297,725 BCE – 297,605 BCE | Episodes 457–480

Watching the pool from a distance.

The archaic bodies are drinking. Their fur shifts. No sound.

The feet drew back, just slightly. Then stopped, drawn back still.

Water was needed. The throat had tightened deep inside. But the feet would not move.

They settled down in the shadow of a rock.

Looked up at the sky. Clouds were moving. The sound of water reached them. At the pool's edge, a bird lifted its wings.

The stone split.

The sound came to the palm. Came to the bone. Came up to the elbow.
The one did not let go.

Once more, struck it.

A crack ran through. Not straight. Curving slightly, stopping at the edge of the stone. The one studied that stopping — not with eyes, but touching the rim as though seeing with fingertips.

It was sharp.

The one has no word for *cuts*. But the one knows that feeling. The thumb went white, then red, then welled. The one put the finger to the mouth. Licked it. Touched the rim again. It welled again.

The one made a low sound. Short and low.

Among the group, there were others who split stone. Adults. They knew how to strike — where to strike, at what angle, which stone to choose. The one did not yet know. And not knowing, kept striking.

Today, a stone split.

The one took the split stone in both hands and stood. Wanted to show someone. Anyone would do.

Nearby, a young woman stood. A child was bound to her back, still small, asleep. The one approached. Held out the stone. Made a sound.

The woman glanced. Looked away at once.

The one lowered the stone.

Stood there for a while, just like that. Still holding the stone. The woman moved away. The child's back swayed. The one looked at the stone. Traced the sharp rim again with fingertips. It welled again.

The one sat down.
Struck again.

This time it did not go well. The stone shattered, fragments flew, and one entered the mouth. It struck the tongue. The one spat it out and glared at the ground.

Fragments lay scattered across the ground.

The one began picking them up, one by one. Large ones, small ones, thin ones, thick ones. Gathered them, arranged them in the hand. The arrangement had no meaning. Only arranged them.

One alone was sharp.

Smaller than the first stone that had split. But the edge was thin, and in the light it gleamed faintly.

The one took it and stood.

Had not decided where to go.
But walked.

To the east of the plateau, there is a cliff. A low cliff — even a child could descend it. Below the cliff, a thin thread of water runs. Water that runs only after rain. Now it was running.

The one stood at the edge of the cliff.

Looked down. Water moved over the stones. White, and hurrying.

The one looked at the stone in the hand.
Looked at the water.
Looked at the stone.

Moved to descend. Put the left foot forward. The earth gave way.

The one's body tilted forward.

A hand reached for the rock. Could not hold it.

The body fell.

The falling was brief.
There was a sound.
The water leapt.
The white water rose once, largely, and was still.

Then returned to its flowing.

The stone lay beneath the water, its sharp edge facing upward.
The one's hand still held it.

The sky cleared.

The dry season had stretched on, and the grass roots lay bare. The riverbed had narrowed, and there was only one place left to drink. The ancient ones came there too. Large skulls, shoulders that jutted outward past the knees. They approached without sound.

The one stopped at the edge of the water.

The stomach was turning. The throat was parched. Still, the feet would not move forward. One of the ancient ones was looking over. Their eyes met. The one held their breath.

In the rocky highlands, animals had begun to move. On a morning when frost had fallen, three children from a certain group came drifting down the river. No one went after them. The river carried them in silence.

In the one's right hand was a stone.

It had been split five days before. The edge was sharp. Not straight. But sharp. When pressed with the pad of a finger, it drew color. The one touched it every morning. And again before sleep. There was no means to put into words why.

A cry rose from within the group.

The ancient ones came to the water. There were many of them. Growls and the clearing of throats and something being struck. The adults of the one's group fell back. A woman carrying a child ran. An old man fell, and no one raised him. The one slipped behind a rock.

Still gripping the stone, breathing in silence.

The struggle at the water ended quickly. A little blood was spilled. Three loud cries rang out, and the ancient ones left. What remained was churned sand, and one who had fallen and stayed fallen. The one drew closer. It was a known face. The chest was not moving. Sand had begun, little by little, to cover the cheek. The wind had stopped.

The one brought out the edge of the stone.

Pressed it against the shoulder of the fallen one. No movement. Pressed again. The fallen one's eyes were half open. The one brought the stone to rest there. Gently. Not to cut. Only to touch. As though to confirm something.

Then stood.

Turned back toward the group, then stopped. Turned around. Came back again. Still holding the stone, sat down beside the fallen one. The sand shifted slightly in the wind. The one set the stone on the ground. Picked it up. Set it down again.

