292,085 BCE – 291,965 BCE | Episodes 1585–1608

The dry season came.

The grass yellowed and fell, the mud cracked, and white lines ran across the earth. The one sat on the hillside. There was no longer any load to carry. The day before, an older woman had taken it away. The lightened back felt, if anything, less trustworthy.

The throat ached.

It had begun a few days earlier. Each time the one swallowed, there was the sensation of pressing sand down inside. Fever rose from deep within the body, and at night sleep was only possible with a cheek pressed against the ground.

The group was moving. The footsteps of those walking ahead fell dull and muted on the dry earth. The one tried to follow. Stood. Took three steps. The fourth did not come.

A collapse from the knees.

No one turned around.

In the dry riverbed, there was no water. Only stones remained. Rounded stones, long narrow stones, white stones. The one picked one up. Why, it was impossible to say. Only that the weight settling into the palm felt, just then, like something right.

Still holding the stone, the one lay down.

The sky was white. There were no clouds, and the light spread evenly, leaving no shadow anywhere. Far off, someone was crying out. A child's voice, or a bird's — there was no way to tell them apart.

The wind came.

It touched the one's cheek and passed on.

There was a feeling of the fever slowly leaving the body. Whether this was the fever's end, or whether something else was coming to an end, the one could not determine. The one did not possess the words needed to determine it.

The stone in the closed hand shifted slightly between the fingers.

The grip had loosened.

The stone did not roll. It stayed cradled in the hollow of the palm, resting there together with the body of the one.

In the morning, came down to the water.

When the foot was set on the muddy edge, there was a shadow on the far bank. A large shadow. Not four-legged. Standing on two. The smell was different. A sound nearly came, and did not.

The stone was gripped.

The shadow did not move.

The one did not move.

The river flowed. That alone was moving.

When the sun rose high, the shadow was gone. Where it had gone was unknown. The one drank. There was the taste of earth in the mouth.

On the way back to the group, there was the smell of burning.

The feet stopped.

The smell came from somewhere up and to the right. No smoke could be seen. But the smell was there. The direction of that shadow.

The stone was turned over in the hand. A cracked stone. Split the morning before by striking it against another. The edge was sharp.

Returned to the group.

At night, sat beside the fire. An older male faced away, chewing something. A child sat too close to the fire; a woman pulled the child back.

The one slept with the stone still held in the right hand.

Waking came before dawn.

The stomach was growling. The young woman sleeping nearby turned over, and her elbow caught the one's side. The one sat up.

The sky was blue. The sun had not yet risen.

The one walked to the edge of the rock and urinated standing up. Wind moved across the groin. Cold. The one felt along the ground with one foot, found a small stone, pressed weight into it. Then pressed again, as if to confirm the feeling beneath the sole.

A smell came.

Sweet. Strong.

The throat moved before the mind did. Down the slope, pushing through a thicket of low shrubs, westward. Thorns dragged across the arm. A line of blood followed. It was not noticed.

On a low branch, several round fruits hung. The skins had split, and the flesh drooped from them. Flies had gathered. The one brushed the flies away with a hand and took a fruit. Teeth broke through the skin. Sweetness and sourness arrived together. The pit was spat out. Another fruit taken. Another eaten.

At the fifth, the hand went still.

It was not that something felt wrong. The movement simply stopped. Sweetness still lingered in the mouth. Juice caught the light on the one's hand.

The one turned to face east.

There was no reason for it. The east was simply there.

The outline of the hill had grown bright in the morning light. The one looked toward it for a time. Looked, but did not move.

The stomach was full.

The one turned back and retraced the way. The sound of footsteps on branches fell into the stillness of the morning.

Holding breath in the shadow of a rock.

The face ahead is unknown. The lines of the back are different. The angle of the feet is different. The way skin is worn is different. He had followed the animal's tracks here. The other had followed the same tracks.

In the mud near the water, there are hoof prints. Fresh. The scent still lingers.

The stranger holds a short club. He is not looking this way. He is looking at the animal's tracks.

The one does not move.

His stomach sounds. Three days without eating anything large. Yesterday, at the gathering of his people, dried seed-grain was divided. There was little. The children ate first, and what remained fit in a single handful.

