297,005 BCE – 296,885 BCE | Episodes 601–624

The grass had fallen.

It was not the wind. The wind was not coming from that direction.

The legs stopped. There had been no decision to stop, but they had stopped. The lower part of the belly went cold. It was midday. Sweat clung to the back.

Beyond the grass, there were three backs.

The one looked.

The three backs did not move. The one did not move either. A bird called. Far away. Not nearby.

Slowly, the one drew the right foot back. The grass rustled. One of the three backs turned its head.

The one lay down in the grass.

The heart was moving somewhere near the throat. The face touched the ground. There was the smell of earth — rotting leaves, dry sand, something old.

A long time passed. Or perhaps it had not.

There were footsteps. Fading. Then returning. Then fading again.

The sky had turned to evening.

The one did not stand. Stayed a little longer, pressed to the ground. A blade of grass touched the cheek. It did not hurt. It was simply there.

Then the one stood.

And walked in a direction different from the one that had led here. The smoke of a fire was not visible. The one did not look for it.

Before night came, the one moved into the shadow of a rock. Drew the knees up close.

There was hunger.

Still, the one did not move. Something felt as though it remained, close by. The one returned again and again to the direction the grass had fallen — less remembering than the body repeating it. The coldness in the belly, the body traced it once more.

Night came.

From the shadow of a rock, watching.

At the center of the group, three men. The one who stood a head taller than the rest spread his arms and bellowed. It was not a voice so much as volume. The sheer displacement of air. The man beside him brought something down hard against the ground. A dry sound. Bone. The shoulder blade of a beast. It did not crack.

The one watched from behind the rock and pressed a hand to his own belly. He was not hungry. Still, he pressed it there.

The three men did not look in his direction. Yet the one knew he was being watched. Watched while appearing not to be watched. This was something the skin understood. The hairs at the back of his neck rose, quietly.

Five years before, the one had still lived at the edge of the group. In the place where the firelight did not reach, he had slept among the small children. It was different now. Different, though the one had no words for how.

He simply watched the three from the rock's shadow.

A split bone lay on the ground.

The one left the shadow of the rock. He took the long way around. He circled halfway around the group and approached the fire from a different direction. On the way, a child sat alone in the dirt, slapping mud with both palms. The one passed by without stopping.

Near the fire, an old woman sat with a hide across her knees, tracing her fingers along the grain of the fur. The one sat down beside her.

The woman did not look up.

The one said nothing.

After a time, the woman made a short sound. The one listened. She made another sound. A different one this time. The one looked at the hide on her knees. Then at the fire. Then toward the place where the three men had been. They were gone.

Night came.

The one lay down at some distance from the fire. He looked up at the sky. There were clouds. Their shapes did not hold. After a while, he closed his eyes.

In the middle of the night, a sound.

Distant. Coming from outside the group. Something like a growl, but not a growl. The one sat up. He looked around. The fire had shrunk.

The sound came again.

The one did not move. Whether to move or not—his skin could not decide. His body could not decide. His belly could not decide.

Then the sound stopped.

The one lay back down. But this time he did not close his eyes. He watched the sky and waited for dawn. When dawn came, his body had gone stiff. He rose, still stiff.

One of the three men lay fallen near the fire.

Fallen. Not sleeping. The flesh of his belly was black and wet. The one looked at this from a distance. He did not go near.

The old woman approached first. She looked at the man's face. Then she stood. That was all.

The sounds of morning returned to the group. A child cried. Someone fed branches to the fire. A crackling sound.

The one stood without moving, still looking at the fallen man.

The man's fingers were open. Lying on the earth as though reaching for something, still open.

In the morning, this one went to the water.

The soles of the feet grew cold. Not the coldness of mud — of stone. The stone was known only after stepping onto it. Before, there had been no sound.

Drank. Wiped the face.

On the way back, the nape of the neck grew hot. The sun was ahead. The shadow stretched forward. And yet the heat came from behind.

The one stopped.

Did not turn. Turned only the ears, toward what was behind. There was no sound. No wind. The grass was still.

And yet the heat was there.

Began to walk again. The heat remained.

Returning to the hill, the one found men gathered — not three but five. None of them looked up. The one sat on a stone at the edge and placed both hands on the knees.

That night, a child lay sleeping curled near the fire. The one looked at the child's feet. There was a wound. A wound no one had noticed.

The one touched it with a finger. The child did not open its eyes.

The fire shifted.

The third summer came since water had returned to the grasslands. The bellies of the animals were round, and so were the bellies of the children. The circle around the fire grew wider, and those who had once sat at its edges began to move inward. Having a place at the center of the circle had come to mean something.

The one sat outside the circle. Past fifty, the body felt heavy even on soft ground, and each morning brought a tightening that ran from the lower back down to the hip. Still, the one rose and walked each morning in the same direction. As far as the place where the water began, where three rocks stood in a row.

