298,325 BCE – 298,205 BCE | Episodes 337–360

On the southern slope of a hill where bedrock lay bare, the grass had begun to die. Dry air crept up the hillside, turning the undersides of shrub leaves to the sky. Over five years, the rains had grown fewer, and the riverbeds had filled with sand. The paths of animals had shifted, and the movements of herds had shifted with them. The group drew closer to the rocky ground in the south. Another group was approaching from the same direction.

The one was walking on the sand of a dry riverbed. There was no water. The stones held heat. Though the sun was still high, this place had already gone to dust.

There came a day when two groups faced each other across the empty riverbed. There were no voices. No growls. They simply stood. Those who knew where the water was, and those who did not, looked at each other in the same thirst. The sun moved, and one side withdrew first. The same thing happened the next day. It was always the same side that withdrew.

The one stood at the edge of the group. Not in front. From the shadow of a rock set slightly apart, the one watched the direction of the other group's feet. One had a raised heel. Another had bent knees. They were ready to flee. What that meant, the one had no words for — but the body had learned it first.

Something had begun to change within the group. As food grew scarce, the contests of voice grew more frequent. On sleepless nights, the growling continued. One who had lived long threw a stone. A younger one turned away. The map of relations was being redrawn, a little each day.

The one picked up a rock. Set it down. Picked it up again. The same rock, lifted three times, then thrown downstream. Perhaps the one had wanted to hear the sound of it skipping on water, though there was none. There was no sound. It sank into the sand.

The distance to the southern group narrowed. On close nights, the smoke of their fire was visible. The one watched the color of the smoke. They were burning grass. A different way of burning than what was done here. Different — the one noticed. The one tried to share the noticing with someone. An arm was raised. A sound was made. The other was already looking somewhere else.

There was a year when the rain returned. The river ran a little deeper. The grass grew tall. Following the traces of small animals, the one stepped into a thicket that had never been entered before. Branches struck the one's face. The soil was soft deeper in. There were marks where something had dug with claws. Not one's own claws. Someone from the other group had been here.

The one examined the impressions in the ground. The size was different. The bones slightly different in shape. Feet of another form had dug for the same thing, in the same place.

The one remained there a long time. Did nothing. Walked a circle around the footprints. Then returned to the center.

What happened the day this became known — that will not be written here.

Only this: the process by which the one was moved out from the center of the group was slow. Food stopped being passed. Sitting near the fire became impossible. The sleeping place moved to the edge. The edge moved to a further edge.

Beyond the rock, there was no longer any group.

The river water was no longer cold.

Plunging a hand in, the one smelled earth. Not long before, it had smelled of sand. Sand and earth are different things. The one's hand remembered this.

Climbing the bank, the one stepped into mud. There was a feeling of sinking underfoot. Sinking meant water. Water meant animals would come.

The one looked downstream.

Nothing.

Looked again.

Reeds were moving. Not from wind — the wind was coming from another direction.

The one lowered into a crouch and held still.

The reeds stopped moving. After some time, a small animal darted out. Four legs, long ears. The one gave chase — ran across the mud, entered the grass, stopped. Lifted a nose toward the direction where the animal had vanished.

The scent continued.

Parting through the grass. Knees grew wet. Hands grew wet. The belly growled.

There was a small hole. An animal's burrow. Fine hairs were caught at the entrance. The one pinched them between two fingers and held them for a moment.

Then let them go.

The one brought a face close to the hole and breathed in. The inside was dark and warm. Something was in there. The one knew. Knelt before the opening and waited.

The sun climbed high.

Nothing emerged.

The one rose and walked back to the river. Drank. Looking up, the one heard voices from the group somewhere in the distance — children's voices, high and bright.

The one walked toward them. Footprints were left in the mud behind.

There was no looking back along the way.

He had been tracking along the river. The footprints of a small animal continued in the mud.

Light fell on the water's surface.

The one stopped. His body went still. He breathed. Beyond the grass, there was a heaviness.

With one hand resting against the rock, he did not move.

Then, slowly, he turned back. The prey did not return.

The ground spoke.

The sound reached the bottom of the belly. It was less a sound than a vibration, rising from the soles of the feet through the knees and into the hips. The one could not stay standing, and went down on one knee. Pressing a hand to the earth, it was possible to feel the soil trembling in small, rapid pulses. It was not the rock that trembled. It was what lay beneath the rock.

The prey was gone.

The small creature being pursued—the one that was to have been caught before it reached the grassland—had vanished without a trace. The one looked up. Beyond the hill, in the direction of the distant mountains, something white was rising into the sky. It was not smoke. Whiter than smoke, yet faster than cloud, it spread sideways while pushing upward, upward, ever upward.

The wind came. Warm.

The one raised a nose to it. It was not the smell of scorched grass. It was something like the smell of splitting stone—a smell from deep within the earth. A smell never encountered before, yet the body knew it. The feet were already moving before the decision to run had formed.

A run back to the settlement.

Upon returning, the people were fewer. Counting was not something one did. But the smallness of the number was plain. The difference between those present and those absent was something felt as a change in the density of the air. The voices of children were half what they usually were. The number of bodies gathered around the cooking fire was not enough.

The next morning, ash fell.

