295,805 BCE – 295,685 BCE | Episodes 841–864

There was a smell.

The feet that had been walking came to a stop. Something caught at the back of the nose. Not the smell of grass. Not burning. Something like a smell that was known, and yet different.

This one looked at someone within the group. An older man. He walked with a stone tucked at his hip. He had stopped as well.

The man's eyes were turned toward the direction of the smell.

The two of them faced the same direction.

No words came. A sound like *that* began to form, and was not released.

The man began to walk. Not toward the smell — toward the water source.

This one did not move.

The grass swayed at knee height. The wind still came from that direction. The smell was already thinning.

There was a stone in this one's hand. When it had been picked up, this one could not remember.

From the direction of the water source came voices. Another group had arrived. The sound of stones being raised. A cry. A dull sound. Another cry.

This one pressed down into the grass.

The smell of earth. Grass roots against the face. The heart beating fast.

One cry ceased.

Pressed to the ground, a long time passed.

At last the sounds were gone.

This one could not stand. The meaning of standing was not clear. Stone still gripped, this one remained in the grass.

The sky had begun to darken.

Did not go near the watering place.

From a distance, watched stones being stacked. Someone scattered them. Someone else stacked them again.

The stomach growled. Turned back. Ate. Went outside again. The direction of the south felt different somehow. Perhaps it was nothing. The one stood facing that way for a time, and did nothing.

The water source felt a little farther away.

Not because the feet had slowed. The feet still moved. But with each step, something inside the belly seemed to wear away. As though a hollow were opening in the depths of the abdomen. That was all.

The group shared a single water source. Water seeped from between the stones, and each person cupped their palms to receive it in turn. By the time the one's turn came, the water had diminished.

The children went first. It was always so.

The one waited behind the children. Sat down in the sand, drew the knees up, and looked at the sky. The sky was blue. There were no clouds.

Food was scarce. The roots of grasses had withered. Small animals had disappeared. What the hunters brought back grew smaller with each passing day.

The one was never taken on hunts. It had always been that way, since youth. Among the group, the one had always stayed toward the back, and the one had never thought to wonder why. It was simply how things were.

A dry stem lay in the sand.

The one picked it up. Broke it. Broke it again. Small fragments remained in the palm. Pinched them one by one and laid them on the ground. Tried to make a line. The line would not hold in the sand. The wind came and took it.

In the wind, there was the faint trace of something sweet.

The one raised its head. Turned toward where the scent had come from. In the shadow of a rock stood a low shrub, nearly dead. At the base of its trunk, a single small fruit had fallen. A trace of red still clung to it. A fruit overlooked by both birds and beasts.

The one tried to stand. Stood. Walked. Went to the shadow of the rock. Picked up the fruit. Smelled it. Put it in the mouth.

It was sweet.

That was all. The sweetness spread across the tongue, and that was everything.

The one sat back against the rock and looked at the sky. The sun was high.

Two children ran across the sand just ahead. They ran making sounds that could have been laughter or anger. The one watched them.

One of the running children fell. Cried out. The other ran over.

The one watched this.

The hollow feeling deep in the belly spread quietly. It was not pain. Only the sense of something slowly diminishing.

The one placed both hands on the knees. Grains of sand clung to the backs of the hands. Moved to brush them away, then did not.

And then there was no more movement.

The back slid from the rock, and the one fell sideways. The cheek came to rest against the sand. The sand was warm.

The children were still running.

A long stillness had settled over the beginning land.

Rain came with each season. Grass followed the rain. Animals followed the grass. The earth did not crumble, and the sky did not burn. Beyond the distant mountains, a similar calm spread outward. At the foot of another peak, long-haired animals multiplied their herds and moved slowly across broad grasslands. Along the rivers, fish ran upstream, birds pursued them, and their remains piled along the banks and returned to soil. When nothing-years continue, the land wears this face. Not that nothing is happening—rather, everything is filling, little by little, without sound.

The runner came to know the land through his body.

At twelve, he ran at the rear of the scouting party. The older ones went ahead, reading footprints, ears alert. He simply followed. Careful not to crush the grass. Holding his breath flat. Something always taut at the base of his belly, and that tautness quickened his feet.

The group of the beginning land had been growing, slowly.

New mouths gathered around new fires. The circle of night widened, the voices of children multiplied, the smell of milk mingled with the smell of smoke. The group had not split in two—they continued to share a single rocky shelter. But that one place had grown, quietly, heavier. The path to the water source was packed firm; the grass disappeared; the ground went hard. Animal trails and human trails began to overlap. The footprints of another group, come from far away, stopped near the shelter and turned back—the mark of retreat. Trampled grass. A scent moving away. There had been no contact, but something of a presence remained.

At fourteen, he came face to face with a man from another group for the first time.

