The Word for World is Forest (Hainish Cycle, #5)

by Ursula K. Le Guin

He had feared that he was cut off from his roots, that he had gone too far into the dead land of action ever to find his way back to the springs of reality.

The bird, a little farther off, said, “Whet-whet?” experimentally.

A small, fat boy ran through the birch grove, pursued by a slightly larger sister, both shrieking in tiny voices like bats. The boy fell down and cried, the girl stood him up and scrubbed his tears off with a large leaf. They scuttled off into the forest hand in hand.

They have left their roots behind them, perhaps, in this other forest from which they came, this forest with no trees. So they take poison to let loose the dreams in them, but it only makes them drunk or sick.

Cetians died eagerly, curious as to what came next.