The sky thickened to yellow, and the sun became a white disc. Ash settled on the leaves and floated on the surface of the watering place. The one stood with palms turned upward, receiving what came down. The particles were fine. Placed on the tongue, they were bitter, gray, and not without taste.

One of the group fell from a cliff. The ground shook again after that.

When the great trembling came, the one was at the watering place. Water surged up out of the ground. The ground itself overflowed—a thing that happened. The water was brown and foaming, rushing underfoot with a force that made standing impossible. The only reason the one was not swept away was the grip on a jutting rock.

The rock was warm.

Rock was not supposed to hold that kind of warmth. The one did not let go. The grip held until the water withdrew. Where the water had been, mud remained, and stepping into it, one sank to the ankle.

That night, the survivors gathered around the fire.

No one wept. Whether or not they carried grief in a form that wept was another matter—but no one wept. They were simply quiet. They watched the fire. One of the children came and sat down beside the one. Said nothing. Only leaned in close. The one said nothing either. There was the warmth of a body. That was all.

The ash fell for three days.

The grass turned gray. The watering place turned gray. The skin turned gray. Each morning the one brushed the ash away by hand. By the next morning it had gathered again. Still, it was brushed away. There was no knowing why. To brush it away was to continue.

On the fourth day, the wind shifted.

The ash moved southward. The sky slowly returned to blue. Still touched with yellow, but blue was there. The one looked up. Looked up for a long time.

Looked until the neck ached.

Standing at the edge of the cliff, looking down.

At the bottom of the valley there was a river. Narrow. The dry season had lasted long, and the water had receded. On the sandy bank of the far shore there were tracks. Small ones. Not the prints of a hooved animal, but of a small creature with claws — the kind the one pursued.

The one began descending the slope.

Choosing where to place each foot had become habit. The difference between earth that would hold and earth that would give way was knowable before stepping. The color, the angle of the light, the way grass roots spread beneath the surface. Not something learned over fifty years. Known before knowing it was known.

Crossed the river. The water was lower than the ankle. Smooth round stones lay along the bottom, covered in moss. The edges of the moss swayed in the current.

Reached the far bank. Followed the tracks. In some places the sand was packed hard, in others it was soft and loose. That was where the tracks disappeared.

The one stopped.

Grass grew thickly around, about knee height. There was no wind.

The one parted the grass and looked. In one place the stalks were bent differently. Something had pressed its body through. There was a hole. A narrow opening in the earth.

The one crouched at the edge of the hole.

Sniffed. The smell of soil, and of animal fat. Something was inside. That much was clear. But the hole was too narrow. An arm put in might not come back out.

A single long stalk of grass was pulled free. Pushed into the hole. Something was felt at the other end. Movement. Whatever was inside had moved.

It did not come out.

The one stayed there for a while. Pushing the grass in and drawing it out. Several more attempts. Then an effort to block the entrance — stones were brought, grass was packed in. But it could not be fully sealed.

Stood up.

In the distance, a heavy voice sounded.

Not a human voice. Low, rising from somewhere deep in the throat. Not the voice of any companion the one knew, nor of any animal the one had tracked. Something else.

The one turned toward the direction of the sound.

There was something beyond the brush. A shape was visible. Not upright. Standing on two feet, but pitched forward. Broad shoulders, long arms.

Their eyes met.

The other did not move. The one did not move.

Only the sound of the river.

The one stepped back. One step. Then another. The other still did not move. Without looking away, the one moved back to the slope, climbed it, and emerged at the top of the cliff.

Did not look back.

By the time the one returned to the settlement, the sun had tilted. The journey felt longer than usual. Not because the path itself was longer. Only that the feet did not move quickly.

Returned, and sat near the fire.

Someone handed over a scrap of meat. It was eaten. There was taste.

The eyes. The meeting of eyes. That stayed, and would not leave. Not joy, not fear, not sorrow or anger — only the sensation that something had been there, something that had existed, and it sat within the body, still.

The river was crossed.

The water rose above the knees. Cold, and the current was strong. Each time a stone nearly slipped underfoot, arms spread wide to hold steady. The sand on the far bank was soft, and feet sank into it.

There were footprints.

Not from three days ago. Yesterday, or this morning. The claw marks were shallow — hurried. Whether something had been fleeing or pursuing was unclear. The one crouched down and touched the edge of the sand with a finger. It did not crumble. It was dry.

Standing, eyes moved to the deeper ground ahead.

Grass stretched on. Further back, several masses of rock cast their shadows. The one entered the grass. Moving without sound, feeling the earth through the soles of the feet.

Stopped short of the rocks.

Something was there. Unseen, but the way the grass moved was different. Not a wind-kind of movement. The still, held-breath stillness of a small creature.

The one's mouth closed.

The body lowered. Knees met the soil. The left hand searched for a stone. Found one. Gripped it. The right hand hung open in the air.

Waited.

The grass moved. A small brown thing darted past the side of a rock. The one threw the stone. It missed. The brown thing vanished into the grass.

The one stood.

Eyes went to where the throw had gone. Nothing. The stone lay on the ground. The one walked over and picked it up. Looked at it. Set it down.

Looked back toward the river.