Between one overhang and another, where the grass broke open. The other man was large. The ridge of his brow was different. The shape of his forehead was different. But there was light in his eyes. He did not cry out. He held a stone but did not throw it. The other man did not move either. For a long time, the two of them simply stood there. Then the other man turned, and disappeared into the grass.

That night, by the fire, an older member said something.

He could not understand the meaning. But there was anger in the sound. The following morning, several of the men in the group went out carrying stones.

The land did not change. The rain came. The grass came. The animals came. On a distant peak, snow fell and melted and fell again. The river did not flood; it flowed gently. The world trembled quietly, just short of saturation.

The distance he ran grew wider with the years.

At sixteen, he could reach in half a day a place that had once taken a full day. It was not that his body had changed—he had come to know the way. Where the stones lay scattered. Where the grass grew deep and caught at his feet. Where the wind shifted and carried his scent to the animals. The paths had accumulated inside him.

But with each accumulation, something else increased.

Inside his chest, there was a feeling of small hard stones multiplying. It was not fear. It was not anger. Simply—the hard things grew. When he ran, he felt them knocking against each other.

Seventeen.

One evening, returning along the path to the water source, he noticed the grass moving. It was not the wind.

At seventeen, the one ran for the first time to the outer edge of the group's territory.

A place where grass grew to waist height.
A place where the rocks gave way to an open slope.
A place where the presence of another group lingered as scent.

The one returned and waved both arms. Wide. Again and again.
The others knew what it meant.

Running was everything to this one.

In the mornings, while the mist still hung low, the one moved first.
Scouting the animals' paths before the others.
If unfamiliar tracks appeared near the water, running back to report.
If something had fallen at the base of a cliff, smelling the air, then returning without touching it.

The legs were fast. The lungs were deep.
That alone was enough. That alone was why this one was here.

Around age nineteen, the one saw a child from another group.

On the far hillside.
Half-hidden in the grass. Watching.

The one stopped.
The child stopped.

Neither made a sound.
After a time, the child descended the slope and disappeared into the grass.
The one stood there for a long while, looking at that place.

When the one returned to the group, there was no way to say what had happened.
An arm was raised in the familiar wave. But no — that wasn't it.
A sound was made. But it wasn't enough.

The others looked at the one's face.
The one said nothing.

Autumn, age twenty-one.

Something shifted within the group.
Not shifted — something that had always been there moved to the surface.

Food had begun to grow scarce.
The animals' paths had changed.
Near the water, the traces of another group were appearing more often.

One of the elders began to look at the one differently.

The one had noticed.
And knew that the noticing had been noticed.

Before the winter of the twenty-second year arrived.

The one was woken in the middle of the night.
Two men. Their faces were known.

A gesture toward the hills — something had appeared there.
A syllable meaning: go.

The one stood. Ran.
Just before the hill, a shove came from behind.

The rocks were below.
The fall came.

Sky was visible.
The smell of grass was there.
That was all.

At twelve, the one was a carrier of stones.

Those who can carry heavy things do so. That is all. Carry the stones, stack them, and when the stack falls, carry them again. No one offered a reason. The one never asked. There were no words yet for asking.

Around the age of thirteen, someone new came to the group.

The smell was different. The way the skins were wrapped was different. Something about the shape of the jaw. The one kept a distance. The older men of the group gathered, voices rising, and then fell silent. The newcomer was made to sit at the edge. Food was passed over.

The one watched all of this.

Fourteen. The one began keeping the fire through the night.

Someone had to stay awake, and the young ones did it. Left untended, the fire would dwindle. Adding branches was simple enough — but the wrong branch and the smoke changed. Dark smoke drove something away. White smoke called something near. Who had taught this, the one could not remember. The body knew.

Fifteen. The group moved on.

It was not drought. There was still water. But they moved. Someone pointed in a direction, and the old ones looked that way. By the next day, the bundles were packed. The one shouldered a load and walked. Walking, the one looked back. The shape of the rocky overhang grew distant. Then it was gone.

The summer of sixteen. The one crossed beyond the outer edge of the group for the first time.

Grass as high as the waist. Where the rocks gave way to a slope. There was a smell — not the smell of their own people — left in the grass. The one stood still and breathed it in. Then turned back and waved toward the group. What was meant by it, even the one did not know.

But someone saw that gesture.

From that night on, one of the old men began to follow the one with his eyes.

Autumn, age seventeen.

One night, the one was walking near the water. Stepping around behind a stone, there was a sound — small, repeating. Water seeping from a crack in the rock. The one crouched down. Touched it with a fingertip. Wet. Brought it to the tongue. No salt. It was water that could be drunk.

Standing up, turning toward the group.

The old man was standing in the dark.

How long he had been there. How much he had seen. The one could not tell. He came closer. Behind him were two younger men.