The edge of the rock presses into his back.

The stranger takes one step closer to the water.

The one's hand searches the ground for a stone. Fingers rake through soil. A round stone. Heavy.

The stranger turns around.

Their eyes meet.

Neither moves.

Wind comes from the right. It carries off the animal's scent. Near the water, something splashes. The sound of water. An animal is there.

The stranger looked away first. One step toward the water.

The one rises too.

Both move toward the water. Not side by side. Keeping distance. The stone still in hand. The other does not lower his club.

The animal was there. Medium-sized. Drinking. It sensed the presence of two and lifted its head.

The one threw first.

The stone struck the animal's flank. The animal ran. The stranger threw his club. It missed.

The animal vanished into the undergrowth.

What remained was two people, an empty watering place, and the prints left in the mud.

The stranger made a short sound. Whether it was anger or laughter, the one could not tell.

The one made a sound too. Perhaps a similar one.

The stranger pressed a finger into the mud near the water. The hoof prints. The direction the animal had gone.

The one looked.

The stranger began walking in that direction. Without looking back. Without saying the other could follow. Without saying he could not.

The one waited a moment. Then followed.

The stone was still in his hand.

When the sun began to lean, they brought the animal down.

Together, they brought it down. Whose stone had struck first, the one could not say.

When dividing the meat, the stranger took the larger portion first.

The one said nothing. He took what remained. It was heavy. It was enough.

When they parted, the stranger made another short sound.

The one made a sound too.

That was all.

An unknown man moved.

Pressed flat against the earth behind the rock, the one held the muscles of his jaw rigid. The sound of the stranger's feet pressing into mud. Weight forward. He was carrying a spear — the angle of it, the set of his shoulders, made that clear.

Run?

The treeline was too far. The river was to the right. The left was too open.

The unknown man turned toward him.

Their eyes met.

The one made no sound. Something contracted deep in his belly. Not the look of a man who has found prey. But not the look of a man who has found his own kind, either.

The man lowered his spear.

The one did not lower his.

Neither moved. The sound of the river went on. Wind came from the south. Into the one's nostrils came the smell of scorched animal fat — the smell of that other group's fire. Distant, but not last night's fire. They were camped nearby.

The man opened his mouth. Sounds came out. Not the words of the one's group. The shapes of the sounds were rounded. The consonants soft.

The one did not answer.

The man placed something on the ground. A stone. Split at one end. Not ground into shape — struck apart. The one's group made them too. Not the same, but a shape with the same intention.

The man stepped back.

The one looked at the stone. Looked at the man. Looked at the stone.

He did not pick it up.

The man stepped back once more and vanished into the trees. The one remained still for a time. The feeling of earth against his belly, the dampness of the grass, the distant ghost of fire still lingering in the back of his nose.

The stone was on the ground.

The one stood. He approached the stone. Touched it with his foot. Did not pick it up.

Something called out in the distance. A bird. The one looked toward it. Several in the sky. The direction — toward the settlement.

He ran.

The stone remained.

Half-buried in the grass, holding the light of evening.

The man stopped.

The one lay flat against the ground, pressed into the shadow of a rock, not releasing the tension in their jaw. The rhythm of the man's feet in the mud had changed. He was not hurrying.

He was carrying prey.

A foreleg came into view. The still-soft ankle of a small herbivore. Blood dripping. Fresh.

The one's throat moved, just slightly.

The man did not look back. He passed through the trees and disappeared in another direction. His footsteps grew distant. Grew distant. Were gone.

The one still did not move.

The earth beneath was damp. An insect passed alongside a finger. The one's eyes remained fixed on the place where the man had vanished.

After a time, they rose.

When the spine straightened, a bone sounded.

The one traced with their eyes the path the man had walked. Two footprints in the mud, then three. The depth varied. Proof of a burden carried. The one looked at those prints for a moment.

Then began walking in another direction.

Hungry. But before that — something remained, deeper in the belly. The rhythm of that man's footsteps. Unhurried. Full.

The one had no word for it.

Only that rhythm remained, somewhere deep inside.

The edge of the cliff was wet.