Then the light came.

Through a break in the clouds, a narrow shaft fell. It landed on the edge of a stone on the ground. That uneven, imperfect edge. The light moved along the edge. The one's eyes followed it.

A voice called from the group.

The one stood. Gripped the stone. Walked. Did not go back. Did not look back. But walking, the fingers kept touching the edge of the stone. With every step, touching it.

Three years passed.

Each dry season, voices rose at the water. Each time the ancient ones were met, someone from the one's group returned bearing a wound. The one returned without wounds. There was talk that it was because the stone had been shown. The stone. Shown. That alone.

But within the group, something in the voices changed.

The way they looked at what the one carried changed. The growling increased. An old man watched the one's hands again and again. Each time the one brought out the stone, someone drew back. Someone stepped forward. A man with a loud voice came close and seized the one's hand. He tried to take the stone.

The one did not let go.

The loud man bellowed. Called to his companions. The one ran. Through the grass. Pursued. The feet were fast. Still young. Tripped on a root. Rose. Ran again.

The sounds of pursuit grew distant.

The one came to the riverbank. Water ran in a thin stream. Knelt. Drank. Still holding the stone. Looked at the face reflected in the water. The water trembled slightly. The face in it wavered. The one watched this.

For a long time, watching.

There was no returning to the group.

Solitude went on. Fruit was eaten. Roots were dug. At night, shelter beneath the rocks. The stone was always close at hand.

In the winter of the twenty-seventh year, walking along the river, the one came upon the loud man and three others.

Surrounded.

The one brought out the stone. Showed that something bright was held. But this time the loud man did not draw back. He had companions with him. The one ran. Along the rocky riverbank. A foot slipped.

The sound of water came.

Then, silence.

On the night the rain came, a body lay curled at the back of a hollow.

A sound. Something falling outside. A beast, or a tree. The body went still. Breathing grew shallow. The sound ceased. Once more there was only the sound of rain.

In the morning, stepping outside, one tree had fallen. Its roots had lifted from the ground, and the earth had split open. The one touched the end of the roots. They were slick. Soil remained on the fingers. It was brought close and smelled. It was different from the smell inside the hollow.

The river had water in it again.

There was no running. Only walking. Lately, being seen to hurry felt as though it changed something. Why, there was no knowing. The body simply moved that way.

At the river's edge there were stones. Rounded stones and flat stones. The one picked up two, one at a time, held them. Set them down. Picked them up again.

One from the group came near. Looked at the stones in the one's hands. Made no sound. And moved away.

The one threw a stone into the river. The rounded one only. The flat one was carried home.

That night, inside the hollow, the flat stone was laid beneath the chest. It was not warm. But something settled.

Outside, someone let out a low sound. Not anger — a sound of wariness. The one held still, breath drawn in. Gripping the stone, eyes open.

The night went on.

Returning to the fire, the one sat and drew both knees close.

The smell from downstream still lingered. No one spoke of how the elder man's hand had trembled. The one did not speak of it either. There were no sounds yet for such things. Only sitting there, knees held close, watching the fire grow small.

There was a smell of meat.

The one raised their nose. Moved their eyes. The adults were gathered close, tearing at something beside the fire. Bones cracked. A child moved into the circle, received a piece of meat, and ran.

The one sat outside the circle.

They stood. Their feet would not move. They stood there, still. Someone in the circle turned and looked. The gaze touched the one, then turned back.

The one sat down again.

They picked up a stone. Set it on the ground. Picked it up again.

The next morning, at the watering place, the one came upon one of the old people. Short, with a different face. They appeared older than the one. The old person was drinking. The one also wanted to drink. They stood apart for a while. The old person raised their face and looked at the one. Did not growl. Looked away.

The one moved closer. Drank.

The old person was still there.

The one finished and stood. The old person was watching. The one watched back. Neither moved. The old person turned and walked away first.

The one remained at the water's edge for a long time.

The sound of the water kept going. The one could feel the mud beneath their feet slowly giving way under their weight. Sinking, slowly, little by little. They pulled their foot free. The mud made a sound.

They sank again. Pulled free again.

This repeated several times.

Then the one returned to the group.

That night, the adults formed a circle. The one sat outside it. There was a smell of meat. The same smell as the night before. The one looked toward the circle. A child came running out. They ran into the one. The child fell. They were holding a piece of meat in their hand.