The one did not pick up a stone. Did not run.

The sound of the water continued.

The man's hand reached toward the one's throat.

The one looked up, at the last. There were stars. Too many to count. The water has gone quiet, the one thought. It had not gone quiet. Only the one's ears had stopped, turned toward the stars.

The grass stirred.

The water seeped on.

The fever came the morning after the rain stopped.

The one lay in a low hollow of the ground. On wet grass. The earth was warm beneath the body. At first, this seemed pleasant. But the heat was not coming from the earth — it was coming from inside.

An attempt to rise. The arms would not listen.

The others of the group were making their way to the water. The sound of a woman walking with a nursing child, the sound of men calling to each other in low voices. Footsteps fading away. The one lay there on the grass, listening.

Midday came. The sun rose high and the shadows grew short.

Thirst. The body lifted itself. Three steps, and the knees gave way. Sitting there on the ground. Somewhere in the distance, a bird called.

An old woman came back. She was the one who had lived longest among them. She looked at the face before her and said something in a low voice. The one could not make it out. The woman brought water. She pressed a bundle of wet grass to the lips. The one drank from it.

Evening came.

The old woman left. She had other things to do. There was no particular meaning in leaving the one behind.

Night came. The sky was clear. There were many stars. The body shook. Shaking, the one turned to face a certain direction. There was no reason for it. Only that from that way came the smell of dry grass. It was not the wind. The air moved, just slightly — no more than that. The one breathed in through the nose. Then again.

Something was felt there, though what it was could not be known.

A hand moved. It searched the ground. A small stone met the fingers. It was gripped. Held, without anything else being done.

At some point, the shaking stopped.

It grew quiet.

The sky did not change. The stars did not change. On the grass, a hand remained, holding a small stone.

The rainy season had ended.

A dry wind pressed the grass flat, and white salt seeped up from the roots. At the edge of the plain, where red earth lay bare on the slopes, a group of archaic humans sat in three clusters. They did not move. They ate.

The one watched from a distance.

The other males were gathered near the fire. The one was not called. He had not expected to be called, but he heard, against his back, the sounds that escaped from the fire—the snap of fat in meat, low voices, breath that resembled laughter.
He lay on his stomach in the grass. He pressed his chin to the ground. An insect passed in front of his nose.

The water was shrinking.

The edge of the spring had widened from where it had been thirty days before. The mud at the waterline had dried and cracked, and a lizard ran across it.
The group was searching for deeper water. The old males sniffed the air, walked the traces of dry riverbeds, pressed their feet to the ground and listened.
The territory of an archaic human group overlapped with theirs.

The one was thirteen years old.

He held no standing. In strength, he ranked third from the bottom, and if he came near the older males, he was struck.
He had no particular skill. He was slow at knapping stone. He was poor at catching fish.
He only watched.

One of the archaic males came down into the riverbed. He was large. His brow was wide, and the ridge above his eyes jutted out. The other males fell back. An old male shouted. Stones were thrown.

The one watched everything from behind the grass.

The archaic male did not dodge the stones.
One struck his shoulder. He turned. Another struck him.
Still he did not retreat. He only stood. He drank from the river. When he had finished, he walked back.

The other males made noise about it.
The one said nothing.

After the archaic male had gone, light fell across the riverbed.
In the slanted morning light, the soil at the waterline caught the glow. It was wet. Footprints remained. The archaic male's prints—and beside them, facing the same direction, smaller prints. A child's prints.

Someone had come to drink.

The one descended into the riverbed.
He touched the prints.
They were damp. Still fresh.

Near the end of that year, a child within the group fell into fever and stopped moving.
The mother did not leave the child's side for three days.
On the fourth day, she left.

The one watched from far away.

In the year he turned fifteen, the archaic group moved on.

In the morning, they were there.
By evening, they were not.
What remained was the ash of a fire, a few bones, and footprints.

The other males entered the place.
They examined the ash. They picked up the bones.
The one entered as well.

He stepped into the footprints, one by one.
As though trying to take their shape, he fitted his feet into them.
They did not fit.

The archaic feet were wide, the toe-marks pressed deep.
The one's feet were narrow, and left only shallow traces.

That was all.

At seventeen, the dry season lasted long.

The grass withered early. The animals moved away. Hunting grew sparse, food grew scarce, and the voices of the group fell low.
Two of the old males fought. They used stones. One fell. He did not rise again.
The other did not leave that place for three days.

The one carried water.
He could not approach the old male, but he set the water on a stone a short distance away.
The old male did not take it.
The water evaporated.

The following year, the one joined a hunt for the first time.

It was a small role. To wait in the grass, and call out in the direction that would drive the prey. That was all.
But he was part of it.

In the evening, he received meat.
It was not a good cut.
But he received it.