Fog had been coming in since morning. The valley below lay buried in white, and above there was light. Between the two, the one stood. Weight balanced evenly across both legs, arms held slightly open.

For three days now, voices in the group had been growing harsh. Others with unfamiliar faces had appeared on the far side of the river. Whether they had followed the scent of food or were simply passing through, the one did not know. There was no need to know. When hungry, one fights. That was all.

The one preferred to walk along the rim of the cliff. It offered some distance from the elder who gave directions, and from the sounds of the children. Wind rose from below the cliff face. No scent of animals. Only water.

That morning, a rock shifted.

It happened the moment a foot came down on the fog-dampened surface. The sound was brief. The time between that and the body beginning to tilt was short, and in that interval the one reached for nothing. Perhaps there had been an intention to reach. In the fog, one arm opened, just once.

A single sound fell into the valley.

The fog drifted on, unchanged. At the top of the cliff, a single set of footprints remained at the wet edge of the rock. Neither deep nor shallow.

Tending the fire lasts through the night.

Choose wet wood and smoke rises. Smoke gets in the eyes. Tears come. It is not crying. The one has no words yet to hold that distinction, but the body knows it.

The hands that choose the wood remember. Dry wood is light. You can tell just by picking it up. Heavy wood takes time before it catches, and in that time the flames shrink. Watching the flames shrink, something at the bottom of the stomach goes cold. What that something is, the one cannot say.

A child is crying. Some child always cries in the middle of the night. Lately the voice has grown quieter. Whether the strength to cry is fading, or whether the child has simply grown used to it, the one cannot tell.

Wind came from the east.

There was a smell of burning. The direction of the hill that had burned three days ago. The one looked away from the fire and gazed toward the dark east. Nothing was visible. Only the night and the outlines of trees.

The smell came again.

The one stood up. Sat back down. Stood up again.

The adults were sleeping. The child's crying had stopped. The fire had grown small.

The one added a piece of wood. Smoke rose. The eyes began to sting. Still seated, the one went on looking east for a time.

Just looking.

At last the wind shifted and the smell was gone.

The one turned back to the fire. Arms around knees, watching the flames. The flames were neither large nor small. They simply burned.

The fire was dying down.

The one broke off a branch and pushed it in. The flames shrank for a moment, then returned. The night air was cold, the temperature different across the back and the belly.

At the edge of the camp, beneath a rock face. Of the three fires burning, the one at the far end had been entrusted to the one. The middle fire and the far one belonged to the older members. The one had not yet been called to those.

A sound.

From the grove to the north.

The one did not stand. Sitting still, only the ears turned. The sound did not continue. It was not wind, not animal. It was the sound of something having stopped.

After a time, a shadow appeared at the edge of the grove.

Tall. Shoulders broader than anyone in this group. Arms longer.

The one felt something harden in the back of the throat. Something that lived just before a cry — soundless, nameless.

The shadow did not move. It was watching the fire. No — watching past the fire. Watching the one.

The one pushed another branch into the fire. There was no reason for it. The hands simply needed to do something.

The shadow sat down slowly. On the ground. Far away. Some thirty paces from the fire, folding the body with knees drawn close to the chest.

Not an enemy. Probably. The one had no word for probably, but the body knew it. The floor of the belly loosened, just slightly.

The two of them did not move.

The fire swayed. The shadow swayed. Neither said anything.

The night deepened. The shadow was gone. At some point, without notice, it had simply left.

The one sat with knees drawn up, still watching the fire.

From deep within the rock face, someone turned over in sleep. A child's voice rose once, then stopped.

The one placed another branch into the fire.

Until morning. That was the duty.

In the morning, the one gathered the remaining embers with a branch. Ash rose and entered the throat. A cough came.

The one watched as the others went one by one to drink. It was not yet one's own turn.

Past midday, a child was crying. The mother rocked it. When she stopped, it cried again. The one watched for a moment, then looked away.

There was work to be done — gathering grass for the sleeping place. Choose the long ones. The short ones are no use. Bend at the waist, pull, bundle. The back ached. Rest. Bend again.

Toward evening, the one stopped at the place where grass met rock.