The one looked at the child. The child did not cry. They picked up the meat and ran again.

The one looked at their own open hand. There was nothing in it.

There was a hollowness at the pit of the stomach.

The first time it happened was at the start of the dry season. The soil around the watering hole turned white, the seed heads of the grass snapped and fell. The tracks of prey vanished. Among the group, the oldest began to slow first.

The one was forty-two. An age that counted among the elder of the group.

Watching the adults scatter beyond the rock face, the one followed. The legs moved. The knees ached, but they moved. Roots were dug. The earth was hard, and the fingers split. They dug on, fingers split open and all.

The one did what had been learned by watching, long ago in childhood.

Strike a heavy stone against the edge of a narrow one. A flake falls away. The edge sharpens. Use that edge to scrape the skin from a root. Eat the white flesh inside. Bitter. Swallow it.

This was repeated, again and again.

Two years passed. Three years passed. Half the group did not return. The one remembered those who had not come back. They could not be called by name. There were no names. Their faces were remembered. Their smells were remembered.

At the start of the fourth year, the one's pace slowed.

Running was no longer possible. Keeping up with the group's movements became impossible. In the mornings, rising took a long time. There were moments when the arms would not lift.

Still, the one held the stone.

Held it for as long as holding was possible.

At the end of the fourth year, the one sat down beneath a rock shelf. It was not that rising was impossible. It was that the one chose not to rise.

The sky was white.

There were no clouds. Only whiteness.

The wind blew. A dry wind. Sand skipped and struck the one's face. Eyes narrowed.

The wind stopped.

The one looked at the stone held in the hand. A small stone. The reason for holding it so long was unclear. It had simply always been there. It had worn itself into the shape of the fingers.

It was set down.

Picked up again.

Set down.

And left there.

The sun tilted. The shadow of the rock shelf grew long. The shadow covered the one's feet, then the stomach, then the chest.

The group was somewhere far away.

It seemed as though the voices of the group could be heard, coming from somewhere. Or perhaps they could not.

The strength left the one's body. Slowly, evenly, draining from one end to the other.

Beneath the rock shelf, the one turned onto one side.

The sand was warm.

At dawn, the one went out into the grassland.

Going ahead was the role this one carried. Before the group moved, the path had to be read. Were there animals nearby. Where was water. Had the ground given way anywhere.

The grass was tall. Stalks grown to hip height, chest height, swayed in the morning light.

Three steps out, the one stopped.

There were no words to explain why. Only the stopping.

Eyes followed a cluster of grass. The dew was bright. Each drop was round, bending the blade with its weight. Among them was a shape that had been pressed flat.

Crouched down. Reached out a hand. Parted the grass.

The earth had been disturbed. The form of a large foot. Between the toes, the marks of claws.

Something changed inside. Not in the chest — more a sensation of being pulled from deep within the back.

Stood up. Turned around.

Did not run. Knew that running made noise. Hands parting the grass stalks, body held low, the one moved back along the way that had been come.

Reached the group.

Made a sound. Low, brief. Then raised one arm — holding the palm outward, as if pressing against the air ahead.

The group went still.

That was all. It was enough.

Through a grassland where the grass came up to the waist, the one was walking.

This one's role was to go ahead. To find danger and call out a warning. That was this one's place within the group.

The wind shifted. A cool wind came from the side.

The one did not stop. Kept walking, eyes forward.

Behind, the voices of children. Listening to them, walking still.

Morning on the grassland comes through the soles of the feet.

The one read the pressure of the grass from heel to toe. Grass heavy with moisture means deep roots. Where roots run deep, animals come. Where animals come, there is food. No one in the group had taught this. The one simply went to those places. Came back. Three years of that repetition alone shaped the muscles of the one's legs.

The group had grown.

Four women were heavy with child. Seven others carried infants bound to their backs. It was proof that the food had held. And yet, something harder had crept into the spaces between faces. Whose share was this. Which direction would they go. Growls lasted longer. Gestures turned rough.

The one watched all of this from a little distance.

At some point, the one had begun walking just outside the group. Not as a scout — but because when the density of bodies rose too high, something tightened inside. A feeling deep in the body. Not in the chest. Lower. A clenching at the core of the belly.

One day, the man who held the standing of elder fixed the one with a hard stare.

There was no reason. Or the reason could not be put into words. But the look carried something instinctive — a wariness toward the one who knew too much about the places beyond. Where do you go. Why do you return alone. The group follows the direction you point to too readily.

