Fires of Justice

Part 7:  Pilgrim – Knight?

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Kale Connor smiled grimly, performed a half-mocking salute with his heavy saber, and lifted his sword again, as the man in plate mail came at him, great sword held cautiously in front of him, pushing Kale back.

Kale was fighting Florentine, with a heavy saber, and a heavy dagger.  The dagger, normally a blocking weapon, would be of little use against the great sword – Kale would block with the saber, and use the dagger to strike, this time around.

“I will have your blade, monster!” the man in armor said, as he advanced cautiously.  “It will enable me to avenge my father, and set right the world!”

“Madman!” Kale spat.  Suddenly, he jigged left, and swung the saber overhand, muttering a curse as the man in plate mail swung his sword up with astonishing speed, and blocked the blow, then turned so that Kale’s second strike, with the dagger, glanced off of his armor, instead of sliding between the plates.  “Your father would be best avenged by my ending your cursed existence!”

“How DARE you?!” the armored man cried.  “My father was murdered by bandits!”

“Aye,” Kale agreed.  “That he was – bandit!”

The man in plate mail shook his sweaty blond hair out of his eyes, howled in anger, and began attacking Kale, great sword flashing faster than should have been possible.  Kale parried every blow, and countered when he could, moving around the ruined castle he and the other man fought in.  The speed Kale moved with belied the white hair on his head, and in the mustache he wore.

Then the opening came, as Kale had known it would.

The man in armor over-committed, performing a spinning move, dragging his great sword along the ground, and swinging it up in a blow that would have split Kale open from crotch to sternum – had it hit.

Kale hopped sideways, and the great sword went back over the armored man’s head, leaving him open, completely open, and offering Kale a half-dozen deadly targets.

Kale moved swiftly, darting in, using his dagger to cut the leather strap that held the armor’s breastplate up on the left.  As the plate mail breastplate sagged, Kale stepped back, pivoted neatly, and shoved his heavy saber into the gap.

The other man screamed in agony, head thrown back, and fell to his knees, dropping his sword.

“Poor Siegfried,” Kale said, smiling down at the other man with an evil twist to his lips.  “Mad as a rabid dog, aren’t you?  But that’s all right, boy.  I’ll end your misery for you!”

So saying, Kale withdrew his saber from the armored man’s chest – and slammed his dagger directly into the widened gap between breastplate and flesh.

The scream was louder, more agonized, this time – and there was a word in it.

“FAAAAAATHERRRRRRRR!” the armored man screamed, clutching at Kale’s hand, as he fell to his side, as Kale released the dagger.

Kale bent over, and tugged at the dagger.  It wouldn’t move.

“Come, my pretty,” Kale muttered, tugging more strongly.  “This is no home for the likes of you!”

Still, the dagger refused to budge.

After a moment, Kale stood up straight, and glared at the fallen man, and the dagger that refused to leave him.

“Do you like the taste of madness, then?” Kale said.  “Fine – then stay.  I’ll need no second weapon, for my defense.

“Drain the boy’s soul, feed on his madness, if you must!  I’ve work to do, to defend your magics, blade – and if you’d not come with me, then I’ll make do with just my saber!  It is more than magic enough!”

Kale kicked the body, then, and turned to walk slowly, casually away.

Behind him, the man in plate opened his eyes, glared at Kale’s retreating back, and whispered, “We will meet again, Cervantes De Leon – and the Soul Blade will be mine!”

Kale strolled out of the ruins, turned to the left of the arch he exited through, and stopped, waiting.

“Cut!” the director cried.

Kale stepped back into the “ruined castle” – actually a soundstage construction, mostly of plaster – and grinned, as the director said, “Okay, print that.  Nice job, gentlemen!”

Kale strolled over to where a man was helping “Siegfried” to his feet, and offered a hand to the other stuntman/actor, who was struggling, even though the armor he wore was much lighter than the real thing would have been.

“Thanks, Jack,” Kale said, pulling the other man up.  “Good scene – and I gotta say, even if it is lighter than the real thing – I’m impressed with the way you handle that monstrosity you call a sword!”

“No strain, Kale,” Jack Phillips said.  “And hey, you’re no slouch, with that saber, either.  If it were a real fight – I’d be worried!”

The two men started over towards the directors chair, Kale forcing himself not to tug off the white wig he wore, or the fake mustache.  They itched, though, dammit!

