299,045 BCE – 298,925 BCE | Episodes 193–216

The one woke before the others stirred.

The fire had burned low. Kneeling beside it, the one fed in broken branches. Smoke drifted sideways. The wind had shifted. The wind that usually came down from the mountains was today crawling up from the lowlands.

The one had tended fire for a long time. Many years. It had been a place to belong.

The others began to move. A woman dragged something over. A child fell and cried. The crying stopped. Someone was beating a scrap of meat against a stone. The sound pressed itself into the morning air.

Feeding wood to the fire, the one watched two figures standing face to face at the edge of the group.

No voices. No growling. Only standing.

The one did not understand what was happening. But something low in the belly had been tight since morning.

Midday came.

The conflict began without sound.

Not fists. Stones. One figure at the edge of the group lifted a stone and brought it down. That was all it took. Everything after was fast.

The one was near the fire. Tried to move, but the legs were slow. They had always been slow. Since childhood, running had never come easily.

A stone came. From which direction, the one could not tell.

The one fell sideways.

A cheek met the earth. The earth was dry. Faintly warm.

The sound of fire. Still burning.

The sky was pale. One cloud hung without moving.

The one's hand closed around the roots of the grass. No strength came. The hand fell open.

A stone came flying.

It struck the cheek. Not a dull pain, but a sharp, sudden impact. The one did not fall, but went down on one knee. Something warm spread through the mouth.

A short distance away, two large figures stood watching. Both grown men. Both familiar faces. The one had known them. Should not have come here.

There had been meat. Beside charred bone, the flesh of a leg still held its shape. The one was hungry. It was the custom for children to wait until the group had finished eating, but that day the waiting was impossible. A hunger where the skin of the belly seemed to press against the spine.

One of the men drew closer.

The one stood. Stood, and ran. Running, something was waited for along the back — another stone, perhaps, or a hand. But nothing came. Grass tangled around the feet. A low thicket was pushed through.

Then stillness.

Steadying breath, the one spat onto the ground what had filled the mouth. It was red.

The one crouched and pulled a single grass stem from the earth. Put it in the mouth. It was bitter. But without something to spit out, the body did not feel it could remain in that place.

From a distance, the voices of the men drifted over. Not angry — already the sound of having forgotten.

The one listened.

Spat out the grass. Stood. Began walking in a direction away from the group. There was no thought of where to go. Only the feet moving.

Into the shadow of a rocky overhang. Another child was there, alone, arms wrapped around drawn-up knees, asleep. The one looked at that child. Looked for a moment. Then rested against the wall and closed the eyes.

Sleep did not come.

The mouth still hurt. The center of the pain shifted slightly. Touched with the tongue. Swollen.

The one opened the eyes and looked up at the stone ceiling.

No thoughts. No feelings. Simply being there.

Evening came. From the direction of the group, the smell of smoke drifted over. A fire had been lit, perhaps. The one's belly growled again. This time there was a rising. This time, a return.

The men were by the fire. They looked at the one. And then did not look.

The one sat at the edge. Meat was distributed. Last, but it was there.

It was eaten. Bone taken into the mouth, marrow drawn out. Then the bone set down on the ground.

One of the men was watching the one.

The one did not meet his eyes.

The earth was soft after the rain had passed.

Each step sank deeper than usual. The mud was warm, drawing the ankles down. The one walked along the edge of the settlement. There was nowhere in particular to go. Simply walking.

The wound on the cheek had not yet closed. A thin skin was beginning to form over it. When touched with the tongue, a tooth still moved.

The settlement was lively. It was a season when many children had been born, and the women's voices were pitched higher than usual, and the men were returning with animals slung across their shoulders. The one stood outside that circle. The one knew the faces of those who had thrown the stones. Knew the faces, but not the reason for the throwing. The body knew. That to remain here was not permitted.

The one had come to the edge of the cliff.

Without noticing when.

