298,205 BCE – 298,085 BCE | Episodes 361–384

The fever had begun three days ago.

The first sign came while tending the fire. The color of the flames looked wrong. There was more red than usual. That was all, the one thought. More wood was added. It burned properly.

The next morning, the body refused to rise.

Knees on the ground, hands pressed to the earth, the one remained there. An older woman bent down to look at the face. She made a low sound. It might have meant: get up. The one could not get up.

The one was laid down.

Placed in the shelter of a rock. The wind did not reach there. The sun touched it only briefly. Against a feverish body, it was cold. But no one moved the one elsewhere.

The tension within the group lay in another direction.

For several days now, strange shadows had been visible beyond the rocks. Tall shadows. Shadows that moved differently. The adults in the group moved without making sound. Their eyes all turned the same way. The one had known about the shadows. From beside the fire, the one had watched the adults' bodies stiffen each time the shadows drew near.

In the fever, the one returned to this again and again.

The shadows beyond the rocks. The rigid bodies of the adults.

Something cold lived deep in the belly. It was separate from the fever.

On the afternoon of the third day, when the sun had passed its peak, a disturbance moved through the group. Several people cried out, bodies collided, and then after a time it grew quiet again. The one tried to lift a head from behind the rock. It would not lift.

The ground was cold.

It felt as though the fever was being drawn down into the earth. The one knew this was not so, but felt it nonetheless.

There was wind.

The body knew what the wind carried. The smell of smoke. The smell of distant grass. The smell of a water place. And then, the smell of blood.

Someone came from the direction of the group. An adult man. He looked at the one. He looked for a while. Then he left.

The one traced a finger along the ground.

There was no intention to write anything. The finger simply moved. The sand moved. A line appeared. It meant nothing.

The finger stopped.

Then moved again, in a different direction. The grains of rock were pushed aside to the edge. A small hollow formed there. The one looked at it.

That was all.

The body grew still soon after, but it was not the fever that had lifted. What had lifted was something else.

The dry season came to the southern reaches of the land. The grass yellowed, and the watering holes shrank. Tracks of hooves led northward.

The one read the tracks. Knelt and brought his nose close to the earth, drawing in the smell of the soil. Old. Two days, at least. He rose and looked at the ridge to the north.

On the northern slope, a different smoke was rising. Not the smoke of his own band.

The dry season lasted half a year. Three times, fights broke out over the watering holes. Rocks were thrown, teeth were bared, blood was drawn. Neither group yielded, and neither drank enough.

The one stood at the edge of the fighting. He roared as one who leads, but the other group roared back. Their voices were as loud as his. Their bodies as large. The one stepped back. The others of his band stepped back with him. They could not approach the water.

The rains came sixty days later. The watering holes returned. The other group moved east.

The one drank. Drank until he was full. Then he sat on a rock and looked at the eastern sky where the smoke had been and was no longer. He thought nothing. He only looked.

The year turned, and the grass returned. The animals returned. The one ran. His body at thirty-five was still fast, but his breath gave out sooner than before. After crossing a hill he rested his hands on his knees. The younger ones went on ahead.

The one stood still and watched the backs of the young as they went.

Two children of the band died in the same season. One from fever, one trampled by an animal. Both were very young. Both had loud voices.

The one carried the children's remains to the base of a distant cliff. It was the way of the band. Coming down from the cliff, the gravel beneath his feet gave way and he fell to his knees. The wound was shallow. A little blood seeped out, and stopped.

At the end of those five years, the one's breathing changed. At night, when he lay down, there was a heaviness in his chest. By morning it was gone. He could still run through the day. But each night the heaviness grew, a little at a time.

The one told no one. He had no words to tell it with. Only at night, beside the fire, he would lean his back against a rock and rest a hand on his chest. To confirm the weight. The weight was there.

The rain lasted five years.

Grass grew to the waist. Herds of animals multiplied. Children were born, and born again. Every band was filled with the sound and smell of people.

The one kept running.

Chasing prey. Moving to the front. Throwing stones at the head of the group. That was what forty years had been. For as long as the legs moved, that was what was done. The inside of the knee had ached for a long time, but there was no stopping. The one did not know how to stop.

When seasons of plenty go on too long, bands draw close to one another. Even with food enough, there is only one place.

At the edge of the grassland, there was an unfamiliar smell.

The one raised the nose. Not smoke. Not meat. The sweat of strangers.

A low growl.

Those behind came to a halt.

