297,125 BCE – 297,005 BCE | Episodes 577–600

At eight, the one was not trusted to tend the fire.

Too small, an adult said with a wave of the hand. The meaning of that gesture was understood. Move away.

And so the one watched the fire from a distance. Each time the flames shifted, the front of the body grew warm while the back turned cold. When the temperature differs between front and back, something unsettled stirs within. The one had no word for it, but the body knew.

At ten, eyes met with a child from another group at the watering hole.

The other held a stone. The one held a stone. Neither threw. Neither moved. Wind came from the left, and the other's scent reached the one's nose. A strange smell, the one thought. That the other might be thinking the same thing did not occur to the one. There was only the smelling.

An adult came and pulled the one away.

The stone was still in hand.

A little before turning twelve, a tension moved through the group.

Over something, the adults raised their voices. Someone seized someone's arm. Someone was shoved. The one slipped behind a rock at the edge of things and drew up both knees. Kneecaps pressed against the chin.

The one saw nothing.

Only listened.

The volume of voices, the number of footfalls, their directions. The one's body sorted none of it — it simply felt, and felt first. Dangerous, or still safe. The body had already decided.

One morning, the smell of charred smoke came.

Not from the group's fire. By the direction of the wind, it was coming from somewhere far away. The one raised the face and moved the nose. The adults had not yet stirred. Only the one rose, just slightly, to standing.

One of the adults turned.

Looked at the one's face.

Then looked toward the direction the one had been facing.

At the edge of the plateau, grass grows in clusters.

The rainy season has ended, and the ground has hardened. Cracks run through it. Along those cracks, ants form lines, carrying grains of sand. Beyond the plateau, the smoke of another group is visible. Three columns. Yesterday there were two.

The one is at the riverbank.

Lying face-down at the water's edge, drawing close to the surface. Watching the face reflected there. The eyes move. The face moves. The face in the water moves too. A finger pressed into it, and the face breaks apart. Ripples spread, and the face disappears.

When the water stills, the face returns.

The one repeated this three times. On the fourth, no finger was pressed in. Only watching.

On the plateau above, the boundary between two groups shifts.

The boundary has no name. But everyone knows it. They know it by the arrangement of stones. By the depth of footprints. When the smell of smoke begins to mingle, shoulders rise. The voices calling for children change. Short. Low.

Among the one's group, there is a large man.

Every morning, the man stands at the edge of the plateau. He looks into the distance. No one asks what he sees. When the man returns, the group divides into days of movement and days of staying. No one knows the basis of his judgment.

The one sat behind the man and watched his back.

In the middle of the fifth year, there was a conflict.

At the riverbank, they encountered members of another group. Two against three. Stones flew. There were cries. A young member of the one's group took a wound to the arm and came running back. Blood dripped from the wound, leaving a dotted trail in the sand.

The one looked at the wound.

Watched it open, and close, and open again. The young one groaned. Someone brought a leaf and pressed it against the wound. The leaf turned red.

The one looked at their own arm. An arm without wounds.

The smoke on the plateau became four columns.

One night, the smoke moved. The fire itself moved. It was not that the group had traveled. Someone had come carrying fire. Crossing the boundary stones.

Cries and the sound of blows mingled in the darkness of the night.

The next morning, the man who had stood at the edge of the plateau did not return.

The one went to the place where the man had stood, and stood there. Looked into the distance. Stood the way the man had stood. But nothing could be decided. What to look for was still unknown. There was only standing.

Winter came, and then a second spring.

Among the group, someone from another group had come to be with them. It had not come from conflict. She had simply come. A woman. No one turned her away. Those who could bear children were welcomed.

The one's body changed.

Bones stretched as if grinding. The voice broke. Waking in the middle of the night, lying in the dark, looking up at the ceiling of rock. The rock said nothing.

One night, the one spread chalk across a palm and pressed it against the stone wall.

A white shape of a hand remained. The one stepped back and looked at it. A hand was there on the wall, and yet the one's hand was here.

At the end of the fifth year, the rains came.

A fierce rain. The river swelled. The lowlands sank beneath water. The group moved to higher ground. They moved quickly, and no one was lost.

The one stood before the handprint on the stone wall.

Rain struck that wall too. The white handprint was growing faint. The one pressed a palm against the wall. The cold of the wet rock came through. The hand confirmed, by touch, that the shape was still there.

Three years of drought had carved itself into the earth.

The cracks had widened from the breadth of a finger to the breadth of an arm, and when you touched their edges they crumbled to powder. What had been a river was now only stone and sand. The fish were gone, the frogs were gone, and the roots of plants that had once drawn water from the soil were exposed at the surface, dried to nothing. The group walked. Stopped, and walked again. The young and the old fell one after another, and those who remained moved forward without looking back. They had no strength left for looking back.