The morning after, two men followed the one to the river to fetch water.

On the bank, the one was kneeling. A hand placed in the water. The water was cold.

By the time the one sensed them, it was already too late.

The sound of the stone meeting the side of the head was dull and low. The one pitched forward toward the water, and the face touched the surface of the river. Only the cold remained, for a while.

Then even that was gone.

The water went on flowing.

The load being carried is something packed inside a hide bag. What is inside is unknown. It is heavy.

Carrying heavy things was this one's work. Small but strong, the adults conveyed with their voices — a low rumble, a palm striking the shoulder. That this was praise was something the one already knew.

The slope went on. The sensation of rock pushing back against the soles of the feet. A small stone catching at the heel. The one walked with eyes downcast.

The back of the neck grew cool.

Air was coming from somewhere other than the direction the group was heading. The one raised their face. Between two rocks, there was a dark cleft. Wind was coming from within it.

The group moved on. The backs of the adults drew farther ahead.

The one looked at the cleft in the rock. Looked, then shifted the load back into place on their shoulders. Began walking again.

But after three steps, they turned back once more, just once.

The cleft remained dark. The wind was still coming.

The one made a sound inside their mouth — not a rumble, but a short sound, like breath pushed outward. Then they ran to follow the group.

The load swayed and knocked against their back as they ran.

The load was heavy.

Layers of hide bundled together, bound to the back — the one climbed the slope. The soles of the feet read the softness of the earth. Rain might come again. The underside of the sky had gone pale and clouded.

The group had grown.

When the one was a child, there were not so many faces gathered around the night fire. Now there was no room to sit even at the edges, and those pushed out ate their meat in the dark. The one was always at the edge. Not among those who pushed, but among those who were pushed.

Carry the load. Tend the fire.

That was this one's place.

Halfway up the slope, the one sat down. Not because the load was heavy. It was because something had appeared to catch the eye beyond the grass. No — not the eye. The nose. A faint mingling of pre-rain earth and something else, something other.

The one's nostrils moved.

It was coming from above the water source the group used. Closer to where the current began. A direction almost no one ever went. There was a fissure in a large rock out that way, where water collected when it rained and vanished in the dry season.

The smell was gone.

The one stood, resettled the load, and climbed the slope. When the group's camp was reached, the sound of the heavy bundle dropping to the ground was heard by no one.

That night, tending the fire, the one kept looking toward the water source.

The flames shifted. Wind was moving through. From above.

The one narrowed both eyes. What was being sought — even the one did not know. To look away from the fire was not permitted. And yet half of the one's body was already somewhere beyond the dark grassland.

The next morning, before carrying the load, the one went to the rock fissure.

No one was told.

Water had collected there. It was clear. Nothing like the clouded water source the group used. The one touched it. Cold. Leaned in close and drank.

That was all.

On the way back, the one picked up a stone. There was no particular need for it. Only the wanting to hold it in the hand. The one descended the slope, the stone held in the grip.

The wind shifted.

The one stopped, still bearing the load.

A scent reached them. Not grass. Something in motion — that was the smell. Not an animal. Something larger approaching. That was the sense of it.

The one looked back. Two from the group were watching. Their eyes met. Neither looked away.

The one set down the load. Slowly. Without sound.

Something had been decided within the group. The one had not known. Had not known that those who learned too much were made to disappear. Had not known that what was overheard while tending the fire — the things seen in growls and gestures, the things that must not be passed on — had already sealed it.

A stone came.

It struck the side of the head. The one did not fall. Staggered. Another stone came. The shoulder, this time.

Running.

The load left behind, running. Grass struck at the ankles. The ground went soft, then hard again. Down a slope, gone beyond the hillside. Voices gave chase for a time, then fell away.

In the undergrowth, the one sank to both knees.

Breathing ragged. Shoulder burning. Something wet traced a path beside the ear. Touched — it was red.

The smell of grass was strong. The wind came from that direction.

The one stood.

No load. No group. No fire. Only feet remained.

Walking.

Toward where the grass moved, simply walking. Without looking back. The one had no words for turning back.

The season of heavy rains had ended, and the grass had grown to the knee.

The one walked at the edge of the group. It was always this way. The smallest walk at the edge. With a bundle strapped to their back, they stepped into the footprints of those who went ahead. To step outside them meant wet grass, feet sinking to the ankle.

Food was plentiful. Nuts weighed down the branches. Herds of animals moved along the riverbanks. There was no hunger. But the group had grown too large. More voices. Elbows touching. Not enough room to sleep.

