As soon as the southern storms ceased, I began preparations for my departure. I tied up hides, bundles of linens, shells, and precious wood—all the gifts I received over the course of my stay with Hilla-Tupa’s clan. The wooden figure of Big-Eye that I received on my first visit to the raawu, I put in my pocket, near the four orbs. With the help of one of Hilla-Tupa’s relatives, I made myself a new spear. Hilla-Tupa’s wife washed and trimmed my hair. Ra-Su provided me with a new cloak.

Pamala-Rashe and Tshoowa-wa-Yi got married twenty days before the summer solstice, and I stood by his side as a sworn witness. Hilla-Tupa broke the clay roundel above their heads and pronounced their marriage name: Brought Together by Providence. The people around met the announcement with a whoop and broke into a round dance, encircling the newlyweds. At some point, Pamala-Rashe threw a glance at me, and for the first time, I saw genuine happiness in his eyes. As the procession was moving away, dancing and singing about protection from demons and tricksters, I waved to him with a tearful smile, and he waved back. He found his place. I was alone again. Or, so I thought.

The very next morning, I picked up my gear and was preparing to leave. I went out of my reed house and almost fell from surprise—Pamala-Rashe stood at the entrance with his spear in his hands and the old cloak on his shoulders.

“Let’s go!” he said.

“What?” I asked, baffled.

“We’re going out, right?”

“We... Where?”

“What do you mean, ‘where’? Aren’t we going to the River Iz?”

I slowly put down my hefty bundle.

“I am going to the River Iz. Where in the universe are you going?”

“I’m going with you,” he said with a frustrated face as if it was I who was doing wrong here.

“You just got married! You’re part of the clan now. You’re supposed to stay with your wife.”

“I’m not supposed to. Besides, she knows. She’s fine. They’re all fine with it.”

“Who are ‘they’? Fine with what?”

“With us leaving.”

I knew that this could not be true, and quickly, I was proven right. The disputes over Pamala-Rashe's decision had been boiling on the other side of the camp all night. Tshoowa-wa-Yi’s parents were raging: “Fake husband!” her father would say. “Fake man! A fraud!” The parents wanted to break the marriage right off, but Tshoowa-wa-Yi refused. In the end, Hilla-Tupa had to resolve the issue himself—as a devoted one, he had the right to make the last decision.

“If a man says he needs to leave, and if his woman agrees with him, then so be it,” he said.

“Since when is this a thing?” the father retorted. “They barely had a night together, and he’s already out in the field like a wild cat.”

“Your daughter agrees with her husband. It means there’s something more to it. It means it must be this way.”

“It means we’ve been duped,” the father said sullenly. “It means he’s a fraud. That’s what it means. So much for providence. Tchu! Wife, bring me water, I cannot take this!”

For half a day, the clan discussed the matter. With great effort, Hilla-Tupa persuaded everybody that Pamala-Rashe’s decision was not to be frowned upon—yes, he has a wife, but he also has a mission. Pamala-Rashe was to leave with me, and the family was to perform all the parting rituals. I spent this day in the shadow of a tree, wondering if it was my curse or if it was my blessing.

“Just trust me, friend,” Hilla-Tupa told me in the evening when we discussed this matter in his reed house. “This is how it should be.”

The next day, the two of us bid farewell to the clan.

“Take care of him,” Tshoowa-wa-Yi whispered to me when I hugged her.

Hilla-Tupa gave me a stone knife in a finely painted sheath.

“Just a little farewell gift,” he said and hugged me. “Trust him. Just trust him,” he whispered in my ear.

Tshoowa-wa-Yi’s father refused to hug or even look at me. Ra-Su drew me closer and said,

“If you really want to go there so much, keep in mind that the locals don’t like outsiders. There is a clan on the western shore called Tlara-Tapaa¹/tlaˌra-taˈpaː/. My aunt is married there. Her name is Shikloe-Hadzhi²/ʃiˌklo-haˈdʒi/.”