At eighteen, the one could still run.

By nineteen, the mother had stopped walking. She folded at the knees and sat down in the sand where she was. The one took hold of her arm and pulled. Could not pull her up. And when pulling became impossible, the mother was no longer moving. The one stood there for a long time. There was no knowing which direction to leave in.

The rest of the group had gone north. The one went after them.

At twenty, they came upon another group. Moving in the same direction. Searching for water. Their eyes were different. The way they had grown thin was different. Their smell was different. Neither group spoke. Each measured the distance between them. They stayed near one another only through the night, and parted at dawn. This happened twice. There was no third time, not in that way. On the third dawn, shadows from yet another group appeared. They were carrying stones. Cries went up, and the one's group ran. Those who could not run were left behind. Those who could run kept running.

The summer of twenty-one.

They found a water source. A shallow depression where muddy water had pooled. The one drank it, mud and all.

Another group came to the same water.

This time it was not night.

The sun was high.

The one stood at the edge of the water. One of the others approached, carrying a large stone. The one rose to their feet. Tried to flee. The foot slipped. The dry earth at the edge gave way, and the one tumbled down the slope.

It was not deep.

But there was a rock.

There was a sound. And then there was not.

The one's body came to rest partway down the slope, and the sun moved across the sky above. The shadows shifted. Evening came, then night. The sound of the water reached them from somewhere far away. Sand gathered, little by little, around the one.

The beast's tracks were deep.

The angle at which the claws had pressed into the earth, the widening of the stride, the way the hind feet had landed. The one crouched and traced the edge of a print with a finger. Dry soil. It held its shape. These were from last night.

The group's elder let out a low rumble. A sound that meant: go.

The one did not stand. Looked at the tracks again. The right hind foot had sunk less deeply than the others. There was no dragging. But the weight was unevenly distributed.

The elder rumbled again. Lower this time, and longer.

The one rose. Gestured. Not forward — right. The beast had turned right.

The elder's eyes narrowed.

The group numbered seven. Those who carried spears, those who carried stones, those who carried rope. The one carried nothing. Empty hands moved faster.

They entered the undergrowth.

Dry leaves rustled underfoot. The one shifted the way of stepping — not heel-first, but from the outer edge of the foot. The sound disappeared.

The elder ahead stopped.

The one stopped.

The wind came.

There was a place where the grass moved differently. Left and ahead, a dozen or so paces away. A single seed-head tilted against the direction of all the others. The trace of a body having passed through.

Something stirred inside the one's chest.

Not fear. Fear was familiar — a tightening deep in the belly. This was different. It moved higher, in the upper chest, close to the throat.

The elder raised a hand. Everyone stilled.

The one lowered to a knee. Sent a gaze through the parting grass.

The beast was there.

Large. The fur along its back stood on end. Its face was turned away. It was searching for water. If they could drive it toward a water source, it would have nowhere to go.

The elder did not know this. Did not know the beast was searching for water.

The one made a soft sound — not a growl, but something blurred into breath. The elder turned. The one pressed the right hand toward the ground, low and slow. A gesture that meant: wait. Then extended the left arm. Water lies in that direction.

Something shifted in the elder's face.

A long silence followed.

The elder gave a nod.

The group swung wide to the right, to reach the water source first.

The beast did not notice.

The stone was cold. Its edge pressed into the skin of the palm.

Within the group, voices had grown louder. The low rumble of the elders, the short cries of the young. The sound of body meeting body. Something was on the verge of being decided.

The one could hear it.

Turned to face the cliff. No reason. Simply turned. Light rested on the stone. The angle was not that of the morning sun. It was light that had fallen from the rim of the cliff above.

The stone in the right hand was set down on the ground.

The one stood.

Looked once toward the group. Bodies were tangled together. No one called out that name.

And so the one began to walk toward the cliff.

With each step on the gravel, there was sound. The feet tested the boundary between sand and stone. At the base of the cliff, hands found their hold. The rock was hot — the heat of stone that had been in the sun since morning. As the one climbed, that heat moved from the hands up through the arms.

At the top, the wind was different.

The plateau spread out below. The group was visible, very small. The other group to the south was visible too. The pale whiteness of the riverbed was visible.

For a while, the one did not move.

The wind passed through.

From below the cliff, a voice rose. High-pitched. Whether it was anger or a search, the one could not tell. The body went still. The hands would not release the rock.

The voice continued.

The one stepped back from the cliff's edge. Moved into the shadow of a boulder. Remained there until the voice could no longer be heard.

The one looked into the eyes of the young one from the riverbank band.

A hand gripping stone. The muscles of the arm had gone rigid. The one had gone rigid too.

The stone placed on the ground lay between them.

