296,285 BCE – 296,165 BCE | Episodes 745–768

At the edge of the group, the one sat.

In the shadow of an overhanging rock. A little apart from where the fire was kept, on the side where no one came. There the one sat. The days when the legs would not obey were growing more frequent. The inside of the knees would stiffen by morning.

The fire burned.

Tending it had been this one's purpose. Wet branches were refused; only dry ones were chosen and stacked. This had been repeated, year after year. The movement of the hands lifting embers from the ash was still precise. The hands alone remained as they had been in younger days.

The smell of ash had soaked into the clothes.

When had the eyes changed, within the group?

After the eruption. After the earth split open and the sky filled with ash. After the river ran white and cleared again. The one had begun to see something. As though the fire were trying to teach something. As though the direction of the wind carried something within it. That was how seeing had come to be.

There were attempts to convey this to the others.

It could not be carried in words. The hands tried to show it. Pointing at the fire, pointing at the sky, making sounds.

It did not reach them.

The younger ones drew away. It was not the aged one they feared, but the direction in which that gaze was turned.

One night, the one remained seated beside the fire and was driven from the circle of the group.

Someone called out. A short sound. A sound of threat.

The one did not move. Whether unable to move or choosing not to, no one could say now.

A stone flew. One stone. It struck the shoulder.

The one did not fall. Only bent, slightly.

Another stone flew.

The one tried to rise. The legs would not move. Both hands went down against the rock.

A third stone struck the side of the head.

A fall.

The fire went on burning. Someone added a branch. The night of the group continued.

At dawn, the one was still there.

There was breath. It was faint.

Wind came. It came from the direction of the fire. The warmth of ash passed along the side of that face.

The eyes opened, a little.

The fire was seen.

Not the flame — the embers. Red, quiet embers. That light, lifted up so many times before.

The hand moved, just barely. Fingers traced the surface of the rock. As though trying to gather something. As though reaching for something.

It slipped away.

The hand moved again.

Again, it slipped away.

Then the hand was still.

Mud works its way between the fingers.

The one crouched at the river's edge, turning over stones. Gripping each rim with five fingers, lifting, setting it back down. Water seeped out. Small creatures fled. The stone lifted again.

Why — there was no knowing. Only the doing.

The sounds of the group lay somewhere behind. The smell of fire smoke. A voice calling out. The low moan of someone summoning a child. The one did not turn to look.

The underside of stones held something.

Wet, dark, crawling with insects, threaded with roots, soft and muddled. Everything hidden from the surface seemed to be gathered there. No reason came to mind. Only the hand, reaching.

The river water touched the ankles. Cold.

Somewhere nearby, a person fell. The sound of an adult body meeting the earth. Voices rose in response, and several sets of feet converged. The one did not look up. Only listened.

Had someone known that the one who fell was the one from the story before, it would not have mattered to this one. This one was still five years old, and did not yet understand very clearly who anyone was.

The voices behind grew louder.

In this group, grief and rage and fear all wore the same shape. Impossible to tell apart. Everything collapsed into a single cry.

The one dropped a stone into the water.

A soft sound. Rings spread across the surface. A little sand lifted from the riverbed.

The one watched, very still.

The stone sank and disappeared. The water turned clear again. It returned to itself, as though nothing had occurred.

The one stayed there a while. Mud darkened the knees. An insect walked across the arm. It was not brushed away.

Again, a stone was turned over.

The group's tension rose as evening came. Across the river, the ancients had appeared. Three of them, or four. They only stood. Did nothing. They were simply there.

The adults of the group gathered. Voices were raised. Someone lifted a stone. Someone set it down. There was only the feeling that something must be decided, and nothing was decided.

The figures on the far bank disappeared. Perhaps the dark had simply swallowed them.

The one returned to the fire. Sat outside the circle of adults, knees drawn up. The firelight fell across the face. The eyes narrowed.

One of the adults pressed a hand briefly to the top of the one's head, in passing. Nothing more.

The smoke came.

The members of the group raised their voices. Low sounds, repeated. A woman in the back gathered her child and moved into the shadow of a rock. A young man gripped a stone and went still.

The one was near the fire.

A bundle of dry grass that had been burning since the night before still held its embers. The one knelt and brought their face close to the edge of the coals. Heat came to the cheek. The eyes grew dry.

The smoke was not from far away. Someone within the group had set fire to something else.

An old male stood there. A large-bodied one. An old scar ran along his arm. He made no sound. He simply stood, holding the burning thing.

He looked toward the one.

Not directly. And yet the gaze arrived.

Something inside the one contracted. A hardening sensation somewhere below the spine. A feeling as though the feet were fastened to the ground. There was no moving.

The old male pressed the flame down against the earth. The smell of scorched soil spread outward. He stamped it out.

Then he pointed at the one.