Below, a river. Swollen with rain, its water running fast and yellow-brown with silt. The one stood there for a time and watched. Where the current struck the rocks below, the water turned white. The sound was loud.

There was no decision to step forward.

The mud shifted. The edge gave way. A foot moved into empty air. That was all.

Falling, the one looked up at the sky.

After rain, the sky was white.

The sound of entering the water was swallowed by the sound of the river.

There was a stone.

Not large. Flat and heavy, just enough to overflow the palm. It had been picked up once to crack the bones of animals. Somewhere along the way, carrying it had become simply a habit.

Each morning, before the group moved, the one would stand at the edge of the hill. Reading the wind. Watching the sway of the grass. Judging by smell where the traces of animals led. The others waited for this. Whichever direction this one turned, all of them followed.

The seasons of abundance had continued. Days of full bellies grew more frequent, and children increased, and voices increased.

Yet something had changed.

Another group had come. They were people of slightly different form. The way the brow jutted forward, the thickness of the shoulders, the weight of the stance. Not the same. And yet they used fire. They pursued animals. They sought water. There were places of overlap.

For a time, they coexisted at a distance.

The one knew that boundary. The body knew how far was too far. But within the group, some had begun to cross that line. The young ones. Full bellies had made them unafraid.

One night, voices rose near the fire.

By the time the one arrived, two were already down. One rose again. One did not. People from the other group had come as well. Shouts and low growls mingled. The one stepped between them.

Perhaps that had been a mistake. Or perhaps it had not. Perhaps it was neither.

The following morning, from within the group, a stone flew.

From the hand of someone the one knew.

Not the head — the side of the neck. There was a fall. An attempt to rise. The knees found the earth. The sounds around grew distant. Still gripping the stone, a hand pressed against the ground.

The soil was warm.

Morning light was turning the grass white.

The wind came.

From the one's hand, the stone rolled. It did not travel far. It came to rest just nearby.

The load was heavy.

There was a feeling of the shoulder bones grinding. The legs of an animal wrapped in hide, a stripped pelt, a bundle of roots only half dried. These had been bound to the back and carried. Many days of walking. On the soles of the feet, there were places where the skin had grown thick, and those places alone felt no pain.

The group chose the place for tonight.

The one set down the load. The flesh of the back had gone numb. Sat down to rest, but could not. The knees would not bend. The one stood with both hands braced on the load and remained that way for a time.

A wind came from the direction of the river.

A smell entered deep into the nose. The smell of something rotting. The smell of something wet. The one raised the head and looked upstream. Perhaps a tree had fallen. It could not be seen.

The one stopped looking at the river.

A fire was being made. Someone was striking stones together, dropping sparks into a bundle of dry grass. The one listened to that sound and began the work of spreading out the stripped pelt. The hide was stiff. The edges were worked with a stone, pressed down with a foot, worked again with the stone.

A child fell nearby and cried. The one did not look up.

The smell of fire spread. Someone was roasting meat. The belly of the one made a sound.

The one stopped working the hide and moved toward the fire. Someone held out a bone. The one took it and pulled the meat away with the teeth. The edge of the bone cut the gums. The taste of iron spread through the mouth.

Still, the one ate.

Night came. The sound of the river grew louder. The one wrapped the hide around the body and lay down. The feeling of muscle pressed tight against bone made sleep slow to come.

The one lay with eyes open and looked at the sky.

Stars were out.

The one did not know what they were. There was much light — that was all. The one closed the eyes. The sound of the river continued.

Even in the dry season, the river did not narrow.

Near the water, there was another group. Not a band of the old ones. These were people who shared the same kind of voice. Their faces were similar in shape. Similar, but different. Their scent was different.

The one had a habit of walking at the front. So the one was the first to see.

On the far bank, seven figures stood.

A low sound rose in the throat. The one turned back. The group stopped. The seven stopped as well. For a time, neither side moved.

That day, nothing happened.

Nor the next.

But when night came, the one could not sleep. Something pressed from deep within the chest. It was not pain. It was the kind of discomfort that offers no place to push, no way to find relief.

