Twisted Slough There’s nothing left for you to wish on

He was happy to be back home, at least for a day or so. Then Caracal’s feet began itching again. He decided to head out on a day trip, trotting jauntily north in search of medicinal plants he might gather. At least, that was what he told himself, though Caracal quickly became distracted by other things, like swimming in bog water, then chasing grouses and, finally, staring into the least inviting patch of land he’d ever come across.

It stank here too, though that hardly deterred the boyish traveler currently reeking of a swamp himself. Keen to explore such a disgusting and dreary place, he ventured into the slough. It was as gross as it first appeared, and Caracal gave a gleeful whoop as he stumbled across some vines—literally tripping where they ensnared his twiggy ankles.

It took a few minutes to free himself, at which point he decided he was over this place. Caracal didn’t particularly feel like backtracking through the slough, so he kept going north in a bid to escape its gnarly clutches. Once he made his way out, he would figure out the best way to go around it and head back to the summit.

As the black willows and cotton gums finally thinned and the smell of salt threaded into his nose, Caracal really hustled. There was an open plain sprawling ahead and, in the middle distance, a familiar sandy figure.