The crossing place was not visible. The grass was too tall. Where the one had come from — the body remembered. On the return, scent and slope would tell the way.

Looked up at the sky.

A single hawk was turning high above.

The one looked once more into the depths of the grass. The brown thing was gone. The stomach made a sound.

When the group returned from the watering place, the one was behind a rock, a short distance away.

The one had heard the commotion. The growling faded into the distance, then silence. Then someone pointed toward the scent of prey and the group moved. The one did not move.

It was not that the legs refused to obey. Simply, there was no will to rise.

The group returned within a few days.

The one was somewhere else by then. The base of a cliff. Out of the wind. A single blade of grass grew from a crack in the rock, and the one watched it for a long time.

In youth, there had been roots to dig, burrows of small animals to pursue, voices used to guide the others. Now none of that was possible. When it had ceased to be possible was unclear. One day, a younger one had simply passed from behind. That was all.

Something had shifted within the group.

It had begun with the watering place. While the one was absent, someone had decided something. The face told you who. A large male. A loud voice.

When the one returned, the place had changed. No longer near the fire — now the one sat at the edge. No one offered food.

The one noticed.

Nothing was said. It was not that there were no words. There were sounds, there were gestures. But they went unused. It did not seem that using them would change anything.

After about three days, the group moved on.

The one followed. Slightly behind. At the rear.

When they reached the edge of the plateau, the group moved into the shelter of the rocks. The one remained outside.

No one looked back.

Night came.

There was no fire. The group's fire was on the other side of the rock, and only fragments of its light reflected into the sky.

The one sat on the ground. Grew cold. The stomach was empty. But the cold came before the hunger. It began in the legs, moved to the hips, climbed to the back.

Something was in the sky. Grains of light. Unmoving.

The one watched them. What was being thought is not known. There was only the watching.

The neck grew heavy. The head lowered.

The one leaned back against the rock and slowly tilted to the side.

When morning came, the one was cold. Still. Eyes half open, facing the direction where the grains of light had been.

The fire had deepened to red. A single piece of wood was added.

The moment the smell changed, the body went still. Drew in air. Drew it in again. The direction of something was known. But the feet did not move.

Looked at the fire. The wood shifted and fell. It was set right again.

That was all.

Tending the fire was night work.

Feed it wood. Blow on it when the flames began to sink. That was all. It was the only work a child could do. The one sat at the fire's edge, arranging the half-burned branches, then scattering them, then arranging them again.

On that day, the one saw something different.

At the edge of the group stood two men. They had come from elsewhere. They were short, with heavy brow ridges, and their voices were unlike anything the one knew — not growls, but round sounds that rose from deep in the throat. The one did not move from the fire. Only watched. Watching was something the one loved.

The men carried food. Red berries, wrapped in leaves.

The adults of the one's group stood at a distance. No one came close. Through the shimmer of the flames, the one watched their bodies go rigid. Shoulders rising. Feet taking root in the ground. When they became like that, no one moved — the one knew this well.

But the berries were red.

The one stood up. Stepped away from the fire. One of the adults made a low sound. The one did not stop. Walked forward, and stood before one of the men from elsewhere. Reached out toward the berries. The man was not startled. Slowly, he opened the leaves. He placed a single berry in the one's palm.

It was sweet.

Word of it spread.

That the one had approached the strangers. Had accepted something from them. Had eaten it. Something shifted among the adults — not in voices, but in the direction of eyes. In the angle of shoulders. The one could not read it. Only knew, with certainty, of being watched.

By the next morning, the men from elsewhere were gone. Only their footprints remained, pressed into the grass.

The one continued tending the fire. Added wood as always. But the adults no longer came close. The portions of food grew fewer. When eyes met, they turned away at once.

Something inside the body was growing cold. Even there, beside the flames.

On the evening of the third day, in the rocks before the cliff, the one was struck by stones.

There was not only one. Several adults had gathered in a ring. The first stone caught the shoulder. The one did not run. Before the thought of running could arrive, the second stone came.

The one sank to both knees.

Looked up at the sky.

It was not a sunset sky. Only a bright, flat grey. Wind was coming from the direction of the cliff. The one received it, full on the face.

The strength went out of the body. The one lay down where he was.

The stones stopped. The adults stood there for a time. Then they were gone.

There was a smell of grass. The ground was dry.

The one's hand rested on the earth, open slightly, and was still.

He threw a stone.

It missed. He threw another. Something rustled in the grass and fled. That was all.

The one stood at the base of the slope. Above him, the older males were returning, dragging their kill behind them. He did not approach. To approach was to be snarled at. Once, he had been struck on the elbow. Since then, he watched from a distance.

He was hungry.

He walked along the edge of the grass. If there were insects, he ate them. If there were roots, he dug. When no one was looking, he could gather fallen nuts as well. When he reached the far boundary of the group's territory, the smell changed. Not their smell — something else. The one stopped. He lifted his nose.

The wind came.

The smell came with it. Not from the direction the grass was bending, but from the direction of the cleft in the cliff. The one let out a low sound from deep in his throat. He stopped walking. He stood still — neither retreating nor advancing.

In the direction of the cliff, a shadow moved.

Tall. Broader than any of his own. Long arms.

