The air was warm, slightly muggy, and the sky was a pale blue-grey, clouds approaching in the distance. A huge field of wheat and dried, yellowing grass stretched out past the hills and beyond. The ground, covered in various shades of green or yellow grass, and showing patches of dirt and rock, was worn smooth in the middle, where a thin, winding path led out into the woods. Small twigs, dried leaves, and the occasional mushroom could be seen littering the pathway.

Two boys stood facing each other in the field: a sandy-haired 11-year-old in brown cargo pants, a white shirt, a pair of faded Sunday school shoes, and a dark green sweater vest with a cluster of pale pink flowers trailing across the sides, holding a wicker suitcase in one hand, and a small closed picnic basket to his side, rather like a purse, from which a tiny window revealed the sleeping face of a small cat. There was a pair of black binoculars dangling from his neck by a leather cord, and the suitcase was full to the point of looking rather cramped. The other boy, a 10-year-old with brown-blonde hair, ruffled by the wind, was dressed in a Khaki Scout uniform, a pair of somewhat battered sneakers, a coonskin fur cap with the tail still on, and a rather bulky-looking backpack with a pair of bedrolls tied to the top. His cowlick, an unruly strand of thick hair shaped like the island of Nantucket, swayed in the breeze.

It was Alfred who spoke first.

"Where you followed?"

"No."

He walked over. "Good to see you made it, Arthur, do you have all your...is that...a cat...in there?" He leaned down, peering into the picnic basket to check. Gandalf growled softly, licking the human's hand and staring at him very hard for a moment, before deciding that the smell of hamburger was okay, and going back to sleep. Arthur hummed slightly, replying, "Yes, this is Gandalf. He's my cat, the rest of my family doesn't like him. I think it might be because he's smarter than most of them."

Alfred nodded, understanding that some things were better left alone. He could understand some animals being smarter than people, since all the cats that came to camp during Hot Dog Night somehow mananged to evade every attempt to catch them before they stole all the cooked frankfurts. "Well, I've got my stuff packed with me, and it looks like you're set, too. I mapped out a trail for us to follow, since the path will take a couple of days to go through, you're not a very experienced hiker, and you're wearing Sunday school shoes."

Arthur scowled a bit at this, muttering back, "Well, Peter ruined my sneakers last week by dropping paint on them! And it's not like I have anything else to use, I've got my stupid brothers to share everything with!"

He only got a smile in response, before he held out his hand. After a moment of hesitation, Arthur took it, linking their fingers together. Both boys started walked back down the trail, heading into the woods. Arthur stubbornly refused to remove his hand from Alfred's hold, despite the tight grip feeling as if it was crushing his fingers. Alfred's hand was warm, and the biting wind picking up across New Penzance was becoming too big to ignore any longer.

As they wandered deeper into the field, the tall grass now past their heads, Arthur recalled how they first met, only a scant six months before...

FLASHBACK: 6 MONTHS EARLIER

The island was awash with color, the local church a bustling hive of activity as people squeezed into the tiny space, seating themselves on the old, rickety wooden benches to watch the annual performance of "Noah's Flood" by the local children. Multiple families were squished into the packed seating, rather like tins of sardines, all chattering away in a mixture of English, and in some cases, a smattering of Western European tongues. The Kirkland family in particular took up an entire pew by themselves, Peter playing a game of underground football with his wool cap, Connor and Evan trying futilely to keep Peter quiet, and the older boys Alistair and Brennan gawking at the pretty, rather busty girl Katsuyusha, who was unfortunate enough to be sitting in front of them, sandwiched between her younger siblings Natalya and Ivan. Their grandfather stood in the shadows of the church column nearby, unwilling to partake fully in the garishly bright festivities. The Khaki Scouts of North America, having been brought here by their insanely cheerful Scoutmaster Toni, were crowding up all the pews to the right side of the church, kicking each other and whispering as they tried to fend off boredom. In the massive crush of people in the little church, the Scoutmaster didn't notice as one of his troop members slipped away to explore.

The church was cheerfully lit with a collection of butter-yellow candles and a series of fairy string lights donated by the Vargas family, who were friends with the owner of the arts and crafts store in town. Darting up and down the isles were several small children, all of which were rather hyperactive due to the amount of chocolate they'd been generously gifted with earlier from Bella, the nice Belgian girl who'd moved to New Penzance a year or so back with her rather frightening older brother Lars.

Behind the church, there was a yellow school bus in the parking lot, the doors open to let out a stream of girls and boys who were part of the New Penzance school choir. Somewhat unfortunately, all the motley group of schoolchildren had managed to do so far was stand around in their animal costumes for the play, mumbling their lines and hissing at each other when someone messed up, or huddle in a corner playing horrifically off-key music on the clarinet or flute.

