297,365 BCE – 297,245 BCE | Episodes 529–552

The soles of the feet were reading the stones on the riverbed.

Sharp ones, rounded ones, slippery ones. Before each step, the toes spread wide, distributing the weight. Crossing the river was not something to think about. The body knew.

Light stabbed at the eyes.

The eyes narrowed. That one spot was different. Though the water was not moving, a single point held the light. A hand reached out. Cold. The stone was lifted from the water.

It was flat. Resting in the palm, its edges were thin enough to pass light through.

It was put in the mouth. It tasted of stone. The texture was unlike any fragment of rock before. Blood seeped from the corner of the lip, but before the pain, there was the awareness of how thin it was.

The one came ashore.

The wet stone was placed on a knee, and another stone brought along was used to strike its edge. The sound was dull. It did not break. The angle was shifted. A small chip flew off. What remained was lifted. The edge had become sharp.

A single blade of grass was pulled up. It was held against the stem. It cut.

The one made no sound.

Only did it again. The grass stem. The edge of the stone. The sound of cutting. The sensation of cutting. Again and again. The grass stem grew shorter.

Dusk came.

From within the eastern group, the stronger ones could be seen moving toward the river. Something cold settled in the one's belly. The stone was pushed beneath the grass. Pushed in, then taken out again. Its weight confirmed. Pushed back in.

Then the one left.

The next morning, the one returned. The stone was there.

The grass was cut again. This time, not grass — a branch was tried. The bark of a thin branch was shaved away. Where it had been shaved, the wood was white. It was shaved again.

Three days later, someone from the eastern group was standing behind.

When the one turned, there were two of them.

The stone was taken away.

Blows came. A fall. A face pressed into the sand. In the sand there was the smell of the river. There was also the smell of stone.

Even after the strength left, the mouth remained open against the sand.

After a time, the body was raised.

The stone was gone.

The river was looked at. Light moved across the surface of the water. Whether the thought arose that there might be another stone — this is not known. The body was facing toward the river. That was all.

One foot stepped into the water.

The river had reclaimed its water.

When the rains returned, the distance to the far bank ceased to exist. Footprints from the eastern group appeared in the western mud, and smoke from the western group rode the eastern wind. The stones at the shore sank beneath the surface, and only those who had crossed knew where it ran shallow and where it ran deep.

The one sat on a rock, splitting stone.

What the one held between both hands was a flat piece of sandstone gathered from the riverbank. Bringing the hammerstone used since the previous season against it, the one paused to measure the angle, then struck. It broke. Not where intended. The one picked up the fractured fragment and touched its edge with the tip of the tongue. Sharp. Perhaps usable. Perhaps not. Set it down.

From the east came a low sound.

Deep voices and high voices mixed together. They were not words, but the skin at the back of the one's neck drew tight. The hair on the one's arms rose. It was the kind of sound heard before. Similar to what rose from a group pressing against each other over food, but more sustained.

The one did not stand.

Still holding the stone, the one turned toward the sound. Only the body's direction changed.

The archaic group was moving upstream along the river. Shoulders built on different bones appeared above the grass, then disappeared. Where they were heading, this one's group could not know. They simply moved. Movement always changed something. A water source somewhere shifted; a game trail somewhere shifted; somewhere, someone made a different choice.

In the third dry season, a child died.

Not the one's child. But in so small a group, no child was truly distant. It was a child taken by illness of the stomach — something that happened as the water grew scarce. The mother stayed close to the child's body for three days. On the morning of the fourth day, she moved away. That movement was an ending of something.

That day, the one did not split stone.

Sat near the fire. Watched the way the wood burned. Thought nothing in particular. Only the eyes followed the place where the edge of the flame changed from red to black.

The wind came from the west.

Something entered the one's nostrils. It was not decay. Not the smell of soil or water. Something other than charred wood was mixed into it. It was close to the smell that came when another fire burned far away — yet in that direction, there should have been nothing.

The one's nose moved.

Stood up. Stood, then sat back down.

Considered what lay to the west. For this one, to consider was a movement of the body. The hands moved. Fingers drew across the sand on the ground. Not lines. Simply the fingers moved. Stopped. Moved again.

Within the group, there was one who knew the west.

An old woman who had once shared a water source with the archaic group, just once. The one went to the woman and let her smell it — the side of one's own sleeve that had caught the wind. The woman smelled it, creased her face, and said something. A single sound. The one could not grasp the whole of its meaning, but the hand gesture was clear. The woman's hand reached toward the distance, then turned downward.

The following morning, the one moved a little apart from where the group rested.

Walked westward. Not for long. Half a day's worth. When the one came out where the grass grew tall, smoke was visible. Distant smoke. It moved sideways rather than upward — which meant either the fire was large, or it had been burning for a long time.