The one knew this. Knew it — or rather, felt it.

When the larger ones gathered and murmured among themselves in low tones, those murmurs had a direction. Eyes moved a certain way. The one had learned to read the movement of those eyes. Who looked at whom. Who did not. And sometimes, the not-looking meant something.

That night, the one kept watch over the fire.

When the flames sank low, more wood was laid on. Smoke rose. Something was mixed into that smoke. Not the smell of sweet grass burning. Not the smell of fat from meat. The one's nose moved.

The wind was coming from the south.

The one stood. Turned toward the darkness in the south. Nothing could be seen. But the smell continued. The one took a step — south.

And there they were.

Others, from a different group, lying low in the grass. Several bodies, folded into the dark. The one opened their mouth to cry out.

Something came from behind.

There was no sound.

The one fell into the grass. The knees touched down first. Then the face met the earth. There was the smell of damp soil. The roots of grass pressed against the cheek.

The eyes remained open.

The southern sky had begun, faintly, to pale.

The fire was still burning.

They ran.

A voice came from behind. It was not the sound of pursuit. Still, they ran.

They entered the woods. It was dark. A foot caught on a root. They fell. They rose again.

Their breathing was ragged. Their chest rang with it.

When they crouched down, something white was visible at their feet. Clustered there. It looked like light.

They reached out a hand. Stopped.

And stayed like that, looking.

The one lived at the edge of the group. At some point, it had simply become so.

When going out for food, the one followed behind someone else. At the watering place, the one drank last. When the one called out, no one turned. Without anyone having chosen it, the one had been pressed to this position. No particular person had done the pressing. It had simply come to be.

Five years had passed. The group had grown larger. And the larger it grew, the more gaps appeared within it. The one lived in those gaps.

At night, the one sat on a stone beyond the reach of the firelight, knees drawn up. Somewhere in the distance, children cried out. The adult men were settling something with gestures. None of it concerned the one.

Then came a sound.

Stone striking stone. Once.

The one raised its head. The wind had stopped. The insects had gone silent. Within that stillness, only the sound remained.

The hand moved. It closed around a nearby stone. Small, with a sharp edge. The feel of it was unfamiliar in the grip. Still, the one did not let go.

Another stone was needed. The one felt across the ground and found a flat one.

Struck.

A dull sound. Wrong. What was wrong, the one could not say. Struck again. Still wrong. Struck many times. The hand went numb. The edge of the stone opened the palm. Blood came.

The one did not stop.

The night deepened. The fire weakened. The adults lay down. The one was still striking stone against stone.

The sound changed.

A high, clear tone rang out — for just a moment. The one's hand went still. It looked at the stone. Too dark to see. It traced the edge with a finger. Sharp. Sharper than before.

With a wounded palm the one kept tracing that edge. There was pain. Still the fingers did not leave.

At dawn, the one fell asleep still holding both stones.

The next morning, one of the men in the group noticed the stones. He moved to take them. The one cried out. It was the loudest sound it had ever made. The man stopped. But the color of his eyes had changed.

That evening, the one left from the edge of the group. Left of its own choosing. Both stones still in hand.

And did not return.

Three days later, the one was found downstream, caught between rocks. Whether it had fallen into the current or been pushed — no one asked. The stones were not there.

The meat was divided.

The prey had been large. The male's legs were long, its neck thick. Several men had dragged it in together and set it in the middle of the open ground.

The one sat at the edge and waited. There was an order to these things. Children came last. The old took first, then the men, then the women. The one was still placed on the side of the children. Even past twenty.

What came across was a small piece. Full of sinew, it took time to chew through. Still, it was eaten.

That night, people gathered around the fire.

One man rose. He raised his voice. He was pressing some claim. His hands moved. Another man rose. Their voices overlapped. The one could not make out the meaning. There was only sound, and the size of bodies.

One of the men looked at the one.

A glance. That was all. But it was long. The one looked down. The fat of the meat still clung to the hands. It was wiped away with a finger. The one looked down again.

Behind the right shoulder, there was the sound of grass moving.

The one did not turn.

But the awareness of not having turned came a moment later. The grass had moved. The one had not turned. These two things settled side by side somewhere in the chest. It was not anything. They simply rested there together.

The following morning, the one walked along the outer edge of the group.

The man from the night before was in the distance. He carried a stone. He was watching. The one did not stop. But the pace of walking changed. The legs knew.

