295,325 BCE – 295,205 BCE | Episodes 937–960

A man lay fallen in the shadow of a rock.

The one stopped. The load bit into the shoulders. A leather sack, dried roots, four flat stones gathered from the ground. A full day's work.

The man did not rise.

A shaft of wood grew from his belly. The tip had been sharpened. The one knew that shaft. The making of it was a little different from the old people's way — the same as what the younger ones in their own group had been whittling these past several days.

The one approached, testing the ground with each step.

Looked at the man's face. A known face. Someone who had walked alongside when carrying loads. No name had ever been exchanged. Call a sound, and he would answer. That was the extent of it.

The blood had dried black.

The one set down the leather sack. Set down the flat stones. Set down the dried roots. Crouched, and touched the base of the shaft. It did not move. Whether to pull it free or simply to know — even the one could not have said.

Wind came.

From the north. The smell of dry grass, and beneath it something else — a heavy smell, like the hide of an animal.

The one stood.

Leaving the load where it was, ran south. There was no thought of coming back for it later. The legs were moving. That was all.

Returning to the settlement, the one cried out. A single sound. But short, and sharp.

Two of the elders came out. The one pointed north. The angle of the pointing drifted slightly from the direction of the running. The elders turned to each other and exchanged words. The one's sound was not asked for again.

Night came.

They gathered around the fire. Fewer than usual. The one sat at the edge of the circle. Watched the flames. The shape of the fire shifted, and for a moment it looked like the tip of the shaft. Thought: no, it is not that. The fire shifted again. Again it looked that way.

The stomach sounded. Thought of going back for the load. Dark. Far.

Four flat stones, left behind out there.

They set down the load. Folded their knees and sat on the ground.

It felt as though the man's gaze was still on their back. Perhaps it was only imagination.

There had been a band of light at their feet. They had looked at it. Why they had looked, they did not know. Beyond it, there was nothing.

They shouldered the load again, and stood.

The grass had died.

Only the ground near the river held its green; everywhere else the earth had cracked. The fissures ranged from a finger's width to a hand's width across, some reaching knee-deep. Step near one and the edge would crumble, and your ankle would sink.

The one was carrying water.

Not in a skin. Bundles of large leaves, soaked through, held against the chest with both arms. Walking with them pressed to the belly, water seeped out and the stomach grew wet. Still, nothing was let fall. With every ten steps, a drop ran down to the knee.

There were three of the old ones within the group.

They lived by the same riverbank. The set of their shoulders was different. The width of their frames was different. The sound of their walking was different. But the way they drank was the same — palms cupped, face tilted. The one watched from a distance. Did not draw near. There was no reason to.

In the beginning of the fifth year, one of the old ones moved on.

No one knew where. The two who remained spent three days watching the river upstream. The one watched as well. What they were looking for, no one could say. Only that the two were watching, and so the one watched too.

There was nothing upstream.

The sky lay flat. The wind was faint. Light fell at an angle. The one set the bundle of leaves on the ground. A little water ran out. Watching it, the bundle was lifted again. Walking, the throat made a sound.

A dispute broke out within the group.

Voices rose. One person picked up a stone. Only picked it up — did not throw it. Even so, the other drew back. The one watched from a distance, nothing in hand. The fingers closed. Opened. Closed again.

The summer of the thirty-sixth year.

The river dropped. Stones emerged above the waterline. The one noticed how light gathered on the surface of one particular stone. Not a strong reflection. Only that the light seemed to linger there longer than on the others.

The stone was flat.

The one approached. Picked it up. Light enough to hold in one hand. On its surface was a small hollow, and a single drop of water remained. Tilted one way, the drop ran off. Tilted again, nothing came.

A hand moved to set it down.

The hand did not.

The group began to move. The two old ones walked in a different direction. They did not look back. The one stood and watched until their backs disappeared. Still holding the stone. It was hooked onto the cord of a carrying pouch. With each step it knocked against the thigh.

The late autumn of the thirty-eighth year.

The watering place dried up. The group moved east. The one carried the load at the rear of the column. The stone was still there. No one paid it any mind. The one had made no particular use of it either. Only carried it.

The ground lurched upward.

