The sunset lit the hills behind him. The breeze lifted the trees over him. And the path stretched out before him.

Others of his tribe, maybe, would have said there was no one else there.

Sana knew better.

Not quite twelve days ago, one of the young Lentavohi, Unohta, that heedless little weasel who seemed no more able to understand explanations when someone SPOKE them to him than when Sana tried to give them in signs, had spent an entire afternoon lying in a blackberry patch, eating his fill, and then had left without setting aside anything for the spirits.

The next morning, everyone who went out gathering had found all the berries fully tasteless and dry.

Sana had hoped it would pass, but then, as his teacher had once told him, hoping was just another way to say doing nothing. So when the days went by and proved his teacher right, he'd set out to do something.

It wasn't long before the throng of the camp faded into the distance, the frantic rhythm of the drums and the proud voices telling tall tales became fainter and fainter. Eventually, it was all drowned out beneath chipper birdsong and the subtle drone of the wind as it rustled the fir trees.

Sana drew a long breath, breathed out the tightness from his chest with it. He could almost have felt alone out here, the smell of forest the only background to his own scent—and scent, as any Lentavohi would tell you, was the Soul—the peace rarely broken by the coarse croaking of a crow or magpie. But that was simply untrue.

Out here, in the forest, there were all manner of unseen souls, their eyes fixed upon the lone shaman who walked among them. Spirits of all kinds. Those who dwelt in the moss-covered oaks and who could Whisper in the Wind to eachother, or to those lucky, or unlucky, enough to be able to Hear them. The hare that hid in the bracken and knew the secrets of which plants could heal which sickness, if you could catch him alive and knew how to ask. And the unseen powers of life and death and the spaces in between. But right now there was something even more. Something which was completely imperceptible to the untrained eye.

Like a rock underneath soft bracken that you couldn't see, but you couldn't help but feel once you sat on it. There was a powerful spirit here.

One that wasn't usually present.

As the otter glanced about himself,  through the gaps in the fir trunks, and beneath the boulders painted with his tribe's pawprints, he felt a strong gust rush over his sleek otter fur. Sana shivered and pulled the reindeer skin cloak tighter around his body, his legs left exposed to the gusts by his short, scrappy skirt.

Perhaps it was a sign. The timing was certainly convenient, and he had learned never to take a coincidence for granted. As his teacher had said, one's senses could only be honed so sharply, but they are useless without a sharp mind to wield them.

The otter grit his teeth, looking around himself again and spying nothing. He so badly wanted to raise his bulbous otter muzzle to the sky and bark: Show yourself!

Of course, nothing was ever that easy when you lack the tongue to scream with, but the otter shaman had his ways. And if they failed, there were always rocks to throw. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that, as Sana raised his cupped paws to his muzzle, staring up at the moon as it hung in the fiery evening sky.

Blowing, the otter pursed his lips and began to whistle, the sound weaving between his fingers and, like magic, filling the air with the lonely call of an owl. It was the best he could do, and the spirits would surely know that.

The shrill echoes of the whistle rang around the trees for a moment, then faded.

No reply. Just the sunset, the wind-stirred forest, the path. As before.

But rather than be reassured, the lack of response increased, rather than assuaged, the sense of presence hanging over the forest.

Of course, Sana would have muttered to himself, if he could, you feel like you're being looked at even harder. You just shouted at them.

He hesitated. When he'd been young—well, he was still young, especially for a shaman, but when he'd been younger—and learning, he'd been ashamed of that one finger fear still laid on his heart when he approached the spirits. It was reasonable, to be sure, it was understandable to fear the spirit world and the spirits that dwelt there. Spirits were unknowable and invisible and worked in ways none could understand. But it was his calling, his work, to know them, to see them, to understand them. But his teacher, gone among the spirits himself now, had taught him no: fear is a tool, like any other you can learn to use. It shows you where the border lies between the ordinary world, and the world of the spirits. It teaches you Awe, and the Joy of Awe. And it teaches you that when there is but one thing to be done, there is no point in complaining how hard that is. The only thing is to do it.

