Daysha met Mila, Sonem, and Brin at the embankment. Sonem waded far out where hills of water wrapped around her legs. Judging by the splashing against her knees and the slope that exposed her ankles, the water was fast but not high. Sonem’s tunic was off and in her hands to be rinsed in the river.

Mila had erected a stake on the shoreline with a cross bar, over which she had draped a freshly washed, bear-skin tunic and had begun dragging it with a bone comb to remove lingering hangers-on and to speed up drying.

Brin knelt in the slow, pooling water of an inlet in the river, tending to the children. Daysha watched Brin’s two children, unmistakable for their black hair and their father’s strong jaw, kicking water at each other. The older, eight years old and nearly as tall as his mother, splashed with all his might while the younger squealed, pretending not to enjoy it.

Sonem’s three children scuttled along the bank with Brin. Her five-year-old girl practiced maternal attendance, fussing over her two and three-year-old brother and sister, offering unwanted assistance to their play in the dirt.

Mila’s infant boy kicked and reached absently under Brin’s arm as she deftly rinsed her cooking elements with her free hand.

The signs of The Sprout were evident. All present had not yet earned their darkened skin for the season, which the morning light of The Chased reflecting on the river would soon change.

“Hello, Daysha,” Brin said brightly, standing and adjusting the boy to her hip.

“Good day, all,” Daysha nodded to each of them, offering a wave to Sonem in the distance.

“Hand your tunic to Sonem, if you’d like,” Mila called over her shoulder.

Placing her basket of utensils on the sand, Daysha followed the prompt. Removing her clothing, the sun penetrated her bare skin with heat and urged her toward the water. Stepping down, the cold bit her ankles. It took only a moment to adjust and wade out to Sonem.

Daysha returned to the inlet near the shore.

"Here," Brin said, handing Daysha the baby.

He was plump, bald, eyes just starting to darken. He babbled, chewing on his fist.

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Daysha poked at him playfully before propping him on her hip. She saw that Brin already had Daysha's utensils immersed for washing.

"Thank you," Daysha offered to Brin.

"Save your hands for curing later," Brin flashed a playful smile.

Daysha snorted, “Be concerned for Yuli. She’s collecting the honey.”

The baby leaned his forehead into Daysha’s lips and she bounced with him side to side.

The women continued to wash and join in songs, keeping a distant watch over the children. When all the tasks were completed, the others gathered things together to return to their huts. Daysha lifted the baby toward Mila, adding, "I'm going to stay to bathe a little longer."

"I'll take these back to your hut," Sonem called, handing all the items in baskets to the two oldest boys.

“Thank you,” Daysha responded, “I’ll see you at the grove.”

When they had gone, Daysha retrieved her jar of oil. Pouring carefully at the crown of her head, she felt the slow drips ease through her hair, causing her skin to tingle.

For the seventh time she commenced a ritual of her own design. Even from the moment she woke from the first dream, she knew she needed to go to the water. To feel it’s ebb and flow. Even though the river, she knew, would never breathe with her like the Serpent’s Ocean.

Course after course, cycle after cycle, when The Follower retreated amongst the Far Constants, and only their spotted lights patterned the sky, she grieved her empty womb in the waters of that river. The dreams then started to come under the full visage of the Follower; the time in her cycle when she had once been meant to carry hope for new life.

It had been something in her grief, something in her emptiness that sent her to the waters. Though none had ever asked, she could never hope to explain why she rose the mornings of her dreams and anointed herself in oil before bathing in the river at Mid-Sky. But somehow, in the light of The Chased, she felt more renewal than she ever had on those nights in the absence of The Follower.

She always waded as far into the middle of the river as the seasons had allowed. Water dribbled past her cupped fingers as she scooped portions to her shoulders over her back upon her dark hair, sure to cover her whole body. Lying flat, the water poured over her forehead while still not fully enveloping her. Daysha held her breath with her eyes open. The thin water rushing past obstructed the light and scattered it in beams of color.

She sat upright digging her heels behind two immersed rocks to stabilize herself against the flowing water now smashing against her back. As the stream billowed over her shoulders, Daysha lowered her head.

"Creator," she mouthed, but did not speak, "I come again to your flow of life as a vessel." Daysha recited the women’s prayer almost by wrote. She had added the word “again”.

The water turned a pinching cold, and Daysha labored to slow and deepen her breaths in order to breathe at all. But she felt powerful, alive.

When her sweet moment of peace drew to an end, Daysha returned to the shore. The day’s heat beat down so intensely her body dried before she had her tunic in hand. A contenting reminder flitted into Daysha's mind: the peach grove, her next stop, lay in the refreshing, shaded valley.