293,285 BCE – 293,165 BCE | Episodes 1345–1368

The one fell behind when the group moved south.

The legs would not obey. Inside the knee, something like a stone had been growing. Three years now. At first it hurt only in the mornings. Now it hurt through sleep.

The group did not wait.

The one remained in the shadow of a northern rock shelf. Water still caught the light at the bottom of a cracked fissure, thin and faint. A hand plunged in and scooped. Only what fit in a palm came up. That was drunk. Then the hand went in again.

The nights were cold.

Curled tight, the heat of the leg and the cold of the back arrived together. The contradicting sensations were met with nothing in particular. They were felt. Simply felt.

On the fourth day, two archaic ones appeared at the northern rim.

The one could not stand. A sound was made. A short sound. Neither a threat nor a plea — only a sound.

The archaic ones stopped.

They looked for a time. Then they walked on.

The one scooped water in a palm again. Drank. Looked at the sky. The sky was high and without cloud. A dry blueness. Looking up at it, the one placed both hands on the knee.

The stone-like mass was as hot as ever.

The palm resting on the knee slowly took on that heat, receiving it, little by little.

That was all.

As the strength left the body, there was no sound. No wind came. The palm slid from the knee and touched the sand. The sand still held the warmth of midday.

The stone split.

To the right.

Not the direction intended.

The one picked up the broken piece and ran a thumb along the edge. Not sharp. Useless. It was tossed aside. The next stone was set down in front of bent knees.

The knees burned.

Three years ago it had only been in the mornings. Now they burned through midday and into the night. Lying down at night, there was a pulsing from somewhere inside. Pressing on it changed nothing. Left alone, it could sometimes be forgotten.

The group moved south. The one did not follow.

*Did not follow* was closer to the truth than *could not follow*. It was not only the knees. Something else kept the one here, in this place. What that something was could not be shaped into words. Not even into a sound. The one simply did not move.

Stone struck stone.

It split to the right again.

The one paused and looked at the grain running across the surface. Looked for a long time. This stone had a grain. When force was applied there, it escaped. Following where it escaped, the intended shape would not come. But another shape would.

The one ran a thumb along the edge once more.

This time it was sharp.

It was not what had been intended. Even so, the one did not set the piece down. It stayed in the hand. And holding it, the one wore an expression of waiting. For what, the one did not know.

Evening came.

The sound of striking stone went quiet.

The group's fire was far to the south. The rock behind the one held back the wind. The night passed without fire. In the dark, the piece was still held.

In the morning, the one tried to straighten the knees.

They did not move.

Both hands were pressed to the ground. Slowly, the one stood. When upright, the piece was still in hand.

The dry season and the rainy season traded places three times.

The group moved along the edge of the plateau. When they found a rock shelf near water, they would stay for several dozen days. When they left, they left nothing behind. There was no reason to leave anything.

The one sat at the far end of the rock shelf, splitting stones. A flat stone rested on their knees; a hammerstone gripped in one hand. The angle was something the body knew. The hands moved before the mind could think. Flakes flew. The edge tested with a thumb. Still too thick. Once more.

Days came when clouds covered half the sky. Herds of animals moved south. Voices grew sharp within the group. When food grew scarce, voices changed. The one knew this. Knew it, and said nothing.

Several of the younger ones came near and watched the one split stones. The one did not turn around. They knew they were being watched. Knowing this, they taught nothing. The stones were their own. The skill was their own.

Among the group were two archaic ones. Large-bodied, without language. They conveyed intention through sound alone. They did not draw near to the one. Neither drew near to the other.

At the end of that year, a dispute broke out over food. In the night, someone struck someone. By morning, one person lay at the base of the rock shelf. They did not move. The group remained for half a day, then moved on.

The one was last to stand, and looked at the fallen one. They placed a single stone there. They did not know themselves what the placing meant. After placing it, they walked on.

After leaving the rock shelf, the group walked twenty days across grassland. Each time a water source was found, the group's pace slowed. The one's knee ached. It had been three years since the heat began in it, but this year it hurt not only in the evenings but in the mornings too. With every step, there was that heat.

They reached low ground along a river. Reeds grew there. Many birds. Food could be found. The group decided to stay.

The one made a place near the river and began splitting stones. There were few stones. To find good ones, they walked upstream. Walked alone. Along the riverbed lay several reddish stones.

