#much?

You looked up, sniffing back tears and scrubbed your hand across your face to leave a muddy trail across your cheeks. “Hello?” you sobbed. “Miss Tremayne? Mr. Lee?”

In the drifting fog, you started to recognise a pattern to the boulders around you and froze. You were kneeling at the heart of a small circle of standing stones, each one only a foot or so high. In the moss of the nearest one, you could just make out a spiral of bare rock intertwining with the vibrant green of the moss, and on the next one over, you found a different pattern. Beyond the clear bubble of air inside the circle, the fog pressed in, close and silent, and all you could hear was your own, tight breathing.

Someone would come for you soon. Someone had to notice you were missing soon. It didn’t matter that you were the weird kid who played with frogspawn and thought snails were neat and knew how to identify all three kinds of newt native to the UK. Someone would notice that you weren’t with the rest of the school trip.

All you had to do was wait where you were. The first rule of bushcraft when you realised you were lost was to stay put and not panic. One of those two you could do.

Wistman’s Wood really wasn’t that big, and they’d count everyone in on the bus, so you wouldn’t be left behind.

You sat down and waited.

And waited.

You were shivering by the time evening was properly closing in, and the fog was still drifting all around, and beyond the circle of stones, the noises of the night were starting up in a faltering chorus. A vixen’s screaming bark far away on the moor above made your blood run cold, and an owl’s soft, wavering call from the trees nearby drew an answering whimper from your own throat.

Leaves rustled everywhere as if the trees themselves were breathing, though there was no breeze that you could feel. The moss beneath your hands felt warm, as though the sun had been on it all day. You spread your dirty fingers through it and tried to draw some comfort from the warmth, imagining it was the thick coat of a friendly animal, but it was no good.

After what felt like hours, you curled up into a ball on your side and wept.

The ghost dogs would get you and tear you to pieces or the wild hunt would take you away.

Footsteps light as pattering rain over the autumn leaves jerked you awake some time later and you sat up to see a soft, golden glow on the edge of the ring of stones. Silhouetted in the fog just behind the lantern was a dark outline that looked a little too thin to be human and too short to be an adult.

Your scream of surprise and horror filled the clearing and was immediately answered with a gasp and a quiet, “No, it’s alright. I won’t hurt you,” from the other side of the stones. The voice was strange, like two rocks scraping together or the creak of a tree in a high wind, but it seemed kind.

“Who are you?” you hissed.

“I… I’m a friend. Why are you out here?” Whoever it was, the small glow wasn’t enough to illuminate them properly in the fog, and while they seemed young — perhaps about your own age — you didn’t recognise them as anyone from your class.

“I got lost,” you said, and fought off tears again. “Do you know the way back to the road?”

“Which road?”

“The… the one where we got off the bus,” you said. “There was a white building nearby. I think it was a pub.”

“Oh,” the unusual, reedy voice said. “You mean the human road to the south.”

Your heart iced over with wild fear. “You’re… You’re not human?”

“No. You can’t see in the dark, can you?”

“Of course not,” you said. “I’m not an owl. What are you? Are you part of the Wild Hunt? One of the ghosts? A druid?”

The creature laughed, and the sound was like a small brook rushing over loose stones. “No. You’re cold,” they added. “Here, I’ll come and warm you, but you mustn’t be afraid of me. I might look… scary… but I won’t hurt you.”

The light bobbed nearer, and you saw long, root-like fingers holding a lantern made of the lacy remains of old leaves and glowing from within. The arm that held it looked like it was made of dry, cracked wood, interspersed with patches of moss and little rocks that glittered in the light. When the creature knelt beside you, you sucked in a breath as the bare skull of a badger loomed down out of the mist. You knew it was a badger because you’d looked at them that week with Mr. Lee in science class.

Shaking, you waited to see the rest of the creature.

“I won’t hurt you,” they said again. “Please don’t be scared of me.”

“Ok,” you breathed, not sure what else to say. You hugged your knees in close and fought off the urge to close your eyes, pretending none of this was happening. “What about the Wisht Hounds and the ghosts?”

“They won’t hurt you,” they said cheerily, kneeling down beside you and setting the lantern on the mossy grass. “They guard the wood with me but they won’t hurt you if you don’t mean the place any harm.”

“Oh.” You looked up them and tried not to stare at the creature. “Ok.”

