295,205 BCE – 295,085 BCE | Episodes 961–984

Four nights had passed since the floodwaters receded.

The ground still gave underfoot. Grass was sparse. The color of the earth had changed. A rock that had been in one place was now in another. The one walked around it. Touched it. It was a known rock. But it was in the wrong place.

The group was on the hill. Only the one had come down.

Walking along the bank, eyes following the river's new course, searching for signs of animals. There were tracks pressed into the mud, but they were old. They might have been made before the flood. Or perhaps an animal had passed through after the flood and moved on again. The one could not tell the difference.

A dead animal was found lying nearby, belly swollen, hide split open. Insects made a low sound.

The one moved closer.

A smell reached deep into the nose and the one stopped walking. Wind was coming from the direction of the river. Within it, tangled with the first smell, was another. Beneath the rot — earth. Grass.

The one looked at the animal's belly. Through a gap in the split hide, something was visible — what looked like a plant stem. The movement of insects made it tremble.

A hand reached out, then stopped.

Drew back.

The one returned to a place where short grass grew. Sat down. Pressed a palm flat against the ground. Soil came up between the fingers. Pressed again. It came again.

This continued for a time.

A voice carried from the direction of the group. A child's voice. The one stood and began walking toward the hill. Whether thoughts of the dead animal were still present — the one's face said nothing.

Only the feet climbed the hill.

The animal's tracks split in two directions.

The one crouched and pressed a finger into one set of prints. The soil was still moist. The other set was hard. Old. The one turned toward the moist tracks.

Half a day had passed since the pursuit began.

The grass had grown back to knee height. The earth after the flood was soft, and each step sank into it. Every footfall made a sound. The one changed the way of walking. Setting down the outer edge of the foot first. Not dropping the heel first. Whether it was remembered or whether the body remembered, there was no distinction.

A halt at the base of a hill.

From beyond the hill came a different scent. Not animal. Not smoke. The smell of bodies. Unknown bodies.

The one pressed flat against the ground. Face buried in the grass. Slowly crawled up the hill.

On the other side, they were there.

Four. No, five. Similar in shape, but with lower brows and jutting orbital ridges. They carried no fire. But they carried stones. Large stones. Two of them surrounded something. Something on the ground. It was not moving.

The one held still, breath suspended.

One of the five raised its face. The nose was broad, the eyes deep-set. Those eyes turned this way.

The one did not move. Belly pressed to the earth in the grass, did not move.

The eyes moved away.

The five began to stir. They lifted something heavy and began to drag it. The carcass of an animal. A large beast. Too large to carry alone. Large enough that five of them could only drag it.

The one waited.

After the five disappeared behind the hill, the one rose from the grass. The heart was beating fast. It stayed fast for some time.

Drawing close to where the group had been. Blood traced the ground. Tufts of fur lay scattered. One stone had been left behind. It was picked up. Set down. Picked up again.

It was heavy. Heavier than the stones the one usually carried. Well-worked. The flaking was precise.

The one turned and began walking back the way they had come, stone in hand.

Stopped partway.

Looked back.

No one was there. The hill held only grass and wind.

Even so, the one stood there for a time. Whether something was being thought, or nothing at all — the lines carved into that brow could be read either way.

A step forward. Walking, stone in hand.

The stomach growled.

Three days of walking across rocky ground. The last water had been two days ago, from a small hollow pool. The grit of sand still lingered on the tongue.

The soles of the feet had grown thick. The shape of each stone underfoot passed upward through the body. Sharp ones, flat ones, rounded ones. This was a place one could walk with eyes closed. The one had come here many times before.

There should have been no water above this point.

Yet the body stopped.

There was no reason. The feet simply stopped. Before a cleft in the rock. It was no different from any other cleft. But there the one stood.

Leaned close.

It was cold.

Just beyond the tip of the nose, a temperature unlike the parched ground. Not the smell of stone. Something deeper — the smell of earth far below the surface.

Reached a hand inside. Up to the elbow.

It was damp.

Farther in, as far as the arm would go. The fingertips met wetness. Water. Not flowing. Collected. Simply present.

The arm was withdrawn.

The wet fingers were brought to the lips. No taste of sand. Cold.