The one made no sound. He backed away with his mouth closed. His foot pressed down on the grass, and the sound carried. The shadow stopped. It turned toward him.

He ran.

He scrambled up the slope, toward the older males. He snarled. He raised his arm toward the cliff. He did it again. And again.

One of the older males rose. He grabbed the one's arm. The one shook him off. He snarled again. He faced the cliff and moved his arm once more.

Another picked up a stone. Threw it at the one. It struck his shoulder.

The one went quiet.

He lowered his arm. He looked at the ground. His shoulder burned. He turned toward the cliff one last time. He said nothing. He could say nothing. There were no words.

An ember fell onto the hand.

The skin grew hot. The one drew the hand back and looked at the palm. A small red mark was there. It was licked. It tasted of nothing.

Across the fire, the older males sit. They are splitting the bones of prey. There is sound. The sound of marrow being drawn out.

Nothing was passed to this one. Not tonight either.

The stomach made a sound. The one reached down to the base of the grass and dug into the earth with fingers. There was nothing. Dug again. Something hard — a stone. It was pulled free. With no sense of what it might be used for, the hand closed around it and held it there.

One of the older ones looked over. Their eyes met. The one looked away.

The hand tightened around the stone.

Smoke drifted over. The eyes began to sting. The one stood and moved a little away from the fire. Moving away meant moving further to the outside.

It was dark.

Behind the back, there was a sound in the grass. Perhaps the wind. The one did not turn around. There was no reason that could be understood for turning.

The night deepened. The voices of the group grew quieter. The one drew the knees close. The stone was still held in the hand.

Near the water, in the lowlands, the grass bore the marks of passage. From two directions. Both trails were fresh.

In the shadow of a rock, the one stood with arms folded across the chest. The stomach groaned. Three days without food.

A dry wind blew. At the western edge of the grassland, where the line of shrubs fell away, there were unfamiliar silhouettes. Not one — five, perhaps six. The wind carried a scent that did not belong to this group.

The one leaned around the edge of the rock. Eyes narrowed. The shadows were moving. Slowly, but steadily closer.

The two groups faced each other across the water the following morning. No voices. Only a low, continuous rumbling. The eldest male spread his arms wide. The other group did the same. For a long time after, no one moved.

The one stepped further back. Those who could not join the hunt stayed at the rear in moments like this. You wait. You watch what unfolds.

The first contact was a single stone. No one saw who threw it. It landed at the feet of the other group. That was enough.

The sound of running spread outward. The one ran too. There was no knowing the direction. The legs simply moved. The one followed the back of whoever was ahead. Through the shrubs. A fall. Back up. Running again.

Three days later, the group had scattered. The water belonged to no one.

The one was alone on a hillside. Knees pressed into the earth, both hands flat against the soil. There was no moving until the breath came back.

Those who had scattered returned a few at a time. Not all of them. One old female did not come back. What had happened to her, and where — no one could shape it into sound.

That night, the one sat at the edge of the fire. The fire was small. Someone added wood. That alone made it a little warmer.

The water was not reclaimed. The group searched elsewhere. Half a day's walk brought them to a shallow river. Murky, but they drank from it.

The one crouched at the riverbank and cupped the water. It slipped through between the hands. Cupped it again. Drank. It was cold.

A year turned. The dry season came. Then came again. Children were born. Some died. Some lived.

The one's body changed. The shoulders broadened. The stride grew faster. Still, the hunts went on without the one.

One morning, the eldest male went after prey and did not return. They waited two days. On the third, no one went to look.

The one picked up a stone. Tested its weight. Set it at the base of the grass. Picked it up again.

Three years had passed.

The grass by the water's edge remained trampled. Those who had trampled it were gone. The direction they had gone no longer mattered.

It was around two full moons ago that the one's knees had stopped bending properly. Walking was still possible. Only now, when crossing over rocks, the one had begun accepting the hands of others. That was the first time, and the last. What it meant to accept another's hand within the group — for this the one had no words. There was only the hand.

The one never did join the hunts.

Once, from a distance, the one watched the young ones run after an animal. The vibration of the ground traveled up through the soles of the feet. The dust disappeared among the trees. The one watched until the dust thinned. Then returned to the rock.

Eating grew less frequent.

Someone split a bone and held out the pale matter inside. The one accepted it. Touched it with the tongue. There was taste. But the strength to swallow was no longer there. The pale matter ran down from the jaw. The one did not wipe it away. The one who had offered said nothing.

On the final morning, before the sky had turned white, the one rose.

The one walked to a place slightly removed from the center of the group. The knees would not obey. Still, the one walked. Upon sitting down on the ground, something inside the body grew quiet. Not a sound, but something like a pressure, fading away, slowly and without announcement.

The morning light came in from the side.

The tips of the grass turned white with it. Light fell across the back of the one's hand as well. The creases in the skin were casting shadows. Thirty-three years of creases.

The one looked at the hand.

And did not stop looking.

The light shifted. The grass swayed in the wind. The shadows moved. The shadows on the back of the one's hand moved too.

And that was all.

The body tilted to the side. It settled, tilted, into the grass.

Someone noticed only after the sun had climbed high.

The smell of rain rose from the earth.