Within the group there was a man who carried an old wound. A raised scar ran beneath his jaw. One night, this man took the one by the arm. Pulled. Led the one behind a shelf of rock.

The man made no sound. He only gestured with his chin toward the far bank.

The one did not understand.

Three days later, the seven on the far bank had grown. They had doubled.

The one moved through the group. Checked what was being carried. Noted where the children were. Confirmed how much water remained. Nothing more could be done. There were no words. No form through which to convey it.

Light fell hard in one direction.

Upstream. The one looked. Several rocks had been stacked in the river, piling up in the current. The water was being held back. Whether those on the far bank had stacked them, or whether wind and rain had, there was no way to know.

The one turned toward the upstream bank.

Footsteps came from behind. Fast.

Before turning, the arm was already rising. A heavy stone struck the shoulder. The knees gave way.

As the one fell, another stone came down.

It was someone from within the group. The face could not be seen. The sun was behind them.

The one lay across the grass. The sound of the river was there. A bird was calling. Beneath the belly, the earth was damp.

The body tried to move. It did not move.

The discomfort from before was still there, inside the chest. Still present in that place where pressing brought no relief.

The sound of the river grew a little more distant.

The bird went on calling.

The grass moved in the wind and touched the one's hand. The one did not move the hand.

He threw a stone.

It did not reach.

The one standing on the far bank was watching him. The feet were large. The set of the shoulders resembled those of his own group. But the voice was different. It carried the same resonance, yet the endings were not the same.

He waded in to his knees. The current pressed against his thighs.

On both sides of the river, each group stood with stones in hand. Raised. But not thrown. Neither side threw.

Beside him, an older one gave a low growl. A growl that meant stop. He stopped. But he did not look away.

Among those on the far bank, there was a small one. A one whose belly swelled large was holding the small one's hand.

He stepped out of the water.

He returned to the group. He sat near the fire. There was meat. Rendered fat dripped and the flames flared for a moment. He watched it. He ate. He swallowed.

Night came.

On the far bank, too, there was fire.

He watched it. For a long time. He could not sleep. He leaned his back against the rock and pulled his knees to his chest. Sand was caught between his fingers. He rubbed them together. The sand returned.

At dawn, the fire on the far bank went out.

It had not gone out. It had moved.

After the sun rose, he went to look at the footprints left in the sand. He crossed the river. He stepped onto the sand of the far side. He set his own foot beside the prints and compared.

They were alike.

He picked up a bone lying there. There were marks of gnawing on it. No meat remained. He dropped it. He did not drop it. He picked it up again. He held it for a while.

Then he dropped it.

He crossed back over the river. Someone gave a low sound. He did not answer.

At night, sitting at the edge of the group.

Looking in the direction of the river. The sound of water. Beyond it, a light.

A stone turned slowly in the hand. Where it had been picked up was no longer remembered. Nothing remarkable in its shape. Yet it had not been discarded.

Returned to the fire. Lay down. Eyes remained open.

That morning, the one went to the river to draw water.

The soles of the feet pressed dry earth. Grass brushed the ankles. This path had been walked hundreds of times, but today the one was alone. Two companions had gone east the day before, following animals. They might not return today either. That was ordinary, and the one felt nothing about it.

The river came into view.

The water was low. Lower than last year's rainy season. Stones stood above the surface. A bird was walking on the stones. The one stopped.

A shadow arrived.

It stretched long from behind the heels. Before the one could turn, the shadow's outline had already been pressed into the ground. The shape of a person. There, across the shallow crossing, standing between the rocks, was someone from the other group. A young female. Something was bound to her back. Her face was lifted, and she was looking this way.

The one did not move.

The female did not move.

Only the sound of water moving between the stones.

A bird took flight. Water scattered upward.

Something hardened inside the one's chest. Not fear. It hardened, and then, just slightly, it eased. The one did not understand the way it eased.

The female placed her right foot on a stone.

