295,565 BCE – 295,445 BCE | Episodes 889–912

The load was heavy.

Hide and bone and dried berries. Enough to bow the back. The feeling of the ground rose up through the soles of the feet. Sharp stones, smooth stones, wet stones. Each step a little different from the last.

The feet stopped before the crack in the rock.

There was no knowing why they had stopped. Something had shifted deep in the nose. Not the smell of burning, not the smell of rot. Only a something, a different something, that was there.

The load was set down.

The other side of the crack was looked at. What could be seen was only stone and shadow.

Still, no closer.

A crouch, and the ground was touched. Mud. Dampness stayed in the palm. There was something like the marks of fingers. The shape was not the same as one's own fingers.

A long time was spent there.

When the load was picked up again, the body was facing a different way. The angle of return to the settlement was slightly different from the way that had been come. The one did not notice. The feet simply chose another path.

That night, before the fire at the settlement, the one placed a hand against a rock.

There was an attempt to speak of the crack in the rock, and no sound came.

What came was a single sound. Low, and brief. Someone looked over. Only looked.

The one made the same sound again.

This time, no one looked.

The one took the hand from the rock. Looked at the fire. The fire said nothing.

On the eastern slope, a rock shifted.

There was no sound. The soles of the feet knew first. A low tremor, traveling up from deep within the earth. The treetops swayed in answer, and the surface of the pond traced concentric circles for a single moment. To the north, a mountain that still carried the memory of fire in its body continued to exhale a thin thread of smoke. Ash drifted westward, turning the grassland gray.

The one was carrying a load. Wrapped in hide: nuts, dried meat, fragments of shattered stone mixed together. The weight bit into the shoulders, and one foot sank deep into the sand. The one stopped. The tremor had already stilled, but it remained somewhere inside the body.

Within the group, there are other voices.

The shape of the throat is different. The arrangement of the teeth is different. Those whose brow bones jut out thick and heavy live north of the river. They keep fire. They strike stone to make blades. The one's group also keeps fire, also strikes stone to make blades. Yet something is different. The way the hides are wrapped is different. The way of walking is different. The sound of laughter is different.

The one set down the load.

There was no reason. It was simply set down. Knees meeting the ground, both hands pressing into the sand, waiting for the tremor's afterecho to leave through the bones of the feet. Nearby, a white stone jutted halfway from the earth. A rounded crown. The one pressed the pad of a finger to the stone's surface. It was warm. Perhaps it had been receiving the light of day for a long while. Or perhaps heat was traveling up from inside the earth. The one could not tell the difference.

It did not matter. It was warm.

From north of the river, a voice carried over. Low, repeating. Not the voice of one's own group. The one stood, lifted the load, turned the face toward the direction of the voice. Only turned. Did not move.

On the eastern slope, a single rock quietly tilted. It had stood there for years. The soil at its base had been slowly washing away, and at last the support was gone. From beneath the tilted rock, the smell of wet earth rose up.

That smell caught the wind.

By the time it reached the one's nose, the wind had already changed direction. But the smell remained. Not decay. The smell of wet earth, coming from somewhere deep. Without thinking, the one opened the mouth. As though to take the smell inside.

Tension between the groups had been growing. Those from north of the river were coming south more often. Perhaps food had grown scarce. Ash had blanketed the grassland, and the grazing animals had moved on. When the animals move, those who follow them move as well.

There are nights when voices inside the one's group turn rough.

Someone shouts. Someone strikes stone against the ground. The one stays at the edge. Those who carry loads stay at the edge. Outside the firelight, knees drawn up, listening. The one has no means to understand the meaning of the voices as words, but can understand their temperature. Hot, sharp, voices on the edge of breaking.

At dawn, snow fell. Spring was nearly over, yet the north wind had returned. A thin covering, gone by midday.

The one watched for a long time as the snow disappeared. The snow on the stones vanished first. The snow on the grass remained longer. It did not shrink inward from the edges — it disappeared in patches, differently depending on the place. The one simply watched. Made no attempt to explain. Simply watched.

The load was heavy.

The skin of the shoulders was worn raw. The one walked watching the back of the person ahead. Stepped where the grass had already been stepped down.

When the one stepped into the hollow at the watering place, it was cold. The feet stopped. The water moved. Within the moving, there was something. The one did not think it was the self. Only waited for the ripples to be still.

Even after they stilled, the one looked for a little while longer.

The person ahead turned back. The one began to walk.