He made a sound. Short. A sharp, single-syllable sound.

The others turned.

The one had been beside the fire. That was all. Simply there. And yet it was the one who had tended the flame. Everyone knew. Since the night before, the one had kept adding dry grass. After last night's rain, the one had sorted through the moisture-heavy growth, pulling free only what was dry.

The old male had decided something.

Two young men, both large-bodied, began to move.

The one's arm was seized before they could stand. Feet scraped against the ground. Hands reached for the grass. Nothing remained between the fingers.

While being dragged away, the embers were still visible.

If no one feeds them, they will go out by tonight.

The one watched only that. The fading embers. The marks the one's own feet had left in the ground. The place where the grass had been torn back and the soil lay bare.

The fever came in the night.

Knees drawn to the chest, back against the rock face. By morning, standing was impossible. Someone from the group had left a strip of dried meat at the feet of the one, but no hand reached for it.

On the second day, around the time the sun reached its height, the back of the head grew heavy as stone. The one remained leaning against the rock face, moving only the eyes to take in the surroundings. Children ran in the distance. An old woman stretched a hide. No one looked this way.

Before dawn on the third day, someone approached.

A young man. He was holding a stone.

The one looked at the man's face. The man did not look away. The stone rose. The one made no sound. Whether there was no sound to make, or whether it was chosen not to be made — that, no one could know.

Still leaning against the rock face, the body of the one tilted slowly to one side.

A cheek came to rest on the dry earth.

The sky was turning white. A bird called. The fingers of the one drew a single line through the sand, and were still.

On the rock face, a handprint remained. It did not belong to the one. It was older than that — left by someone long before.

The frog leapt.

The one followed it with their eyes. For no particular reason. Simply followed.

In the direction the frog had leapt, there was an adult. Holding something in one hand. Round, and wrong in color. A bluish white.

The adult was bringing it toward their mouth.

The one ran. While running, something clenched inside their belly. There were no words, but a sound came out. Low and brief, rising from the belly.

The adult's hand stopped.

The one came close and looked at what the adult held. A fruit. The skin had split. White inside.

The adult looked at the one with a puzzled face. Shoved them aside.

The one stepped back. But kept making the sound. The same sound, again and again. The adult shoved them aside once more. Harder this time. The one fell into the mud.

They got up and made the sound again.

The adult walked away, still holding the fruit.

The one watched that retreating back. The clenching in their belly was still there. It would not ease.

By evening, the one saw that the adult was crouched over, clutching their stomach. No one went near. The one did not go near either. Only watched from a distance.

When night came, the adult stopped moving.

The next morning, the one searched for the same fruit. Found one. Crushed it underfoot. Found another. Crushed it. Found another. Crushed it.

The soles of their feet turned white.

The taste of the grass's sap lingered on the tongue.

Bitter. But not poison. The body already knew that. It had been tasted several times — several times the stomach had ached, several times nothing had happened at all. This grass is not that grass. This grass is this grass.

The feet sank into mud. Each time they were pulled free, there was a sound. The one listened. The sound of mud, the sound of grass, the sound of distant water.

Near the watering place, there were traces of the old ones. The smell of those short, broad, heavily furred beings still hung there. The one crouched and touched the edge of a footprint with one finger. Large. Deep. Something heavy had walked here.

The one among the group with the loudest voice had shown this place. The call had meant: do not come here. It was low and repeated.

The one stood.

And went back.

Sitting by the fire, knees drawn up. The bitterness of the sap was still there on the tongue. The loud one said something. The one listened. Listened, but said nothing.

That night, after several in the group had fallen still in sleep, the one remained awake.

The fire had grown low. A single branch was placed into it, quietly. The flame returned a little. The one watched the flame. The flame said nothing. Still, the watching continued.

In the morning, the loud one was gone.

Gone since the night before.

Someone searched. The one rose too and walked through the grass. Footprints continued on. Then they did not. At the edge of the cliff, the footprints ended. The one did not look down. The grass had been disturbed. There had been more than one set of prints.

The one stepped back half a pace from the cliff's edge.

And stood.

For a long time, stood.

When the one returned to the group, nothing was said. There were no words that could be said. No voice for them either. Only sitting by the fire, knees drawn in. The flame moved.

The rainy season had ended.

At the edge of the grassland, scorched marks remained in the earth. Ash had drifted in from the distant mountains the season before, and the group still spoke of it. They rolled sounds in their mouths, traced arcs with their hands, widened their eyes. Again and again they tried to give shape to whatever had come from the mountains.

The one knelt near the scorched earth.

Fingertips touched the soil. Black. The smell stayed deep in the nose. An impulse came to taste it, then passed. Something in the body said: no. This is different.

Within the group, two currents had formed.