She was going to cross the shallows.

The one remained standing. Did not flee. Did not growl. Only stood and watched as the female moved from stone to stone across the water. The water wet her ankles, and her face grew slowly larger.

She came up onto the bank and lifted something from her back.

A dried piece of meat, taken from an animal's bones. She held it out.

The one took it.

For a time, the two of them simply stayed there. Nothing was said. No sound was made. The one bit a small piece from the edge of the dried meat, then held it back out. The female took it.

Only the sound of the river.

When the sun had risen a little higher, the female crossed back over the river. The one drew the water. On the way home, the dried meat was held inside a closed hand. Even after returning beneath the rock shelf, the hand did not open for some time.

The one still remembered the female across the river. The feel of dried meat in the palm of the hand. But this morning, before all of that, there was the smell of the north.

The northern wind carried smoke.

At the eastern edge of the land, one of the two branches of the river had begun to narrow. The dry season was hastening it along. The green of the grass remained only at the margins of the animal paths, and beneath a rock shelf a group slept with an ember kept among them. Beyond the northern hills, there was smoke as well. More than one column.

The one lay flat at the riverbank and drank. From upstream, a single grass stem came floating down. Its roots still attached. A clump of earth clung to the tips of the roots.

Someone had been moving upstream.

The group beneath the rock shelf had been unsettled since the night before. An old male stood facing north without moving, and the young females drew their young to their chests and retreated deeper into the rock. The one stayed near the fire. No one had asked. The one was simply there.

Seen from the second world, there were two fires at the eastern edge of the land.

One beneath the rock shelf, the other beyond the hill. The distance between them was less than half a day's walk.

On the third day, the one went as far as the northern hill. Not alone. Two males of similar age followed behind. At the foot of the hill, the one stopped.

There was the smell of scorched grass.

Beyond the hill was a group. Their frames were different from the old kind. Higher foreheads, receding chins. They had stacked stones to make an enclosure. There were children's voices.

The one did not move.

The two behind began to fall back. The one did not fall back. Simply stood.

At dusk, the group beneath the rock shelf stirred. The old male shouted something. Several of the young males took up stones. The one stood by the fire. Took up no stone.

The old male advanced. The one followed behind.

Beyond the hill, the other group waited. They too held stones.

Between the two groups lay a stretch of open grass. Neither side stepped into it.

The old male on the one's side let out a low growl. The males of the other group growled in return.

Night came. Neither side moved.

At dawn, the old male who had been standing beside the one stepped forward. His hands held nothing. The one stepped forward as well.

From the second world, that stretch of grass was visible.

The morning dew still lay on the ground. Two groups faced each other. Neither moved.

When the one took one step into the open ground, there was a faint tremor beneath the feet. A herd of animals was moving upstream. One from the other group turned toward the sound. The one turned as well. They were looking at the same thing.

That was all.

And yet someone had seen it.

Among the group beneath the rock shelf was one with sharp eyes. Next in standing to the old male. This one had watched as the one stepped into the open ground. Alone. Empty-handed.

From that day, something changed.

It was a small change. Nothing visible. But the share of meat that came to the one shifted. The better positions were no longer offered. The one was more often left out of the hunting line.

The one had no words for this. Only that each morning, upon waking, there was a heaviness inside the chest.

In the spring of the fifth year, the group moved south. The river had dried. The animals had gone. In the line of movement the one walked at the rear. The load was heavy. When those ahead stopped, no call came back to the one.

One night, sleep came far from the fire.

The next morning, the one woke alone. The line had already gone ahead.

The one stood and walked. Following the line.

When the sun was high, the line came into view. But as the one drew near, no one turned around.

The one fell in at the edge of the line and walked.

At dusk, a water source was found. The line stopped. The one knelt at the edge and drank. Someone threw a stone. It fell into the water. Laughter drifted from somewhere distant.

The one did not look up. Kept drinking.

The bone was picked up.