The burden was not heavy.

That was the problem.

When the group began to move, this one was given no burden. No hides, no dried meat, no children. Only a gesture to follow behind. The one who gestured would not meet eyes.

This one had been at the edge since thirty-three. Edge—not a matter of place, but of position. Permitted within the circle of the fire, but the meat came last. Before making children carry burdens, they would have this one carry them. Useful. But not central.

It had always been so.

The mind was not quick. The voice was not loud. But this one's hands were steady, and could hold heavy things for long. With that alone, thirty-seven years had passed.

On the third day of movement, something changed within the group.

Two men raised their voices over where to place the fire. One looked toward this one. Briefly, sharply. The meaning was clear. This one was thought to know something.

There was nothing known.

Only, at the camp two places back, this one had remembered the direction of water. Wind came from a direction none paid attention to. It carried moisture. This one said nothing, but began walking in that direction. Others followed. There was water.

That was all.

But in the men's eyes, it may have appeared as something else.

On the morning of the fourth day, they walked along the cliff path.

It was a narrow path. Rock on one side, a drop on the other. This one was at the back of the line. Someone pushed from behind. The pressure on the shoulder lasted only a moment.

Feet slipped.

While falling, the sky was visible.

It was white.

Rock received the body. There was sound. The sound ceased to be heard.

The group continued walking. Footsteps grew distant. On the stone, this one remained.

Wind came. From below the cliff, moist wind.

**Age Eight**

There was a blue scent.

What it came from, this one did not know. This one turned toward the rock. There was grass. Trampled grass. Then walked on.

Within the group, those who could carry loads were regarded. This one was given nothing to carry. Running fast was a different thing from carrying loads.

At night, this one sat at the edge of the fire. The adults made a wall with their backs. This one was on the outside of that wall. Smoke drifted over. The eyes stung. This one moved. The smoke came again. Moved again.

Could not sleep. In the sky there was a band of white light. This one tried to trace it with a finger. Could not reach it. Stopped.

**Age Ten**

Learned the work of stretching hides. Grip the edge with both hands and lean the weight back. The hide stretches. An adult presses a stone against it in between. The hide thins. Pull again.

The skin on the hands peeled. Blood came. An adult glanced. Did not stop.

That year, one of the children of the group slipped at the water's edge. The current was fast. The voice grew distant. Someone gave chase, but could not reach from the bank.

By evening, no one called the name. Only one fire was fewer.

**Age Twelve**

Saw the old people's band for the first time.

Across the valley. Three of them. A full head taller than this one. The brows jutted forward. They were looking back.

One of the adults of the group made a low sound. It was the sound that meant: close in. This one closed in.

The old people did not move. For a long time, they only looked. Then they were gone into the undergrowth.

That night, this one could not sleep. The eyes of the old people came back. There was less white in them. That seemed to be the difference. The rest, this one could not tell.

**Age Thirteen**

Being fast on foot meant being used as a runner at the edge of the group. Go and see the condition of the water source. Go and confirm whether something is in the shadow of the far rock.

Having fast feet meant being the first to go to dangerous places.

One morning, beyond a thicket of low brush, there was one of the old people. A single one. About the same height as this one. Perhaps a child.

Neither moved.

The child of the old people slowly raised a hand. What they wanted to do, this one did not know. This one also raised a hand. Why, this one did not know.

The child of the old people disappeared into the brush.

This one stood there for a time. The hand was still raised.

Then lowered it. Ran back toward the group. Reported nothing.

The fire was small.

The one sat at the edge. Outside the circle of adults, knees drawn up, the soles of both feet flat against the ground. The heat of the fire did not reach there. Still, the one remained. Not large enough to belong inside the circle.

The left cheek grew cold.

The one turned. To the east, a dark stretch of grassland spread out into the night. Nothing visible. No sound. Only the wind stirring the grass, and then stopping.

The one stood.

No one was watching. The adults were looking at the fire, or their eyes were closed. The youngest child had fallen into the soft sound of sleep.

The one walked several steps toward the grassland. The night dew was cold against the soles of the feet. Grass brushed against the ankles.

Stopped.

Dark. The other side is dark. The wind came again. It cooled the left cheek, and passed on.

The one looked out across the dark grassland. Eyes narrowing. Nothing to be seen.

And yet — something was there.

The one had no word for *something*. No sound for it either. But something moved inside the body. Deep in the lower belly, a faint tightening. What it meant, the one did not know.

Turned back.

