In Dreamtime, time is not linear. The savannah trees shift from tiny green saplings to mighty trees with spreading branches, taking on whatever stage of growth suits their fancy. Rivers widen and shrink, revealing cracked soil that reverts to lush grass in an instant. No object retains its shape for long.

The sacred brews of shamans serve as a gateway to this other world. Their secret ingredient may be whale blubber or a single drop of venom from a cobra's fang. The recipe varies by region but the trance is the same regardless of tribe. Dreams experienced in Dreamtime are vivid, revealing omens that will steer a tribe to battle or peace, depending on the pleasure of the gods. Young shamans are content to take their visions on the open plain, reading shapes formed from the shadows of boulders that spring from the ground only to be once again swallowed. Every shaman is aware of the presence waiting patiently for their approach, but only the dying dare to enter Bashadra's cave.

Who can say whether his form was inspired by his surroundings or whether the ever-changing landmarks themed themselves to satisfy his needs? He has always been a part of Dreamtime, yet every day is a new birth. The spirits of lion, dingo, and antelope are his muses, inspiring the sleek pelt and glorious horns he so often favors. He had neither mate nor kin to share the cave that was decorated to his taste. Chairs were carved from bone, their joints secured by strands of cobweb. Hollowed skulls served as the bases for two lamps, their shades pieced together from the skins shed by great serpents. A wooden mask with glittering ruby eyes held the place of honor above a shrine scattered with luminescent potion bottles.

Bashadra waited patiently for the old woman to finish fussing with her dress. She had braided her long white hair into an intricate pattern, wanting to look her best for such an important occasion. She looked him in the eye, not the least bit afraid.

"The spirits come to call me soon. I am tired of the pain. I cannot sleep. My granddaughter must mash my food, like for a little baby. I come here of my own free will, good spirit. I am ready to see the next life."

Bashadra could see at a glance that she was not lying. The body she had left behind was riddled with disease. Even in a state of total relaxation, the woman's breathing was labored.

He could read her life through her eyes, experiencing love and lust as a woman who had resigned herself slowly to the calling that made her a shaman. She did not blush or cast her eyes to the ground. She revealed toothless gums in a wide grin as she waited for him to grow bored of her long string of memories.

"The skulls I would expect, but I thought Death would have more dignity. Your home is a mighty mess, Great One."

Bashadra neither smiled not scowled. The human habit of small talk was one he'd had no need to acquire. He had a good picture of who this woman had been in life. He closed his eyes for a moment, awaiting the final decision.

"There were times when you ignored the will of the gods, Fala Madora. You strayed twice from the path, yet your steps always led you back. For this, your next life will not be devoid of suffering, but there will be joy as well."

She shuddered at the warm touch of his breath. The memories of her past life were gone in an instant. Tiny brown eyes opened on the world for the first time as Fala's baby ears twitched restlessly. Her mother was Adora, the most beautiful rabbit in the northern forests. She was warm, and safe, and well fed. She was surrounded by brothers and sisters who wriggled at her side, always competing for the best milk stream. She knew nothing of the human world she had left behind.

Before the first baby had latched on to Adora, Bashadra was on the move. The dying could not always come to him. Far too often, they required assistance to get to Dreamtime.

Scot Brown was only seven years old. His parents had been missionaries in a tiny mountain village when they learned their precious boy was terminal. They had returned to their home, using their substantial wealth to research possible cures, but there are some things money truly cannot buy.

The boy began to thrash and scream at the sight of a frightful creature perched on the end of his bed. In fever dreams he had often faced monsters that shot flames through his body with the touch of one claw. Doctors in long white coats rushed into the room, holding his hand and increasing the drip of his IV. They knew it wouldn't be long, but they could not bear to watch the polite little boy suffer. The doctors decided not to wake his parents. The next hour would be hard enough.

Scot's body went still, fear welling up inside him nonetheless. Bashadra was still there. Scot closed his eyes as his vision began to blur. He felt like crying but he could not tell if tears were trickling down his cheeks. When he opened his eyes, the sterile room was gone.

"There is nothing to fear, Scot. Your parents once made a prayer to the gods that you would have a life full of joy and I have come to fulfill that wish."

Scot stared in wonder at Bashadra. In a world where spirits were the only forms of life, emotions were much easier to stifle. The boy was no longer afraid, only curious.

"If you have the power to take me from my body, surely you can make me well. Mother and Father will be so sad if I'm not there to wish them good night."

"When the cycle of one life ends, another must begin. This is how life works, child." Bashadra's voice was very gentle as he pointed Scot in a new direction. They were looking down on a woman who wore a red bandana as she weeded around a patch of flowers. Scot gasped.

"Mother!"

The woman looked up for just a moment, shading her eyes from the sun. The sound of a screen door slamming drew her attention toward the distant house. A man came out to join her, balancing a little girl on his shoulders. Scot stared at his baby sister in wonder.

Bashadra placed a paw on Scot's shoulder, drawing his attention back to the flower bed. "There is a seed there, just beneath the soil. It will emerge tonight, beneath the light of the moon. The woman you call mother will care for it for the rest of her life because she will sense it is precious. Close your eyes now, child. All will be well."

The boy did as he was told. From that moment on he was aware of only the glorious warmth of the sun on his face and the gentle touch of hands that caressed his stem lovingly.