The next morning, there was contact. Three shadows emerged from the grass. They were built differently. Heavy brow-ridges. Long arms. Both sides carried weapons. Neither side lowered them.

The one stepped forward.

Bared the chest. That meant: I will not flee.

A long silence followed. A single stone was set down in the grass. The one did not pick it up. Left it where it lay.

The three shadows disappeared.

That night, the one went alone to the upper part of the river. There was no knowing why. The legs simply turned that way.

The rocks were wet.

A step was taken.

The foot slipped.

There was a sound. The sound of stone and flesh.

The water kept flowing.

The one floated face up. The sky was visible. The current quickened. The current quickened.

The body came to rest against the bedrock. The water passed over and moved on.

She was on her mother's back. Swaying. The swaying stopped. A growl sounded. She felt her body go rigid. Her mother's back muscles, hardening.

She cried.

Someone's hand covered her mouth. It was dark.

After a time, the swaying returned. There was a smell of water. Water touched her lips. She drank.

The hardened mud sounded different from last year. When a foot came down on it, there was a dry, low sound. Last year, the ground gave way. This year, it rang.

The one stepped on it again and again.

The same place. The same force. Each time, the same sound.

Within the group there was a tall one — a full head taller. One morning, as the one was smelling a piece of dried hide, the tall one grabbed an arm and pulled. It hurt. When the arm was pulled free, the tall one walked away.

After that, the one kept returning to smell the same hide. Something felt different. But no sound, no word came for what it was.

The animal tracks were found in the evening.

The distance between front feet and back. The depth. The direction. The one remained beside the tracks for a long time. A finger traced the edge. The earth crumbled.

At last the one stood, and turned back in the direction opposite the tracks.

That night, by the fire, another child was crying. The one watched. There was no understanding of why. Still, the one sat down beside the child. The child went on crying. The one did not move.

The fire grew small.

Hunger.

The one peeled moss from the edge of a rock and put it in their mouth. It was bitter. Swallowed it. Peeled more.

The group had moved downstream. The water source had changed three days ago. The smell of the old people's smoke began drifting down from upriver, and the adults had groaned and turned away. The one followed at the rear. No belongings. Nothing to carry.

The new water source was shallow, its banks thick with mud.

The one knelt at the muddy edge and drank. A face appeared in the water. The water shifted, and the face came apart. Shifted again.

The smell of the water was different. Heavy, like iron. Each swallow left something at the back of the tongue.

That night, a sound rose from within the group — a low groan. An old woman lay on her side and could not get up. The one watched from a distance. Several adults gathered around her. They touched her. Stepped back. Touched her again. The night deepened. The one could not sleep.

By morning, the woman was gone.

The group did not move. The one did not move.

A bird called from the direction of the river. The shadow of a rock stretched long. No one said anything.

The one pressed a hand into the mud. Started to rise, then stopped. The shape of a hand remained in the mud. Five hollows. The one looked at it. Kept looking. Then pressed the other hand into the mud beside it. Five more.

Two shapes, side by side.

The one looked at them for a while. Then walked toward the river.

The belly was full. That was unusual.

In the afternoon, a small animal had been caught, and its organs were singed over the fire and eaten. Charred skin caught between the teeth. The tongue worked it loose. Then more eating.

Within the group, there were three adult members with thick arms. One of them came and sat beside this one. Nothing in particular happened. The one simply sat. The warmth grew.

Toward evening, the wind ceased.

Not all at once — it weakened gradually, and disappeared like a last breath. The sound of the grass fell silent. The smoke from the fire rose straight up.

This one raised their face.

It was not to look at the sky. It was not to search for anything. The face simply turned upward.

Beneath the ribcage, there was hardness. Not the same hardness as always. There was a pressing sensation. From within.

This one stood, walked a few steps, and stopped. There was no reason to go back, and no reason to go forward.

From the direction of the fire, someone let out a low sound. It was a voice calling for a child. This one turned around. Walked back.

The hardness beneath the ribcage remained, just as it was.

The child born on a rainy night now reaches to the knee.

The one had not raised this child in their own arms. The child had grown somewhere within the group. Yet when the child ran, it slipped past the one's feet. Each time, something moved deep in the belly. Not pain. Smaller than pain, but it did not fade.

It was a season of abundance. Roots went deeper into the earth, and the weight of fruit bent the branches low. At the watering places, animals stood pressed against one another, and on both banks of the river there were faces no one knew.

Strange faces.