Returned to the edge of the fire, and drew the knees up again. The left cheek was still cold.

Even as the night deepened, the one did not sleep. From time to time, the one turned toward the east. The dark grassland was always there.

In the morning, mist hung low over the ground.

The one slept at the edge of the group. Dry grass gathered beneath the belly, knees drawn up, both arms crossed over the chest. When the eyes opened, shadows of another group were visible in the mist.

The one did not move.

There were four shadows. Their way of walking was different. The way they placed their feet was not like their own.

The one rose without a sound and began running toward the group. Running came naturally. Grass struck against the ankles. Wet earth splashed upward.

One of the adults raised a hand. The one made a sound from deep in the throat. Short, twice.

*Coming. Coming.*

The adults stood. Some held children. Some stretched out their arms to show the direction. The group moved.

The one looked back.

There were six shadows now. They had multiplied in the mist.

There was a smell of water. From the direction where the river lay near, another smell came threading through — something like iron.

The one's nose moved.

The source of the smell was somewhere in the mist. The one turned toward it. One step, just one, was taken forward.

For a single moment, light broke through a gap in the mist. It fell upon a place along the riverbank, between the grasses, where the ground had been disturbed.

The one understood that something had been there.

It was already too late.

It was not a stone that came.

Something heavy struck the right side of the body. Near the ribs. The one fell sideways. A face pressed into the grass. There was a smell of wet earth.

The feet moved. An attempt was made to stand.

It was not possible.

The sky was white. Beyond the mist, light had begun to spread. Morning was trying to arrive.

The one watched that whiteness for a time.

The grass swayed in the wind. Somewhere far off, sounds of the group. It may have been the voice of a child.

After a while, even that could no longer be heard.

The stomach had been growling since morning.

Standing at the edge of the band, looking across the river. A thin thread of smoke rose from the far bank. When the one looked at that smoke, something pressed against the inside of the chest. It was not fear. Only a shallowing of breath — nothing more.

Light fell on the rock.

The one narrowed their eyes. Where the light touched, a ford became visible. Stones ran in a line, the water breaking white over them. Ankle-deep, clearly. Crossable.

The one did not cross.

Crouching down, the one pressed a hand to the ground. The soil was dry. Scratched with a finger, it was hard beneath. The one stood and turned toward the band. They were gathered perhaps thirty paces back. No one was watching the river.

The one went down to the water's edge alone.

Reached a hand into the river. Cold. The current passed between the fingers. Not a strong current. Stepping onto a stone, the one did not slip. Another step. Then another. The water rose to the knees, and the cold climbed up through the soles of the feet.

Stopped in the middle of the river.

The far bank was less than ten paces away. The place where the smoke rose was close enough to walk to.

Still, the one stood there.

The water pressed against the ankles. The current was steady. The one looked upstream. The sky was wide. No clouds. On the far bank, grass grew thick and deep. Nothing moved within it.

Turned back.

Climbed out onto the bank and stood on the soil with wet feet. Footprints remained in the earth. The one looked at them once. Then walked back toward the band.

That night, the one slept at the edge of the fire. The cold of the river was still in the soles of the feet. There were no dreams.

Before the bone, stillness.

There was a smell. Not a known smell. Because it was unknown, the nose moved. Because the nose moved, the feet stopped.

Crouched down. Looked at the bone. Did not touch it.

Stood. Walked in the direction of the group.

Told no one about the bone. Not because the words to tell it were absent. But because it was impossible to judge whether it ought to be told.

Three years of dry season had passed.

The edges of the grassland had retreated, and hard ground now showed itself where water had once reached the ankle. The cracks had grown two fingers deep, and beyond them there was only sand. That was why the northern group had begun moving south. The movement was not gradual. They came as if driven.

The one watched them from behind a rock.

Forty or so. Many children. Few elders to be seen. The one leaned back against the stone and breathed through the nose. There was a mingling of sweat, animal fat, and dry earth. The others carried a different smell. A different way of holding smoke. The one knew that those who ate different things gave off different things from their bodies, but had no way to put this into words.

In the year when rain did not come, the group moved south to the lowlands.

The river still remained. Its flow had dropped to less than half, but it still ran. Fish gathered thick in the shallow pools, and children slipped again and again as they tried to scoop them up with their hands. The one lay in wait elsewhere, stretched flat at the crossing of two animal paths. Waiting was something the one was good at. One could also say it was the only thing the one was good at.

As the sun began to set, the wind changed direction.

