[https://i.imgur.com/L4N5LWp.jpg]

It was the second half of summer. I sat at a treeline on the southeastern side of a shallow ravine, looking west. In front of me was a campfire, and to the north of the campfire sat a local elderly man. His eyes were half closed, his legs crossed, his mouth—half open, showing several of his sparse teeth. We both watched the smoldering heap of embers let out grayish smoke that lazily crept out of the treeline into the open field to the south.

We didn’t talk.

We’d never talked in the dozen days I had spent in the treeline, yet he always remained with me. I sat still, staring past the trees, where the plain rose in a bushy yellowish slope, and he sat calmly beside me, tending the fire.

I couldn’t tell what I was expecting to see on that slope, or why I chose to sit in that spot. The toothless elder was the only person who bore me silent company. Sometimes women from the camp approached the ravine through a clearing further west of us to take water and wash their stuff. Occasionally, a vulture with a bunch of white feathers around his neck flew from behind the slope’s edge, soaring in an arc over the savanna. I grew fond of that bird despite all the bad connotations many locals attributed to it. Its regular appearance, the presence of the elder, and the routine visits of the women to the ravine dispelled the feeling of emptiness that the local landscape instilled in me, made me feel like I was admitted into an event as a guest.

A girl from the clan’s camp ran up to us, carrying two cups.

“Shikloe-Hadzhi wants you to drink it,” she said in a thin voice.

“Why, hank you, li’le one, hank you!” the elder said, taking the cup and smiling with his toothless mouth. The girl then handed another cup to me. “Shikloe-Hadzhi says that your cloak is ready,” she told me. I nodded with a smile and she hurried back.

“Wash your s’ep, li’le one, wash your s’ep!” the elder said to the girl, putting the cup onto the ground. He raised his head, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

I put my cup down as well. In the local tongue, this beverage was called tchilizhde*. They boiled it in bull stomachs from a local plant’s root (the name of which I cannot remember). It had an appalling bitter taste and, frankly, I couldn’t understand how these people could drink it. I covertly moved the cup further away from me to avoid its horrendous stench.

The vulture appeared above the slope again, followed by a raven. In the grassy field to the south of us, kids from the clan played hide and seek, their voices reaching us from time to time. The routine of savanna life went on, and I found a great calmness in it. We sat still under the canopies of the trees that were disturbed by the northern breeze. The elder dozed while I was looking at the slope, my head free of any thought. Then, at one point, I saw a dark figure of a man appear from behind the edge.

He slowly descended the slope and crossed the field that ran to the ravine. He walked fast, confidently, somewhat hopping on his long legs. In his left hand, he carried several javelins; on his right shoulder, there hung a long sack. He disappeared down the ravine and then reappeared on our side, dexterously jumping up the edge. His face was decorated with an ever-present smile—the smile which I immediately recognized.

The elder opened his eyes and looked to the west as well. “Ah, ‘ere’s ‘e bas’ar’,” he muttered as Zewe-Zdywe walked to us through the tree line.

“Be well, eh!” Zewe-Zdywe said, sitting down near the fire. “Though I see that you are already well. ‘cept for your friend, ain’t it? Poor fella. Easy be his travel to the east.”

“Wait, how did you know?” I asked him.

“Why, the plains are flat, ain’t they? Winds and news travel freely around ‘ere.”

Zewe-Zdywe reached into his sack and produced several tubers of earthly color. He spread the embers with a stick, put the tubers in the middle of the fire, and heaped the embers back onto them.

“ ‘o you have a horn of ha’ moun’ain an’elope?” the elder asked him.

“Nope,” Zewe-Zdywe said, and the elder met that with a grunt of frustration. “Why, you didn’t tell me. Next time I bring it awright.” He put a bunch of dry logs on the smoldering heap and blew at it from a side.

“Why, I ‘ol you las’ ‘ime!”

“No, you didn’t. I don’t remember that.”

The wood caught fire, producing thick light smoke that wafted in my direction. The elder sat scowling, quietly muttering.

“Eh, why so gloomy? Did the nightwalker steal your food?” Zewe-Zdywe asked him. The elder answered with unintelligible swearings. “Awright, awright, I bring the horns next time!”

