298,805 BCE – 298,685 BCE | Episodes 241–264

The two elders approached.

The one turned. Nothing moved across the face. Before there was time to sense danger, the two had taken their place on either side. Shoulders were seized. The grip was strong. There was no interval in which to resist.

Evening came.

Where the one had stood, the grass had been pressed flat. By morning, it had not risen again.

The prey had been missed.

The spear was thrown. The angle was wrong. It grazed the animal's flank, and the animal ran. The one went to retrieve the spear. There was a little blood on it. The animal's blood. It was tasted. It had the flavor of salt.

On the way back, the one passed before the rock.

Why the one stopped, the one could not say. The feet simply stopped there.

The face of the rock was faintly warm. Different from the other stones. A hand was pressed against it. Lifted. Pressed again.

Crouching down, the one looked at the base of the rock. The earth was slightly raised. Fingers worked through the soil. It was damp. The surrounding ground was dry, yet here alone the earth held moisture.

Digging began.

When the arm had gone in halfway to the elbow, something cool was felt. Not water. Something solid. A root. A thick root running sideways through the deep earth.

The one withdrew the hand.

The soil was returned to the hole. Why it was returned, even the one did not know.

Rising, the one looked up at the sky.

Then walked back in the direction of the group. Nothing was said. There were no words for it. There was only walking.

That night, a dispute arose within the group. Not over food. Over place. Two of the younger ones sought the same spot near the fire at the same moment. A low sound rose. Bodies collided. One of the older ones stepped between them. It settled.

The one watched from a distance.

Sitting with the right knee drawn close.

The one remembered the direction the grass had fallen.

Three days ago, when one among the group was found lying at the edge of the grassland, all the grass had been pointing the same way. There were no footprints. No trace of blood. Simply lying there.

The one stood still for a long time, looking at the body.

No one came near.

When the one took a step forward, a low growl came from behind. A sound that said: do not approach. The voice of an elder. The one stopped.

For two days after that, the one walked at the edge of the group. Drawing near brought growls. Moving away brought silence. Wherever the one seemed to be going, someone was always watching.

At night, the one lay down a little apart from the fire. The sky held no clouds, and the wind was faint. The feel of rock pressed into the back.

The one looked at the palm of a hand. Too dark to see.

The next morning, the one tried to rise and could not.

From the waist down, everything felt heavy. Heavy was not quite the word — more that the connection was gone. As though the legs had become earth.

The one turned onto one side and looked at the base of the grass. The roots were thin, driven deep into the ground. Fingers closed on the soil. It crumbled.

The group moved on.

Footsteps grew distant. The smell of fire faded.

The one was still holding the grass.

The sky turned pale, then red, then blue.

When the sun had climbed high, someone came back. Young, with arms still thin. That one looked at the one's face. The one said nothing. The young one said nothing either.

Crouching down, the young one touched the one's feet.

The one did not growl.

The young one remained there for a while. Then stood, and walked in the direction the group had gone.

The one let go of the grass.

The wind came. The grass stirred. The stirring ceased.

The ground beneath their feet was warm.

Not the earth itself — or rather, yes, the earth — but more precisely: the warmth that lingers in grass after it has been trodden.

The one crouched down. Touched the grass with their hand. It was warm to the touch as well. They stood and looked around.

No one there.

There was a scent. Not one they recognized.

They did not run. They did not flee. They simply stood there for a time, waiting for the scent to thin.

From the night of the day the smoke was seen, there had been hunger.

The others of the group huddled deep in the cave. Three adult males crouched near the fire, exchanging low sounds. Growls layered and fell, hands struck the air. The one sat with its back against the wall, knees drawn up. It had been given a place far from the fire.

Morning came.

The adults headed not toward the grassland but up the hill. The one did not follow. There had been a growl meaning do not come. Whether it truly meant that was unclear, but an adult male had turned back, their eyes had met, and the feet had stopped.

Those left at the cave entrance were the one, an aged female, and four young.

The aged female was scraping dried hide. Using the edge of a stone, in one direction, again and again. The one watched. Watching, it reached down and picked up a small stone from near its feet. Not flat. Thin on one side, thick on the other. It traced the edge with the pad of its thumb.