The wind that should have come from the west fell still, and something thin and cold came down from the north. The one raised the face. The nostrils moved. It was not the smell of blood. It was the smell of soil changing. The smell of something collapsing far away. The one did not know what it meant, but something tightened deep in the belly. The one began to rise, then stopped.

Beyond the rock, there was a figure.

One person from the northern group stood there, looking this way. Just past the threshold of adulthood, or perhaps not yet there. Thin. Large eyes. The eyes met the one's eyes. Neither moved. Neither made a sound. It was the other who moved first. Arms still lowered, stepping back. Not running. The fact that the other did not run struck the one as strange.

For the two years that followed, the two groups remained along the same river.

Apart, but never fully apart. In places where food was scarce, drawing closer could itself be survival. The one walked the boundary between them. Chose to walk the line where neither side was entered too deeply. Not by intention, but by habit. It had always been this way with the one. Not at the center of the group, but at the edge. Not the wall, but the seam.

Before the fifth dry season began, rain came.

Briefly, fiercely, for a single night. But the river returned. New green appeared at the edge of the grassland. The northern group moved. Not in the direction they had come from, but eastward. The one watched from atop a high rock. Watched until they disappeared beyond the hills.

That night, the one drew something on the ground.

Not with a stick. With fingers. On dry earth. Not lines, but depressions. Two points. One point a little apart from them. The one did not know what was being done. The hand had moved, and when awareness returned, it was already so. The one stared at it for a while. Wind came, and sand filled the depressions. The one did not brush it away. Left it as it was.

When the one returned to the group, an elder man was watching.

He said something. Two short sounds. The one listened. Said nothing in return. The man repeated it. With slightly different force this time. The one held the man's gaze and did not move. The man looked away first.

The next morning, a stone had been placed where the one slept.

Not a sharp stone. Round, heavy, large enough to hold in both hands. The one could not read the intention of whoever had placed it. Drew close. Lifted it. Tested its weight. Set it down.

Picked it up again.

At thirty-three, there was an old wound on the right knee. When running, it pulled tight.

Still, the one walked the edges of the group. Those on the periphery walk the periphery. That was this one's place.

On a night when the northern group camped nearby, the one sat a little apart from the fire. The other fire was visible. Shadows moved. A child's voice carried over. It sounded like the voices of children from this one's own group.

Similar. But not the same.

A stone was picked up. Flat. The thumb moved across its surface. Smooth. It was a stone from a riverbed — shaped by water over a long span of time. The one had no words for that. Only the sense of: smooth.

The next morning, the one walked along the edge of the grassland. Turned their face toward where the wind had come from.

A tree stood there. The roots were visible.

The one stood still for a while, looking at the roots. What should have been beneath the ground was outside of it. The tree had not fallen.

The knee pulled tight.

And still the tree stood.

The one sat down on the ground and touched one of the roots. It was hard. It smelled of earth. Faintly like the smell of their own hands.

In the evening, the one returned to the group. Said nothing. There were no words to say.

They were still carrying the flat stone.

There was still time before dawn.

The one sat with its back against a dead tree, knees drawn up to its chest. Breath was visible. The temperature had dropped. The group's fire burned somewhere over there, but the one did not return to it.

The soles of its feet still held the memory of yesterday's ground. Hard earth. Cracked earth. The traces where water had run.

The group had moved south. The one had moved with them. But partway along, it stopped. While the others walked on without noticing, the one alone stood still. Something had pulled — not from the soles of its feet, but from deep in the belly.

It turned back.

No one had been watching.

On the northern slope, there was a new smell. Not rotting leaves. Not wet stone. The smell of something living. The one drew air through its nose. Twice. Three times.

There was another group.

Not far away. In the darkness of night, only their outlines were visible. A small fire. Shadows pressing close around it. The shapes were slightly different. The width of shoulders. The roundness of heads. These were different ones.

The one did not move.

For a long time, it simply watched.

The fire over there wavered. Wind came. The smell changed. At that moment, one of the shadows turned toward this side — turned is not quite right; it went still. The head shifted slightly. It had sensed something.

The one pressed itself flat against the ground. Mud touched its cheek.

It held its breath.

A long silence followed.

At last the shadow returned to the fire. The one remained motionless. Low, low against the earth, its face nearly buried in the soil.

The night deepened. The fire over there grew small.

The one rose slowly and walked south. Toward the group. Toward the fire. Its legs were trembling — not at the knees, but deep in the inner thighs.