The one entered the grass. It rose higher than the waist. Walked in until the body could no longer be seen.

And there, stopped.

The sound of the heartbeat. It was fast. Something was striking inside the chest. The one had known this before. But today it was different. The striking was too fast. There were no words for what this meant. It was simply fast.

The grass swayed in the wind. The one looked toward where it swayed.

The man was not there.

Three teeth had fallen out.

Two at the end of summer, one more at the start of autumn. Blood seeped from the gums, and the one pressed the spot again and again with the tip of the tongue. Not from pain, but to be sure.

The soles of the feet had grown thick. After long travels, the skin had layered upon itself until there were places where bare feet felt nothing against gravel-strewn ground. The one touched those places, pressed them with the pads of fingers. Confirmed that nothing could be felt.

Children ran. The one could not run. There was no memory of ever having run.

Curled close to the fire, knees drawn to the chest. The joints made a sound. Low and damp. No one turned to look.

Walked to the water. Drank. Tried to rise, and the arms trembled. Stood anyway. Stood and looked up at the sky. Clouds moved low and slow. Beneath them, someone from the group was beating an animal hide against stone. The steady rhythm spread out across the grass.

The one did not return.

Seated at the edge of the water, the one leaned. Leaned, and lay down on the grass. The sound of the water was close.

The grass swayed in the wind, and shadows fell across the one's face. The smell of fire still carried from somewhere far away. The one opened the mouth. Closed it.

The water flowed. Kept flowing.

After the one with the arm died, this one went down to the river.

There was little water. It seeped between the rocks in slow beads. The one cupped both hands and drank from them. Then looked upstream. A wind came. The smell of dry earth came with it.

Perhaps something like *somewhere* formed in the mind. Perhaps it did not.

The one began walking along the river's edge.

Before dawn, the edge of the sky was red.

The one sat on a rock. There was a scar on the knee. Not from yesterday. Older than that. The skin had pulled tight and risen, and it was still hard to the touch.

The group had grown large. Too large.

There were those who had come from the east of the river. Their fur was a different color. Something behind their eyes was different. Their smell was different. The one knew them. Knew them, but had no words for it. Words to convey that knowing did not yet exist anywhere.

There was enough food. And so conflict arose.

Conflict, even with enough. The one did not think about why. There were no words for that kind of thinking. Only the body knew. If the eastern ones grew more numerous here, something of their own would diminish. That was all the body knew.

Near the river, the elder male of the group bared himself at one of the eastern ones. A low growl. Arms spread wide.

The eastern one did not yield.

That afternoon, there was a fever.

The smell of grass came sharp and overwhelming. Sweat broke out. Pressing a hand against the rock to stand, the one moved toward the water. Drank. It was cold. A face wavered in the water below.

Then the surface moved without warning.

It was not the wind. No creature had run nearby. It simply moved. The one watched the water for a while. When the ripples stilled, the face appeared again.

Something was felt. Felt, but not grasped. Before any attempt to grasp it, a sound came from behind.

Five of the eastern ones had come.

The one stood. A back pressed against rock. There was nowhere to go.

Voices overlapped. Growling. Screaming. The one screamed too. Called for the others. The others were not there.

The first blow came to the right shoulder. A stone. The next to the stomach. The one fell into the water. Water entered the ears. Sky was visible. The tips of the trees were visible.

The branches were swaying.

The wind was blowing. The one watched it.

And then, watching ceased.

This one does not remember the day the water came.

Only the way the mother's arms tightened. The ordinary tightening was different from that day's tightening. That alone remains, somewhere in the body.

On the slope after the water receded, this one walked across the mud. Each step sank. Each step pulled free with a sound — a soft, sucking sound. It was interesting, and so the stepping was done again and again.

A woman sat on a rock and did not move. This one did not approach her. The knowledge that one should not approach came before any approach was made. Where that had been learned, this one did not know.

At five years old, this one kept watch over a fire for the first time.

While the adults slept, the flame grew small. A branch was added. It burned. That alone continued through the night, living quietly in the chest. A feeling that something had gone right. A feeling without a name.

At seven years old, this one was still slow at running.

Falling behind the others, this one hid in the shadow of a rock. While catching breath, it looked up at the sky. Clouds were moving. Where they were going, this one did not know. A sound came from this one's throat — something like a question addressed to the sky. There was no answer.

That was all right.

The mud had dried.

What had been water yesterday was solid today, cracked open. The one pressed fingers into a fissure. The dry earth scraped against the soft pads of the fingertips. When the fingers were pulled free, brown dust had worked its way under the nails.