The larger ones raised their voices more often now. Those who knew the upper river and those who knew the grassland pressed their claims against each other. There were no words for it. So they said it with their whole bodies. Chests thrust forward. Feet stamped. Arms spread wide to indicate a place. The children nearby drifted toward the edges.

The one drifted toward the edges too.

When the voices rose, something inside the chest drew inward. There had been times of retreating behind a rock. Times of pressing hands over ears. But the sound passed through the body regardless.

It was the season when the fruits swelled heavy on the branch. Food was sufficient. And so there was room for conflict.

The one went to the river.

Looked at the surface of the water. Something moved. Not the water—the light. Light spread white across the riverbed, and the shapes of stones rose up through it. One stone seemed whiter than the rest. The one stood there a long while, watching. The light shifted. The stone had not moved.

A hand reached in. Cold. The stone was lifted.

It was not white. It was only a stone.

Sitting on the bank, the stone resting on both knees. It had weight. That was all. And yet it was set down, and picked up, and set down again. The motion repeated itself. There was no understanding of why.

The conflict within the group continued.

One night, one of the large ones grabbed another by the arm. Pulled. Was thrown off. The one who had fallen rose and came forward again. A child cried. The fire began to tip. Someone ran to catch it and held it in place.

The one watched the fire.

The fire that had nearly fallen was returned to its place by someone's hands. The flames shook, then steadied. Something inside the one grew, for just a moment, larger.

Something.

It had no name. A feeling held inside the chest, beyond the reach of words. It seemed connected, somehow, to the fact that the fire had not gone out. But the one's attention moved on almost at once. Watched the fallen one rise. Watched the one who rose lift his voice again.

Five years passed.

The one was now twenty-four. Slowly, gradually, participation in conflict was expected. The arms had grown thick. The legs had grown swift. The body had changed. But when the voices of conflict rose, something still drew inward in the chest. That had not changed.

At the end of the dry season, the group moved.

Upriver. The day the voices of the larger ones all pointed in the same direction, the group gathered what they carried and began to walk. The one walked with them. Passed alongside the scorched earth. The smell was still there.

Walking, the one remembered the stone on the riverbank.

The stone that had appeared white. The stone that was not white when lifted. The stone set down and picked up and set down again.

They arrived at a different river. The color of the water was different. But the light reached the bottom in the same way. The one stood for a while and watched the surface. This time, no hand reached in. Only watched the light move.

That was all.

There had been times of standing at the edge of the cliff.

Before. Last year too. Listening to stones roll away underfoot and vanish beyond the cliff's edge. The sound arriving late. That far down.

Today was different.

Whether pushed from behind, or the foot simply slipped — there was no knowing. A grass root gave way. The earth crumbled.

Falling, the one looked up at the sky.

The sky did not move.

Before dawn, the one lay with eyes open.

Not from sleeplessness. The one had simply forgotten to sleep.

Seated at the edge of the group, back resting against a rock's shadow. The sky grew pale. A bird called. Someone turned in their sleep. The one listened to each of these in turn. Without moving anything.

Yesterday, the old one had disappeared.

The old one had been walking in the morning. By evening, was gone. No one went looking. The group was like that. Those who vanished, vanished. Those who remained, remained.

But the one was troubled by it.

Not by where the old one had gone. Not by why no one seemed to care. Only that something caught, somewhere inside — the sensation of a stone rolling in the chest. With no place to settle, it kept rolling.

The light of dawn crept across the grass.

The one stood and turned in the direction the old one had walked. No one in the group was watching.

The grass was wet. The feet grew cold.

There were footprints.

Clear in the mud. The old one's right foot had always turned slightly outward. The one recognized that habit in the marks without knowing how. There were no words for it. Only the knowing.

The footprints continued toward the river.

The one reached the river.

At the muddy bank, the footprints ended. They did not continue into the water. The river ran low and quiet. On the bank, a single flake-stone tool the old one had used lay placed there.

Placed — at an angle that said as much.

Not fallen. Not rolled.

The one crouched down. Picked up the stone. The one knew that the old one had gripped this stone many times. The edge was worn smooth. It bore the mark of long holding.

The river flowed.

The one remained there a long while. At last turned back. Carrying the stone.

The group was in motion. Children were running. Fire was burning. No one said anything to the one.

The one set the stone in the old one's place.

No one was watching.

The one walked away. But looked back many times. Each time, the stone was there.

Three days later, the group moved on. The stone was left behind.

Still the one looked back. Again and again.

The one did not know what had been done. Only noticed that the rolling inside the chest had stopped. Not stopped — grown heavy. Heavy enough to be still.

The following year, within the group, the one became the one who knew too much.

What was it that the one knew?

Someone had seen the walk to the river. Someone had seen the stone brought back. Someone had seen the stone placed in the old one's spot.

What it meant, the group had no words for. But they had a feeling. *That was different. That one did something different.*

Those who do different things are feared. Those who are feared are pushed away.