Both feet left the earth, and an instant later the one had fallen backward. There was the taste of soil in the mouth. An attempt to stand. The ground shook again. On hands and knees, unable to move.

The eastern mountain lit up.

The color of the light was wrong. It was not the light of morning. It was red, a color that seemed to seep from somewhere within. Then the sound arrived — less a sound than a pressure crushing the chest. Something continued to ring inside the ears.

The sky changed.

White things began to fall. Not snow. Too light. Bitter when they entered the mouth. Painful when they reached the eyes. The one covered their face with both arms and ran. There was no knowing where. The ground could not be seen.

A voice was heard. The one ran toward it.

Several companions were there. Few children. No elders.

A day passed. The ash kept falling.

The one searched for food. There was none. The plants were buried in ash. The one searched for water. Moved toward the river. The sound of the river had changed — lower than before, with the noise of tumbling stones mixed in. The river was flowing in a different direction.

There was a rock. Large, gray. From its surface came a sound. The sound of water, traveling through stone. Low, irregular, but unbroken.

The one stopped.

Pressed a hand to the rock. Vibration moved into the palm. There was water on the other side. The one walked around the rock. There was lower ground. The ash was thin. Water had gathered there.

The one knelt and drank.

Then returned to where the companions had been. Made a motion with one hand — come.

Not everyone followed.

In the mornings, before the group began to move, the one would drift toward the edge.

The edge of the group was never the same place twice. Each time the sleeping arrangements shifted, the edge shifted with it. The one drifted there without noticing. It was not intention. The body simply turned that way.

Carrying loads — that was this one's role. To lift heavy things and bring them where they were needed. Where they were going was not asked. When someone pointed, this one walked in that direction. When no one pointed, this one stood.

That morning, no one pointed.

There were unfamiliar voices in the group. Two people who shaped sounds differently from everyone else. Thin-skinned, fine-boned. They had arrived the previous evening and were still there in the morning. One of the group's elders crouched before them and worked through something — a mixture of sounds and gestures.

The one watched from a distance.

No load to carry. Hands empty. When there was nothing to do with empty hands, the one folded the fingers. One, then two. Then opened them. Then folded them again. Only that, while the eyes followed the distant scene.

The elder's voice rose.

Then fell.

A long silence.

The two with the unfamiliar voices stood up.

The one stilled the hands. Something had been decided — that much could be felt in the pauses between sounds. Not in words. Something like a change in the air between one sound and the next. The one knew that. Knew the particular quality of the air when something was decided within the group.

No loads were assigned.

By midday, still nothing.

Some went out to look for food. The one was not invited. Some went to draw water. The one watched them go.

The eyes of the group turned toward the one sometimes. Then turned away just as quickly. This happened more than once. The one stopped folding the fingers and looked at the ground. The soil was dry. The earth that had been damp only the week before had gone hard.

A finger pressed into it.

Hard.

No thought had ever been given to what lay beneath the soil. But the feeling of hard earth was familiar. On days when the earth was hard, the group often moved far. The one knew this. Not in any way that could be said aloud. Only known.

Toward evening, the elder came and stood before the one.

Some sounds were made. The one made sounds in return. The elder made more sounds. Long ones. The one caught only half of them. From that half, something was felt.

Not: do not go.

Come no more.

That night, the one slept at the edge of the group. A little farther out than usual.

No one said anything.

The one looked up at the sky. There were many stars. Whether many or few had never been considered. They were simply there. The night before might have looked the same. It was impossible to know.

Something sat in the belly. Not food. Not the feeling of food remaining in the body. Something heavier, deeper inside. The one pressed a hand to the belly. Nothing changed.

The hand was lowered.

The stars were watched.

Walking at the back of the line.

Watching the heels of the person ahead. Stumbled. The tip of a foot struck a stone. A dull ache near the little toe. Crouched down and touched it. The skin had not broken. Stood again, and walked on.

The back of the line was where the archaic ones walked. The one did not know this.

The dry season came. The grass stopped at knee height and grew no further.

The one carried heavy leather sacks from the watering place to the camp, every morning. The skin of the feet had long since grown thick. When blood seeped from the cracks in the heels, the one did not look. Only the weight of the load was felt.

