I couldn’t tell why Pamala-Rashe kept following me, but I certainly grew to enjoy his distant company. I hiked ahead and he followed me no closer than a hundred steps behind. We rested at our own campfires, ate separate meals, drank from separate springs. Sometimes I would make stops to study some local herbs, or simply to enjoy the breeze, and he would stop as well, watching me from atop a high place. He didn’t hide and neither did I. In this peculiar fashion, we traveled southeast of the River Iz.

The landscape was different here. Withered savanna woodlands stretched across the flat land, cut through by streams running in narrow ravines. In the west, dry reddish plateaus with rocky walls and gorges between them stood in a line. Sometimes, we saw straight sticks with red rags planted here and there, on hills and near the edges of the ravines. Their meaning was difficult to discern, but what I knew for sure was that I was about to meet some people.

So it happened as I—or would it be more proper to say we?—entered one such gorge, following a cool stream that ran from it. I noticed upstream some figures standing on top of a rock. They raised their spears, and so did I. They were greeting me, and that gave me confidence. As I moved up, more people appeared on the edges and on the slopes, all raising their hands and sticks—I saw that those were just sticks, without spearheads.

They greeted me the ‘good River way’, which made me think they were relatives, but when I got closer, I saw that they were different people. They carried on their shoulders long woven cloths with angular patterns. Some people seemed to have embroideries on their very bodies; I couldn’t tell if those were tattoos or something wearable.

I reached a place where a dry gully that ran down the northern slope joined the stream’s course. Up on the slope, a man stood with raised hands. I stopped and raised my hands as well, and he went down to me. He was a middle-aged man with a thin line of hair on his chin and cheekbones—a rather unusual style for the Hu. He was taller than me, broad-shouldered and burly, with a roundish belly stretching out. Like others, he carried on his shoulder a long cloth colored red and yellow. Rows of dots encircled his shoulders, and I noticed from close up that those were deliberately made scars. He walked slowly, raising his hands every third step, then dropping them like he was shaking something off, then raising them again. By instinct, I began mimicking his gesticulation, moving my hands up and down with every iteration of his.

He approached me with a wide smile and heavy steps, raised his hands again, and did not drop them this time. So did I, and for several heart-throbs, we stood in this awkward position in front of each other.

“Be well!” he eventually said. “Zha-Tamboon!” He put his hands on his chest, then spread them and turned around. “My clan—Ha-Mewhatchi¹name: /ʒa-tamˈboːn/; and clan: /ha-ˌmɛʊhaˈtʃi/.”

He spoke a variant of Hurian, different from what I had gotten used to at the River, but at least more or less understandable. His name meant Five-Boars, and the clan’s names meant Bull’s-Ones.

“Dyovi. Teller, in your language,” I said.

“Dyovi! Teller! This is a beautiful name. You must have had a beautiful mother.” He then looked towards where I came from, his smile slightly eased. “Are you being followed?”

He meant Pamala-Rashe, who stood afar from us, on a boulder, warily looking at the several men with sticks who stood in the vicinity.

“He’s actually my companion,” I said.

“Companion?”

“Yes, we walk in the distance from each other... We have a better observation this way. He is friendly.”

“Well, come here, friend!” We both waved for Pamala-Rashe to come close. The men eased their stances and went up the slope; Pamala-Rashe slowly came to us.

“We are sorry for trespassing,” I began, but Zha-Tamboon interrupted me,

“Ain’t no need for sorries. You’re guests here. Come! Come uphill. We’ve got a place ready.”

With Zha-Tamboon, we went along the gully up onto the plateau. The ‘place ready’ was a leveled ground in the shadow of a wide-canopied acacia. A gathering of three men without the pattern cloths, one woman, and two dogs sat there in a half-circle, without a campfire. Several more men stood on the edges of the plateau, some thirty steps away. One dog, seeing us, scurried behind the tree and lay there; the other dog stayed. The three men got up, and that was when I noticed that they were the ones who chased us.