As the group grew larger, the arrangement of the rocks changed. Not because anyone had moved them, but because more feet passed through, and the long-trodden paths became roads, and when the roads shifted, the meaning of the rocks shifted with them. Only the one continued walking the old way.

In the spring of the second year, two young males seized the one by the arms. Not dragged — pushed aside. A growl, a blow to the shoulder, a thrust of the chin in a direction. Less *go away* than *your place is not here* — that was what the gesture meant. The one did not resist.

Wind came from the direction where the sun went down. Not the smell of grass, but the smell of scorched earth.

The one raised their nose. Beyond the rocks, along the slope of a hill, there was a place where the grass had begun to yellow and wither. That patch alone was a different color. The rest of the grass was a bluish green, but that place alone wore the color of summer's end.

The one stood there for a while.

Before the water, that discolored patch lay waiting. The one had watched for a long time how the animals skirted around it. There was no knowing why they avoided it. Only that they did. That alone was known.

In the third winter, two of the louder voices in the group began sleeping in the same place. When those two moved together, the movements of the others changed. In the sharing of food, the portions left near those two grew larger. No one decided this. It simply became so.

The one joined the line for distribution. Was moved to the back. Joined again. Was moved to the back again. The third time, the one did not join the line.

Near the three rocks, the one dug into the ground. There was no branch at hand for digging, so heels struck the earth and fingers scraped at it. There was no understanding, even from within, of what was being done. Only digging. No thought of what might lie at the end of it.

In the fourth year, one of the loud voices fell ill. They curled around their belly and stopped moving, and by the third day still did not move, and by the fourth day had gone cold. The other one remained.

The one watched the sick figure from a distance, standing, not approaching. There was no reason to approach. But watching happened. The way the body grew smaller. The way the hands clutching the belly grew weak. All of it was watched.

In the autumn of the fifth year, the smell of scorched earth came again. Stronger this time.

The one drew near to the circle of the group. Arms were waved, indicating the direction of the smell. A growl rose. The young males looked at the old one. A gesture was made — stop, or be quiet, or *this is not your concern* — the one could not tell the difference.

The one did not stop.

The growling continued. The arms kept swinging toward the direction of the smell.

One of the young males came closer.

The one's body struck a rock. Not the chest first — the back. Sky was visible. Then ground. Then sky again.

Then nothing was visible at all.

It was hard to say when the knees had stopped straightening.

The one could not remember. Only that, with each rising, hands had begun reaching for a rock. Pressing against it, rising slowly. That motion had become the beginning of morning.

The group's circle still widened. The smell of burning animal fat filled the evenings, and the voices of children carried far. The one stood outside the circle. There had been a time of sitting at its edge, but now the circle itself was distant. The legs no longer listened.

From the day the water's edge became too far to walk, the young ones began carrying water over. They would fold large leaves into cups, cradling them in both hands so not a drop would fall. The one would receive it, take a single sip, and return the leaf. That was all. No words of thanks came. Not because the way of them had been forgotten, but because the body knew they were no longer needed.

One morning, the wind swept the grass sideways.

The one sat and watched the direction the grass fell. The wind stilled, the grass rose, then fell again. It repeated. The one's eyes followed it, thinking nothing. Only watching.

There had been no child carried in the belly. Fires started fewer times than most. No beast had been dressed within the circle, no group had been led. Fifty-five years had been lived this way.

One afternoon, the body's warmth began to leave.

The one lay down in the grass. Beneath the back was the hardness of earth. The sky was white. Clouds moved. The one watched them. Somewhere deep in the throat was a sound that wanted to call out, but it did not come.

There was no need for it to come.

Beside the one's face, the grass stirred. Not from wind. Perhaps where a small insect had passed. The one's eyes watched the grass move, and then, slowly, grew still.

The body remained in the grass. The sky stayed white.

Smoke drifted sideways.

The one sat beside the fire, watching the tip of a branch slowly char. There was a right moment to stop. Burn it too long and it snaps. Hold it too far away and it never hardens. The body knew this balance. Not the mind — the wrists and the nostrils did.

A sound came from the edge of the group.

Not a growl. Something closer to a cry. The one rose and moved toward it. Through the grass, around the shadow of a shrub, two men stood facing each other. One had an old face — a jutting brow, thick orbital ridges. The other was one of their own.

Something in his hand. A stone.

The companion gripped a sharpened stone. The old-faced one did not move. Only his eyes moved.

The one stepped between them.

There was no particular thought behind it. The body moved first. Arms spread wide, a low sound from the throat. A look at the companion. A look at the stone. A look into the companion's eyes.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then the old-faced one withdrew. He disappeared into the grass. The companion still held the stone, and watched the one. There was something in his eyes. Not anger. Something else, something that had no name.