In the month he turned eighteen, the one sat in the riverbed.
The sun had gone down. The sky was red, and the surface of the river was red.
He looked at his face in the water.

His jaw had grown more prominent than it had been three years before. His neck had thickened.
It was someone's face.
It was his own face.

Wind came down from upstream.
The surface of the river stirred.

The one looked at the water for a long time.

There was a damp smell.

The group walked on ahead. The one stopped and looked down at the cracked ground underfoot. There was nothing to see. Then the smell came again.

The elder male turned and made a low sound. It meant: come.

The one moved.

But the feet remembered that place.

Waking came with the sound of the child's coughing, still unceasing.

Perhaps there had been no real sleep. Nights have continued in which the line between sleep and waking cannot be drawn. Sitting at the edge of the rock shelf, the one drew both knees close.

There was a scent of smoke.

Distant. But certain. The smell of burning grass is not the smell of food. It is a scorched, dry smell. It lingers deep in the nose.

Standing.

The wind came from the west. The smoke came from there too. At the far edge of the dark sky, a faint tinge of orange. Fire. Not close. But possibly moving.

The adults of the group were still sleeping. The elder male gave a low rumble and turned in his sleep. The one did not call out to him.

There was no knowing how.

There was no way to shape "fire, over there, animals, fleeing" into a single word. To say "fire" might mean "danger" or might mean "there is food." Which would be understood was uncertain.

Standing at the edge of the rock shelf, looking out at the western sky.

The smoke was drifting to the right. The wind had shifted slightly. There must be animal tracks somewhere out there — whether this was thought or whether the body already knew it, there was no way to tell.

Before sunrise, the one moved out alone.

Down from the rock. Into the grass. The soles of the feet felt the hardness of dry ground. Cracked. The texture of earth that has lost its water.

There were tracks.

Large ones. More than one animal. Hoof prints. Several kinds overlapping, continuing in the same direction. The path along which the animals had fled. Where they had fled to, there might be water. Where they had fled from, there was fire. Somewhere between, there might still be animals moving.

The one stopped.

Looked at the tracks. Checked the direction of the smoke. Looked at the tracks again.

Slowly, the one began to follow them.

It was not that the group had been forgotten. But what to bring back to them, and how — these things had not yet taken shape within. Before they could, the feet had already begun to move.

The first light of dawn spread thin across the land. Shadows stretched long.

The shadow of the one stretched out too, falling across the tracks, reaching westward.

The eastern ridge gave way the year after the eruption. Rock cooled by heat becomes brittle. The moisture inside evaporates, leaving only hollow space. It could not bear the weight of the rainy season. The slope shifted all at once, carrying the old growth down into the basin. The two families of archaic people who had lived there moved on. North. Toward the territories of the band.

Since that winter, the one has had difficulty moving the right shoulder. On the night of the eruption, the one fled carrying a weight of stone—though what was carried was not stone but a child, and the weight was much the same. The child lived. The shoulder bent and never straightened.

The one sits far from the center of the band. Near the fire, the elder males hold their place. A little apart from them, the one sits with knees drawn up, watching the far edge of the flames. On nights when the smoke drifts sideways, the face turns away. That is all.

The archaic people from the north first showed themselves at the start of spring. Two shadows stood along the rocky ridge. The males of the band raised their voices. The archaic people did not move. They were somewhat larger. Their arms were long. The shape of their brows was different. Then they left. The next day they came again.

The one watched from a distance. While everyone else was shouting, the one alone said nothing. For a single moment, a line passed between the one's eyes and the eyes of one of the archaic people. It was less that their gazes met than that both were looking at the same thing. The distant ridge. The same ridge.

When the archaic people came a third time, someone in the band threw a stone. The archaic one stopped where the stone had landed. The lower jaw pushed forward slightly. Then they turned. Slowly, but without running, they withdrew.

The tension in the band did not ease after that. Scouts were sent out. The night watches grew. The fire was kept large. The one was not chosen for watch. The one did not think it was because of the shoulder. Having no word to ask the reason, the one has no reason. There was simply not being chosen.

The rainy season came. The smell of mud was heavy. Water gathered at the bottom of the basin. The one stood at the water's edge and watched the sand shifting beneath the surface. A face was reflected there. It was reflected, but the one did not know it as one's own face. Only that something was there.

A ripple moved across the water in a certain direction. The wind was coming from that way. The one turned to look. Beyond the bank, near three split rocks, a small stand of grass grew. A deep green. Against the dry ground around it, this place was different. Beneath the earth, water was running through. The one did not know this. The one only looked at the grass.

A path was made through it. Hands parted the grass. There was moisture on the fingers. The soil was soft. The one pressed a palm flat against the earth. Something is here. But that feeling could not become words.