When it had nearly returned to the group, the elder one looked over. The face asked: where have you been? The one made no sound. It sat. It sat beside the fire.

The next morning, the one tried to tell the elder through calls and gestures. To the north — another group. There had been a fire. Shadows. A smell.

The elder listened. But the elder's face changed.

Another one drew near. Then another. It did not take long to be surrounded.

The one kept speaking. To the north, another group —

A hand seized its shoulder.

It was pulled upright.

Shoved.

Out of the group.

The one fell. It rose. It was shoved again, harder this time. Its back struck stone.

It called out. It moved to return to the group.

The one standing in its way held a rock.

The one ran — not north, but east. It scrambled down the slope. Grass caught at its feet. It fell. It rose. It ran again.

Footsteps followed for a time behind it.

Then they were gone.

The one stopped at the edge of a cliff. It looked down. The drop was deep. Water glinted below.

It turned back. No one was there.

It crouched down.

It covered its face with both hands. And stayed that way, motionless.

The dry season had grown longer. Sand had gathered in the riverbed, and where the water had once risen to the knee, the one now crossed without bending at the waist. The grass on the far bank was brown. There were fewer insects, and birdsong came from far away.

After crossing the river, the one picked up a stone. Struck it against another. Listened to the sound. Struck again.

On the northern slope, smoke from another band was visible. It continued for three days. On the fourth day, it was gone. Whether the band had moved on, or the fire had simply died, the one could not tell. The one did not try to tell.

Toward evening, a voice rose among the one's band. A young man beat his chest and pointed north. An old woman made a low sound and stilled him. It was not language. Yet everyone fell quiet.

That winter, two children were born. One died within three days. The other went on living.

The following year, the northern band drew closer. Shadows lined the ridge of the hill — twelve, perhaps fifteen. The one tried to count them from behind the brush, then stopped.

There was hunger. Two days without prey.

The one stood holding the stone. The shadows on the ridge did not move. The wind came from that direction. It carried the smell of animal fat. They had eaten. The one's band had not.

The one turned back into the brush. Set the stone on the ground.

In the third year, the river flooded in spring. Mud carved away the bank, and two large rocks that had stood there before were carried downstream and disappeared. Whenever the one passed that place, the one paused. Stepped where the rocks had been. The ground was soft.

The strongest man in the band died. He had been descending a cliff face. Whether his foot had slipped or the rock had given way, two people had been watching, and each showed a different account with the body — one spread their arms wide, the other shook their head. Either may have been right.

The one stood where the rocks had been and looked at the river.

Something floated on the surface. Not a leaf, not bark. A small clump of animal fur. It moved fast and was gone.

In the fourth year, the one's band and the northern band came upon each other at the river's edge. Both stopped.

The one stepped forward. Not because there was no one else in the band who might have. The feet simply moved.

From the other band, an old one stepped forward alone. There was a scar on the face. The right eye was clouded.

The two said nothing. For a time, they simply stood.

The clouded eye moved to the one's hand. In the one's hand was a knapped stone. In the old one's hand, there was nothing.

The one placed the stone on the ground.

The old one took a long time to bend down and lift it.

In the fifth summer, the band moved south. The river had grown too thin. The grass had withered. The one walked at the rear.

Looked back. Many times.

There was a feeling that something had been left behind. Not the northern smoke, not the place where the rocks had been, not the old one's clouded eye. What it was, the one did not have. Could not make it into sound. Could not make it into gesture.

The feet simply stopped.

Those ahead grew distant. The one stood and looked south. Watched the band disappear into the sand. Then began to walk.

After passing fifty, the knees began to sound.

Each morning, the one would wait a little before rising. Waiting for the body to make itself ready to move. It had become habit. The younger ones in the group did not notice this. Or if they did, they gave it no thought.

The dry season had entered its fifth year. The one knew water. The body remembered where moisture lingered in parched places. The north face of rocks. The shadowed side at the base of low shrubs. Even when riverbeds vanished, there were paths of water beneath the ground. Sometimes the one would press an ear to the earth. Whether anything could be heard varied each time.

That day, the one was walking at the edge of the group.

The scent of blood arrived.

The one stopped. The right foot remained on the ground; the left hung in the air. In that posture, for the span of three counted breaths, there was no movement.

The grass moved. The way it moved was not the way of wind.

The one lowered. Not all the way to the ground. Knees and hands met the earth, and the one looked toward the far side of the grass. Nothing could be seen. But the scent remained.