The one sat before the rock for a time. The stomach growled again.

A hand went back in, this time holding a stone. A narrow stone. Little by little, the cleft was widened. The skin wore away. It did not matter. The skin was of less consequence than the water.

By evening, a thin trickle had seeped through the cleft.

The one pressed their mouth to it.

And drank.

When the face lifted, the direction of the group was visible in the distance. Far away. The setting sun burned red.

The one watched that sun for a time.

Rose. Did not turn back toward the group. Moved on upstream. To look for the same thing somewhere else.

Four days later, at the edge of the rock field, the one encountered someone from another group.

Not a familiar face. The brow-ridge was heavy.

Both stopped.

The other held a stone. The one held a stone.

Neither moved.

The other narrowed their eyes. They were looking at the one's wet arm.

The one looked toward the rock. Back the way they had come.

The other followed that gaze.

The two walked on together.

On the night the men stood at the water source holding stones, the one was at the back.

Behind the group. Before the fire.

Back pressed against a rock, knees drawn up to the chest. Fingers found an old scar on the shin. The scar was hard and raised. It had formed long ago.

Near dawn, the one watched the ancient ones depart.

The one said nothing. Extended both legs. Stood.

The legs would not move.

Not the knees. Not the ankles. Deep in the inner thigh, close to the bone, there was a pain like a thin sliver of stone lodged inside. It had persisted for three days. Walking eased it. Stopping brought it back.

The one kept walking.

Tracking the prints of an animal across the snow. Four-legged. Not hooves — claws. Small. A fox, perhaps, or something larger than a fox but smaller than a deer. The deeper the snow, the clearer the prints became. The depth of each step, the stride length, the distance between fore and hind feet. The one's eyes read all of this. No words formed around it. The body simply knew.

The river had frozen.

Every spring, as long as the one could remember, the ice here had melted. The one had known this river since childhood — the place where round stones lined the bank, the shallow crossing where the current slowed. There was a memory of stepping across those stones. Now that place too was ice. When weight was placed on it, a dull sound rose. It did not crack.

The animal's tracks continued to the far bank.

The one crossed.

In the snow on the other side, something appeared. A brownish mass. Still. The one drew closer. An animal, lying on its back, all four legs pointing skyward. Already dead. No visible wounds. The belly was intact. It had simply fallen.

The one stood and looked for a time.

A hand reached out and touched the fur. It had gone stiff. Cold — but not yet fully frozen. Tonight it would freeze completely. If it was to be eaten, now was the time. The stone tool was drawn from the waist.

While working, the pain in the thigh had vanished.

When both hands entered the body cavity, there was warmth. Not warm, exactly — but not yet cold either. Something between the two. The one's hands sank in. As the hide was peeled back, thin wisps of steam rose and dissolved into the snow above.

The flesh was portioned. As much as could be carried was taken. Bones were struck open, and what lay white inside was drawn out with the tongue.

On the way back, the sun went down.

Stars appeared. It was cold. The one walked with the meat held close. The pain in the thigh returned — deeper this time. The gait became a drag. Still, the walking continued. Until the fire of the group came into sight.

The meat was set down near the fire.

Someone stirred. A child's voice. A woman came, lifted the meat, looked at the one, and said something. The one listened, and sat down on the ground.

The thigh was trembling. Trembling, and burning hot.

The one looked at both palms. Blood on them. Whether it belonged to the animal or to the one, there was no way to tell. The hands were held toward the fire. The color of the drying blood was watched as it changed.

The night deepened.

Half the group slept; the other half still moved. The fire held. The one's eyes fell closed, then opened. Fell closed again. The heat in the thigh did not recede.

In the morning, the one woke.

Tried to rise, and could not. The thigh had swollen — twice the size of the night before. Something had changed beneath the skin. Pressing into it sent pain all the way to the core.

The one pressed.

Again and again. Each time, the pain came. Still the pressing continued. Searching for the center of it. There — that was it. The sensation of a thin sliver of stone, lodged since three days ago. Still there.

Five days later, the swelling had climbed as high as the face.

The one lay beside the fire. The woman came. A child came. An aged male of the older kind came, looked at the thigh, and left.