It did not think: this could cut.

The fingers simply stopped.

The aged female glanced sideways at the one. Said nothing. Began scraping the hide again. The one, still holding the stone, moved its arm in the same way. Against nothing. Through air. The same direction, the same angle.

One of the young came close. Reached out a hand. The stone was taken.

The one did not take it back.

The young put the stone in its mouth, took it out, and threw it. A dry sound rolled across the ground and was gone.

The one stood and went outside the cave.

It looked in the direction where the smoke had been. The smoke was gone. The sky was thin and white, so hazy the horizon could not be made out. The wind had stopped again. The grass was still.

The one sat down on the ground.

It placed both hands on its knees. It was returning to the angle of scraping hide. No — it did not know the word returning. Only its arm was trying to make the same motion again. There was no stone in its hand.

It stood, went back, and searched for the stone the young had thrown. It was not there at first. Hidden somewhere in the grass. It walked through the grass looking. Found it.

Picked it up.

Moved its arm again. This time against the ground. The stone scraped the earth. A sound came. Dry, brief.

It did it again.

The same sound.

Before midday the adult males returned. They were carrying something. A mass covered in fur. The smell of blood arrived first. The one stood, stepped forward once, then stopped.

The adults' eyes did not turn toward it.

The one stood a little apart, stone still in its grip, watching the hands that worked at the mass. Each time the stone blade moved, red spread outward. The stone in the one's hand could not become a blade. The shape was wrong.

Still, it did not let go.

Evening came.

The meat was divided. The one's portion was thin. Close to the bone, heavy with sinew. Even so it received it. Put it in its mouth. It was tough. The jaw grew tired. It swallowed.

The aged female came and sat nearby. Said nothing. Looked at the stone in the one's hand. Reached out and touched it. Traced the edge with a fingertip.

The same thing.

The one watched. Watched, and something moved deep in its chest. Not pain. Not hunger.

Perhaps it was the moment it sensed that something was the same.

It had no words. So there was nothing it could do. Only this: between the one and the aged female, the stone between them, for a short while, their hands were touching.

Before dawn, the stomach spoke.

Yesterday, and the day before, what was eaten came from what the adults of the group had left behind. Fibres clinging to bone, the cores of fruit, insects found on the undersides of leaves. When crushed between the teeth, they were bitter. They were swallowed anyway.

At dawn, the one stepped outside.

Walked to the edge of the cliff. Every morning, the same walk. That was as far as one was permitted to go. Those who joined the hunts descended beyond the cliff. The one had never gone down. Standing at the edge, looking across to the other side — that was all.

That morning, light fell at the tips of the feet.

As the sun began to rise from behind the rocks, it caught the very edge of the cliff — right at the toes. Without thinking, the one looked down.

Below, there were shadows.

Moving. Two, three. The way they carried themselves was different from the way the one's own group moved. Shorter strides. Arms that swung more widely. They passed quietly between the stones and boulders.

The one drew a breath.

Turned.

Looked toward the cave. Go back? Call out?

Went back.

Did not run. Running would be seen. Walked instead. Careful not to step on stones. Breathing out slowly. When the entrance to the cave was reached, the interior was still filled with the sounds of sleep.

The one pressed back against the wall.

Did not pull the knees in close.

Simply stood, and counted the breaths. One, two, three. There was no concept of number, but through the rhythm of exhaling and inhaling, the one did not move.

The shadows that had moved below the cliff remained behind the eyes.

The adult males slept.

The one said nothing. There were no words to say it with. There was no way to turn those shadows into sound.

Morning came. The female who kept the fire rose and added dry branches. Smoke spread across the ceiling. The one watched the smoke.

It did not disappear.

It dissolved into the light outside.

The rains returned.

The highland soil received the water, and the white dust that had covered it turned to mud. The cracks closed. Grass came up. Insects arrived the moment it did, and birds came after the insects. The chain moved fast and rough, and no one carried any memory of the ground that had split open five years before.

The one was at the edge of the group.