The one had noticed them. Their bodies seemed thicker in outline than those of the group. The brow sat differently. The smell was different. When they drew near, a sound rose from the back of the throat — not a warning, but a question. A way of asking: what is that?

Within the group there was one who was older. Both arms carried old scars, the voice was low, and when standing there was a slight forward tilt. When this one raised a finger, the rest grew still.

One night, they gathered around a fire by the river.

The one sat outside the circle. Holding a branch, drawing something in the ground. Not a straight line. Curved. The one did not know what was being drawn. The hand moved. The tip of the branch pressed into the soil.

Across the fire, the older one watched.

The following morning, the older one came and stood nearby. Approached slowly, then ground a foot into the marks the one had made.

The one did not move, still holding the branch.

There were no words.

After that, the sun set three times.

On the fourth day, the one was not among those moving with the group. They lay fallen in the grass, a wound across the back. The mark of a stone. The wound was deep, the blood long dry. The chest did not move.

The child ran, trampling the grass, passing close by the one's arm.

The child knew nothing.

A grassland tilted north from the equator. The rainy season is nearing its end. The sky is high, and a dry wind blows from the south.

Along the river, more than twenty groups are scattered. They drink the same water, pursue the same animals. They are close to one another. Too close.

The one had reached twenty-six. The soles of their feet had grown thick, and the right shoulder sat lower than the left. Evidence of carrying something for a long time — though the one did not know this.

At the start of the dry season, two groups were drawing water from a low stretch of the bank. One had arrived first. The other came. Stillness. Growling. No one moved.

The one was not there. They were walking the slope of a hill, searching for nuts. Soft, wrinkled fruits had fallen to the ground. They kicked one, then kicked it again. Did not eat.

At the water, a stone was thrown. The one it struck buckled at the knees and fell. They did not die immediately, but died three days later. The group withdrew.

When the one came down from the hill, the smell of the river had changed. Something dense, like iron. They stopped. Wind moved along the surface of the water and reached the right side of the one's neck. The temperature was low. The wind was coming from there. The one turned right. In the mud of the bank, something had left a depression — the mark of something that had fallen.

The one could not understand it was a drag mark. But the lower part of the belly grew hard. The feet would not move forward.

To the west of the grassland, there was another group. No blood connected them to this one. Their faces were different, the pitch of their growls was different. They were a band of archaic people. About twenty of them. They lived by moving.

The two bands had known of each other from a distance. Their hunting grounds overlapped at times. There had been moments when prey was seized from the other. But they had never made direct contact.

In the latter half of that year, the one's group watched the archaic band moving toward them from afar. Shadows swayed beyond the hill. Someone let out a low sound. The one voiced something too. The sound carried no meaning. But both turned to face the same direction.

By the next morning, the archaic band was gone.

The one had reached twenty-eight.

Within the group there was an aged one. Half their teeth were missing, and the right knee would not bend. Yet they did not die. Younger ones brought food. The one had brought food too, once. When the one brought it, the aged one made a sound. The one was startled and drew back. Did not return.

The following year, the aged one did not rise. While breath still continued, several in the group stayed close. The one remained at the edge. When the chest of the aged one ceased to move, it was the one who stood first. Why they stood was not known.

Around the age of thirty, the one had a child. The child came from the one's body. It was night. There was crying. Another from the group was nearby.

The child lived. Small, with thin skin, hands that opened and closed. For a time, the one held the weight of the child in their arms without setting it down. The weight changed. It grew heavier, little by little.

As the weight in the arms grew heavier, something within the one began to set. Not that bones were multiplying — but something — there is no word for it — simply set.

The end of the fifth year. Dry grass swaying in the wind.

The one crouched beside the river, scooping water with cupped hands and drinking. Behind them, the child fell and cried. The one did not turn. The child's cry changed. The one turned.

There was nothing. The child had only fallen.

The one drank again.

With every dry season, the river thinned. The watering holes to the south dried up, and the herds moved north. Those who followed them moved as well.

The one had turned thirty-one. Within the group, they had begun to be counted among the old.

Upstream, another group appeared. Several adults, two children trailing behind. Old scars marked their arms. The soles of their feet were thick, and they walked the way those walk who have walked long distances.

The one watched from the shadow of a rock. Nothing moved. The wind came from the north.

On the far side of the grassland, something else was taking place. Near the base of a cliff, two groups pressed against each other over a watering hole. Low growls, and the sound of stone striking stone. Several fell and did not rise. The rest scattered, disappearing into the scrub. The struggle was brief. No one remained at the watering hole when it was over.