If they’d been human, you guessed they were around your own age and height — small, skinny and two legged — but their whole body seemed to have been made of wood and stone and bits of moss, and they had an animal pelt wrapped around their hips and the badger skull over their face. Glimpses of dark, almost-human skin showed here and there though, especially around the neck and collarbones and down the right side of their chest and arm, though the arm holding the lantern was like an old tree branch.

“Come on, you’re getting cold,” they said, and went down onto all fours. “Lie down.”

Not knowing what else to do, you obeyed, using your rucksack as a pillow, and they reached out and simply pulled the forest floor up around you like a blanket. The warm scent of moss enveloped you, and the comforting weight and heat of it took you by surprise.

“There,” they said as they tucked it up around your shoulder before curling up behind you and wrapping their arm around your middle. “Try to sleep. They’ll come looking for you soon, but if they don’t, I’ll show you to the edge of the woods in the morning.”

“Promise?”

“I promise. Rest now.”

You closed your eyes and found yourself drifting off almost immediately, as comfortable and warm as if you were tucked up in your own bed.

The shrill of a distant whistle jolted you awake and you found a pressure on your shoulder joint, shaking you gently before it moved up to touch your neck with a shy, tender caress. “Wake up,” the creature hissed and you sat upright with a jolt. The blanket of moss and grass simply tumbled away from your body and became seamless forest floor again, as though it had never been disturbed.

You jerked around to stare at your new friend. It was still pitch dark, and your rapid exhales fogged in the air around you, making twisting, ghostly shapes in the small light of the creature’s lantern that had never gone out.

“Told you they’d come looking for you,” they said with a playful laugh.

You heard the baying of dogs in the distance and tensed.

“Not my hounds,” they said, drawing back and looking around twitchily. “I have to go. Please… Please don’t tell them about me? They probably won’t believe you anyway, but… please?”

You nodded. “I won’t tell anyone. And thank you for helping me.”

The creature tipped their head to one side in something you thought was a smile, though the bone mask that covered their face made it impossible to tell.

“I won’t forget you,” you croaked.

At that, the strange creature leaned forwards and hugged you. They were warm, and although the parts of their body that touched you were hard and unyielding, they slotted perfectly against you where you sat in the dead centre of the stone circle. “Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Thank you,” they croaked. The cold press of those root-like fingertips against the warm skin of your neck made you gasp suddenly, but as a torch beam glanced off the trees, they rose and sprang away like a deer, vanishing into the shadows of the gnarled trees in the blink of an eye.

Someone shouted your name and you staggered to your feet. “Here!” you croaked. “I’m here!”

The yells went up, more dogs barked, and in a few minutes, you were being wrapped up in a blanket and seen to by the rescue team.

The half mile walk back to the road passed in a blur as everyone fussed over you and the events of the night rushed through your mind.

What kind of creature had that been?

You kept your promise though, and never told a soul about them, and when you woke the next morning, you found a small, leaf-shaped mark on your neck where their cold finger had touched you. No more than an inch long, it was the colour of a coppery autumn oak leaf, and whenever you brushed your fingertips over it, you shivered. The creature had marked you somehow, but you never minded. You loved the mark, and it made you feel special, cherished, and protected.

‘Badger’, as you came to think of them because of the skull, lived on in your imagination all throughout your childhood, and sometimes you even dreamed of them, running through the small woods with their ghostly black hounds barking and playing at their heels.

Whenever things got too much, you would pile up blankets atop you in bed for the weight and warmth, and curl up on your side, and remember the way they had pulled the forest floor up over you to keep you warm. Your fingertips would trace the small leaf mark on your neck, and you would feel grounded and calm again. Your parents had thought you would be traumatised by the event, frightened of foggy nights and of the woods, but you had never felt safer than you had on that lonely night with your strange friend among the twisted oak trees and the mossy standing stones.

Your career inevitably led you into wildlife conservation and the protection of rare landscapes just like Wistman’s Wood, though considerably further north.

“You should be going somewhere hot and dry for your holiday,” your colleague grinned at you as you both shrugged into your heavy coats and prepared to lock up the field office. The weather for the past week had been truly awful, even by Scottish standards, and your cramped, barely-insulated, converted shipping container office in the heart of the Highlands — affectionately nicknamed the ‘bothy’ after the more traditional shelters dotted across Scotland and Wales — had taken an absolute battering. Still, you’d somehow got a lot of work done together, and it was time to head back to the centre with the data.