Something touched the nose. The scent of animal, the scent of earth, and one more — something else. The one had no name for it. Only the feet, which no longer moved.

For a little while, the one stood there.

Then turned back toward the camp. Not quickly. At an ordinary pace.

At night, the one sat beside the fire. Within the flames, a dark core appeared. Watching it, the core vanished. Then returned. The one sat with both hands on the knees and went on watching.

The wind came. The fire leaned. Then it came back.

Tending the fire is work that allows no sleep.

Breaking branches. The ones that will not break are pressed against the knee, weight brought to bear. Those that still refuse are set aside. Fire eats thick and thin the same. Only the manner of eating differs.

The smoke bent.

The one looked up. The smoke was facing east. It was not the wind. The wind came from the south. And yet the smoke moved east. Once, and only once.

Something lies to the east.

The one already knew. There was another fire to the east. Someone had come back during the day, having seen smoke, and shook their head as many times as fingers on a hand. Not close, but not far.

Still holding the stone against one knee, the one did not stand.

A thin branch was added to the fire. The fire rose a little. The smoke climbed straight up, then was pressed by the southern wind and vanished somewhere.

The one settled onto a rock. Cold. The back drew in the night air.

The one did not think about the fire to the east. That fire might not go out. It might go out. It was the same as this fire.

Morning came.

A red core remained in the ash. The one leaned close and breathed on it. The core brightened. A branch was laid on top. The fire returned.

The people began to move. The one stayed sitting beside the fire, and slept a little.

The rainy season had ended.
At the southern edge of the first land, the red soil had dried and cracked, and small insects crept out from the fissures. The grass had grown to knee height. At the rim of the watering hole, animal tracks overlapped one another, impossible to distinguish by origin or time.

The one went to draw water.
Holding the skin pouch with both hands, pressing it beneath the surface. The water was lukewarm. It was the end of summer.

The group now gathered around two fires.
The northern fire and the southern fire. As the nights passed, which fire one sat beside was beginning to define where one belonged. The one slept near the southern fire, but waking in the night, could see the northern fire still burning. Perhaps thirty paces away. Yet no one moved between them.

One morning, the leather cord that tied the mouth of the skin pouch was gone.
The one searched. It could not be found. In its place, several thin grasses were twisted together to make a cord. It was not done well. A little water leaked.

Two archaic ones were living in the lowlands to the east.
Their posture was different. Their way of walking was different. The one had once drunk from the same watering hole as archaic ones. The others had left first. This time, the distance between them never closed, and the two disappeared into the low grasses.

Among those who gathered around the northern fire, there was a young man.
About ten years younger than the one. He was fast when he ran, and could throw a stone a great distance. Lately, when he passed through the place where the one stayed, his eyes no longer turned that way. Before, they had exchanged brief sounds. Now they did not.

The third winter.
The grass withered, the animals grew scarce, and the hours of tending the fire grew longer. The one often kept the fire through the whole night. When the wood was damp, the smoke thickened and stung the eyes. The smoke reddened the corners of them.

That night, the smell of the fire changed.
Not the smell of dry wood burning — something else was threaded through it, something like the fat of an animal, drifting in from the east. The one lifted its nose. The body went still. Something like a question — from where — arose inside, though it did not become words. The feet did not move. Only the face kept turning toward that direction.

The fourth spring.
The one slipped near the watering hole. A knee was struck against the ground. The wound was not severe, but for several days each step brought pain. An older woman in the group chewed the leaves of a certain plant and pressed them to the wound. By the following morning, the pain had eased a little. The one looked at the woman's face. She said nothing.

Around that time, two people vanished from the group.
When morning came, a man and a woman who had been near the northern fire were gone. No one went to look for them. No one said anything aloud. Near the southern fire, everyone sat as though they had become a little smaller.

The one watched the fire.
The flame drew itself thin as a single tongue, then spread again. Something had ended. But the one could not grasp what it was. A stone was picked up. Set down. Picked up again.

The fifth autumn.
The northern fire went out.
Not simply went out — there was no longer anyone to keep it burning. Those who had gathered around the northern fire disappeared one by one over three days. The last of them was still there when the one returned from drawing water. Their eyes met. It was a man. The man made a brief sound. The one returned a brief sound. The next morning, the man was gone.