That night, the one kept watch over the fire.

The flame was small. It swayed with every breath of wind, nearly dying, then catching itself. The one added dry grass a little at a time. Too much and it became smoke. Too little and it went out.

Someone from the group was sleeping nearby. One of the children had curled up with their back pressed against the one's foot. The one did not move. Did not shift the foot.

Late in the night, voices came from another direction.

Not the companion's voice. More people than that. Several had gathered and were speaking about something. The one could not follow the meaning. But the tone was clear. They were talking about the stone from the afternoon.

The one watched the fire.

There are moments when the heart of a flame turns white. From red to white, for just an instant. The one liked those moments. There was no reason. Only that, when they came, something inside grew quiet.

The voices stopped.

The wind came again. The flame swayed. The child shifted in sleep and pressed harder against the one's foot.

The one added a single blade of grass to the fire.

Three days later, the one walked to the water.

Alone, through the morning light. One of the women in the group needed water. Her belly was large. She had been staying in the same place for days now.

The water welled up from between the rocks. It was cold. The one filled a skin, tied off the opening.

On the way back, the one's feet stopped in the grass.

There was no wind. Yet the grass moved.

The one stood and looked at that place. It was not an animal. There was no sound. No scent. Only a feeling, just below the chest, that something was there.

The one adjusted the grip on the skin and walked on.

Back at the camp, the companion was standing near the entrance. The man who had held the stone. He looked at the one, then looked away.

The one brought the water. The woman received it and drank.

That afternoon, the one lay down at the edge of the group's ground. A large rock cut off the sun. The one lay with eyes open, watching the sky spread above the stone.

Clouds moved. Slowly. Without stopping.

The companion came and found the place.

Said nothing. Only sat down beside the one. For a time, both looked at the sky. The companion made a low sound. Not a word — just sound. The one returned a low sound of the same kind.

That was all.

The next morning, the one was gone.

Someone in the group noticed. The place where the one always was, empty. Not by the fire. Not toward the water.

A child cried. The child who had known to sleep with a back pressed against those feet.

The one's body was found two days later. Outside the boundary of the group's ground, in the shadow of a rocky outcrop. Not face-up. Not face-down. On one side, drawn in, as though holding the knees close.

There were wounds.

Wounds from something sharp, like stone.

No one spoke. There were no words. But everyone knew. Not who — that remained unsaid. Not why — that too could not be put into words. Only this: the sky from yesterday, the one would not see it again. That alone remained.

The fire kept burning.

Someone added grass.

Arrived at the watering hole first.

Drank. The mud beneath the feet was soft. Lately, many animal tracks. Even in what should have been the dry season, the water had not receded.

When the one stood, the grass on the far side stirred.

Four of them. Unfamiliar faces. A different smell. Something different painted on their bodies. And yet they had come to drink from the same water.

The one did not move.

The others did not move.

For a time, they simply existed there. One of the others lowered a hand toward the ground. It was not a gesture of threat. The one understood this. Without knowing why — but understood.

The one lowered a hand as well.

That was all. The others drank, and left.

Returning to the group, one of the companions made a sound. A sound like anger. They looked at the one and made it again. It's about those others, the one thought. There were no precise words for it, but the body knew that much.

The one said nothing in return.

Sat down beside the fire. Picked up a burnt stick and pressed its end into the earth. The fading ember touched the ground and gave off a thin thread of smoke.

The companion's voice went on.

The one pressed the stick into the soil and thought about the gesture — the hand lowered toward the ground. What had it meant? And why had the one done the same?

No answer came.

The ember cooled. A small scorch mark remained in the earth.

The water is lower.

The water collected in the basin of rock sat a palm's width shallower than the day before. The one knelt at the edge and looked at the surface. A reflection wavered there. Before the wavering stilled, another ripple came.

Beside the one, an unfamiliar pair of feet.

The one did not look up. Cupped water in both hands. Drank. Deep in the throat, the water made a sound.

The unfamiliar feet did not move.

Neither did the one.

They remained like that for a time. As the rocks began to hold the heat of the day, the one stood. Did not brush the dirt from both knees. Before that could happen, something fell in the distance.

In the direction of the group.

The one ran.

The ground was hard. With each impact at the heel, the teeth knocked together. Where the group had been, three figures from the other group were standing. On the ground, one of the one's own lay on their side.

It was a young one. The same who had been carrying stones only yesterday.

The one stopped.

Breath came hard and ragged through the nose. Eyes moved from the three to the one lying on the ground.

One of the three held a stone.

The one's right hand moved around the hip, searching for something. There was nothing. Left behind that morning.

The three did not move.

The chest of the one on the ground was still rising and falling.

The one stepped slowly forward. Placed their body between the three and the one who had fallen. The knees trembled slightly. An effort was made to stop the trembling. It did not stop.

The three looked at one another.

Then they left.

