Midworld by Alan Dean Foster

politely attentive audience gathered around the evening Home fire, “were reported lost, sometimes in a natural disaster, sometimes through a careless shift in records by an incompetent clerk.” He swallowed, aware he was treading on quasireligious grounds. “It seems likely,” he continued, stressing the word likely, “that you people are descended from the survivors of one such ship and are trapped here. Though considering the inimical nature of this world I find it incredible that any of the misplaced colonists were able to survive after the initial supplies were exhausted.” He sat down again. “That’s our best guess, anyway.”
    No one seated around the evening blaze said anything. Cohoma and Logan eyed their shorter, better armed cousins a mite apprehensively.
    “All this,” Chief Sand finally responded slowly, “may be as you say.” Both giants relaxed visibly. “But while we have not the benefit of your peculiar knowledge, we have explanations of our own for our existence.”
    He glanced over at Reader and nodded. The shaman rose. He was clad in his ceremonial raiment of spotted gildver fur, brilliant brown and red with orange stripes, and the feathered headdress wrought from moltings drifted down from the Upper Hell. And the axe, of course, which he brandished prominently as he rose. Swinging it like a conductor’s baton, he told the story of how the world happened.
    “In the beginning there was the seed,” Reader intoned solemnly. The people listened reverently. They had heard the legend a thousand times, yet it still commanded their attention. “And not a very big seed at that,” the shaman continued. “One day the thought of water descended, and the seed took root in the wood of emfol.” That word again, Logan mused. “It grew. Its trunk became strong and tall. Whereupon it put out many branches. Some of these formed the Pillars which dominate the world. Others changed and became the two hells which envelop the world. Then buds appeared, buds uncounted, blooming. We are the offspring of one such bud, the furcots another, the peeper that lies still in the hyphae yet another. The seed prospers, the world prospers, we prosper.”
    Cohoma held his knees up and together. “If that’s so, and if you believe we come from a planet different from this one, how does all that fit into your universe?”
    “The branches of the seed tree spread far,” Reader replied. There were appreciative murmurs from the circle.
    “What if one of your branches was transplanted to another part of this tree?”
    “It would die. Each blossom knows its place on its branch.”
    “Then you can understand our situation,” Cohoma went on. “The same is true with us. If we don’t return to our particular branch—or seed, or home, or station—we will surely die, too. Won’t you help us? We would do as much for you.”
    Logan and Cohoma did their best to appear indifferent while the villagers discussed the situation among themselves. Someone threw another rotted section of log onto the fire. It blazed higher, tossing off angry sparks, slim smoke trails rising lazily to curl skyward around the edges of the leafleather canopy. Warm rain dripped down through the smoke.
    Sand, Joyla, and Reader conferred in whispers. Finally, Sand raised a hand and the muttering subsided.
    “We will help you return to your branch station, your Home,” he announced in a strong voice that sounded as if it came from a distant loudspeaker and not that thin frame. “If it is possible.”
    Born held his place in the inner circle and stared groundward so his smile would not be visible to the chief or to Reader or to any of his fellows. He could hardly wait for their response when they found out how far away this precious station of the visitors actually was.
    No one laughed when Logan told them.
    “Such a journey is unthought of,” Sand announced when Logan had concluded. “No, impossible, impossible. I cannot direct anyone to accompany