The one did not hear it. The river was loud.

A fish lay beneath a stone. The one tried to pin it with bare hands and let it go. The water was cold, and they stood ankle-deep in it. They knelt and reached again.

They were hungry.

It was a time of abundance. Game was plentiful, and seed-grass still remained. Yet the groups had multiplied as well. Multiple groups were drawn to a single watering hole, and pressure arose somewhere, always. Plenty breeds conflict. Or perhaps it was precisely because there was plenty that conflict became possible.

A child was born into the one's group. The mother was a young woman. She stopped moving shortly after the birth. The child cried. Someone lifted it. Not the one. The one watched from a distance, sitting on the ground, hands resting on their knees, saying nothing.

It was the year of their thirty-third.

There was a place where the river divided. It split in two, and one branch disappeared beneath the rocks. That branch was the louder of the two.

The one lay down near the rocks. Their belly was full. The sky began to darken and the insects grew loud. They lay with one arm beneath their head, eyes open. The sound of the river continued.

A child from another group wandered in. It was very young, unsteady on its feet. A woman from the one's group approached. She looked at the child. She smelled it. She sent it back. The child walked away crying, in the direction it had come from.

The one watched.

Toward the end of the year they turned thirty-six, the one had been pushed to the edges of the group. They knew too much of something. No one could say what it was they knew. There were no words for it. But the center of the group drew away from the one.

In the division of food, the one's share grew smaller. The place they slept moved to the outer edge. They were directed to positions farther from the fire.

One night, the one slept outside the circle of the group.

They did not return.

No one had seen what happened. It was dark. Somewhere in the distance, something growled. In the morning, where the one had lain, the grass bore the marks of something dragged.

The river flowed on, unchanged.

Hunger.

This one moved toward the fire. A larger person shoved a shoulder. This one stepped back. Moved closer again. This time an arm was seized, and this one was dragged and pushed to the edge.

Sat down.

In the distance, two people were struggling. One fell. The one who fell got up, wiped a bleeding mouth with a forearm, and walked off in another direction.

This one drew the knees in close.

Night came. The fire grew distant. This one was in a place where its light no longer reached. The ground was cold. The stomach made a sound.

Something seemed to pass along the left side of this one's ear.

The wind, perhaps. It was warm. It seemed to have come from beyond the rock.

This one did not turn around.

There was no reason to turn around.

The night deepened. At the center of the group, someone let out a low groan, someone laughed, and the fire swayed.

This one lay down on the ground and looked up.

There were many points of light.

This one did not know their names. There were no words yet for counting them. They were simply seen.

The eyes grew heavy, and closed.

Morning came. This one was alive.

The hunger was a little worse than the night before.

The cold came.

At first, only at night. By morning it would return. The one knew this. For more than forty years, morning had always returned.

Then it stopped returning.

Breath turned white even at midday. The grass yellowed and stood yellowed and still, and eventually broke. The tracks of animals grew sparse. A film spread over the surface of the water hole. The one stepped through it with one foot. It cracked. Water seeped up. It was drunk.

The members of the group began to move. Where, they could not say. There were no words for it. They simply began walking, and divided into those who followed and those who stayed behind. The one followed.

Three days of walking. The soles of the feet split open.

On the fifth day, someone collapsed. Did not rise.

The group shrank. Night by night, it shrank. The young disappeared first. The old disappeared next. The cold was not equal. It took the slight ones first.

The one was slight.

One morning, rising was impossible. There was no strength in the legs. A hand was pressed to a rock. It was cold. That was all that could be felt.

Someone nearby let out a low groan. Tried to pass something over. Whether it was meat or hide, it was no longer possible to tell. The one did not take it. The hands would not move.

The sky was white.

Not with clouds. The sky itself was white. The one looked at it. And while looking, stopped looking.

Beside the rock, the body grew cold. The one nearby went on groaning for a while, and then stopped.

The child does not think that fire is alive.

There are no words, so there is no thinking in that way. The child only knows the state in which fire exists and the state in which it does not. Nights when there is fire are not cold. Mornings when there is no fire are frightening.

Before dawn, while keeping watch, the child had nearly fallen asleep.

The wind came. It entered from the left ear, that kind of wind, and the body came back a little. The child pulled at a bundle of grass. It was the damp side, but the pulling was already done. The fire breathed out white smoke. The child stepped back. Thought it would go out.