“Good fight, guys!” Dennis Edwards, the director of Soul Edge, said, as they approached.  He was a mousy little guy, who looked like the video game fanatic that he was.  A graduate of a prestigious film school, and a winner at the Sundance Film Festival, as well as a total game-fiend, he was a logical choice for directing the movie, which was based on the video game of the same name.  “Mr. Connor, do – ”

“Kale, please,” he interrupted.  “How many times do I have to say it, boss?  Mr. Connor was my dad.  Or shall I go back to Mr. Edwards?”

“All right, already!  I’m Dennis!” the director said.  “Because I’m too young to be my dad, either!  And you’re Kale.

“Hey – Kale – that’s an odd name.  Is it Irish?”

“Nope,” Kale said, grinning.  “It’s short for Mikhail – I was named for my mother’s grandfather, who came here from Russia in the 20s.  But, when she was old enough to talk, my little sister – she’s three years younger than me – she couldn’t say ‘Mikhail.’  All she could manage was ‘Kale.’  It stuck.”

“Neat,” Dennis said, laughing.  “Anyway, Kale – you feel up to one more fight scene, today?”

“Can I grab lunch first?” Kale asked.

“Betcha,” Dennis agreed.  “Then get over to stage 14 – you’re up against Seung Mina, this time.  Say, one hour?”

“No trouble,” Kale agreed.  He tipped the tricorne he wore over his white wig at the director, and strolled away to get lunch, stopping and grabbing his cell phone and wallet from the canvas chair that had his name on it, at the edge of the open side of the set.  He dropped the hat on the chair, but left the wig and false mustache on – easier than fighting them, later.

As he walked off towards the cafeteria, Kale grinned.  This was his first major part, in a movie, and he was having the time of  his life.

He’d started as a stuntman, five years ago, specializing in blade work, but knowing all the basics – falls, fights, crash-through-the-window, fall down stairs . . . no driving work, but, then, Kale didn’t mind that.  He had a drivers license, but, living in LA, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d driven.  Over a year, now, he was sure of that.

He grabbed a couple of hamburgers, at the cafeteria, and a salad, and sat down.  Even though he was dressed as a pirate, no one in the cafeteria looked at him oddly.  Hell, he was lunching within 25 feet of three cowboys, a uniformed cop, what looked to be Hollywood’s idea of a drug dealer, and two people in what looked to be some sort of futuristic uniform.

Kale grinned, and fell to eating.

Five years, it had taken him, to get far enough into acting to get an opening credit.  Only last summer, he’d gotten a speaking role, as one of some villain’s prime henchmen, in an action movie.  Of course, the movie had starred Wesley Snipes, so it had been a good deal, made money, and gotten Kale some exposure.

And hey, he thought, I got to get killed by Mr. Snipes.  I even got to injure him, first!

That had led to another speaking role, in another action movie, this time as a hero’s buddy, who (inevitably) was killed by the main bad guy, in the last 15 minutes of the film – and had to be avenged.

And then this.  His first role where his name would appear in the opening credits.  Okay, he was playing a bad guy – no big deal, that.  It was a role, and it was a fun role.

Dennis Edwards had liked his sword work, in the Snipes film, and had gone to the effort of tracking him down.

And Soul Edge was looking to be a pretty good movie.  The script was by Dennis Edwards, and some new guy named Long, and it was tight.  Between them, the two had worked out a way to make the video game story – weak, at best – into a plot that was believable enough, for a fantasy movie.

And, if it did well, in theaters, there was the promise of a sequel, based around the sequel to the game – Soul Calibur.  And Cervantes De Leon would be back, if the sequel got made . . . .

In the meantime, Kale was chasing his dream.

He’d been born in 1977, the year that Star Wars had come out.  His father had been a total fan of the movie, loving it beyond all reason, having memorized the script, and watching the whole trilogy every month or so, after it came out on videotape.  Kale had grown up seeing the movie, watching it with his dad, even acting out parts of it.  He’d wanted nothing out of life but to be a Jedi Knight, should the prequels ever be made.  He’d studied acting, in high school, been in every play that had been put on.  He’d studied marital arts from the age of eleven, and swordsmanship from thirteen.  At fifteen, he’d found a fencing teacher, to supplement his kendo lessons – after all, the Oriental style of sword-fighting wasn’t the only one out there . . . .  Kale had even joined a group that went to Renaissance Fairs, and learned to use weapons in the medieval European style.