It was white. Having taken the heat of the fire, it had lost the color of whatever creature it had been. When touched with a finger, the surface had gone powdery and crumbled slightly.

It was carried. Carried for a while.

There was hunger. One of the group's young males had communicated this morning, through grunts and gestures, that he had seen an archaic woman in the eastern grassland — small body, thick neck, she had stopped and stood still, too. The one listened to this while holding the bone.

At night, a seat was taken outside the circle of the fire.

The voices of the group were far away. A child's laughter. The sound of someone striking someone else. The smell of roasting meat. The one was not there. Was there, but was not.

The bone was placed on the ground.

It was watched. It had been placed where the firelight did not reach, so the darkness made it hard to see. Still, it was watched.

The crumbled powder remained between the fingers. It was not brushed away.

Watching the footprint.

Mud on the fingertips. Brought them close to smell. Old. Not from this morning.

When the one stood, an old wound pulled across the body. Around the waist, where rock had struck during a hunt. Many years ago now.

The others had moved upstream. The one began to walk, a little behind. Nothing was said to anyone about the footprint. There were no words for it.

The fire had been dying since yesterday.

Someone added wood. The one watched. Reached out a hand, then stopped. The fingertips trembled. The trembling went unnoticed.

In the morning, the group moved. Toward the direction where the smell of animals hung in the air. The one rose. It took time to rise. The feet followed. But they followed differently than before. With each step onto stone, the impact climbed all the way to the hips.

Half a day of keeping up.

In the afternoon, the feet stopped.

The group went on. The backs of the young disappeared beyond the grass. Someone turned and looked at the face of the one. Did not come back.

The one moved into the shadow of a large rock. Sat down. The rock was warm. The sun must have been touching that spot for a long time.

The sky changed. The heavy, wet weight that comes before rain arrived.

The one's nostrils moved. It was not the smell of rain. Something else was mixed into it. The smell of grass rotting. The smell of earth before the mud has even grown wet.

What it was, the one could not say. Only breathed it in.

Thunder sounded in the distance. A sound that settled into the belly. The one leaned back against the rock.

The eyes stayed open.

The group returned at dusk.

There had been no prey. The young ones came back groaning and settled around the fire. Someone pulled out dried meat. Children ran in circles.

It was one of the children who found the one in the shadow of the rock.

Came close. Touched the hand.

The child pulled its hand away. Ran back toward the fire.

Around the fire, someone was making low sounds. Another story had begun.

In the shadow of the rock, the chest of the one no longer rose. The mouth stayed slightly open. The eyes faced the sky, but the sky was not seen.

The rain came. The rock cooled, little by little.

The bone might have been broken.

The right ankle. Running through the grass, the foot plunged into a hole. A sound followed. A sound from inside the body. The one lay where they had fallen and did not move for some time. The sky shone white. The tips of the grass blades filled half the field of vision.

An attempt to rise. The weight of the ankle bore down. Another fall.

Far off, the voices of the other hunters carried on the air. The voices of a pursuit. The one was not yet counted among them as a full hunter. There had been a wish to be among those voices. A belief that keeping up was possible.

The body dragged through the crushed grass. Keeping the ankle from touching the ground. Moving on arms alone. The arms trembled.

After a time of moving this way, the one stopped at the base of a thicket.

The air changed.

It was not a smell. Not a temperature. Somewhere deep beneath the skin, something shifted. The one raised their head. The leaves of the thicket stirred. Perhaps the wind. The one's gaze did not rest on the leaves but on what lay behind them.

A withered vine hung there.

Slender and seemingly stiff, yet curved.

The one looked at it for a while. Something moved inside the mind. No word for it. There were no words. And yet the hand moved. The vine was pulled. Wrenched from its root. With more force than expected.

It was wound around the ankle. Wound tight. It hurt. Wound again. Hurt again. Wound still.

A rising to stand.

Not fully upright. Weight shifted to one foot, the other set lightly against the ground. Perhaps not broken. Perhaps only cracked. Which, there was no way to know. The pain remained. Walking was possible.