The fear had never really turned into awe, Sana would have admitted if he could speak, so it was just as well that he couldn't. But it did mean he could be sure he wasn't alone out here in the lowering night.

Well enough. He hadn't meant to be.

He went a decent furlong past the point where he could no longer hear the camp, where he had felt the fear of the spirits brush the back of his neck. And there he sat down, and made himself comfortable.

Up in the sky, Sana carefully observed the few stars that had begun to shine through the fading canvas of dark amber. Every passing moment they seemed to grow in intensity, joined by hundreds more of their kin as night settled upon the forest.

The otter shirked the deerskin cloak from over his shoulder and from over the strap of the rolled up pack. He placed it in his lap and began to rummage through its contents.

First, firewood: a bundle of brittle birch branches, tied together by a sinew string. Useless on its own. Sana dropped it at his side and delved back into the small pack.

Next, a pair of leather pouches in either paw. He squeezed each one respectively. One was soft, its contents deformed like wet clay in his grasp. The other rustled, crunched, and threatened to spear his thumb with a nasty splinter. Tallow and kindling respectively. 

Whatever spirits were out there, they'd have to wait while Sana set to work building his fire. Perhaps they watched him tip some of the dry grass from the tinder pouch onto the stony dirt, then take the tallow pouch and pour a thin layer of the succulent-smelling fat upon the kindling.

Perhaps not. It would have taken a Shaman to say for sure, and he was busy with a stomach that grumbled as his tallow-smeared paw passed beneath his nose. He couldn't help but look down at his pack and the supplies within. He had to focus, build the fire, then use it to warm his night meal. Picking up the pace, the otter then reached for his belt and retrieved a piece of flint and rough piece of golden stone that twinkled in the starlight.

He positioned the strange golden stone over the kindling, grasping the flint in his other paw. Slowly he lowered and raised his arm, taking a few practice swings to ensure he made the perfect strike, like any good hunter.

Then, he raised the flint high above his head. If he could speak, he would have offered a quick incantation to summon forth the sparks, he ought not to need it. The spirits ought to be always with him. Invocations were for hunters and riders, those who had to ask.

It still would have made Sana feel better to be able to ask.

In the end it was not necessary. Sana brought down the flint, let its pointed head scrape against the golden stone. Tiny seething sparks spat into the fat-soaked kindling, which caught alight almost instantly.

Sighing with relief, he dropped both the flint and the golden stone, stooping low and blowing gently upon the newborn fire, with his arms wrapped around it. He would give it his strength and let it grow, so that it may protect him in return.

As the smoldering orange light burst into flames, Sana scuttled backwards, reaching around to grab the birch firewood and quickly assembling it in a pile around the burning heart.

To his relief the flames grew strong, devouring the birch with happy crackles and hisses. A sense of pride grew with it, in his gut. To strike a fire so skillfully took practice, and a lot of failure: sliced fingers, cracked knuckles, and singed fur. Perhaps, too, it took an affinity for the spirit world—fire was a thing not entirely of this world, after all. It lived, breathed, ate, grew old, just like any animal, but without a body, only soul. And like any soul, it had its own scent.

It was only as the flames began to rise toward the night sky that Sana realized just how dark it had gotten. Beyond the glowing aura of his campfire lay only darkness, the fir trees silhouetted in the moonlight. The birds had stopped singing, replaced by the hum and chirp of insects hiding in old logs.

Night made solitude and distance from the camp somehow even more peaceful, and the tension in his fur dissipated somewhat. For a moment he was content to simply behold. Reaching for a strip of venison from his pack, skewering it on the end of his bone knife, holding it out towards the fire to cook, that could wait as he gazed up into the sky again. The sight of the starscape, so much vast and endless beauty that it looked as if he could fall into it, never ceased to make his eyes widen, his lips tighten, and his heart leap in his chest.