At eighteen, right after he got out of high school, Kale had packed his stuff, and moved to California.  And he’d been smart about it.  He had relatives out here, and he stayed with his father’s sister and her family, until he got a good job, waiting tables in a high-class restaurant.  Then, and only then, he’d started looking at trying to break into show business.  And he’d taken his father’s advice, and snuck in through the back door – as a stuntman.

Union rules said you couldn’t be a stuntman until you were twenty-one.  However, you could apprentice at eighteen – and that’s exactly what Kale did.  He’d gotten into one of the better stunt companies, as an apprentice, and begun learning everything they could teach him – but maintaining his focus on swordsmanship.  He’d busted his ass, earning the trust and respect of his bosses, learning everything that they offered to teach him, and asking for more.  On his 21st birthday, he’d paid his dues, and entered the Stuntman’s Union.  Three days later, he’d performed his first professional stunt, falling from a ten story building – and gotten it right in one take.

That had been the beginning.  And last summer, a speaking part.  Then another.  And, last month, in February of 2000, he’d gotten a tryout for a fairly small part – in George Lucas’s Star Wars, Episode II:  Attack of the Clones.

Sure, the first of the prequels had been a disappointment.  Hell, anything would have been, Kale figured, after the incredible quality of the original trilogy.  He was willing to give Episode II a chance – especially if he was acting in it!

And he had a chance – he knew that.  After seeing The Phantom Menace, Kale had set out to learn the “new/old” style of light saber fighting – and, being a stuntman, he’d had the contacts to find the man who’d originated it, and the money to pay to learn it.

And learn it he had.  Kale now had to suppress that style of swordsmanship – it had become a second nature to him.  The spinning, kendo-like style was suited to him, whether because of his love of the movies, or some other factor, Kale didn’t know – but he learned it easily, and well.

So, when the second movie had started, Kale’s instructor had tossed his name at Mr. Lucas, as a possible stuntman/actor, in the role of a Jedi Knight.  Kale had read for a part, and demonstrated his skill at the fighting style, and he felt like he had a real chance at the part of Valek Kress, apprentice to Mace Windu, of the Jedi Council.

So here he was, twenty-three years old, and with a good start on fulfilling a lifelong dream.

As he stood from his meal, Kale’s cell phone rang.  He dumped his trash, and answered the phone.

“Hey, Kale,” said a feminine voice.  “It’s Lucy.”

Lucy Ryan was Kale’s agent, whom he’d hired after the speaking role in the Snipes film.  He still worked for the stunt company, sure – but, he was listed as a part-timer, now, as he tried to break into acting.  Well, further into acting.

“Hi, Lucy,” Kale said.  “What’s the good word?”

“It isn’t one good word, Kale,” Lucy said, laughter hiding behind her voice.  “It’s really more like six good words.”

“Huh?” Kale said.  “Lucy, I don’t get you.  What six words?”

“May the Force be with you!” Lucy cried into the phone.

Kale froze in mid-step, pulled the phone away from his ear, and stared at it.

“Kale?” Lucy said, her voice tinny due to the distance of the phone from his ear. “Kale, you got it!  You got the part!”

The whoop that Kale let out got him looked at by everyone in the area – even in Hollywood.

_________________________________________________

At five that afternoon, Kale stepped off the bus outside of his apartment complex, and trotted inside, a huge grin still plastered to his face, and occasionally whispering, “May the Force be with you!” under his breath.

He reached for the phone, as soon as he was inside.  He had to tell his dad!

Soon enough, Patrick Connor was letting out a whoop just as loud as his son had, and just as boisterous.  They talked for a while, before Kale’s father said, (sounding a bit worried), “Uh, Kale, your mother wants to congratulate you.”

“Put her on,” Kale said, with a sigh.  Then he added, before his father could speak further, “And yes, Dad – I’ll try not to lose my temper.”

“Thanks, son.”

There was the sound of the phone changing hands, and a whispered conversation.  His father, Kale was sure, pleading with his mother – uselessly, Kale was equally sure – to leave Kale alone about “the religious stuff,” as his father inevitably put his mothers devout Christianity.

“Congratulations, Kale!” his mother finally said.  “Oh, son, I’m so glad!”