“Watch where you step!” everyone told me, and with that, the two of us were out on our journey again.

***

We went west and in two days reached the place where the Iz merged with the River. The water had already retreated to its normal level. Marshes, little islands, and sandy spits traversed its surface, and flocks of flamingos hung out in the shallows. Green spring grass dried out and turned yellow in the summer sun.

River Iz was narrower than the River but deeper and ran faster. We turned south and went up its stream, along its eastern shore. We went on for another day and didn’t meet any people, which seemed a little strange to me. There were vast herds of aurochs grazing in the savanna, accompanied by groups of horses and flocks of birds flitting around. It was natural to assume that there would be at least several hunters in the area, but we met none.

I was going ahead, and Pamala-Rashe trod after me, with all the gifts on his back. We walked in silence. I didn’t question him and I didn’t expect anything from him anymore. He was my destined companion, and I could only accept it.

On the fourth day of our travel, we reached a stream that ran down a steep slope. There was a man there and at first, I felt worried. He washed his hands and his head in the stream, then noticed us and waved us to come closer. He was a lean fellow, about my age, a little shorter than me, and with sinewy hands. His narrow face had deep folds around the mouth and creases near the eyes. It was one of those faces that some people have, that’s always smiling, almost laughing, as if everything in the whole world is a joke and they know it. He had two small spears and a long sack hanging from his shoulder.

I tried to speak to him. He clearly spoke a Hurian dialect, but it was so strange and twisted that neither of us could understand what he was saying. I had to throw down my black orb, the one that helped me with languages—something I hadn’t had to do in a long time.

“Where’re you two going?” was what I finally could discern.

“We are looking for some people,” I said, picking up the orb. “Do you know a fellow by the name Hata-Gode-ok? I was told he lives somewhere around here.”

“Brother, I don’t know anybody ‘ere. I ain’t from around ‘ere,” he said, wiping his hands with a piece of cloth that hung on his belt.

“Do you know a woman named Shikloe-Hadzhi then?”

“I ain’t know anybody,” he said, took out a knife, and squatted over a group of shrubs. “I’m a traveler here.”

“What about Clan Tlara-Tapaa? Do you know them?”

“Heard of ‘em,” he cut off several grass ears, put one of them in his mouth, and stripped off the spikelets with his teeth. He gave several ears to us and we did the same. The seeds were soft and juicy and had a nice milky taste.

“Are there any people out there at all?” I asked him.

“Where?”

“On that shore of the river.”

“There are always people in the savanna,” the man said and went to another bunch of shrubs further down.

“That’s strange,” I said. “We haven’t seen any on our way.”

“You ain’t seen them, but they seen you,” the man replied, cutting off several more ears. “And by the way, I wouldn’t go near ‘em without a local. They don’t like outsiders.”

I asked him how we could get to the western shore of the River Iz, and he showed us to a ford upstream, where a bunch of boulders lay scattered along the riverbed. We made a brief stay near a pair of tuskunas. I had seen the trees before, while traveling around the River, but never had a chance to ask the people about it. They were strange-looking ones, not very tall, with wide canopies of branches. The branches were leafless except for their ends, where stiff, long, and sharp dark-green leaves circled around the tip. It had extremely rough bark and fibrous wood.

While we were resting at their feet, the man climbed one of those trees and picked several elongated greenish-yellow fruits.

“They aren’t edible,” Pamala-Rashe said to the man.

“Everything’s edible when cooked right,” the man said.

“This is a strange tree,” I noticed. “Nothing like it back in my valleys.”

“Oh, this tree has a reason to be strange. It used to have normal leaves long ago, in the days of the primordial forest. A whole nice and thick crown of leaves. A handsome tree it was back then.”

The man squatted beside us, rolling the fruits in the sand.

“But then one day, a swallow perched on its branch. It said: ‘Beautiful tree, can I use some twigs of yours?’ and Tuskuna answered, ‘Of course, little creature! I will share it with you.’ The swallow took a bunch of twigs and flew away.