That was probably what his teacher had meant for him to grow his fear into, Sana thought. Shelter the fear, breathe gently on it, let it take the fuel and it would blaze up to something like what he felt for the stars. Maybe. Or maybe he couldn't, and like speech, this was just another thing he'd have to learn to make do without-

“Hail," a tired grey voice interrupted his reverie. “Share your fire with a traveler?"

Sana felt his whole body tense, then he forced himself to calm and looked up. An old wolverine, skinny and sinewy, broad hat and rough cloak. Bow slung across his back, quiver hung from his belt next to the long knife. He stood just at the limits of the circle of firelight, watching Sana at just the right angle that the fire glinted off the backs of his eyes.

Sana's mind raced. The signs he would use with the Lentavohi, well, a stranger might not recognize them. He would need to be sure the gestures he was about to use to say 'Yes please, Sit down, but I Cannot Talk,' couldn't be misinterpreted to mean something like 'I Hope the Marrow of Your Bones Will Be Delicious.'

“I will swear," the wolverine said, apparently mistaking his pause for caution, “that no hand of mine will strike you, that no weapon of mine will injure you, that no theft of mine shall touch any thing of yours."

Sana gestured to the other side of the fire, then chopped his hand back and forth once, sharply, across his open mouth. A shame he didn't have any gestures for 'I Wasn't Suspicious, I was just Trying to Think how to Say the Thing I Just Said.'

The wolverine, at least, didn't seem offended. He nodded perceptively and settled onto a rock a little to Sana's right. “So, you cannot speak, but you can yet understand my words, yes?"

Sana nodded.

“Very well. I hadn't thought, when I proposed meeting here, that anyone else might be here already." The wolverine pulled something from his pack. “Please, take. As thanks for your hospitality."

Fresh meat, Sana's nose said. Grouse or ptarmigan, killed freshly, a much more succulent meal than the dried venison he'd brought.

There's still a very powerful spirit somewhere nearby, Sana's intuition said, so don't get distracted by a friendly stranger.

Well, a little distraction couldn't hurt, right? said Sana's hunger. And it would have been rude to reject such a kind offer, especially as he could not politely decline with his words. Insistence was the only way he could get stuff across to some people. So, bowing his head slightly, the otter took the meat from this newfound stranger. 

Bringing it to his muzzle, Sana took a whiff. Bird, without a doubt, plump and surely juicy. He was careful not to look too eager as he sharpened a pine stick to mount it over the fire. Perhaps it would help sharpen his senses, though the hunters would say it makes you sluggish. Glancing back up at the stranger, Sana placed two fingers on his forehead, then pointed a fist at the wolverine. A gesture commonly reserved to say goodbye to the newly deceased, but Sana had come to use it to give thanks.

Hopefully the wolverine would understand.

The shaman felt a weight lift from his shoulders as the wolverine offered a polite smile, waited in patient silence while it sizzled, and finally let his gaze fall to the ground as they both tucked into their food.

If Sana could speak, he would have indulged in pleasantries and small talk, like his fellow Lentavohi: What's your name? Where do you come from? And what's this meeting you speak of?

Perhaps it was better not knowing, the little voice in the back of his head reminded him of the various cultists that had appeared in the forest over the last few summers. Though, if stories were to be believed, a cultist wouldn't have waited to make such an easy kill.

Sana's mind couldn't help but recall the terrible fate of one chief. It was only last winter, they had been found in a cave, their body battered by a skilled butcher. Tortured. Slowly, deliberately, and for some information nobody knew. Spirits rest his soul, thought Sana as he placed his two fingers on his forehead again.

“Your empathy is strong, for a shaman," commented the wolverine, who was glancing up from his meal with sharp, knowing eyes. “Isn't it a hindrance at times?"