Walking through the grass, watching the impressions left behind. Some places held the shape of a foot, others did not. The damp hollows kept the mark clearly. The rocky spine of the ridge held nothing. The one watched this for a long time. Whether it meant anything was not considered. There was only the watching.

In the forests closer to the equator, those who lived in the canopy were on the move.

A different kind. Heavy-bodied, with wide jaws and low voices. They lived along the eastern rim of the same highlands. One water source was shared between the two. In the dry season, both came. In the wet season, both withdrew. For five years this had repeated. But this year the rains were late. Both came to the water at the same time.

The one saw their shadow at the water's edge.

Ten paces, perhaps. The one did not move. Neither did they. Two shadows lay across the surface of the water. The wind came, and the water moved, and the shadows came apart. They moved first. Slowly, and then they were gone among the trees.

The one drank.

While drinking, the one held in mind the shape of that shadow, before the water had moved. Something remained. Inside the body, in a way that could not be explained.

It was around that time that tension rose within the group.

An older male roared at a younger one. Not at the one — at another young male. He was pressed to the ground, his arms pinned, and after a time of low growling his body went slack. He was not driven out. But something had been decided. A boundary of a kind, drawn in voice and weight.

The one watched from a distance.

Picked up a stone. Tested its weight. Set it down. Picked it up again. Placed it beside another stone. The sizes were different. The shapes were different. After arranging them, set them down again. There was no knowing what had been wanted. Only the hands had moved.

In the year the wet season ended, the older male died.

He lost his footing on a path along a cliff and fell between the rocks. A sound went up, and several ran to him. They gathered around the body that no longer moved, and for a time no one moved either. The one looked too. The growing cold of the body came in on the wind.

The shape of the group changed.

No one decided it in words. But by the next morning, those who would go and those who would stay had become two separate things. The one was among those who would go. It had simply become so, without noticing.

The movement toward a new place began.

The smoke reached the eyes.

The fire burned at the center of the group, and smoke always rose upward. Today was different. It moved sideways, and settled against the face. The eyes began to ache, and the body tilted away.

There, two males came into view.

One was large; the other was small. The reason for their shoving was not visible. A piece of dried meat had fallen nearby. The larger one placed a foot over it and knocked the smaller one's hand aside. The smaller one reached out twice, was pushed away twice, and then withdrew.

The one watched.

The size of the bodies. The way the foot came down. The way the hand was knocked aside. Only these things were watched. No syllables came from the mouth. Something that could not become voice sat at the back of the throat, and was swallowed.

The smaller male went and sat at the edge of the group.

The one was also at the edge. Always there. When the hunting males set out, the one rose a little late, and returned a little late. Fast running was possible. Heavy things could be carried. Even so, there was no place at the front.

Toward evening, two children ran about. They fell and cried. The crying stopped.

At night, the fire shrank.

It was the one who brought the firewood. No one had asked. The one set down the wood and watched the fire grow. The hands grew a little warm. That was all. The place returned to was the edge.

The mud swallowed both ankles.

Each step pulled free with a sound — a wet, sucking sound. The one did not leave the riverbank, but laid dead branches underfoot again. After rain it was like this for days. The adults gathered around a fire on dry ground above the bluffs, but the one did not go to them. It was not that going was impossible. The one simply did not go.

Animals came to the water's edge.

Small prints, large prints, the shape of claws, the hollow of a hoof. The one looked at these things. Looked, and remembered. To what end was unclear. Only looked.

On the far bank, there was another shadow.

Neither large nor small — a male, most likely. The fur was thick, the brow low. It was watching. The one watched back. Neither moved. The river made its sound.

The one picked up a stone.

Did not throw it. Stood there holding it. The shadow across the water tilted its head slightly, then lowered its face to the river and drank. That was all. When it finished it disappeared into the brush.

The one set the stone down.

Not because the reason for holding it had grown unclear. Only set it down.

Returning to the settlement, something was happening around the fire.

The voices were loud. Not growls — something sharper. The sound of several males pressing against one another. The one drew closer. At the center of the ring stood an old male. He was upright, but his body listed to one side. Whether he had been shoved or had always leaned that way, the one could not tell.

A large male seized the old male by the arm.

