*Mini-update*
I haven't gotten back to this story, and don't expect to get back for a while yet; however, there's a section of it's that's really been bugging me that I finally decided to take out. That section was, formerly, chapters 13-15.
Of course, that means before or when I finally start updating the story again, I'll also have to work out how to modify this and some of the other chapters to account for certain details that were in those chapters, details that tie this one and on to chapter 12 and back. I have an idea what to do, I just need to get around to actually doing it.
*End mini-update*

Well... I'm not sure what it was that Dottie Princess didn't like about the wood carving thing in Waking Nightmare. However, I can no longer work that one out of the story: the wood carving thing, and the reason I came up with it in the first place, starts in this very chapter.
Sort of, anyway. I originally came up with the wood carving thing in one of the many rewrites of the first chapter of my Sierra story, and had eventually worked the detail in to Doyle's childhood.

I don't own Doyle or The Secret Saturdays. I do own the animals that are behaving strangely.

Episodic, some chapters/arcs may relate to one story but not to others, so on and so forth.

Doyle will not be named in this and a few following chapters. There is a reason for this, which will be revealed in chapter...18? That being the case, it should be fairly easy (at least in this chapter) to see who's perspective a given line is written in, just by how I refer to him.

Timing: (Looks at first three lines of this chapter, raises one eyebrow at the readers.) Do I really need to tell you that?
Say, about two calendar years following the Avalanche arc.

Demon (fomer chapter 15): I was wondering the same.
*sigh*
I suppose I should be glad they're not flaming me or something for how Doyle's been treated...
(Mirrors Demon's wary glance.)

Stray

It was a year since he first lost his mind.

A year since that boy had tried to kill him. A year since, in desperation, he'd felt his spirit change.

A year since he'd forgotten that he was ever human.

He remembered that the boy had tried to poison him, but knew little else of the attack. He'd fled into the woods, surviving as the animals did.

Or trying to.

The animals perceived him, not as he was, but as he believed himself to be. Though he was only a cub, he was a predator the likes of which no creature around wanted to face. Prey seemed scarcer than ever.

Though he hungered still, he refused to seek food among the humans again. He perceived them as a threat, and shied away even from the farms he encountered, though their flocks should have fallen easily even to his inexperienced hands.

It was that inexperience, and those hands that lacked the usual weapons, that forced him to remember that he was human.

As that memory gradually returned, so, too, did the other animals' ease at his presence. They still did not see him as human; they never had. But neither did they see the predator that he'd thought he was.

Though the animals accepted him again, most did not help him. That was hardly surprising. Many had families of their own to feed, and could not afford to help the competition. The weakest of them sought to chase him from his meals; the strongest simply ignored him. Some creatures, also, were known for consuming their own kind; only his size kept them from seeing him as prey. Those that dared the human villages were old or sick; they'd grown dependent upon the humans, and could not aid him for long if they'd wanted to.

None were cruel as the humans were; all needed food as he did.

But there were some, aged yet strong, and without families to support, that chose to aid any young that they thought their own kind.

From the birds and the plant eaters, he learned which plants were safe and which were not, and how to evade predators. The snakes taught him to recognize which of their number was poisonous. The rabbits, foxes, and other small creatures taught him to dig for roots or grubs.

Those creatures that ate meat taught him how to catch even the most evasive prey, and how to know, whether by sick or other reason, that the prey was too dangerous to catch. And he learned other lessons besides.

Even the earth and the plants gave him aid, as shelter from the weather or protection from parasites and sickness, until he learned to survive in nearly any environment.

The lessons were slow, though he learned quickly enough; he simply lacked the strength to accomplish many of their tasks. His human body meant he often had to improvise on what was natural for them. His teachers, in their turn, had learned to put up with the strangeness of it.

The animals usually perceived him each according to their own natures, except when they taught him. At these times, they perceived him, not according to their natures or his, but according to that of his teachers. A rabbit, for instance, would normally see a young rabbit, or a sparrow would think him an unfledged sparrow...but when a wolf taught him to hunt those animals, then all would see a wolf cub.