“Thanks, Mom,” Kale said.  “Lucy – my agent – she called me today, as soon as I turned on my phone, between takes.”

“I prayed for you, Kale,” his mother said.  “I prayed, and it worked!”

Kale closed his eyes, and counted ten, before answering.

“No, Mom.”  He opened his eyes, and fought to keep his voice level, failing only a little.  “I didn’t get the part because you prayed.  I got the part because of hundreds – maybe thousands! – of hours of sweat, hard work – even a little blood, here and there.

I earned this!  No God gave it to me!  I made it happen!”

“Kale I wish – ”

“No, Mom,” Kale said, his voice rising slightly.  “No.  I’m not going to church, I’m not going to pray, or read the bible.  I don’t believe.  I can’t!  Nothing is changing that, just like nothing is changing that it was me who got that part!  Not God, not you – me!  My sweat, my blood, my busting my ass!  Me!”

“Oh, God, where did I go wrong?!” his mother wailed into the phone.  “Please, God, show me, I’ll do whatever – !”

The phone was taken away, then, and Kale heard his father telling his mother to go lay down.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” Kale said.  “I tried to stay cool, but . . . she’s bad, today.”

“I know, son,” Patrick Connor said.  “I thought . . . well, I hoped she was getting a bit more relaxed.”

Kale’s mother had always been religious – but only in the last 7 years had it become oppressive – since Sharon Connor’s little sister, only 24, had died in a horrible car accident.  That had pushed her into a corner of depression, and only religion had been able to drag her out.  Only . . . it wasn’t just religion.  It was fanaticism.

Before Kale’s Aunt Eve had died, his mother had gone to church every Sunday, said a private grace at every meal – and that was it.  Oh, she nagged Kale and his sister and father to go, on holidays, at least – but never hard.  Never pushed, really, just chided, content in the knowledge that there was time, for them to find religion, at their own pace.

After Aunt Eve’s death . . . his mother had started attending services three times a week, bible study groups twice a week, and prayer meeting once a week.  And she was always, always pushing the rest of the family to join her.

It was one of the reasons Kale had moved out, the day he got out of high school.  He couldn’t – wouldn’t? – believe in a God who never offered anything that looked remotely like proof of his existence.

And his mother . . . she credited everything to God.  Every.  Little.  Thing!

Cake came out of the oven good? God got the credit.  Puppy was paper-trained, faster than usual?  God got the credit.  Kale’s sister maintained a 3.9 GPA at college?  God got the credit.  Kale got a job he’d worked and sweated and bled for, for most of his life?

And God got the credit!

And he didn’t even exist!

Kale growled wordlessly, and headed for the shower.

_________________________________________________

Six weeks later, the last of Kale’s work on Soul Edge was finished – and Dennis Edwards held the wrap party a little early, even though it wasn’t quite over, so that Kale could attend, before flying to London, to start work on Attack of the Clones.

Kale had to go to the party straight from a Kendo class, but he didn’t mind.  The bus drivers were all used to him and his bag of equipment.

The party . . . the party rocked.  Oh, there were people there he didn’t like – and people doing things he didn’t like.  But, those people were smart enough to stay away from Kale, and the people he did like.  He had a good time, drank a toast or two, and talked swordsmanship with his fellow stars, and the director.  Jet Li, who had played Li Long, asked if he could call Kale, later, about a possible job, and that quickly turned into the highlight of Kale’s evening.

He got off the bus, a couple of blocks from his apartment, at a little after one in the morning, took a few steps – and froze.

The alley?  There were sounds, coming from the alley . . . .  Lady-in-distress sounds.  Un-good sounds.

Kale only thought for a second.  There was no phone closer than his apartment – his cell phone was dead, he’d had it on for too long.  He was perfectly sober, and an accomplished martial artist.

He dropped his bag, and pulled out his bokan, a hardwood fake blade weighted and shaped like a katana.  He almost drew his real sword – a hand-crafted long sword, made to simulate the feel of a light saber – but that wasn’t a good idea.  No, the bokan would do . . . .

Kale re-slung his bag, and let it hang down his back.  A little heavy, but, he was good enough that it shouldn’t mess with him.  He moved to the mouth of the alley, and glanced quickly around the corner.

Five guys, one woman.  But . . . it didn’t look like a rape – so what was it . . . ?