The night the water came — the body remembered it.

Carried in the mother's arms, running through darkness. Something collapsed behind them. A heavy sound. A sound like the earth itself shaking, and the mother's arms tightened. The one's cheek was pressed hard against the mother's neck, and the sound of swallowing could be heard.

Now that mother was gone.

At the edge of the gathering, there was an old woman. She threw food over. But she never held out a hand. Never met the eyes. The one picked up the food and ate it. That was all.

There were tracks in the mud.

Three claw marks, side by side. The one crouched and looked at them. Traced the edges with a finger. The texture of the earth was different there. The bottom of each print was hard; the rim was soft. Something had stepped, and afterward the mud had dried. The fingers understood that order.

Inside the gathering, the men were raising their voices.

A low, rumbling sound, and the crack of something being struck. Someone was asserting something. What was being asserted was unclear. But the one did not look up. The trail of tracks held the gaze. The tracks crossed the expanse of dried mud and continued toward the grass.

The grass was moving.

Not from wind. The movement was different. The one stood. Feet stepped forward. At the edge of the grass, stopped. Something was inside. The sound of breathing — low, damp.

The one stepped back.

One step. Two steps. Eyes never left the grass.

Behind, the men's voices grew louder. Something like shouting. The one turned. Two men were throwing their bodies against each other. Those around them had formed a circle to watch. A child was crying. The old woman sat on a rock and looked at the sky.

The one looked toward the grass, then toward the gathering.

Then looked toward the grass again.

The grass had gone still. Whatever it was had already moved on to the other side.

The one sat down in the mud. Pressed fingers back into a fissure. Dry earth scraped away. Traced the edge of the footprint one more time.

The voices of the gathering were distant.

The seasons changed.

A man died. Not in a fight — he developed a fever, ceased to move, and three days later his body went cold. The one watched this happen. Watched, but did not go near.

The old woman vanished too. One morning she was no longer on her rock. No one went looking for her.

The one was inside the gathering, and yet not inside it.

Food was found alone. Grass roots were dug up. Small creatures were caught at the water's edge. Struck with stones, split open, the insides eaten. At first the splitting was clumsy. Many blows were needed. The stone would slip and strike the fingers. Nails turned black.

Gradually, the right measure was learned.

Using the wrist rather than the fingers, the stone fell straight. The one moved the wrist. The shell split. To keep the contents from scattering, the other hand was placed over it first. This was learned.

None of it was taught to anyone. No one asked.

Before a storm, there were days when the sky turned yellow. The one knew this. When the sky turned yellow, one had to move before the wind changed. Where this had been learned was unknown. The body simply moved.

A low sound was made toward the others in the gathering. But no one listened.

The one climbed to higher ground alone. The storm came. Several who had stayed low were swallowed by the current. The next morning, the one came down from the high place.

No one said anything.

Winter came.

Food grew scarce. Voices inside the gathering grew harsh. The one kept to the edges. More and more often, left out of the distribution of food. The belly went empty. Still, the one moved. Dug through the withered ground for roots. Found small shriveled berries and ate them.

One night, being near the fire was refused.

A man blocked the way with his body. Made a low sound in his throat. The one withdrew. Curled in the shadow of a distant rock. The ground was cold. The body's warmth was drawn into the earth. Knees were pulled to the chest. Teeth chattered.

By dawn, the body would not move.

Trying to move it — it moved. A little. Then again. Slowly the warmth returned.

The one emerged from the shadow of the rock. The sky was pale. The others in the gathering were still sleeping. The fire had shrunk low. The one gathered dead branches and placed them into the fire. The fire grew.

The one sat before the fire.

No one refused. They were still asleep.

Spring came.

The one had become twelve. The gathering held no way of knowing this, but the body had changed. Shoulders had broadened. The arms had grown strong. The feet were fast.

Tracks could be read.

Looking at the ground, something of who had passed and when would come into the body without effort. Old prints had edges worn round by the wind. Fresh prints had edges sharp and clear. Heavy creatures sank deep. Small ones left only points.

The one could not tell this to anyone. There were no words for it.

Within the gathering, the way people looked had begun to change.

An understanding had spread — that this was one who sensed things. Moving before the storm. Finding water. Distinguishing what could be eaten from what could not. There were no words for it, but the body had shown it.

And yet there was another look as well.

The look that said: best not to come too close. The look given to one who knows too much.

The one noticed this look.