The one lay flat at the edge of the grass, looking ahead. Fifty paces away, at the rim of the water, an animal stood. Its shoulders were sunk to the mud, its neck lowered to drink. It was large. A mature male, the base of its antlers thick, dissolved into the color of the mud.

The one held its breath.

Behind, in the grass, someone moved. A knee brushed a stalk. A small sound, but to the one it was enormous.

The animal's head came up.

Its nostrils widened, its ears turned. It had not yet run.

The one did not move. The body stayed pressed to the earth and did not move. The soil beneath the belly was cold. Rain had fallen until the night before, and the ground had not yet released it.

The animal snorted three times.

Then it ran.

From the grass behind, a voice rose. A cry — anger or despair, it was impossible to tell. The one stood and looked toward where the animal had vanished. The grass swayed, then went still.

The one returned to the water.

Tracks remained in the mud. Deep and wide, their edges already crumbling. The one placed a foot inside a track. The foot sank. Pulled it free. Looked at the track again.

A voice sounded from behind.

The one did not turn.

That year, the water came back.

The river swelled, and water ran again in the tributaries that had gone dry. The soil softened, roots went deeper, and things bore fruit. There were many nuts, many grass seeds, and more animals gathered at the water's edge. Young were born. More of the young born survived to grow.

The group became larger.

With that size came the necessity of nearness — everyone had to stay close to someone. More people sat around the fire, more people competed for space, more arguments arose over the division of food. The one was a scout. Running ahead of the group, finding animals, reading their direction.

But the animal had been lost.

Someone had cried out. Everyone knew whose fault it was.

That night, the one did not sit near the fire. At a small distance, knees drawn up, the one stared into the dark beyond. The stomach made noise. The one did not eat.

Around the time of reaching thirty-two, the one came into contact with another group.

They were on the far bank of the river. Similar in build, similar in what they carried, but different in how they made sound. They used low calls that the one's group did not use.

Neither side moved.

Only the river made noise.

Among the other group were some with prominent brow bones and thick necks. Slightly different from this side. But no one could put into words what was different.

The one crouched at the river's edge and cupped the flowing water with both hands.

At thirty-four, there was conflict.

Not over food. Over place. The territories of two groups had overlapped at a shared water source. At dawn, a young man from the one's group had crossed to the far bank. No one knew why he had crossed.

When morning came, the man had not returned.

He was floating downstream, face turned toward the water. In a place where the current slowed, caught in the roots of reeds, motionless.

The one stood on the bank and watched.

Watched the man's back swaying on the surface of the water, for a long time.

No one went to bring him in.

The one did not go either.

Did not know how.

The abundance continued.

Even so, something like a tightening lived in the one's chest. There was food. There were companions. The rain had come. And yet the one woke in the night. Woke and looked into the dark. The dark held nothing.

Still, the one looked.

In the morning, the man lay still and listened before rising.

The sound of grass moving. Wind. The calls of birds — two kinds. The more distant one went suddenly silent. At that, he raised himself up.

He saw the footprints. In a patch of soft earth, two sets of impressions remained. The man crouched and touched the edge of one. Dry. They had been made during the night.

The men gathered. They pointed at the footprints in turn, grunted, moved their arms. The man remained standing and looked out at the surrounding grass. Somewhere, the tips of the grass were bent. The direction of the bending was south.

The one left the group and walked south.

No one stopped him. No one followed.

Some three hundred paces on, the grass opened into a clearing. There were ancient ones. Two of them. Large-bodied, with brows that jutted forward. But they were seated. They carried no weapons.

The man stopped.

The others did not move.

Something went still in the depths of the man's belly. His legs would carry him neither forward nor back. His breath grew shallow. Wind moved through the grass. A smell reached him — smoke, and something else, something that was not the smell of an animal.

One of the ancient ones opened a hand. Turned the palm upward.

The man did not understand what it meant. He did not understand it, and yet the stillness in the depths of his belly eased, just slightly.

The man looked at the ground. He pulled a single blade of grass. He held it out.

The ancient one did not take it. Only watched.

The man set the grass on the ground. He turned on his heel. And walked back, slowly, without running, toward the group.

He felt eyes on his back.

Like wind finding its way into the crack of a rock, that sensation stayed with him, long after.

When the grass grows long, the way of running changes. The feet press down as though parting the stalks at the ankle. The body lowers itself without thought.

Over these five years, old injuries have gathered along the inside of the knee. They ache before rain comes. And so rain is known before it arrives.

When pursuing prey, the one ran at the front of the group. Even when voices rose from behind, there was no turning back. The time it takes to turn is time for the feet to stop. And when the feet stop, the prey is gone.

That day, at the edge of the grassland, the wind shifted.

A scent struck the nose. Not the smell of earth. Something rotted, mixed with the warmth of blood. The one stopped. Only the feet stopped — inside, something continued to move.

Right, or left.

The one turned left.

It was not the direction the prey had gone. Yet the feet turned left.

Where the grass fell away and rock lay bare, three young males from the group were waiting. The way they stood was not the way one stands for hunting.

The one stopped.

The eyes of the three did not move.

The one's hand found the stone at its side. Not to throw. The hand simply went there on its own.

One of the three made a sound. Low. Not the kind of call that reaches across a distance — a sound meant for the one who was here.