Beyond the eastern hills, another group was moving. Two plumes of smoke rose, then three. More in the evenings. By morning they were gone. The young ones in the group pointed at the smoke and raised their voices. The one listened. Said nothing.

The ground still moved at times. A low sound came in the night, felt deep in the belly before the body began to shake. The one woke. The others were still sleeping. Only the one rose and looked at the sky. The stars seemed to tremble. They were not trembling.

The water diminished. Going to the watering place, the one could see the bottom earlier in the season than before. It smelled of mud. The one filled the sack. The water was cloudy. On the way back, at the edge of the path, there was a clump of withered grass, and beneath it a few stones scattered on the ground.

One of those stones had light resting on it.

It was the same shape as the others. The same color as the others. Yet the light had paused there, and there alone. The one stopped. The leather sack cut into the shoulder. Still, the one stopped. Looked at the stone. Did not pick it up. Stepped away. Came back. Took the stone in hand.

It was heavy. Its edges were sharp.

Returning to camp, the young ones were shouting toward the eastern hills. It seemed someone from the other group had appeared at the boundary. An elder stepped forward. The one set down the load, drew the water from the sack, and did only that.

The stone was in hand.

The following morning, near where the one slept, there were traces of someone from the other group. Footprints. Someone had come in the night and gone. The young ones stirred. The elder decided something. No one asked the one anything. There was a gesture: carry the load. The one obeyed.

The moving began.

They went north. The ground was hard, the grass short, the sun fierce. The one walked at the back of the line. The stone was still in hand. Its edge pressed against the palm. It pressed with every step.

On the second night, settling to sleep around the fire, one of the young ones came near. He looked at the stone in the one's hand. Reached for it. The one pulled back. The young one did not relent. Voices rose. The elder came. Said something. The meaning was unclear to the one. But the elder's eyes were cold.

That night, the stone was taken.

On the third morning, the one was not at the back of the line. No one checked. It was past midday before the group noticed that the one who carried the loads was gone. There was no return. No search.

A dry wind came from the north. The grass swayed low.

The cold did not come slowly.

One morning, the water hole was frozen at the edges. The next morning, frozen to the center. The morning after that, when the one tried to draw water, the leather bag skidded across the ice. Striking it brought no crack.

The group moved on. The one carried things too. Hides. Bones. The leather bundle wrapped around the coals of the fire-starter.

The legs would not obey. For some time there had been a feeling inside the knee, as if something were packed in there. When the cold came, it hardened. In the mornings, when rising, there was a long moment of stillness before movement was possible. No one waited. The one did not ask them to.

The group grew smaller.

One person did not return in the night. Two coughed and then lay still. A child was cold when morning came. The one saw this. Said nothing. There were no words for it.

One evening, someone in the group said something. Voices rose. Another voice joined it. Someone turned toward the one. Eyes caught the light — not the light of the fire.

The one could not make out the words. They came too fast.

By the next morning, the one stood at the far end of the line. No burden was given to carry.

The group set out. The one followed. Walked. The knee had gone rigid. The distance between them widened.

The wind strengthened.

The one stepped into the shadow of a rock. Sat down.

Breath showed white.

The backs of the group were visible in the distance. They grew small. Then they were gone.

The one leaned against the rock. Drew the hides close around the body.

The sky was dark. No snow. Only grey.

Something came through the back of the nose — a smell like sweetness, like earth.

The one breathed it in. Then once more.

Eyes remained open.

The fingers stopped moving. Still the eyes stayed open.

The grey sky, watched.

Strength left first.

When was it that the one was lifted down from the mother's back?

By the time awareness came, the one was walking on its own feet. The ground was cold. The rocks were white. The breath was white. The one reached out with both hands trying to catch the white thing coming from its mouth, and could not catch it.

The older brother laughed.

The laughter died quickly. Someone in the group called out, and everyone rose and looked into the distance. The one could not tell what they were seeing. Only that the direction the adults were facing had changed.

They moved.

They walked for a long time. The soles of the feet ached. The one thought to make a sound about the aching, looked at the older brother's face, and did not.

They came out beneath a cliff.

There, light had fallen.

The rock was warm. Pressing skin against it, the cold drew back a little. The one sat there. The surface of the stone was rough, and the one ran a palm across it. Heat passed into the palm.

Sleep came.

