eyes to a sea of dense forest so dense that so little light could penetrate. Under his hands, the grass was replaced by a fern where caterpillars were stirring and rapidly devouring it. Soon they too would be eaten, feeding the earth, the mushrooms, the trees, the beasts. Who knows what the jungle will be like on the next full moon? Without conscious beings to blaze trails, the jungle is perpetually consuming itself.

  The red fox inhaled the humid, heavy air before swatting away an insect in his russet fur, perfectly incongruous in this context. The young fox set off again, his stride agile but tired. He was at ease with solitude and got by comfortably in the wild, but this wandering was different. He had no beast to chase or village to return to. His only guide was a mad hope, a shiny pebble and his melancholy. Sometimes, to reassure himself, he whispered to the stone, the trees and the birds, or hummed songs that his grandmother had hummed before him, on the paths of his traditional hunting territory. He was a long way from all that now.

  Every evening, by the light of the fire, he would look at the stone, caress it and try to make contact with it, like a child calling its mother on a moonless night. In return, she haunted his dreams, but only fractionally. Like the dislocated echo of someone else's memory. During the day, however, he kept her preciously in a small pouch hidden in the coppery fur of his armpit. At least with it, he kept a little of the light of the plains.

  The further he descended from the mountains, the denser the forest became and the less light penetrated. The lone fox hunted and slept in a hammock he had quickly woven from lianas. At night, he used the stars as a guide, sailing slowly eastwards.

  Fifteen moons after entering the jungle, he stopped on the path he had never left before. There was something different. Something familiar in this unfamiliar jungle. He took a few more steps. His hairy ears perked up. Beyond the crickets came a torrent. Pastel smiled. The vegetation was so dense that he'd had to take out his saber to cut his way through the increasingly impressive rustling.

  The air was fresh with the water that a waterfall sprayed deafeningly. Pastel found himself at the foot of the torrent, which fed and enlivened a small but deep and clear pond. An opening in the canopy let down a streak of light that made the water-laden air glow.

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  His chest swelled with sparkling joy and he couldn't hold back a brief yelp of delight. The waterfall already weighing down his coat reminded him of the intense downpours of the plains. This was the feeling of déjà vu he had on the path, the fox thought. Pastel scampered down from boulder to boulder to the water, far enough from the waterfall to keep his clothes dry, and hastily stripped off his gear. His white chest and belly were browned by the red earth of the jungle, and his coppery back had long since lost its lustre. He plunged into the water, tracing a trail of dust in the crystal-clear liquid.

  After swimming and making sure he had removed the last traces of dust and dirt from his fur, he went out to lie on one of the few rocks exposed to the sun.

  Only then did he realize how tired he'd been on the road and how much he'd missed this sensation, the pleasure of drying out in the sun.

  His breathing slowed gently, as he relaxed his body, but he suddenly leapt to his feet. Almost instantly, he went from perfect relaxation to extreme concentration.

  Nothing had changed, at least on the outside, but he suddenly had a premonition. The stone was warm against his fur. Suddenly, the pleasure in his body was joined by an unsettling cold. He moved away from the water. His coat still damp, he quickly put on his clothes, grabbed his bag and drew his sword.

  At the same time, he heard something in the jungle. A creak. Pastel turned his head, following his ears. He'd just heard another noise. People were there. He was in danger. His senses told him there were several creatures nearby, circling him.

  He ran between the branches, creepers and ferns, in the opposite direction to the noises. As a hunter, he had long stalked, but the feeling of being stalked was newer and definitely more disconcerting.

  Between his teeth, he whispered imperceptibly to himself: "What the hell was the idea of leaving the trail? What an idea to take a detour, damn it... Shit!"

  They were after him. He had to get back up to the trail, because that was the only way he could lose those chasing him. He knew that on an open surface, he had a good chance of losing his pursuers, but that in the jungle, he didn't have the advantage. Pastel realized that the creatures stalking him might have the same intuition, for he could hear footsteps surrounding him, rapid movements towards the path.

  The movements were getting closer. Soon he saw vegetation stirring and shadows passing. His pupils were wide open, his ears pricked. As a shadow approached from one side, he launched himself into a huge fern, rolled over and took off, but not without getting stuck a few times in the vegetation or dead trees. He seemed to have momentarily avoided an ambush.

  For a few hours, he continued to alternate between running and stealth, but he knew that wherever he decided to hide, he'd get lost if he didn't return to the path and his pursuers blocked his way. In the shadow of a gigantic stump he waited, eating a ration and drinking a little water from his gourd.

  "Who are they and why do they insist on following me? Bandits? Locals who don't like visitors?... this jungle really is a nightmare." Pastel thought, unable to see further than a few meters into the dense forest. The sun was starting to go down and he knew that dangers multiplied at night. He had little choice but to look for a long detour back to the path and run for as long as he could... After all, he knew no other way. The fox merely sighed softly. He could also try to fight them. After all, he knew how to fight... maybe that was the only way?

  "Ok.... ok. Here we go." he thought. He caught himself thinking about the "we" as if the stone were someone. He resumed his path, moving with great care, in near-perfect silence. He was more familiar with this version of stalking. He chose an arc-shaped trajectory to the west. He would try to catch them from the rear.

  After half an hour, he heard whispers. He stopped. All around him, immense trees, creepers, groves, ferns, branches, shouts, sparkles, creaks. It was so different from the plains. He lost the sound of voices. They reappeared further to the right.

  "Pastel, concentrate! You can't lose them!" he said to himself.

  A shadow. He ducks again, sword firmly coiled in his hand. A panther. And... a wolf. One has a spear and the other a short sword.

  Their ears are adorned with heavy golden curls. They're bare-chested, but have leather protectors on their forearms. Pastel slid along behind them, but suddenly the panther turned around. A bird had flown up behind.

  "There he is!" Spear shot. Pastel deflects the blow and pounces on the female panther, whistling his blade and slashing her forearm. She screams. The wolf moves forward, Pastel deflects a second blow, but the wolf leaps back before the fox can return to the offensive.

  "The kid's angry, he's trying his hand at hunting!

  "Looks like he doesn't want to live, the wretch!" Panther shouted, clearly angry, before twirling her spear, trying to gain a little space and make Pastel back off. The latter, perfectly concentrated, said nothing and simply threw a few quick blows. His sharpness seemed to impress his opponents, who were unable to break his guard. Suddenly, Pastel saw only a glint in the wolf's eyes before initiating a withdrawal gesture, but a club was already slamming into his shoulder from behind. A piercing pain shot through his side and he couldn't hold back a yelp. He turned and blocked a second blow from a huge brown stag. A second wolf had joined in, also with a spear.

  Then, methodically, each of them began to attack Pastel from one side, then the other. No matter how much Pastel parried, jumped and slid, he found himself pressed ever harder against a trunk, his fur increasingly slashed. A glint of fear in his eyes translated into a confident smile on his opponents' faces.

  Spear blow. Sword stroke, Blade whistle, mocking laughter, tired panting, rustling leaves. Clash of weapons. Arm shaking, sweat in eyes.

  "That's enough now." Hurled the big stag as he brought his club down on Pastel's head.

  Darkness.