Among all of their lessons, this one of perception alone he failed to learn, and thus he did not learn to control it.

When he became truly desperate, his spirit would change again, and would sometimes wander while he slept. When his spirit wandered, they perceived him again as he thought himself to be, and he could follow their lessons as one of their own. When he forgot he was human, he was no longer bound by what the human body could do. But when he forgot he was human, his human body no longer kept him safe.

But under their tutelage, he grew and learned. And his spirit did not need to wander so often.

—

The boy struggled with the piece of wood, scraping at it and shaping it with the rock, repeating another mantra in one of the Romani dialects.

The fox waited nearby, and watched with the patience of any hunter who did not yet comprehend what he saw.

It was not strange for kits to play with rocks or wood or bones from old kills. Even adults frequently took such toys. But this thing of shaping the wood was strange; the old fox had never heard of a kit making his own toy.

Once the kit had explained his toys; the notion was still strange, but not as much. All predators needed to understand their prey before they could hunt. This strange kit had simply found a different way to understand them.

Most predators learned to understand their prey by pure observation. They watched how the prey moved, watched what it did, watched how others hunted it.

Most predators had the luxury to learn from their own elders like the foxes, or else were the self-reliant sort that could take small prey easily with little more than a bite as the snakes often did.

Most predators were not half-starved fosterlings who couldn't last through their first cold snap, were it not for those like the fox that sought to teach them at the Creators' behest, in lieu of creating their own families.

And most predators were not misshapen orphans who relied on magic to make up for their shortcomings. Magic was common enough; all life had it, and used it as easy as breathing, as passive and unnoticed—even to the user—as a heartbeat. Those who had the talent to use it actively were few enough; those that needed to fewer yet.

The fox did not have that skill, but the kit was full of the scent, as were these wood-shapes he made. What worried the fox was that the kit didn't smell it himself.

But who am I to question the will of the Lord and Lady? was the tone of the fox's thoughts. He'd chosen this path when he was born, and he'd continue to accept it as long as he lived. He could seek a mate and raise a family any time he wanted, but until he made that choice, he may as well be barren.

He sighed. He would teach such fosterling kits as had nobody else, for as long as the Lord and Lady Creators asked him.

Including misshapen orphans that actively used magic without knowing it.

The boy glanced up at the sigh and smiled wryly. "Sorry, I'm almost done," he said. The fox twitched his ears twitched at the human voice, but ignored the words, understanding instead the meaning of the thoughts.

The boy usually waited until after his lessons to work on these carvings; the better to add what he learned to the shapes, he'd figured. But the lake had frozen over, and today the fox was going to show him how to get at the fish under the ice.

This carving, a fish, was simple enough, and the boy thought he could finish it soon—so long as he didn't snap it in half like some of the others. He wanted to get it done before the lessons left him too tired. Besides, now that it'd turned cold, it could help to work some warmth into his fingers before the lesson began.

He scraped a few more slivers away and held up the piece of wood. "There!" The fox came over to sniff at it. "Well, what do you think?"

Shape seems good enough, the fox replied. But it just smells like wood...and you.

"I haven't used it yet. You can't smell what it's for," the boy replied, but he smiled shyly; he couldn't even pretend to feel resentful. His teachers were not in the habit of praising him when he did only as well as they, though they never denied him encouragement to do better. That the fox had approved of the shape—even with that remark about the scent—was high praise indeed.

Ready? the fox asked.

The boy stood up and stretched a bit, loosening himself for another workout. "Yep."

—

The boy set his carving down, a little ways from the lake, and the fox proceeded with his instructions.

The fox showed him how to move on the ice, and how to test the ice for strength. The fox did not need to explain why this was important: too strong, and the boy would never break through for the fish; too weak, or if he moved wrong, he could fall in.

Eventually they found a spot, just a little ways in, where they agreed it was safe for the boy—who was quite a bit heavier than the fox—to chip away at the ice.