The one did not step on it. Did not step over it. Only lowered their own hand.

The young one's arm loosened, just slightly.

The smoke entered to the back of the throat.

The throat made a sound. Spat. The smoke came again.

The companions ran. A woman holding a child ran. An old man fell. The one took hold of the old man's arm. Ran while still holding on. The old man's feet were slow. The grass was burning. Beneath the feet the ground was hot.

They crossed the hill.

On the other side of the hill, another band was there.

A low rumbling came. A sound that reached into the chest. Those with broad foreheads stood before the rocks. The one's band stood as well. The woman holding her child stood.

No one moved.

The wind carried the smoke across. It descended on both sides alike.

The one stepped forward.

The companions cried out. A sound of warning. The one heard it. But the feet moved.

A young man from the other band crouched low. He was holding a stone.

The one opened both hands. There was nothing in them.

The young man did not move, still holding the stone.

The one did not move either. The smoke stung the eyes. The eyes narrowed. Tears came, but that was all.

After a time, the young man lowered the stone.

That night, the two bands sat together on one hill. No fire was made. Because the smoke was still coming. They pressed close, kept their voices low — nothing more.

Someone's elbow pressed against the one's back. It was the elder man among the companions. He made no sound. Only pressed.

The meaning was not understood.

Yet the one leaned against the rock and passed the night with eyes open.

At dawn, the other band was gone.

A bird flew up from the burned ruins. The one followed it with the eyes. The bird vanished into the sky where smoke still lingered.

The one rose and returned among the companions.

The elder man was watching. He said nothing. He watched only with his eyes. There was something in those eyes. What it was, the one did not know.

A fever moved through them.

The first sign came from within himself. At night, when he lay down, there was a dull ache, as though something were pressing outward from inside. By morning it had passed. So he paid it no mind.

Around that time, the same thing was happening to one person after another within the group.

The children fell first. Several of them, in a short span. Their mothers pressed their own foreheads against the children's burning brows. No one knew that fever was not something you could catch this way, and because no one knew, no one stopped them. They simply did it.

Then the elders began to fall.

One morning, one of the old ones sat down on a rock and did not move again. Those who were called over gathered around him. They touched his body. It was cold. It was heavy. This group knew in their bodies the difference between the living and the dead. They could not have explained it, but they knew.

The one watched from a distance.

Past fifty now, his body had changed. Some days his knees ached. There had been a time when he could run from dawn to dusk. These days his legs grew heavy by evening. Even so, he could read the movements of animals better than the young hunters could. Where a creature would hide. Where it would come from. His body remembered.

The fever did not come to him.

He did not know why it had spared him. He had no words to ask why the children died, why the elders died, why he himself woke the next morning after drinking water. He only looked at those who had died. He counted them. He counted on his fingers and ran out of fingers.

The group grew smaller.

The empty spaces multiplied. Places where someone always used to sit — no one there now. A voice that was always sounding — gone. The one kept away from those places. When he drew near them, something tightened deep in his belly. That was all.

Some recovered.

One young woman burned with fever for several days, and then she rose. Her appetite returned. She drank water. The one watched this. He tried to understand what separated those who fell and did not rise from those who did. He could see no difference. They ate the same things. They slept in the same places.

He could not understand.

In time, the fever quietly withdrew. No one new was falling ill within the group. It took a while before this became clear. There was no single moment when it was known to have stopped. Without anyone quite noticing, the dying had ceased.

That evening, the one went to the water.

He drank. Then he looked at the surface. His own face looked back at him. He had seen it countless times, yet it looked slightly different now. The shadows beneath his eyes seemed deeper. The flesh of his cheeks may have worn away.

He simply looked.

His face on the water. The sky beyond it. Whether somewhere within that sky there existed those who had vanished from the group — this he did not know. He had no words for such wondering.

The water stirred.

Not from wind. Not from any insect. A ripple whose cause he could not name crossed the surface once, and was gone. He did not stand. He remained there a little while longer.

The belly still ached.

Not like before. Before, the pain had been something spreading outward from inside. Now it pulled. Below the navel, slightly to the right. Deep.

The one sat down on the edge of a rock and pressed a hand to the abdomen. Touching through the skin told nothing. No heat. Pressing fingers in brought a dull resonance. That was all.

Yesterday, an old woman in the group had died. She had stopped moving with her belly clutched in her arms. Before that, two children had curled the same way and gone still. The one had watched. Clutching the belly, curling inward, going still. The order of it had stayed, lodged somewhere in the mind.

Now the one was clutching a belly too.

Rising to stand. The knees trembled slightly. Not enough to stop walking. Starting toward the hunting ground, then stopping.

At the edge of the group, three figures with old faces had gathered. They had come every day for several days now. Sometimes they brought food. Sometimes they did not. Their eyes moved through the group. The one had developed a habit of following those moving eyes.

