Chapter Two
Goffa awoke from a half-sleep in the middle of the night. Restless, he prowled stealthily around the camp, jumping at the slightest noises and searching until he found Klitch's tent. He pulled the canvas flap back quietly, allowing a thin sliver of moonlight to illuminate the weasel's sleeping form.
"Ah, if only 'e knew…" Shaking his head, Goffa gazed longingly at Klitch, wondering how much longer he could stand being trapped in a glass bowl--so close, yet so far away.
Damn, he's so… beautiful… Naw, what the devil's got inna me?
he reprimanded himself mentally. I must be goin' soft! Ain't supposed t' love no one, least of all the boss's son! Gad, mebbe it's somethin' I et earlier…
Suddenly, Klitch stirred in his sleep, and his eyelids fluttered open for a split second. Goffa bolted, panic rising in his chest as he scampered back to the safety of his tent. He tried to dash inside quickly, but tripped over an unforeseen rock and went flying. The ferret froze on the ground, ears pricked for any noise, silently cursing the fates that had put the damned rock there in the first place.
After several minutes had passed and he was sure that not a soul had been awakened, Goffa slunk noiselessly into his tent, berating himself for his mindless blunder.
Hours later, as the first light of dawn bathed the land in a golden light, Klitch awoke. He stretched lazily, reaching for his yellow tunic. Combing through his headfur and meticulously preening his whiskers, he wondered idly what the day would hold.
A sudden scrap of memory from the previous night floated to the surface of the weasel's mind; curious as to its origin, he fixated his thoughts solely upon it until more came flooding back to him.
There had been a figure standing outside his tent last night, looking in on him--a figure who ran away upon seeing that he had woken… Klitch recalled a brief glimpse of blue fabric patched with yellow before the onlooker had scrambled away, footsteps fading into the velvety night.
Who had it been? No, the better question was, who on Earth would be creeping around to his tent at such an hour, just to watch him while he slept? Odd, the weasel thought to himself. Was his safety in danger, did he have reason to fear? Might someone be plotting against him?
Then again, Klitch considered, perhaps he had simply been seeing things. The darkness was a haven for the products of a wild imagination and half-open eyes. Yes, in the daylight, the entire matter seemed silly. Black wraiths, strange figures, he was sure now that he had been imagining it all… How foolish of me, the son of a warlord… he thought to himself, heading out to forage for breakfast.
The day grew hot as the sun passed high into the sky, and Klitch removed his shirt. He fanned himself with a broad leaf and made for the direction of the camp, seeking shade. Midday was scorching hot in the dunes on a summer afternoon, and the weasel found he was not used to the unforgiving climate.
Klitch stopped suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He had the strange sensation that someone was following him…
He whipped around suspiciously; yet nothing confronted him save for miles of sand dunes and the glimmering ocean waters. Feeling a bit of a fool, Klitch shrugged to himself and moved on, half-wondering if he was losing his mind. That's twice today I've let imagination get the better of me, he thought disapprovingly to himself, glad no one had been around to witness his actions. I really ought not to make a practice of paying heed to such impulses, it won't serve me well now or ever. Perchance this heat has tendencies toward making one behave oddly…
Panting, Goffa peeked out cautiously from behind a dune. He looked around; Klitch had gone. The ferret breathed a sigh of relief, grateful that he had not been observed. He slipped off, taking a roundabout way back to the encampment so as not to run into anybody, least of all Klitch.