Ten days after that, the one could no longer rise.

Meat was brought. Water was drunk. Heat continued to pour out of the thigh. At night, the one watched the group's fire as it swayed. Eyes followed the movement of the flames. After a time, the eyes no longer moved.

They stayed still as the night became morning.

On the day the heat stopped leaving the one's body, all warmth vanished at once.

He could stand.

That alone was how the day began. The sensation of a stone buried deep in the inner thigh continued, but the feet met the ground. If the feet could meet the ground, he could walk. If he could walk, he was alive today.

He went to the watering place.

Three young ones were drinking. One looked up at this one. The gaze held for a moment. Then they turned away.

It had not always been so.

When this one came to the water, the young would draw back slightly. Stepping back behind the old hunter was not deference born of fear — it was custom. That had been true for many years. When exactly it had ceased to be true, he could not say. But this morning, the three had not turned.

He drank.

The water was cold. The coldness did not take away the pain in the thigh. He had not believed it would. He simply did it.

He walked to the edge of the plain.

The frost-laden grass was slowly dissolving in the morning light. At the roots, something the color of mud seeped through. He touched it with a finger. It had a stickiness to it. He breathed it in. It was not a smell of rot. It was not the smell of grass either. Bitter, with something sweet far underneath.

He stood.

He did not take it.

He did not know why. His fingers would not move. He tried to move them, and they stopped. That was all.

When he returned to the group, one man was watching him. Not young. Past thirty, with a broad jaw. This one knew that the broad-jawed man had not been at the water this morning. And yet here he was now.

No words passed between them.

The broad-jawed man turned to look in another direction.

This one sat down. He placed his hand on his thigh. A stone buried close to the bone. Not three days, not five — longer than that. As the pain grew older, it became harder to know whether it was pain at all, or simply a weight that had always been there.

Toward evening, a child came. Four years old, perhaps five — a child with a round belly.

The child sat down beside this one.

Said nothing.

This one said nothing either.

After a while, the child rose and ran off somewhere else.

Night came.

He lay down. The heaviness in his thigh felt as though it were dissolving into the ground. It did not dissolve. But that was how it felt. The bitter-sweet smell from the roots of that grass — it seemed to linger still at his fingertips. Whether it truly lingered, he could not say. Only that, before sleep came, he thought perhaps he might have gone back to that place in the grass one more time.

Whether he could go tomorrow was another matter entirely.

It was a season of frequent rains.

Grass grew to the knee, fruit bent the branches low, and the droppings of animals lay scattered around the watering places. Year after year, food came without difficulty. The group grew larger. The voices of children multiplied in the night.

The one had stopped going far.

The knees no longer obeyed. When rising, something ground deep in the lower back. Still, each morning the one went outside. Young members of the group were trying to read the tracks of prey, and they were stepping wrong. Without a word, the one walked the ground again, slowly, showing them with the feet alone. The young ones watched and followed. That was all.

One evening, the one walked toward the river.

No one came along. The one had not asked them to.

At the riverbank, there was a place where the mud held light. A thin film of brightness left where the water had drawn back. The one sat down there. For a long time, the one watched the surface of the water. There were places where the current ran fast, and places where it moved slowly. In one of the fast places, a fish leapt.

The wind came and pressed gently against the one's back.

It was warm. The one did not close the eyes. Only the body leaned, slightly, forward. It stayed that way, and did not return. Slowly, the one came to rest on the mud. The sound of the river continued. The fish leapt again.

The grass swayed. That was all.

The dry years came.

Branches that had bent under the weight of fruit the year before now reached straight toward the sky. The grasses grew thin and low. The edges of the watering holes pulled back, and the mud turned white and cracked. Animal tracks were shallow. The creatures had stopped coming close.

The one was six years old, and lived at the edges of the group.

When the adults shifted direction, talking as they moved, the one fell behind. Something touched a foot. Not a sharp stone — a dry grass stem. Stepped on, it made a sound. Stepped on again, the same sound.

Shouting began to rise within the group.

There was a boundary somewhere between two groups. The adults knew where it lay. The children did not. They knew only that there were places where the adults stopped. Beyond those places one did not go — not that one could not go, but something in the bodies of the adults said: this is not a thing that is done.