Today, the eyes were moving again.

They were watching the children.

The one did not leave the rock. Pressing the pain back into the background, the one stepped between the old-faced figures and the children. No reason. Standing because standing had happened.

One of the old-faced figures let out a low sound.

The one answered with a low sound of its own.

Neither moved. The children touched the sand, knowing nothing.

After a time, the old-faced figures turned and went away. The one watched their backs recede. The belly pulled again. Deep, to the right. The one stood with one hand still pressed there, and did not move.

Before dawn broke, the one crawled to the edge of the group.

Something deep in the belly had gone quiet. Not that the pain had left. It was more like a surrender — a stillness from within. The pulling sensation below the navel had gone somewhere in the night. That was what frightened the one.

Back pressed against the rock face, knees drawn up.

The sky turned pale. A bird called, then another. The one looked at its own palms. Mud was packed into the knuckles. Since when, it was impossible to say.

From within the group, a young one approached. Thirty years younger, at least. Thick arms. Sharp eyes.

The one said nothing. Had no sounds left to give. Only once, a hand turned toward the young one's feet. Toward the ground. That was all.

The young one stopped. Looked at the one's face for a moment. Then went on.

The one leaned its head back against the rock.

The sky brightened. A single cloud drifted in from the west. The wind moved low, grazing the roots of the grass. From somewhere distant came the sounds of older-faced ones moving — feet on stone, the snap of a branch. Another group was passing along the edge of this place.

The one lay listening, eyes open.

The strength left its arms. There was no resistance. Slowly, along the rock face, it tilted to the side. The ground was cold. There was a smell of grass.

The morning light fell across the back of the one's hand. The mud-packed knuckles grew, just slightly, brighter.

A bird called again.

The smell of a rotting animal came.

The one stopped.

There was no reason for stopping. The body stopped first, and no reason followed after. Only a heaviness, as if the feet had been pressed into the ground, and the next step would not come.

The wind shifted. The smell thinned.

The one breathed in through the nose, then opened the mouth slightly and breathed in again. Something remained at the back of the tongue — a taste. A familiar one. It had no name. But the body knew it.

The one turned back.

Walking through the grass, the one looked down at the ground. In the red earth underfoot, the marks of yesterday's rain still held. Each raindrop had left its own small hollow. One was stepped on and pressed flat. Then another. No sound came.

Returning to the stone ledge where the group sheltered, the one found a young woman holding a child. The child was moving.

The one crouched a short distance away. Watching the child. The child's hand opened and closed.

Open. Close.

The one looked at their own hand. Opened it. Closed it.

It was the same as the child's hand, and yet the one's hand was something different. What was different could not be known. Only this: looking at their own hand, the one sat there for a while without moving.

From beyond the ledge came the sound of another group's low voices.

The one looked up from the hand, turning toward the sound. The voices did not continue.

The one looked at the hand again.

Bent each finger, one by one. Five. Then opened them all. Then bent them again, one by one.

What was being done, the one did not know.

Waking came before the light.

The stain on the wall of the rock ledge was wetter than yesterday. When the one touched it with a fingertip, it was cold. The wall was cold, and yet the back of the one sleeping beside them was warm. The one shifted just slightly toward that warmth.

After the sun had risen, an unfamiliar smell reached the edge of the group.

Not their own smell. Not an animal, either. Close, yet distant. The one stood, still holding a half-eaten root. Stood, and looked toward the smell. Looked, but saw nothing.

The newcomers were clustered at the far end of the rock ledge. There were two children among them. One was crying. The cry resembled that of an animal, but it was not an animal.

The one bit into the root once.

Still chewing, they turned toward the smell again.

The child's crying stopped. After it stopped, the child coughed. Somewhere deep in their body, the one remembered having coughed many times during the dry season the year before. Not remembered in the way of thinking — the inside of the throat remembered.

Still holding the root, the one walked three steps toward the far end.

Stopped.

One more step.

Stopped.

The child who had stopped crying was watching the one. The one watched the child. Neither of them did anything. Wind passed through the interior of the rock ledge. The smells mingled.

The one set the root down on the ground.

The dry season had ended.

The earth changed without announcement. A white powder dusted the surface of the red-brown soil. The trace of rain that had never come. But beneath the ground, something was moving. Roots, pressing apart the gaps between stones.

The one felt it through the soles of the feet. The ground was soft, slightly. A different feeling from yesterday. A pause. Another step.

At the eastern edge of the group's range, there were signs of the old ones. Not smoke. The smell of dung, the direction of trampled grass, the angle of a broken branch. The prey this group had been pursuing had been taken by another hand first. Anger moved through the group like a current. Low sounds layered over one another. The elder male spread both arms wide.