Only the southern fire remained.

The one's knee had healed. The cord of twisted grass had, at some point, been wound three times over and was now stronger than before. The one shouldered the skin pouch and walked toward the watering hole. There was no hurry in the steps. Only the walking toward.

It was ten days ago that the grass roots became visible.

The water hole had shrunk. The pale dried mud at its edge stretched wider than it had the week before. The one knelt at the rim and scooped mud with both hands, waiting for water to seep through between the fingers.

Three days had passed since the stomach stopped its grumbling.

The tending of the fire continued. During the daylight hours when only the old and the children remained in the camp, the one sat beside the fire and added pieces of wood. The smoke rose thin and straight. There was no wind that day.

Something moved to the east.

There was a smell. The smell of skin rotting. The one could not rise. The legs would not move. Not that they refused — it was more as though the knowledge of how to move them had been forgotten, and so the one simply remained seated.

From somewhere distant came the sound of a child crying.

Someone arrived and lifted the child up. The voice grew far away.

The one watched the fire. Not the flames — the edges of the embers, glowing red. Watched as that red slowly darkened.

The thought of adding more wood never came.

The skin was hot.

The one lay face-up on the ground. The sky was white. Each time the leaves stirred in the wind, light fell and vanished.

Getting up was not impossible.

That was not the problem. With knees drawn in, standing was within reach. But the one did not stand. The hardness of the ground came through the back, and the one remained there.

There was no hunger. Yesterday, someone had chewed open a nut and pressed it into the one's mouth. The taste still lingered somewhere deep.

Not far off, the larger ones moved. Voices cut through the air. Something struck the ground. The one did not look that way.

Fingers moved through the grass.

The grass was thin. Pulled, it came free. A hand reached again and took hold of another blade. Mud clung to the root. The mud moved onto the fingers. The one brought the muddy fingers close to the face and looked.

There was a smell.

Damp and heavy. The one held the fingers close and breathed it in for a while.

The wind shifted.

From the west, a different smell arrived. Char, and something else — something without a name — threaded through it. The body knew before the mind did. The legs drew in slightly. The shoulders rose.

A loud voice came.

From the edge of the group, the sound of running came. Still holding the grass, the one turned toward the sound. Two of the larger ones came back at a quick pace. Behind them, another shape followed.

It was a different form.

Not a form the one knew. The shoulders sat at a different height. The brow bone jutted differently. The one did not know what it was. Only watched.

The voices of the larger ones rose in pitch.

A child began to cry. Somewhere, a stone was thrown — the sound of it came clearly. The one pressed a hand to the ground and raised the body upright. The grass remained in the hand.

The one stood, still holding the grass.

When they put their feet into the water, the sand at the bottom shifted.

It was cold. Colder than last year. The body remembered last year.

Where the light had split, there was a stone.

When they lifted it, it was heavier than expected. Flat, and it fit within the palm. The chipped edge met the thumb. It was sharp. It did not hurt.

Beside them, another child slapped the water and laughed. Drops struck their face. The one did not laugh.

They came out of the water still holding the stone.

They sat on the ground and pressed the stone against the earth. It scraped. A white powder came away. There was a smell. Like the ground after rain.

They pressed it again. It scraped again.

One of the adults from the group passed nearby. They did not look over.

The one looked at the stone. They ran the pad of their thumb along the chipped edge. Looked again.

Nothing had changed, exactly.

They set the stone down. Picked it up again. Set it down.

The sun tilted, and the shadows grew long. They were still holding it.

The night the woman grew still, the one had moved away from the fire.

At the edge of the group, where low grass rippled in the wind, the one sat with knees drawn up and chin resting on them. The sounds of the grassland came through the body. The chorus of insects. Something moving, somewhere in the distance. The fact that the woman's voice had stopped partway through remained in the body as a kind of sound.

The child's crying began.

The one did not lift the chin from the knees. Listening to the crying. The ears turned toward the direction the sound was coming from.

Then the wind came.