The one had turned seven.

As the watering holes shrank, the two groups found themselves arriving at the same places more often. At first there were only voices. Then someone threw a stone. It fell into the water. The water leaped. A silence followed. Both groups withdrew.

The one had not been there. A little apart, behind a shelf of rock, watching a beetle. The beetle circled the same spot three times, then disappeared into a crack in the parched earth.

At night, the voices of the adults grew low.

The children drew close to one another in sleep. On either side of the one lay two others of similar age. Their bodies were warm. The one lay with eyes open for a time, watching the sky. Whether the stars were moving or the one was moving, there was no way to know.

The summer of the eighth year: the first time.

It was a group of the old ones. The adults closed together and lowered themselves without a sound. The one lowered too, not knowing why — only that everyone around had done so. The old ones passed along the far side of the watering hole. Heavy footfalls. Tall, wide through the shoulders. Seen from a child's height, they looked like moving rock.

Rock, moving. That feeling stayed within the one.

When the ninth year came, one of the two who slept nearby was gone. There one morning, and then not. The adults did not search. The one had no words yet for what this meant. Only the body knew it: the space had grown wider.

When the nights began to turn cold, the tension reached its peak.

At the boundary, the two groups met. Stones flew. Branches swung. The one ran, an adult's hand pulling at an arm, running. Through dark trees, with no sense of direction. Branches struck the face. The ground was invisible underfoot.

When the running was over, the legs were trembling.

Hands went to the earth. The soil was damp. The one looked at the mud on both palms. Lifted them and breathed in. It was soil from an unknown place.

That night, the group made no fire.

Around the tenth year, the one went alone to look at the boundary. For no reason. Simply went. No one was there. Broken branches lay scattered across the ground. Footprints overlapped one another — prints that could not be said to belong to one group or the other.

Wind moved through. The grasses swayed.

Within the wind, a faint smell. Something burnt. Someone far off was using fire. Which group, there was no way to know. The one stood for a time, face turned toward the direction of that smell.

Before the eleventh year came, the group moved again.

They found a watering hole. Smaller than the last, but the water was clear. The children waded in, calling out to one another. The one waded in too. The bottom was visible. Sand worked between the toes.

The one stopped, standing in the water, and looked down.

One's own feet, held in water. They seemed to waver. But they were not wavering. The one looked at this for a while.

The voices of the adults near the fire had grown low.

A different kind of low than usual. Not words. The shape of the sound had changed. The one turned a fragment of charred bone over and over in one hand, eyes not on the voices. Listening.

The wind came.

From behind. The hair on the back of the neck stood up. Breath held. The adults, too, fell silent for a moment.

There is a scent. Not the scent of fire. Not meat. Another body's scent. Another's sweat.

The one did not stand. Still gripping the bone fragment, the one lowered down — crouching without knowing why. The body simply did it.

The wind stopped.

One of the adults made a short sound. The group began to move. The children were drawn in closer. The one was drawn in too. The bone fragment was still in the hand.

In the night, another fire became visible. On the far side of the hollow.

The one watched that light for a long time. Did not approach. Did not flee. Only watched. Fire existed over there too. Just as with this group, there were others gathered around it.

The bone fragment was set down on the ground.

Still facing the fire of the other group, the one remained still for a long time.

The edge of the plateau was crossed. Not so much a choice not to look back, as a body that never turned to do so.

Knees sank into the sand. Rose. Sank again.

By the dead tree, the underside of the roots was dug at. Fingertips met the dark soil. A little more. Moisture came. The mouth drew close.

Drank.

Did not look at the sky. Did not look toward the group's fire. Dug once more.

In the moment of raising their face, there was the smell.

Not the smell of wet soil. Something colder. The smell that comes when rock seeps water — close to limestone. The one held their breath through the nose, then drew air in again. The same smell came.

Their feet moved.

To leave the center of the group was not ordinary, not in this group. Especially not now. After a storm was the season when animals moved in search of water. The others did not welcome a person moving alone. The one felt eyes. Three men were watching the one's back.

The one did not stop.