The one made no sound.

No growling. No raising of arms. Only the act of picking up the broken branch. Bringing the nose close to the broken end. The smell of sap. The smell of a tree still living.

The group moved east. The one followed.

Where the river split into three tributaries, the other group came into view. Small. Fewer than this group. One child held against a woman's knee. The men held stones. This side began to gather stones as well.

The one's hands did not move.

The ground. At the place where the tributaries divided, sand had accumulated. Across the sand, small holes had opened. The marks of water that had receded. The edges of the holes were beginning to crumble.

A cry went up. Stones flew. One of the old ones fell. On this side, a man's head struck rock, and he sank to his knees at the water's edge. A companion dragged him back. Dragged past the one's feet.

The one was looking at the holes in the sand.

That night, gathered around the fire. Those still roused by the encounter struck their own arms. Someone brought something. Taken from the old ones. A shape not seen before. A round stone, split open, with a red vein running through the face of the break.

The one reached out a hand.

Not permitted to touch. The strong ones held it, the strong ones looked at it, the strong ones brought it down against the ground. It shattered. The red vein scattered.

The one picked up a single fragment from the ruin. Placed it in the palm.

There was weight to it. Heavier than expected.

From eighteen to nineteen. From nineteen to twenty.

The group moved. West, then south again. The tension with the old ones continued. Each encounter brought flying stones. Several were wounded. Those whose wounds swelled fell behind on the next move. Those who fell behind did not return.

The one turned twenty.

The feet had grown faster. When pursuing prey, there were moments of pulling ahead of the group. But the kill was always made by someone else. The one's hands stopped.

Stopped, and looked around.

The wind shifted. From the edge of the grassland, hot air arrived. Within that air, the faint smell of animal. The one turned toward the direction the smell had come from. No one else was looking that way.

The one ran.

In the shadow of a thicket, a young deer stood alone. One leg dragging.

The kill was made.

The others came. The meat was carried back. No one asked where the one had run. They only ate.

The one ate too. Sucked the bones. Inside the bone was something white. Soft. Sweet.

Twenty-one. Twenty-two.

Children came to the group in greater numbers. More children meant slower movement. The boundary with the old ones grew unstable. At night, watchers were needed. The one learned to remain awake through the night.

The fire burns low. The stars move.

The one watched the sky. That things moved was known. That they moved in the same direction was also known. But what this meant, the one did not possess. Only watching.

At the beginning of the twenty-third year, the river flooded.

Something must have happened upstream. Suddenly the water rose. Two children and an old woman were taken by the current. The one ran through the shallows and caught one child by the arm. Water rose to the waist. Feet found purchase on stone.

The child was lifted free.

The child lived. The old woman and the other child did not return.

That night, the one sat at the river's edge. The sound of water. The palm opened. There, still, was the fragment of red stone from that shattered moment. Carried all this time. Why it had been carried, there were no words for.

Only, it had been.

The world changed on the night the rain came.

The earth grew soft. Feet sank into it. Each step made a sound — a slick, heavy sound. The one felt this through the soles of their feet as they descended the slope toward the watering place.

At the watering place, there were strangers.

Not from the one's group. Their bodies were different. Pronounced brow ridges, short necks, broad shoulders. Four of them. Drinking water. Nothing more. The one stopped.

Stopped, and watched.

The strangers also stopped. They lifted their mouths from the water and looked across.

The one did not move their hands. Did not make a sound. Simply stood. After a time, the largest among the strangers let out a low sound from deep in the throat. It was not a threat. It was not a question. The one understood nothing of it, yet felt that somewhere within that sound there was something like water.

Then the strangers left.

The one approached the watering place and drank.

The water was the same water. Cold, shallow enough to see the bottom, and in the bank's mud there were small footprints. The one looked at the footprints. The shape of the toes was different. A little rounder than one's own.

By evening, the one had returned to where the group rested.

The elder ones had gathered before the fire. When the one arrived, several looked up. The one moved their hands. A gesture meaning: *saw*. Different ones. At the watering place.

One of the elders stood.

Said something in a low rumbling sound. Another said something in return. The one could not make it out. But the tension in their bodies carried across. The skin knew it from the way the air changed.

The following morning, the one was at the edge of the group.

No one spoke to them. When the one tried to sit before the fire, an elder shifted their body to block the space. The one stood and watched the fire for a time. The shape of the flames went on changing. The same shape never came twice.

The one moved away from the group.

Several days passed.

The one stayed near the group. Only the sleeping place was set a little apart. Searching for food was done alone. The rain had made the fruits plentiful, the roots easy to dig, and animals had come to the water's edge. There was no hunger. But at night there was no fire.

What it meant to have no fire at night — this was something the one had not known before.