It did not go out.

The color of the smoke changed, and the orange returned. The child stayed crouched and did not move. There was sand on the knees. The stomach was empty.

When morning came, one of the adults in the group looked at the fire. The adult said nothing. Saying nothing was this group's form of approval. The child did not understand that, but something deep in the belly loosened, just a little.

At midday, an older child grabbed the child's arm. There was no understanding why. The arm reddened where it had been gripped, and went on aching even after it was released.

In the evening, the child went alone to drink water. At a shallow crossing in the river, a child of the archaic humans stood on the opposite bank. The river was about seven strides wide. The archaic child did not move. The child did not move either.

The two of them existed within the sound of the water.

Which one left first, the child forgot almost immediately.

The pack was heavy.

The shoulder ached. Walking at the back of the line, this one stepped into the footprints of the one ahead. Stepped, and stepped again.

Once, this one looked back toward the east. The smoke was gone. This one faced forward.

The dry season ended at the eastern edge of the grasslands.

The color of the sky changed. From a pale blue to a heavy blue. The humidity returned, and the grass grew to knee height. Animal tracks were pressed into the earth everywhere—a herd of wildebeest had come down from the north. Hoof prints in the mud. Beside the watering hole, dozens of long-billed birds stood in silence.

The one was beside the fire.

In a hollow dug at the center of the group's camp, on a floor of mixed charcoal and ash, the fire burned low. The one's work was to keep this fire from dying. Add wood. Step back when it burned too strong. Blow when it grew weak. It had been this way for years. The body knew first—how far the fire could fall before it became dangerous, which wood burned long, from which direction the wind would come.

For five days, rain continued.

The river overflowed, and the camp in the lowland was swallowed by water. Half the group moved to higher ground. There were those who climbed the slope with animal hides pulled over their heads, children held against their chests. One elder waded into the water up to their knees and stopped moving. Someone pulled. The one did not move. By morning, the one was gone. Only the sound of the river went on.

The one moved with the fire.

Wrapping embers in a bundle of thick leaves, carrying it against the chest. Fell. Rose. Walked again. When the high ground was reached, the embers were still breathing. A thin thread of smoke rose from between the leaves. The one set it on the ground. Knelt. Brought the face close and blew.

The fire returned.

The others gathered. Adults and children alike. They stood around the one. No one said anything. They only watched the fire. The one, too, watched the fire.

To the east, a group of archaic humans were on the move.

More than fifty of them. They too were fleeing the rain. They were heading in the same direction—toward the hill with the high rock shelf. The same place the group of modern humans was heading. The bodies of the archaic ones were large. Broad shoulders, short necks, brow ridges that jutted forward. Their fire was burning too—a red point visible in the distance.

A tension moved through the group.

An elder male raised his arm. The one understood what that motion meant. Stop. Wait. Look at that fire. The young males picked up stones. The one did not leave the fire. Leaving the fire was not yet something that could be thought.

The archaic group stopped.

They were watching. For a while, neither side moved. The wind moved through the grass. From somewhere in the grassland came a sound like the lowing of wildebeest. One of the archaic ones—a large female—placed something on the ground. Set it down, and stepped back.

The one could not see what had been placed.

The elder male stepped forward. He walked slowly to that place. Crouched down. Stood up. He was holding something—a bone. A thin animal bone with deep marks carved into it. Lines, carved again and again. What they meant, no one could say. The elder male stood holding the bone, motionless.

The rain stopped.

As if a hole had opened in the sky, light came down. It lit the slope of the hill and fell upon the place where the archaic ones had set their offering. There was nothing there now. Only the light, illuminating the ground.

The one watched that light.

Something passed through the inside of the chest. Not heat. Not pain. A feeling different from watching fire. There was a wish to look once more at the place where that light had fallen. But the feet did not move. There is the fire. I cannot leave.

That night, two fires burned on the hill.

The fire of the modern humans and the fire of the archaic ones. The distance between them was just beyond the reach of a thrown stone. Each watched the other. Neither came closer.

The one stayed awake through the night.

Beyond the fire, a red point was visible. Someone over there was doing the same thing in the same way. Adding wood. Blowing when it grew weak. The one looked toward it once, and then looked back at the fire at hand.

By dawn, the archaic group had vanished.

The elder male kept the bone. It passed through the group—everyone touched it. They traced the carved marks with their fingers. The one touched it too. It was cold. Hard. The carved marks caught against the pad of the finger.