No water came. There was no way to dig deep. The one looked at the damp palm. Then licked it.

At the edge of the basin, there was a smell.

The smell of burnt earth mixed with rotting grass. Even a year after the collapse, that slope still exhales something. The one walked using its nose. Its belly was empty. The soles of its feet were cracked. Still it walked.

The group clusters in the rock shadows on the eastern side. Two old males patrol the outer edges. There is no space for the one to enter. Food is passed from the center. Whether it reaches the edges depends on that day's catch. Yesterday it did not reach.

Beyond the smell, there were traces of the old humans.

Not footprints. Flattened grass tracks. Clumps of mud bearing the shape of fingers. The one picked these up and smelled them. Old. Three or four days past. The old humans had already moved far away. But the direction could be read. To walk in that direction meant something lay that way.

Water, perhaps. Prey, perhaps.

The one began walking along the direction the grass had been flattened. Long grass scratched at its legs. It paid no mind. It moved forward carrying only the sensation of its belly.

Water had collected in a small depression. Rainwater. Clear. The one lay prone and drank. As the water passed down its throat, the upper part of its belly loosened slightly. That alone was enough.

At the edge of the water hole lay a flat stone.

It bore traces of having been used for something. The edges were chipped. The chipping was not from striking. These were scraping marks. Something of the old humans, perhaps. The one lifted the stone. It was heavy. The weight felt familiar in its hands. Not the sensation that it might be useful for something, but simply—it did not want to let it go.

When it returned to the group, it returned still carrying the stone.

One of the old males looked at the stone. He seemed about to say something, then stopped. The one sat at the outer edge, still clutching the stone to its chest.

Night came. A dozen or so gathered around the fire. The one watched the fire from outside the circle. Each time the flames flickered, the edge of the stone caught the light.

At night, the body had returned to the gap in the rock.

It felt as though the warmth of midday still lingered somewhere inside. They pressed their back against the stone. The fire of the group was visible in the distance. Voices carried across. They were outside the voices. And yet the body said: this place is good.

The night deepened.

The place far from the fire was where this one belonged.

Draw near, and someone would growl. Someone would press a shoulder in. This one would give way. Give way, and the pressing would come again. This had repeated itself for years. There were nights of sleeping where the fire's heat could not reach. The cold settled into the back. Even so, this one did not draw closer.

One night, warmth came from behind.

Turning around, there was nothing. The fire was still somewhere ahead. And yet the back was warm. This one knew that in the direction of that warmth lay what remained of the food — a place stripped to bones by others. But something had fallen there during the day. That much this one had noticed.

This one did not move.

And then did not move again.

Even after the warmth in the back had gone, this one held the same position for a while.

The next morning, before the others woke, this one approached the place where the food was kept. On the ground lay two seed casings. The edible matter inside was still there. This one put them in the mouth. Chewed, and swallowed. Then chewed again, and swallowed.

At the edge of the group, there was a gaze this one did not know.

Someone was watching. This one had no words to ask where it came from. Only ate. And when it was done, set the empty casings on the ground.

Set them down, then stood.

Later that day, this one was pushed still further to the edge. The growling came from more than one. It came from several directions at once. This one fell back. To the edge of the group, and the edge of the edge, and then beyond it.

The fire was visible. Shadows of people moved around it.

This one watched the shape of them. Watched for a long time. Could not enter. This one knew it could not enter. But the gaze would not turn away.

That night, this one lay down alone.

Before the cold arrived, the body curled inward. Grass was gathered close. There was not enough of it. Even so, the hands kept moving. The same grass was layered over the same ground again and again.

This one pressed a face into the gathered pile.

Only the body's own warmth remained.

On the northern plateau, the grass bent eastward, day after day.

When wind comes from a single direction, the roots of the grass lean to one side. The direction they leaned toward held a water source. But few knew of this water source, and the one who had known it had fallen from a cliff the previous season. Knowledge vanished with the body.

The one stood at the edge of the plateau. Forty-eight years old. The skin of his soles was thick, and he made no sound when he walked. Among the group he was one of the younger males, yet he had not joined the hunts. He asked no reason for this. He had no words with which to ask.

To the south of the great land, a group of archaic humans slept gathered in the shadow of a rock. Three days' distance separated them from the human group. Each knew of the other. Knowing, they did not draw near. That distance was an equilibrium.

The one walked along the river in the morning hours. He picked up a stone, licked it. Set it down. Picked up another, licked it again. There was no name for the act of repeating this. He simply repeated it.

Within the group, a child was born. The day after, another child died. The mother held the dead child for a full day. Then she set it down.

The one sat beneath a rock ledge. The midday light fell in at an angle. The edge of the light touched a crack in the rock, and from it rose a faint warmth. The depths of the rock were warm.