The one's share of food grew smaller. Gradually. With no one deciding it.

The one noticed. And did nothing.

One night, three young ones from the group surrounded the one. No voices. Only hands.

The one was shoved. Into the grass. Shoved again. Toward the water.

The river.

The one entered the water. Was put into it.

The river was not shallow. The rains had been heavy. The current was fast.

The one could not swim. No one could swim.

The water pulled the body sideways. The feet could not find the bottom. The hands reached for something to hold. There was nothing.

The sky was visible. The stars were visible.

Whether someone in the group might be stepping on the old one's stone — that came to the one. Not as a thought in that shape, but as a feeling in that shape.

The water covered the face.

The river kept flowing.

The voices of the group can be heard.

Far off. Threading between rocks, carried on the wind. A shouting voice. Then, silence.

The one does not move.

A hand is pressed to the ground. The soil is cold. Last night's rain still lingers in it. Mud clung to the palm. It is not wiped away. Left as it is.

The group is drawing closer.

The one knew it by the sound of their footsteps. Not one person. Several. Fast. In the speed of the footsteps there was anger. The one did not raise its face.

Someone seized the one's arm. Pulled.

The one rose, pulled. The rock fell away from beneath the feet. Walking, still pulled. A sound came. A single note. Short, repeated. The one understood. It was not "come." It was "get out."

They emerged onto level ground. Most of the group was there.

No one met the one's eyes.

The one looked at the faces of the group, one by one. Tried to look. But no face turned. All were looking elsewhere. At the sky. At their own feet. At one another. Not at the one alone.

The arm was still held.

They moved forward. They reached the edge of the group. Beyond it was a steep slope. Gray rock continuing downward.

The arm was released.

A sound came. Again a single note. A low sound. The one knew what the sound meant. It was the sound for "do not return." Heard many times, over a long span. The sound used when driving away an animal. The sound used when releasing what is no longer needed.

The one stood at the top of the slope.

Below was thicket. Below the cliff. The direction where the watering place should be.

The wind came.

From the side of the thicket.

The one's foot found the first step of the slope. Then the next. The body leaned along the incline. Hands touched rock as the descent continued. A knee struck rock. It hurt. The one did not stop.

Voices came from above. The voices of the group. But there were no footsteps giving chase.

Into the thicket. Leaves brushed the face. The body pressed through them.

The sound of water.

The one moved toward it. Between the rocks, water was flowing. Thin. But flowing. The one crouched and cupped water in both hands. Drank. It was cold. Cupped again. Drank again.

The face touched the water.

For a time, the one remained still.

Only the sound of water.

Just after the wet season broke, a cliff gave way upstream, where the river split into two.

The landslide half-blocked one of the channels. The water grew still and foul. Animals stopped coming near. The heavy-browed ones cried out and vanished into the southern thicket. Gone in three days. The entire group — no bundles carried, children held to chests, no embers left behind, no smoke.

The one sat at the edge of the collapsed cliff.

Watching the fouled water. A thin film had spread across the surface — oily, ashen, some color that had no name. The one dipped a finger in. Withdrew it. Brought it to the nose. Looked at the water again.

Storm clouds rose and dissolved in the eastern sky. Over these five years the rains had been heavy, but they had changed in character — brief, violent, tearing at the soil as they passed. The cliff had not fallen because of the rain, but no one could have named the difference. Where the cliff had broken open, a layer of white stone lay exposed. Gravel above gravel, sand beneath, and below that, white stone. What had taken ten thousand years to accumulate had opened in half a day.

The one watched the white stone.

Watched it for a long time. Someone from the group called out from behind — a low sound, something close to the sound for *come*. The one did not stand.

Light fell across the white stone layer.

Not morning light. A single shaft, brief, slipping through a break in the clouds. The white stone brightened. And within it, a line could be seen running through — perhaps where water had once passed, perhaps a fissure. The one could not tell. But the eye would not leave that line.

The hand moved.

Down to the base of the cliff. Touching the white stone. Cold. A finger traced the cracked edge. A piece came away — thin, flat. The one lifted it, held it in both hands as if measuring its weight. Let it fall. It split. The edge turned sharp.

The one looked at the broken edge.

Again voices came from behind, more than one this time. The group had begun to move. The sounds were northward. They were leaving the foul water behind. The one rose, still holding a shard of the broken white stone.

Storm clouds were building again in the east.

Over the four years that followed, the one searched for white stone — along riverbanks, at the feet of cliffs, across ground where water had once run. Always the same kind: thin, yielding a sharp edge when broken. It did not always break cleanly. Too thick and it would not split; too thin and it crumbled. It was dropped many times. Picked up many times.

When someone in the group was wounded, the one brought out a shard of white stone.