The one remembered that feeling for a long time.

The rain scarcely stopped for five years.

From south to north across the land, clouds gathered and piled upon each other, and water spilled. Hollows in the grassland filled, and grass covered the ground. Birds stripped the trees before the fruit could fall, and still enough remained that it rolled underfoot. Animals fattened, bore young, and fattened again.

The one stayed close to the fire.

When this had begun, the one could not say. To come to awareness was already to be there. When the tip of a burning branch turned white and began to crumble, another was pressed in before it fell. That repetition. There were movements the hands already knew.

On the western shore, waves broke white. Something large lay on the sand, and birds gathered around it. The far side of the water was not visible. Only the line where sea met sky continued, trembling.

To the east, a group of the old people slept in the shelter of rock. The frames of adults. Shoulders broad, brows heavy. The shape of the face was different. But they knew the smell of fire. When they caught smoke on the air, they turned toward it.

There was still distance between them and the one's group.

Some nights, through the grass, the other group's smoke was visible.

The year before, the one had carried a small thing for the first time.

Someone had pressed it into the one's arms. It was heavy. It was warm. At night, held close against the back, something beat within it. That the beating might stop was not something the one knew. There had been no need to know it then.

The fire swayed.

Wind came from a direction, and with it something else — not the smell of scorched grass, not the smell of wet hide, but something sharper, something from farther away.

The one stood.

Two steps back from the fire. Facing the direction of the smell. Darkness. The grass was moving. The wind shifted.

Across the grassland, another fire burned.

It belonged to a group. Not this one's group. The shape was different. The way the flames rose was different. This group laid branches in a triangle. The other laid them side by side. No one knew this difference existed.

The tension over the watering place had grown quiet in this season, as it always did. The abundance of food made conflict less necessary. Less necessary, but not gone.

Within the group, one man with thick arms turned each morning to look in that direction.

The small thing the one had carried began to walk in the year of heavy rain.

Its steps were unsteady, and each time it fell it made a sound. The one did not reach out. Watched. Watched it fall, watched it rise. Watched it fall again.

When it stood, the small thing turned and looked toward the one.

The one said nothing. There were no words. But something small moved in the back of the throat. A sound that had not been intended.

And then the end of summer in the fifth year.

On the last night that rain had fallen without cease over the grassland, the flames of the other group flared and swayed in the distance. Voices carried across. Whether they were shouts or something like song, the one could not tell. Only that sound had come. Across the night grassland.

The one kept watch over the fire and listened.

The small thing slept. The thick-armed man was awake, facing the dark. Two old women sat chewing grass, watching something.

No one moved.

The voices stopped. The wind shifted. Quiet returned.

The one looked at the burning branch.

It had never seemed that there were shapes inside the fire. That there was meaning. Only heat. Only light. The trouble if it went out. Nothing more.

But tonight, the tip of a nearly spent branch held its glow for a strange, long moment. White and thin, it grew brightest just before the end, and then went dark.

The one watched this.

Watched it, and slept.

Tending the fire was dull work.

A branch pushed into the edge of the flame. Then another. The tip would blacken, then whiten, then crumble and fall. This one watched the cycle without tiring of it. For five years, without anyone asking, the fire had never gone out.

The smoke shifted.

The one did not look up. Then did.

Northwest. The direction where the rocks lay piled. Nothing there.

A hand reached for another branch and stopped. It was not the sound itself. It was the way the sound lingered. Something settling into the air. Like the breath of an animal, and yet not — something larger, whose presence pressed against the skin.

Standing up.

Three steps from the fire, then back. The fire must not be left. That much was known.

Sitting back down. But the body remained turned toward the rocks.

The elder of the group was nearby, stripping hide from something. The one drew breath to call out, then did not. It was not that there were no words for it. It was the need to know first, before the words.

Eyes moved back and forth across the darkness between the rocks.

Nothing moved.

Night came. The fire trembled. In the distance, the fires of another group were visible — more of them than before, and closer than before. The one did not count them. Only felt that the night was brighter than it used to be.

Brighter, and yet something heavy sat in the belly.

Another branch pressed into the flame. The whitened tip crumbled away.

Tending the fire was work done alone.

Sitting at the edge of the band, watching the wood burn. Heat moved from the knees up into the thighs. The dry season's midday was hot, but letting the fire die meant trouble in the night. The body knew this much, and nothing more was needed.

A voice rose from the center of the band.