They came to a place where rocks lay piled against one another. Both hands touched the stone: it was cold. Lower down, near the ground, in a narrow gap, something caught the light faintly. Water. A thin thread of water seeping out onto the sand.

The one sat down there.

They pressed a palm against the gap. Water seeped into the hand. They licked it. It was not bitter. They licked it once more.

Then returned.

They made a sound toward the men. A single tone. A short sound, and a gesture — one hand pointing to the ground in a particular direction. That was all.

One of the men came closer. Another did not move. The third turned his back.

Between the one who had found water and the one who had not, something that had existed until now was changed. The one could not put into words what had changed. Only this: from the next morning, the man who had turned his back kept his eyes directed elsewhere.

The one had noticed. Knowing this, they continued to go to the water.

Three nights later, a stone flew.

In the dark it was impossible to know. The one did not try to find out who had thrown it. They did not have the words to find out. Something hot spread above the cheekbone. The one lay down and waited for the night to pass.

When morning came, they stood, and walked toward the water.

In the year the sandstorm ended, this one took on the work of the river's edge.

Not assigned to it. Not told to do it. The others simply avoided the water's edge. Too exposed there. Nothing to break the view. The far bank in plain sight.

This one went to the river's edge anyway.

At first, it was to draw water. The next day, water again. On the third day, this one stood at the river's edge without drawing any water at all. The fire on the far bank was visible. Smoke rising. The sound of children. The shape of the voices was different, but they were recognizable as children's voices.

An elder man of the group pulled this one back. Gripped the arm. Raised his voice. This one returned.

Still, the next day, this one went back to draw water.

Standing at the water's edge, the people on the far bank looked across too. Among them, one face was clearly visible — heavy brow, low forehead, thick hair. Even so, the way the eyes moved seemed familiar. This one did not think it so much as feel it, somewhere in the chest. A small settling.

One morning, a stone on the riverbed caught the light. This one saw it. The light seemed to be pointing toward the far bank. One foot moved into the water.

A stone came from behind.

Not the cheek — the shoulder. A hard stone. Turning around, three members of the group stood there. Their faces showed nothing. They simply stood.

This one drew the foot back from the water.

That night, this one sat a little apart from the fire. Far enough that the warmth did not reach. There was no moon. The fire on the far bank swayed beyond the river.

Watching that fire, this one touched the pain in the shoulder.

No broken bone. The skin had split slightly. Each time it was touched, there was heat. Still, the hand returned to it again and again. As though to confirm the pain. As though to confirm being here at all.

The following morning, this one did not go to the river's edge.

Someone else brought the water. This one helped with the butchering deeper inside the settlement. Stripping hide with a stone blade. Fat on the hands. Pulling out the entrails. A strong smell.

Hands moving, the river came anyway. Not thought of — it simply came. The light of the stone on the riverbed came.

This one pulled the blade a little harder. The hide split.

A woman of the group called out. An angry voice. This one said nothing, and stopped.

That night too, this one sat apart from the fire. The same place. The river was not visible. But there seemed to be a sound.

After the rains returned, the grass grew tall.

Along the southern face of the plateau, on the slope that fell toward the lowlands, grass spread waist-high. When the wind moved through it, the grass rippled in waves, and within those waves the trails of animals could be seen. The animals moved, and the group moved with them. Those who had crossed the river came back north, and the circle gathered around the fire grew larger.

The one stood outside the circle.

When this had begun, the one could not say. When anyone drew near, someone turned away. When food was divided, the one's portion came last. There were days when there was no portion at all.

At the hour when the eastern sky turned red, a band of old ones appeared at the northern edge of the plateau. Seven or eight of them — too far away to count precisely. The large man at the center of the group raised his voice. The others took up stones. The old ones did not move. After a time, they were gone again — dissolving into the grass as though they had never been.

That night, something was decided around the fire.

The one did not hear it. Sitting with back against stone at the edge of the circle, knees drawn up. Not so far that the firelight failed to reach, yet not close enough to feel its warmth. Only the smell of smoke arrived.

The next morning, one of the old ones — a man — lay dead at the edge of the river.

The one did not know who had done it. Did not try to know. Only looked. The man's hand rested in the water. The water ran clear.