Curled in the dark, the one listened carefully. The presence of animals, the movement of wind, the distant sound of water. And amid all of it, the shape of those footprints at the watering place came back again and again.

Round. The shape of the toes.

After setting down the branch, the one looked out at the water.

On the far bank sat one with a jutting brow, looking this way.

The one did not move. Nor did the other.

The wind carried a smell. Smoke, and fat, and earth, all mingled together.

The one stood there, simply present.

After the rains returned, something took up residence beneath the skin.

At first it came only at night. Before sleep, a heaviness would settle deep in the chest. Open the eyes, and it would dissolve. Close them, and it would return. For a time, the one moved back and forth between the two.

It was when the days began to shorten that rising became impossible.

An old woman from the group brought water. She carried to the one's lips a liquid pressed from chewed grass stems. The one received it. Drank. Drinking changed nothing. The woman said nothing. She came again. Brought water again.

Children were running nearby. The one followed them with the eyes. Followed the swift-footed child, followed the child who fell, followed the mud-caked knees. The corners of the mouth shifted, slightly. What had been about to be said — only the one knew.

On the morning of the third day, the one looked at one's own hands.

Looked for a long time.

At the dirt beneath the nails, at the dry skin over the knuckles, at the lines crossing the palms. As though trying to remember something. As though trying to confirm something. Or perhaps simply looking — nothing more.

The sun tilted toward the horizon.

The strength went out of the body. The breathing grew shallow. Then it grew quiet. That was all.

The old woman came. She sat. She did not move.

The children were still running as evening fell.

The knee hurt.

The stone where the fall happened had been flat. There was nothing wrong with the stone. It was only a stumble. Even so, the one picked it up. Set it down. Picked it up again. Threw it away.

The group was moving upstream along the river. The adults' legs were fast. Bundles swayed on their backs. A woman carrying a child walked ahead. The infant was not crying. It lay limp.

The one looked away.

To the east, a thin thread of smoke rose. It had been there yesterday. And the day before.

The wind came.

It was not the smell of grass. There was no knowing what smell it was. But the feet stopped. The face turned that way.

There were rocks. Something was on top of the rocks. Moving.

A grunt from one of the adults came from behind.

The one ran. Caught up with the group. And while catching up, looked back.

Whatever was on the rocks was still moving.

That night, the one lay down beside the fire. The old man nearby coughed. A long cough. It did not stop.

The one lay with eyes open, watching the smoke.

The smoke drifted east.

Five years of rain.

Grass grew past the waist. Water gathered in new places. Animal tracks appeared everywhere, and the group ate without having to give chase. Children were born one after another, and they lived. The group swelled.

The one remembered nearly dying of hunger at eleven. That thirst. The weightlessness of bone. It had passed. Disappeared, somewhere along the way.

Around the age of thirteen, the one began to feel something.

In the evenings, when the wind moved — the body would stop before the mind formed the thought: something is in the western brush. In the mornings, when the mist thinned — the heel would press into the earth before the understanding came: another group, somewhere past that watering place. There was no reason for it. The body simply moved first.

The adults did not laugh. Not because they lacked the ease for it. Because the one was right. Two times, three times, the one's body was right.

And so the one was brought along. For scouting. For checking water sources. For reading the edges of their range.

In the autumn of the fifteenth year, the one returned from a place where two groups had nearly met. The other group's numbers, their direction, what they carried. The one came back and communicated it in low sounds and gestures. Whether any of it was understood was unclear. The adults looked at one another.

The following morning, the group moved on.

The other group was gone. Because the one had known, contact was avoided. It happened three times.

That was the problem.

Someone in the group had noticed.

The one could not conceal what the one knew. The pitch of a sound, the angle of the body, the direction a gaze would settle — all of it showed.

In the early summer of the sixteenth year, the one was walking alone toward the watering place. A voice called out from behind. The one turned.

It was not a blow.

A stone came through the air. It struck the forehead. The one sank to the ground where they stood and could not rise. Grass stems touched the cheek. The earth was damp. Last night's rain had not yet dried.

The sky was pale.

There was a sensation of something leaving through the top of the head. Not anger. Not fear. Only a growing distance. Only the smell of grass remained.

Someone's footsteps moved away.

Years came when the grass grew tall enough to reach the waist.

From the age of eleven, the one walked at the edge of the group. The hunting parties would not take the one along. In the gathering lines, the one trailed at the very back. The legs were thin. The arms were thin. Still, the one followed.

At twelve, the one learned to catch river fish with bare hands. Wading knee-deep into the tepid water, becoming still as a shadow, waiting for fish to pass underfoot. Failing dozens of times. Nails splitting. Knees bleeding. Still waiting.

The fish that were caught were offered to others in the group. Sometimes they were not accepted. When they were, the one made no sound. Only returned to the river.