They carried the stones back and tested them. They were hard. When struck, the sound was different. The way the edge rose was different. The one paused a moment. Struck again.

The smell had changed.

Just before the place where water was beginning to rot. The one's nose moved. They stopped. On the right bank, two reddish stones lay side by side. The one's eyes went there.

Received.

What comes after this, the Giver does not carry. How it is used — that is for this one to decide. Whether it becomes a good edge, or turns toward someone's body — that is not the Giver's concern. Stone is stone.

And yet, the Giver wonders: how many times now has something reached its mark? Not what that reaching leads to, but whether the reaching itself still holds meaning — this is what the Giver keeps asking. On the world before this one, it never reached, not until the end. On this world, what will happen after it reaches — that remains unknown.

There is something yet to be given. The Giver is still searching for where to give it.

The blade made from the red stone cut well.

The one continued to use it. Skinning hides. Dividing meat. Within the group, the keenness of that blade began to draw attention. Someone wanted it. The one did not give it up.

Not giving it up became a problem.

Someone said something. The one said nothing. Only stared.

This continued.

On the last night, the one sat alone a little apart from the others, beside the fire. The red stone blade rested on their knee. The knee was hot. The fire was hot. They made no distinction between one heat and the other.

Of the one who came from behind, there was no knowing.

The body tilted. The stone left their hand. The fire wavered. That was all.

Three days had passed since the stomach stopped growling.

With a body that had forgotten even hunger, the one sat beside a rock. A stone rested on its knees. The hands would not move. Yet the fingers traced the surface of the stone — edge to edge. A broken corner, a smooth hollow.

The others of the group huddled in the shade of low shrubs. One child's voice. Then two. Far away.

The one tried to lift the stone. It would not rise. The arms trembled. It was set down once, then touched again. That much was still possible.

The wind came. The stems of grass swayed, and from them drifted a faint smell. Not the smell of wet earth. Not the promise of rain. Still, the nostrils moved. The body sought to know something, ahead of the mind.

The one raised its face.

Beyond the plateau, the outline of mountains was visible. Pale blue, distant. A group of older people had been seen moving in that direction — ten days ago, perhaps. Or twenty. The days had not been counted.

The gaze returned to the stone.

A thumb traced the chipped edge.

The feeling was familiar from somewhere. But nothing came.

Toward evening, the one lay down. Not from consciousness slipping away while standing, but by choice. Arms laid along the body. A rock pressed into the back. No attempt was made to remove it.

Night came.

Stars were out. The eyes of the one held their reflection.

The mouth opened once. No sound came.

As the night deepened, the body settled into the rock — not as though the weight were leaving, but as though it had simply always been there.

By the time morning came, the one was still upon the rock.

The hand still held the stone.

Days passed in which even thirst was forgotten.

That the body felt light because the stomach was empty — this one did not know. Only that the feet had grown slow. Slow feet cannot close on prey. Without prey, there is no food. That much was known.

Before dawn, this one woke.

Something seemed to touch the nose. Less a touch than a change in the air. Not the smell that comes before rain. Something finer. The smell of water, far away.

The body had already turned toward it.

The feet moved before any thought did. Over dry ground, through low grassland, past the shadow of a rock. Walking, the eyes read the earth. A shallow depression. A deep one. Four-footed tracks. Hooves.

This one stopped.

Ears raised.

In the distance, the sound of water striking stone. A small sound. Not rain. The sound of something flowing.

The direction the tracks led and the direction of the sound were the same.

This one ran.

Running, a stone was gripped. Carrying something in the hand while running was familiar. The body knew how to hold it without dropping it. Even when the knees grew unsteady, the hand stayed sure.

When this one reached the water, the sky had begun to pale.

It was a small stream. Barely knee-high. Still, it moved. This one plunged a face into it. Drank. Kept drinking. The stomach recoiled once in surprise. Still, the drinking continued.

Beyond the water, in the grass, there was fresh dung.

This one stood.

The stone was still in hand.

The eyes searched the grass for movement. Not the movement of wind.

He was driven from the edges of the group.

At night, whispers. By morning, the food was less. When he drew near, a woman holding a child turned her back. No one passed him stones. No one shared the fire. None of this was spoken. Yet it was understood.

