Ayla had promised twelve wanderers a home, and she still owned nothing but a rented hut by the river. She stood on its porch at dawn, counting the bundles of dried herbs that hung from the eaves. Each bundle was money she did not have. She wanted to build a commune, a hidden place where tired, gentle people could live far from the kingdoms' soldiers and their old laws. But a commune needed land, and land needed a deed, and the landlord wanted her out by the new moon. She sold her remedies in the market that morning. She traded two jars of salve and a sack of seeds to a trapper who knew the back country. He drew her a map on bark. "There's a hollow upriver," he said. "No lord claims it. No tax man walks that far. But folks say the valley makes you dream things that aren't real." Ayla followed the river north for two days. The map ended at a wall of fog. She pushed through it and stopped. Two marijuana plants stood ahead of her, each as tall as a barn. Their trunks were thick as oaks. Dense green leaves spread into wide canopies that shaded the whole clearing. No fence marked the ground. No road led in. The hollow sat quiet and warm, hidden on every side by steep hills. A dragonfly landed on her wrist. Its body shimmered with swirling colors, pink and green and gold, like oil on water. Its wings pulsed with light. Ayla had never seen such a creature. It sat still, watching her, then lifted off and circled the giant plants three times. She laughed out loud. This was it. This was the place she had dreamed of. She knelt and pressed her hand to the soil. It was black and rich. Water ran clean nearby. She could already see the cabins, the gardens, the firepit where her wanderers would sing. She would send word down the river tonight. By spring, the hollow would hold a dozen people. Then she heard wood crack behind the fog. She turned. Pushed against the base of one giant trunk sat a couch of red velvet, its cushions sun-faded but whole. Someone had dragged it here. Someone had sat in this clearing and stayed. Beside it lay a cold firepit and a child's wooden cup. The hollow was not empty. Someone already lived on the land she meant to claim. And the trapper's warning turned over in her mind. People who entered this valley saw things that were not real. She looked again at the glowing dragonfly, at the trees too tall to be true, and she could not be sure what her eyes had shown her. Ayla had found her land at last. Now she had to learn who else called it home.

Ayla sat on the fur couch beside Jerry. The cat curled between them. He had confirmed the couch, the lamp, the cat were real. But Jerry himself was the one thing she could not test. He talked, he smiled, he scratched the cat's ear. A vision could do all that. If she gave him her trust and he dissolved like morning fog, she would lose the valley chasing a ghost. Twelve people waited downriver for a home. She needed to know he was a man, not a trick. "How do I know you're real?" she asked. "The couch I can throw rocks at. You, I can't." Jerry laughed. He reached for a long pipe by the firepit and packed it. "Smart question. Most folks never ask it." He struck a match. "The valley makes pictures. It can't make smoke you can breathe." He drew on the pipe and blew a slow cloud toward her face. It stung her eyes. She coughed. It smelled sharp and sweet and clung to her hair. A vision could not fill her lungs. A vision could not make her cough. Her shoulders loosened. He was real. The relief lasted one breath. Leaves parted at the far trunk. A huge figure ducked under them, far taller than any man. He stood near ten feet, wrapped in a blue robe stitched with small stars. A white beard hung to his belt. He gripped an oak staff, and a brown mouse rode his shoulder. He planted the staff in the dirt and studied Ayla without a smile. "You brought a guest," the tall one said to Jerry. His voice was slow and deep. "You know this valley does not like strangers." Jerry waved the pipe. "Easy, Zork. She passed the smoke test. She's flesh." He turned to Ayla. "Zork keeps the valley. He reads it better than I do." Ayla rose. Her head reached the giant's chest. The mouse watched her with black eyes. Zork leaned on his staff and looked her over, the way a farmer checks ground before planting. "The commune," Zork said. "Twelve souls. Jerry told me." He tapped the staff once. "I will not stop you. But the valley tests everyone who stays. It showed you a false couch. It will show your twelve far worse." He pointed the staff toward the ridge. Beyond the leaves, a pale blue castle rose where none had stood before, towers crowned with a bright lightning mark. "That is not there. It wants you to walk to it. If your people chase what the valley paints, they will wander until they starve." The castle flickered and was gone. "Jerry lets you stay," Zork said. "I give the same leave. But the leave is the easy part." He turned back toward the trees. "Teach your twelve to tell the smoke from the picture. If you can't, this valley will swallow them whole."