The one watched the current for a long time.

Summer came, and the fruits ripened. Children ran through the grass. The one gathered food as well — sometimes ranging farther than anyone else, sometimes returning with more than anyone else had carried. Still, there was no place inside the circle. What was brought back was set down, and the one stepped away.

At the base of the grass, something black caught the light.

A stone. Darker than obsidian — some other kind of stone. The one crouched and touched it. It was cold. When placed in the palm, it had weight. It was only a stone. It was not thrown away.

Near the beginning of autumn, one of the older women in the group fell ill.

Her belly swelled and her face went yellow. The children kept their distance; the adults did not come near. Only the one carried water to her. There was no reason. It was simply done. The woman drank, looked at the one's face, and drank again. Some twenty days later, she fell onto the grass with her hands pressed to her belly, and by night she had grown still.

The one removed a small fragment of bone from the woman's hand.

She had worn it around her neck. It may have been someone's bone. The one tied it around their own neck.

Winter came.

Wind poured down from the north of the plateau, and the fire grew difficult to tend. Gathering wood was the work of the young, but one morning the one returned alone carrying what three of them might have brought. No one said anything. The fire simply continued.

Around the age of thirty-four, something shifted within the group.

It was less a change than a tension that had at last begun to take shape. The old ones came closer more often. Stones were thrown more often. At night, more people stood watch, and the one stood watch among them. The one stared into the dark. Whether nothing came or something moved in the night, the one's face remained the same.

On a morning after standing watch, the large man stepped in front of the one.

He said something. The one could not understand what. He moved his hands. The one held out the stone. He did not take it. He spat and walked away.

More than half the group looked away whenever their eyes fell on the one.

The one held the black stone. It was cold. It was always cold.

When spring returned and the smell of grass came back with it, the group's movements changed.

They were preparing to travel. Bundles were tied; the fire was stamped out. The one tied a bundle as well. But when morning came and the line of people began to walk, there was no place in it for the one.

The line moved south.

The one remained on the plateau.

Standing in the grass that had grown to knee height. The wind pushed through the grass. The wind stopped. It pushed again. The one's feet did not move.

The one could not move, still clutching the stone tool.

At the edge of the group, in the shadow where two rocks leaned against each other, the one stood. The smell of grass still clung to the body. Until yesterday, someone had been there. Now that someone was gone.

When the circle around the fire grew large, the one had been inside it. Those who had returned from the north settled down, spoke through the smoke, and laughter passed between them. The one laughed too. Laughing was something the one knew how to do.

Only — the one knew too much of something.

It was not simply that the paths of animals could be read within the moving grass. The one saw something else: the road that continued beyond the road, the river that spread beyond the river, the way the edges of night shifted with the size of the fire. What no one had yet put into words, the one carried in the body. Because there were no words for it, it could not be explained. And because it could not be explained, the one stood out all the more.

One morning, an older member of the group approached. The trim of the fur was worn. The eyes were narrow, and they held the one in a long, unbroken gaze.

The one gripped the stone tool.

No sound came. No gesture could be formed. There was only the sensation of something cold spreading inward from deep in the belly.

A push. Not a cliff — a slanted shelf of rock. The moment the feet left the ground was brief, and the sound of the body striking the earth was not heard by the one who made it. The impact of the temple against stone broke the thread of consciousness. The body rolled down the slope and came to rest at the base of a small shrub. The grass moved, then was still.

In the morning, the one walked to the water.

The water was low. Where it had once reached the waist, the tops of stones were now showing. The one stood looking at the stones for a while. Then bent at the knee, bringing their face close to the surface. Their own shadow trembled there.

On the way back, the one came face to face with a man. The tallest man in the group. Their eyes met. The man looked away first.

That was all it was. And yet something hardened inside the one's chest. Like a stone. A stone that could not be swallowed.

Several days passed after that.

A group of the ancient ones appeared along the river. From a distance. Their shadows moved beyond the rocks. Voices rose among the group — low, brief voices. Someone picked up a stone. Someone drew a child close.

The one also took hold of a stone. One that fit inside a single hand, with edges.

The ancient ones did not come. Their shadows disappeared.