A retreat.

On the way back to the group, the one did not retrace the path that had been walked, but chose a different way. There was no reason. The body simply did so.

When the one returned, an elder looked over. Their eyes met. The elder said nothing. The one said nothing. But something was present in those eyes. The one tried to read it, and could not.

That night, the one sat apart from the fire.

Meat was eaten. Even after swallowing, the taste of blood remained in the mouth. Not from whatever had been in the grass, but from the animal taken that day. Still, it was difficult to keep them separate.

The fire grew small.

The one stretched out both legs. The knees sounded.

Hearing it, the one went still again.

Someone was behind. A presence. The one did not turn. It felt as though turning would end something. There was no reason for this. It was only a feeling.

Morning came, and the one could not rise.

Not the head — the back. Not a rock. Someone's foot. Not pressed down in punishment. Held in place. A voice came. A single sound. Not the one's name. A sound that indicated the edge of the group. It was not a voice of banishment, yet it could not be said it was otherwise.

The one stood.

No belongings were taken. It was not that taking them was forbidden. The one had begun walking before reaching for them.

Out into the grass beyond.

Footprints continued. The marks left by the one's own body. Walking went on. When the marks disappeared, walking continued. The sun climbed high. Thirst came. The one went to the base of a low shrub, and pressed a palm to the earth on the shadowed side. It was damp. A tongue was placed against it. There was the taste of water.

That was all.

That alone, and the feet moved forward.

The feet stopped.

There was a smell. Not rock. Not char. It was close to the smell of skin against skin, yet not quite that.

The one brought a hand to the nose. Then turned the face not toward the nose but toward the direction of the wind. It came from the east.

The way back to the band lay west.

The one did not move. Sat down in the shadow of a rock and placed both hands on the knees. The knees were gnarled from years of moving. The pads of the fingers pressed into the knots, as though confirming them.

The sun tilted.

The smell did not leave. The wind had not changed. The one swallowed. The throat was dry.

From somewhere distant came the sound of movement. Not large. Not a beast, the one thought. Why this thought could not be put into words. One could not say the weight of the sound was different. It was simply thought.

The one rose and turned west.

Walking slowly. Without haste. Hurry makes sound. Sound makes one known. To be known — what then.

The one did not know.

But the feet moved quietly.

It was dark by the time the one returned to the band. Those sitting by the fire looked up. The one said nothing. Made no sound at all. Looked at the fire.

Someone held out a piece of meat.

The one took it and ate.

Set the bone on the ground.

Did not look at the sky.

Spring had come.

Walking along the riverbank, feet sank deep into the soft earth. They had not sunk before. It was not that the feet had grown lighter. They had grown heavier. The knees said so.

The one had always walked at the edge of the group. From youth onward, the edge had been the place. Not for lack of strength to move toward the center — the edge simply suited. The scent of animals reached the edge first. So did the wind, and the smell of the soil.

But now, even the pace of walking the edge was gone.

On the morning the group moved east, the one fell slightly behind. No one noticed. No one looked back. That was fine. The one was not the kind whose absence made others turn.

Low shrubs ran along the river. The one sat down among them. Knees bent, back resting against a rock. The sky was wide. Clouds moved in from the west, passed over the river, and continued on.

There was no hunger.

A thought came to drink from the river, but the will to descend to the bank was not there. The back stayed against the rock.

Somewhere in the distance, a bird called. It called again. Then it was quiet.

The sun moved.

The one's hands rested on the knees. On the fingers, the marks of old wounds. Where they had come from, no one could say anymore. Wounds remain, but pain does not. The one knew this — could not have put it into words, but knew it.

The sound of the river went on.

Thoughts turned to the group. To young voices. To the sound of children running. These thoughts came, but brought no desire to go back. Being here, now, felt natural. The one who walks the edge remains at the edge, until the last.

The rock at the back was warm. The sun was on it.

The one lay with eyes open, watching the sky.

The sound of the river grew a little more distant.

A little more distant still.

In the morning, he thrust his arm into the fork of a tree and dragged out a honeycomb.

His arm swelled. From three puncture points, heat spread outward. But the honey was in his hand. The stickiness dripped between his fingers. The one licked it. Licked it again. The heat in his arm no longer troubled him.

The group had grown larger. Unknown faces had multiplied. Before he knew it, there was a man he had never seen. Before he knew it, there was a woman laughing in a voice he had never heard. There were too many children to know whose they were.

