Owel hears voices: as do we all.
There is that voice, the pattern of our thoughts, so familiar we hardly notice it, that has been with us persistently and almost consistently since first we thought with words.
Then there is another one, which most of us are aware we hear: usually it probes and reflects, acting as a questioning brake on our desires; but for a few it primarily serves to justify the isolated right and certainty of their actions.
And then for a few – such as Owel – there is a further voice, apparently external in source, which calls to him. To leave his industrial homeland and flee far away. Westwards. Always westward.
A voice calling him to a realm in the forest.