At the watering place, he saw them. A group of the old ones on the far bank. Their jaws were shaped differently, their voices low. Yet they were knapping stone. The same as his people. He watched. Then he brought what he had seen back to the group, told it in gestures.

That was his mistake.

Among his people, there was something that forbade placing the old ones and the stones together. It had never been put into words. Yet everyone knew it. He alone did not.

That night, three of them stood behind him.

They were on the cliff. Black rock gave back the moonlight. Whether he was pushed or whether his foot slipped, he could not have said. His body was in the air.

As he fell, the wind moved through his ears.

Rock struck his back. Twice. Then it was quiet.

Moonlight lay against the face of the stone. Somewhere, a bird called. His hand shifted, just slightly. His fingers closed on the earth. And stayed there.

The one hated keeping watch over the fire.

Smoke stung the eyes. Sitting still made the legs go numb. When the wood was damp, no amount of blowing would bring a flame. And yet the one kept blowing. The lips dried. Blew again.

Last night, an older man had shouted.

The words were unclear. The volume was not. The man's spittle reached the one's face. The one said nothing. Looked at the rock. Looked at the fire.

Morning came.

The stomach growled. The one went to receive food but could not enter the circle of women. Stood at its edge. No one passed a stone across. No one looked over.

The one moved away from the circle.

Started toward the water source. The usual one had been clouded white for two days now. Someone in the group had shown with gestures that drinking it brought stomach pain. So the one did not go there.

There was no knowing where to go.

The one walked. Without purpose, simply because the feet moved.

Stopped before a thicket of low grass.

No reason. Simply stopped.

Wind was coming. The grass stirred. There was a smell of earth. A different smell. Not the smell of rotting water — something a little colder.

The one parted the grass.

At the roots, there was water. The width of a single palm. Depth to the first knuckle of a finger.

Drank.

It was cold.

The one crouched there for a long while. Drank again. Looked around. No one was there.

There was nothing to carry back. Cupped in the hands, it would spill before reaching anyone.

The one remained among the grass for a time. Then stood. Walked back toward the group. Tried to tell someone, but there were no words for it. Waved a hand in that direction. Made a sound that meant something like water.

One man came along, looking as though it were a great inconvenience.

He saw the water. Drank. Walked back without a word.

Said nothing to the one.

The one crouched down again and drank the water.

The water bag was empty.

Tipping it again and again, not a single drop fell. The one struck the bottom of the bag. A dry sound. Struck it again.

From the direction of the group, a woman's voice carried over. She was not crying out. Only repeating. The same sound, the same pitch. The one knew it as the voice used when calling for a child.

Walked on.

Grass brushed against the ankles. Grass that had reached the knees until last year. Now the roots lay bare. The earth had cracked, and the edges of the cracks had turned to powder. The one crouched and pressed fingers into a fissure. There was no moisture.

Stood.

From the east, wind came. It carried the smell of earth, and something else mixed within it. Not rot. It was closer to that sharp, hard smell that rises when stone is split. The one drew a single breath through the nose. Then began walking. Not east. South.

Why south, this one did not know.

Returning to the group's camp, the elder man was sitting on the ground. A small child lay across his knees. The child did not move. The man stroked the child's back, slowly, slowly.

The one stopped there.

Still holding the water bag, there was nothing to be done. The man did not look up. He went on stroking the child's back. Wind came, and powdered grass lifted into the air.

The one went to the fire. Tending the fire was this one's task. Little firewood remained. The burning had grown weak. The one added a single piece. Then held the next piece in hand, and stopped. Did not add it.

If water did not come, no one would have the strength left to gather more wood.

The one had no word for *if*. And yet something was being calculated. Something inside spoke. Do not use this.

The piece of wood was set back on the ground.

Night came. The fire shrank. The one sat beside it and looked up at the sky. Stars were out. Several from the group had lain down. The elder man remained motionless, holding the child. The child had not cried for a very long time.

The one looked at a single star. For no particular reason. Only because it was there.

The earth was cracked.

Felt through the soles of the feet. Beneath thin leather, the fractured ground shifted faintly with each step. The one stopped and looked down. The edges of the cracks were white. A dry whiteness.

In the distance, voices arguing.

Near the edge of the group, somewhere among the rocks. A man's voice, and another voice. Both were familiar. Yesterday, the same voices had risen from the same place. The one looked up toward the sound, then turned away.