The one didn't particularly mind.

There was food. River fish were caught. Nuts fell from the trees. The roots of grasses were thick. He learned the paths the animals walked. He set snares there. Every three days or so, something was caught.

One evening, the one stood on high ground.

In the distance, he could see the fires of another group. Two small lights, then three. When the wind changed direction, the smell of burning hide drifted over. The one sniffed the air.

How many were gathered around those fires.

The one stood there for a while. The rock of the high ground was cold. The evening wind grew stronger. The one crossed his arms and looked at the distant fires. Looked.

Nothing moved.

He returned to the group. Sat down beside the campfire. The swelling in his arm had not yet gone down. When he pressed a fingertip against the sting marks, there was a dull pain. The one pressed several times. When there was pain, sleep came more slowly.

In the night, a child cried. Someone held it. The crying stopped.

The fire grew small. Someone added wood. The fire grew large.

Then small again.

The one stepped into the river. It was cold. The bottom was visible.

A stone was catching the light. No — the light was resting on the stone. The one crouched down and picked it up. It fit in the hand. It was heavy.

It was carried home.

By the fire, the one struck it against another stone. A chip broke from the edge. A finger touched it. Sharp. Struck it again. Another chip fell away.

The one drew the broken edge across an animal hide. It caught. The blade passed through.

There was no sense that something had changed. The hands simply moved. The hide was drawn again. It opened.

An older man in the group had been watching. He came closer. He reached out his hand.

The one did not give him the stone.

Afterward, the one thought back on that moment more than once. There were no words for why the stone had not been given. Only the hand, still holding. That was all.

By the time three years had passed, the group had grown still larger. The edge of the one's stone had worn smooth and could no longer cut through hide. It was returned to the river. A new one was sought.

This time, it was not the stone that was searched for.
It was the light on the stone.

It was before dawn.

The one lay flat at the edge of the grass. Belly against the earth, the cold of the soil seeping through to the inside of the skin. Breathing shallow, looking ahead.

The animal's back rose above the grass. It was large. Two horns pierced the sky.

The one gripped a stone. Too far to throw. The wind was wrong for moving closer. Dry grass rustled underfoot.

Waiting.

As the first light of dawn began to color the tips of the grass, something moved behind.

Turning.

One of the younger members of the group was there. Trying to come around the animal from another direction. The one knew this person. Someone who had only begun joining the hunts the year before. Still narrow in the shoulders.

They tried to close in from both sides.

But the animal sensed them first. That great body pivoted. The ground trembled.

The one leapt sideways. Not trampled. But the young one was slow to jump.

There was a sound. Not the sound of bone. Lower than that — something being crushed.

The young one could not stand.

The one ran over. Placed a hand on the young one's chest. Breath was still coming. But the face was pale. Eyes open, fixed on a single point in the sky.

Lifted and dragged. The grass wiped the blood.

When they returned, the men of the group were waiting. No prey. Only the young one brought back.

The men said nothing. But they looked. They looked at the one.

The meaning of that look, the one already knew.

Three days later, the young one died. Something inside must have broken, for eating became impossible, and finally not even water would pass. In the evening, the strength went out on the one's lap.

That night, the one moved away from the fire.

Sat on a rock. Elbows on knees. Hands folded together. Did not move.

The night deepened.

From somewhere in the group, a child's voice sounded. Then silence.

The one looked at both hands. Opened them. Closed them.

There was nothing there to hold.

The next morning, something changed.

One of the men came and sat in the one's place. Said nothing. Only sat. Then another came behind him. There were three.

The one stood. While still able to stand, one had to remain standing.

But the men did not move.

They were like stone.

On the fifth night, voices rose around the fire. Directed at the one. The meaning was brief.

Leave.

Someone said it. Not just one person.

The one listened. Listened again.

Tried to speak.

No voice came.

Standing still, looking at the fire. The fire swayed. There was no wind. Still, it swayed.

The one turned away.

Walked into the grass. Did not look back.

Morning came. The grass grew bright. The one kept walking.

Where it was leading, there was no knowing.

The time spent standing at the edge of the cliff had gone on too long.

For five days, the one had walked at the margins of the group. The task was to find new water. Two younger ones had come along. They walked without sound, matching their steps to each other.

Water was found. On the evening of the third day, it seeped from the face of the rock. The one cupped it in both palms and drank. It was not bitter.

On the way back, there was a cliff.