The one did not step back. The feet refused it.

The grass moved in waves with the wind.

From the one's throat came something. Neither a cry nor a growl. Something far lower than either — a sound that rose from deep in the belly.

The three moved.

The one left the camp after the others had settled into sleep.

The soles of the feet were reading the wet soil. Soft places, hard places. Where water had gathered. Long habit made the feet decide. The body moved before the mind could think.

Moonlight fell white across the ground.

The one stopped.

At its feet, a depression. Not made by the one's own foot. Wider, the heel sunk deep. Four toe marks. Claw impressions driven into the earth.

The one crouched down. The fingertips of the right hand traced the rim of the depression. Cold. Damp. Not old.

Standing again, the one followed the direction of the prints.

They had come from the direction of the camp.

Something contracted in the space below the belly. Not the feeling of facing prey. Not the feeling of hearing rock give way. Quieter than either of those. Deeper inside.

Whoever had made the prints was gone. Only the marks remained.

The one stood there for a time. Wind came from the east and moved through the grass. There was no smell on it. That absence, more than anything, prolonged the contraction deep in the belly.

The one returned to camp. Stopped several times on the way back. Turned around. There was dark grassland. Nothing moved.

Lay down. Eyes remained open.

Several of the others had been watching. They had noticed. They wanted to know where the one had gone. The one knew they were watching. Knowing it, gave nothing away.

Eyes turned toward the sky, the one waited for the night to end.

A damp wind blew in from the north.
At the edge of the plain, along a series of low hills thick with scrub, reddish earth lay exposed. Each rain wore it a little further down, and into the worn places the roots of grasses pressed. Dry season and wet season came in turns, and both were mild.

The one stopped at the foot of the hills.
An old wound in the left knee had begun to burn whenever there was running. Just below the kneecap, slightly to the outside. Pressing it with a finger brought back the feeling of breaking through rock. More than ten years ago, but the body had not forgotten.

Upstream, the river had risen, and reeds from the far bank were being torn out by the roots and carried off.
Those reeds gathered downstream against the bank and became hiding places for small animals. Birds came. Seeds fell with the birds' droppings. The following year, a low-fruit-bearing shrub grew there that no one had seen before.

The one's group had grown larger.
Many were young — those not yet able to go out hunting wandered the edges of the camp. Two elders tended the fire; before, there had been one. That many more were now remaining.

From the east, voices drifted in from time to time.
Not cries. Not growls. A low, dense sound made from many throats layered together. Whenever the one stopped, it turned its face in that direction. The nostrils widened. Wind from the south. No scent. But the sound was real.

Some mornings a mist settled over the plain.
In the mist there were footprints of a different shape. Longer from heel to toe, with a shallower heel impression. Not like the one's own footprints. The weight fell differently. They did not linger as long in the earth.

The one crouched down and ran a finger along the edge of the prints.
The soil was still damp. Passage had been made in the night. Direction: north-northeast. From the way the grass was bent and broken, three or four — not all large. Smaller prints were among them.

Three years passed.
The misty mornings grew more frequent. Moisture settled into the ground and moss spread beneath the rocks. Sometimes the one ate the moss. Held on the tongue, it tasted of something between earth and water. Not bitter. After swallowing, the stomach was quiet for a time.

The voices from the east were drawing closer.
One morning, looking down from the top of a hill, the one saw smoke rising beyond the scrub. Not from the group's own fire. The color of the smoke was different. Pale and white. Wet branches.

Something stirred then, deep in the throat.
Not wariness. Not curiosity. Something more ambiguous — a sensation resembling one that had come before. As if the center of the chest were being drawn, faintly, toward something.

The one did not descend the slope.
There was no reason found to descend. But no reason to stay, either. For a long time the one stood partway down the hillside. The knee was warm.

At the end of the fourth year, the two groups met at the river's edge.
Both had come for water.

When they reached the bank, the others were already there on the far side.
Tall, with brows that jutted forward. Eyes set deep. One of them met the one's gaze. Neither moved.

Only the sound of the river continued.

Among the other group was a young one. It fell and struck its knee on a stone at the bank's edge. It did not cry out — it made a low, sharp sound — then stood and walked on.

The one's eyes followed that movement.

They drank, and each group went its separate way.
No conflict. No touching. Yet something remained. What remained, the one had no words for.

The fifth year.
The warmth in the knee no longer faded.
Running was still possible. But on the return, there was a favoring of it, a guarded walk. The others in the group had noticed. There were glances that said so.

One night, the one sat at the edge of the camp.
A little apart from the fire. Stars were visible.

The wind came from the south.
The grass heads all tilted at once. Within that tilting, there was a trace of smoke — the lingering scent of those two-legged others. It reached, certainly, into the back of the nose.

The one looked toward the fire.
One child had fallen asleep. An elder added wood. The fire grew larger.

The pulling sensation in the chest came again.
It settled over the smell of that smoke just now. That was all.

The running began before dawn.

The soles of the feet read the earth. Soft ground meant water nearby. Hard ground meant an animal trail. This morning the ground was hard and faintly cold. Dry air pricked the back of the throat.

The sounds of the group were gone now.

That is the nature of the scout's work. Go farther than the group, and return. If there is no returning, then that is that.