The old male could not shake free.

The one began to make a sound and did not.

The following morning the old male was outside the settlement. Alone. He had no food. The one held out a strip of dried meat. The old male took it. Their eyes met. There was nothing in it. Only the taking.

From that night on, the one slept in a slightly different place.

Not farther from the fire — farther from the large males. It was a small difference, but a real one. The distance widened a little with each passing day.

No one paid attention.

One morning the one woke to find three others nearby. The old male, a thin young female, and one whose arm had healed crooked. All of them had been set aside in some way. Each had their own reason for being at the edge.

The one said nothing. There were no sounds for what needed saying.

Only sat there.

Over the course of five years, the gathering slowly changed its shape. They came to know one another's movements. Who went where, what each one brought back. Without voices, somehow they understood. Or felt that they did.

But one night, one of the large males approached.

He had not come alone.

The one stood up.

By the time morning came, the one was gone. All that remained in the place at the edge was a hollow pressed into the earth — the kind of hollow a single rain would erase. The old male looked at it. Stood there for a time. Then walked away.

The hollow lasted one day.

The one walked along the outer edge of the group.

Three elder males sat close to the fire. The one did not approach. To approach was to be met with growling. To be growled at was to retreat. This had gone on for as long as could be remembered.

There was no place in the hunt. Carrying loads was permitted. After carrying heavy things, a little meat was given. Only a little.

The nose caught something.

The one stopped.

Smoke. But not the smoke of burning wood. Something was different. What was different did not come. Something beneath the chest tightened slightly. Before the foot could take the next step, it paused for a moment.

The one stood still for a time.

Then walked on.

Toward evening, the one returned among the group. Children had gathered near the fire. The old female made a short sound. Someone made a sound like laughter. The one sat just outside that circle, and drew the knees close.

Night came.

Stars appeared. The one did not look at the sky. A hand moved slowly over the grass on the ground. Each time the hand touched a blade of grass, it would spring back. The hand touched again. It sprang back again.

Something remained at the bottom of the chest.

It was not the smell of smoke. It was something more like an emptiness — what is left after the smell is gone.

The one had no word to hold it with.

Without being able to hold it, the one lay down.

In the darkness, eyes remained open.

Sitting in the corner of a rocky outcrop, chewing dried fruit.

It was hard. When pressed between the back teeth, fibers caught between them. The one reached up to pull them free, then stopped.

A low sound came from somewhere distant. A voice unlike any in their own group.

The one stood and looked toward the sound. But the rocks were in the way, and there was nothing to see.

Sat back down. Chewed the fruit again.

At the edge of the plateau, the rain had stopped.

Light breaking through a tear in the clouds fell across the wide valley below the cliffs. To the south, three thin columns of smoke rose from another group's fires. Close. Closer than before. Last year, and the year before that, the smoke had been beyond the horizon.

The one sat at the cliff's edge. Legs stretched out, a small stone held between the fingers. Rolling it, dropping it, picking it up again.

On the grassland below, the adults were moving. They were trying to drive a few animals into a corner. The one did not look their way. The eyes stayed on the smoke.

The reason the southern group had been drawing closer — this was something the plateau's people turned over in grunts and gestures of the arm. No food, the old male expressed with his whole body. Looking for food, another said. But the discussion reached no conclusion. The words needed to reach one did not yet exist.

Into the one's ears came the sound of grass shifting at the base of the cliff.

It was not the movement of animals. The sound of many feet pressing through grass. Directional. Purposeful. The one rose and leaned out over the cliff's edge to look. At the far edge of the grassland were three unfamiliar faces.

All three were looking up.

The one made a sound. Low, and long. Not a warning to the group — simply a sound. Why, the one could not say. It had come from somewhere deep in the belly.

The adults turned. The old male came running. He looked at the cliff's edge, then at the grassland below, and let out a short, sharp sound. The younger males gathered. Some came holding tools.

The one was pushed to the back of the group.

The three from the south disappeared into the grass. No one followed. That night, a long discussion circled around the fire. The one sat outside the ring, watching the darkness in the distance. The smoke was gone now — night swallows smoke. But by morning it would rise again.