The smell of grass arrived. The one's nostrils moved, there above the knees. Not rain. Not water. But something with the smell of wetness. It came from the south. The body turned to face that direction, and stayed there, unmoving.

A stone was in the hand. How long it had been there, the one likely could not have said. The hand closed around it. Opened. Closed again.

The child's crying continued.

Someone had lifted it — that much could be heard. The crying changed slightly. The one, still facing south, turned the stone inside the hand. It had an edge. The edge pressed into the palm.

The night deepened.

The one lay down in the grass without moving from that spot. Fell asleep still holding the stone. The hand did not open.

By morning, when the one woke, the stone lay in the grass beside the open hand. The one did not pick it up. Rose, looked once toward the south.

Then turned back toward where the group was.

Where the river split in two, the spring waters surged. Mud repainted the banks, and shallow pools formed in hollows that had been dry the year before. Reeds grew tall, birds arrived, and from the ground where their droppings fell, something new put forth shoots. The earth was busy, and asked no reasons.

The one sat at the edge of the marsh. Cold mud pressed against the soles of both feet. There was nothing particular being done. Simply being there.

To the north, a group of the old people had begun to move. Not three — more than that. Seven, or eight. A band carrying young ones pushed through the undergrowth. Their gait was heavy, their footprints deep. By morning, the impressions they left in the mud had filled with water.

In the one's own group, a man was injured. Not his arm — his foot. He had misjudged the edge of a rock, and his ankle bent inward. Half a day passed before the swelling came. Someone wrapped it in a strip of hide; someone else brought water. The one watched. Then turned and walked away in another direction.

The rainy season came. Low stretches of grassland pooled with water, and the paths of animals shifted. The herds no longer passed through the usual valley. Food grew scarce. The children cried more often. One old woman, in the corner of a shelter, stopped moving, and did not meet the next morning. Even after her body had grown cold and rigid, someone sat beside her.

The one sat beside her too. Still, close to that cooling body.

The territories of the old people's group and this one's group overlapped at the edge of the wetlands. No one knew which had come there first. There was something close to a standoff, but no stones were thrown. One of the old people called out in a loud voice, and the men of the one's group answered with their own voices. That was all. Both sides drew back and disappeared, each in their own direction.

For some time afterward, the one's body trembled. Whether it was fear or excitement, there was no way to tell.

Autumn came and fruits fell. The one picked up a fruit, put it in their mouth, found it bitter, and spat it out. Picked up another — it was sweet. Swallowed it. Picked up more. Cupped both hands together in place of a pouch and walked toward the shelter. Some fell along the way. They were gathered up. More fell again.

In this way, five years passed.

At the beginning of winter, the river changed its sound. Something must have collapsed upstream — the water ran cloudy, and stones came rolling down. The sound continued through the whole of the night. The one could not sleep, lying there facing the direction of the sound. The body did not move. Only the ears were open.

That one did not climb the slope.

Near the river, a hide was being beaten with a stone. Strike, shift, strike again. With each blow the hide grew a little thinner — this the one knew. Only this.

Toward evening, in the mist, the hide was rolled up and carried home.

Mud pressed itself between the toes.

The water was deeper than yesterday. What had reached the ankles was now halfway up the shins by morning. The one stopped and took stock of the feeling underfoot. The mud held on. Putting weight down, there was the slow sink of it. Pulling free, a sound.

Near the bank, food had gathered. Roots that had washed in, floating insects, the small carcasses of creatures swept from somewhere. The one picked at them. Put them in the mouth. Picked again.

The others in the group were on higher ground. Up on the rock shelf, a child was crying. It would stop, then start again. The sound traveled across the surface of the water.

The one did not look back.

After walking a while, a fallen tree came into view, its roots thrust upward and a wall of earth behind them. There was a hollow there, and within it the feeling of an animal. Whether it had settled in or been swept here was unclear. The one crouched. Brought the nose close.

The smell was old. Whatever had been there was gone.

Inside the hollow, it was dry.

The one pushed the body in. Knees drawn up, it fit just so. Outside, the rain began again. The sound of water rose and fell on the other side of the roots, and then settled into something steady.

The one did not close the eyes. Only listened.