“Your brother ratted us out, b*tch,” the man in the center of the formation said.  “Cops got him put away, we can’t get at him.  So you gotta pay for his big mouth.

“Nothin’ personal, ya know?”

Then the man reached behind him, and pulled a very large bowie knife from a sheath at his back, and brandished it.

Kale moved, then, charging down the alley, leaping into the air some six feet from the nearest of them, and kicking him straight into knife-boy.

Then he was on the ground, between the plump, 20ish woman that the boys were menacing, and he was swinging his bokan as though the blade were real.  Unconsciously, he fell into the rhythms he knew best, that he loved best – and his attacks became filled with spins, of both body and blade.  In his head, he knew his bokan was no light saber.  In his heart, though . . . in his heart, he knew no such thing.

In less than 20 seconds, all five of the boys were on the ground, and Kale was bowing to the lady.

“Miss,” he said, as the woman he had rescued  stared at him as though his wooden blade really were a light saber, “I think it might be best if you were to go straight to the nearest police station, and report what happened, here.”

“I . . . you . . . yes, all right.”  The woman shook her head, as he led her out of the alley, and glanced over her shoulder, back at her attackers.  “Thank you!  Very much, Mister . . . ?”

“Connor,” Kale said, bowing again.  “My name is Kale Connor, Miss . . . ?”

She didn’t get to answer, before a gunshot rang out, from a car across the street, a low-slung Cadillac, and hit her in the arm.

“Run!” Kale snapped.

As the woman turned to obey, clutching her arm, and wailing, Kale turned, and took the only option left to him, if he were to finish what he had started.

He charged the car, shouting wildly, bokan in his right hand, spinning in tight circles as he ran.

The car was a good 75 feet away.  Kale hadn’t covered more than half the distance, when the kid who’d shot the woman stepped out, drew a bead on Kale, and fired.

The shot hit Kale in the right side of his chest, and he staggered, feeling a momentary pain, before that side of his chest went cold, and numb.

But he kept going.  The gun was small, a .22, and not terribly powerful, or accurate.  It had been pure luck that the first shot had hit the woman at all.

The second shot hit him in the stomach – and that hurt, bad.  But, by then, Kale was only twelve feet or so from his target, and he wasn’t about to give up.  All he had to do was knock this guy down, hold him down for a couple of seconds, and the woman would get away.

Kale leaped into the air, at eight feet, stunt-trained muscles giving him a height and distance that no gang punk could have expected.

Still . . . even if it wasn’t expected, the kid was fast!

Too fast.

Even as Kale was coming down, the kid was bringing up the gun, pointing it at Kale’s head – too close to dodge.

The gun went off, and Kale felt a moment of shocking pain, even as he landed on the kid – and then, he felt nothing at all.

_________________________________________________

Kale woke, some unknowable time later, feeling fine.  And that shouldn’t have been possible.  He remembered.  Two shots to the body – and one to the head.

“What the Hell?” Kale muttered, as he stood, and looked around.  He was still holding his bokan, and his bag was still strapped closely to his back.  And he was in . . . a living room?  Sort of, anyway.  It was familiar, yes, but he’d never been here, he knew.

Then it all went “click” in his head, and Kale knew that he had survived, and that this was a dementia-dream.  Or maybe he was dying, and this was his last set of thoughts.  Either way . . . .

Either way . . . it explained what he was doing in Ben Kenobi’s living room.  Right out of the first Star Wars movie . . . .

Then, a very large man – much too large to have been Alec Guinness – came strolling in, and Kale got a glimpse of the desert canyon this place was situated in, through the door behind him.

The man was at least 6’-8”, maybe larger, and probably weighed a good 300 pounds, all of it muscle, visible even under the brown and tan Jedi robes that he wore.  His face was the kind that smiled a lot, and was lightly wrinkled, and very tan.  His hair and the full beard and mustache he wore were black, and his eyes as well.

“You’d think,” Kale said, “that since it’s my dream – or deathbed hallucination, or whatever – I’d at least get Alec Guinness!”

The man threw back his head, and laughed, seeming to nearly shake the room, with the sheer volume of his mirth.  Then he looked at Kale, with those eyes, that, being black, shouldn’t have been capable of such amusement, and said, “This is no dream, Kale Connor.  And no hallucination, either, though I shall not deny that you should be dead.”