I watched them talk from the other side of the fire, wondering why this man would rush into my life now.

“Who is the nightwalker?” unexpectedly for myself, I asked Zewe-Zdywe.

“Eh, that’s a good ol’ story. Ain’t no kid on the plains goes to sleep without hearing it,” he said, sitting down and crossing his legs. “Nightwalker walks at night, hunting for misguided souls. His skin is covered with scales like that of fish, his legs are long and supple like those of a frog. He has the tail of a viper and a pair of tiny insect wings on his back, and as for his face—he has no face!

“He was born long ago far in the north where people fly and fish walk, birds swim under the water and the water itself is made of dirt. Yes, that’s how things are in the north—the water there is made of dirt! His parents are a fly and the Northern Fish. The Northern Fish, when it saw the infant, said, ‘Uh, he’s ugly. Wife, throw’im out!’ But his wife the fly didn’t do it. The Northern Fish demanded, but the fly refused. The Fish insisted, but the fly said: ‘I’d rather throw yourself out!’ The Northern Fish got so angry it jumped out of the desert and got stuck in the sky.

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

“The fly brought the ugly little beasty up alone and made him into a good and handsome monster. His character was greedy. His hunger was insatiable. His favorite food was others’ food. Once he crossed the River and went into the savanna and saw a pack of wild dogs hunt down a human. He dispersed all the dogs and ate the poor human himself. ‘Ooh, that’s tasty!’ he said, and so he began hunting humans—they became his new favorite food.

“Once he crossed the River again and went farther south. He found a mother who had been chastising her child, calling him naughty and disobedient. ‘I wonder what naughty children taste like,’ he thought. At night, he sneaked up to the mother’s bed and ate the naughty kid. ‘Ooh, that’s tasty!’ he said and ran back behind the River. Naughty kids became his favorite food.

“He began going to the savanna every night looking for his prey. He walked at night because at day, every bird of the savanna hunted him, thinking he was a fish or an insect or a frog. At night, there were only cats hunting in the savanna, but the nightwalker was not afraid of cats—cats were afraid of him because he smelled of sagebrush.

“There lived back then in the savanna a Clan of Clay Eaters. In that clan, there were two young brothers, Red and Yellow. Yellow was the leader, walking freely everywhere, and Red was the lead one, following Yellow at the heels. Yellow was the sharp-sighted one; he saw the tiniest creatures from hundreds of steps and felt the faintest smells and heard the weakest sounds. And Red was the quick-handed—he could hit the tiniest animal from hundreds of steps and catch the quickest bird on the fly and grab the nimblest fish in the water.

“Once at night at the end of summer, the two brothers sneaked out of their camp and ran uphill to watch the falling stars that Klazhano** was spreading from his Mountain. They watched it for the whole night, marveling at the beauty of the sight. Then Yellow saw one start flying really low. He told Red about it. ‘Where’ is it?’ Red asked. ‘Right there,’ Yellow said and showed with his hand. Red ran up to where Yellow showed, aimed well, jumped high, and caught the star. Oh, how they both were happy! ‘Look at our lucky star!’ Yellow said. ‘That’s my star!’ Red cried. Yellow was surprised. He asked Red to at least show him the lucky star, but Red hid it in his fist. Yellow got angry and pushed Red. Red got livid and hit Yellow. The boys had a fight and Red won it.

“Yellow ran away, crying. Suddenly, he stopped—the nightwalker was in front of him. Yellow got scared, ran back but stumbled, tried to crawl away but hit a boulder, tried to hide, but the nightwalker grabbed him by his hair. ‘Eh,’ the nightwalker said, ‘a human, a child—how nicely! Are you naughty enough for me, though?’ And Yellow told him, ‘Don’t eat me! I’m not naughty. There, on the hilltop behind those trees, there sits my brother. He sits there with our lucky star and doesn’t share it. He’s a naughty one. Eat him!’