At the crest of the hill, the one stopped.

Beyond a low thicket, something moved in the shadows. Not four-legged. Two-legged. But the shape was wrong. Shoulders too wide, neck too short. Not a silhouette the one had ever known.

The other was looking back.

Neither moved.

The one swallowed. Deep in the belly, something drew tight. Without breaking eye contact, the right foot stepped back a single pace. The ground was felt out carefully. A stone. A slope. The direction of escape was known.

The other snorted through its nose.

The one did not stir.

A low, rumbling sound continued from deep within the thicket. Not one creature. The presence of many. Sweat spread across the one's back. Still, the gaze did not waver. To look away would be the end — the body knew this, not in words, but in its bones.

Then the other turned away.

And vanished into the thicket.

The one remained still for perhaps thirty breaths. The legs were trembling. That was not noticed until some time had passed.

There should have been a return. Right then, back to the group, to report the direction.

But the one could not move.

The skin on the arms had risen. Not from cold. Something else. That feeling had no name. It was simply there.

The one placed a hand against a rock. The rock was cold. That coldness brought the body back, just a little.

Standing up.

Retracing the way back. The feet moved faster than before. But once, only once, the one stopped and turned to look back the way that had come.

The thicket was still.

It felt as though something had ended, and also as though something had begun.

The one could not tell which.

When the group was reached, the others looked over. Before any sound could be made, an arm swung toward the north. Hard, twice. That was all. The faces of the others changed. One who was holding a child stood up.

The one sat down.

The knees were shaking. To keep that hidden, the body leaned against the rock.

By evening, the group had moved.

Not north. South.

The one walked not at the front, but at the back. Looking back many times. Toward the thicket.

Nothing there.

Still, the looking back continued.

In the morning, he did not wake.

More precisely, his eyes opened. He could make out the color of the sky. That color — a little whiter than gray. He had seen it more times than he could count. He only realized his legs would not move when he tried to raise himself.

He had been lying on sandy ground. A little apart from the group, in the shadow of a rock. No wind reached him there. He had been there since the night before.

His legs felt heavy. Not so much heavy as absent. Present, yet gone. The feeling was not new. For the past several days, whenever he ran, his legs below the knee seemed to lag behind. When he went ahead of the group as its forward scout, his feet had to move before they could read the ground. He could no longer do that. He had told no one. There were no words to tell it with.

The sand had grown a little warmer. The sun had crossed the angle of the rock.

The one did not move.

He turned only his face to the side. An insect was walking at the base of a tuft of grass, picking its way among the grains of sand on thin legs. He followed it with his eyes. And as he followed it, he thought of the smell of a river he had run along long ago. The current had been swift, the stones smooth and round. He had drunk there many times. When he drank, he could see the bottom of the water.

The insect disappeared into the shadow of the grass.

His stomach growled. It growled, and he did nothing.

From somewhere far away came the cry of a child. A high, sharp sound. He could not tell whether the child was angry or weeping. Perhaps he had never been able to. Even now he could not. That was all right.

Light moved across the face of the rock.

It fell directly into his eyes. The brightness made him narrow them. He narrowed them, and did not open them again.

Perhaps he simply did not open them. Perhaps he had no intention of opening them. Perhaps it was something that was neither.

The sand was warm.

At forty-two, this one became the sole keeper of the fire.

The one before had died. To be precise: they slept through the night, and in the morning the herd called out and received no answer, and when they shook the body it did not move. Something seemed to linger in the hands that had done the shaking, and this one wiped those hands on a rock. Wiped them many times.

The only thing held onto was this: the fire must not go out.

In the dry season, grass stems were gathered. In the wet season, rocky overhangs were sought for shelter. Waking in the night to find the flames grown small, something deep in the belly would tighten. Fuel was added quickly. When the flames returned, the tightening eased. This happened again and again. It was the work.

At forty-five, the western herd came.

The first sign was smell. A smell unlike their own — animal hide, and the scent of unfamiliar grasses. Before any growl was heard, this one's body already knew. A stone was gripped. Gripped, and held still.

The other herd numbered three. This one's group was five.

A man holding a stone stepped forward — not this one, but one of the younger men. This one stayed back, tending the fire.

A stone flew. One of the others fell. The rest fled.

The young man let out a cry. The herd answered it.

This one did not cry out. By the fire, this one fed branches to the dying flames.

Approaching forty-seven, something shifted within the herd.

The way the young man looked had changed. It was the look of someone who believed the fire was already theirs to keep. This one recognized it. Those who have lived long enough come to recognize it.

One morning, a low growl directed this one to go and search for food — in a direction farther than usual.

This one walked. The grass was tall enough to hide the ground underfoot. The wind came from behind. Wind from behind carries smells that close off the way back.

This one stopped.

And looked toward where the rocky overhang stood. In the distance, a thin thread of smoke rose from the fire.

For a long time, this one stood and looked at that place.

The one watched a thin line of smoke for a long time.
Then turned and walked back the way they had come.

At the edge of the grassland there had been three fires. Over the five years that followed, they became one.

Each dry season, the grass grew shorter. The paths of animals shifted. Water that had gathered at the bend of the river turned to mud by the end of summer. Then the mud too was gone. It cracked and dried to white.