The one stopped there.

Picked up a stone from the ground. Tested its weight. It was not a riverbank stone, but it fit within the hand. Carried it back.

Over five years, the group had grown slightly.

Children were born; some of them lived; some of the old ones lost their strength; the distance between this group and the archaic group contracted and expanded, never fixed. The group from the east moved away, then returned. The river flooded and receded. Nothing changed decisively, but something was slowly, quietly shifting.

The one had reached forty-six years.

The skin on the hands was thick, the knuckles large, and on the right wrist there was the scar of an old wound. The speed of making tools had not diminished. But before striking, the one looked at the stone longer than before. The time spent deciding where to strike had grown longer.

There were times when a younger one watched from nearby.

The one knew this, but did not turn around. Simply went on splitting.

The skin on his hands had grown so thick he could no longer feel where the edges of the stones were.

Still, he split them. He set a rock across both knees and brought the hammerstone down. It split. He set another. Brought it down again. It split. His hands had long since learned to move before his eyes caught up.

More young ones had come into the group. Those with thin arms sat beside him and watched his hands. They made low sounds, as if something in them wanted to speak, but the one did not answer. He split the stone. That was his only reply.

Then one morning his arm would not rise.

Something dull and heavy had lodged itself deep in his right shoulder. When he tried to lift the hammerstone, his arm stopped midway. He tried again. It stopped again. One of the young ones reached out a hand, but the one shook his head.

He shifted his grip to his left hand. Not his working hand. The angle was wrong. The force scattered unevenly. Still, the stone split — thinly, awkwardly, but it split.

In the evening, he sat at the edge of the fire and laid out the flakes before him.

Small ones. Large ones. Ones with sharp edges. Ones whose edges had worn round. He arranged them and touched them with the back of his hand. The feeling had returned to his right hand — to the fingertips, at least.

Smoke drifted in from the west. It carried the scent of the fire from the group across the water. Since the river had risen, there were more nights when that smell reached them. The one did not turn his face in that direction. He returned to the flakes.

The fire burned low.

He did not try to stand.

In the morning, someone cried out.

The one was lying at the base of a rock. His back rested against the stone. His eyes were open. The dew that had settled in the night had gathered in the hollow of his throat and caught the light.

One of the young ones came close. Crouched down. Placed a hand on him.

Nothing moved.

Three flakes lay scattered near his right hand. Whether he had arranged them again in the night, or whether they had simply rolled there, no one could say.

There is a smell of mud.

The soles of the feet are wet. Standing at the edge of the water, it was the feet that decided how far to go. The sensation of sinking to the knees was interesting, and so another step was taken. The water reached the belly.

A voice came.

Arms reached from behind and pulled the whole body upward. For a moment in the air, there was something that touched nothing. Then the head was pressed beneath the mother's arm, a face pushed into the smell of mud and tallow.

No crying. What had happened was not yet understood.

The mother made a low, continuous sound. Not quite anger — a trembling sound. The one listened vaguely as that sound traveled through the bones of the chest.

Seated on the bank.

The surface of the water moved a little. Rings of ripples spread, spread, and disappeared. Spread again, disappeared again. The one watched the water. Kept watching.

Somewhere, voices rose in something like quarreling. Someone growling in the distance. Something was happening at the edge of the group, but there was not yet any reason to turn toward it.

For the first time, the one saw its own face reflected on the water.

Because it was moving, the shape was hard to make out. When a hand reached out, the image broke apart. When it was pulled back, the face returned.

This was repeated many times.

Returned from the water. The body still wet, slowly drying. The skin pulled tight, and there was scratching.

Sat close to the fire. A scrap of meat someone had cooked lay on the ground. It was picked up and eaten.

Watched the men come back. Something was different in their faces. What exactly was different, there was no knowing. Only that there was no moving closer to them.

Near the end of the eleventh year, something shifted within the group.

What shifted was sound. From one night onward, an elder man began making a sound like a roar, and some responded, and some fell silent. Those who fell silent were driven to the back of the rock shelf by morning.

This one was not among those driven back. But this one watched them. Again and again. They received food last. They drank water last.

One day at twelve, this one walked near the rotting tree. A smell sharp enough to turn the nose away. This one averted their face and left. What lay beyond was not looked at.

In the summer of the thirteenth year, an old woman in the group collapsed. Collapsed is not quite right — she sank into the ground as though dissolving. The fever was severe, her skin damp. Those around her stepped away. This one stepped away too.

But once, in the night, this one drew near.

Drew near, reached out a hand — and stopped.

Three days later, the woman was walking along the riverbank. She stood with her ankles in the water. Then she fell. No one pulled her out.

This one watched from the bank. Watched is not quite right — the eyes simply could not leave that place.

