The old man shook his head in bemusement. "Such names!" he mused. "I was never able to keep them straight!" He came to his feet—it seemed quite a struggle—and gestured for them to join him. "I forget myself," he said cheerfully. "Join Heen and me. I will make us some tea."

Perkar was uncertain, but Ngangata nodded. The two of them crossed the clearing, Perkar walking, Ngangata stubbornly stumbling along. The old man, meanwhile, disappeared into his strange hut and emerged with a copper kettle. He filled it with water from a rainbarrel at one side of the house, and after adding some herbs to the pot and a bit of wood to the flagging fire, came back to join them. He walked bow-legged, on limbs as spindly as those of a spider.

"Now," he said, as he returned to his seat. "Please sit down."

Perkar and Ngangata folded their legs beneath them. The old yellow dog appraised them briefly with half-lidded eyes, then returned to sleep.

"My name is Yushnene, or at least it was when I was younger. That means 'Wolf-Minded.' They called me that because I was such a terror in battle." He chuckled to himself, as if at some small joke. "After that, they called me Gaan, because I was a shaman—that's what that means—but now, when I see anybody they just call me Old Man or something like that. But when I used to go up into your country, to trade, up there your people called me Brother Horse. You can call me whatever you want."

Despite himself, Perkar felt a smile drawn from him by the old man's manner. "Any of your other names would make me sound as if I were sneezing," he admitted. "May I call you Brother Horse?"

"That's fine with me. I always used to laugh when they called me that, because it had to do with a misunderstanding. I didn't speak your language very well, and someone asked me my horse's name. I didn't know how to say 'He is Dog-Chaser, my second cross-cousin on my father's side,' and so I just tried to tell them he was my cousin. What came out, though, was 'brother.' By the time I realized my mistake, the name was stuck to me. Anyway, I like it well enough, and I thought of Dog-Chaser as a brother anyway."

"You are Mang then?" Perkar blurted. "I've heard you share lineage with your mounts."

"Mang? Yes, that's what you people call us. My own tribe is really the Sh'en Dune, the South People, but foreigners always call us Mang."

"The Mang are the chief tribe in their confederacy," Ngangata explained. "The ones your people are usually at war with."

The old man nodded. "Yes. I've never been to war against you Cattle People, though, so I hope there are no grudges."

Perkar shook his head. "No. Mang attacked my father's damakuta many years ago, but I hold no enmity against brave warriors."

"Well, that's good," Brother Horse replied. "It would be a shame if Heen and I were forced to kill you both." His eyes crinkled merrily in his square, dark face. His hair still had some black amongst the white, but Perkar thought he must be older than any other man he had ever met.

"How long have you been on this island?" Perkar asked, not wanting to speak any further about warriors or battle.

"Heen and I have been here for five winters. But what you mean to ask is why I'm out on this island, don't you?"

"He marked you," Ngangata observed. Perkar nodded sheepishly.

"Well, it's a tragic story," Brother Horse told them. "If I did not mention it, I will tell you that I am quite an old man. Did I mention that?"

"I'm not sure," Perkar replied.

"Well, I am," Brother Horse stated carefully. "I have outlived my sons and daughters, and all of the horses of my line. My grandchildren and great-grandchildren are fond enough of me, of course, but they don't want to have to look after an old man like me. They would, of course, but they wouldn't like that and I'd know it. My last wife died a good while ago, too, and so I thought I might find me a new wife—to look after me, you know. I even thought I might find one, for a change, who could outlive me, and a pretty one hopefully. I heard about this girl Ch'an De'en—that's 'Pretty Leaf—up in the north foothills. She was supposed to be daughter of Nuchünuh, the Woodpecker Goddess—ah, wait a moment." He rose back up and took the kettle off the flames; the water in it was boiling. He ambled back into the house and returned with three porcelain cups. "Got these from a down-River trader," he confided. He poured a bit of the tea into each cup and handed one to Ngangata, one to Perkar, and kept one for himself.

"There. Where was I?"

"You were going after this girl."

Brother Horse nodded. "I took along presents, of course, the kinds of things gods like—beer, wine, incense—"

"You were going to marry a goddess?" Perkar interrupted.

"Her mother was a goddess. Her father was some Tiger People man. So, I went up there, and the old woman said no."

"The goddess?"

"Right. She said I was too old for her sweet daughter. And she was sweet, very beautiful, just past sixteen and never seen a man before. So, well, I knew this little song that I thought would make Nuchünuh sleep, and after I sang that, I thought I would convince the girl to go with me. She was willing enough—it must have been boring for her up there in the mountains. We were just 'trying each other out'—she thought I might be too old, you know, for marriage. So we were doing that when Nuchünuh woke up. She wasn't too happy about things. I managed to hide myself with another song and get back home, but when I got there I found the Woodpecker Goddess had been there before me, looking for me. There aren't too many places you can be safe from a goddess like that, but out here in the River is one of them," he finished. "None of them dares come within sight of him. So here I sit, wondering how long she'll stay mad. A few more years, maybe." He took a long sip of his tea. "People come out here, now and then, and bring me presents. I told everyone that I had decided to become a hermit and meditate, so they come out here to ask me questions about things. I guess I can tell you the truth, though, since you aren't Mang." He smiled crookedly, raised his cup, and took another drink.

Ngangata seemed to be regaining some of his strength, as he usually did when they were on land. He finished his tea and then asked if he might get more. The old man nodded at the kettle.

"Well," Brother Horse said after a time. "My people always considered me a little too talkative, and I've only gotten more garrulous and nosy since I've been living alone. Heen is a slow talker, you see. But Heen was wondering what brings the two of you so far from your forests, pastures, and cattle."

Perkar noticed that Heen seemed to be snoring, but didn't feel it was politic to mention that fact.

"Well," Ngangata said, before Perkar could respond. "To explain that, I would have to tell you the tale of Perkar, and that would be too long in the telling. I think Heen would be bored."

"Heen can suffer through almost any tale, the more long-winded the better," the old man responded.

Perkar shifted uncomfortably, remembering his conversation with Ngangata about heroes and songs. Ngangata patted his shoulder and continued.

"Like your story," Ngangata began, "this begins with the wooing of a goddess…"

If the story had been sung, the way Eruka had done it, he wouldn't have been able to stand it. But Ngangata told their adventures plainly yet with great elegance. He was true to his word about songs, however. Somehow Perkar's most terrible mistakes became tests put forth by the gods. Even the fight between the two of them became a magical moment in which they became fast friends. Ngangata shifted the blame of the old woman's death entirely onto Apad, without ever making Apad seem bad. Perkar remembered that killing as vividly as if it were yesterday, how frightened and nervous they all were, Apad half mad with tension and self-doubt. In Ngangata's words he was a true champion, beguiled by the illusions of the evil Lemeyi into his action. Somehow, this made Perkar feel a bit better, though he was unsure why. He had avoided thinking about his dead companions as much as possible, and Ngangata was offering him a way to think about them stripped of their faults. He also pared away Perkar's shortcomings—the parts about himself in Ngangata's story rang hopelessly flat in Perkar's ears, twisted his stomach. But hearing Eruka and Apad turned into characters from a song seemed better. The fact that it was Ngangata doing it was an act of generosity almost beyond comprehension, and it was this more than anything that prevented Perkar from shrieking "That isn't how it happened at all!" The story was both Ngangata's forgiveness and the punishment he exacted from Perkar, and Perkar felt compelled to accept both of them, the grace and the pain.