Within the sound of the rain, there was another sound. Faint. Not regular. But something that repeated.

A hand touched the soil at the base of the roots. Damp. A little deeper, hard. Below that again, soft. The hand stopped. Once more, from the top. Damp. Hard. Soft.

Three times the hand moved through the same sequence.

The child's voice from outside had gone quiet. Only the rain remained.

On a morning when the rain had eased, the one stood halfway up the hill.

Looking down, there was water where yesterday there had been grass. Only the tips of the reeds rose above the surface, swaying gently though there was no wind.

The one stood with both arms hanging at their sides and did not move for a long while.

Behind them, the elder coughed. The one did not turn.

They went back to where the fire was. They picked up a piece of wet wood and leaned it against another. They looked at it for a moment. It did not catch. They picked up another piece and leaned it the same way. The body was tired, though nothing had been done.

A child bumped into their knees. The one reached out and laid a hand on the child's back. Hand still resting there, they looked again at the water below.

In the evening, someone in the group said something in a low voice. Another answered. The one listened to the exchange but said nothing.

That night, the fire burned low. The one sat up and added a piece of wood. The fire came back. They lay down again.

For a while they lay with eyes open, looking up at the rock above.

They were on the hill.

Since the waters rose, the group had stayed here. The grass on the slope was short, the wind moved through it, and the nights were cold. The one often lay down in the shadow of a rock. The body no longer obeyed. The knees had been swollen. For many years now.

In the mornings, the others descended to the water's edge. The one watched them go, then rose slowly, after a delay.

They crossed the rocks with a dragging step. The right knee held heat. Still, the body kept moving. The one knew that stopping would only make things worse. Not as knowledge held in the mind. The body knew it.

A young one came back carrying a fish. They set it down in front of the one. Set it down, and left.

The one picked up the fish. The scales were cold. A press of the thumb and the flesh gave slightly. It was fresh. It went into the mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Chewed again. A bone caught between the teeth. The tongue worked it free.

After finishing, the palms were wiped on the grass.

When the sun had climbed high, a voice rose from somewhere down the slope. An angry voice. The one stood.

Two young ones faced each other. One held a stone. The other did not. The one stepped between them. Reached out and gripped the arm of the one holding the stone. Was shaken off. Reached again.

The stone came down.

Not on the head. On the shoulder. The one staggered back a step. Then another. The edge of the slope went unnoticed.

The foot slipped.

A tumble through the rocks. Grass cut across the face. There was no stopping. All the way to the foot of the hill, coming to rest in the mud.

Lying face up. The sky was white.

The right hand was gripping the grass. It closed, released. Closed once more.

At the base of the grass, an insect was there. The one's eyes turned toward it. The insect moved. Moved again. It disappeared beneath a leaf.

The one's hand stayed open, and was still.

Standing at the edge of the hill, looking out at the river.

The water stirred the grass at their feet. The one stepped back. Voices from the group sounded behind them. They did not turn.

One dead tree, holding still against the current.

The one looked at it for a long time. There was no understanding why it remained there. Without understanding, they kept looking.

The river had already reached the shoulder of the hill.

The shallow valley was gone. Where the reed beds had been, there was now a surface of brown water. There was almost no current — it simply spread there, present and still.

The one was up in a tree.
Back resting against the trunk, feet tangled in the branches, looking down.

Insects floated on the water. Insects with wet wings, unable to move, several of them. Fish were eating them from below. The surface swelled slightly, then settled. Swelled, and settled.

The old ones were on the far side of the hill.
Smoke had been rising for three days. At night it disappeared. In the morning it rose again.

The one's group had gathered along the southern edge of the hill. Eleven people. Two elders, four children, the rest young.

When the one climbed down from the tree, the ground was dry. The clay soil of the hill did not draw water deep even when wet. Walking, the one felt the firmness of that earth through bare soles.

The stomach was empty.

Yesterday, a small animal caught in a snare had been divided among three. They had split the bones and eaten what was inside. Today nothing had been caught.

On the eastern slope, there was a child of the old ones.

The one stopped.

The child did not move. A round brow, a wide nose, only the eyes moved. They looked at the one's hands, then the feet, then the hands again.