The water moved. The woman moved with it.

After turning fourteen, this one began walking more often at the edges of the group. The reason was unclear even to this one. Only that being at the center brought too many voices, and the body would grow rigid. The edges were quieter.

One morning, a cliff had collapsed upstream. The white rock face was bare and open. This one walked past it.

In the autumn of the fifteenth year, a young male of the older stock approached the group. Low brow, thick neck. A branch in his hand. The men of the group raised their voices and took up stones. The male of the older stock did not move. For a long while they exchanged sounds with one another.

In the end, the one from the older stock left. This one had watched the whole scene from a distance. Back and forth — the hand holding the stone, and the other hand, the one holding the branch.

The same shape, this one thought. There was no word for *thought*. But something stirred deep in the chest. What it was remained unknown.

Just before the winter of the sixteenth year, there was a gathering within the group. With voices and gestures they were trying to decide something. This one stood outside the circle. A man within the circle looked at this one.

A gaze. A long gaze.

This one received it and did not move.

Did not flee. Did not draw closer.

When night came, this one lay down a little apart from the group. Stars were above. There was a feeling that something was up there.

Not *something*. Something was simply there.

Where it came from, this one could not know.

But when morning came, this one was still there.

Legs sank into the mud.

Pull free. Sink again. Pull free.

Buried to the thighs, the one could not get out. It had been only a half-step from the riverbank. Reaching down to scoop water. That was all.

A sound came from the throat. Not a cry for help, not weeping — only air being pushed out.

No one came.

The one was alone.

From the rocky shelf where the group sheltered to this riverbank was half a day's walk. The one had come alone. There was no reason. In the morning, woken, and simply moved. Walked in whatever direction the feet turned. When hungry, put grass seeds in the mouth. Saw the river and drew near.

Still buried in the mud, the one looked up.

The sky was white. Cloud lay thick. There was no wind.

The legs stopped moving.

Staying still, the mud loosened slightly. Water was felt beneath the soles. Waiting might be better than struggling. The one did not think this. Simply — stopped.

A long time passed.

The mud made a sucking sound, and the right leg rose a little. The one shifted weight to the left. The mud sounded again. Slowly, turned back toward the bank. The legs moved. Sinking and rising, inch by inch, drawing closer to shore.

Reaching the bank, the one lay straight down.

Grass touched the face. The smell of earth.

Stayed that way for a while.

Beside the river, stones were arranged by the water. Several round stones worn smooth by the current. The one rose, picked one up. It was heavy. Held it and watched the river for a time.

The reeds on the far bank stirred.

The one went still. Eyes narrowed.

The movement did not continue. It may have been neither wind nor animal. Even so, the one stood for a while longer, holding the stone.

Nothing came.

The one set the stone down.

Sat at the water's edge and washed the mud from the feet. Scraped it away with fingers. Beneath the skin there was redness. Too much rubbing. The one stopped and left the feet resting in the water. It was cold.

A sound came from far away.

It did not belong to the group. The source of the sound was unclear. The one lifted the feet from the water and turned the body in the direction away from the sound.

Stood. Began to walk.

The one knew the way back to the rocky shelf. Did not exactly know it, and yet returned. Had been this way before. The soles of the feet remembered the path.

Arriving back, the group was still there. There was a fire. The smell of scorched meat. Children were running.

The one sat at the edge of the fire.

No one looked.

The next morning, the one did not rise.

More precisely — tried to rise and could not. The body would not move. The throat was hot. Opening the eyes, the light was pain.

Lying still, looking up at the sky. The edge of the rocky shelf was visible.

On the second morning, someone brought water to the lips. The one drank.

On the third day, the body moved.

On the fourth day, the one was standing at the edge of the group.

Eight days after the one had returned to the group, a loud argument broke out in the night. Someone shoved someone. One fell to the ground. Did not get up.

The one watched from a distance.

The next morning, the one who had fallen was moving. Alive. But did not stand. Held the area around the hips, groaning.

Part of the group began to move. Moved toward the one.

The one did not understand why.

Was shoved. A stone flew. It struck the shoulder. Another stone flew. Voices rose. They were angry voices, but to the one they were not heard as words. Only sound.

Ran.

Was chased.

After running for a time, no one was following. The one hid in the shadow of a tree and held very still.

Evening came.

From the direction of the group, a faint glow of firelight was visible. The one watched that light. For a long time, watched it.

Did not go near.

Cumulus clouds rose over the eastern ridge. The grassland was not dry. Where water ran beneath the ground, each footstep sank a little. The herds moved north. The grass was rich.

The one was among the group. The group had grown larger. The number of children had increased, and those who gathered around the fire sat shoulder to shoulder. The one stayed at the edge. Always at the edge.