“And why," said a new voice, warmer and younger but even deeper than the wolverine's, “would empathy ever be a hindrance?" A wolf, tall, chest bare, dark leggings and breechcloth, blade wrapped in deerskin and tied with a rabbit gut thong but from the glint off the haft it was clearly obsidian, fur the color of ripe blackberries so that he had to get very close indeed before Sana could make out the difference between him and the night behind him. He made to sit by the fire opposite Sana.

The wolverine stopped him with a short growl. “Isn't my fire." He nodded sideways at Sana. “It's his."

The wolf blinked. His saffron colored eyes seemed to soak up the firelight to the point they almost glowed like the clouds around the setting sun. “My apologies, then," he said to Sana. “I did not realize we were your guests." He glanced, slyly, at the wolverine. “Did you summon this one? It was none of my doing."

“I summoned no one," the wolverine sniffed. “He was here by pure chance."

“As if that means anything," the wolf scoffed. “For what it is worth, friend, I am entirely on your side. Where is a shaman, where is any man, without his empathy?"

Well, Sana bit his lip, he didn't think he had a side, but nonetheless… he inclined his head toward the black wolf, touched two fingers to his forehead, and extended a fist.

“I do not understand…" The wolf pursed dark furred lips.

“He means 'Thank You,'" interjected the wolverine.

“Oh!" said the wolf, “I thought it was a gesture of farewell, for the deceased."

The wolf and the wolverine talked, like two tribesmen who had known eachother long but not closely, which it must be admitted was likely exactly what they were. Sana looked back and forth between them, an eyebrow raised as he listened carefully, vigilant to any sign that they may be hiding their true intentions. Though they seemed too mundane to be hiding anything, perhaps they were just good at creating an illusion.

For there was still that strange feeling that played along his senses like music through a flute. The clear presence of strong spirits among them made the fur on his neck tingle and stand on end. Sana cupped his paws over his face and groaned, ground the heels of his palms against his forehead as the thoughts there returned to Unohta. That weasel had caused enough trouble, and now these strangers had appeared to stall him from fixing it. Nothing was ever easy in this life.

With a sigh, Sana let his paws fall to his side as he stared into the fire. He didn't even know which spirits were offended. Spirits could be so arrogant, why couldn't they just air their grievances like any other hunter? Sana longed for an answer to be handed to him, all neatly poured into a bowl, the way his teachers' stories had said things used to be, when shamen were more powerful and spirits recognized and respected them on sight.

Come to think of it, how did these strangers know he was a shaman?

The otter glanced down at himself, briefly, in a way he hoped wasn't obvious. He couldn't pick out any dead giveaways of his position within his tribe. The clothing he wore wasn't special, just treated skins wrapped about his person in the most comfortable manner. The usual jewelry of bones and amber were back at camp, too cumbersome to wear out this time of night.

“Shall we," the wolverine's posture straightened, “get on with what we have to say? I travelled far to reach this place, and I will have far to travel when we are done."

“We're not all here yet," the wolf poked the fire with a twig, “and we are observed."

“I think he is," the wolverine's eyes bored into Sana until he could almost feel them, “unlikely to tell any secrets."

Slowly, Sana raised a finger, clearing his throat to grab the attention of his two strange, unexpected guests. If he could speak, he would have asked for names, but had to make do with what he knew.

Placing his fist on his ribs, he firmly bumped his chest a few times and pointed at the wolverine, cocking his head to the side and keeping his eyebrow raised with an inquisitive gaze. Worst case was that it came off as an attempt to show dominance, spirits forbid.

“You wish to know his name?" The wolf's voice was mildly amused, which seemed unfair. It was a reasonable question, given they'd apparently understood it!

But it seemed to be difficult. The wolverine scratched pensively at his chin before answering. “I… have no name, among the peoples of these lands. That is why-"

“One reason why," the wolf interrupted.

“One reason why," the wolverine sighed, “we chose to meet here. You may call me Hunter, if you wish."

“It is a matter of what we do, then?" said the wolf, “Then you may call me Mourner."

“If it is a matter of what we do, then he ought to call you Kilt-Lifter," Hunter growled. Sana tensed for a fight, but the wolf laughed raucously.