“These are my nephews,” Zha-Tamboon said, pointing at the younger males from right to left. “Ra-Sew, he’s the oldest, Newla-Sew, middle, and Tabon-Rash, the youngest. And that is our shaman, Tchoola-Dzhela²/ra-sɛʊ/; /ˌnɛʊla-ˈsɛʊ/; /ˌtabon-ˈraʃ/; /tʃoːˌla-dʒɛˈla/.”

The men nodded as their names were pronounced. I vaguely understood that they meant Red-Moon, High-Moon, and Bent-Nose—the latter one having indeed a strongly bent nose just like Pamala-Rashe. The shaman’s name meant something like Feeling-Well or Sensing-Well. Seeing a female shaman was unusual for me, but I reserved my questions about that for later.

For some time, we stood in front of each other, then Zha-Tamboon raised his hands and dropped them as if he was shaking something off again. We sat down. Tchoola-Dzhela seemed to be indifferent to the gathering, knitting something with her hands; Ra-Sew and Newla-Sew studied Pamala-Rashe with interest.

Zha-Tamboon walked around us and stopped on the other side, smiling. The woman grabbed a bag from the ground and gave it to him. Zha-Tamboon, as if remembering something, threw up his hands, took the bag, and kneeled in between our two sides. He fetched from the bag a whole patch of honeycombs, took a knife from his belt, and began cutting them.

“We understand that there happened a certain misunderstanding in the plains,” he said. “Some of our fellows attacked you with weapons in a foolish rush. As a qaoron of our clan, on behalf of our clan and our fellows—my nephews, namely—I’m offering you our sincerest apologies and I ask you to take these as a reconciling gift.”

He took the pieces of honeycomb and distributed them between the people present. Pamala-Rashe and I received the biggest pieces; the woman was given a smaller one; the nephews got the medium ones, and Zha-Tamboon himself took the smallest piece. Each of us began eating the delicious gifts, as Zha-Tamboon continued,

“It was only due to your wisdom, good shaman,” I flinched at that phrase, “that my three foolish nephews were spared their lives. Because surely, the creature that you’re allied with is that of an enormous power. They could’ve been dead that same minute, but they were spared. For that, shaman, I thank you, and because of that, I hope that our little encounter ends not in rivalry, but in friendship.”

He ended with a wide smile that showed all of his teeth and spread his hands as if he wanted to hug the whole gathering. I glanced at Pamala-Rashe, who sat still, chewing the beeswax and looking at me with eyebrows raised and the corners of his eyes wrinkled. The three nephews looked at me with dispassionate faces, with a trace of remorse, even.

I thought it would be wise to play up to the role and said,

“Sure, qaoron. I accept your apologies. But I would like to ask the young men: why did you run at us at all?”

Ra-Sew, the oldest, said with a rather provocative tone,

“Why did you run from us?”

“Why, we ran from you because you ran at us.”

“But why did you run?”

“Why did you run?”

“Why wouldn’t we? Maybe you were our enemies? Hard to say from afar.”

“Ha-Tchewe became nervous when he saw you,” Newla-Sew said, pointing at the spotted dog that was hiding behind the tree. “Ha-Tchewe has a nose for enemies, so we thought that you are ones.”

“Well, no, we surely weren’t your enemies,” I said.

“But how could we say from afar?” Ra-Sew continued. “You should’ve stayed in place and waited for us.”

“How could we stay in place if you set your dogs on us and ran at us with weapons?”

“Well, of course, we did! What if you were our enemies?”

I was confused by the logic of these people. Zha-Tamboon was becoming nervous. I wanted to say something else, but Pamala-Rashe jumped in.

“You have a lot of enemies?” he asked Ra-Sew.

“Not at the moment, but you never know. Enemies are like warts, you know: now you don’t have them, then hap—now you do.”

“You have a lot of warts?”

I felt this conversation was going nowhere. Zha-Tamboon, evidently, felt the same; he raised his hands and said with a grave face,

“Let’s put an end to this. We sit here, we see each other, we see there are no enemies here. No reason to heat things up. Ra-Sew, do you hear me? Please, show some courtesy to our guests.”