Dried branches gathered in the hands were laid out beside the fire. Not yet burned. Too early to burn. The morning fire is kept small. No one had taught this. It had simply always been so. This way, the fire lasts longer.

The arguing grew louder.

The one set down the branches and stood.

Among the group, there was someone from another group. A tall man with a broad jaw. A full head taller than the one, with long arms. He had come the day before. Whether he sought food or something else, the one could not say. What was clear was only this: those in the one's group did not want to go near him.

The man moved.

Quickly.

A young man from the one's group—his voice not yet fully changed—fell to the ground. He tried to rise, but his knees gave. He fell again.

The world around went quiet.

The voices stopped. Only the wind remained.

The one returned to the branches. Picked them up. Arranged them. Rearranged them. The hands kept moving.

Five years of dry earth, and then the rain returned.

At the southern edge of the first lands, where reddish stone layered itself in terraced slopes, water began to trace thin lines. No wider than a finger at first. By the following season, as wide as an arm. The soil caught between the rocks took in the moisture and changed color. Grass grew low, but it grew.

The one tended the fire's edge. Before dawn, laying wood across the coals. Breathing on them, softly. When the fire weakened, there was shouting. When it went out, there was more than shouting. And so the one did not sleep. Eyes open, watching the color of the coals.

On the grassland to the north, a group of ancient ones moved. Six or eight of them. Too distant to see clearly, too far for their voices to carry. But they left traces. Grass pressed flat, bones abandoned, red pigment rubbed into rock. Each time the elders of the one's group came upon these traces, they made the same sound—low, brief, something like warning.

The one walked so as not to step on the traces. Not out of any belief that stepping would bring consequence. Simply not wanting to.

In the third year of the rain's return, three children were born within the group in succession. Two survived. One lost its strength seven days after coming into the world. The mother placed the child beneath a rock. She did not dig into the soil. She stacked stones above. She made no sound.

The one watched from a short distance.

The next morning, tending the fire, the one looked once toward the rocks. Then turned back to the wood.

It was around that time that the tension within the group was rising. Twice there were shoving confrontations with a group that had come from the south, over the water. The first time, no one fell. The second time, one person was driven to the edge of a cliff and lost footing. The sound of the fall was distant and dull. Afterward, no one went near that place.

When fetching water, the one began to take a longer way around. Wading through grass that reached the knee, returning with wet feet. If asked why the long way, there would have been no answer. The words did not exist.

In the dry season of the fifth year, the one went alone into the rocks. There was wood to gather.

In a crevice, dead branches had collected. Moving deeper while picking them up, there was something in the shadow. Not the carcass of an animal. Too large. Closer, it became clear: one of the ancient ones. Lying still. No longer moving. The belly had swollen greatly. Days had passed.

The one stopped.

There was a smell that struck the nose like a blade. Breath held. Still no movement.

The hand came into focus. Four fingers. A short thumb. The one looked at its own hand. Five fingers. A longer thumb. Something was different. And yet something was the same.

Standing there, holding the branches. How much time passed was unclear.

Eventually, the one began to walk. In the direction of the group. Still carrying the branches.

Had come to the water.

Not out of thirst. Before taking watch at the fire, something had drawn the feet this way. In the dry time, this place had been nothing but stone. Now there was soil between the stones. The soil was dark.

Crouched down.

There were animal tracks. Large ones. Larger than an open hand. The edges had not yet crumbled. The soil was still damp. The one pressed a finger to the edge. A little soil clung to the fingertip.

Looked at the direction the tracks faced.

South.

Stood and looked south. There were thickets. No wind came. No sound. But the animal might be there. Or it might already be gone.

The one stood for a while.

Returned to the group. Said nothing. There were no words. But when sitting down beside the fire watch, the eyes did not leave the southern direction.

That night, sleep did not come. The size of the tracks remained in the palm of the hand.

In the morning, the one checked what remained of the fire.

Pressed a fingertip to the edge of a piece of charcoal. It was not hot. Pressed again. Once more. After repeating this five times, a single thin branch was added.

At the edge of the settlement, someone called out. A low, brief sound. The one looked up. Looked toward the direction of the voice. Nothing could be seen. Turned back to the fire.

Before midday, the one went to fetch water. Walking through the grass just before the path to the northern plateau, the grass stirred. It was only the wind. Still, the one's feet stopped.