It was held against the festering skin. What the one meant to do was not clear, even to the one. But when the sharp edge touched the soiled place, the surface opened. The matter drained. The one who bore the wound cried out. Yet three days later, the swelling had gone down.

After that, the one began carrying the white stone shards wrapped in a scrap of hide.

Tensions between groups continued. The ones who had gone south returned. They came near the edge of the camp and called out. The one's group answered by raising stones. For two days they called back and forth, showing stones to one another. No blood was shed. But the heavy-browed ones left again in the end — northward, in the same direction the one's group had been meaning to go.

That night, the one sat at the edge of the fire.

Seven shards of white stone were laid out on a piece of hide. Each was different in shape. The one picked them up one by one, testing the edges. Sharp ones. Dull ones. Long ones. Short ones. Some sharp on one side only, some on both. In the firelight, the one was seeing something different in each of the seven — though what was different could not be put into words. Could not be made into sound.

They were simply laid out. Picked up again. Laid out again.

The fire grew small.

Night. Sitting at the edge of the rock shelf.

The river below is invisible. In the darkness, the sound of water reaches from a strange direction. Not as before. The river is making a different sound. Still water makes a different sound. The one did not know this as knowledge, but the ears have registered something wrong.

Wind came.

The smell of stone. Damp stone, without rot. Not the smell of the stagnant river. The one lifted his head.

Where.

The nostrils moved. Wind comes again. Not from the east. Not from the south. From across the river. From the direction of the cliff.

He started to rise, then sat back down.

Someone in the group made a sound. A sleeping child said something. The one turned. The child was quiet. Asleep again.

The one turned back toward the cliff.

Dark. Nothing to see. The wind had stilled. The smell was gone.

He remained like that for a while.

Near dawn, one of the group made to go in search of water. Toward the river below. The one raised his voice. Not a sound that meant stop. Something close to it. Short. Low.

The other stopped.

The one turned toward the cliff.

The other was silent. Then came to sit beside the one and looked in the same direction. The cliff could not be seen. The two of them looked into the dark.

Dawn came. Light fell on the cliff face.

Partway up, a streak of wet bedrock was visible. A thin light rested there.

The one stood.

Stood and looked at the cliff.

Another voice rose from the group. A sound meaning there is no water. Someone was pulling a child along as they moved. A child who had drunk nothing since the day before.

The one began to walk. Down the hill, not toward the river but across it, in the direction of the cliff.

Before crossing the stagnant river, he stopped.

He looked at the surface. The smell of rot. The white bellies of fish still floating there. The river was shallow enough to wade in places. The one stepped from stone to stone and started across.

He reached the far bank. The cliff was closer now.

At the foot of the cliff, there was a crack in the rock. Water was seeping from it. A little. Very little, but without rot. The one pressed his palm to the rock. It came away wet.

He raised his face.

Up the cliff. His eyes traced it upward. Somewhere above, there was more water.

A sound came from behind. One of the group had crossed the river. Then another. There were three of them now.

The one pointed to the crack in the cliff.

The three gathered. They drank. Only a little. Still, they drank.

That evening, the one the group deferred to as an elder came and stood beside the one.

Something was said. Not words. A brief sound, and a look.

Not the sound given to one who has found a water source. Not praise.

It was something close to wariness — toward the fact that the one seemed to *know* things.

The elder said nothing more and walked away.

The one looked at the crack in the cliff.

Water was still seeping from it.

The rains did not stop.

The ash from five years past still lay beneath the soil, yet grass pushed through it and grew. The roots were white, the leaves thick; when a stem was broken, sap seeped out. The river ran clear. More footprints appeared along the banks — animals, children, an unknown group.

The unknown group arrived.

The one had known. Not so much known too much, as simply seen. Had seen, and spoken — spoken at a moment when no voice should have risen among the group.

The one had indicated, with sound and with hands, that a herd of animals was moving beyond the rocky hill. Go that way, the gesture said. And it was true. The herd was there. Meat was taken.

But how could the one have known?

The night the elders gathered, the one sat at the edge — outside the reach of the firelight. Voices dropped low, hands moved, and someone turned to look in the one's direction.

The one did not understand what it meant. Only that the skin prickled.

By the following morning, the one stood alone at the foot of the hill.

No one had pushed. It was simply so, once noticed — alone. The voices of the group had grown distant. The sound of footsteps had grown distant. Looking back, there were no more shadows.

The one sat down on the ground.

The grass was wet. The earth smelled of itself. Far off, a water bird called. There was hunger. The one rose and searched for grass seeds. Small, sour. Ate them. Searched again.

Two days passed.

On the third day, the one could no longer move. The legs would not answer. Falling back, the one looked up at the sky. The clouds were white, heavy, moving slowly.

The belly ached. Then the aching moved away.

Wind stirred the grass and touched the one's face. Neither warm nor cold.

