He found himself in the orchard quickly and picked up the old woven bag he and his mother would use to pick apples and pears and strawberries and anything else that would grow on the forest floor or in trees or on vines. Fintan hung the bag off one of his antlers, an ivory three-point situated just above his heavy ears, and started pulling large red orbs from the tree and dropping them into the bag. He barely had enough control not to eat every one he pulled off the branches, which was saying quite a bit since he was so thin and willowy. Still, the bag grew heavy fast, and Fintan had to pull it off his antler before it started hurting.

What time was it? He didn't have a way of telling specifically, but he knew the slant of the sun even when it had to fight with the fog that would become trapped among the huge trees. It was nearing evening and the humidity was lessening, and soon the night would be complete and clear, entirely dark. With the bag held in his long fingers, Fintan picked his way to where he knew a few berry bushes were. He'd had an awful habit of keeping his bags near where he harvested, something his mother had always scolded him about.

Between picking dark red berries and tossing them into the little bag, Fintan's ears twitched involuntarily when he heard something odd. A voice, more than one voice, talking together. Among themselves. He didn't know their tones, had only heard humans speak that way when he was ever so close as to hear them. Of course, that was before the others started tormenting them while staying just out of sight, like spirits in the trees and shadows to scare them out. Fintan had never done it---he preferred to keep away from the events. Still, he was curious. Setting his bags down against a tree, he lowered himself down and started creeping forward.