It was a place the one had crossed before. Set a foot against the rock, move sideways. Nothing difficult. The one had passed this way dozens of times.

The wind came.

From the north, straight and direct. The one received it full in the face. Did not stop walking.

The rock shifted.

Where the right foot fell, there was no rock. That was all.

The body struck the slope three times. Before it came to rest, there had been no time to make a sound.

The two younger ones watched from above the cliff. They could not move. They could not make a sound. The wind went on.

The one lay face up on the rock. The sky was visible. Clouds stretched thin across it.

Breathing grew short.

Fingers scraped at the rock. Once. Then once more.

Then stopped.

When the fire shrank, an adult in the group turned around.

Eyes came. The one took up a branch. Put it in quickly. The flames returned. The adult turned away.

For a while, the one kept looking toward the darkness.

Nothing was there. Nothing was there, yet the smell remained, deep in the back of the nose.

By morning, it had not gone away.

The fire had burned low.

Branches were laid on it. Smoke rose, turned white for a moment, then became clear. The one followed the smoke with their eyes and watched where it disappeared. The sky was bright.

The feet grew cold.

Only the right ankle. The fire's heat reached everywhere else, but not there. The one looked down. Between two rocks, there was a narrow gap. Darkness. A dim hollow that looked wide enough to enter crawling.

Crouched.

Fingers moved close. Cold air brushed the fingertips. Deep. No bottom visible. There was a smell. Earth and water and something ancient, all mixed together.

Stood.

A sound came from behind. Turned around.

Several people were there. Adults. Those who stood a full head taller looked toward the one. One of them said something. A single word. Not a word the one knew.

A stone rolled across the ground.

It stopped near the one's feet.

The one looked at the stone. Did not pick it up. Did not pick it up. Looked at the fire. The fire was burning. Several of them were still there.

Tending the fire is the work of night.

Branches are laid down one by one. Lay too many and the smoke changes. When the smoke changes, the adults wake. Before a waking adult can speak, the next branch must be placed correctly.

The children of the group slept lightly. They cried, then slept again. Through that unending repetition, only the one was moving.

One night, the one moved away from the fire. A little farther than one goes to relieve oneself. There was no reason for it. The feet simply went.

From the direction of the wetland came a sound unlike the ones heard at dusk. The reeds were calling. The one knew the sounds of birds. Knew the sounds of insects. This was neither. It was the sound of something dried and hollow, resonating.

The feet stopped.

The one looked toward the sound. It was dark, and nothing could be seen. There was only the sound.

The one turned back. Returned to the fire and sat down. Laid another branch. But the ears alone still faced that direction.

The following day, the one went to the wetland. Walked through the reeds. The feet grew cold. Almost stepped on a fallen reed, and stopped. Did not step on it. There were no words for why.

Crouching down, the one took the fallen reed in both hands. It was light. Hollow inside.

Brought it close to the mouth. Breathed into it.

A sound came out.

The same sound from the night before rose from within the one's own hands.

For a long while, the one did not stop.

It was done again and again. The sound changed. The one came to know that the angle of the lips changed it. This could not be put into words. It was simply done, again and again.

A voice sounded in the distance. The voice of the group.

The one rose, holding the reed. The intention was to bring it back.

But stopped, partway.

To bring it back would mean someone would see it. Someone would say something. This sound would cease to belong to the one alone.

The one set the reed at the edge of the wetland. Remembered where it had been placed.

And returned to the group.

The fire had to be kept small.

Making it large meant it could be seen from far away. This had not been taught — it had been learned through the number of times someone had shouted. On a night when the fire had grown too large, an older one came and struck the arm. That was all.

For five years, the fire had been tended.

The amount of wood to add came to be measured by the palm of one's own hand. Two palms' worth at most. If it grew beyond that, the edge pieces were pulled out. That way of doing things had settled into the body.

Tonight, the others were few. Those who had gone hunting had not returned.

From the direction of the wetlands, voices came at intervals. Not the voices of one's own group.

The one sat still and turned toward the sound. Then turned back to the fire.

At the feet lay a charred bone. Something left behind after another had eaten. The smell of fat still clung to it.

The one rolled it with a foot. The bone slid across the sand and came to rest. Its white cross-section faced upward.

It was looked at.

Only looked at.

From the wetlands, the voices came again. Several of them this time. A sound that might have been laughter, or anger — impossible to tell which.

The one looked away from the bone and toward the sound.

It was dark. Nothing could be seen.

The fire remained small.