That night, the one sat beside the fire. Not inside the circle, but slightly apart, watching the fire from a distance. The flames swayed low. Smoke drifted into their eyes. Tears came.

It was not grief. Only the eyes, hurting.

The one turned the stone over in their hand. Its edges pressed into the palm. That sensation, at least, was solid.

The smell came. It was a foul smell.

This one turned their face away, and turned their feet in the other direction. That was all. It was not a thought.

At the edge of the group, this one sat alone. The voices of those burning with fever were audible, somewhere distant. This one did not approach. There were no words for why. The smell was unpleasant. That was all.

Morning came. This one was alive.

After the plague had gone, the one kept moving.

Went to the water. Drank. Came back. Went again. It was not that something was being sought. The feet moved, and so the one moved.

Within the group, raised voices had grown more frequent. Someone had taken another's food. The one who tried to take it back was shoved to the ground. The one watched this. Picked up a stone. But did not throw it. Set it down.

Where the stone was set down, there was a rock face.

On that rock face was an old handprint.

The one stopped.

Raised a hand. Tried to lay it over the ancient mark. Could not reach. Pressed the hand a little lower on the rock instead. The rock was cold. Rough.

Pulled the hand away.

Pressed it there again.

Something stirred deep in the chest. A movement without a name. It did not become a sound. There was only the sensation of a hand touching rock.

That night, a confrontation arose within the group. The one stood at the center of it. It was not an argument. It was an interrogation. Several people had gathered around the one. Their voices were low. Fingers were pointed. What had the one done — what did the one know — was something being hidden. The words still had no clear shape, but the intent came through.

The one did not answer.

Whether there were no words to answer with, or whether the one simply did not wish to answer — that too was a distinction without a name.

The eyes of those gathered shifted.

At the one's feet, a small stone was thrown.

It was not the young man who pressed a hand into the crack.

It was the one.

Dampness reached the palm. The tongue tasted it. It tasted of water. The one crouched there and did not move. Then pressed the hand in again. Again, damp.

The sound of someone from the group drawing near.

The one did not turn around.

The one lived at the edge of the group.

The edge was where the shadow of the rock wall fell. Sit there, and no one came. No one had come for a long time. In youth, someone might draw near. Not anymore.

The one held a stone.

It was not heavy. A flat stone, small enough to rest in the palm, its surface worn smooth. When it had been picked up, the one could no longer say. Nor why it had been kept all this time. It was simply held. When the fingers traced the rim of the stone, cold traveled through them. That alone was certain.

A sound came from the direction of the group.

Low voices layered over one another. A mass of sound that could not be told from anger or grief, crossing the red clay plateau to reach this place. The one looked up. Ahead, the young ones had gathered. Several were saying things with gestures. A finger moved in the direction of where the one sat.

The one stood, stone still in hand.

The legs were heavy. Since passing sixty, the act of standing had begun to require effort. Pressing a hand against the rock wall, the one raised the body and stepped onto the sand.

The young ones approached.

There were three. The one in front swung an arm. The motion had the shape of driving something away. A shape the one recognized. The shape used when driving off animals. But there were no animals here now.

The one stepped back.

The edge of the cliff was close. With each step, sand crumbled away with a soft sound. The three faces drew nearer. No one used words. There were no voices. Without sound, meaning alone hung in the air.

The one looked at the stone in the right hand.

It could be thrown. In youth, perhaps it would have been. But the arm was no longer what it had been, and the stone would not reach. The stone remained in the palm, grown warm now. The body's heat had passed into it.

One step. Then another.

The sand disappeared from beneath the soles of the feet.

Rather than falling, the ground simply ceased to be. The bottom of the cliff was far below, the red clay wall passed alongside, wind filled both ears, and only the stone remained in the hand.

The ground arrived.

The one's hand was open. The stone had come to rest a short distance away.

Morning came, and the one woke.

It was not that rising was impossible. Only that the body felt no need to rise. Lying still on dry grass, the one watched the whiteness spread across the sky.

There were no clouds.

The group was moving. Voices carried over. A child's voice. Running feet. Someone shouted something, and someone else laughed. The one listened. Listened only with the ears. The neck did not turn.

A hand lifted.