There were bones beneath the grass.

The one looked at the bones. White, and dry. The broken face of one was turned upward. It was sharp.

A hand reached toward it.

Stopped.

Something sat at the back of the throat. Not a voice, not a shape — only a feeling of blockage. The one had no words to ask what it was.

For a time, the one stood there.

Then walked on toward the water.

On the way back, the one kept away from the place where the bones lay. Not by choosing a deliberate detour. Only that the feet did not turn that way.

In the evening, a child came and sat beside the one near the fire. Not the one's own child. When the child reached a hand toward the fire, the one took hold of it. Not hard. Simply held it. The child did not cry. Kept watching the fire.

The two of them watched the fire together.

The wind came. The flames moved. The child opened its mouth slightly. The one did too. Neither said anything.

That night, the one lay down. The blockage at the back of the throat was still there. It was gone before sleep came. By morning, there was no memory of whether it had been there at all.

Half a day's walk to the water.

The knees ache. For five years now, they have ached on nights before rain. There is no sign of rain today, yet the right knee throbs with a dull, persistent pain.

When they arrived, the other group was already there.

A dozen or more figures were drawing water from a hollow worn into the bedrock. Their bodies were large, heavily furred, their backs curved. Similar to this group, yet different in the way they made sound — a muffled resonance from deep in the throat.

The one stopped.

Behind, four young ones had come along, carrying leather pouches. Empty.

From within the other group, one large figure turned and looked. Did not move.

The one raised a hand. Had meant to say something. No words came.

For a time, neither side moved.

Wind came in from the direction of the cliffs. Something reached the one's nose — a faint, sweet smell of decay. Like the smell of a dead animal, yet not quite. Thinner than that. Damp.

From within the other group, a child coughed.

A loud cough. It did not stop.

The one lowered the hand.

Took a step forward. The other group tensed — that much was clear. But the one set the leather pouch down on the ground. Then opened both hands and held them out to be seen.

The large figure from the other group watched this for a long moment.

Then turned away. Said something to those gathered behind — brief, a sound that came from the back of the throat.

Took the coughing child by the hand, and led them away from the water.

The one picked up the pouch.

Behind, the young ones exhaled. They began drawing water.

The one did not draw water. Stood looking toward the direction the other group had gone.

The child's cough still carried, faintly, from somewhere far away.

The right knee no longer ached. Since the rains returned, the body had felt different somehow.

At the watering place, two kinds of footprints. The one crouched and pressed a hand into the deeper set. The hand was smaller than the print.

Returning to the group, the one found the women speaking in hushed voices. Sat down. Tended the fire. The coals shifted and collapsed. The coals were set right again. Night came.

Sitting at the base of the reeds, their knees cracked.

They hadn't used to crack. The knees had started cracking around the time the children came up to waist height — or had they? It was hard to say. There was less to remember now. This wasn't a source of unease. It was simply less.

Tending the fire had been passed to the younger ones. The one could no longer split wood. There was no strength left in the arms. Still, they stayed near the fire. Not so much out of duty as for the warmth.

Something in the group had grown stagnant.

There were places where voices dropped low. When two men were talking and a third arrived, they would stop. The one watched this. Watched, and said nothing. Not for lack of words — the body simply knew there were things that must not be said.

What was known could not be put into words. But the body knew.

One night, the one was led behind a rock away from the water's edge.

It was dark. There were two of them. One face was familiar. The other was not. The stranger reached out a hand.

No sound came. Whether any was attempted — that too was unclear.

The body met the ground. The edge of the rock pressed into the back. It was cold. That much was sharp and certain. The coldness of the rock in the night.

The one's hand moved across the soil. Sand worked its way between the fingers.

The strength went out.

The sand was between the fingers.

Dawn came.

Morning birds arrived at the water's edge, struck the surface with their feet, and flew.

The edge of the water was mud.

Her feet sank. One more step and they would sink to the knee, yet the water was visible. Her stomach had been growling. It had been growling since morning.

She knelt and put her hands in the water. She drank. It tasted of mud.

When she tried to stand, her feet slipped. Her hands caught the grass. The grass did not come out. Because it did not come out, she was able to stand.

She looked at the grass.

Thin. Roots that ran deep. Even when pulled, it would not come out.

