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The next morning, Tlola-Nashi's brother-in-law arrived on the hill along with several men carrying a reed boat. We quickly gathered our things and went downhill, leaving the shed behind. As we were going, I heard Tlola-Nashi argue with the men about something concerning me: Tlola-Nashi urged his relative to perform a ritual to notify Shi that I am clear and allowed to go near water. The relative looked at me and said it would not be necessary. Tlola-Nashi insisted, but the relative was reluctant.

“He’s clearly not a westerner,ˮ he said. “It’ll be fine.”

“So what that he’s not a westerner? What if Shi grabs him?”

“If she grabs him, she grabs him. If she doesn’t grab him, she doesn’t grab him. It’ll be fine.”

Not quite encouraged by the exchange, I tread behind them trying my best to conceal my twisted face. The guides led us down the hill and along a narrow passage through the thick, high reeds. We trudged through the suffocating, fetid air full of terrible swarms of gnats and mosquitos which took great pleasure in gnawing on me. We reached the open waters, and in two tours our leads ferried us across the strong stream. Once on the other shore, we passed another stretch of ugly thickets. I kept hiding from the gnats in my cloak, hoping that the nasty little creatures wouldn’t eat me with it.

“You have good meat! ˮ Tlola-Nashi, whom the insects seemed to avoid, noted several times. “The bugs have a nose for good meat, and good meat means a good man. ˮ Not that it made me feel any better, but I voiced that I appreciated the compliment.

We passed the thickets and ascended on the dry left bank. I was not grabbed by Shi, but I was thoroughly feasted upon by nasty insects.

“Well, take care, good man. Watch your step!” Tlola-Nashi urged me in the end.

We departed in our own ways: the party went northeast together with the guides, along the Rivers, and I trod in the northern direction, scratching all over my insect-bitten body. Soon, however, I noticed that a hunter from the party – the one with the broken nose – was following me. He was a small, hunched man with a cloak on his shoulders and a necklace of three lion fangs. I stopped dead in my tracks; he got a little closer and stopped as well.

“What do you want? ˮ I asked him.

He didn't answer and just stood in place. I decided for a time to ignore the guy and went on, but he kept following me.

“What do you want? ˮ I asked him again.

“You speak our language? ˮ he suddenly said.

I realized that I lost my control and indeed spoke in their tongue. It was too late now, and I didn't really have a good explanation at the time, so I just repeated the question,

“What do you want from me? ˮ

“You said you’re going to that rock in the north,ˮ he said. “I can show you, I know where 'tis. ˮ

I said that I did not need help and could find the way on my own. He offered to carry my cloak, which I declined. He said he knew the language of the River People and could translate for me, which I did not need. The man then noted that these plains were full of dangers, to which I said that I was capable of dealing with them. He stood in silence for some time, shifting his weight from one foot to another, and eventually said that nobody walks alone in the wild.

“Why, you do! ˮ I said, and that seemed to put him into deep thinking. I tried to use that chance and went on at a quick pace, but he still followed. Several more times I tried to find out his motivation, but to no avail. He followed me thoroughly, and I had no choice but to accept the new ‘companion’.

We made a long way across a plain, passed a shallow but rapid stream, and went along the shore of a long muddy lake. Several stops that we made along the way required me to come up with intricate plans for concealing the green orb from which I was getting my food. That appeared to be difficult.

“I didn't know there were apricots in the area! ˮ the companion exclaimed on one such stop when I returned from the field with an armful of fruits in my hands. I said nothing and just shared some with him.

“What's this? ˮ he asked me another time pointing at a dirt-yellow root of radish that I brought along – apparently, it did not grow in that area. Explaining anything at that point promised many complications; I shared more fruits with him and kept silent again.

At night, we made camp at the base of a small cliff.