But this didn't interest the 10-year-old boy in the slightest; he had something much more important to do than listen to horribly inaccurate musical recitations. Alfred F. Jones had spotted someone coming off that school bus that had immediately piqued his interest, and it wasn't just because the guy smelled like burnt food. There was just something, something special about this person, and he was determined to find out what it was.

But in order to find out just what that was, he'd have to find him first. The search was long and tedious, with bathrooms searched and people angered about strange boys in uniforms barging in. The stairway was clear, and so were the hallways, and Alfred wasn't stupid enough to think that his quest was over just yet. He'd noticed that the people performing as animals in the play were all heading off down one particular hallway, so logically, it must be the dressing rooms. Feeling reassured in his own cleverness, he darted off down the hallway, pushing through a door and peering through a thick wall of costumes to see who was present. Fingers absentmindedly shoved the pink fluff of a feather boa away from his eyes as he took in the sight before him.

Seated at the communal dressing table were a half dozen children and preteens in animal costumes, mainly birds. However, his attention was glued solely to the only person in dark colors, a boy an avian costume all in black, the feathers jagged and wild, as if he was wearing the shadow of some unnamed wild beast. His sandy-blonde hair was messy, stuffed hastily beneath a black feather headdress, and there was white paint streaked across his cheeks, as if to imitate whiskers. Sharp, acid-green eyes, the color seeming to hover close to emerald, stared unflinchingly at the strange person who'd come in unannounced through the costume rack like a ghost.

In contrast, the girl sitting beside him was clad in a striking blue and white avian outfit with opera gloves, and her rather bluntly attention-gaining colors seemed to match her personality, because she turned to Alfred and said haughtily, "Boys aren't allowed in here, not unless they're part of the play. You're not in costume, so get out."

Alfred ignored her, still focusing on the boy in the avian suit. "What kind of bird are you?"

The girl in the blue and white garb spoke up, pointing to the other play actors and actresses in turn. "I'm a raven, she's a sparrow-"

He shook his head slightly, feeling frustrated at not getting the answer he'd wanted. "No," he said, pointing a finger at the boy in the black feathers, "What kind of bird...are you?"

The boy blinked, eyes looking slightly embarrassed as he muttered quietly, "I'm a raven."

Alfred nodded, as if this was the logical thing to say. "I'm Alfred."

"My name's Arthur," came the quiet reply. Not sure what else to say, Alfred looked about for a moment, trying to figure out how to keep the conversation going, before his gaze fell upon the slender, bandaged hand rubbing circles across Arthur's opposite wrist. "What happened to your hand?"

The sandy-blonde looked down at the injured hand, his gaze somewhat sheepish, as he muttered, "Got mad, lost my temper. Ended up punching a mirror and breaking glass all over the place."

For a moment, they simply stared at each other, and then the peace was interrupted by the sudden arrival of the play manager, a rather stressed-out, stern-looking woman in a stuffy vest who stuck her head into the dressing room, starting to talk about getting onstage, before she spotted Alfred and hissed, "Who are you? What are you doing in here, and how'd you get in? Nevermind, just get back to your seat!"

Alfred darted back through the halls and back out the building, barely managing to mumble a quick, "Write me!" to the raven-boy, as he scrambled back to his seat.

When the play began and the children began mangling their lines at the tops of their voices, Alfred's eyes were drawn to the single black-clad preteen on the Ark prop, who was chanting the main theme as if it were a spell incantation: high, then low, then wavering a bit in the middle, then soaring again. It wasn't half bad.

After the play was over and the people began filing out, lugging sleepy toddlers in their arms and talking to their still animal-like children, Alfred F. Jones boarded the section of the school bus set aside for the Khaki Scouts and found a letter on his seat. On the paper, there were a few lines in neat, though somewhat cramped, penmanship:

Write to me. Arthur Kirkland,

42 Summer's End, New Penzance

Arthur woke up the next morning, Gandalf holding a slightly soggy letter in his mouth, and taken it upon himself to respond. The penpal relationship had bloomed from there.

Their letters ranged from the funny topics, such as the time when Gandalf had stepped in wet paint and walked all over the house (Peter had been blamed, due to him leaving out the blue paint bucket from his chore repainting the birdhouse out back), to the more serious issues, amoung them Arthur's fights with his older brothers, his problems with fitting in with others his age due to his cynical attitude and love of "freaky" magic, and Alfred's issues at his foster homes due to being unable to make any real friends (for some reason, no one liked hearing about aliens, superheroes, or playing pranks on other kids). Sometimes the letters would be sent in a lumpy envelope, bulging with little trinkets and knickknacks from their homes, usually pinecones and pebbles from the forest near Camp Ivanhoe, bits of colored string and new pennies from Arthur's house (Alfred had found that he could trade them with Feliciano to get paint and paper from the art store), and many drawings and sketches painted with watercolors. This art was kept hidden in the locked box under the loose floorboard under Arthur's bed, since some of them weren't the kind he'd want Peter running his mouth about. Occasionally, homemade good luck charms and talismans found their way from Arthur's hands to the table in Alfred's tent at Camp Ivanhoe, meant to keep away the ghosts that Alfred had feared haunted the grounds at night after a round of Russian scary stories. If Scoutmaster Toni ever wondered why his Scout's bedside table was often cluttered with crudely carved wooden amulets and necklaces made of daisy chains and little glass jars of sage and yew wood, he never said a word.