But did not stop. Read the tracks. Watched the sky. Searched for water.

There was no way to stop.

The grass went still.

The wind had been blowing, and then it simply was not. The one held a half-chewed nut in their mouth and did not move. It was not that something seemed wrong. The body had stopped first.

Somewhere far off, someone was shouting. The voices of the men in the group. That sound again, the one thought. These days, that sound comes often.

The one did not swallow — let it fall instead. The nut rolled across the dry earth at their feet.

They stood and looked toward the grass.

The grass was falling again. In the opposite direction from before.

The one watched it for a time. What they were watching for is unclear. Only the eyes were there. The tips of the grass were swaying. The swaying stopped. Then came again.

The men's voices grew louder.

The one looked away from the grass and turned toward the sound. Turned, but did not go closer. Last year, they would have gone closer. This year, they did not. Nothing had changed, exactly — the body simply did not go.

From somewhere far off came the sound of something falling. The heavy sound of something large meeting the earth.

The one looked back at the grass.

The grass went on falling. In the same direction, at the same pace, as though nothing at all had changed.

Rain had returned to the eastern edge of the grasslands.

The hill near the water had been claimed by a large group. The western group had given way — not willingly, but pushed aside. When two dozen men stood with clubs raised, the westerners turned their faces away and gathered their belongings. A woman carrying a child looked back one last time. She only looked. She said nothing.

The one was seventeen.

Sitting at the edge of the group, peeling away strips of loose bark with a fingernail. The hands moved on their own. No thought behind it. The fingers would lift a piece of bark, and when the white fibers showed beneath, they would lift again. From the hill by the water, the sound of men growling at one another drifted over. The body stiffened slightly. When the sound stopped, the hands began moving again.

With the hill secured, something like ease settled over the group.

Children came. Within five years, fourteen new ones were born. Half did not survive the summer. The seven who remained still added their footsteps to the world. There was more meat. Bones from the kill lay scattered around the fire, and at night animals came sniffing. The men threw stones at them in the small hours. The stones never landed, but voices drove the creatures off. The men, their voices restored to confidence, began testing one another with different kinds of voices.

The one had turned nineteen.

The body had grown larger. The fingers had grown longer. Instead of peeling bark, the one had learned to split stone. An old man had shown the way — shown it, not taught it. The one had sat beside him and watched, and watched again the following day, and on the third day picked up a stone and tried. It did not go well. The stone split in the wrong direction. It was discarded. Another stone was picked up.

It split.

The face of the break caught the light. The one looked at that light for a while.

At that moment, light fell along the edge of the broken face.

It was the slanted light of morning — that was the hour. But the way the light fell gathered at a single point along the edge. The one's eyes noticed the sharpness. A finger drew close. Touched. The skin opened. Blood came.

The one put the finger in the mouth.

Tasting pain and blood at the same time, the one stood up still holding the stone. Did not let it go.

Within the group, there was one who knew things.

Not the old man. A woman. Nearly forty. Scars marked her in many places. The scar on her left arm was old, the flesh risen and hardened where it had healed. It was not so much that this woman knew too much — more that she watched. Who carried what, who wanted what. At night, when the men gathered and lowered their voices, this woman was always on the far side of the fire. She appeared to be sleeping.

One morning, the men stopped seeing her.

Someone gestured vaguely — she had gone far away. Someone pointed toward the cliffs. No one went to look. The children did not ask. Not asking was its own answer.

The one had turned twenty-one.

Carrying stones had become a habit. Not split stones — stones not yet split. Their weight had grown familiar in the hand. Walking among the group, holding a stone steadied the body. Why, the one did not know. The hands simply remembered. That light, and that pain, and the not letting go.

One night, the smoke from the fire drifted sideways.

The wind had shifted. The one watched the direction of the smoke. Why, the one could not say. The body had moved first. Eyes followed the swaying of the grass. At the edge of the grasslands, the shadow of an animal had gone still. The one tightened the grip on the stone.

The animal disappeared.

The one remained standing. The heart was beating fast. The stone was still in the hand.

The following year, a dispute broke out within the group over the division of food.

It was deep in the night. The flames shook. A man fell and did not rise again. The next morning, he was dragged to a place far from the fire and left there. No one went near that place. Birds came.

The one was twenty-two.

The one did not look away from where the man had been left. The others did. Only the one kept watching, from time to time — as the birds came, and came again, and nothing remained. Holding the stone.

There was no thought that something had ended.

Only the hand, gripping the stone harder.