Until someone shook the one awake, the one lay feeling the warmth that lived between the rock and its own body. There were no dreams. It was simply warm. That alone was what remained inside the one.

The moment the smell of smoke shifted, the head lifted.

Something caught at the back of the nose. Not the smell of charred wood. Something like the smell of a place where water is found was woven through it.

The cliff above. The color of the rock changed partway up.

The older brother was not there. The back of the adult who was always nearby was not visible now either. Turning back toward the cave entrance, the feet stopped.

It was cold. Coldness rose from the soles of the feet. Even through the wrapped skins, the cold of the ground came through.

At the foot of the cliff, a bundle of dried stalks had caught on something. They were picked up. Held. There was no knowing what they were for, but they were held.

The wind ceased. In the moment it ceased, the smell came again. The same as before — something like water.

The feet were pointed toward the cliff.

From the direction of the cave, a voice cried out. This one stopped. The cry did not continue.

Standing at the base of the cliff, the dried stalks still held.

Looking up. Continuing to look. Whether this one's own feet could carry them as far as where the color of the rock changed — that was not yet known.

The white moves.

Cold air, pushed down from the northern edge, struck the bare ground hard. There was a sound of earth splitting. Not only at night — in daylight too. Even in daylight, the earth made sounds.

The one was twelve years old. Held in an older brother's arms, the one listened to those sounds.

The speed at which the white covered the land was roughly the width of one person's stride per winter. But the rivers had already changed course. The channels where water had once run were now packed with something white and hard. The one stood at the edge of a channel and looked down. The surface of the white reflected no shadow.

The group moved south.

Before they moved, three people could no longer move. One old woman. Two young children. The old woman fell while walking. Snow gathered on her fallen body. No one stayed long. It was too cold.

The one walked, pulled along by an older brother. The soles of the feet ached. The skin had peeled away. The brother wrapped the feet with strips of hide. But they slipped with every step.

There are places where the earth rises. Where what had frozen in the north pressed against the bedrock to the south, and the ground swelled upward in waves. The group rested in such places. The raised earth blocked the wind.

The one huddled in the shelter of a mound of earth and watched the sky.

The sky was not white. It was gray. A single bird crossed through the gray.

The temperature shifted.

Against the left cheek, just barely, air slightly warmer than the right. There was a current flowing from the south, from beyond the shelter of the mound. The one stayed still for a while, cheek turned toward it. There was no knowing what it meant. Only that the cheek remained turned in that direction.

Over five years, the distance the group had traveled was long. From the river where they had once bathed in summer, to a new river. The new river's water was clouded. Ice was melting and cutting through soil as it went. There were fish. Small, and quick.

The one was now seventeen.

No longer held in a brother's arms. Standing at the river's edge on one's own feet. Wading into the cold water, chasing fish. Nothing caught. Chasing again. Still nothing.

Climbing back to the bank, pressing wet feet into the soil. Footprints remained. The one looked at them.

Looked, and waded back in.

Among the group there were others with older faces. They had come from the south, along the same river. Foreheads that jutted forward, heavy brows, short necks. The men of this group gripped stones. The other group gripped stones as well.

For a while, neither side moved.

One of those with the older faces placed a single fish on the ground. Then stepped back.

No one in this group moved. The one watched the fish. The fish lay on its side, facing toward the river. Its tail was still moving.

Passed by the flat stone.

Placed a hand on the side where the light fell. It was warm. Did not consider why it was warm. It simply was.

Then walked toward where the elder brother was. The brother was working a hide, pulling at it. The one sat down nearby. Did nothing in particular. Watched the brother's hands move. The hide stretched. Then stretched again.

The hands ache.

The tips of the fingers are split. Wedging them into the gaps between stones, prying, wedging again. The mother did this. The brother did this. So it is done. There is no other reason.

At the base of the cliff, a stone slab had just fallen.

Tall and narrow. Long enough for three people to lie end to end. The edges were sharp, and somewhere among the rubble a sound continued — something still settling, still crumbling. Several members of the group drew near and crouched beside it. Some ran their palms along the surface, feeling out its shape. Others struck it and listened.

The one did not approach.

Twenty-two years old. Still often within reach of the brother's arm. Familiar voices, the familiar outline of a familiar back. That was the whole of what safety meant.