“Where'd you get the duck?ˮ he asked me again when I returned from another trip. I put the bird on the ground and said firmly, looking into his eye,

“In the field!ˮ

He took a look around, then mumbled something along the lines of ‘awright…’ and said no more. We cut up the duck and cooked it. After that, I fetched some twigs from the fields to set up a tent from our cloaks – the nights in this part of the world were rather windy.

“It's interesting,ˮ I said sometime later, sitting at the fire and scratching my bitten legs, “Tlola-Nashi – this means 'Sunny Morning', right? ˮ

My companion nodded.

“How did he get this name? ˮ

He didn't know, and upon my subsequent questions, he said that he was not familiar with any of the people who were on that hill. Like me, he joined them in the hopes of crossing the river.

“Who are they, anyway? Are they Shilaans? ˮ

He didn't know the answer to that, either. This time I had some questions for him but was not sure how to approach them.

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“What is your name? ˮ I then asked.

“Pamala-Rashe,ˮ he answered.

I searched for the meanings in the bulk of words provided to my mind by the black orb.

“So... ‘Broken Nose’? ˮ

He nodded again.

“Interesting. How did it happen? ˮ

He was poking a stick into the fireplace and seemed reluctant to tell the story.“I was walking around our camp when I was young,ˮ he said. “There was a stick lying there, with a branch on its end. I stepped on it and… well, that's how I got my nose.ˮ

I tried to not laugh out loud, and I tried hard – let the dear reader mark this that I tried it very hard indeed. I knew that many folks considered it rude to laugh at somebody into their face, but that one was impossible to hold. I choked, covered my face, and burst into unbridled laughter. Pamala-Rashe sat sullenly in his place, mumbling some justifications, then angrily turned away from me. With great effort, I eventually stopped my laughter and, after a long pause, tried to strike up another conversation to restore our relationship.

“My name is Dyovi,ˮ I said. “It means 'Teller'.ˮ

He didn't answer at first, but he clearly wasn't the most stubborn type.

“How did you get your name?ˮ he soon asked without turning.

“By telling stories. I've always loved stories. I love to listen to them, I love to tell them. Sometimes, I love to make them up. ˮ

I lay on my back, wrapping my hands around my chest and watching the night sky.

“Did you get it from birth? ˮ he asked.

“No. My birth name is Hirigeid* – ‘the Third One’ it means. I was the third child in the family, hence this name. My middle name I got after initiation was La-Inediid** – 'Far Walking One'. Everybody thought that I would make a good envoy because I loved to walk and talk.” Funny how eventually that name fit me just right, I noted to myself. “Dyovi has always been more of a nickname of mine, and later on it became my elder name. ˮ

“So you're an elder? ˮ

“Well, I'm not young. Though I never was considered an elder really – maybe I'm too young? ˮ

Pamala-Rashe still did not look at me, but now he sat half-turned and spun his lion fangs in his hands.

“Why are you out of your tribe? ˮ I asked him.

“I couldn't stay there,ˮ was his curt reply.

“Why? ˮ

“I just couldn't. ˮ

More silence. I added wood to the fire and adjusted the heap of grass on which I rested my head. The moon outshone some of the stars, but the brightest ones were still visible.

“Tell me some of your stories,ˮ I urged.

“What stories? ˮ

“Some of those that your people tell. What do you tell about stars? ˮ

Pamala-Rashe looked up.

“We don't tell much about stars. ˮ

“Why is that? ˮ

“I don't know. Spirit of the Night lit them up to see better. Since then, they burn there.ˮ

Silence yet again.

“What do you tell about death? ˮ I asked.

Finally, Pamala-Rashe looked at me, though his look was worried.

“We don't speak of death,ˮ he said quietly

“Why is that? ˮ

“You can call it upon yourself if you speak of it too loudly. ˮ

He silenced once again. He was a tough converser.

A pair of timid eyes sparked in the dark and sneaked past us. The sky above was clear, Firebug/Holy Antelope already touched the horizon; Shoshoon was still up, watching the Sky Plains. The Wandering Firefinch was already long out of sight – meaning it could be somewhere around the plains.