“And I suppose that makes our third guest, if he ever arrives… Speaker, perhaps?" Mourner grinned.

“Are you asking me?" Hunter said.

“He's your son, not mine!"

“Aye, and precious few indeed are those who can claim to not be your son!"

“Is this," cut in another voice, cold and serious, “the counsel I was called for?" A sudden wind rushed through the trees, and raced the fire up enough to show someone in a hooded cloak that covered him front and back so that only the face revealed him to be a crow, standing behind Hunter and Mourner.

The wolf grinned, “Hardly. But come, meet our host, he-"

“He cannot speak, his name is Sana, son of Kirkamät, shaman of the Lentavohi," Speaker intoned as if for some kind of ritual, as if all he did was chant and preach and recite, and never simply talked. “He has come seeking to right the balance, and he shall find much more than he expected." The crow did not sit, he stood on Sana's left, across from Hunter.

“How is it," Hunter peered through the fire at his—apparently—son, and Sana's stomach was falling out of him now that he suspected what it meant for a wolverine's son to be a crow, why they knew him without introduction, and why he felt more than ever the presence of powerful spirits, “that you know him?"

“I listen, as well as speak." Speaker's beak clacked sharply when he said.

“That doesn't help!" Mourner commented, very cheerfully.

Speaker shrugged. “If you will not take my word for it…" His head turned, sharply, toward the otter. “I have not yet given you the gift you are due, as host. If you will?" And he leaned over the otter, till his face was inches from the shaman's.

Sana's eyes widened as he pulled back, only a little. His hands wanted to shout 'are you trying to kiss me?' but the crow was already too close. And if these people were what he suspected they were… then a kiss might mean something much more than itself, this might be courtesy among these beings, this might be very unwise to refuse.

And when was the last time he'd been offered something like that, anyway?

He realized his mouth was open because he felt something enter it, but not what he expected: a warm breath. Speaker was exhaling, steadily, forcefully, and it filled his nose and mouth and pressed into his lungs like the smell of a distant thunderstorm, and he could feel it moving in there, like an alive thing. He would have wanted to cough, but his chest wouldn't cough. He would have wanted to collapse to his knees in exhaustion but he'd never felt more filled with wakefulness.

Speaker pulled away, face impassive, apparently satisfied.

“What did you-" Sana said.

Then stopped.

Slowly, he tested with one of the paws he'd just clapped to his face in shock. Probed his muzzle with an experimental finger.

There was no tongue within. As ever.

He looked at the crow in awe. “How?" he said, nonetheless.

“How does the sun rise?" Speaker lowered his hood and finally took a seat. “How does the river flow to the sea? How does the horse learn to run? We are what we do, Shaman."

Sana continued to prod and poke at his lips, running his thumb along his teeth as he listened to the crow, Speaker. Again, he'd hoped for a real answer, but he should have known better. After all, it was as clear as night and day now that these were no ordinary guests.

“You know..." The shaman began, trailing off for a second to smack his lips, the sensation of speech still so new that it twisted a tongue he did not have. “I always imagined speech made these affairs much easier," Sana mused, almost to himself, idly directing his words towards the crow.

Silence hung in the air between them for a few moments, Sana carefully looking over the crow who had returned his voice. Only the crackle of the fire and the whistle of night birds filling the air, until the otter spoke up once again.

“Keep your peace then," he mumbled as he turned to look back into the flames, watching them dance against the silhouettes of the fir trees. “So, you two who resemble Raakuol and Metsävaha, and you I do not recognize, why keep your true names from me?"

Sucking in his breath, the otter shaman turned his head to look over each of his guests. If they were spirits, as was certain at this point, then he only recognised two of their forms, and yet they acted nothing like they were said to. The power of speech should have been of the Oak, not the Crow.

“It is as I said. We have no names among your people," answered Hunter, slower and more deliberate in his manner of speaking this time. As if being recognized for what he was were an onerous task he was now obliged to resume.