“Time passed, spring came. The tree bloomed with huge white flowers. The swallow returned and asked Tuskuna: ‘Can I use your flowers?’ and Tuskuna answered, ‘Sure, little creature, just don’t take too many of them. I need them to multiply.’ The swallow took a third of the tree’s flowers and flew away.

“Time went on. The flowers bloomed and faded, making way for little fruits. The swallow returned and asked Tuskuna again, ‘Beautiful tree, let me use your young fruits!’ Tuskuna said, ‘I will let you use them, but you can take no more than half.’ The swallow took half of Tuskuna’s young fruits and flew away.

“Time went on. The fruits ripened and turned into big fruits. The swallow arrived again, and Tuskuna said, ‘I know why you’re here, bird, but I cannot share with you my fruits this time. I need them to multiply.’ To which the swallow said with tears, ‘I understand you, but my family is starving. We need your fruits, we need that sweet pulp. I promise to return all the seeds to you if you give us your fruits, I truly promise!’ Trusting, Tuskuna let the swallow take the last of its fruits. ‘Do you promise?’ it asked the swallow. ‘I truly promise, tomorrow I will bring you all the seeds!’ the swallow said and flew away.

“The tree stood without fruits, without seeds. The swallow did not return the next day, nor the day after, or any day afterwards. A moon birthed and died, then another moon, and another one. Summer ended, winter came, then spring, then summer, then winter again. The anguish of waiting gnawed at the poor tree from the inside. Its wood became fiberous, its bark roughened, its leaves fell off. And on top of everything—Tuskuna did not bloom, which meant it did not multiply.

“Five years passed. The time came for it to die. Lark and Raven came to Tuskuna and perched on its branches. The tree pleaded with them, ‘Please, honored carriers, spare me this season. I was deceived by the swallow. I could not spread my seeds and I did not bloom for five consequent years. Let me try another season.’

“Lark and Raven deliberated on this for some time and agreed to give Tuskuna another chance. So, into the sixth spring, Tuskuna entered. It did bloom! Happy, it stood with flowers on its bare branches. Suddenly, it heard a familiar chirping—the swallow came again. ‘Oh, gorgeous tree,’ the swallow began. ‘I admire your flowers. Please, be kind and share with me some twigs of yours!’ Tuskuna did not show how incensed it was by the bird’s behavior. Coldly, it said to the bird: ‘Take it’. The swallow grabbed a third of the tree’s twigs and flew away, happy. It flew, it flew...And then it fell down. Dead! Because the twigs of Tuskuna were poisoned with its thirst for revenge.

“So now, the swallows and most other birds don’t fly near tuskunas because they are poisonous to them. Lark and Raven are the only birds who perch on it and eat its fruits because Tuskuna respects them for that one moment of kindness.”

Having finished, the man kept bathing the fruits in the hot sand.

“Interesting story,” I said.

“Just came to my mind. I had something similar happen to me recently. A guy promised certain things and never delivered. Where’re you from?”

“I’m from the east, and he is...” I glanced at Pamala-Rashe, expecting him to give me a clue as to what I should say. He just stared at me blankly. “...From the River,” I finished.

“Eh, not locals. Well then, if you’ll excuse me, but I ain’t sharing this one with you because you don’t know how to cook it.”

“T’snot edible anyway,” Pamala-Rashe said, frowning.

“Sure ain’t.” The man put the sanded fruits into his bag and rose. “Well, the ford is there, my way is there. Watch your step!” he said to us with his face permanently engraved with a smile and walked off. We grabbed our things and went to the ford.

“What is your name?” I cried out to him, suddenly realizing that I had not asked that.

“It’s Zewe-Zdywe³/ˌzɛwɛ-ˈzdiwɛ/,” he cried back. Then, after a few steps, he turned and cried again, “Say by the way, if you bump into locals, tell ‘em you know me. May help. May not, though. But maybe? Anyway,” he waved to us and disappeared behind the eastern hills.