With a laugh, you shook your head and adjusted the jacket around your shoulders with a shrug. “I know, but I’ve been wanting to go back to Devon for years and I’ve finally got enough leave stored up to make it worthwhile.”

Ben’s brown eyes twinkled and he shook his head at you. In his lilting, Orcadian burr, you best friend and fellow ranger chided you affectionately. “Ah well, I always said you were daft, didn’t I? At least it’s nareaboots stopped for the day anyway,” he added, cocking his head to listen to the last lashings of wind and rain on the roof and tiny perspex window. “Come on, I’ll buy you a pint at The Selkie tonight. What time are you off tomorrow?”

“I’m getting the 8.25 train to Inverness from Golspie, then the bus to the airport. My flight’s not til late afternoon.”

You chatted as you locked up your very basic field office and battled the last throes of the autumn storm to get your stuff into the Landrover. With the windscreen wipers on maximum, you jolted down the rough, winding forestry track through patches of forest and open heath, ignoring Ben’s comments on your driving — “Like you’d do any better!” you retorted. You both let out a grunt of relief though when you got back onto the tarmac that would eventually take you to the small, seaside town just before sunset. Not that there was a visible sun to see setting behind the perpetual, pewter-grey clouds.

That night, Ben got more than usually tipsy, and you found yourself listening to his beguiling accent as he talked of the folklore of his native Orkney Islands, prompted by the name of the pub in which you were drinking — The Selkie — and his insistence, again, that the mark on your neck was a mark of the fairfolk. What choice did you have but to refute it and claim it was a birthmark? Even if you could have told him without breaking your promise to Badger, he probably wouldn’t have believed you anyway.

Although…

His large brown eyes glittered as he talked of the selkie-folk and the finfolk, and his expression grew almost dreamy as he told you of their island summer-home of Hildaland, and the safety of the city beneath the waves that was their winter refuge, Finfolkaheem. Ben had always been a good storyteller, filling nights around the stove in the bothy with evocative tales of Scottish folklore, but he talked of it now as vividly as though he’d been to these fantasy places and seen them for himself. His accent got stronger and stronger, and his tone more yearning until finally he realised what time it was, blinked, and sighed. “Ah, but it’s late, and I’ve made myself homesick.”

Ben was tall and strong, though not in the lean, chiselled, way of runway models and gym-goers. Stocky, with a stout layer of fat around his gut, he looked made to weather whatever the elements had for him, and his wild, brown hair was already turning very silver though he couldn’t have been a day over thirty.

“You’ll have to call Mag when you get home tonight and make yourself feel better,” you said, standing up and patting him on the shoulder. “Though I doubt he’ll thank me for letting you get so tipsy.” You’d never met Magnus, but Ben talked of him often enough that you felt you knew him just a little.

His handsome, weathered face took on a softer look, and he smiled at the sound of his boyfriend’s name and pushed himself to his feet as well. “Aye, he always knows how to cheer me up, that’s for sure, despite being the grumpiest, most miserable-looking son of the sea I ever met.”

Ben's stories of the hidden folk of his island heritage haunted you all the journey south for some reason. Images of the tall, stern, shapeshifting and sorcerous finmen, and the soft and kindly selkies, mermaids, and mischievous trows who dwelled in the barrows and the secret places in the earth brought to mind your own childhood experience in the wood, and your thoughts turned yet again to the creature you had come to call Badger.

The following day, as the tyres of your hire car finally crunched over the gravelly tarmac outside the lime-washed, 18th century roadside inn that you recognised from all those years ago, you bit back a yawn. It was just after half four in the afternoon, and the light was still pretty good, so after checking in, dumping your bags in your room, and changing into walking clothes, you set off up the trail towards Wistman’s Woods to stretch your legs after a long day of travelling.

The air was clear, and no mist hung between the trees that evening, but otherwise, nothing felt like it had changed. The woods slept on like King Arthur’s knights, and you stepped reverently over the rocks, placing your palms carefully so as not to crush any snails or other creatures lurking in the spongy, verdant plant life. Tourists and social media had done irrevocable damage to ecologically sacred places like this the country over, but so far it seemed to have escaped the worst of it. Slowly and without haste, you wove your way into the heart of the small oak copse that clung to the line of the little river below.