The one did not turn away, watching the backs of the three until they disappeared into the shadow of the rock. Only then did the one lower to both knees. Placed a hand on the chest of the one who had fallen. It was warm. It was moving.

The one made no sound.

Hand still resting there, the one stayed.

The stomach stopped growling.

That was the first change. Silence did not mean the hunger was gone. The body had given up — but the one did not know this. Only a hand pressed to the belly, and nothing felt back.

Within the group, the one was watched with eyes that said: unnecessary.

The reasons were not simple. Not quite someone who knew too much, but someone whose face suggested knowing. The same expression, pausing before the same rock, again and again. That alone was enough to kindle strangeness in the eyes of the others. No words were needed. Wariness travels without them.

Two days before, they had been waiting when the one returned from the water.

They said nothing. Nothing needed to be said. Stones flew through the air. The one did not run. There was no reason left to find in running.

Something struck the right side of the hip. A dull sound moved through the body from within.

The one fell into the grass.

Not to die — not yet. Three days passed in motion. Grass was chewed. Insects were crushed and placed on the tongue. Water came from night dew licked from hollows in rock. The right side of the hip grew hot, and the heat spread with each night.

On the morning of the fourth day, the one sat beside a rock.

No fire was made. No stones were struck together. Only sitting. In the darkness before the sky turned white, the eyes were open. Perhaps something was seen. Perhaps nothing was.

The heat in the hip withdrew — somewhere.

The body tilted sideways. Leaning against the rock, the one came to rest at an angle. Grass roots touched the cheek. The mouth stayed slightly open and did not close.

Wind blew. The grass moved.

Forty-nine years.

The fire was dying down.

The one knew. But did not go to fetch more branches. Knees drawn up to the chest, watching the edges of the embers turn white and crumble to ash.

Nothing in the belly. Not since yesterday — longer than that, it had been going on. A feeling like the core of the body had become a thin rod. The rod had not broken, but there was no flesh left on it.

One of the group's elders had stopped moving in the morning. No one cried out. One of the children touched the body, then stepped away. That was all.

Tending the fire was the one's role. Not permitted to go on hunts yet — not because running was impossible, but because it had not yet been allowed. So the one stayed beside the fire. But now there was no wood left to feed it. What had been gathered yesterday had burned away. A single branch remained, held between the knees.

Should it be given over. If it was, the fire would go on. The body held a little warmth.

This was not thinking. Only an inability to move.

After a while, one of the coals collapsed without a sound. White dust scattered, and the heat was gone. The one placed the single branch into the fire. A thin flame returned. Small, but there.

Someone in the group let out a low moan. In the distance, a child began to cry. The sound was brief, and then it stopped.

The one kept watching the fire. As long as the flame was there, something still existed here. That was how it felt. Less a feeling, perhaps, than the absence of any other way to feel.

There was nothing in the pit of the stomach.

Three days now. Water had been drunk. Water could be drunk. And so the one understood that death had not come. There was no word for *understood*, but the body knew the relationship between the stomach and water.

The fire still burned.

Not because the one had tended it. Others had fed it with wood. The one simply sat. Sitting near the fire was sitting where it was warmest. The strength to tend it was gone.

No one said anything.

There was a tension within the group. The one had known certain things. Where water could be found. From which direction animals approached. Within a group, having someone who knew such things could cause difficulty. The older ones felt this. There was no word for *older*, but the feeling of unease was something everyone carried.

A few days before, the one had tried to show the way to the water.

With growls and gestures. A motion that meant: *this way*.

No one followed. One turned away. Another looked at the one, then looked at someone else. Something passed between them, and something was decided.

That night, the space near the fire was narrower for the one.

The next morning, when food was divided, the one's turn did not come.

That was all it was. No violence. Simply, no share came. And it continued.

The one felt no anger. It was not that the strength for anger was absent. Only that what was happening could not be measured. There was no concept of being cast out. Food did not come. That alone was fact.

On the afternoon of the third day, the one moved a little apart from the fire.

Knees folded, the one sat. The rock's surface was cold. When the head drooped, there was earth below. On the earth, a small insect moved. It moved quickly. The one watched it for a time.

The insect was gone.

Only earth remained.

The one's body tilted sideways. An arm met the ground, and then no longer held. A cheek touched the earth. The earth was softer than expected.

The sounds of the group reached from somewhere distant.

Low cries. The voices of children. Wood splitting in the fire.

These grew faint, little by little.

The one did not notice the growing faintness. There was only the smell of earth. The smell of grass roots, faintly damp. That was the last thing left to the one.

There was a dry year.

The riverbeds split white, and the fish vanished. Some among the group lay down with their bellies turned up and did not move again. The two years that followed brought rain back, the trees bore fruit, and half of the children born survived. The number lost and the number regained did not balance cleanly.