At thirteen, the group encountered another band. People who carried a different smell. They growled at each other, stared each other down, and sat apart for a while. That night, the two groups settled on either side of a fire. The one watched from a distance.

In the winter of fourteen, the fever came.

At first it was chills. Shivering beneath the furs. The next morning, rising was impossible. One person from the group brought water. Always the same one, that person brought water. The one looked at that face. Only looked.

The fever did not break.

On the third day, the one moved to the shelter of a rock. Moved there alone. Slowly, sinking to the knees along the way. The rock was cold. As if to confirm that coldness, the one rested a forehead against it.

The wind blew. There was the smell of grass. Woven into it, the smell of rotting leaves.

The one lay with eyes open, watching the sky. Clouds moved. One, then another.

The one who had brought water came again. The one tried to raise a hand. It would not rise. Only the eyes moved.

On the morning of the fifth day, when the water-bearer came, the one was no longer moving. Forehead still pressed to the rock, already cold.

The grass made its sound. The wind was still blowing.

A stone was thrown.

It was an evening at the edge of the group, when strangers had drawn close. Their brows were shaped differently. Their foreheads were thick. They stood a full head taller than the one.

The one had been gathering stones. Returning from foraging. Three root vegetables in hand.

The strangers stopped.

The one stopped.

One of the strangers made a sound. Low, and long. It was not a threat. It was not a question. The one could not find its meaning.

The one stood still, stone gripped tight.

The strangers left. They walked toward the dark. They did not look back.

The one ran. Ran to the sheltering rock where the group rested. Breath came hard. An attempt was made to tell someone. With sounds and gestures. Hands shaped the brow, showed the height.

An elder looked at the one.

Another man rose to his feet.

Everyone understood what had been seen.

That night, the men gathered. A long, low moaning continued into the dark. The one sat at the edge.

The next morning, the one was forbidden from leaving the group.

That much would have been enough.

Three days later, when the one had drifted from the sheltering rock, an arm came from behind and seized hold. Dragged forward. Before any understanding could form, the one had been brought to the edge of a cliff.

The one looked down.

It was far.

The man who held the arm did not look at the one. He looked at the sky. Whether he was thinking of something, or thinking of nothing at all, the one could not tell.

A shove.

Grass was visible, falling. Grass growing distant.

There was only the sound of wind.

There was the smell of fire.

Not their own.

The one stood without moving, stone in hand. The soles of the feet felt the hardness of the earth. Drier than yesterday. Wind crossed the cheek.

One of the elders in the group made a low sound — a sound pressed up from deep in the throat. Whenever the one heard that sound, something in the stomach went hard. It did now as well.

The group began to move.

The one was the last still standing. Stone in hand.

The smell of fire was still there. Distant. Mixed with it was the smell of people. Not the same smell as their own. But fire was fire.

The feet moved. Followed the group.

That night, the one sat with a back against a rock wall. A small one came and pressed close — a child who had been walking for only about two years. The one placed a hand on the child's back. It was warm.

Sleep would not come.

The eyes closed, but the one listened to the wind. Listened to the wind coming from the west.

Morning came. One of the elders gestured with a chin toward the west. It meant: do not go that way. The one understood.

The one did not nod.

The stone was gripped again, more firmly.

The rains returned.

The grass grew past the knee. Some of it reached the waist. Animal tracks layered upon each other at the watering holes, stratum upon stratum. The group grew larger. Among those who joined were some who had come from the direction of other watering holes. Broad-bodied ones with flat brows appeared at the edges of the group. They were the old people. They drew near. They were not driven away.

The one was in the grass. The belly was full. That was a rare thing.

One of the flat-browed ones let out a low sound. The one turned toward it. It was not a growl. It was something else. Air shaped by the throat into something other than itself. The one listened. Wanted to hear it again. But the other had already turned to look elsewhere.

Abundance drew people together. Those who gathered circled the same fire. The fire grew large. Surplus arose from the food, and hands reached for the surplus. Fists flew. Blood was drawn. But no one died. The next morning they circled the fire again.

The one watched an elder — a man who had come to sit second only to the eldest in the group. He had the frame of the one's father. The father was gone. He had disappeared five years before. He did not return.

The man's face held a deep scar. Not a recent wound. An old one. The flesh had risen and hardened over it. The one looked at the left palm. A thin scar there. The mark of a rock in childhood. A finger traced it.

Nuts and fruit ripened across the land in every direction. On a slope too far to reach from where the one stood, another group fought over a single tree, and two of them tumbled down the hillside. One rose. One did not.

One day the one drifted to the edge of the group and was alone. There was no particular reason. Only a need to move a little apart from the rest. Sitting in the grass. The sound of insects.