Rain came. Water coursed down the slopes of the hills, and in three days the river doubled. Bones of animals floated past. Someone's handprint remained in the mud, and even after the water receded, it did not disappear. Two within the group came to blows. One man's forehead split open. Blood fell onto the sand and darkened only that spot.

The one watched. Watched, but did not move.

On a night when fog settled over the grassland, the old one among the group stopped moving. It was not that breathing had ceased. When morning came, the old one did not rise. Someone shook the body, then someone else shook it, and at last everyone moved away. The old one lay in the grass, eyes fixed on the sky. In the afternoon, birds came. No one went near.

The one went near.

The birds took flight, and the one looked at the face of the old one. The eyes were open. But there was nothing in them. The one reached out and touched the forehead. It was cold.

A voice rose within the group. Someone struck the one — on the shoulder, then on the chest. The one stepped back, stumbled, fell. Sitting in the grass, looking up at the one who had struck.

Summer passed. The group moved along the river. No one traveled without carrying something. Hides, bones, dried berries. The one carried a hide. A single hide. Walking behind, eyes on the back of the person ahead.

They encountered another group.

The others were on the far bank of the river. Both sides called out — growls and shouts, arms spread wide. A child went down to the water's edge. A parent pulled the child back. That night, fires burned in two places. The one looked at their own fire. Then at the fire across the river. Then back at their own.

When day broke, the group on the far bank was gone.

The one stood for a while looking at the opposite bank. Looking at the place where no one remained.

A warm wind came down from the hills. From that direction, there was a place in the dry grass where light fell and did not move. Even when the wind died, that one spot remained bright. Something lay on the ground.

The one did not approach.

Within the light, there was a stone. A broken stone. The fractured face was sharp. It gleamed white and white alone. The one stopped three paces away and stood still. After a time, the gaze drifted elsewhere. Someone was shouting in the distance. The one walked toward the sound.

The stone remained in the grass.

In the third winter, a large man who held a place near the center of the group pushed the one. There was no reason. He came to where the one was eating, and pushed. The food fell. The one reached to pick it up. The large man stepped on it. The one looked at the food beneath his foot.

The next day, the one stood beyond even the outermost edge of the group.

No one came. The one searched for food alone. Found some berries. Dug for grass roots. That night, the one returned near the fire but sat at the very farthest edge. Someone's shoulder knocked against the one, and the one was jostled out again.

By the fourth year, the one was rarely at the edge. The one was outside. Moving in the same direction as the group, but a little apart.

In the fifth spring, along the river, they encountered another group again. This time on the same bank.

Both sides made themselves large. Shouted. Some held stones. Some ran. The one stood in the shadow of a tree. Watching.

Something happened. It was quick. A stone flew, someone fell, and both groups raised their voices. The one who fell did not rise. The other group retreated. This group went on shouting.

That night, several people dragged the fallen one away. Left the body somewhere far off. The one watched.

The following morning, the one was gone.

Whether anyone in the group noticed the absence, it is not known. The fire burned. A child was crying. Fog lay over the grassland.

The children had multiplied.

Around the one there were always children. Whether they were the one's own did not matter. When a child cried, the one brought food. When a child fell, the one helped them up. That was all it was.

Every morning, the one went to the watering place.

One morning, the shadow of another group appeared on the far bank. The one drank. Finished drinking, and stood. There was nothing in the one's hands. The shadow on the far bank did not move. Neither did the one.

After a time, the shadow was gone.

The one went home.

That evening, voices grew rough somewhere in the group. Someone swung an arm. Someone else kicked at the ground. At a little distance from all of this, the one was removing a thorn from the foot of one of the children. A thin splinter had worked its way under the skin and would not come free easily. The child did not cry. Was holding back. The one pressed the skin slowly, gently, with the tip of a fingernail.

The thorn came out.

It was small. Something passed across the one's face — something like the feeling of: *this small a thing*. There were no words for it. The one simply rolled the thorn between two fingers and let it fall.

The voices were still rough.

The one released the child's foot and stood. Whether there was any intention in it is impossible to say. The one simply stood, and looked in that direction.

Someone looked back at the one.

The one was standing. That was all. The voices grew a little quieter. No one knew why. Not even the one.

At the edge of the grassland, there are old bones.

Whether they belonged to a beast or something else, the one cannot tell. They are simply white, hard, and lying exposed on the ground. Each morning, the one passed by that place. And each morning, passed without stopping.

The group had grown larger.

More gathered around the fire. More returned carrying meat. Low growls threaded through the nights over sleeping places. The one stayed at the edge. Not by choice, exactly. There was simply space there.

One morning, the tracks of a beast came close to where the group slept.