Small birds flitted here and there among the branches, and the air smelled thick and wet with the coming autumn. You expected to find mushrooms popping their bonnets up from the grass as you passed, and out of the corner of your eye you almost imagined the tiny forms of fairies flying around, but when you turned more than once to look, it was only the dancing clouds of gnats that caught the last rays of sunlight.

Eventually, after rambling around for a while, you found the circle of stones and came to a halt outside it. In the interceding years between that night and the present, you had immersed yourself in folklore as much as you had wildlife conservation, and you stared at the stones in wonder. If the fairytales were to be believed, you had been lucky to have survived your encounter at all, let alone with the freely-given help of a supernatural creature.

The golden light of the dying day flashed along the dewy moss that adorned the spiral stone and your breath caught.

“Were you even real?” you breathed into the silence. “Would you even remember that one lost child all these years later?”

You sat down cross-legged — outside the stone circle this time — and rested your weight back on your hands behind you, face tilted to the twisting canopy of vibrant, shivering oak leaves overhead. It was chilly, but not unpleasantly so, and the moss beneath you was once again as warm as a summer’s afternoon.

After only a few minutes, all the birdsong fell quiet, the sun dipped below the hill, and twilight descended on the woods in the blink of an eye.

With the new chill came a tangible stillness to the woods, like everything was holding its breath until morning, and you felt the back of your neck prickle. Freezing in place for a moment, you strained your ears until finally you heard the faintest shifting in the ferns behind you.

Twitching around, you found a tall, gangling creature standing perhaps three or four yards away, no longer with a badger’s skull, but adorned with what looked like the ancient skull of a red deer stag.

Its large, forking antlers stretched up and away from the head in perfect symmetry, and across the darkly-stained bone of the old skull itself were engraved tiny runes. The creature looked emaciated and it hunched over at the shoulders in order to fit into the space between the twisted branches of the oaks on either side, and its lanky arms dangled down well past its hips. Its left arm seemed entirely made up of interconnected sections of wood and bark, adorned at the shoulder like a pauldron with moss and at the elbow with small rocks like ball bearings, and the limb ended in three long, pale, root-like talons like a thumb and two fingers.

The right arm though had a much more human-like quality to it, with a human hand covered in that dark, tannin-stained skin, and the bark coverings seemed more like armour than anything else. Their collarbones seemed to show human skin beneath the patches of bark and wood and moss on their torso, though the colour and texture was like that of skin from ancient bog bodies — dark and leathery looking — and the muscles of their neck were sinuous and withered until it vanished behind the deer mask.

From their shoulders hung a great, woven cloak with moss and lichen and spiderwebs blending seamlessly into soft, dark green wool, and it was held in place by carved and engraved, triangular brooches that seemed to have been made from deer scapulae. Their long, mossy, tree-like legs ended in roots instead of toes. Around their narrow hips, they wore an animal skin loincloth, and at their side hung a carved wooden cup or bowl on a twisted vine cord.

You stared a long time before swallowing thickly. “Is it you?” you whispered at last. “Are you the one who saved me all those years ago?”

Slowly, the creature inclined their head. “You… remembered me?” Their voice was much deeper now, but just as rough and scraping, and they sounded astonished.

“How could I forget you?” you laughed, all apprehension draining away as you scrabbled to your feet.

In a sudden rush of wild elation, you ran towards them and without hesitation flung your arms around that skinny, bony waist and squeezed.

A low, earthy laugh rumbled from the creature and they enveloped you in those strange arms, hoisting you right up off the ground and hugging you tightly to their chest. “I felt sure you’d forget about me,” they mumbled.

“I made you a promise,” you said, wheezing as their grip got somehow even tighter. “Oof, you got bigger!”

The strange creature laughed a little harder and set you down carefully. “So did you,” they said. “Why did you come back now?”

Their voice had an otherworldly note to it, like a high harmonic in a cathedral, and it made your whole body reverberate with the sound of it.

Clearing your throat, you said, “I had some holiday time to use up and… it’s been too long. My friend from work, Ben, he’s been talking a lot lately about selkies and the fae-folk from where he lives, and it made me think of you. I had to see if you really were… real.” You looked up into their face and tilted your head a little. “You outgrew the badger skull, I see.”