One step at a time, slowly. Through the grass, toward the direction where the voices of the others had grown distant.

The one returned.

With the vine still bound to the foot, limping back into camp. Someone looked. A low sound was made in the throat. Contempt, or surprise — the one could not tell. No answer was given. There was no part taken in that day's hunt.

Toward evening, sitting by the fire.

The ankle throbbed. The vine was still wrapped around it. There was no inclination to remove it.

An old one sat nearby. The longest-lived among the group. That old one glanced down at the foot. Looked at the vine. Said nothing. There were no words. Only a gaze held a little longer than usual.

The one said nothing.

The fire deepened to red. Night came.

The foot still ached.

The memory of the hole stepped into five days ago returned with each stride, rising from behind the knee. Not enough to cause a limp. But running fast was no longer possible.

The group was moving north. Time to find new water. The grass was green, and the signs of animals were many. The children's voices were distant.

The one walked at the back of the column.

Not yet seen as fully capable meant not yet allowed to walk at the front. No one said this aloud. The body simply remembered. Its own place.

When the sky began to whiten, they reached a slope.

A path along the edge of a dry cliff. Narrow. The sound of the river rose from below. In front of the one walked an elder carrying a child. And ahead of that person, and ahead of that one, the line of bodies continued.

The ground moved.

There was no sound. No shaking. Simply what was underfoot ceased to be there.

The edge had crumbled. The cracks of the dry season had been running through it. Unseen. And even seen, there would have been no stopping.

The one fell.

The sound of the river grew suddenly loud. The corner of a rock struck the shoulder. Before the cold of the water arrived, something hit the side of the head.

In the river, the one was carried along for a time.

The hand moved. Once. Reaching for a rock, but the fingers slipped.

The sky was visible. It was white.

Water came down into the back of the throat.

The group was calling out from above. The voices reached the one. Their meaning was understood. But the body could no longer answer.

Where the river bent, the body came to rest. Caught against a large rock. The current gathered around it.

Someone entered the water. An arm reached.

But there was no strength left in the one's body, and when it was pulled free from the rock, the head fell into the water. It did not rise again.

The mother's back ran.

The one clung to it. Arms locked around her neck. With every stride the chin struck her shoulder. There was a smell of smoke. Eyes burned. No crying. No breath left for crying.

The group halted in the night. A place of many rocks. A place where the sparks no longer reached.

Someone was coughing. Coughing without end.

Morning came.

The one rose and looked back the way they had come. The sky was brown. A single column of black smoke still stood in the distance.

Walked. No one stopped the one. Came to the edge of the burnt ground. There was a boundary where the earth changed. Stepped across into the black side. The soil was warm. No shoes. The soles of the feet felt the heat.

A cross-section of tree root came into view. Light was falling on it.

The one crouched down. Touched it with a finger. Black powder came away on the finger. Brought it to the nose. Placed it on the tongue. It was bitter.

Touched it again.

The soles of the feet were still warm. The one remained there for a while. The voices of the group reached from behind. One of them was the mother's voice.

The one stood up. The fingers were still black.

The place where the bone had been set down — the one looked back at it twice.

When the group began to walk, the one went with them. But looked back. And once more looked back. The bone remained there, half buried in the ash, exactly as it had been.

That night, the one slept holding a stone. Not the bone — a stone. Why a stone had been chosen, even the one could not have said.

Along the western slopes of the mountain ridge, the edge of the tropics was slowly shifting northward. The height of the grass changed. The location of the water sources changed. The paths of the animals changed. No one noticed. They moved without noticing. The body knew first.

The one found a dead bird at the base of a cliff. One wing, half-open. The one did not touch it. Crouched down, and watched for a long time.

In the lowlands to the east, two groups had begun sharing the same water source. The rainy season had grown shorter. The tributaries had thinned. Neither group retreated. When they drew close, they raised their voices. They held stones, and raised their voices.