“I am showing courtesy. I’m answering their questions. By the way, no—we don’t have a lot of warts. Why are we treated like we’re in the wrong? We didn’t see who they were back there. Now we see. We did it all the way Chosen-One did. Eat while you can eat, chase the enemies while you can chase them.”

“Ah, here we go again,” Zha-Tamboon exclaimed. “I told you so many times, this is not how you should understand that story!”

“What story?” I asked timidly.

“Oh, you know that one, about how Chosen-One ate all the Lapwing’s eggs.

“Chosen-One was traveling through a damp land and found the lapwing’s nest with three eggs. He thought, ‘Well, I’m hungry. But eating a creature’s brood is not good, I should pass’. So he wanted to go on, but a voice repeated to him that he was hungry. He thought, ‘Well, I can eat one and leave the rest.’ He ate one egg and found that it was delicious. He was ready to leave, but a voice told him again: ‘You’re still hungry.’ Chosen-One thought: ‘But I will make the lapwing my enemy’. But his stomach was rumbling indeed, and the voice kept seducing him. He ate another egg. He was ready to go, but the voice said for the third time, ‘You are still hungry.’ Chosen-One thought, ‘But I’ve already eaten two; eating all three will be cruel.’ And the voice said, ‘They are destined to be eaten anyway. What does it matter who eats them? Eat while you can eat, boyo.’ And Chosen-One thought it over and exclaimed: ‘This is the truth! Eat while you can eat, boyo.’ He ate the third egg.

“Now he saw a shadow cast over him and all across the damp land. He turned around, shaken, and saw the big monster, Guna, and on his big head—lapwings the parents, thirsty for revenge. Guna said, ‘Good boyo! Now I shall have a meal myself,’ and swallowed Chosen-One with his big mouth. That’s the story—”

“But that’s not the whole story, uncle!” Ra-Sew shouted. “He found Kaela-Hii³/ˌkæla-ˈhiː/ inside that monster.”

“Yes, and she and he had a good time in there,” the other brothers confirmed with grins. Zha-Tamboon threw his hands up again.

“Your late father made it up! This is not the canon of the story.”

“Whatever, we believe our father. We believe that he was right. Chase while you can chase, fight while you can fight, eat while you can eat, run while you can run; as for the consequences of everything—all mendable. Ain’t that right, broken nose?”

Ra-Sew spoke to Pamala-Rashe who responded with a sinister frown. Somehow, I felt it was better for them to not engage in a conversation. I decided to intervene.

“Quick-Hand is his name,” I said.

“Quick-Hand?”

“Yes, and his name means that he has a quick hand. His hand can kill all three of you with one sway of his spear. In fact, back then, you were blessed with facing off against that black spirit. He only scared you off, but this guy could’ve killed you on the spot.” With the corner of my eye, I noticed how one of Pamala-Rashe’s brows went up while the other one remained frowning.

Ra-Sew studied Pamala-Rashe from toe to forehead, then suddenly tossed a pebble in his direction. In a blink of an eye, Pamala-Rashe caught the pebble right at his chin. Ra-Sew’s face changed from a slight disdain to a sort of amusement.

“Yeah,” he said, straightening up. “I say, brothers, we gotta be friends with these people. What do you say, brothers?”

The brothers said, “Yes, we say yes!”

Zha-Tamboon and I let out a sigh.

“Then it is resolved!” Zha-Tamboon said, dropping his hands.

“Yes, it is resolved,” Ra-Sew said. “But not sealed yet, though. How do we seal it, brothers?”

“I say, we eat Ha-Tchewe!” Newla-Sew exclaimed.

“Yes, I say that too. He’s the one who started barking, which made us mistake our friends for enemies. He deserves repercussions. We shall eat him!” Tabon-Rash said.

All three looked at Zha-Tamboon, who looked at the female shaman, who spat out a bit of the beeswax and did not seem to be interested in the offer.

“Well, if that’s gonna seal it, then let’s do it,” Zha-Tamboon said.