Over the following five years, the southern group came three times.

The first time, there were three of them. The second time, seven. Stones were thrown back and forth, and someone fell from the cliff. From where the one had watched, at a distance, there was no way to tell which side had lost them. The third time ended with only voices. A great cry rang through the valley, and this group cried back, and that was the end of it.

All three times, the one had noticed first.

Sitting at the cliff's edge, watching the way the grass moved. Knowing the brief stillness of the grass in the moment before the wind changed direction — whether that stillness was the grass's own doing, or the forewarning of approaching footsteps, the one had no words for. But the body knew.

The old male died one year after the third encounter.

He coughed violently through the night, and by dawn the coughing had stopped. It was not peaceful. He had made sound until the very end. The one had not been sitting beside him. The one had been on a rock further off, watching to see whether any smoke was rising.

By morning, the one noticed the old male was no longer moving.

The one drew near. Looked at his face. He had set rigid with his eyes open. The one picked up a stone and placed it in his hand. Why, the one could not say. It was simply placed.

Through that night and into the next morning, the stone remained in his hand.

On the edge of the cliff, the one lay prone.

The grass was damp beneath the belly. Elbows pressed into the earth, eyes looking down. Water ran along the valley floor. On the far slope, another group moved. Numbers could be made out. Many.

The one let out a low rumble from the back of the throat.

Behind, the males of the group lay prone in the same way, watching the valley. No one stood. Stand and you are seen. Be seen and they come. The body knew this.

The other group was moving. Some descended toward the water. Some carried children. There were old ones among them. The one had no act called counting, but the body measured more and less. *Many*, the throat answered.

Last year, the smoke had been distant. This year, people were in the valley itself.

The elder male of the group crawled back. The one followed. Dragging through the grass on the belly, moving away from the cliff's edge. The moment of standing upright, sweat ran down the back.

On the way home, someone gave a short bark. Not a threat — a confirmation. Everyone answered. The one too sent a sound out of the throat.

At night, they gathered around the fire. Everyone wore a face unlike their usual one. Few sounds were made. The children looked at the faces of the adults and stopped playing.

The one looked past the fire. Each time the flames shifted, the elder male's face moved between light and dark. What that man was thinking, the one could not tell.

Only this: the way those people had moved down into the valley would not leave the mind. They had carried children. They had drawn water. Something about them was the same as one's own.

The one rolled close to the fire and closed the eyes. Sleep did not come.

When had the knees stopped bending? The one could not say.

The one sat on the stone flat below the cliff. Had not moved since morning. The young ones had followed the tracks of an animal northward and vanished. The voices of the children had grown distant, then gone silent altogether.

Hands rested on the knees. The rough palms felt like something that might not belong to the one anymore.

There was no one older in the group. What that meant, the one had no words for. Only this: when the young males moved past, something left the body from the inside.

Tending the fire. That much was still possible.

Dry branches, broken one by one, laid along the fire's edge. The flame shrank, then steadied. The one watched. When the fire shifted, the shadows on the rock shifted with it. And when the shadows moved, something like the face of someone long dead would rise up — or perhaps it was not a face at all, but a smell.

Toward evening, one of the females brought a piece of uneaten meat. She set it down and left. The one watched her go. The hands did not move.

At night, the one lay down.

Rock pressed into the back. The hips shifted slightly. The rock did not move. The one stopped trying to move it.

The sky was clear. There were many stars.

For a while, the one was aware of the breath becoming shallow. Aware — or perhaps it was simply there. Shallow breath, and a heavy body, and the distant glow of the fire.

As the night deepened, the chest of the one ceased to rise.

No one noticed. Only the fire burned on.

The load is heavy.

The skin on their shoulder has been worn raw for some time, weeping without a cloth to catch it. They press a strip of hide against it, but it slips. The load slips again.

From the top of the cliff to the settlement below — carrying stones. Again and again. No one told them to. The larger ones did it, so the one does it too. That is all.

At twelve, they were given the fire-watch. Sitting before the fire through the night, feeding it with thin branches. Sleep was forbidden. Sleep meant it would go out. Going out meant a beating. The one let it go out once. They were beaten. After that, they did not sleep.