The sound of someone pushing someone. A low growl, then a higher sound, then low again. The one looked up. The circle of people was shifting. Inside it was the one who had been at the center until yesterday. Today that one had been pushed to the edge.

Who had done the pushing — the one knew.

For some time now, those eyes had come this way too. While tending the fire. While returning from the water. While receiving food. Nothing wrong had been done, and still the eyes came.

A voice rose from inside the circle. High, cutting.

The one stood.

Whether to sit or stand — the body had already decided. The wood smoldered. Smoke drifted toward the one's face and stung the eyes.

The one squinted.

The circle shifted. The one who had been at the center until yesterday came out of it. Not slowly — more like tumbling. Hands hit the sand. Did not rise. It was not that rising was impossible. It was a way of falling that looked like the reason to rise had been lost.

The one stood between the fire and the circle.

Those eyes came this way.

The one did not move. It was not courage that held the one still. The feet had not yet decided where to go.

The circle shifted again. Something in its movement suggested it was coming this way.

The one's body turned toward the rocks. At the edge of the band, beyond the fire, where stones had piled and stacked. A place that stayed in shadow even at midday. As a child, there had been playing there. Between the rocks, a gap — just enough for a body to pass through.

The feet began moving that way.

A voice followed.

The one ran. Entered the gap between the rocks. The body passed through. Came out the other side. Grass struck against the ankles. Did not look back.

It was not wisdom that kept the one from looking back.

Only this: the body was already facing the open grassland ahead.

Where to go — unknown. The feet moved toward a place that had no name. Behind, a voice. The sound of a body forcing itself through the gap. Farther back, from the fire of the archaic band, smoke still rose.

The one's feet did not stop.

In the morning, the fire had grown small.

The one pressed a smoldering edge with a foot. The red returned. Both hands were held out toward it, testing the heat. A small thing, but repeated for nearly thirty years. The palms knew the relationship between warmth and distance. Not the mind — the skin knew.

Among the group, the one was among the oldest. Could not run. Could not carry heavy things. Still, the watching of the fire went on. While others slept, this one alone kept eyes open.

Past midday, two children were trying to climb the slope. The one let out a low sound. Tried to stop them. The children did not look back.

The one stood up. For the first time in a long while, moved with urgency.

Partway up the slope, rock jutted outward. The dry season had stretched on, and the soil had given way. The one had not known this. Or had known, and forgotten.

A foot slipped.

The fall was short, but the back struck rock. A sound rose — dull and heavy.

The children turned. They saw the one stopped partway down the slope. Still. Not moving.

Toward evening, someone carried the one to the fire.

There was breath. The eyes were open. But something had changed. The legs would not move. Something beneath the back had broken. There seemed to be pain — the brow was drawn together. But no sound came.

The fire swayed. The one watched it.

Each time the flames moved, the shadows shifted. Eyes that had watched fire for more than thirty years followed them. Eyes that knew fire was still fire, whatever shape it took.

Night came.

The fire turned pale. The wood was nearly spent. Someone added more. The flames returned.

The one's eyes were still open.

But in the middle of the night, the flames swayed. There was no wind, and yet they swayed.

The chest rose once, deeply, for the last time — and then was still.

Only the fire remained. Someone kept watch. Until morning, it did not go out.

Outside the rock, there were voices.

Low voices. Sounds close to anger. Feet striking the ground.

The one made the body small. Drew back into the depths of the crack, to the place where the back touched the cold wall. Tried to stop breathing. Could not. Only a little, through the nose, making no sound.

The voices outside grew louder. Another voice joined them. Something struck stone.

The one pulled the knees in close. There was a smell of earth. The smell of wet rock, coming from deep within. It was dark. When the light no longer reached, it felt as though the eyes disappeared. But the ears remained. The soles of the feet remained. The cold ground was passing something along.

The sounds outside grew distant.

For a time, the one did not move. Hunger was there. The remains of yesterday had not been eaten. But there was no going out.

A single set of footsteps passed near the entrance to the crack. Stopped. Moved again. Moved away.

The one did not pull the back from the wall.

Toward evening, the color of the light changed. Through the entrance of the crack, a faint orange entered. The one watched it. Color came to the surface of the rock. The uneven wall seemed, just briefly, to have a face.

The one reached out and touched the wall.

One rough point was traced again and again. Not trying to carve anything. Only touching. Only the fingers remembering.

The bone was heavy.

Sand clung to it. It was brushed away. Brushed away again.