The one's group had moved to the middle slopes of a hill. They avoided the scorched flats where fire had burned, and made their sleeping place beneath a shelf of rock. There was a mother. There was a woman who was not a mother. The men returned dragging something. There was the smell of meat.

A band of archaic people appeared in the forest to the north. Shorter in stature, heavier in bone. They too sought water. They too carried stones. Neither group ate the other. Neither slept close to the other.

The one stood at the edge of the rock shelf, reading the direction of the wind with their face. From somewhere, mixed among the smell of scorched meat, came something else — something of earth. Unfamiliar. The one turned their face. In the direction of the smell, there was nothing. Still, it remained in the mind.

The tension between the groups persisted. Someone threw a stone. One person bled from the forehead. The groups separated. Then came back together. No one remembered which side had yielded first.

The one saw the blood. Watched the speed at which the blood fell from the forehead onto the rock. Watched until it stopped. Touched the blood on the rock with a finger. It was dry. When rubbed, it disappeared. Even so, the rock was still the same rock.

The rains came. The dry earth drank. The river returned. The fighting over the water source ceased. The grass grew tall. The animals returned. Three children were born. By the following morning, one had grown cold. Two took to the breast.

The one had reached twenty years. There was strength inside the body. One could run. One could carry heavy things. That much had changed. Nothing else had. The one still remembered the bird at the base of the cliff. One wing, half-open. Why it was still remembered, the one could not say.

Lying flat on a rock, watching the river.

The water is fast. Faster than yesterday. The one does not know that something has changed upstream. Only watches the surface. Follows a drifting leaf with the eyes. The leaf strikes a stone and flips over. Then drifts on.

The stomach growled.

Climbed down to the riverbank. Stepped across the stones, waded in to the knees. Searching for fish. The water is murky. Nothing to see.

Reached a hand beneath a stone. Something slick slipped away. Drew the hand back. Reached in again. This time, nothing.

The gaze stopped at the far bank.

In the gap between rocks, a shadow.

The one does not move. The shadow does not move. There is only the sound of the water.

The shape of the shadow is unlike those of the group. The frame. The angle of the neck. The one has no words for this. Only the body knowing: different. A low sound rose in the back of the throat. So small it went unnoticed even by the one who made it.

The shadow across the water does not move.

The water strikes the knees, cold. The one stepped slowly backward. Foot finding stone. Returned to the bank. Ran without looking back.

While running, there was a feeling of something trailing behind.

The shape of the shadow remained on the inside of the eyelids.

Sitting alone, apart from the group.

Behind, someone was moaning. The one did not turn around. Since morning, three had collapsed. A woman with a build like the one's mother had stopped moving sometime in the night. The person who went to check at dawn made a low sound. That was all.

The one looked down at the ground.

A single insect lay on its back at the base of the grass. All six legs were curled inward.

Crouching down.

Did not touch it with a finger. Only looked. Watched the insect's abdomen tremble faintly in the wind. Whether it was truly moving, or only seemed to be — for a long time, the one could not settle that boundary.

Behind, another sound came. Low, broken, trailing off.

The one began to rise, then stopped.

Looked at the insect again.

Within the group, the one held no particular role. Not a keeper of fire, not one who went out to hunt, not one who carried children. Simply treated as someone who was there.

And yet, over these five years, certain ones within the group had begun to follow the one with their eyes. When the one looked at something, they would look there too. When the one stopped walking, they would stop a little ways behind. No one had asked why this had come to be. The one itself did not know.

The one did not have words for: *those who know too much are made to vanish.*

Within the group, there were those whose way of looking at the one had changed. Since the sickness had begun to spread, those eyes had taken on a different color.

Still looking at the insect.

A hand closed around the one's shoulder.

Hard.

After those hands let go, this being lay in the grass.

There is a memory of someone gripping the shoulder. Hard. Only that remains. Whose hands they were is no longer known.

Smoke was visible in the western sky. This being rose. And walked not toward the smoke, but away from it.

The grass touched the ankles. The wind came from ahead.

