Nem awoke the following sunrise to the rustling of ferns outside the entrance of his den. It was little Arka, tumbling through the foliage as she pounced and swatted at the morning insects. His brows knitted, accustomed only to seeing the fox cub at night.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, but his words breezed her. She batted down a moth and held it captive beneath her tiny paw. "Arka, answer me. What are you doing?"

For the first time she looked up at him and her round, grey eyes aligned with his. She cocked her head. "T-There was a meeting," she answered, her voice high and weak. "Everyone wants you dead."

Nem had already braced himself for the news a long time ago. He'd accepted the day he'd flee for another land, forced to live a secret existence if he wanted to live one at all. For that moment he dared to reminisce the happier days with his old friends, though he no longer knew them, where they were or what form they now preferred. He savoured the times they'd hunted as a pack, or explored the skies as a migrating flock, or dove in schools in search of the ocean floor. But none of it mattered anymore – he'd been ostracised too long to rekindle any love lost between him and his fellow shape shifters.

He hung his head. "What do I do, Arka?"

"Isn't it simple?" she answered. Her eyes were bright with enthusiasm. "Change back. Change back to anything you ever wanted to be. It must be boring staying as you are. Say, don't you miss it?"

"I grew tired of changing all the time," he replied. "I've dedicated so many years of my life working out a means to free us of our single biggest flaw: Why must we change skins to suit our needs when one can suit them all? I will not change back." He slammed his fist into the mossy floor of his den. "I will not forfeit everything I am."

Arka sighed. "Then there is one other thing you can do," she said. "The cat and the wolf will anger if you hunt in the mountains or the plains. Those of the sea resent you for navigating their waters and the songbirds will flee elsewhere if you so much as near the forest. But there are solutions to be had before you make for another land."

"What are they?"

She leant in closer. "Come out from your den and I will tell you."

*

Some moons later, in the middle of the night, the shape shifters convened a second time.

"No threat to life!" snorted the stag. "No threat, the trees say. How can they ignore what that wretched creature is doing now?"

The alpha wolf sat nearby, biting back his rage. "Our way of life is to hunt or be hunted. It has been this way since I was born! He cannot be allowed to grow wheat fields on the plains my kind have roamed for millennia. It is not his to cultivate!"

Again, the cat sat proud upon a rock with a malicious glint in her amber eyes. "Not only must this creature outmanoeuvre me on the slopes, but he now reaps from the mountain itself, fashioning tools – sharp, pointed claws of stone that make him a danger to us all. At his discretion he has none of his own; he should not be permitted to take them from the land!"

"That's not all!" cried the seal. "He has been hunting without so much as gracing his victims with the chance to escape. My friends! I have seen it for myself! I spied him handling river reeds of the likes I never seen before, weaved together in a complex pattern of his own design. He uses them to trap the fish in the estuary and scoop them out alive."

The little songbird puffed out her feathers. "You know not the worst of it! This creature has devised something far more dangerous than fields of wheat, claws of stone or traps of reeds. He strips the trees of their bark and branches and summons fire in his den. Where will we build our nests if this menace sets them all alight?"

"He means to harm us!" hissed the cobra, ever restless in the grass. "I have seen the bright marks he paints upon his face. And make no mistake, my friends, he does not wish to camouflage himself. It is a threat if I ever saw one!"

"Foolish snake," chided the cat. "The arrogant beast only intends to mimic the magnificence of the patterned coat he forfeited for his naked skin; no more, no less."

"Enough," the she-bear interjected, raising her giant paw. "His form and his practices may seem corrupt to us, but he is no danger to our survival. We should not overreact."

From the deep tremors of the earth rose the eerie tongue of the trees. "You are wrong, she-bear," they said. "Far wrong. When a creature consumes the resources of another, he is indeed a threat to the balance of the planet we have striven so hard to preserve."

Uproar followed and the shape shifters vehemently expressed their agreement with the forest. The trees were fair and wise, and, most certainly, the creature that called himself Nem was not permitted to threaten the wellbeing of others, be it with fire, stone claws or a painted face. It was only the she-bear who refused to hear any more of the hateful discussion that followed, and she wandered off alone, thoroughly dispirited, back to her cave.

Once again as Nem slept for the night, Arka tussled with her imaginary enemies outside his den. She squeaked with delight beneath the moon and stayed there until the sun came up. Nem woke to find her staring at him.

"Your friends still want you dead," Arka told him before Nem had even rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Even the trees would rejoice at your demise."

Nem frowned. "Then I don't understand," he grumbled, mostly to himself. "I did everything you advised. I showed them how easy my life is living in this skin – even how beautifully I can adorn it – but they still do not realise? Do you suppose they choose not to see the ingenuity of what I am?"

"It's the she-bear." Arka's voice dropped to a whisper. "The she-bear does not speak well of you, and it is her envy that drives the others to misjudge you. There is but one thing left you can do to win over our fellows and appease the forest."

"What is it?"

Arka nodded to him. "Come out from your den and I will tell you."