The one's hand moved naturally toward the crack. He did not push it inside. He only brought his palm close. There was heat. He drew back. Then brought it close again.

Three times in the span of five years, the archaic humans and the human group found themselves together at the same water source. The first two times, voices rose and distance was kept. The third time was silence. Each drank, and each departed. Nothing happened. That nothing happened may itself have been something. There are no words for this.

The one passed fifty, and his pace slowed a little. But his eyes had not weakened.

One evening, at the edge of the group, a young male and female quarreled. Their voices were loud. The one watched for a time. Then he moved away. As he moved away, he felt a heaviness settle beneath his stomach. He did not know what it was.

Drought came to the northern plateau. The grass yellowed. One of the water sources shrank. The group moved south. As they moved, one of the elders fell behind. No one turned back. By the next morning, the one who had fallen behind had gone still. He lay in the grass, and gradually took on the color of the grass.

The one walked at the end of the southward column. The skin of his soles pressed into the sand. Each step made no sound. That he made no sound was proof that he was there.

The group found a new water source. Water ran over bare rock, and it was clear. The one drank last. It was not that drinking last had become a habit — yet it always came to this.

Toward the end of his fifty-third year, the one's right knee began to swell. With each step it grew warm. The warmth did not leave.

Fifty-three.

Sitting at the edge of the group. Far from the fire. Not driven there — simply there, by nature. The elders gathered around the fire; the young males ranged along its outer edge; the women and children scattered in between. This one's place belonged to none of those circles.

There was a night when the smell of the grass changed.

Not rain. Not soil. Something else — a heavy smell. The one lifted their nose and turned their head. No one else moved. The elder before the fire spoke; a young male made a sound of laughter. The smell faded quickly.

Fifty-four.

At the watering place, traces of another group. Footprints remained. Not their own. The skeletal structure was different. The shape of the heel. The width of the foot. The one traced the edge of a print. Beneath the fingers, the feel of wet soil. The weight of whoever had stepped there still lived in the earth.

There was a wish to tell someone. But the sounds would not come together. Only this came out: "Different. Heavy. Heel. Here."

The elder did not turn around.

Fifty-five.

A child died. Not this one's child — a child of the group. A girl, perhaps three years old. The coughing had gone on for some time; the one had known. On the day the coughing fell silent, the mother's voice rose. Long and low. The other women gathered and joined their voices to hers. The one listened from a distance.

That night, a hand pressed to the ground. Fingers spread wide, feeling the coldness of the soil. The child's voice was gone now.

Fifty-six.

Eyes met with one of the old ones.

Near the watering place. The other looked over and did not move. The one did not move either. The shape of the brow was different. The way the ridge of the bone jutted was different. But the movement of the eyes — that seemed familiar. What made it seem so, the one had no words for. It simply did.

The other looked away first. Drank from the water, and left.

Fifty-seven.

Somewhere in the body, an understanding had formed: there were things within the group that must not be known.

Who had found what, and where. Who had eaten with whom. Which direction the elder's son feared. The one said nothing. There were no words to say it with. Only watching. The accumulated weight of everything seen kept building.

One night the elder turned to face this one. Said nothing. Only turned.

Not long after, the young males began to linger nearby more often.

Fifty-eight.

Waking in the morning, there were three people nearby. Not ones who usually slept there.

When the one began to rise, something heavy struck the shoulder.

A fall. The ground came close to the face. The smell of soil. The sound of grass roots, moving on.

Before the body stopped moving, the one spread out a hand.

At the tips of the fingers — dry soil. The same feel as that patch of ground where rain never made mud.

The light may still have been falling there.

Five years of unrelenting rain.

The soil never firmed. It always held something within it — moisture, the smell of rotting roots, the motion of small insects. The one sat at the edge of the group more and more, gazing up at the sky. When the young males ran off in some direction, the one followed them only with a turn of the head.

When had the legs stopped obeying?

It was not the knees. Not the lower back. It was more a feeling of something draining out from deep in the hip socket. In the mornings, rising meant pushing the body up with both arms. When doing this, the one made no sound.

Children ran nearby. The group had grown large. Food was plentiful. With every rain, fruit fell, and animals came to the water's edge. The young ones dragged back their kills and called out something. The one sat close to the fire and listened to those voices.

When the light tilted westward, the one tried to stand, and could not.

A hand reached for the grass. The grass came free. Another clump was seized. That came free as well. The one fell sideways and lay still for a time, watching the sky.

Clouds drifted past — neither white nor grey, but tinged yellow by the fading light. The one watched them. Whether anything was being thought, it is impossible to say.

Night came.

It was a place where the firelight did not reach. There was only the grass. The one may have felt, somewhere, the body growing cold. The voices of the group carried from far away — something that resembled laughter.

As the night deepened, even those voices were gone.