Beside the slab, an older man picked something up. A fragment of broken stone. The fractured face was white and sharp. He pulled at a fraying strip of hide, used the fragment to widen the tear, held it to his nose, and discarded it.

The one watched from a distance.

Watched, but did not move.

The group was afraid. Fear took many shapes. One person traced a finger along a crack in the rock. Another drew in their shoulders at every sound. A woman holding a nursing child stared up at the sky. There was nothing in the sky. She looked up all the same.

Toward evening, the one leaned the weight of the body against the brother's back.

The brother said nothing. Nothing needed to be said.

Everyone gathered near the fire. Before the darkness settled in, someone went on breaking dry branches, one after another. The one lay with eyes open, listening to the breaking. Breaking, breaking, breaking again. When the sound stopped, sleep came.

Sleep came.

Five years later.

The crack in the cliff had widened. Another slab had broken loose and fallen over a man before he could cry out. The stone was too heavy for anyone to move. Only his arm extended from beneath it.

The one watched from a distance. Did not approach.

The brother was no longer beside her. The brother had gone before the cliff gave way. Out in the night, and not returned by morning. The seasons changed, and still he had not returned.

The one now sits alone beside the fire.

Instead of leaning against someone's back, she holds her own knees. The knees are hard. Sometimes the body feels like something that belongs to another.

Swaying in the brother's arms.

Each movement of the brother's body sends this one swaying too. It resembles sleep. It is not sleep. Only the sky is moving.

The fire's smoke drifted close. This one turned away. Eyes stinging. Pressed a head into the brother's shoulder. The brother said nothing.

The group is moving. Why they move is no concern of this one. They move, so there is swaying. There is swaying, so there is drowsiness.

Someone called out. A low voice. Someone else answered. The shapes of voices are not yet understood. Only the sounds arrive.

They reached the water. The brother knelt. The water came closer. The smell changed. This one's hand opened, resting on the brother's arm. The sky reflected in the surface trembled.

A hand reached out. Didn't reach.

The brother's arm shifted, and the water's surface fell away.

A mouth opened. A sound came out.

The brother paid it no mind.

At the eastern edge of the grassland, where the mud had dried and cracked, one of the ancient people sat. Her arms were long, her brow low, and her voice was deep and carried far. The one's mother watched from a distance.

The one was still on the mother's back. Not yet come down. Clinging to her waist, swaying with each of the mother's steps.

The dry season broke. Water returned to the grassland, and the grasses shot up all at once. Animals multiplied. Children multiplied. The group grew larger, and louder, and with that came more friction. Who would tend the fire. Who would guard the rock shelf where the berries were piled. Small quarrels broke out somewhere every day.

An older brother set the one down on the ground. The soles of her feet touched the earth. It was soft. The one knelt down onto that softness. For a while, she did not move.

One of the ancient people approached the group's fire before the sun had set. His hands were empty. He made a sound. Someone picked up a stone. Someone rose to their feet.

The mother let out a low sound from deep in her throat. The one gripped the mother's ankle.

The ancient one turned and walked away. The one who had lifted the stone set it down. The fire swayed.

That night, the one woke in her older brother's arms. Something was calling in the distance. An animal, or the wind. The one could not tell the difference. She did not cry. She only opened her mouth and turned toward the dark.

When the grasses bent before the wind, there was a smell of scorched earth coming from the direction where the one lay.

Bundles of dry stalks were burning. The women of the group had placed fires along the outer edge of the night camp to keep the animals away. Smoke drifted east.

The one breathed in the smell of smoke. Then breathed it in again.

The following year, a band of the ancient people moved deeper into the forest. No one knew why. Only the group remained on the grassland. A kind of openness had come into being — someone may have felt it, but there were no words for it.

The one had learned to walk. She fell often. Each time she fell she caught herself with her hands and grabbed at the earth. Whatever she grabbed she tried immediately to put in her mouth.

The fifth year. The one was seven. She was still sometimes carried, but long distances she walked on her own. When the group moved toward the watering place, the one walked at the back of the line. Grasses brushed her ankles. Stones pressed against the soles of her feet.