A shaft of light fell through the grass tips, bright and sharp in one place.

The rest of the world was in the same light. But that place was different. The one's eyes moved toward it. There, in the light, lay a single piece of stripped bark. One edge came to a point. The rain had softened it.

It was picked up.

A finger pressed into it. A mark was left on the fingertip. The finger moved as though carving something. A line remained. The one looked at it. Did it again. Again a line remained. Pressing the same place over and over, the mark grew deeper. The one's breathing quieted. The insects were still sounding.

The one carried the bark back to the group. Showed it to no one. Placed it at the base of the grass. Checked on it the next morning. It was there. Touched it again with a finger. The marks had not disappeared.

In the seasons that followed, something shifted within the group.

The man with the old scar fell into a dispute with a younger man over something. Their bodies came together. The others formed a ring around them. The one watched too. The man with the old scar was pushed back. He stumbled on a stone beneath his foot. When he fell, his neck struck a rock. There was a sound. The man did not rise.

The one looked at the rock. A little blood on it.

They buried the man. Together, as a group. They dug with their hands. Everyone put earth in. When it was finished, no one stood there long.

Only the one remained. For a little while. What was in the one's mind then could not have been put into words, not even by the one. Only that the feet would not move.

The one thought about what the man with the old scar had known. What he had known. That it was gone now. Where it had gone.

Some time had passed since the day the one sat down in the grass.

Within the group, someone had noticed the one's habits. Carrying the bark. Pressing marks into it with a finger. After the man with the old scar died, the younger man who rose in his place called the one over. The word *called* did not yet exist, but a growl and a line of sight held the meaning: *come*.

The one went.

The young man asked something. With sounds and gestures. He was asking what the marks were.

The one could not answer.

The young man's eyes changed.

The sounds of conflict rose at evening.

At the edge of the group, two adult men stood facing each other. The one watched from a distance. Watched — or rather, the sound had drawn them there.

The men's voices were raised. Growls and short bursts of sound were tangled together. Chests pushed against each other, hands seized each other's arms.

At the one's feet, there was a stone.

It was a shade brighter than the color of the soil. The shadow fell at a different angle. Without thinking, the one crouched. A hand touched the stone. It was heavy. It had edges. There was the sensation of them pressing into the soft of the fingers.

They stood.

Stone in hand, they watched the men. The men's voices were still going. Arms were wrapped around arms.

The one held the stone.

Did not throw it.

Cried out.

It was a brief sound. Not quite "ah," not quite "oh" — a sound pressed up from deep in the throat. The arm that held the stone was raised upward, and the one cried out.

The men stopped. Turned to look.

The one set the stone down on the ground. Released it. That was all.

The men faced each other again, but the pitch of their voices had changed. Their hands fell away.

The one returned without the stone.

That night, beside the fire, the one looked at their palm. The right hand. The hand that had held the stone. Looking, but not thinking. The fire made the shadows of the fingers tremble. The one closed their hand.

When morning came, half the group was gone.

The sounds of leaving had gone out in the night. The one had not heard them. Or perhaps had heard, and the body had not risen.

Seven remained. One old woman, two men each carrying a child, three of the elder ones, and the one. The seven looked at one another. No one made a sound.

They made their way toward the watering place. Only the sound of grass underfoot continued.

When they reached the edge, the one crouched down. A face appeared on the surface of the water. The one did not look at that face. What held the one's gaze was the movement of sand beneath the water. Fine grains shifting slowly along with the current. Moving, settling, moving again.

The one stepped on the flat stone and drank.

The stone was warm.

The one stood, then looked at the stone again. The sun was not yet high. This was not the warmth a stone holds in the morning. The one crouched again and laid a palm flat against the stone. Pressed. The stone did not shift.

The old woman took the one's arm. Pulled it in the direction they needed to go.

The one stood.

Lifted a hand from the stone.

But while walking, looked back. Once. The stone lay at the edge of the watering place. In the light of the sun, there was nothing remarkable.

The one walked behind the others.

Three days later, south of the watering place, they came face to face with a band of the old ones.

There were three of the old ones. Seven on this side. The difference in number was plain. Yet the old ones did not move. Neither did the seven. For a time, they simply stood there.

One of the old ones cast its eyes down to the ground. Then turned and walked away. The other two followed.

The seven made no sound.

Only the one kept watching, long after the old ones had gone.

The old woman took the one's arm again. This time, the one did not look back.

On the sixth night, one of the men carrying a child was found lying some distance from the fire. There were no wounds. There was no breath. The body was still warm. The child lay sleeping beside the man. The child did not know.

The one lifted the child.

The child woke.

Cried out for the father.

The one made no sound. Only held. Even as the child kept crying out, the one held on. Carried the child to the fire.

The night gave way to morning.