“ ‘If you say so,’ the nightwalker said, tied Yellow up on his belt, and went behind the trees. Up the hilltop, he found Red—happy, boisterous, ignorant of what was behind him. Behind him—the nightwalker was sneaking up, ever so quietly, ever so slowly. The nightwalker got so close that Red could hear him breathing. Red turned around, but it was too late—snap! The nightwalker ate him.

“ ‘Ooh, that’s a tasty one,’ he muttered. ‘Aye, naughtiness is the best flavor. I wonder, though, what do betrayers taste like?’ he said and ate Yellow as well. ‘Ooh,’ he growled, ‘betrayers taste even better! Yeah, now betrayers are my favorite food.’ So he said, and ran back to the north, belly full and satisfied.”

The tubers under the fire started to hiss. Zewe-Zdywe shuffled the embers with a stick and rolled the smoldering lumps out.

“That’s how my cousin used to tell it,” he said while working with the stick. He waited for them to cool a little, then grabbed one tuber, tossed it in his hands, peeled off the black crust, and nipped off several bites. “Ooh, that’s a tasty one,” he said and passed the other tubers to us.

The elder stared at the vegetable in his hand, blinking helplessly.

“Here, like this,” Zewe-Zdywe said, showing: peel off the crust till you see the whitish core and bite it. The elder tried to bite it but only smudged his lips with black soot and burned his tongue. He dropped the tuber down with a displeased grunt.

“Eh, you toothless one. Give it ‘ere,” Zewe-Zdywe said and peeled the tuber for the old man. He bit off small pieces and gave them to the elder, who munched them with the couple of teeth left in his mouth.

“As’es so s’range. Wha’ is i’?” he asked.

I left the tuber near the cup with tchilizhde and went away. For some time, I walked in circles around the camp of Clan Tlara-Tapaa. I was thinking about my new position, about the past, about the future, whether I should return or go forward. I wanted to disappear but didn’t know how.

Several young girls with baskets went past me. “Tired of hiding in the trees, birdy?” One of them asked playfully, to which I could only respond with a timid smile. I sat down at the edge of the marked circle inside which Pamala-Rashe died. Life went on–without him. If I were to continue, I would go on alone.

I took out the four helping stones. They lay in my palm, shining and sparkling, half-transparent, with lines and features inside them that I couldn’t discern the meaning of. I dropped the blue one onto the dirt and watched a small stream of water spring up.

Further off to the east, there was a black raven walking between the grass bushes. He studied the bases of several bushes, peeped into a hole under one of them, measured it with his beak.

“What should I do next, wise bird?”

He heard me. He turned his head, his pitch-black eye blinking at me with forgiving understanding.

“I think I don’t want to continue this journey,” I said. “I think I might be better off disappearing. How do you think?”

For several heartbeats, the raven stood still, looking at me. At last, he picked up a twig, flapped his wings, and flew past me, to the west. Apparently, he didn’t care how I felt. The stream kept flowing from the dirt, forming a small creek that attracted smaller birds. Life went on. Life went on. With a sigh, I picked up the blue stone and trod off to make some mild preparations.

Zewe-Zdywe left quickly.

“Well, he’s not called Zewe-Zdywe for nothing (Here-and-There). He’s like a sparrow: now he’s here, then he’s there. That’s how it goes for him,” Shikloe-Hadzhi told me. I asked her where he’d gone, and she said that at this time of the year, he usually went back west.

I thanked her for her kindness and the rest of the clan for their hospitality. I tried to thank Ala-Tla for everything she did, but she did not even spare me a glance. I took my spear, my new cloak, and the reddish antelope hide on which Pamala-Rashe laid his head; I left the rest of the bundle for the clan as a gift. The sun was already half an elbow near the horizon, but I left anyway.

I caught up with Zewe-Zdywe quickly. He noticed me from afar and waited for me in the passage between boulders.

“What, going out west too?” he asked me friendly. I said that my journey lay in that direction indeed.

“Would you mind if I kept you company?” I asked him. Hopping on his long legs, he went fast forward and said,

“Why, sure. Just don’t steal my food!”

----------------------------------------

Footnotes:

* - /ˌtʃiliˈʒdɛ/

** - /ˌklaʒaˈno/ Cognate with Klanazhaano mentioned in the previous chapters.