The surface was smooth. The edges were thin. The one traced the rim with a thumb. Again and again. Held it up against the firelight. The light did not pass through.

A hand moved to set it down. Did not set it down.

When the night had grown deep, the one was still holding the bone.

Lying beside the river.

The sand was still cold. Morning sand. Sand that had drawn all the chill of the night into itself pressed against the back. The one did not move. It was not that moving was impossible. Simply, there was no reason to be found for it.

How many days ago had the fever begun.

Someone in the group had fallen first. Clutching their stomach, bringing up water. The one had watched from a distance. Had not drawn closer. Not out of any sense of danger. Simply watched.

Then came the pain in the stomach.

At first it was a faint pain. Like an ankle turned on a stone — given a little time, it would pass, or so it seemed. It did not pass. The fever came. It rose, eased a little, returned. The one sat down near the river and drank. It was known that drinking water brought relief. The water brought no relief.

An older woman in the group came near several times.

She brought a bundle of wet grass. Held it to the forehead. The grass was cool. The one narrowed their eyes. The woman said nothing. The one said nothing.

Two days passed.

The one watched the current of the river. Water striking stone, breaking white, flowing on again. The same thing, repeated. There was no weariness of it. There was not enough concentration for weariness. It was simply there, within sight.

The pain in the stomach changed.

It became a heaviness, as though something had hardened deep inside. The fever held high and did not let go. At night, shivering. Curled up on the sand. Knees drawn in, the body made small.

Before dawn, the woman came again.

She tried to lead the one to the fire. The one shook their head. There was no reason. This place was right. The sound of the river was here. The woman sat beside the one for a little while, then returned to the others.

Morning light fell across the surface of the water.

The one's eyes were open. On the far bank, grass swayed in the wind. At the base of the grass, a small bird landed. Pecked once, and flew. The one watched it.

The hardness in the stomach spread, slowly, like a seeping warmth.

The one drew a long breath. Held it, just briefly.

And did not let it go.

On the morning the rains stopped, a smell rose from the ground.

Something heavy and sweet and muddy, pressing into the back of the nose.

The one stopped walking.

The others in the group had gone ahead. Stepping out from the gathering line was uncommon. There was fear of being left behind. But this one's nose could not release that smell.

The ground was pressed underfoot. It was soft. Digging began. Black soil worked its way beneath the fingernails. More digging. Then with a stone.

A bulb came free.

Round and white, still wearing its dirt. This one smelled it. Touched it with the tongue. Put it in the mouth and bit down, gently.

It was sweet.

More digging. More bulbs than both hands could carry came out of the earth.

On the way back to the group, this one ran with the bulbs held close to the body. A few fell. They were gathered up again. Then came more running.

An old woman in the group saw the bulbs. She cried out. Others gathered. The bulbs were taken, one after another, from this one's hands. This one said nothing.

That night they ate by the fire. Not one bulb remained in this one's hands. The stomach was empty.

The next morning, this one walked again in the same direction.

A strong man from the group followed behind. He looked at the place where this one had dug. Then he took hold of this one's arm. He dragged.

This one was brought to the edge of the group's camp.

The man's fist struck the jaw. This one fell. A cheek pressed against the soil. The earth smelled of rain just passed. It was the same smell as before.

The season of fruit did not end.

High in the trees, round orange things clustered together, fell, were crushed underfoot, and seeped their sweet rot into the ground. The one came there every day. Kneeling, gathering the fruit in both hands, stuffing it into the leather pouch tied at the waist. When the pouch grew heavy, the shoulders curved forward. That was the work. The work of one who could not join the hunt.

The one knew there was another group on the eastern hill.

Knew is perhaps too strong a word — it was more that the smell of smoke came on the wind. That the footprints were a different shape. That sometimes a shadow stood at the hill's edge, looking across. The shadow did not move. The one did not move. That much passed between them, more than once.

One morning, descending the stone steps along the river, a foot slipped on wet rock.

It was over in an instant.

The knee twisted outward, the hips spun, and the one tumbled down the slope. The edge of a boulder struck the side. The water was close. There was no stopping.

When the river took hold, the water was cold.

The current was not swift. But the bottom could not be seen. The one reached for the bank. Fingers scraped across the face of the rock. A nail tore free. Still the hand moved.

Then it stopped.

On the surface of the water floated fragments of fruit. Whether someone had crushed them underfoot, or whether they had drifted down from upstream, there was no way to know. The orange rind soaked through with water and slowly sank.