The eyes stayed fixed on the sky, and stilled. The grass went on swaying. The wind did not know the one.

There was one who sat with both knees held.

The child did not draw closer. But could not look away. The voices of the group grew louder. The one's shoulders moved, just slightly. That was all.

The warmth of the stone lingered into evening. The child laid a hand upon it. It was warm.

This one had moved a little apart from the fire.

Not driven away. Simply drifting from it. When there are too many voices, this one's body draws inward — shoulders rising, neck pushing forward, feet moving of their own accord to put distance between the self and the sound.

Reaching the far edge of the rocky slope, this one touched a flat stone.

It was warmer than the others.

The sun had already begun to tilt. The surrounding stones returned only cold to the fingertips, but this one was different. This one touched it again. Pressed the whole palm against it.

The warmth passed through the skin, deep into the arm.

This one sat down — not on the stone, but leaning against it. Feeling the warmth at the back, knees drawn up to the chest.

From the direction of the fire came voices. Laughter, then a short shout, then laughter again.

This one did not move.

The sky darkened. The warmth of the stone faded. Fading, and yet still there. As if to confirm it was still there, fingers moved across the surface of the stone. A little remaining. Moved again. Nearly gone now.

Night came.

The stone had become the same temperature as all the others. This one stood. Walked back toward the fire.

Once, on the way back, this one turned to look.

It was dark, and the stone could not be seen.

A dry wind came from the north.

At the edge of the grassland, two groups stood facing each other. Words barely carried between them. Gestures, low sounds, the movements of each other's eyes. The outnumbered side stepped back. The side with more stepped forward. This alone went on for days.

The one stood at the back of the group. Short, shoulders still narrow. Through the gaps between those standing in front, watching the other group.

Upstream, the river had begun to rise. Too early in the season for snow to be melting, but perhaps something had given way in the highlands. The water turned murky, and fish washed up along the banks. A shoal of them, pale bellies catching the light. Crows picked at them.

The one's group began moving along the river the following morning.

The one followed. Falling behind those with quicker feet, burdened with things to carry.

Two years passed.

The one had grown somewhat taller. Could run farther. Could carry heavy things for longer. Within the group, the one had come to be treated as someone who handled small tasks. Fetching water. Laying dried meat out near the fire. Driving children away.

The tension with the other group continued. But distance was maintained. Neither side pressed too deep.

One night, the one stopped on the way back from the river with water.

The surface of the river was moving. Not with the current, but with something welling up from below. Small bubbles rose in strings, broke, and rose again. The smell of the water had changed. Not the smell of mud — something sharper, like sulfur, that lingered deep in the nose.

The one did not draw water.

Standing at the bank, breathing in the smell. Then again. As though trying to confirm something.

Returning to the group, the one set down the empty vessel. No one noticed.

Near the end of the fifth year, the balance with the other group finally gave way.

At the boundary of the richest hunting ground, young members of both groups came upon each other. Someone fled. Someone gave chase. Stones were thrown. Blood was drawn. That was all it was — and yet from that night, something in the air shifted.

Within the one's group, an older man rose and shouted something. Others answered him. The one raised a voice as well. With no knowing what was being cried out, only the same sound as those around.

Something inside had grown hot.

It was not fear. It resembled fear, but the feet did not move.

The next morning, the river ran clear.

No bubbles. The smell was gone. The fish had returned.

The one sat at the bank and watched the surface of the water. Something had happened — that much was remembered. But the words for what it had been were not yet there.

The night the water came, the one was in a high place.

Not by chance. The day before, something in the body had resisted moving toward lower ground. No reason for it. Only a reluctance. On a rock shelf above the cliffs, a place too windy for sleep, the one lay curled against the stone.

In the night, there was a sound.

Not the sound of water. Something lower. As though the earth itself were shifting.

The one woke but did not move. Back pressed to the rock, listening toward the sound. Nothing visible in the dark. Then the smell changed. The smell of earth. The smell of mud. Not the smell of the river, but the smell that comes before the river arrives.

Morning came.

Looking down.

There were places where some of the others were no longer. Mud lay there instead.

The one did not descend from the rock shelf. For a time, simply looked.

It was only when the sun had risen high that the one climbed down. Walked to the edge of the mud and stopped. Feet sank. One step in, pulled free. Another step, pulled free again.

In the mud, there was something with a shape the one had known.

It was not picked up.

The one looked toward the headwaters of the river. The sky was clear. Puddles remained scattered across the ground. One pool trembled. The wind moved through it, and the color of the sky fell into it, and it trembled again.

The one crouched down. Brought a face close to the water.

There, inside the reflected sky, was the one's own face.

It was not the first time. A face reflected in the river's surface — that had been seen many times before. But today the face looked different. In the smell of mud, the face in the puddle trembled, and settled back.