She let it go.

Her stomach growled again. She walked in the direction of the group. She was no longer thinking about the grass.

But that night, lying down and looking up at the sky, a sensation remained in her palms. The firm sensation of that grass. She had no words for why it remained. She pressed her palms against a rock. A different sensation came. The sensation of the rock came.

The sensation of the grass did not disappear.

It remained alongside the sensation of the rock.

She closed her eyes. With them still closed, she placed both hands on her chest. Her palms moved on her chest. She went through the motion of grasping the grass once more. She was holding nothing. And yet, she did it.

She slept.

Over five years, this one suffered from stomach illness three times, and once struck her right arm against a rock and had it swell. She walked at the back of the foraging line. She was not allowed to walk at the front. She carried loads. Carrying heavy loads was her place in the group.

Around the time the swelling in her arm went down, another child became unable to carry loads. She gave that child water not because there was a reason to. Her hand moved. That was all.

That child, afterward, walked.

Around the time she turned eighteen, there was tension within the group. Voices were rough. At night, on the far side of the fire, someone pushed someone. The one who was pushed fell. They got up. They pushed back.

This one, still holding her load, moved away from the scene.

She sat at the edge of the grass. It was dark. Her stomach was growling. She pressed her palm to the ground. There was the sensation of earth.

It was not the sensation of grass.

Where the trees grew thick, light fell in scattered pieces.

The one walked at the edge of the group. That was always the place permitted to an apprentice. Stepping into the footprints of the older ones who went ahead, carrying the bag, gathering what they had missed. That was the role.

Five years passed quietly.
Children multiplied, voices multiplied, and the number who sat around the night fire grew. More people knowing where the food was meant, at the same time, more people caring about who knew what.

The one knew too much.

Where the root vegetables lay buried. Which water sources never ran dry even in summer. That in the shadow of a certain rock, there were traces left by another group. That the one had been the only one to see them.

An attempt was made to tell someone.
With words and gestures. Again and again.

The faces of those who listened changed. Not with anger — something else. Faces that were closing.

That day, the one was sent down to the base of the cliff.
The task was to draw water. Do it alone, the gestures said. It was work that two people always did together.

The cliff's edge had softened in the rain.

A stone underfoot shifted.
The body pitched forward. There was nothing to stop it.

Water was close.
The one fell listening to the sound of the water.
The sound arrived first.

No one came down.

Toward evening, smoke from a fire rose in the distance. From where the group was. Far away.

The one's body lay on the rock. The sky was wide. Clouds moved slowly. Eyes followed them.

Then could follow them no longer.

There were claw marks in the mud.

Four of them. Each sunk to a different depth. The two on the left were long; the two on the right, shallow. The one crouched down and brought their nose close. Something was mixed in with the smell of the earth. Not the scent of animal hide. Something denser, sharper.

They did not stand.

They pressed their nose down again.

The smell lingered not only there but at the base of the grass a little further on. Not the marks of something that had passed through. The marks of something that had stayed. The grass had bent sideways and had not sprung back. The direction it leaned matched the direction the group was traveling.

The one raised a hand.

Behind them, one of the carriers stopped walking. No sound was made. The raised hand was enough. It was understood.

The group stopped.

The one made a low sound. Once, from deep in the throat. The elder walking ahead turned. The one looked toward the claw marks. The elder looked there too. Something was decided between them. Not in words.

The group changed direction.

There was a watering place that way. It would mean a longer path. But no one objected.

By evening, they reached the water. One of the children plunged their face in and drank. The one placed a hand on the back of that child's neck. Not to keep them from drowning. Simply to rest a hand there.

The one did not think about why they had done it.

The hand was simply there.

The one was not among the grassland-edge group.

They were atop the cliff.

They had climbed alone in the early morning. To see whether anyone had followed their trail. From above the cliff, the traces of both groups moving were visible. Earth trodden firm. The place where smoke had been.

The one watched for a long time.

The wind came from ahead.

The one stopped. Before the nose could respond, something deeper in the throat reacted first. A sensation like bitterness touching the mucous membrane — not quite the smell of rancid animal fat, not quite the smell of earth steaming in the heat.

Looking down.

There were footprints in the soil. Four of them. Close together, the heels sunk deep. Not running. Walking. The marks of someone heavy.