The larger ones gathered, examined something, raised their voices. The one watched from the edge. No one called. If called, the one would not have gone. That is all there was to it.

Within the group, there was someone with a different face.

The nose was shaped differently. The brow jutted differently. Only that. Yet whenever certain others looked at that face, they made a low sound. When the one heard that sound, the one moved further from their own place. No reason. Only moved.

On an afternoon, chewing dried meat, someone shoved the one from behind.

Before turning, the shove came again. The one fell. The ground was hard. The knee bled. Rising, something came again. This time with greater force.

The edge of a rock met the side of the one's head.

The one fell.

The sky was visible. It was white.

A single bird crossed the edge of sight.

After that, nothing moved.

The grass swayed in the wind. The sound of chewing went on. Someone growled. Someone made a sound like laughter. The one's body was no longer listening.

The bones will remain. Beside those old bones, or perhaps a little apart from them. That is all there is to it.

The ground lurched upward.

The one had not been running. Something simply caught underfoot, slipped, and the body pitched forward. Both hands met the earth. The tip of the nose brushed grass. The smell entered all the way into the mouth. Green and wet.

Standing up, the one saw what had been stepped on.

A stone. Flat, about the size that two hands could hold. One edge had broken away, and there the color was different — whiter than the surrounding soil.

The one picked it up.

It was heavy. Far heavier than expected. Cradled in both arms, it pressed against the stomach. The corner bit into the skin.

A voice came from the direction of the settlement. Someone was shouting. Angry voices, the sounds of fleeing, the beat of feet on ground — all of it tangled together. The one turned toward the noise, still holding the stone.

At the edge of the settlement, the adults were in motion.

Two groups faced each other. Those who belonged to this settlement, and those who did not. The one could not tell them apart. Their builds were similar; only the smell was slightly different. Yet the way they faced each other resembled the way one faced a wild animal — hips lowered, arms spread outward.

The one did not move.

Stood there holding the stone. It was heavy, and the arms had begun to tremble.

Two large men drew close. They stopped at a distance where their chests nearly touched. They made sounds — single, low notes. The answering sounds were low as well.

The one set the stone on the ground. It made a sound. A louder sound than expected.

For a moment the men turned this way.

The one did not move.

The men turned back to each other.

For a long while, no one moved. Then the group that had come from outside began to draw back, little by little. Their footsteps grew distant. Their smell thinned.

Those of the settlement stirred and murmured. The sound resembled anger, but it was not anger. Something else entirely. The one had no name for it.

The stone lay on the ground.

The one picked it up again. This time with one hand. A finger traced the broken edge.

A cut.

Thin, and blood came quickly. The one brought the finger to the mouth. There was a smell of iron.

The one looked at the stone.

Then set it down again. Stepped away. But after ten paces or so, turned back. Picked it up again. This time carefully, holding the unbroken side.

Returning to the settlement, the one found the adults scattered about. Someone sat before the fire, arms wrapped around themselves. Someone else was drawing a child close.

The one sat down in front of a rock at the edge of things, and placed the stone on both knees.

The broken edge — looked at it once more. Only there, white. Only there, sharp.

The cut on the finger throbbed.

The one learned to stop, just before touching that place.

Walking through the grass.

Something pressed against the sole of a foot. Round, and light. It did not crush.

The one crouched down.

Picked it up between two fingers. Brown and dried out. An old fruit husk. When shaken, it made no sound. Nothing inside.

Tried to put it in the mouth. Stopped. Brought it to the nose instead. The smell of earth, and something faintly sweet.

Did not throw it away.

Turned it over in the hand. Light. When squeezed, it gave slightly. But it did not break.

Stood up. Walked on. Still holding the husk.

Returned to where the group was gathered. Voices could be heard — the adults arguing over something. The one did not go near. Sat down in the shadow of a rock.

Set the husk on the ground. Pressed it with a finger. It gave. Released — it returned.

Pressed again.

It returned again.

The one did this for a long time. Not in any effort to learn something. Simply because the returning was interesting. Press, return. Press, return.

By the time the sun had begun to lean, the husk split.

The pressure of the fingers had grown stronger.

The inside was visible. There was nothing there. The one had known this. But still checked.

The two halves of the broken husk — one in each hand. Threw one. Then threw the other.

Stood up, and walked back.

Standing at the edge of the group.

The sound of the river is far away. The wind is damp. From the direction of the bank, an unfamiliar smell drifts over.

Last night, two of the heavy-browed ones stood beyond the trees. This one watched. Watched, but made no sound. Saw one of the group notice and pick up a stone. Saw the stone lowered again.

The heavy-browed ones left.

In the morning, this one went to that place. There were footprints in the ground. Large ones. This one placed a foot beside them. Then beside them again, to compare. They were large.

Turned back.