Beside the watering place stood a single tree, blackened and charred. Perhaps it had been struck by lightning. Pieces of charcoal had broken away from the base and scattered across the ground.

For a moment the wind stopped, and light fell on one of the fragments. It was flat, its surface smooth.

The one stopped.

The others moved on ahead. Only the one crouched down in that spot. She took the charcoal not with her fingers but with her whole palm. Black came away on her hand.

She brought it close to her face and breathed it in.

It was different from the smell of smoke. Older. Cold.

She held it for a while. When they reached the watering place, she put it in the water. The black bled into the water. Still she held on to it.

The mother's back swayed.

It rose and fell with every step. The one had both arms wrapped around the mother's neck, face turned outward. The seed heads of the grass swayed at hip height. The orange of dusk cast a flat light across the ground, and shadows stretched long.

The wind came.

Something entered the nose. Not grass. Not the mother's scent. Not the scent of fire.

The one's body went still. The hands gripped the mother's neck a little tighter.

The mother kept walking.

In the direction of that scent, there was a low shape. Not the shape of a rock. It was moving. Moving while seated. Long arms, head thrust forward.

The one made no sound. Did not cry. Mouth open slightly, watching that shape.

The mother quickened her pace. The one's body swayed. The shape grew distant.

That night, back beside the fire, the one's nose moved several times. As if searching for that scent. It was not found.

Before sleep, the one looked up at the sky.

Two lines of smoke, rising from separate directions, were still visible as they disappeared into the dark.

The mother did not return before night came.

The one waited near the fire. There was the sound of the brother breaking kindling. No one called out the mother's name. Raising one's voice within the group had become dangerous.

For three days, there had been shadows along the eastern cliffs. Shadows of the old ones. They moved low to the ground. Their breath was white. Even in the cold they did not wrap themselves thickly in hides — their bodies themselves had grown accustomed to the cold.

The one's group had kept away from them. But now there were two fires in the same valley. The same watering place. The same slopes where prey ran.

That morning, the elder man had walked east. He had shown it with his hands — palm open, extended forward. The shape that meant: not an enemy. The one watched from a distance. Not from within anyone's arms. Already standing on its own feet. Still short, but feet that gripped the earth.

The elder man did not return.

Past midday, voices inside the group grew rough. Some made the gesture for run. Some made the gesture for stay. Two women carrying children turned north and began to run.

The one did not run.

The brother seized the one's arm. Pulled. The one shook the arm free. Then looked at the brother's face. There was a question in the brother's eyes. Eyes shaped like: why do you stop?

The one did not know. Only that the feet would not move.

Smoke rose above the cliffs. The old ones' fire. But the shape of the smoke was different. Not hurried — it rose slowly, curling upward. It had the shape of a cooking fire.

The one watched the smoke. Watched it for a long time.

The brother seized the arm again. This time the one moved too. But not north — toward the cliffs. The brother let go. From his throat came not a cry but a quiet sound of breath.

At the foot of the cliffs, the elder man was sitting on a rock. Alive. One of the old ones sat beside him. Between them lay the bones of an animal. Bones from a finished meal.

The one stopped.

From the shadow of the cliffs, a child of the old ones showed its face. Younger than the one. A wide, flat forehead. Large eyes. The child looked at the one.

The one picked up a stone. Held it out.

The child received the stone with both hands. Turned it over. Turned it back. Set it on the ground. Picked it up again.

That night, the mother did not return.

The next morning, the mother's leather pouch was at the edge of the river, half-submerged in the current. The mouth of the pouch was open. Inside it was empty. The one lifted the pouch from the water. Water ran from it. It was set on a stone.

The elder man came and looked at the pouch. He said nothing.

The one said nothing either. Still holding the pouch, sat down on the riverbank. There was only the sound of the water moving. The water kept flowing in the same direction, always.

Two years later, the group moved west. The old ones' group had also vanished from the valley. No one knew which had gone first.

The one walked in the middle of the traveling column. The mother's leather pouch hung from one shoulder. Inside the pouch was a single stone. The very rock that the child of the old ones had returned.

The one could not remember when it had been returned. Only that at some point it was there, in the hand.

Five years had passed.

The one walked differently now. When the group moved on, the one fell behind. No one looked back. That was how it was.