Now it is day. Someone else tends the fire. So the one carries stones.

On the fourth trip, their feet stopped.

They did not know why. Nothing had changed. They simply stopped.

It was the wind.

The wind coming off the edge of the cliff was warm from one direction only — not from the north, but tilted slightly west. The one did not set down the load. Still carrying it, they turned their face toward that direction.

The warmth was gone.

They shifted the load on their shoulder and descended the slope.

In the settlement, someone was pushing someone else. Arguments over shares of meat — some quarrel breaking out somewhere, every day. The one skirted the edge of it. Not their concern. They set down the load. Climbed back up to the cliff.

In the evening, they returned to the fire.

Sitting before the flames, the body grows heavy. The tiredness of the day settles in. They take a thin branch, snap it, and lay it at the edge of the fire. It burns slowly. The one watches the way it burns. Some things burn fast, some things burn slow. They think no further than that.

The night deepened.

The quarrel in the settlement found its voice. Shouting. Running feet. Then silence.

The one did not look up. They watched the fire.

Before lifting the load, a hand was pressed to the shoulder.
The skin was still hard. Dried blood had crusted there, and touching it made it feel ready to peel away.

That day's load was stone. Broken chunks of rock were packed into a rough bag woven from hemp fiber and shouldered. The weight settled onto the shoulder. The body tilted to keep it from pressing on the tender places, but with each step the load shifted.

From the top of the cliff to the bottom: three trips.

On the second trip, another man from the group drew close. He thrust out his chest and made a low sound. He pointed at the bag. The one said nothing, only lifted the bag slightly to show it. The man left.

By the third trip, darkness was beginning to fall.

On returning, there was no place near the fire. Small children and the men with wounds had gathered around it. The one leaned back against a rock a little apart. The ground was cold. There was hunger, but nothing to eat. No one threw anything over.

The fire was watched from a distance.
It swayed.

The one narrowed their eyes. The watching made sleep come. Sleep came.

The rainy season came to the southern ridge.

Three days of rain saturated the earth, and by the fourth day the narrow path along the slope had become a slide. Water seeped from between the rocks, dry hollows filled into ponds, and grass stretched up along the water's edge. It was the season when everything that had contracted in the dry months swelled all at once, as if released.

The one was hungry.

Since morning, there had been carrying to be done. Hides wrapped around animal bones, bundles of firewood stacked high. Up to the crest of the ridge, then back down, then up again. Mud clung to the knees. The arms trembled. The stomach made its sound.

Three groups watched one another's fires from a distance, and did not draw near.

In the night, the northern group raised a cry. The southern group answered. Those in the center were silent. The one belonged to the central group. There was not enough in the one to decode the meaning of those cries, but the body stiffened. Back pressed to the rock, motionless.

Morning came. No cries.

When the stiffness released, the stomach made its sound again. The stomach, again.

To the north of the first land, another group lay huddled in sleep. No fire. Bodies pressed together against the wind. What served them as language was three sounds only, drawn from deep in the throat. One for prey in sight. One for danger approaching. One to call to others in the night. That was enough to live by.

The one descended the slope to gather firewood.

On the wet ground lay a fallen tree, half-rotted. When a foot came down on it, the foot sank in, and something inside the wood gave way with a sound of crumbling. Hearing that sound, the one stopped. There was no reason for it. Simply stopped.

The side of the rotted wood had split open. White grubs lay densely packed within.

The one scooped them up with a hand and put them into the mouth. When chewed, fat seeped out. Another scoop. A third. The firewood was forgotten. The eating continued.

That year, one of the three groups moved on.

The northern group left the ridge and descended to the lowlands in the east. No one followed. Only one of the fires that had burned through the nights went dark. The one watched the direction of the extinguished fire for a while. What was being thought, there is no way to know. The jaw was moving. The stomach was full.

The following year, five children were born into the central group.

One did not survive the winter. The remaining four were crying by spring. The one disliked the sound of children's voices, and did not go near. But one night, keeping watch over the fire, one of the four reached out and touched the one's foot. The one did not push it away. Only stiffened.

