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The herd’s ceremony shattered Earth’s perceived stability and they encircled us in a great stampede. Fear poured like flowing magma and Morgan tried to climb atop Lionel’s now swelling corpse in order to gain high ground. The forgotten leaves of autumn formed tornadoes around us.
King Lear led the herd in three, complete rotations around the three of us and stopped as abruptly as his prehistoric bawl began. The herd stopped behind him. In less time than it would take for the dust to settle, a small bull calf, unleavened by age, left the amassed herd and entered the ground between us. A messenger, a spirit-walker, a dream-teller. He passed into the middle ground, that which stands between this and the other world, between life and death, and looked right at us and we could not help but look at him. Nothing moved, no one bounced.
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