Eventually, though, they both knew that something had to be done. There were only so many times Alfred could stand being picked on and made fun of at camp, and Arthur himself was sick and tired of being bullied or teased by his brothers, of the constant nagging from his Mum and Dad to deal with it.

The escape, in retrospect, was to be expected. Planned in letters back and forth, Alfred's containing overly complicated diagrams of escape routes and ideas of survival, Arthur's more practical and neat in the designing, until finally, after a few months, they'd figured out a rough idea of their elopement. Not wanting to go alone, they had decided it would be best if they ran off together instead, shouldering the work between them of scrounging out a life away from all the annoyances of their lives.

Dear Arthur,

When?

Alfred

The reply was fast, he remembered, delivered with the rapid speed only the truly determined could produce.

Dear Alfred,

Where?

Arthur

He'd barely finished breakfast the next morning, when he'd felt a feeling of nervous excitement come over him.

He left the house, checking the mail, and found that the final answer arrived. He took it out of the mailbox, heading straight for the little bus stop by the street, and sat down on the only seat in the cramped space. The letter was pried open with his fingers, as acid-green eyes scanned the writing.

Dear Arthur,

Walk thirty paces down the old meadow path that has not got any name on it. Be ready to leave, I've got my stuff packed already.

Alfred

Arthur headed back inside, stuffing the letter in with the others in the locked box, and packed his binoculars (for fairy sightings), his picnic basket (Gandalf would be using it to nap in), and his suitcase (full of spare clothes, a half dozen or so of his favorite books, a toothbrush, some records he'd gotten as a present from his godmother, and the record player he was borrowing from his brother Connor). A hastily scribbled note was left to explain the absence of the record player, and then he opened up the picnic basket; Gandalf, being a very smart feline, immediately understood what was going on, and leapt in without so much as a single meow of complaint. The basket was closed, and then Arthur left the house through the back door leading to the kitchen, heading off to the meadow.

Thus, things had come full circle.

There was a chilly breeze in the air, the sky beginning to gain some dark clouds, and the steely-blue sea was churning slightly, a bit choppier than usual. New Penzance, being a rather small island community off the mainland, had only one small police station, a tiny one-room building in white and blue paint that sat on a dock leading out onto the open water, with the mainland visible directly in the distance some fifty or so miles away. Inside, the walls were packed to the ceiling with filing cabinets crammed full of reports, records, and daily logs, and there was a small foldout table with a coffee mug full of pencils, an old-fashioned phone, and a sheet of the day's report on top. The rickety metal foldout chair was missing one support on the back left foot. Two doors, one in the front, and one in the back, led in and out of the little station; the back led out to the very end of the docks, with a bucket full of bait and a fishing pole being provided for entertainment on the days with no activity. A single four-paned window let the only occupant peer out across the bay.

Nearby the police station, sitting on cement blocks on the shore and facing the trees of the forest, there was a small trailer, dented here and there, where the local New Penzance Police officer lived. Opposite this was the island's only police car, which thus had the dubious honor of an uncensored license plate proclaiming "AWESOME!" for the world to see.

The local New Penzance Police officer wasn't the most beloved person in town, being loud, brash, reckless, and somewhat arrogant, with an unusual appearance to match: silver hair, skin the color of fresh milk, and eyes the color of freshly-spilled blood. His enthusiastic, rather intrusive nature had left a lasting impression on anyone who had the fortune, or misfortune, to meet Captain Gilbert Belschmidt, though it had earned him several drinking buddies at the local bar.

However, despite his rather eccentric nature, he was still human, still able to be surprised. Today, it seemed, was no exception: only a few minutes earlier, he'd received a call on his radio from Camp Ivanhoe. Judging from the rather nervous report from Scoutmaster Antonio Carriedo of Troop 55, an escaped Khaki Scout had run off with camping equipment, two bedrolls, a miniature canoe, some fishing tackle, an air rifle, and a jar of cookies. He tried valiantly to ignore the sounds of outrage in the background on Scoutmaster Toni's end, all shouts of dismay and curse words as the rest of the boys discovered the loss of the cookies.

Thankfully, the Scoutmaster was more understanding of the situation, and continued to talk.