In the span of five years, there was one act of violence.

Over the carcass of an animal. The central and southern groups came into contact, three were wounded, and one had lost all strength by the following morning. The one had been mid-slope with a load when the cries rang out, dropped everything, and fled. The load was never recovered.

By evening, another had struck the one.

The one held the arm that had been struck, went around to the back of a rock, and sat down. There was no crying. Just sitting.

The fire was nearly out.

Rain had come in the night, and the ends of the firewood had grown damp. In the morning, the one brought a face close to the ashes and breathed. Smoke rose. Breathed again. Fingers swept the ash aside to reveal something red still holding at the center. A thin branch was laid across it. It caught.

That was all it took, and the stomach made its sound.

Water was needed. The one took up the heavy hide bag, slung it over one shoulder, and went down the path along the slope. The rain the night before had gouged the trail, and the left foot slipped more than once.

The water source was reached. The water had risen. The current was fast. When the bag was pushed under, the current pulled it sideways. Both feet planted firm, the one hauled it up.

The way back, the load was heavy. Partway along, the bag was set down on a rock. A rest. Breathing. Then up again.

Returning to where the group stayed, the one found two children rolling near the fire. One was crying. The bag was set down, and the one sat beside the crying child. Nothing was done until the crying stopped.

It stopped. The one rose and laid a piece of firewood onto the fire.

He was tending the fire through the night.

The wood ran low, and he went out into the dark to gather more. When he returned, someone else was sitting in his place.

He didn't feel like driving them away. He found another stone to sit on and watched the fire.

He didn't really know why the group was so unsettled. He had been told, through growls and gestures, to stay away from the watering hole. He accepted it as the way things were. The fire was warm. That much he knew.

Carrying stones.

That was all the work had ever been. Heavy stones loaded onto the back, lighter ones cradled in both arms, set down wherever was needed. No one gave instructions aloud. A shift of the eyes, a turn of the hand — that was enough.

The dry season had gone on too long. The ground had cracked, tracing patterns not unlike the soles of the one's feet. The soles themselves had been split for a long time now. Something in the skin would not heal — not enough water, perhaps.

One morning, those at the edge of the group let out low, uneasy sounds.

On the far ridge, there were other shapes. Three, four unfamiliar silhouettes, differently built, their outlines strange. Archaic humans. Over the past few years, sightings in this region had grown more common. Whether they were coming down in search of water, or simply passing through, no one could say.

The one stood holding a stone, gazing into the distance.

An expression that gave nothing away — impossible to tell what was seen, or whether anything was seen at all.

At night, the one kept watch over the fire. The usual task. While the others slept, the one sat alone before the flames. Added wood. The fire swayed. Added more.

Then two came.

Not from another group — from within the same one. Two large-bodied figures who had been among those calling out at the ridge that afternoon.

The one stood up.

A stone may have been reached for. It may not have been.

The fire wavered. Someone's foot, perhaps, or a breath gone ragged.

The one's body fell away from the fire. The sound of a head meeting the ground traveled close to where the others slept, but no one woke.

The fire kept burning.

The two moved off.

The night continued.

The one did not meet the morning. A body, slightly cooled, lay in the grass. That was all it was.

Mud pushes through between the fingers.

Press, and it comes out. Pull back, and it returns. The one pressed again. Out it came again. At the edge of the water, in the shallows. Knees submerged, doing this over and over.

Something moved behind.

No turning around. It was not a loud sound. But the back of the body tensed. Low in the belly, something pulled tight. The one stopped pressing the mud.

Multiple footsteps. Close.

Not from the group. The way of walking was different. The way weight settled into the ground was slightly off from those who were known. The one could not have named this difference, but the rising of the hair on the neck was something the one understood.

The one withdrew both hands from the mud. Did not stand. Crouched lower, sinking down into the water.

Moved into the shadow of the reeds.

A sound came. Not a growl — something lower than that. Not like the sounds the one's group made. The resonance was different. The one did not know this in words, but knew it deep in the gut.

Two shadows fell across the surface of the water.

The one held their breath.

A long time passed. The shadows moved. Drew back. The footsteps thinned. Disappeared.