The fingers opened. Closed. Opened again. This seemed strange. The fingers move. Why do they move. In youth, such things went unconsidered. Fingers were simply things that moved. Splitting stone. Pulling hide. Gripping meat. Fingers only moved.

Now, their moving seemed strange.

Midday came. Someone brought water — a young one, with a face still unlined. The vessel was set on the ground, and the young one left. The one looked at the vessel. The surface of the water held the light. An attempt was made to drink.

The hand did not reach.

It was not that it could not reach. Only that the distance to it felt far. That was all.

Wind came.

The smell of grass. Dry earth. From somewhere distant, something burning. Someone had made a fire. That smell alone passed slowly through the body.

Something faint stirred deep in the nose. That was all.

The sun tilted. Shadows grew long. The voices of the group moved away. Drew near. Moved away again. To the one, they sounded now like something belonging elsewhere. Those voices exist in another place. Not here.

The sky whitened again. Not evening — the one understood that it was the eyes that had gone white.

The body grew heavy. Not heavy — the boundary between body and ground ceased to be.

The edge of a grass blade rested against a cheek.

Dry.

That was all.

A stone was thrown into the river.

Ripples spread. Faded. Another stone was thrown. Ripples spread. Faded. One stone remained in the hand. That one was thrown too.

The surface of the water grew still.

The one watched the water for a while. A face was there, in the water. It trembled. When the trembling settled, the face was there again.

Within the group, there was one larger than this one. The kind who raised their voice near the fire at night. When that one passed nearby, the air changed. Others went quiet. Eyes turned downward.

Why, this one did not know. The body knew. Stay away.

One day, when food was being divided, this one arrived a little late. It was not that the feet were slow. There had been hesitation. Something felt like it stood in the way, and the feet stopped. In that pause, others reached out first and took.

Nothing remained for this one's hands.

The stomach made a sound. Someone heard it. There was laughter.

This one went to the river. Picked up a stone. Threw it. Ripples spread. Faded.

Only the sound of moving water remained.

Night came. This one sat a little apart from the fire. Watched the flames shift and lean. The flames said nothing.

Eyes closed. Behind the eyelids, ripples lingered.

The stone was in the hand.

Struck. It chipped. A finger moved along the sharpened edge. It cut. Blood came.

It was tasted. There was the flavor of iron.

The stone was struck again.

The one was nineteen in the year the cold came.

The order of seasons, until then familiar, broke apart without warning. Frost fell before the fruit could ripen. The edges of the watering places turned white and solid, and cracked when stepped upon. The elders of the group looked up at the sky and said something. The one did not understand. Only the lowering of their voices was clear.

The group moved.

They crossed hills, followed rivers downstream, and settled in a hollow where the wind was weak. During the journey, one old person stopped walking. Two children, in the cold, stopped making sounds. No one paused. There was no longer any room to pause.

The one walked.

The one had been entrusted with the carrying of fire. Embers were placed in a clay vessel, held against the chest as one walked. If the embers died, the fire died. If the fire died, the night would freeze them. The one thought of nothing else and walked.

Three winters passed. The group was fewer than half of what it had been.

By now, the one had become someone to whom things were entrusted. Still young, but able to move. Able to run. When food was sought, the young went first. The one went too. Treading frozen ground, watching breath scatter white in the air, digging up roots and bulbs.

One day, water seeped into the bottom of a hole that had been dug.

The one went still.

The water was cold. But it was seeping. There was water here. The one leaned in and breathed the smell. Earth. Dead leaves. Dug deeper. More water came.

The one called out. A short sound. The others gathered.

Near the end of the twenty-fourth year, the one's body grew heavy.

It was not that moving had become impossible. Only that rising in the morning took longer than before. Chewing brought pain from somewhere inside the mouth. Running made the chest ring.

One morning, the one sat at the edge of the hollow.

Wind came from the north. Colder than before. The one drew the knees close. The sky hung low and grey. Far off, a single animal could be seen moving. The one watched it for a time.

The animal disappeared beyond the hill.

The one went on looking in that direction.

After a while, the looking could no longer continue.

The knees loosened. The body tipped sideways. The earth was cold. That was all there was, at the end.