At twenty-six, the one entered the northern scrubland with a swift-footed man.

The scent of prey was felt through the feet. Dry earth gone soft in certain places. A faint give underfoot when stepped on. The one stopped there and drew in the air.

To the south, on the plateau, a band of the old people was moving.

They were shaped differently. Heavy brows, shoulders thrust forward. They had no words, but they knew fire. One look at each other's faces and the difference was plain. Even so, they sometimes came to the same watering place. They came, drank, and went their separate ways. Sometimes killing broke out. Sometimes one side fled. Which side fled depended on numbers, on exhaustion, on the state of their hunger at that moment.

On the day the one's band and the old people met at the watering place, the one stepped forward.

Not because anyone had said to. The body moved first. A stone was lifted, a sound was made, the eyes did not turn away. The old people withdrew. When the one returned, an older man was watching. He said nothing. He only watched.

From then on, each time the one brought down a kill, the way the meat was divided changed.

Before, the elders had taken their share first. Now the meat passed through the one's hands before reaching the others. Whether the one noticed this or not could not be seen from outside. Only that when the meat was passed, there was a brief stillness in the one's movements.

In the autumn of the twenty-eighth year, the one pursued a large animal across a low-lying grassland.

The wind was coming from the east. The prey could not catch their scent. The one circled downwind and ran low to the ground. A sharpened stone was gripped in hand. Closer. The warmth of the animal's neck was near. The sound of its breathing. The one's feet pushed off from the earth.

Light fell.

Just ahead of the animal's forelegs, into a crack in the ground, light fell. In that crack grew a slender plant. Deep roots. Bend it and it would not break. Wind and rain bowed it, and still it returned.

After the kill, the one stepped on that grass.

Did not stop. Stepped on it, dragged the prey away, and left.

Where the light had fallen, the one's footprint remained.

In the winter of the twenty-ninth year, an elder in the band died.

Climbing down a cliff face, a foothold gave way. There was a sound, and then nothing. He had been the one who remembered most. The locations of watering places, the seasonal patterns of the animals' paths, the shapes of poisonous berries. These things remained with him at the bottom of the cliff.

For three days, the one sat on a rock near the cliff's edge.

Sat and looked down. Neither standing to leave nor descending, simply sitting just short of the edge. On the fourth day, another man let out a grunt meaning it was time to go. The one stood. Walked.

Within the band, the one began to decide more things.

Where to move. When to go after prey. Who would move first. What the elder had carried began passing, slowly, in different form, into the one's body. It was not language. It was not voice. It was the way that when someone needed to decide something, the eyes of those nearby turned toward the one — the particular way they turned.

In the spring of the thirty-first year, another band arrived.

They were the same kind of people, but their faces were unknown. There were many of them, and they were weary. They had been fleeing something. The air around them was thin with hunger. The two bands regarded each other.

From among the one's band, several people stepped forward holding stones.

The one did not step forward.

Stood still. Arms at the sides, standing. Among those who had come, one — a woman holding a child — placed something on the ground. It was not food. It was a bone. An animal's bone, set down on the earth.

The one looked at the bone.

Did not pick it up. Did not kick it aside. For a time, simply looked.

That night, the two bands kept separate fires. But they slept on the same southern face of the same rock.

Thirty-six years old now.

Over these five years, two old scars had formed on the inside of the knee. When running, there is a pulling feeling there. Still, the running continued. Fall behind in speed, and the prey that had been taken would be claimed by someone else. Claimed by someone else, and hunger followed. That was all there was to it.

Walking along the river, the soles of the feet registered the firmness of the grass beneath. A stop.

Something was different. The way the light fell, perhaps, or the temperature — it was not clear. Crouching, pulling at the grass. When a finger traced the length of a blade, the skin split along the thin line it made. Blood came. It was licked away. Before the pain could settle, something moved inside the mind. Or so it seemed. Only a feeling.

The whole bundle of grass was pulled free.

On returning to the group, there was a large man. He carried the smell of the northern rocky ground. The bones above his eyes jutted forward. The man looked over. The one looked back. Neither retreated.

A woman stepped between them. She made a sound. Low, repeating. The man looked away. The one set the grass down on the ground.

That night, near the fire, the grass was pressed against a stone. The edge of a blade was drawn across the rock face. It abraded. A line remained. This was done again and again. Then it stopped. Sleep came.

By morning, the grass had withered dry. Only the lines remained on the stone.

Three days later, the one went out to hunt. And did not return.

Voices had been heard from the direction of the rocky ground, someone indicated afterward, swinging an arm. What exactly they had meant to show, no one could say with any precision.

A stone came.

The body tilted by reflex. The stone passed beside the ear. There was a sound.

Ahead stood a man with heavy brows. Arms spread wide, growling. A full head taller than the one.

The one picked up a stone. Did not throw it. Held it and moved sideways.