The one stayed still for a while longer. The water was cold. Below the knees, numbness was setting in. Still, the one did not move.

At last, from somewhere distant, a familiar sound — someone from the group. A voice that was known. The one stood. Stepped out of the water. Ran.

Mud was still caught between the fingers.

The river changed first.

Rain fell upstream for three days. The bedrock filled with water, the soil grew heavy, and the roots could no longer drink. The stones on the riverbed began to shift, and the current changed color. Churning brown water cut into the banks, and the shallows disappeared.

The one was on the cliff. Watching the water catch the light. Could see farther than usual.

The water had come from the sea.

Far offshore, the ground had moved. The movement passed into the water and became a wave. The wave was high and wide, and it moved toward land. Those who lived in the lowlands of the first world knew nothing until the water arrived. Where the smoke of cooking fires rose, a brown wall came. The smoke was gone in an instant.

The cliff where the one stood was high. The water did not reach it.

But below the cliff, it reached.

There were voices. Then there were none.

The one lay flat and looked down. Mud and water, and things that did not move. A few things that did move, but not many. The wave was pulling back. The force of the retreating water was no different from the force that had come. Several who had been standing were swept from their feet and were gone.

The one did not leave the cliff.

Fingernails pressed into the rock.

When the waves had gone, what remained in the first world was a silence from which more than a third had vanished.

Looking out to sea from the high ground, the water had come farther inland than it ever had before. What had been a sandy shore was gone, and bare rock showed through. Birds circled. For the birds, this was a place of food. They were calling.

Far away, in another place, a different river had flooded for different reasons. There were no people. Only water rising, trees falling, and turbid current moving through. Nothing more.

The descent from the cliff came after the water had drawn back completely.

A foot placed on the mud. It sank. It was pulled free. It sank again. The mud was warm. Perhaps the sun had been on it.

The one came to the place where there was always fire. There was no fire. There was the trace of smoke. A black circle remained on the ground. It was wet.

The one stood at the center of that circle. Something gave way underfoot. Charcoal.

Someone was searched for.

There were footprints in the mud. Two, three. Pointed in different directions. The one chose one and followed it. There was no reason for the choice. Perhaps it was the direction of a scent.

The footprints led to the far side of the cliff. A few living people were there. Some smaller than the one, some larger. Eyes met. No one made a sound.

Among the group, there were the old ones.

They had always been nearby. Proximity had been ordinary. Today they were closer than usual. The distance between them had closed. Whether the water had closed it, or whether those who remained had drawn toward one another, there was no way to know.

Both groups had their dead. Both groups had their survivors.

That night, there was one fire.

**The Giver**

The edge of the cliff.

The temperature had changed. The rock was cold. The coldness of the rock felt against the back. Clinging like something pressed flat, the one had not let go.

The one had not let go.

One who knows things in the gut — what such a one needs after surviving, I still do not know. What should be passed on next. I am still turning this over.

A bone was split open.

The white matter inside was scraped out with a finger and brought to the mouth.

Not bitter. Soft. Before swallowing, the tongue pressed it again and again.

Among the band, there are those who do not know to split bones like this. People older than this one throw the bones away. They throw them away while still hungry.

Incomprehensible.

There is a wound on the arm. The night of the flood, a piece of driftwood struck it. The skin broke, festered, and has now dried to a hard crust. When touched, it pulls. The touching does not stop.

At midday the band moved on.

The adults are gesturing southward among themselves. Something may be there. What it is, no one can say.

Follow along.

Walking through the grass, the smell of entrails came. That iron-edged smell that follows the splitting of an animal's belly.

A pause.

Someone had been processing something here. Not long ago. There are still many insects.

The band was left behind.

Crouching near the entrails, watching the insects move. What are they eating. Where do they come from.

Light fell through the parting grass.

The one kept watching the insects move.

One of the adults came back and pulled at the arm.

Rise.

Something had drawn the attention.

What it was could not be remembered before the arm was pulled a second time.

A stick was picked up.

Without knowing why. Because others around were carrying them. It was heavy. After walking with it for a while, it was set down on the ground.

When the voices came from the south, it was picked up again.