“You are other then, like how the Hedker have their Sun spirit?" The otter cocked his head to the side, narrowing his gaze on the wolverine, not entirely sure what to make of such a revelation.

“We may be," the crow interjected, “but maybe we are not unlike you, who move from place to place on the game trails, as we see fit."

Those last words lingered in Sana's ears, biting his lip with one fang as he chewed over their ominous meaning. Whether the Speaker meant them to be intimidating, or if they just spoke so matter-of-factly, Sana realized he had to consider his own words carefully.

“You were after something then, but I doubt it was a herd of tall elk," the shaman forced a nervous chuckle, glancing at each of his guests.

“Perhaps we were merely seeking a welcome fire to gather around," proposed Mourner, returning the otter's half-hearted chuckle. “After all, on the journey I have taken to get me here, I have heard only praise for your people's hospitality."

The comment perked Sana's attention, and his ears too, if they were more like those of the wolf. It never occurred to him that spirits could travel like regular hunters, listening to gossip and rumor. Äituri forbid they passed judgement based on such hearsay and half-truths.

...if Äituri wanted to forbid these three from something, could she?

The otter scratched his chin, still chewing over the words he was offered. He guessed he should have been grateful foremost, for a compliment from a spirit surely meant a lot. Especially when he'd come to mend wrongs committed by his people, and even if it seemed such a minor thing to Sana.

“A tribe that looks out for each other is strong," began the otter, speaking slowly as he mulled over the best way to explain it. “We were all raised being told that, it is not hospitality, it is simply living for us."

“There are those who would disagree." Mourner said, with no trace of humor in his voice for the first time.

Sana sighed, slightly concerned by the change in tone of the wolf's voice. It was true as far as he could tell, no Lentavohi thought of sharing supplies as anything special. A hungry hunter gets desperate, and one desperate hunter can spoil the hunt for everyone.

“It seems not all of your people are so idyllic," Mourner continued in a tone that grew more serious, “otherwise you wouldn't be out here. A man belongs at his fireside, with two or three to warm his sleep, once the sun has set. If he is elsewhere, he has a reason."

The comment made the otter recoil slightly. Of course, Unohta and his selfish antics, the reason he had come out into the dark forest alone, and it wasn't the first time. So then, was it the weasel they wanted?

“Unohta..."

“Is like the fire raging before us," Mourner asserted, cutting off the shaman as he hesitated to find an excuse for the weasel's behavior. The wolf went on, “he is young and yearns for all that life offers, burning brightly."

The fire seemed to glow brighter for a moment, the flames jumping as Mourner finished, then settling back down again. Resting his head on one paw, Sana considered the prospect, and what the Mourner might have wanted him to do about it.

“He must learn to control that fire, before it consumes him," suggested Sana thoughtfully, not entirely certain about his answer.

“Is that what you really believe?" Speaker's cold voice sent a chill up the otter's spine, causing him to glance at the shadowy crow with a deep frown. There was no room for uncertainty when your guests knew more about you than even you do.

“You have a fire in you, too. One that drives you to overcome your…" Mourner bit his lip, “challenges. But you learned from the old ways, seeking knowledge from the dead and the immortals."

“The weasel is stubborn," sighed Sana as he pinched the bridge of his nose, “he accepts no teacher." The otter was telling the truth, he could not recall any hunter who seemed to move the young Unohta to action.

“You don't believe that," Hunter insisted with a deep grumble, adding weight to Speaker's previous statement. “You, with your tenacious approach to your struggles, wouldn't give up on someone so easily."

Sana felt scathed by Hunter, nervously rubbing his shoulder as he glanced at each of his guests and, once again, carefully considered how to move forward. It felt like an interrogation, not a communion as he had hoped. Part of the otter almost wished for the vague coincidences again, at least they didn't burn into his fur with intense gazes.

“Some of your tribe whisper through the wind, like the oaks, like you. Do they not?" Speaker slowly cocked his head to one side, seeming to take pity on the shaman and his cluelessness.

