“We were.” Hanath sat down on the bank, bent and drank deep from the full water pot at the memory. “It is a small secret, making porro, but it holds a big secret to get the mixture just right. We are still learning that secret.”

“Still? Is that what the pot is for? More porro?”

“It is and it isn’t. The manduktos make their porro from tagaso, but all that we brought with us has been used up. So now we must try other ways of making it. This is a very difficult thing to do.”

“It is even more difficult to understand what you are talking about.”

“I will tell you. You drank porro, you know how good it is!” Hanath’s enthusiasm died. He sighed. “It can be very bad, too, when you get the making wrong. So simple. We put the dried porro grains into water to soak, just like making mush, stir them around. Add the moss, cover the pot, keep it warm — and in a few days, porro! Sometimes.” He sighed again.

“What does the moss do?”

“We don’t know — but nothing happens if it is not stirred in. Without it there is just old sour mush. But with it the mixture seethes, makes noise as if it were alive, sends up bubbles just like a swamp—”

“That sounds terrible.”

“No, it is something excellent. The bubbles in swamp water stink, but porro bubbles tickle the nose, are very good. But they were better with the tagaso. Some of the seeds we use made us very sick.” His frown vanished as he seized the filled pot and rose. “But today there is a new one. I think it is ready. You must come and try it.”

“Only after you do,” Kerrick said wisely. He picked up his weapons and went with the other hunter whose enthusiasm had returned with the memory of their new mixture.

“Here is how we thought, what we did. The mush from tagaso, it looks like the mush we make from other seeds. A seed is a seed — isn’t that right? This time we have cut the tops off the grass that women make mush from. Then winnowed the grain. We soaked it and covered it, used the right moss, kept it in the sun. This morning when I put my ear to the pot I could hear no more happy bubbling. That pot has rested in the shade all day, Morgil has poured water over it to cool it. Now we try it!”

Kerrick had not been here before, had not realized the great effort that the two hunters had put into their new enthusiasm. They had raised their tent in an open vale away from the other sammads, where they could have sun and shade as needed for their bubbling labors. Large pots sat in the sun, cooled in the shade, lay broken and discarded where pot or mixture had brought tragedy. Morgil lay on his side, his arms about a pot, his head pressed against it.

“Not a sound,” he cried cheerfully, then tipped some more water over the still-damp clay. “Shall we try it now?”

“Kerrick is here to help.”

“He is a brave hunter — he shall try it first.”

“Not that brave,” Kerrick said, stepping back. “You have captured the porro, you shall drink it first.”

Morgil cut the braided reeds that held the leaf covers in place: Hanath tore the leaves off and cast them aside. He bent over the open mouth of the pot and sniffed, turned, smiled.

“It smells the best so far.”

“It smelled good last time,” Morgil said with gloomy practicality. “We were sick for two days.”

At this reminder they took up the clay cups and dipped them hesitantly into the pot. Morgil had depressed himself thoroughly and did not drink, but watched while Hanath sniffed, sipped, swallowed. He grimaced in thought — then smiled broadly.

“The best we have ever made! As good as the mandukto make, better even.” He downed the rest of the cup, sighed and belched happily. Morgil gurgled his down enthusiastically. Kerrick dipped and tasted hesitantly.

“As good as the Sasku make,” he agreed. “Better than theirs — because this porro is here and not in that valley so far away.”

The only answer they made was rapid swallowing.

After this third cup Kerrick found that he liked to hear Hanath make stupid jokes — nor were they as stupid as always. Really quite funny. He was laughing so hard that he spilled most of his fourth cup and had to refill it. Morgil, who had been drinking twice as fast as the others, lay down, closed his eyes and began to snore. Kerrick sipped some more, then put his cup aside. He was beginning to understand why the manduktos only drank this on special occasions. Hanath was muttering to himself, laughing loudly at his own wit, so much so that he never noticed when Kerrick rose shakily to his feet and left. It was raining again, but now it did not bother him.

He walked slowly between the scattered tents, took great pleasure in the bustle and activity. Gray plumes of smoke rose up from the smokeholes to merge with misty rain. A woman called to another and there was the sound of sudden laughter. Nearby was a small meadow where the ground had been turned over, the tussocks of grass pulled out and thrown aside. The women had done this alone, since this was not suitable labor for hunters, and had carefully planted the charadis seed that Malagen had brought from the valley of the Sasku. The women all liked the softness of the cloth woven from the charadis fiber and were more than willing to grow the plants. Since the hunting had been so good there was now more than enough food for all. Time could be spared for the labors needed to raise the charadis. Cloth and strong pots: it was good to see these Sasku secrets being used now by the Tanu. Herilak emerged from his tent as Kerrick passed and called out in greeting.

“Was the hunting good?” Herilak asked.

“You were not there?”

“I found the tracks of large murgu to the north, two of them. I followed them with the death-stick.”

“It does not sicken?”

“I watch it, keep it where none can see it, it is well fed. I killed two murgu. The carrion eaters were on the bodies before I left.”

“There was too much rain for hunting. I brought back nothing. Others did better. All of the death-sticks do well, I talked with the others.”

The fear was always there now, had to be alleviated constantly. The death-sticks were their lives. Kerrick turned about too quickly and had to clutch a tree for support. Herilak frowned.

“You are ill?”

“No — but I have been drinking some new porro.”

“Then I understand. I have drunk it as well. Those two will be dead soon if they do not stop.”

“The new jar was very good.”

A woman called their names and they turned to Merrith who approached with a leaf-wrapped bundle. She opened it to reveal the still-smoking tubers inside.

“Baked in the fire,” she said. “I dug them yesterday.”

They cracked open the black-burnt skins, blew on their fingers, ate the sweet soft insides. She nodded approval at their appreciative murmurs. Kerrick felt a warmth of pleasure at this, something the others took for granted. To them the sammad was normal, to him a novelty to be greatly appreciated. When the sammads were together like this there were good things to eat — and drink! — much talk, sharing. It was a life that he had never known in his loneliness, that was appreciated the more because of this.

He should see Nadaske soon: it had been a very long time since his last visit. The thought came unbidden, unappreciated. Why, when everything was so good, why think of his friend’s unhappiness? Why not enjoy what he had for himself? He must be getting to be like old Fraken who seemed to get more enjoyment from his complaints than from his pleasures. No, it wasn’t that. It was because he was bound to the Yilanè male, understood his loneliness far too well. He was as alone among strangers as Kerrick had been among the Yilanè. He must go visit him. Soon.

“Have another,” Merrith said.

“Yes, of course.” He ate hungrily, Nadaske forgotten at once. Life in the sammads was very good.

As long as the death-sticks stayed healthy. That small worry was always present, always there.