A snort of laughter sounded from behind the deer skull, which made you more certain than ever that it was a mask and not a part of them, and they nodded. “A long time ago. This one belonged to my mother.”

“Your mother was a deer?”

Again, the creature laughed delightedly and it sounded like a small rockfall tumbling down a cliff side. “No, my mother was a spirit of these lands. A creature with the face and heart of a beautiful woman, and a hollow, rotting back and the tail of an ox from behind.”

You tried not to grimace at the strange imagery.

“She loved my father, who was a mortal man and who loved her all his life. They were mated, and when he died, she…” they shook their head. “She stopped wanting to live and… returned to the forest, leaving only her memory and her mask behind for me. It had been her father’s before it was hers.” They looked to one side and brought their root-like left hand up to touch the twisting trunk of a nearby oak. “She is still here, in a way. In the way that all who have gone before are remembered here by the forest.” They paused and added ruefully, “As I shall be, one day, I suppose.”

They sighed, a sound like the wind through the leaves above, and looked down at you.

“What… are you then?” you asked.

For a moment, the creature’s chest rose and fell without words. Eventually, they said in their harsh, broken-boulder voice, “I am… a guardian, I suppose. My kind are known by many names across the world: leshy, green men, dryads and hamadryads, lares, Sylvanus, woodwose…” they shrugged. “But I am only a half-breed,” they added with a wry chuckle.

Completely fascinated, you asked, “Do you have a name?”

That again gave the creature pause. “Yes,” they said after a while. “But not as you would understand it.”

You frowned.

“I am named the way a river gully is named, or a wild animal, or one of the high tors is named. Not… Not like a human with a single word.”

“You’re right… I don’t understand,” you breathed, still frowning.

“Here, let me show you,” they said, and they reached out that dendroidal left hand towards your temple. You shrank away instinctively but they shook their head. “I did not hurt you before and I will not hurt you now.”

“Sorry.”

With a slow incline of their head, they tried again. This time when their fingertips touched your temple, you did not flinch, and an image filled your mind. After only a second, it became apparent that it was not an image but an experience.

It centred on the stones of the circle behind you, illuminated as they had been only a few minutes earlier at sunset. Pure, radiant, golden light streamed down and, like stained glass, lit up the moss and lichen that rose a few inches from the stone’s surface. Midges danced in the air above the stone and a drop of dew beaded at the tip of one of the fronds, sparkling for just a second before it rolled down and soaked into the moss. You tasted fresh-fallen rain on your tongue and smelled the earthy, green scent of moss, and the last rays of the day warmed your skin. This was who this creature was. He, you realised. The creature was male.

He let go of you and you gasped, swaying on the spot as the colour and warmth of the vision receded into the grey-blue of dusk.

You blinked. “All that in one name?” you croaked, and he laughed. “And here I’ve been calling you Badger all these years.”

“Badger,” he repeated. “For the mask?”

“Mmm.”

“I like it,” he said. “They’re cheeky and resourceful creatures. It’s quite the compliment.”

You twitched your eyebrows upwards. “Well, at least it’s not been an insult. One more question?”

“Doesn’t have to be your last,” he said, clearly amused. “Ask away.”

“Are you responsible for this mark?”

You turned and exposed your neck to him, and he hummed softly. It sounded like a tree stretching.

Again he reached for you, towering from his seven foot height, but to your surprise, he eased himself down onto one knee as he traced the soft, warm fingertip of his human hand over the mark. “Yes,” he said in a tiny voice. “I didn’t mean to mark you, but I’m glad I did.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked down sharply, almost catching you with one of the prongs of his antlers, and a little, bitter laugh escaped him. “I wanted to keep you safe, but I was only a child too when we met. I didn’t know how to control the magic in me — the magic of these woods — and I didn't know what I was doing. That symbol will mark you out to all the supernatural as someone… loved.”

You smiled and pitched forwards to hug him again. “Thank you. My whole life, whenever I’ve felt lonely or afraid, I’ve touched it and it’s like…” you sighed, unsure how to describe it. Brushing your fingers over it again, you went on, “It feels like it did when you covered me with moss and kept me warm.”

He shivered. “With you so close, I can feel when you touch it,” he said.