From the one's body, strength departed slowly. Not in waves, but as sand moves through a narrow place. Over a long, long time. There in the grass, the body grew heavier by degrees, until at last it became so still it could no longer be told apart from the grass itself.

There were footprints in the mud.

The one crouched down and traced the edges with a finger. They were large. Wider than an open palm. The heel had sunk deep, carrying the softness of the earth. After yesterday's rain. Still fresh.

The others in the group had moved off in a different direction. Voices of people gathering nuts. A mother calling her child. The sound of a young male running, laughing at something. The one did not look toward them. The one was looking at the footprints.

The footprints led deeper into the forest.

An unfamiliar direction. A place the group never went. Where the old males shook their heads in warning. Where they made gestures that meant: do not go. But today no one else was here.

The one stood and looked into the depths.

The trees layered over one another until the light could not reach. And yet from within that darkness, something arrived. Not a sound. Not a smell. Something closer to the presence of water, or the coldness of wet stone, or——something. The one had no name for it.

One step forward.

Grass pressed against the sole of the foot. The earth gave way. Another step. Not tracing the footprints, but walking alongside them. There was no reason for it. It was simply what happened.

After a time, the trees fell away.

There was a small hollow. Water had gathered in it. Clear water. Along its edge lay the bones of an animal. Old bones. Bones gone white. Teeth marks on them. Someone had eaten here——someone not from the one's own group.

The one looked at the water.

The one's own face was there in the water. Drawing closer, it seemed another face appeared as well. It rippled and was gone. With no wind at all, the surface moved.

The one sat down.

Sat there for a long time. The sun tilted. Hunger came. Still, the one did not move.

The sounds of the group drifted over. Distant. Not voices calling a name. But something in them resembled a cry. The one stood and looked toward the forest.

Running sounds. More than one set of feet.

The one did not move.

A moment later, two young males burst through the trees. Stones in their hands. Faces flushed. Breathing hard. They saw the one. Stopped. Said something. The one could not make it out.

The one stepped back.

One of the young males, stone still in hand, came closer.

The one's hand turned toward the surface of the water. Fingers extended. But there was nothing there. Only water.

The young male took another step forward.

Two nuts placed on the ground.

One was darkened. The other was red. The one smelled each of them in turn. Moved the dark one closer, the red one a little farther away. No reason. The hands simply moved that way.

An older man in the group was shouting at someone. Another man. There was an edge in his voice. The one did not look up. Turned their eyes back to the nuts.

On the side of the dark nut, there was a small hole. Something had eaten through it. When a fingernail widened the hole, the inside was white.

The one touched the white flesh with the tip of their tongue.

It was bitter.

They spat it out. But the white remnant still resting in their palm — they looked at it again. Did not throw it away.

The men's voices grew louder. Someone's foot struck the ground. The one gathered both nuts into their palm and stood up.

Did not run. Walked.

Walked to the edge of the group and sat down there. Back against a tree. Simply looked at the two nuts resting in their open hand.

Evening came. The one ate the red nut. The dark nut was left where it lay.

The mud came to the ankles.

The place where the fire had been was changed. The water had moved it.

Even so, there were embers.

Crouching, staying still for a moment, watching the embers. Holding out a hand. It was warm.

Someone came and crouched beside, and held out a hand in the same way. The two of them said nothing.

After the flood, the group moved to a place away from the river.

The one followed the mud-marks back to where they had slept before. Nothing remained. In the place where two stones should have been, there was only one. Where the other had gone, there was no knowing.

The one descended to the riverbed. The water had halved. A row of exposed stones jutted their edges up through the sand. The one crouched. Touched one with a fingertip. It was cool. Flat and thin.

It was lifted.

Held in both hands and weighed. Light. Light, and yet sharp. When the pad of a thumb was drawn along its edge, the skin went slightly pale. Not cut. But the next pass would cut.

The one carried it back.

At the edge of the encampment, an older man was splitting something. He struck a small stone with a large one. A dull sound, and fragments flew. The man did not pick up the fragments.

The one set the stone from the riverbed on the ground and sat beside him. The man glanced once. Then struck again.

Night came.

They gathered around the fire. Someone spoke and someone else answered. Short exchanges of sound. Some of it the one understood; some of it was closed off. What came through was that someone was angry at someone.

The one sat with the stone resting on both knees, watching the fire.

The flames sank low and the embers reddened. A young woman sitting nearby fed a branch into the coals. The flames returned. She said nothing. The one said nothing.

At dawn, part of the group set off upriver. They were going to look for food — that much was clear. The one stayed behind.

The stone brought back yesterday was touched again. Its edge remained sharp.

Something could be cut with it. But what, the one had no word for. Several shapes rose in the mind and were set beside one another. None of them became words.

The stone was set down.

Then picked up again.