That's when it clicked in Sana's head. No hunter had tamed Unohta, no tribe member had adopted him, it was...

“The horses," mumbled the otter, his eyes widening at the seemingly obvious realization. Sana glanced around at his guests again, noticing that they had all leaned in to listen. “He adores the horses," the shaman continued, “seems to spend all his time around them, like he would his own family. That's how I know he's not lost." Sana clasped his paws together, and rested his head on his knuckles. “That's how I know he's a true Lentavohi at heart."

“Do you think, then, that…" Speaker paused a moment, head cocked to one side, as if running fingers through his memory, “Rasori and Äituri will be able to reach him? When you by yourself cannot?"

“I am hopeful, and I will try!" the otter bowed. “And I am humbled that spirits as powerful as yourselves would journey so far merely to aid me."

“That is not what we came for," Hunter said.

“But," Mourner grinned, “you yourself would know, Shaman, when in your journey you come upon a task by chance, there is a reason why it is you before whom it is set."

“Even if you never learn it," Speaker looked pointedly at Mourner. “But now the night wears on. What we would say to one another, we must say before dawn comes. Have you a place to sleep, Shaman?"

“I can make myself comfortable under a tree," Sana said, “It would not be the first time."

“I have not yet," Mourner stood, and stepped behind Hunter to Sana's side of the fire, “offered our host any guest gift. But I have been told my arms are a safe enough place to rest." His eyes met the Shaman's and strangely, still glowed all the colors of sunset despite his now facing away from the fire.

He didn't ask whether Sana wanted to spend the night in his arms. But then, did he need to?

Memory would elude the otter, of the rest of that night, like a small fish sliding through the hole of a net. He could remember blissful weariness filling his body, strong arms wrapped around and supporting him, and his head cushioned on the black furred chest of the wolf-spirit, though he couldn't have said, for more than one reason, which of those had happened first. He would try, years later, to paint something of what he remembered on the wall of a limestone grotto, which after many later ages had passed some later peoples would find and deem sacred enough to keep secret, though they never knew anything of its artist or his tribe, before they themselves were likewise left behind and forgotten by time and eternity. But even if they had understood, pigment and brush and fingertip couldn't capture the way Sana saw Mourner's body become the darkness of the night itself, though no less warm or soft or supportive beneath him, saw Speaker's cloak rising through the rustling trees until it was sheets of soft rain covering half the night sky, saw Hunter at the far end of a long straight road, the size of a mountain, and the outlines of his body made of patterns of stars, as the three of them talked of things Sana could not begin to comprehend: 'car-bon' and extinctions and the burning of bones and forests, and hoarded treasure, and who was responsible, or would be responsible, for the deaths of entire peoples, and whether anything could be done to stop it.

Perhaps this was something he'd woken to glimpse. Perhaps this was something he heard while sleeping and wove into a dream. Perhaps the whole night had been a dream, for was not that the sort of thing that happened to a shaman?

When he woke, he was alone by an extinguished fire. There were no footprints, no pheasant bones or feathers, indeed no sign, to look at, that any but himself had been there last night.

But the smell of wolf's fur, the color of ripe blackberries, still clung to him. And scent was the soul, after all.

That was enough proof for Sana.

And after he tried, hesitantly, experimentally, to speak, and managed only a long-familiar grunt, he resigned himself that it wasn't as if he'd be telling this story to anyone but himself.

If any of his tribe noticed that the berries were flavorful again, or remarked that after three nights of delirious nightmares Unohta was a changed weasel, deeply mindful of the respect due to spirits and even more devoted to the horses, then what point was there in asking the silent shaman for an explanation? Even if he could tell you what was going on, he wouldn't.

And what did it matter? The sunset still lit the trees in evening, the breeze still moved the clouds, the path still stretched before all of them, as ever, and the spirits remained out there. Somewhere.

Where only a shaman need concern himself with them.