The man came after.

The one ran. Not south — east. Toward the river. Running the terrain the soles of the feet already knew. Where the stones were many, where the ground was soft, where the footing slipped. The sound of the man's steps changed. In the soft ground, his footfall faltered.

The one did not look back.

From within the group came voices. A child's high voice was woven among them. The one's feet turned toward the sound.

At the edge of the wide grassland, behind low brush, two small ones crouched low to the earth, still and unmoving. The one squatted down and took hold of both their arms. Gripped them and stood them up. Stood them up and ran.

While running, the wind from the east reached the nose again.

The smell of blood. The smell of earth. Beneath those, something else.

What it was, the one could not say. Only that the feet did not stop.

When the one returned to the group, the children were released. They ran off toward another. The one remained standing, looking east.

The growling had grown distant.

The stone was still held in the hand.

Standing at the edge of the group.

Voices from those who had come up from the southern lowlands — threading through the gaps between rocks. Not a growl. Something different. The one listened. Three days, listening.

Confirmed with the feet. Just before the watering place. The soil had been trodden. Not the footprints of one's own band.

The one brought this to the elder man.

Struck the ground. Traced the marks with a finger.

The man did not look.

Struck again.

The man's eyes moved — not to the one's face, but to the one's hands. Only the hands.

From that moment, things changed.

Something changed. Gradually, but without question.

When food was divided, the one's portion came last. Little by little, the distance from the fire grew. The voice did not reach. Each time the voice was raised, the bodies nearby stiffened, almost imperceptibly.

The one pretended not to notice.

And while pretending not to notice, continued to stand at the edge.

The approach from the south was felt. The body knew. The nose knew. The smell of fat carried on the morning wind had changed.

Near the end of the forty-third season.

Behind the rocks, three figures were waiting. They were from one's own band.

The one did not run.

Struck. Twice, three times. The rocks were heavy. The ground felt closer than usual.

After falling, the sky came into view.

High. There was wind. The smell of grass. Dry earth.

That was all.

The strength left the body quickly. Like water soaking into sand.

Until the end, the one's hand was reaching for something to hold.

Rain struck the earth.

The one lay inside the curve of its mother's arms. Water seeped between their skins. Cold. The one pressed its face closer. The bones of the mother's chest rose and fell. Breath in. Breath out. That rhythm moved through the one's whole body.

Water ran along the lip of the cave. Sounds came from outside. Water. Animal cries. The heavy fall of something collapsing. The adults shifted. Bodies gathered. Bodies disappeared. Darkness deepened.

The one did not cry.

Its belly was empty. It moved its mouth. The mother noticed. She gave her breast. The one suckled, eyes open. Along the ceiling of the cave, water traced slow lines through stone. In the place where light did not reach, only the water shone.

Five days the rain continued.

In the group, a child was born. Beside the one, another mother groaned. She groaned for a long time. Before dawn the sound stopped. When morning came, there was a small body. An adult wrapped it in hide. Carried it outside. When they returned, their hands were empty.

The rain stopped.

The earth had grown soft. The smell of grass reached into the cave. The adults went out. The children followed. The one went out still held in its mother's arms. The sky was pale.

The watering place had spread. The water reached further than before. There were animal tracks — many kinds, layered over one another in the mud.

The mother stopped.

The one lifted its face from her chest. A wind came. Mixed into the smell of grass was something else. Not an animal smell. The smell of other people.

The adults made low, brief sounds in their throats.

The one understood nothing. But it felt its mother's arms go rigid. She held it with a force that nearly stopped its breath.

Another group was approaching.

Footsteps sounded in the mud. Adults faced each other. Someone raised a voice. Someone raised a stone.

What followed, the one did not see — its face was pressed against her. Only sounds came. Heavy sounds. A short cry. Then silence.

The mother ran.

The one was jostled with each stride. Skin filled its vision. In its ear, her heartbeat — fast, fast, fast.

That year, the rains continued.

Water was plentiful. More trees bore fruit. More animals gathered at the water's edge. Many children were born. Some died, but the number born exceeded the number lost. The group grew larger.

The one had turned five.

It had moved away from its mother's chest and walked on its own feet. It dug for roots. It caught insects. It followed older children through the grass.

On the wall of the cave, someone had pressed the shape of a hand. In red earth. The one held its own hand against the wall. Took it away. Nothing remained.

It tried once more.

Waking.

Dark.

Beneath the body, earth. The earth is not cold. Perhaps someone had been lying there until just before — warmth still remains. The one pressed a palm flat against the soil. Kept it there, and closed their eyes again.

Morning came.

The mother is moving. There was a sound of something being dragged. The one sat up. The soles of the feet meet the earth. It feels different from the night before. Dry.

At the edge of the band, the adults are making sounds. Not low groans — sharper than that. The one cannot grasp their meaning. Only that the bodies of the adults seem large. Larger than usual.