The fever came after a stretch of rainy nights.

The one lay at the edge of the group. Through the rain and after it cleared, always in the same place. The body felt heavy. Nothing was eaten. Dried filth clung to the corner of the mouth, but there was no strength to wipe it away.

Children passed nearby. The one watched them with eyes alone.
One child stopped. Something felt, perhaps — a moment of stillness.
Then ran off.

The sun climbed high. The ground dried. Insects sang.

The one turned face-up. Looked at the sky. Clouds were moving. Neither fast nor slow, simply drifting.

Fingers gripped the soil. Slowly, closed.
The earth crumbled and fell between them.

Gripped again.
Fell again.

Somewhere far off, something was being struck. Stone against stone. The one did not turn toward the sound. Only listened.

Evening came.

Someone from the group brought water. Set it near the one's mouth. The scent was taken in. It was not drunk.

Night came.
The light of the fire trembled.

The one's hand opened on the soil.
It did not close again.

Fifty-four.

The tools were kept on a rock shelf below the cliff face. Counting them was the morning's work. One fewer than the day before. Someone had taken it. Had not brought it back.

The one said nothing. Not for want of words. Simply said nothing.

As the group grew larger, there were things that diminished — not food, but something else. The one had no name for it. Only the sense that something had changed. A low, resonant feeling in the deep of the body.

At night, the young gathered at the outer edge of the fire. The one stayed near the flame. An aging body needed fire.

A young one laughed. Raised an arm. Another young one turned away.

The one set the knapped stone on its knees. It was heavy. As though testing that weight, the one pressed it several times with an open palm.

The stone held the grease of the hands that had held it before. Perhaps of hands before those. The one did not know this. Only that the stone settled into the hand.

The winter of fifty-six. In a dispute with the northern group, two young men died. Struck in the head by stones. The one looked at the bodies. Knelt. Stood.

Counted the tools. They had diminished again.

Fifty-eight. The dry season. A young one who had gone to the watering place did not return. Two days later, found downstream, in the river. Submerged. There were wounds. The wounds of stone.

The one looked at the river. The water was moving. It did not stop.

Among the group, the way eyes turned toward the one had begun to change. The elder knows something. Knows too much. There was no name for those glances. Only that the place around the fire shifted. When the one drew near, the voices of the young grew quiet.

The one honed the knapped stone. Tested the edge.

The end of spring, at fifty-nine. The one was walking the path along the cliff. Alone. The same morning path taken each day toward where the tools were kept.

From behind came the sound of footsteps.

The one did not turn.

At the edge of the rock shelf, the feet stopped. Stones fell. Not just one.

The body passed beyond the cliff's edge.

The sky was there. That was all.

The fall from the rock shelf came as the sun was tilting toward the horizon.

The sound of the body striking the ground was not heard by the one who fell. When awareness returned, there was a cheek pressed sideways into sand. The taste of earth in the mouth. A burning sensation along the right side of the ribs, something like a blade pressing inward — but any attempt to move only spread the burning further.

Two young men slipped their hands beneath the arms and carried the one back to the cave.

No sound was made. It was not that there was no pain. Only that no sound would come.

Three days passed lying still.

The heat along the ribs did not ease. With each breath, the right side moved poorly. Whether bones were broken, there was no way to know. Only this was clear: shallow breaths meant less pain.

Someone brought water. Who it was, the face could not be seen.

Sleep came near the fire. The smell of smoke. The quiet sound of embers. It was the season when nights grew cold, and whoever tended the fire remained there through the dark hours.

The one knew where the tools were kept.

That thought came before the pain did. Which stones lay in which places. Which were hard, which would split too easily. The angle for striking. Where to land the blow. All of it needed to be passed to someone. Words were difficult for such things. The hands could show the way — but the body would not rise.

On the fourth day, a young man came.

The one reached out and took the young man's hand. Slowly, through the dimness of the cave, deeper in. The young man hesitated but followed where he was led.

They stopped before a crack in the rock. Stones had been gathered there — large and small, different in shape, not arranged with any particular order, simply set in place.

The one lifted one of them. A flat stone, with weight to it. It was placed in the young man's hands.

The young man received it.

Nothing was said. There were no words for it. Only the one's eyes meeting the young man's eyes. And the young man looking back.

That was all.

The seventh day.

The heat had moved upward from the ribs. It had reached the chest. Breathing grew shallow — there was no other way to breathe now.

Three days without food. Only water, and little of that.

Something had been shifting within the group. Voices had grown rough. Someone shouted outside. In the night, the sounds of a quarrel. None of it could be seen — only heard.

The young man did not come.

No one came.

Before dawn, the breathing changed.

One long breath inward. And then no next breath came.

The body released its strength. It lay still on the sand, and did not move again.

The fire was still burning.