As the boy worked, the fox continued to instruct him, making him back off now and then to warm his furless body up or to test the ice again. The boy had had to abandon the task three times to find another spot, where the ice wasn't quite so thin and weak.

The boy paused to wipe the sweat from his face. This was hard work. He didn't find it strange that most animals slept a lot in the winter. There was never any guarantee that one could find food, but at least in the warmer months, you could get at the food easier when you found it. The boy had counted maybe five fish close enough for him to see, but not a one close enough to grab even if he could get through the ice.

And not a one bigger than a mouthful, even if he could catch them. The boy glanced down at the fox digging along side of him; lessons or not, he'd just about decided he might go hungry today, and forget this business with the ice.

A huge shadow moved under the ice. The boy and the fox both jumped back in surprise, then the fox went back to digging, more eager than before. The boy watched the shadow...and another one, and another...then returned to the work with the same enthusiasm the fox showed.

These fish were much bigger; one of them might be a meal between him and the fox, easy. And they were swimming close the ice. The fox didn't understand that—the bigger fish usually stayed on bottom—but didn't care to question it.

The boy worked at the ice, his weariness forgotten at the thought of a meal, the sight of more shadows under the ice driving him to work faster, forgetting everything else in the hopes of catching just one of these fish...

The fox abruptly stopped digging and scented the air. Magic. The fox smelled magic. The kit's magic, coming from that shaped bit of wood.

The fox crept off the ice to investigate. He sniffed at the piece of wood, touched it with his nose, only to jump back in shock. It moved! No, it couldn't; it was just a piece of wood. But... The fox sniffed it again. It smelled of magic, strong magic, active magic.

It moved again, briefly, like a fish, then was still.

No, it hadn't moved; the light had just shined on it, made it shine like scales, made it look like it moved, like the fish under the ice moved.

The fox spun around to stare at the ice. More shadows swam up, more than normal. Even were the lake full, there would never be so many so close to the surface.

The fox glanced at the piece of wood. Did it...call them? He sniffed it again. Yes, it did. It called the fish.

The kit broke a hole into the ice, just large enough to get a paw through. But when he reached in, the fish darted away.

The fox cocked his head and thought. The wood piece called the fish...but it didn't help catch them. So the kit still had to work for his meal. It was a clever bit of work, just the same.

The fox gave a mental shrug, and stepped back out onto the ice...

And heard a CRACK!

More shadows swam towards the ice, too large shadows, too many shadows. They broke at the ice from underneath.

The fox barked out a warning.

The boy looked up in only mild surprise; there was no time for more.

Because the ice shattered beneath them.

Did I say things would be going better for Doyle? (Checks previous chapter.)
Yup. And this chapter is not that "one incident" I referred to. The thing is, considering why things have been going badly, I don't think this chapter qualifies as "going badly."
What I meant was that things would go better in this arc, in terms of why they've been going poorly for him.

Did that make sense?

Hmm, did I give away the whole "animals behave strangely" business yet?
Nope. Still one more secret, waiting until the next arc. And maybe more secrets, waiting for other stories.
I just attempted to clarify certain things in this one, is all.

Wouldn't it be funny if Jay Stephens had a similar idea, though? Wonder how that'd work out in official canon...?
*shrug*
Of course, I wonder how any of my ideas would work out within canon. I'm sure, even if JS thought up something similar, it still wouldn't work quite the way I'm doing it. There is a reason I gave my story a "T" rating, and I've had to throw out some ideas just to keep it that low.

I wonder if I managed to get the messages across that I tried to bury in this chapter?
Don't know, and I can't even ask about my specific concerns without influencing reader interpretation.

...

...

...

Dang it!
Hey, can any of you read my mind? Find some way to review for my specific concerns without me asking pointed questions?
Anyone? Please?
Seriously, though, I think there's supposed to be a way to ask such questions as I need without influencing readers...I'm just not sure what it is.