“Right. I never liked this stooped dog anyway. Also, he’s been getting feisty recently. And he’s also getting fat. We shall eat him. Tabon-Rash, bring him over!ˮ

Tabon-Rash started up and ran behind the tree. The dog must’ve understood what had been discussed. It dashed away from the youngest brother, and across the flat grassy plateau, they ran. Watching and hearing all this, I at first did not believe my eyes and ears, but then tensed up and cried at the top of my lungs,

“Wa... Wai... Wait, wait. No. no, no-no-NO! We don’t eat dogs!”

Everybody stared at me.

“Wha?” Ra-Sew said. “What do you mean?”

“I mean what I mean—we... I don’t eat dogs.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re our relatives!”

I told them about the view that we held in the valleys of the River Ma. I told them the story of Ongilid and Ongiliel, who were the first people and who descended directly from the dogs. I told them that, according to our beliefs, eating a dog is akin to eating a man.

“You wouldn’t want to eat a man to seal a friendship, would you?” But instead of an understanding look, I encountered bewildered stares. “Would you?” I asked them again, hopeful to hear at least a somewhat lenient answer.

“Dogs—relatives? That’s a pile of crap,” Newla-Sew said.

I searched for a trace of a different opinion in Zha-Tamboon’s face, but his wide open mouth and eyes signaled the opposite.

“So you don’t want to seal our friendship?” Ra-Sew inquired firmly, rising to his feet. Newla-Sew and Pamala-Rashe rose as well.

“I’m not eating that dog.”

“Please, can’t you make a pass for your beliefs just once? This is our custom.” Zha-Tamboon begged. I remained persistent.

“I am not eating that dog.”

The dog in question kept running around the plateau; Tabon-Rash followed it, almost out of breath. Other men joined the chase, but all was to no avail: Ha-Tchewe ran for his life.

“So you don’t respect our customs. Which means are our enemy after all,” Ra-Sew kept pushing.

“I am not eating that dog,” was all I could repeat, and got up, reaching into the pocket for the yellow orb.

It was at that moment that the female shaman who kept knitting on the ground cast her voice.

“Muh-uh. This ain’t shamanry, throwing stones around. That’s trickstery.”

The sudden remark of the woman brought silence to the gathering, only broken by the noise of the chase that swirled around us. The brothers tightened their lips and narrowed their eyes. Pamala-Rashe and I began to retreat, and the brothers slowly advanced towards us.

“Maybe it is. But the black spirit is strong, and Quick-Hand’s hand is quick,” I said with a mix of vague defiance and terror in the face of rivals. “I’m not eating the dog.”

“We heard that,” Ra-Sew said. “Uncle! Be a witness. Our father told us the right story, after all.”

Zha-Tamboon gravely got himself up, holding his knees with his hands.

“We’re leaving,” I said.

“Yes, leave.” Ra-Sew barked “And leave for good. Don’t return. Because if you do—we will run you down all the way, and no shiny-black defender of yours will stop us!”

***

We hurriedly left the plateau down the same gully, went out of the valley between the rocks, and headed south. The men of Ha-Mewhatchi followed us until we passed a stick with a red rag planted in the ground; apparently, this was the local way of defining one’s territory. The men watched us go away from a high ground until we were far enough. One of them raised his stick and pointed the sharp end to us, which did not look like the ‘good River way’ of saying farewell, but was obviously a threat. They then left, and we continued south—close to each other this time.

“Damn it, I forgot to ask them about Tlara-Tapaa,” I said out loud at one point and felt that my words did not reach any ears. I turned around and saw Pamala-Rashe far from me again, only this time he was not walking but sitting, and something in his pose was not good. I went to him and asked him what the problem was, but he did not respond. Sitting on a low bump, he squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. He let out several deep breaths and turned his head, but then dropped it down and sat like that.

“Pamala-Rashe, are you well?”

“Go forward, I’ll catch up,” he said shortly, without looking up.

I was hesitant to leave him in this state, but he repeated his urge, almost barking it. I went forward, glancing back every ten steps. He eventually got on his feet and trod after me, and he seemed to be walking confidently. Still, some fuzzy concern began gnawing at me from the inside.