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About twenty miles up Route 226-C a driver with a bit of intrigue in his soul might take a sharp right onto the offramp marked "Exit 24: Farmington, Juster." This driver -- probably a middle-aged male with his wife and two kids in tow, masking his adventurousness as a stubborn refusal to ask for directions -- would take a right at the stopsign onto State Road 7, locally known as the Bridgefield-Juster Road.

He would pass through miles of cornfields reclaimed from swampy marshlands. No doubt he would glory in the ingenuity of man as his wife repeatedly inquires if he really knows where he is headed. The children, fortunately, are too engrossed in their Game Boys and PSPs to care about their surroundings. Ignoring his spouse's pointed comments regarding his ability to properly emote, he would reach the top of Gordon Hill within an hour and there he would see, spread from horizon to horizon, the midwestern metropolis known as Juster.

Our driver, as has been noted, is the adventurous sort so rather than take the well-laid road to comfort and safety (as the missus is now imploring him to do) he finds a little-used side road that takes him well to the west of Juster's smoggy bustle. He follows this road -- the surface of which alternates at unnerving intervals between blacktop and rocky dirt -- for eight miles, fording the narrow Dabascoba River at about the three-mile mark. At the end of this trail he comes at last upon the sort of civilization he craves: a bucolic, New-England-style hamlet lost within the rolling plains of Middle America. The sign by the side of the road beckons invitingly:

WELCOME TO MIDGEVILLE
We know you'll enjoy your stay!

Even Wifey can't help but be impressed. She and the kids (whose game batteries wore out ten minutes before) ooh and aah as their car rambles down the wide main road past old-time concession stands, family-run eateries, picket fence houses. Everywhere they look their eyes meet those of friends: bright smiles, jaunty waves and vociferous greetings are the order of the day.

But then they reach the very edge of town and things subtly change. The road circles around a large and deep lake. Fed by the waters of the Danascoba, it is known as Lake Kalonagiga, or "Raven's Blood" in the language of the land's first settlers. There are no houses or resturaunts here. There are no boats or fisherman or splashing children. The untamed woodlands at the far end of the lake seems less a verdant grove than the inpenetrable lair of some ancient and malevolant forest god. The occupants of the car have grown deadly silent. They know without knowing that this place is not for them. Our driver grimly swings around the lake, turns back onto the main drag and putters off to the now quite inviting urban sprawl of Juster.

The townsfolk that watch them depart shrug their shoulders passively. To a person, their thoughts are the same: Too bad, but it's their loss. And then they go back into their happy homes and get ready for another day of work beneath the lake.