That was all.

The one had taken to carrying the flat stone everywhere.

In the hand, it had weight. When the edge was drawn across skin, a white line remained. This was done again and again. Along the arm, across the belly, on the ground.

The lines scratched into the ground were erased when the rain came.

The white lines on the arm faded and were gone within three days.

The one brought the stone to the riverbank. Stone was struck against stone. A sound came. It was struck again. A different sound came. The stone that had been carried split apart.

The one picked up the broken piece. Its edge was sharper than before.

An elder of the group watched from a distance. The elder did not come closer.

That night, the one slept with the broken piece still held in hand. It pressed into the flesh. Upon waking, there was a red mark across the palm.

The one gazed at it.

For a long time, the one gazed at it.

At last the group began to move. The one rose. The broken piece was not left behind. It was tucked into a hide strap. And the one walked on.

The mud had dried and was blooming white with dust.

The one sat at the edge of the group. A body past forty, the spine that had curved since youth now jutted out as plainly as the backbone of a beast. Half the teeth were gone. Still, the one chewed. Pressing dried meat against the remaining molars, crushing it, swallowing.

Something was happening at the center of the group.

Voices rose. Not growls — the sound of striking. Stone against stone. And beneath it, a heavier sound. The one did not look. Looking, in the one's long experience, always meant something bad followed. That much had been learned.

Something from about ten days ago would not leave the mind.

A group of old ones had come to the watering place. The one had lain flat in the grass, unable to move. The old ones drank. They left. That was all. But the one's eyes had caught on something — the way one of them carried a child. The child cried. The parent's hand moved across its back.

The same.

The one had tried to tell someone. Pulled at them. Made sounds. Pointed in the direction the old ones had gone. No one came. The pulling continued, again and again.

Three days later, the one was driven to the edge of the group.

When tensions between groups ran high, those who had seen too much became a nuisance.

The one had no words for this understanding. Only: stones began to fly when the one drew near. The one was cut from the sharing of food. Even the children stopped coming close.

The one walked alone toward the wetlands.

At the edge of the wetlands, water lay open and still. Rain had come before the mud could dry, and mud was seeping out again. The one was hungry. Wading into the shallows, hands raked through the bottom. Something hard, like a shell, touched the fingers. It was pulled free. Mud splashed across the face.

It was put in the mouth.

Then a foot slipped.

It was not deep — only past the knee. The body fell sideways. The face pressed down into the muddy floor. An arm reached upward. The spine was curved. The arm rose. But the feet could not find purchase in the mud. The mud was soft without end.

Ripples spread across the surface.

That was all.

Somewhere far off, a bird called. The sky was white.

Lying flat on dried grass, watching the trail where animals pass.

Holding breath. The smell of grass enters the nose. A morning when the earth still holds a trace of moisture. The stomach is empty. When hunger goes on long enough, it ceases to be pain. It becomes something else——a quiet pulling.

From somewhere distant came the sound of an animal running.

This one did not give chase. The direction was wrong. An elder might follow without hesitation. This one does not yet have that certainty. The body half-rose, then stopped.

The grass bent. Wind came from the south.

Standing, turning back toward where the group waits.
Returning empty-handed, again and again.

Passing the remains of a fire, the feet slowed to a stop. Last night's remnants. The ash is white. Along the edges, several charred branches extend outward like rays.

Crouching down.

Not touching. Looking only at the blackened tips of the branches. Not wondering why they are black. There are no words yet for that wondering. Only this: the eyes would not leave.

It is not a long time. Someone in the band calls out, and this one stands.

That day's hunt also ends with empty hands.

At night, beside the fire, this one sits at the edge. Among those who receive meat rather than claim it. Among those not yet considered whole. An older man finishes eating and tosses a bone aside. A child picks it up and gnaws it.

This one rests both hands on both knees, and watches the fire.

From the edge of the fire, a thin line of smoke rises.
The smoke bends. The wind has shifted.

That is all.