There was the smell of rotted fruit. Pressed a foot down on it. A wet, soft sound. A grimace. Moved away from the spot.

Returning to the group, two of the elders were calling out at each other, arguing. Both had their arms extended toward the meat. This one sat a little apart. The argument continued. Neither gave way. After a time, an older one came. Swung an arm once. The two separated.

This one touched the sand on the ground with a finger. The sand was dry. Stirred the dry sand with a hand. Small stones surfaced. Arranged the small stones in a line. The arrangement had no meaning. Still, the arranging continued.

As night drew close, the smell came again from the direction of the river.

Not the smell of the heavy-browed ones. Water, and mud, and something decaying.

This one moved into the middle of the group.

Was no longer at the edge.

Sitting at the edge of a rock shelf.

The water is higher than yesterday. The place that had been a riverbank is gone. Branches drift across the brown surface—branches still bearing leaves, moving fast, turning as they go.

The one is not watching the water.

There is a gaze on the back. It has been there for three days now.

Three days ago, when the meat was passed around, hands drew back before reaching the one. The sleeping circle shifted—by a body's width—pushing the one outward. Not with words, but with eyes and the angle of shoulders.

There is a feeling, deep in the body: that the one has come to know something. What that something is cannot be held in words. But the skin understands.

When the northern group was across the river, someone from this group had crossed to the other side. Crossed at night. The one had been awake and had seen. And someone other than the one had seen the one seeing.

That was all it was.

Beyond the rock shelf, low voices gathered. The one did not turn around.

Something stirred on the surface of the water. Not a large ripple—rather, the water swelled gently and collapsed. As though something were moving along the riverbed. The smell of the water suddenly grew dense. A smell of earth and rotted grass, pressing deep into the nose.

The soles of the one's feet felt a vibration in the rock shelf.

The vibration did not stop.

Before there was time to stand, a sound came from upriver. Less a sound than a pressure. The sense of air being pushed arrived just in front of the ears, and in the next moment the water came like a wall.

The rock shelf was gone.

Underwater, the one thinks nothing. The body turns. There is no knowing where the bottom is. Dark. Not cold so much as heavy. The weight presses in from every direction.

A piece of driftwood struck the side.

That was how direction became known.

That was how it ended.

In the morning, water is carried.

The skin bag is heavy. It cuts into the fingers. Partway along the path, a stop — the bag is set down, both hands shaken out. Then it is shouldered again.

Near the water, there are many leaves. Light pushes through between them and makes a dappled pattern on the ground. This one steps out onto that pattern. The foot moves into the light. Out. Back in again. This happens several times. For no particular reason.

On the way back, one leaf is torn away by hand. Juice seeps into the fingers. It is brought close to the nose. A smell like grass. Slightly bitter. The tip of the tongue is touched to it. Bitter. It is dropped.

Tending the fire, thinking of something else.

Yesterday, an older man took the fire's place. He sat down on the wood this one had stacked. He made a low sound in his throat. This one said nothing. Crouched down a little way off.

That night, sleep would not come. Something was in the pit of the stomach. It had no name.

Morning came, and again the water had to be carried.

Partway along the path, the pattern of light appeared again. This time, this one did not stop.

But once, they looked back.

The light between the leaves was no longer there.

A dry year came.

Rain was scarce. The river grew thin, and the reeds in the lowlands yellowed from the roots. The fruit trees bore less than half their usual harvest, and birds picked them clean before anything could fall. The group moved upstream. Some carried heavy loads, some held small children, some were old and walked with wounded knees. The one dragged the heaviest bundle among the packs — a collection of stones. The soles of their feet split on the rocks.

The terrain was full of stone. Cliffs caught the wind, and the air in the valleys turned cold and still.

They reached a rock shelf upstream. The group numbered more than a hundred. A band of archaic humans was also nearby — heavy-set figures with pronounced brow ridges who kept fire among the rocks on the far bank. At night, each group could see the other's flames.

The one looked at the fire across the water. It was a night without wind. The flames stood without moving. Something stirred among the far group. The one remained still.

The abundance of the fertile years had taken on a different shape. Children born in years of plenty had grown, and young people now filled the group in greater numbers. Among them were those who sought to prove their strength. Some began to contest territory with the archaic band. Stones were thrown over a water source, and an old one from the far group retreated toward the cliffs.

The one watched the struggle over the water source from a distance. They set down their pack and stepped into the shadow of a rock. They did not move.

One night, the one was not tending the fire. That duty belonged to someone else. The one sat at the edge of the rock shelf and looked across the water. Wind came down from above the cliffs — and with it came not the smell of the river, but the smell of smoke from the far bank.

An archaic human crossed the river. Just one. Large in body, carrying a wooden staff in the right hand. This was not an attack. Something hung from the end of the staff. Dried animal meat.