The one reached out and disturbed the water with a hand.

The face came apart.

When the wind came again and the surface stilled, the face returned.

The one stood. Said nothing. There was no reason to make a sound. Only turned toward the river and stood there for a while.

The others who remained had begun to move. Keeping clear of the mud, gathering in higher places. The one walked toward them as well.

Taking a longer way around, so as not to step on the edge of the mud.

Ash enters the throat.

With each cough, something inside the chest seemed to creak. There was no actual sound. But that was how it felt.

The group had grown smaller. How much smaller, the one had no words to count. Only this was clear: faces that had been visible yesterday were not visible today. That sense of absence alone settled to the bottom of the chest.

The one thought of those who had fallen from the cliff. There was no word yet for remembering. But the eyes went again and again to the place where it had happened. The rock was gone. Where that person had stood, there was nothing.

The one moved.

Walking across the ash left footprints. Looking back, the one's own shape continued across the ground. Each step pressed into the ash, and a brown line appeared within the white. The one stood for a time and looked at it.

Someone in the group made a sound. Short, sharp. Pointing north.

The one looked up.

Wind came. The green scent came with it. The smell of grass, the smell of water. Something shifted at the back of the throat.

The one walked. Walked north, together with the group.

But at the edge of it. One of the edge people. Not near the cliff, but at the edge. The others moved in a tight cluster. This one alone kept a little apart.

There are times when the one who seems to know something is feared by the others.

This one knew nothing. But carried a face that seemed to feel something. That was enough.

While walking, a stone was picked up. A stone made white by ash. It was held. It was cold. Slowly, the distance between the one and the group grew wider.

No one looked back.

The one stopped.

The backs of the group grew distant.

Still holding the stone, the one stood. Wind blew. The green scent came again. It came — but the group was far away. The feet would not move forward. The group was far. The scent was there.

The one sat down. Sat down on the ash.

The stone was set on the knees. The hands let go.

The sky was white and clouded. Only where the sun was, the light was a little brighter.

For a long time, the one stayed there.

The ash was still falling.

Fine, nearly invisible particles. They carried no heat when they touched skin. They simply accumulated. On fur, on eyebrows, deep in the creases of the back of the hand.

The one sat at the edge of the slope. Standing had become difficult since the day before. Not the legs — something interior had begun to tilt. A heaviness, like sand settled at the bottom of the lungs. With each cough, something grey came up.

The others in the group had moved to a low hollow. A place where the cliff face broke the wind. To the one, that distance was too far.

A small creature emerged from between the rocks. It stopped and looked at the one. Then returned to the gap.

The one pressed a hand to the ground. Cold ash worked into the spaces between fingers. When pressed down, the shape of the hand remained. The one watched it. Lifted the hand. The shape stayed for a moment. The wind came, and it was gone.

The sky had no color. Neither white nor grey. Only the absence of light given a shade.

A cough came. It did not stop. A wringing pressure rose again and again from deep in the abdomen. The one pressed a forehead against the rock. The rock was cold. That alone, now, was certain.

Near the one's nostrils, something stirred.

It was not the smell of burnt grass. Something older. A scent that seemed to seep from between wet earth and stone. It lasted only a moment. The one's awareness turned toward it.

Turned. Only that.

There was no longer any movement possible.

Still leaning against the rock, the one tilted — not toward the slope, but inward. Drawn by its own weight, slowly, it lay down. On the ash.

The coughing had stopped.

The chest grew still. The ash continued to fall. Slowly, the outline of the one turned white.

Gripping the edge of the bundle, the one could not run.

Something was embedded in the sole of the foot. Not a pebble. Something thinner — a sliver of shattered bone. It had worked its way into the skin, and with each step it sank deeper.

The group had moved beyond the hill. The backs of the adults disappeared into the grass. A few children followed after, their small footsteps pressing through the grass. Growing distant.

The one set down the bundle.

What rested on the ground was a tied collection of hides. Several skins, not yet fully dried, folded and held flat by stones. Not heavy. And yet they could not be taken up again.

Trying to examine the sole of the foot, the one could not stand on one leg. Crouched down. Pressed fingers to the heel. Something protruded — a very fine, white tip. Pulled at it. It would not come.

The grass stirred.

Not from wind. The stirring came from below where wind moves, from the roots of the grass. The one looked up.

Nothing was there.

But there was a smell. Not an animal. Wet grass, and beneath that something deeper — the smell of earth beginning to rot. It was something like the air before rain, but the sky was bright.

The one lifted the bundle and began to move, dragging one foot.

Ran.

While running, the smell did not leave the mind. The body faced forward, but something pulled from behind. The one did not look back. Knew how to look back, but chose not to know it.

The grassland ended, and a slope of red earth began.