The one had a habit of waking before dawn. Sitting beside the fire, checking the red glow of the coals, adding a single dead branch. Too many branches and the fire would not last till morning. Too few and it would go out. The one knew in the body how much was enough — the amount that tipped neither way.

The boundary with the northern group was a long line of large rocks. Beyond the rocks, there were fires too. The smoke was a different color. What you burned changed the smoke. The one knew this. But could not recall having taught it to anyone.

Over five years, the meaning of the rock line changed. At first it was a place one passed through. Then it became a place one stopped at. In time it became a place one did not approach.

No one could point to when that had happened.

On the one's right wrist there was an old scar. The claw of an animal, or the edge of a rock — it was a wound whose origin could no longer be remembered. When the dry season came, the skin would tighten, and the one would unconsciously press it with the other hand. Pressing it, watching the fire.

When the children slept around the fire, the one was the last to remain awake.
Not in order to sleep — only watching to see that the fire did not go out.

At the end of the fifth rainy season, someone from the northern group crossed the line of rocks.

It was a young one. Thin. Carrying something in one hand. Not food. A stone.

Voices rose from the one's group. Low growls. The sound of feet stepping back. Someone reached down and picked up a thin branch.

The one did not move.

Sitting beside the fire, the one watched the one who had come. The one who had come watched back. Neither made a sound.

Morning came.

The one who had come did not leave. They sat at the edge of the group, leaning back against a rock. They set the stone they had carried on the ground, then picked it up, then set it down again.

The one watched this.
There was something in the way the stone was placed. The angle, perhaps. The position. Impossible to say. But the eyes would not look away.

At dawn on the second day, the one took a little of the fire's coals. Placed them on a piece of bark. Carried it over to where the one who had come was sitting.

And offered it.

The one who had come received it. They held the bark flat on their palm and looked at the red glow of the coals. For a long time, they looked.

The one returned. Sat beside the fire. Pressed the scar on the wrist.

That night, beyond the line of rocks, one small fire was added to the darkness.

Fire had been there from the earliest memory this one could hold.

A red core. Breathe into it and it spreads; breathe too hard and it dies. This one knew that boundary through the skin. The inner palm, the thin flesh between the fingers, measured distance from the flame. No one had taught it. The burns had.

In the year the fifty-second season passed, this one was still beside the fire.

Those who gathered the dry grass had changed. Several of the younger ones had learned the way of it. This one watched. Did not open its mouth. Did not make a sound. Only watched the angle at which their hands held the grass. Sometimes shook its head slowly. That was all.

The year the dry season returned.

From the north, another group drew near. It was not the smell of the old ones. Their bodies and the way they moved were closer to those of this group. But the faces were unknown.

The younger ones in the group began to growl. Some took up stones. This one did not move toward them. It remained sitting beside the fire, pressing a thin branch into the blazing core. Drew it back out. The tip had gone red.

Someone threw a stone.

That winter, this one's breathing changed.

Not that sleep would not come at night — rather, sleep came, and the body grew heavy within it. Come morning, rising took a long time. Still, this one came to the fire.

One of the younger ones sat nearby. Said nothing. This one said nothing either.

To place new wood before the old wood burned through. That much, this one still did alone.

The morning of the last day.

This one looked into the fire's core. For a long time. Not at the flame itself, but at the center of it — the part that burned white.

Wind came from behind. There was the smell of dry grass. This one's nose moved.

From somewhere far away came the sound of the old ones' voices. High, brief. No voice answered.

This one did not fall. Slowly, it drew its body back from the fire and lay down on its side. The ground was warm. There was the smell of dried mud. The palm of its hand rested against the earth. The fingers moved, a little. Then they were still.

The fire kept burning.

Tending the fire was a solitary task.

Before the adults left, they pressed down on this one's arm and pointed to the ground. Stay here—that was the meaning, understood not from any word but from the weight of the hand.

The fire was kept small. Made large, the smoke would carry far. It would call to someone. There were times when nothing should be called, and this one knew it—not by reasoning, but by something deeper, something seated in the belly.

From morning into midday, nothing happened.

The sound of grass insects. A bird called somewhere distant. Wind came from the direction of the river. This one had a habit of reading the wind with the face—eyes closed, sensing the difference in warmth between the left side and the right.

Sometime past midday, the smell of smoke changed.

It was not smoke from their own fire. There was the scent of dry grass scorching, and something else woven through it. The smell of something rotted burning. This one had no name for that smell. But the body knew it.

Rising to stand.

A sound came from far off—not a cry but a low, sustained groan. It did not belong to this one's own group. The weight of the sound was different. The place it came from in the throat was different.

The feet moved.

Toward the cliffs. The instinct was that height would bring sight. There was no deliberation about whether this was correct. The body had already gone ahead.

Climbing to the cliff's edge.

Looking down. The river caught the light. Across the grassland, several shadows were moving. Their number could not be made out. Too far.

The shadows were moving this way.

This one did not move. Only watched.

From behind, footsteps.

There was no time to turn. Something struck the shoulder. The body passed beyond the cliff's edge.

Falling, the sky came into view. It was blue. There was one cloud.

The water's surface was far below.

Before it was reached, something ended.