“We have a story about Wandering Firefinch,ˮ I started, keeping my eyes up. “You know, the little red bird from the plains? ˮ

“Never saw it,ˮ Pamala-Rashe said. “What is it like? ˮ

“It's a small bird, like a sparrow, with dark little wings and a bright red body. When the New World came to be after the Great Fire, it appeared from Tarragon like all other birds. Unlike all other birds, though, it was tiny and weak, and could barely fly. Predators tried to catch it every moment, and the poor bird had a miserable life.

“Once it flew up to Raven Dash and begged of him to help. ‘Oh, Raven Dash, you're such a strong bird,’ it said. ‘I'm not strong, I'm dexterous,’ the Raven answered. ‘You're such a smart bird!’ the Firefinch said. ‘I'm not smart, I'm observant,’ the Raven replied. ‘You're such a handsome bird!’ the Firefinch continued. ‘Just lay it out already,’ the Raven snapped. ‘What do you want?’

“‘Oh, Raven,’ the little bird said, ‘I'm neither strong, nor dexterous, nor smart, nor observant, nor handsome, nor fearsome. I'm just a little chirping bird, whom everybody wants to eat. How am I to live in this world with this body? Help me out!’

“Now, our Raven Dash is a mischievous and at times stubborn bird, but he never leaves those who ask him for help in peril. So, he flew up into the sky, to the Sky Dweller Ulnad***, but Ulnad didn't want to do anything about it. ‘Not my concern,’ he said. Dash then descended back to earth and started thinking. He thought, and thought, and thought, and thought, and then he had an idea. He called up the Firefinch, and he led it behind the Dry Mountains. There he took a bunch of red clay and smeared the little bird with it. Then he soared high over the world and announced to everybody, ‘Listen up, creatures! This bird smeared with red clay is warded by Ulnad himself. Don't you dare to do any harm to it!’

“Ever since then, all creatures of the world obey this, even though the deceit has long been uncovered. The Firefinch, in the meantime, wanted to thank Dash for his acumen, but the Raven refused to accept it. ‘Pass your thanks over to somebody else,’ he said. So ever since then, it is believed in our valleys that if you see a firefinch, you're a very happy being. If you make a wish and pass it to the bird, the bird may make it come true as a way of expressing the gratitude that was denied by the Raven. ˮ

I finished and changed my position to move my legs away from the wind gusts. A pair of yellow eyes sparked in the dark again. They moved closer through the grass until the animal came into the light. It was a dust fox. It sniffed the dirt closest to it and studied carefully our small camp.

“What does that name mean? ‘Dash’? ˮ Pamala-Rashe asked from his place, scaring off the fox.

“I don't know,ˮ was my honest answer. “In your language, it means ‘raven’, doesn't it?ˮ

“Yes, but what’s it mean in your language? ˮ

“I don't know. For us, it's just his name.ˮ

“How did he get it? ˮ

“He didn't... get it. He's always been here, and he's always been Dash,ˮ I said, and felt that this explanation did not seem sufficient. Either we – storytellers – missed this part, or there was some story about it that the shamans never told me.

Pamala-Rashe eventually put his fang back into his necklace and took place near me at the cloaks. For some time, we were lying silent side by side.

“What will your wish be? ˮ he suddenly asked. “If you ever see that bird? ˮ

“I don't know,ˮ I said, thinking about it. “Probably to see my family again. What would yours be? ˮ

His answer was a good, loud, deep snore, which then repeated, and then repeated again. He lay sound asleep, turned away from me, his side moving up and down. The dust fox showed itself in the light again, sniffing carefully around. It found a leftover duck’s bone and, satisfied, sneaked back into the dry grass – evidently just as indifferent to what I had to say.

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Footnotes:

* - /hiriˈgɛid/

** - /la-ˌinɛˈdiːd/

*** - /ulˈnad/; see Ch.2-4 for more about Ulnad and Raven Dash