The soles of the feet had grown hard. There was heat inside the knees. Each morning, rising required pressing both hands to the ground.

The brother was gone.

One night among the group, voices rose. Someone shoved someone. The one watched. The next morning, the brother was not at the end of the line. No one said where he had gone. No one asked.

The one walked alone.

Gathered nuts from the ground. Put them in the mouth. They were not sweet. Swallowed them.

Stopped partway up a slope. Not because the knees gave way, but because the feet simply stopped. Not from thinking: *I cannot go further*. They simply stopped.

There was a rock. The one leaned against it. The back grew cold. Looked up at the sky. Clouds moved from east to west. Slowly.

There was a small stone in the hand. The one could not remember picking it up. A thumb traced its surface. There were ridges and hollows. The thumb traced it again.

The sounds of the group grew distant. Footsteps faded.

The one set the stone down.

Lay down. In the shadow of the rock. The ground was dry.

Eyes open, watching the clouds.

The clouds moved.

Then they moved no more.

Walking at the back of the line.

When those ahead had crossed beyond the rock, this one was still on the plateau. There was a smell. Stopped. Looked at the rock. The rock said nothing.

Turned back.

By the time this one caught up, the feet ached. No one had waited. That was to be expected. That night, sat at the edge of the fire. The stomach made a sound.

At the base of the cliff, there was the sound of water.

The one lay flat on their stomach and stretched their neck out over the edge. It was not water. Only wind passing between rocks. The throat clicked. Two days without water.

The group had scattered.

When exactly, they could not say. There had been a night when stones flew among those with the heavy brow ridges. Someone cried out. Fire rolled across the ground. The one ran. Looked back while running. Should not have looked back. A foot slipped on a stone.

It was not a cliff. It was a slope.

They tumbled. Came to rest. Tried to stand. The right leg would not obey. Below the knee, it faced a strange angle.

Night came.

The one lay partway down the slope. The sky was clear. Many stars. The stomach groaned. Heat from the leg spread into the back. A stone was picked up. Held. No particular reason.

The wind came from a certain direction.

It was not smoke. It was not grass. Something resembling the smell of a living creature. The one lifted their head. There was nothing in the darkness. But the smell continued. Only the sense remained: something is there.

The one set the stone down.

Then picked it up again.

In the middle of the night, the heat spread through the whole body. In waves, centered on the leg. The one made no sound. There was no reason to make sound. Whether anyone was listening was unknown.

The sky grew slowly pale.

A bird called once, far away. The one's eyes turned toward it. It called again. The eyes began to close.

They did not open.

The stone that had been held rolled down the slope. And stopped.

The ground cried out.

There is no word yet for what it did, so the one has no way to name it. Only a sensation of being shaken from the bottom of the body. The knees gave way. Hands met rock. The rock moved as though alive.

From the foot of a distant mountain, orange light spilled forth. The second star watched. Melted stone flowed down like a river, burning the night grassland. The smoke did not clear by morning. Pillars of smoke stacked upon one another, and the color of the sky changed. Not blue, not gray, but a yellowish white. Where the sun should have been, there was no shape of a sun.

The adults in the group ran. The children followed the movement of running feet with their eyes. The one ran too. Without knowing where. The feet moved, and so the one moved.

Ash began to fall. First a single grain. Then ten. By the next morning it had accumulated. A pale, fine powder had settled on the blades of grass. The one touched it with a finger. It was smooth. Placed it on the tongue. It was bitter. Spat it out.

Among the group, several did not return. Where the rock had collapsed, voices fell silent. Some fell while fleeing. Some breathed in the ash, and their lungs stopped moving. A child who had been coughing until evening grew quiet in the night. The mother held the child and would not let go. By morning, another adult gently drew the child away. The mother said nothing.

On the far side of the second star, another group waited at another waterside for the end of the dry season. The ash did not reach that distance. They did not know. On a grassland where nothing had changed, children were chasing one another. The second star illuminated both equally.

The days of falling ash continued. The color of the grass changed. There was less to eat. The one parted the grass and searched for insects. Turned over stones. Nothing was there. Turned over another. Something small moved quickly away. Gave chase, caught it. Put it in the mouth.