“If it isn’t a dream, what am I doing in a place that I so often dream of being?” Kale asked.

“It’s easier to keep your consciousness here, in a place where you are comfortable, Kale Connor,” the man said.  “And we must talk, you and I!”

“About what?”

“What happens to you, next.”

Kale sat down, at that, and looked up at the man, a troubled look in his eyes.  “Please, don’t tell me that you’re God.  That would wreck the rest of my day!”

“I’m not the God your mother taught you of,” the man said.  “Not much on that kind of religion, me.  ‘Believe in Me!  I’m not proving squat, or explaining anything, but believe in Me anyway!’  Stupid way to run a religion!”

“Oh-kay.”  Kale looked at the man, with a mixture of amusement and puzzlement.  “So, who are you?”

“Call me Axel.”  The man stuck out a huge, hairy hand, and Kale stood and shook it, impressed by the man’s grip, which was solid – but not brutish.  “Or even Ax.”

“Okay, Ax,” Kale said.  He sat back down.  “Where am I, and why am I here?”

“You’re between life and death,” Ax said, immediately.  “We dressed it up to look like something you knew, so we could keep you here long enough to tell you what’s what.  And we dressed me up, so you’d be comfortable around me.  And besides – I rather like this ‘Jedi Tradition’ that you are so fond of.  An admirable band, these Jedi.”

“All right, so I am near death,” Kale said, oddly calm at the prospect.  “That sucks, but – well, I just wish I’d gotten to play a Jedi on screen, you know?  Other than that . . . no real regrets – as long as that woman got away?”

“She did, Kale Connor,” Ax said, grinning at Kale’s concern.  “And she summoned your guardsmen, and they arrested those who assaulted her, and you.”

“No substantial regrets, then,” Kale said.  “So . . . what next?”

“You decide, Kale Connor,” Ax said, leaning across the small table that separated them.  “You decide to die, to take your chances on a system that you never believed in – or you decide to live.  To live away from everything you ever knew, in a world that operates by rules you will not understand, at first.  To live, to fight, to . . . to be like the Jedi you always dreamed of being.

“But I warn you!  I meant it, Kale, when I said that the life you lead will take you away from everything you knew, before.”

“A different world?!” Kale said, leaning closer in his excitement.  “Is that what you’re offering me, Ax?  A shot at a life in a different world?!”

“Very different, Kale Connor.” Ax leaned back, seeming pleased by Kale’s excitement.  “Different laws of conduct, of society – even different laws of physics.”

“I’m in!”

“Wait, Kale,” Ax said, holding up a hand.  “Listen, please.

“It also different from your world in another way, Kale Connor.

“It is a darker world.  More full of evil, and strife.  Less happiness, for those who are good, more, for those who are evil.”

“Can I make a difference, in that?” Kale asked.  Any difference?”

“Any man can make a difference, Kale Connor.”  Ax smiled, but it was a serious sort of smile – the kind that you wear when you’re happy, about something that you take very, very seriously.  “Any man, if he be strong enough, and smart enough – and if he cares enough – any such man can make a difference, if he would.”

For a moment, Kale was silent.  Then he looked up at Ax, and nodded, slowly.

I care.”

Ax stood, and offered his hand again.  Kale stood, and took it.

“I am pleased, Kale Connor,” Ax said.  “Pleased beyond words.  My friend Thanna told me that your world could supply what the world we send you to needed, and I am pleased to discover that she was right.”

“What do I do?” Kale asked.

“Step out that door,” Ax said.  “That is all you must do, to move to the world we would send you to.”

“And once I’m there?”

“Once you’re there . . . .”  Ax hesitated, for a moment, then said, “Once you are there, my friend, follow the stream – and your heart.

“Go, Kale Connor.  There is no ‘Force,” in the world we send you to – not as you understand ‘the Force,’ at least – but do not let that stop you, Kale!  Be a Jedi, if that is what your heart would have you do!

“And if not a Jedi, then simply be the man you are.  I think that will be enough.”

Kale again shook hands with Ax – then walked to the door, and pressed the button that opened it.

Instead of the desert canyon he had seen before, there was now a shady woodland glen, beyond the door.  Kale took a deep breath, of cool, pure, delightfully fresh air, re-seated his bag on his shoulder, shifted his grip on his bokan, and stepped through.

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