The one moved closer to the mother's feet.

The mother does not turn.

A hand reached out. It touched the skin behind the mother's knee. The mother's body stiffened, slightly. She knows the touch is there. That is all.

The sounds from the edge of the band fell silent.

The silence was larger.

The one withdrew the hand from the mother's knee. Looked down at the ground. On the surface of the soil, a small insect was walking. Six legs. The one crouched down. Watched the insect. The insect stopped. Then moved again.

The one moved too. In a different direction from the insect.

Wind moves against the rock.

The grass lies still. It does not rise. Dry roots have drawn themselves tight in the soil, and remain that way. Last year's rain was sparse. This year's no different. The rains that should have followed the dry season did not come. The fact of their not coming is written in the height of the grass.

The one is below the cliff.

Hungry. The body knows its own hunger. There is a sensation somewhere near the chest, like something pulling inward. Pulling, while the eyes rest on the face of the rock. Nothing is there. Only shade. In the shade, the body is easier.

The group has grown smaller.

Through five years of drought, half the nursing infants vanished. When the one was still nursing, there had been another, sleeping close by. Now that one is gone. There had been no name. No particular call. Something that was simply there had ceased to be. The one carries this as something. Only as something — there is no other word for it.

A band of archaic ones is nearby.

For four days now, shapes have been visible across the grassland. Large shapes. Their bodies are bigger than those of this group. Their voices are different. The way they call out is different. They do not come closer. But they do not move away, either. Among the adults of the group, arms reach out to grip one another, passing something between them. The grip is firm. The one does not understand. No one grips the one.

At night, they gather around the fire.

The fire is small. Fuel is scarce. The ground has stayed dry, and wet wood is nowhere to be found. Wet wood is slow to catch, but it burns long. Dry wood burns fast and is gone. Tonight's fire burns fast. The one curls close to it, knees drawn up and held.

Then the warmth shifted.

Not the fire's warmth — something on the surface of the skin. The inner arm grew, just slightly, warmer. No wind had come. The fire was smaller now. Yet that one place was a different temperature. The one looked at the arm. Nothing was there. No insect. No wound. Only warmth.

Attention moved to the inner arm.

The one did not move the arm. Did not sit up. Kept still so as not to lose the warmth. Knees still held close, feeling the warmth along the inner arm. That alone continued for a long time.

The adults are deliberating.

The grip of their arms is tightening. Their voices have not risen. But their bodies are taut. Someone stood. Someone swung a hand sideways. The gesture that means turn back. The one has seen that gesture many times. It is used when changing direction. It means they will move.

The one is still looking at the arm.

The warmth was gone. But the place where it had been was remembered. The body knew that it remembered.

Woke.

The stomach was sounding. It had sounded yesterday. The day before as well. This has become ordinary. There is no memory of a day when it did not sound.

The mother's back is moving. She is retying the load. Something bundled with grass fiber comes undone and is tied again. Listening to that sound, the one stood.

The soles of the feet were hot. The ground had drawn in heat through the night and was giving it back from the first light of morning. There are no sandals. There is hide. The wrapped hide is wearing through.

The group was heading north. The one walked too. Walking while watching the back of the person ahead. Walking while watching the ground underfoot.

Partway along, stopped.

Something was there. Not something — nothing was there. Only the wind had stilled. But the one had stopped.

The nose remembered something. Something smelled in the morning. Something that resembled water.

The person walking ahead turned around. Gave a low sound. The meaning was: come.

The one walked.

Not northeast. North.

Thirst.

There is a memory of a water source. Going there, one finds only white ground. No water.

The soles of the feet feel the cracked earth. It crumbles with each step.

The stomach is hollow. The ribs can be felt moving beneath the skin. They rise with each breath in, sink with each breath out. This is felt again and again. It means nothing. It is simply felt.

Within the group there is one with a loud voice. When that one speaks, the others follow. Some do not follow. Toward those who do not follow, the loud one approaches. Before bodies can touch, the smaller ones withdraw.

The one watched this.

Sitting in the shadow of a rock, knees drawn up. The knees were hot. The rock was hot. The arms wrapped around them were damp with sweat.

Then the back of the neck went cold.

Nothing was there. No wind. No shadow.

The one looked up. The sky was white. No clouds. Heat fell straight down from directly overhead.

And yet the sensation of cold remained.

The one released the knees. Stood. Walked in the direction away from the center of the group. There was no reason. The feet simply moved that way.

The loud one grunted.

The one stopped. Turned.

The grunting continued. Long. Low.

The one returned. Went back to the shadow of the rock and drew the knees up again.

The coldness at the back of the neck was gone.

After the sound from the old people faded, the one was looking at the ground.

At the edge of a crack in the earth, a small insect moved. It touched its antennae to the air, paused, moved them again. The one crouched down. Brought a finger close. The insect moved away.