Sunlight fell directly on the edges of the prints. No shadow.

The one knelt. Brought a palm close to the marks without touching them. Checking whether any warmth could be felt. There was none. But the soil was not yet dry.

Standing, the one looked back the way they had come.

The direction of the group.

Within the group, there was still a child who could not walk. Someone who could not carry the water skins. The night before, an old woman had fallen and struck her hip, and could no longer stand.

The one checked the direction of the prints. Not the direction the group had come from. These tracks had entered from somewhere else.

Once more, drawing air through the nose.

Growing distant. Whoever it was had gone.

But the possibility of return had not disappeared.

The one picked up a small stone and set it near the footprints. Not as a marker to return to. It was an act of inscribing something into the body — that here, something had happened.

After placing the stone, the one ran toward the group.

No sound was made.

Water returned to the base of the cliff.

Through one full winter the hollow had been dry, and now water appeared—not from snowmelt, but seeping up as if from beneath the earth. The edges ran murky with silt, and the bottom could not be seen. Only around it did the grass grow green, and the air hung faintly heavier there.

Each morning the one stood at the water's edge. Knees folding, palm lowered toward the surface. Never touching.

The fissure in the highland had widened. In places it was now as broad as two hands laid flat. At the start of the rainy season the topsoil had sloughed away, exposing the gravel layer beneath. The stones were flat and red, and the dry wind did not move them. They simply were. It felt less like a new landform and more like something that had always been there, finally uncovered.

The group could not leave the water. Fifty-three people spread around the hollow, laying out hide sacks and leaves, carrying water, sleeping, waking. Three children were born; one did not survive the winter.

The one walked the edges of the group. Less reading the tracks of animals now, more checking whether anything was drawing near. When footprints appeared, they were sniffed for age. When soil had crumbled, the direction of passage was read from what remained.

That afternoon, the wind came from the east.

It was not the smell of animal fur. Not smoke. There was something else woven into the scent of wet stone. The one turned toward it. Lifted the nose, drew the air in once more.

On the eastern slope, another group.

Seen from a distance, the moving shapes numbered fewer than ten. They were archaic ones—or so they appeared—picking their way across the gravel. Their steps were heavy. They too were searching for water.

The one did not move.

Crouching, one hand pressed to the ground, following the scent without breaking. Someone from the group came close. The one raised a single hand. That was enough. The other stopped.

The archaic ones did not descend the slope.

Half a day's distance from the water, they turned. No one could say why. Perhaps the wind had shifted. Perhaps they had caught some other scent. They crossed the gravel ridge and disappeared.

The tension did not leave.

Each night, voices rose within the group. Not shouts—low, repeated sounds. When one person began, another would layer the same tone over it. Around the fire, bodies swaying, the sounds gathered into one another. The one sat outside the circle, listening, eyes turned toward the east.

Five years passed.

The fissure did not close. The water remained. The archaic group showed itself twice more, and both times withdrew. The one grew older; folding at the knees came a little slower. But the speed of reading tracks did not change.

In the last winter, a fire appeared on the eastern slope.

The one looked at it. Standing still, watching for a long time. Not a flame—a distant point of light. It wavered. It did not go out.

The one said nothing. Returned to the group, and slept.

By morning, the point of fire was gone.

From the night of seeing the white thing at the bottom of the water, sleep grew thin.

In the mornings, waking comes before the dark lifts. The fire is nearly out. Someone nearby is breathing. A child's voice rises briefly somewhere, then stops. The one lies still, looking up at the rock ceiling. The cracks in the rock are visible even in the dimness. A pattern seen many times before.

Every morning, the one goes to the water. That has not changed.

Reading footprints. The shape of an animal's claws where it came to drink, the way its weight was carried, how many hours ago it passed. That was the one's work. Whether the band moved on or stayed depended on the one's reading. Everyone knew this.

But lately, there is a gaze that comes to the back of the neck.

Turning around, no one is there. Across the fire, several faces are lowered. But the angle is slightly wrong. The angle of a face that is looking while pretending not to. The one knows that angle. It is the angle a prey animal's eyes take on when it is being pursued.

The one spoke of the white thing at the bottom of the water.

With voice and gesture, conveyed: something is in the water. White, like bone, but not bone. One person nodded. Another shifted the stone they were holding. The one saw the moment the grip changed.