The group moved on. The one did not understand. Where they were heading, who had decided. Only followed the feet of the adults. The feet began to ache. Still, the one walked. When stopping, someone pressed into the one from behind — not a push, perhaps only a collision. It did not matter either way. The feet kept moving.

By the end of the fifth year, the one had become nine years old. When touching the ribs, they rose to meet the fingers. The stomach spoke more often now. Still, the feet moved.

Water is scarce.

This one does not know it through words, but through the cracking of the lips. Today more than yesterday, the skin is harder. When touched with the tongue, there is a sensation like fine powder.

The group moved on. A hollow, half a day's walk from the previous night's camp — a place where water had been last year. This year the bottom was visible. Only mud remained.

A young child cried. A mother held it close. The crying went on. Then it stopped. Why it stopped, this one does not know.

This one stood at the edge of the hollow and looked down at the bottom. The mud had dried and cracked. The shape of the cracks resembled the surface of charred meat, this one thought — or rather, both things rose inside the body at the same moment, not one after the other.

A stone was picked up and thrown. It lodged in the mud below.

There was no particular reason for picking it up.

That night, the adults gathered around the fire. This one sat outside the circle. Voices passed back and forth — voices deciding which way to go. High voices and low voices intermingled. Gradually they settled on a single direction. This one did not know where that direction led.

At dawn, when this one's body rose, wind touched the cheek.

It came again, from the same direction.

This one lay there with eyes open, facing that way for a while. There was no knowing what might be there. There was not even a thought that something might be. Only the facing.

Then this one rose, and followed behind the group as it began to walk.

At the edge of the water, there is a small shadow like a bone.

The one lay on its stomach, drinking. Those with larger bodies had already gone. Mud touched the lips. Swallowed. Drank again. The taste in the mouth was always earth. That was what water was, the one had always known.

Beyond the hill, the outline of another group moved.

The one watched it. Did not move. Someone in the group called out. A short sound. The one stood and walked toward the call.

But the other group was moving too.

Two groups drew closer, the hill between them. Water was scarce. Animals did not come. Hunger lived on both sides.

A stone flew. No one could see who had thrown it. Beside the one's head, the air moved.

Running. Most of the group ran. The one ran too.

The hillside was red clay, and feet slipped. The one fell. Stood up. Ran again. Sound came from behind. Not shouting. A low sound, like the breath of an animal.

The edge of the slope went unnoticed.

A fall.

There was a sound. Then silence.

At the bottom of the red clay, the one lay face up. The sky was visible. A dry sky. Not a single cloud.

The one's arm moved twice.

There was no third time.

Each step pulled free from the mud with a sound.

The night is not remembered. The water came. The bank vanished. There was running. When awareness returned, this one was on top of a high rock. Several others were there. Wet. All of them wet. A child's voice sounded. Then it did not.

At dawn the water withdrew.

What remained was a plain of mud. The trees had fallen. The stones that had known the riverbank were all in different places.

This one walked. Searching for someone. The face of the one being searched for was held in mind, but that face had no name. It was only a face. There was no way to call out to it. This one cried out anyway. Nothing came back.

The walking stopped.

In the mud, there was a small handprint. The impression left by a palm pressing down. Only that remained. The water had already gone. That hand was now nowhere.

This one looked at the handprint. Crouched down. Placed a hand over it. Too large.

Stood up.

Toward evening, what remained of the group gathered on high ground. This one went too. They sat around a fire. Someone said something. No one answered. Only the sound of the fire.

This one was holding the stone. Had been holding it the whole time.

In the night, two within the group were looking toward this one. They looked. Looked again. This one did not notice. Stone in hand, eyes on the fire.

By dawn, this one was alone.

Whether cast out or having wandered away — this one could not say. When awareness returned, this one was at the far edge of a rock, distant from the fire. The sounds of the group were faint. When this one moved to draw closer, someone made a low sound. This one stopped.

And moved away again.

Stone in hand, this one walked. Without knowing where. Only the feet decided. This one followed what the feet decided.

The sound of the river came. The same river. The water was calm now.

This one knelt at the bank. Reached a hand into the water. Still holding the stone. The water was cold. There was a current. It threatened to carry the hand away. Even so, the hand did not let go.

Someone who did not know where to go was sitting at the edge of a river. That was all.