His arms encircled you slowly and he drew you close. He smelled like autumn — like misty sunrises with dewy grass and glittering spider webs — and you nuzzled your cheek against the side of his head. The mask moved a little by accident and he tensed.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“Do not be,” he said, leaning back a little way without fully letting go of you. He did readjust the mask though. “How long are you here for?”

“Two weeks,” you said as you stepped back to look at him properly. “I planned to go walking on the moors, as well as visiting here again to see if you really were real.”

Before he could answer, a shadow moved behind him and your eyes went wide at the sight of a colossal dog with blood red eyes. You took an uncertain half-step back and Badger turned to look over his shoulder.

The animal — spirit? — stepped carefully over the mossy stones and made its way down to sit silently beside the two of you, regarding you curiously.

“This is… Whisper,” he said, reaching his hand out as the massive dog butted its head up into his palm. “She is the leader of my pack of Wisht Hounds. She’s curious about you.”

“Hi. She’s… beautiful,” you said, realising it was true. The way the shadows rippled through her long, smoky black coat was mesmerising. She looked like a large, pitch-black German Shepherd, though she was slightly rangier and longer legged, and her swishing tail seemed to end in a wisp of smoke. She was also the size of a small pony.

Whisper seemed to like being called beautiful because she rose and padded close, sniffing at your hand and then barging her cold nose into it for some strokes. Her red eyes burned like embers, but she didn’t seem in the least bit frightening now. Her fur was softer than anything you’d ever touched, and the animal made small, happy little noises in her throat as her ears and chin were showered with attention.

“I bet you can be really scary when you need to be,” you said carefully, “But you’re also incredibly sweet…”

Badger laughed and stood up, creaking and cracking like an old tree in a high wind.

“That sounded… painful?”

He laughed and shook his head. “No, not really. My body is a little… dramatic, that’s all,” he said, curling his left hand up for emphasis. As the talons of his hand closed, they made a soft creaking noise.

You shivered as a breeze cold snuck in down the back of your jacket and you straightened up, much to Whisper’s disgruntlement. The spectral hound turned away, nosed a farewell into Badger’s hand too, and then trotted off, melting into the gathering night like a fading memory.

“She’s going to patrol the wood,” he said. “I’m glad you met her. I remember that you were afraid of the idea of them first time we met.”

“Well, I didn’t have anything other than the ghost stories our teacher told us on the bus back then,” you snorted. Your stomach rumbled audibly and you pulled a face. “I’m exhausted. I came down from Scotland today, and I haven’t eaten since this morning. I should get going, but can I come back tomorrow?”

He nodded. “I would love that. The woods have seen more people than usual of late,” he sighed. “People trampling it and breaking off moss and branches and taking acorns away, but it gets quiet in the afternoons. I can remain hidden if necessary though.”

You nodded and sighed as you looked up into the empty eye sockets of the deer’s skull mask. “I’m so glad I met you again,” you said. “After all this time.”

“So am I,” he said with a slight bow. “I will walk you to the edge of the woods, if I may?”

“Sure, thank you.”

The only sounds when he moved were the gentle breathing of the woods themselves and the slight creak of bark and the whisper of wind through the leaves. You felt loud and clumsy and out of place in comparison.

At the edge of the trees, Badger stopped and looked out at the moorland beyond. Bracken whispered in the breezes that didn’t really seem to touch the small oak copse behind you, and the air seemed colder and fresher and somehow thinner out there.

You turned and looked up at him. “See you tomorrow,” you said, and touched the oak leaf on your neck.

He shuddered, and then whickered a low laugh. “Tomorrow.”

He watched you go, and as you rounded a turn in the path, you glanced back to find him still standing there, just barely visible between the gnarled trees. He almost looked like one of them, with his bark-and-moss body and his antlers, but you could see him distinctly enough. Around the edge of the copse, further up the rolling, stony hillside, three black shapes careered over the fieldstones and crumbling remains of a wall: Wisht Hounds.

Raising your arm in a final wave, you laughed when he did the same and then turned to melt into the shadows of his oak wood once again.

___

Hope you enjoyed badger! Any guesses about Ben and Magnus? Want to see part two? Lemme know as always with reblogs to show your interest.

If you do happen to have a couple of bucks spare, you could always drop a tip on my Ko-fi, but reblogs are just as welcome and just as helpful! As always, I look forward to your reactions to this one. Take care of yourselves.