The one stood and walked in another direction.

An infant.

That is all. Not yet walking. Not yet standing. Weight. Warmth. That is all.

A cheek pressed against the inside of a mother's arm. A pulse reaching through skin. The one does not know this. Only warmth. Only presence.

The group moved at dawn.

The sound of the eastern slope giving way was distant. Rock striking rock. Then sand shifting. Then silence. The group had already begun to move. The old walked ahead, and those carrying the young came after.

The one was being carried by its mother.

She was young. A long dry season had left her ribs visible. Her milk had grown thin. The one did not cry. There was no strength left for crying.

They descended a slope with no path. Stepping on rock, on grass roots, the mother's feet slipping more than once. The one swayed. Each time, her arms tightened.

When the group reached the lowland, a tension passed through them.

Another band was there. People of different build, standing just before the water. Low growling. Arms spread wide. Feet stamping the ground.

The mother retreated. She retreated with the one pressed to her chest.

A rock came flying.

The mother did not fall. But she ran. Another rock followed. It struck her in the back. She cried out. Her footing broke apart.

The edge of the cliff was not visible.

Both of them fell. There was no sound from them. Once, the sound of rock splitting. Then nothing.

Two weights came to rest in the gravel below.

The wind came. Sand gathered.

At twenty-three, the one joined a large hunt for the first time.

Running behind the elder males who led the way. The prey was driven to the edge of a cliff. It fell. The one stood at the rim and looked down. Stood there until the animal's belly stopped moving.

Given the task of carrying the meat back. It was heavy. Set it down on the ground partway. Picked it up again.

Around the age of twenty-five, the one encountered the group from the eastern hill at the river.

One of their males growled. One of the elder males on this side growled back. For a time, neither side moved. The one stood toward the back. The low rumble of the growling settled into the belly. In the soles of the feet, there was readiness to run.

The other side withdrew first.

The one had been watching the other's eyes. There was no white. The shape of the nose was different. But what that meant, the one had no words for. Only looked.

Twenty-seven. The one took a wound on the arm. Not from a hunt — from a dispute within the group. Who gave the wound is no longer remembered. The wound festered. For three days the arm held heat. On the fourth day the heat passed.

There are times the one walks the riverbank. Looks at the water. For no particular reason. Watching the water move, the heat in the arm seems to grow a little more distant.

The one stood where the light had fallen.

The shallows. The stones. The bottom was visible. The one reached down and took a stone. The fish were already gone. Standing with the stone still held in one hand, the one rose and walked along the bank.

The stone remained in the hand until nightfall.

In the morning, it was set down somewhere. Where, the one no longer remembers.

The skin of his belly had pressed itself against his spine.

Each morning, opening his eyes took time. Not because his lids were heavy, but perhaps because his body already knew what lay beyond them. The sky was high and white and cloudless.

The group was moving.

The one walked at the rear. Once he had belonged to the middle of the band — joining the hunts, sleeping alongside a young female, lending his shoulder when one of the children fell. But now there was no one behind him.

He understood why. He had no word for understanding, but his body knew.

Several nights ago, when another band from the eastern hills had drawn close, the one had made a sound. Not a threat — something else. A sound that rose high and thin and leapt upward. No one in the band had ever made such a sound. One of the others, from the eastern band, had responded to it. Not the same sound, but something like it, offered in return.

That was all.

And yet the dominant elder male had watched the entire exchange.

By the next morning, the one's share of food had begun to diminish. There was no formal banishment. It was simply that when the meat was passed around, his turn no longer came.

He gathered grass seeds and ate them. They were bitter. He drank muddy water at the watering hole. His stomach cried out, and then, after a time, it stopped.

He walked.

When the group rested in the shade of trees, the one sat a little apart. A child wandered toward him. The mother called out. The child went back.

The one looked at the ground. The earth was dry. Cracks ran through it, their edges white with dust. He traced one with his finger. It had depth. Where it led, he could not tell.

Light fell on a single point.

At the base of some grass, the soil was slightly raised. Not from yesterday's rain — there had been no rain for many tens of days. And yet the earth there was darker than the rest.

The one tried to rise and could not. He remained on his knees, looking at that place. There might be water beneath the ground. Or there might be nothing.

He did not dig.

It was not that he could not stand. It was that his body had released the need to.

The group began to move. Footsteps receded. A child's high voice rang out. Someone dragged a branch across the ground. Then even that faded into silence.

The one lay down on the earth.

Grains of soil pressed against his cheek. They were dry. Somewhere far off, a bird called. He heard wings — close, but invisible. The whiteness of the sky seeped through the back of his eyelids.

Beyond the crack in the earth, something was there. A small insect. It moved its antennae, paused, moved again.

The one watched it for a time.

The insect vanished into the crack.