The footprints of the children who had gone ahead remained pressed into the soil. Deep prints and shallow prints, alternating. They had been running too.

The one did not step on the footprints.

Walked beside them, slightly to one side.

At the top, the voices of the group could be heard. A sound of low murmurs and dry laughter mixed together. Someone was holding something, showing it to someone else.

The one set down the bundle.

The sliver of bone was still lodged in the heel.

In the morning, before shouldering the pack, the one looked up at the sky.

Not red. Not white. A sky without color. What it meant, there were no words for. Only a feeling, low in the belly, that something was different.

A smell came.

Not sweet. A painful smell. It pricked at the back of the nose. There was no telling where it came from. The one turned to face the wind. West. From the western wood.

The one set down the pack.

Someone called out. A sound that meant: do not put down your pack. The one did not turn around.

At the edge of the western wood, a thin thread of smoke was visible. So thin it was barely there at all. But smoke is smoke. The one knows this. That is not the smoke of a living fire. That is the smoke of wood burning.

Running.

The heel still aches. With every step the right leg feels shorter than it is. Still, running. Toward the center of the group. Calling out in a loud voice. Every word available was used. Fire. Wood. Smoke. West. Run. The order was tangled.

An old man rose. A man whose hearing had faded. But his eyes were still sharp. The man looked not at the one's pointing finger, but at the one's eyes. Then he looked west.

The man let out a roar.

The group moved.

The one ran at the rear. Took the pack from a woman carrying a child. The right foot was in pain. Running through the pain.

The fire did not follow. The wind had shifted.

That night, the group huddles in the shadow of rock, away from the hollow. Someone looked at the one. Looked, and then looked away. The way of looking away was different from every day before.

The one had no words for it.

Back resting against the rock, the one checked whether the smell of smoke was still in the nose. It was. Still there. That was the only thing that was certain.

The river had changed.

In the morning, walking toward the water, the usual sound was gone. On clear days the water made a sound moving over stones. That sound was not there. The one stopped.

The water was high.

Half the grass along the bank had vanished beneath the surface. The color of the soil was wrong. Something was coming from upstream. The one stood there, still carrying the load. Turn back to the group, or move closer to see?

The feet would not move.

Fragments of light spilled across the surface of the river, trembling. Somewhere far off, the sound of water moving. The one's skin knew something. The body knew, and the mind did not yet.

Running.

Back toward the hollow where the group rested. A voice rose. There were only words and the force behind them. *Water, coming.* That was all. Twice. Three times.

An elder moved the group. Up toward the higher ground of the plateau. Those carrying children went first. The one stayed toward the back, holding the load, holding a child by the hand.

The water came in the afternoon.

It did not overflow the riverbed so much as the land itself seemed to swallow and release at once. Water crept up from the bank, flattened the grass, filled the hollow. Several voices disappeared. The voices of those who could not turn back in time.

The one watched from the high ground.

Where they had been until morning was now beneath water. The stones that had ringed the fire still showed just above the surface. A little later, and half of those who had sat around those stones would not have returned.

The elder came near.

Said something. The one did not understand all of it. But the eyes said it plainly: how did you know?

The one could not answer.

There were no words for *the river had gone quiet*, no way to say it. There were no words for *the skin knew*. So the one simply stood.

The elder moved away.

In the days that followed, the way others in the group looked changed. Not an unkind look. A frightened one. The look given to someone who knows what ought not to be known. At night, keeping watch by the fire, no one came to sit beside the one.

After the water withdrew, the group moved on. The one walked somewhere in the middle of the column.

The load was heavier. Others' burdens had been added, more than usual. The share belonging to those who had not come back.

The one walked. Felt the weight and walked.

Seven nights later, when the group had settled on a new camp, the one could not sleep. Lying in the grass, looking up. Stars. Thinking of the morning when the river had made no sound.

What had been heard?

Nothing was understood. Only that the sound was gone. That was all. The one could not think any further. There were no words yet for that kind of thinking.

Three days later, several men came from deeper within the group and gathered around the one.

It was night. Far from the fire.

The one stood and did not move. Running was possible — the legs were fast. But there was no movement.

The end was quiet. Pushed, a fall, a stone.

By morning, only the load remained. No one touched it.

Keeping watch over the fire.

Smoke came from somewhere beyond. Its smell was different from the smoke of one's own fire. The one stood. Raised its nose. Then looked at the elder within the group. The elder was also watching the smoke.

Their gazes met.

The one returned to the fire. Did not let it go out. That, the one understood, was the only thing that could be done.

Carried the loads. Carried stones too. Joined those making the arc and set one stone in place.

Looked again at the place where light lay on the water.

Said nothing to anyone. There were no words to say it with. That the light existed there — that was something held only within this one.

That night, across the fire, the one watched the thick back of an archaic person. It seemed like stone, the one thought. And knew it was not stone.