That night, there was a cut on the back of the hand. No memory of when it had come. Perhaps from scraping against rock. Perhaps a nail.

When the hand went into the water, it was warm. That alone remains.

Something warm is coming from deep within the earth. There are no words for what it is. Without words, it moves only inside the body. Something deep in the belly seems to know. Not the head — the belly.

The one thinks about when to move the band. If they leave this water, where next? Beyond the eastern hills, there is the smell of the ancient people. To the south, the stones are many and the nights go cold. To the north there is a river, but whether it can be crossed depends on the season.

The one drew something in the ground with a finger. Not a line. Points. The place of the water. The place of the hills. The place of the river. Laid out, studied. In the ground beneath these fingertips, a decision waits.

The hand brushes the earth away. The one stands.

The back of the neck is still hot.

The legs were heavy.

That was all. Until the season before, the body had moved when he rose at dawn. Now there was a pause before standing. He placed his hands on his knees, steadied his breath, and then rose.

The group moved slowly northward. A band of the old people was pressing in from the south. The one knew this by smell. The way the smoke mixed had changed. Something that was not a beast's path was treading the earth.

The one lowered himself to one knee. He touched the claw marks with his fingers.

Deep. A heavy body had passed through. Not merely a beast.

One of the others stood nearby. Young. When the one placed his hand beside the claw marks, the young one did the same. He tried to convey something. The depth of the marks, their direction, the dampness of the soil. Single-syllable sounds, and the angle of the hand.

The young one nodded. Whether he had understood, the one could not tell.

That night, the one could not sleep.

He sat at the edge of the fire and watched the flames sink low. Many lights filled the sky. A dry wind came. Something inside the body felt distant, somehow. He opened his hand, then closed it.

He did not think of the number of claw marks he had read over the years. He had no words with which to think of them. Only the feeling that something rested in his hands, and no knowing of what it was.

The wind settled there.

From the north, faintly, came the smell of a beast. The one's nose moved. A familiar smell. No danger. Only that something lay in that direction.

The body did not move.

Perhaps he had tried to move it. Or perhaps he had decided that moving was no longer necessary.

The one remained seated at the edge of the fire and slowly tilted forward. His hands met the ground. He lay down where he was.

Someone noticed. They drew close. A sound came from their throat.

The one's body was still warm. But it read nothing now. Before dawn arrived, the strength went out of his hands. The smell of the beast still drifted in from the north.

The prey was heavy.

The antlered head slung over one shoulder knocked against the back with every step. The heat gathered at the hips. The earth was dry, and it cracked underfoot with each stride.

The group was half a day ahead.

The one did not hurry. It was not that hurrying was impossible. The one was thinking about what hurrying meant. What that was, there was no telling. Only that the feet stopped.

There was something in the air.

Not the smell of char. Not earth. Something closer to the sensation of movement beneath the skin. The one moved the nose. Turned the head to the right. Beyond the dry grass, the edge of a rocky outcrop. The one did not know. That beyond those rocks, another group was there.

The ancient ones.

Large of body, with eyes set deep in their sockets. The one's group had crossed paths with them before. There had been conflict. There had been times when food was offered. They had no name. They were simply "the others."

The one pressed into the shadow of a rock.

Belly met ground. It felt as though the sound of the heart passed into the soil. From the edge of the outcrop came the voices of the others. Low sounds, drawn from deep in the throat. Different from the voices of the one's group.

One of them looked this way.

Whether their eyes met, there was no knowing. The one did not move in the shadow of the rock. The weight of the prey lay across the back. To flee would make noise. To leave it behind would mean no return.

A long stillness.

The others moved. They disappeared into the depths of the outcrop. The one remained pressed to the ground for a time. The sound of the heart grew slowly, quietly still.

Rose.

Readjusted the load, and walked.

When the one returned to the group, nothing was said. There were no words for "the others were there." The prey was set down. The one sat by the fire.

That night, keeping watch over the fire, the one looked in the direction of the outcrop.

Dark. Nothing visible. Still, the one looked.

Among the group, an elder watched the one. Eyes that seemed to sense something. Eyes that know something, the one felt. The next morning, the place where the one slept had moved to the edge of the group.

The one did not notice.

Or perhaps noticed, but did not understand what it meant.

Three days later, the one went out to look for prey and did not return.

No one in the group went looking.