The one did not move. The archaic human set the meat on a rock. Said nothing. Their eyes met. The archaic human turned and went back. Crossed the river and disappeared into the darkness on the far bank.

The next morning, the one picked up the meat from the rock. They did not show it to the group's elders. They ate it alone.

Someone had been watching.

What followed moved quickly. The elder's son raised his voice — through growls and gestures of the arm, he made it known that the one had met with the archaic human in the night. It was true. A ripple passed through the group. Hands reached for stones. The one's pack was scattered and kicked apart.

The one did not run. They pressed their back against a rock and stood. A stone flew and struck their cheek. They did not fall. Another came. This time, the chest.

They were pushed. Toward the cliff.

Stacking stones.

At the edge of a cliff, on a narrow foothold. When the rock crumbled, the one planted both feet and reached for the next stone. Heavy. The inside of the arms grew hot. Still, it was lifted.

Since the group had moved upriver, this place had become a new sleeping ground. Wind passed through the gaps in the rock, carrying the scent of animals. The nights were cold. A wall was needed. No one had said so. The one had simply thought it.

Place a stone. Lift another.

Nearby stood someone else — an older woman, a faded scar along her forearm. She said nothing, only carried stones. The two moved out of rhythm with each other, sometimes colliding. Still, neither stopped.

The sun tilted.

The stacked stones fell.

Seen from below, it was just a pile. Not a wall. The one stood there for a time, looking at the collapsed shape. There was a smell of rock. Of earth, and something dry. The kind of smell that lingers deep in the nose.

The lifting began again.

This time, the larger stones at the base, the smaller ones above. No one had taught this. The collapsed shape had.

The woman turned. Looked. Then carried another stone.

By evening, someone in the group had made a fire. Smoke drifted sideways. The one stood before the stacked stones and pressed a palm against the wall. It was cold. It did not sway.

The one's lips moved slightly. No sound came.

Descended from the cliff.

The warmth along the inside of the arm had not left. Through the night, even within sleep, the sensation of holding something aloft refused to fade. When morning came and waking returned, both hands were raised before the face and studied. There was nothing there. They opened, and closed.

Kept watch over the fire. Pressed in a branch, swept away the ash, pressed in another branch. There is a place where the color of the flame changes. The gaze settled on that place. Settled, and did not move.

A sound rose among the group. Someone had come from far away. A scent reached the one — not of this group. The one stood. Whether to take hold of something or not, the body decided first. A stone was picked up.

The other also held a stone.

The two stones hung suspended in the air between them, and neither came down.

Growls passed between them. Long sounds and short ones. The one answered low, from deep in the throat. What came out was not words. Yet it reached. The other's shoulders dropped, slightly.

The stone was set down. The other set theirs down as well.

That night, watching the fire, the one turned a palm over and over against one knee. Front and back. Front and back. What was being confirmed, even the one did not know.

Only this remained, somewhere inside the body: that today, a stone had been set down.

The sole of the foot is cracked.

The pain began yesterday. A sharp edge of rock caught it. The bleeding had stopped, but with each step the crack opened again.

The one came to the edge of the rock shelf, bent the foot, and looked at the wound. Pressed the edge with a finger. It hurt. Pressed again.

The sound of the fire came from behind. Someone's voice said something. The one did not turn toward it.

The edge of the wound opened a little more.

The load was heavy.

Dried meat packed into a hide bag, a broken branch, two stones. Carrying all of this to the watering place in the south was the work of that day.

Partway there, something was different beneath the feet. Warmth. A place that should have been dry sand held the temperature of the back of a hand.

The one stopped.

Did not set down the load. Crouched, one knee touching the ground. A plant grew there. A plant with short roots. The one pulled it. White fibers came up from the soil.

Brought it close to the nose. It smelled of earth. And of water. It did not smell of food.

Still, the one kept it.

Tucked it into the load. Wedged it along the edge of the hide bag. Walked on.

The watering place came into view. Others were making sounds. Someone had fallen. There had been a dispute. The one set down the load and drew water. Did not go near the one who had fallen.

That night, by the fire, the white root was taken out. No one was watching. It was placed on a stone. Touched with the hand. It was no longer warm. It was only a plant.

The one looked at it for a long time.

Firelight shifted and moved. In the wavering light, the white fibers of the root were luminous. The one was still for a while. As though waiting for something. As though making certain that something would not come.

The plant was not put into the fire. In the morning, it was still there on the stone.

The one knew the smell of grass roots burning.

It had happened once before, in childhood. The sky had turned brown, trees cracked and fell somewhere in the distance, and the group had run. The one's mother had wandered into the smoke and never came back. The one had no word for mother, but remembered the face of the woman who disappeared.