"Well, who's responsible for the kid, anyway?"

Scoutmaster Toni's end of the call was silent for a moment, before a rustle of paper and a triumphant "Aha!" resulted in the resuming of the conversation. "I've got his page in the register. Let's call up his folks, we need to tell them what happened so that they don't panic."

A sound of agreement came through the mouthpiece, and arrangements were made to come down to the local post office, where the nearest clear radio reception was, so that both men could notify Alfred's home at the same time, to help avoid any confusion. The U.S. Mail post office was only slightly larger than the police station, and crammed with numerous mailboxes, safes, and the control panel machine that allowed for communication between different parts of the island. As the room was somewhat small to begin with, adding Captain Belschmidt, Scoutmaster Toni, and the woman who worked at the post office all led to a rather cramped environment. The fact that this woman was also eating a rather strong-smelling tuna salad sandwich didn't help matters.

A crackle of static later, and then a voice could be heard, confirming the connection was working. The two men didn't waste time, rapidly explaining the situation.

Unfortunately, the people on the other end of the line were not so concerned. "Well, this isn't the first time that boy's made some kind of trouble. It's just not fair for the others, so I'm sorry, but we can't invite him back."

Captain Belschmidt blinked in confusion, replying somewhat stiffly, "What do you mean, you can't invite him back? Does he need an invite to get into your house, for God's sakes?"

A sigh could be heard on the other end, before the man who had spoken up replied again, this time in the sort of resigned, nonchalant way that seemed to have good intentions, but ultimately seemed useless. "Well, I thought you knew. Alfred's an orphan, his folks passed away a number of years ago in a boating accident off the coast. We're foster parents, we've been housing him since last June."

The two men in the post office stared at each other, not quite sure what to say, before Captain Belschmidt managed to find his voice and rasped out, "Well, what the hell's that got to do with anything? You've still got to take care of him, you took him in! What, is there something wrong with him to you, or something?"

The voice on the other end of the line replied calmly, as if he'd expected this. "Well, you see, Alfred's not exactly normal, per se. He's...he's emotionally disturbed from the death of his parents, and it's not uncommon for him to do things like this. One time, he tried jumping off the roof of our house with a bed sheet, claiming he wanted to try to see if he could fly like Superman. Another time, he ended up convinced that there were ghosts in his room, and he'd wake up every night screaming from nightmares. No one got any proper sleep for weeks, and the other children yelled at him for making them miss sleep. It's...it's just not right to have him here, it's not good for him, or for anyone else."

Scoutmaster Toni leaned back against one of the walls, pinching the bridge of his nose as he mulled over Alfred's lack of parents. Why wasn't this put in the register? It probably would've explained why he's always so loud, always trying to grab peoples' attention. He's an orphan, and from the sound of things, his foster parents don't sound very understanding.

This left a problem, however, and they knew it. Captain Belshmidt spoke up again. "Well, what's going to happen, then? If he can't stay with you, what'll be done with him? What do we do?"

A crackle of static from the receiver. "I expect Social Services will deal with him. Good luck!"

The call ended. Scoutmaster Toni turned to his fellow companions, his tan face unusually grave. "We need to send out a search party. We can't wait for Social Services to do something, he's out there all alone. Let's go!"

Back at Camp Ivanhoe, Scoutmaster Toni was leading his ragtag group of Troop 55 out the gates of the campground, towards the forest. Feliks raised a hand, asking curiously, "What's your real job, sir?"

"I'm a math teacher!", he replied. At his Scouts' incredulous looks, he elaborated. "Middle school math, nothing too high up. And I get free tomatoes from the garden at the school, so I can grow my own lunch!"

He turned more serious after a moment, turning to his Troop members as he spoke. "This is a search and rescue mission, and you're to use all your wilderness survival training to help you. When you find him, make sure he's ok, and bring him back, understand?"

Ivan Braginski grinned, a somewhat malicious glint in his violet eyes, as he said cheerfully, "We can use force, da?"

The adult of the group blinked, confused, before saying hastily, "No, you can't use force on him! Your mission is to find him, not to hurt him. Don't use force, under any circumstance, got it?"

The boys nodded obediently, before going off to huddle and talk about their orders. Ivan's suggestion of force hadn't gone unconsidered, seeing as Alfred was the least popular boy at camp due to his waging of prank wars, bizarre humor, and his lack of being able to read the atmosphere properly. Any protests against potential violence on the behalf of Toris, Eduard, and Raivis were ignored due to the terrifying aura produced by Ivan.

Snoopy was given Alfred's scent to track using an old sweaty gym sock from last Friday's wash, and the Khaki Scouts of Troop 55 set off into the woods, armed with a bow and arrows, a bowie knife, a huge wooden mallet riddled with nails, and several sharp hatchets. The hunt was on.