Brooks had found it best to sit out of the way.

The !A!amo camp was a sort of decentralized chaos when everyone was present, with members going about whatever business they needed to do on their own prerogative. When it came to a group task, their neighbors simply helped; in turn, they would be helped when they needed it.

When he’d sat near the center of their collective huts, he often found himself in the way of various activities.

None of them made a comment; they didn’t even seem annoyed as he blundered like the giant he was in comparison. They just worked around him, and when he moved they took over the space he’d made available.

He’d wanted to help, but they often told him he need not bother. He lacked the necessary skills for anything except carrying heavy objects, anyway.

So there was no score-keeping, for either him or amongst their group, but there were still the unbreakable limits of their technology. Food was the primary resource they valued, because of biological necessity. They shared, and their children were fed first, which he was glad to see.

For many animals, it was simply a calculation of investment, and they would leave their young if the danger was too severe. After all, dead parents would mean the young died, whereas living parents could always make more babies.

But sapient beings tended not to do that. Some might; but it was common for parents to sacrifice much to give their children all they could.

It also bespoke a strong amount of expectation in the group. If parents died, leaving children behind, the others could take them in.

He did not see that here, yet, but there was data on it from other !Xomyi groups. He fully expected it would be the case here.

The men had been busy preparing for the hunt, he noticed. They’d huddled together last night, in a sort of ritual that he did not rightly feel he could put himself into yet. Knows the World had led them in a chant, mimicking a hunter, while another had dressed as an animal.

He presumed it represented the hamomo they wanted to kill.

He could understand, in a sense. They were acting out what they wanted to happen, impressing the idea into their own minds – and perhaps hoping to impress it onto the world itself.

While he had not been in their ritual, he was going to ask if he could go with them today. At least to observe.

It could be dangerous – not only for the wild animals, but the risk of angry hunters turning on him if they could not find anything. It was always possible the !Xomyi might look to him and think he could be food, or just blame him for bringing some sort of ill-fortune.

That intellectual possibility was in his mind, but he did not believe it. Cannibalism could always occur in any population, but they still were unsure if he was even mortal like they were, no matter how often he said he was not a spirit.

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Tracker’s hut was nearest to him. He stepped over, leaning around the side.

“I would like to come on the hunt,” he told Tracker, who had a pile of darts, each about half a meter long, in front of him. He had been examining them, picking which he wanted to bring.

He looked up at Brooks as he spoke, though. “Ask Hard Biter.”

“Is he a hunt leader?” Brooks asked, unsure if such a hierarchy even existed.

Tracker seemed confused by the question. “He was the first to speak of the hunt.”

“You were the first to speak to me of it, yesterday. Are you all right with me going?”

Tracker shrugged, seeming indifferent, but smiled a moment later. “You may come, spirit,” he said, his voice teasing.

Brooks smiled back.

“I will talk to Hard Biter, too,” he said.

He went over, finding that Hard Biter was with his family. He did not know if the !Xomyi really had a concept like marriage, but they did take partners in a similar fashion. Hard Biter’s wife had died some years ago, he’d learned. Her name was taboo to speak; speaking of the dead other than through their relation to you, such as father, mother, son, or friend, was not acceptable.

Hard Biter himself was an outsider who had come into the group, the woman he married one of the daughters of Knows the World and Old Mother.

They were not with him now, just his two children; Fast of Wing, a fiery young man, and Causes Trouble, a child he’d guess was equivalent to a human eight-year old.

Brooks made sure that his approach was noticed – how could it not when he was so big? – and stood silently, waiting for Hard Biter to accept his unspoken request for words.

Looking at him, Hard Biter opened his arms slightly, a welcoming gesture.

“I would like to go with you on the hunt,” Brooks said.

Hard Biter considered a few moments. “All right,” he said. “Wait. And we will come for you when we are ready.”

Brooks nodded, and Hard Biter turned away.

Well, that was it, Brooks thought.

He went back to the edge of the camp, prepared himself as best he could, and waited.

The hunters gathered not long after. They spoke softly to each other, huddled in a circle. Once, Tracker peered over at him in a way that seemed ominous.

Brooks wondered if there was an argument over his coming.

They broke up, and began to come towards him as a group.

Hard Biter stepped up towards him. He had a bag.

“No Wings, you have not hunted before,” he said, his voice raised.

Brooks prepared to defend his ability in words, but Hard Biter stepped closer, pushing the bag into his hands. “You cannot hunt without this. It is very important.”

There was great expectation from the others. Brooks found his heart beating, and he opened the bag carefully.

Inside was a pot. It was painted, decorated nicely. Was the object in it?

He started to draw it out.

“This pot holds our hopes for good hunt,” Hard Biter said. “Protect it!”

Brooks nodded solemnly, wracking his brain for comparable rituals in human or known alien cultures. Was he supposed to bring the pot with him? Or stay here, and by holding it he would ritualistically be a part of the hunt?

It was a tight fit out of the bag, and he grasped the lip, pulling.

The pot broke.

It cracked apart completely, not just into two pieces, or a chip coming off, but fairly disintegrated.

His jaw dropped in horror – and then the laughter began.

The troop of men were howling, holding their bellies and turning away, Diver even bending over as if short of breath.

“Ah, silly spirit, you are always fooled by a pot!” Hard Biter said, his normally serious face split in great amusement.

Brooks was still in shock, not in horror now, but only by how well they had fooled them.

This pot had no value, he realized. It was an old piece of broken junk.

It hit him that all this time, he had been watching them, they had also been watching him. They had seen the seriousness he treated them with; treated everything with.

And so they had punked him good.

Tracker slapped him on the arm, a comradely gesture they shared with humanity. “Come, come, No Wings, now it is time to hunt!”