Neither of them did anything.

Wind came down from the top of the hill.
The smell of the old ones' child reached the one. The smell of smoke. The smell of animal fat. Then the smell of charred bone.

The one turned toward the smell.

Beyond the slope, the old ones were burning something. A large kill. The smell was thick.

Something sounded inside the one's stomach.

The one did not move.
The child did not move.

After a time, the child turned and climbed back up the slope.

The one watched until the child was gone. Did not follow. Did not approach. Only stood there. Feeling the firmness of the hill's soil through the soles of both feet.

Three days later, the smoke from the old ones was gone.
They had moved north, most likely. Only traces remained. The mark of ash, fragments of bone, ground that had been trampled and pressed down.

The one walked around the traces.
Touched the ash. It was still faintly warm. The tips of the fingers turned black. The one brought those fingers close to the face and breathed in the smell.

Something lay near the bones.

A stone. Flat, with a sharp edge. Whether the old ones had used it and left it behind, or whether it had always been there, there was no way to know.

The one picked it up.

It had weight. It settled into the palm. The edge was tested with the thumb. Thin, uneven, sharp on one side only.

The one carried it and walked back toward the group.

Light was falling on what had been left behind.

The midday sun was falling precisely on that stone. It was not chance. The Giver did not use chance. The Giver only placed the light there. Whether anyone noticed was another matter.

The one noticed.

*The hand that picked up the stone* paused as it touched the edge.

What had arrived, exactly, was unclear. The shape the old ones had made was pointing toward something. Not where an edge is born, but simply that an edge exists — that alone was what mattered.

Yet the question remained.
Whether the one who had received the shape could pass on the making of the shape.

What is passed on next lies beyond that edge.

One of the elders in the group looked at the stone.

"That — where?"

The one gestured with a hand toward the north.

The elder said nothing. After looking at it for a while, the elder looked away.

That year, the rains were scarce.
By the end of summer, the river had dropped. The reeds came back, a layer of mud appeared along the bank, and birds walked across it.

Twice that season, the one found the tracks of large prey by the river.
Gave chase both times. Neither was brought down.

The stone was tucked into the cord wrapped at the waist. Carried every day.

That winter, one of the elders did not return.
Went out in the morning. Was not back by evening. Was not back the next day either. They searched, but found nothing. The traces moved on on the third day — below a slope, just before a field of rock.

The one stood for a long time looking down at the rocks below.

Took out the stone. Held it in the hand.

Set it down.

Picked it up again.

The water had come.

Yesterday it had been at the ankles. This morning it reached the knees. Looking down from the fork of the tree, the brown surface had swallowed the roots below. The pale roots could still be seen through the water, swaying.

There was no climbing down.

The stomach groaned. A third time.

Across the water, the sounds of the group carried through the air. Far away. Not words — just sound. Someone shouting. Someone striking something. Wood, or stone.

The one clung to the trunk and watched the surface. There was no current. The water simply spread. Slowly, but without pause, it spread.

The soles of the feet felt the bark beneath them. That alone was solid. That alone did not move.

Somewhere, some weight had tilted, the one thought.

The body knew it. Not the mind. Something deep in the belly knew. Not here. This is not the place.

The water's surface caught the light.

Where the light fell was on the other side of the water. Three trees stood there. Which tree could not be seen. Only the light, holding that direction for a moment, then gone.

The one descended from the tree into the water.

It came up to the waist. Cold. The feet sank into the mud at the bottom. With every step, the body lurched and swayed.

The water was crossed. The sounds of the group drew nearer.

At the base of another tree, there was a child. A girl. She was not crying. She stood in the water with her arms held out before her.

The one took hold of the child's arms.

They walked together. Where the water deepened, the one lifted the child onto the shoulders. The child was heavy. The mud coiled around the feet.

The sounds of the group came closer.

There was higher ground. A mass of rock rose above the surface. The others of the group were there. An old woman sat alone, watching the water. Two young men stood at the edge of the rock, shouting at something. What they shouted at was the water. The water gave no answer.

The child was set down on the rock.

The one turned back to look at the water. The stand of trees had grown distant. The light was gone.

The belly groaned again.