Now it was the same smell.

The wind came from the east. Before it could shift, the one had already moved away from the place where the fire was kept. Something deep in the belly contracted. Something that could not be named moved the feet.

The group ran north.

The grass burned. It burned faster than they could run. The fire had a sound — a deep, splitting sound, like stone cracking open. The smoke did not rise but moved sideways. The one's eyes blurred with heat.

An adult carrying two children in their arms fell. The one pulled them up without breaking stride. One of the children kept crying. The other was silent. The silent one was more dangerous. The one knew this.

They reached the edge of the rocks.

Below was lowland, where smoke was already pooling. Above was a hill, where wind moved through. The one chose the high ground without hesitation. While others streamed downward, the one climbed.

The fire came around.

When the one emerged at the crest of the hill, flames stood on three sides. Only the front was open — a cliff, gaping, too wide to cross. Smoke entered the lungs. The coughing would not stop. The one crouched. Pressed a forehead to the rock.

The smell of burned grass. The cold of stone. Smoke entered the eyes.

The voices of the group could no longer be heard.

The one stayed there for a time, clinging to the rock. The smoke thickened. Breathing grew shallow. Somewhere below, the fire brought a single tree down from its roots.

The hands released the rock.

Quietly. Without resistance. When the one passed over the edge of the cliff, the eyes were looking toward the sky beyond the smoke. Nothing was cried out.

The fire is far away now.

The smell of smoke remained. In the hide clothing, in the hair, somewhere in the ground. The one sat on a rock, looking at the raw patch where the skin had peeled from the palm. The mark left by a branch grabbed while fleeing, the day before.

The oldest man in the group said something in a low voice. The one caught only half of it.

It might have meant: look ahead. It might have meant: move your feet.

The one stood up.

The new camp was closer to the river than the old place. The ground was rocky, the wind strong. The women gathered dead branches, sending short sounds back and forth to one another. A child was crying. Then was not.

The one walked along the earth just outside the edge of the camp.

Looking for a place where the smell of smoke grew thin.

There was no clear reason. Only that while the smell lingered at the back of the nose, something became difficult to think. What that something was, the one had no words for.

Two of the old ones were on the far bank of the river.

The one stopped walking immediately.

Neither of them moved. They were looking across. Large, round-shouldered, densely furred. They would have known that the one facing them was a single young figure, separated from the group.

The one's hand found the stone blade at the hip.

The sound of the river was loud.

One of the two turned its face to the side. It looked upriver. Only that. Then both walked slowly along the bank and disappeared into the brush.

The one stood in the same place for a time.

The hand did not leave the stone blade until the two had gone completely from sight.

In the evening, an older woman was sorting seeds and nuts. The one sat nearby and joined the work.

Neither spoke.

The woman's hands were quick. Hands that had made the same motions for decades. The one watched them, and moved their own hands to follow.

The skin around the wound pulled tight.

The one winced slightly, and moved their hands again.

At night, near the edge of the camp, a young man was trying to force a woman down. The woman let out a low growl and raked him with her nails. The man pulled away.

The one watched this.

The one did nothing. Whether there was any standing to act — that was not something the one could determine.

In the darkness, each person lay down.

The fire dimmed.

Someone added wood. The fire came partway back. The one sensed that light at the edge of vision, and closed their eyes. Then did not. Then closed them again.

The wound on the hand ached in slow pulses.

A fever came. It lasted two days.

On the third day, the body felt lighter. A little food was eaten. There was a great thirst. Water was drunk. Sleep came again.

When the one woke, the fire was still burning. Nearby, an old man sat.

The one watched the fire for a while. Nothing was said. The old man said nothing either.

After the sickness had moved through the group, the air changed. Not that a weight had lifted. Not that anything felt lighter. Only — different.

Half the familiar faces were gone. The voices of children had grown fewer. Those who remained made sounds of scraped hides, added branches to the fire, and ate.

The one went out to gather.

The grass had returned. The stems were thin, still fragile. Pulled up by the roots, soil still clinging, they released a smell. A familiar smell. Earth, and green, and something beneath that.

At the edge of a low thicket, wind came.

It was damp. And within it, at its far end, something bitter.

The feet stopped.

No reason. They stopped.

The one looked at the plant. Its leaves were nearly the same as all the others. But the scent was coming from there.

A hand reached out.

Before the fingertips touched the leaves, the smell came again. Stronger.

The one drew the hand back.

Crouched, and looked at the plant. Looked for a long while. Hands resting on the knees.

Stood, and picked a different grass.

Did not look back. But the body had remembered that place.

That night, sitting before the fire, feeling the food settle into the belly, the one recalled the bitterness of midday. It was still there, faint, at the back of the nose.