And just as they were able to believe that things, weapons or animals or the sky, were in some way people, it wasn’t a hard leap to make to believe that some people were no more than things. The old categories had broken down. In attacking the river folk they weren’t killing humans, people like themselves. They were killing objects, animals, something less than themselves. The river folk, for all their technical cleverness with fire and clay, had no such belief. It was a weapon they could not match. And this small but vicious conflict set a pattern that would be repeated again and again in the long, bloody ages to come.

When it was done, Sapling stalked through the remains of the encampment. He had most of the river folk men slaughtered, young or old, weak or strong. He tried to spare some of the children and the younger women. The children would be marked and trained to respect Mother and her acolytes. The women would be given to his fighting men. If they became pregnant, they would not be allowed to keep their babies unless they themselves had become acolytes. He had also identified some of those with an understanding of the kilns, the lamps, and the other clever things here, and they would be spared, if they were cooperative. He meant his people to learn the techniques of the river folk.

It was another successful operation, part of the long-term growth of Mother’s community.

When she was shown the village of the river folk, Mother was pleased, and accepted Sapling’s bowed obeisance. But again she saw a frown on Sapling’s face. Perhaps he was growing discontented with obeying her instructions, she thought. Perhaps he wanted more for himself. She would have to consider, do something about it.

But it was too late for such plotting. Even as she surveyed this latest conquest, she had begun to die.

Mother never understood the cancer that devoured her from within. But she could feel it, a lump in her belly. Sometimes she imagined it was Silent, returned from the dead, preparing for a new birth. The pain in her head returned, as powerful as ever. Those sparking lights would flash behind her eyes, zigzags and lattices and stars bursting like pus-filled wounds. It got to the point where she could do nothing but lie in her shelter, smoky animal-fat lamps burning, and listen to the voices that echoed through her roomy cranium.

At last Sapling came to her. She could barely see him through the dazzle of patterns, but there was something she needed to tell him. She grabbed his arm with a hand like a claw. “Listen,” she said.

He crooned softly, as if to a child, “You sleep.”

“No, no,” she insisted, her voice a rasp. “No you. No I.” She raised her finger and tapped her head, her chest. “I, I. Mother.” In her language it was a soft word: “Ja-ahn.”

Another connection had closed. Now she had a symbol even for herself: Mother. She was the first person in all of human history to have a name. And, though she was dying without a surviving child, she thought she was the mother of them all.

“Ja-ahn,” Sapling whispered. “Ja-ahn.” He smiled at her, understanding. He bent over her, covering her mouth with his lips. Then he pinched her nose shut.

As the gruesome kiss went on, as her weakened lungs pulled for air, the darkness quickly gathered.

She had suspected everyone in the group, at one time or another, of harboring malice for her. Everyone except Sapling, her first acolyte of all. How strange, she thought.

A growing belief that behind every event lay intention — be it an evil thought in the mind of another, or the benevolent whim of a god in the sky — was perhaps inevitable in creatures with an innate understanding of causality. If you were smart enough to make multicomponent tools, you eventually came to believe in gods, the end of all causal chains. There would be costs, of course. In the future, to serve their new gods and shamans, the people would have to sacrifice much: time, wealth, even their right to have children. Sometimes they would even have to lay down their lives. But the payback was that they no longer had to be afraid of dying.

And so now Mother was not afraid. The lights in her head went out at last, the images faded, even the pain soothed.

The two brothers pushed the canoe out from the riverbank. “Careful, careful — to my left. All right, we’re clear. Now if we head to the right I think we can get through that channel.” Ejan was in the prow of the bark canoe, his brother Torr in the stern. Aged twenty and twenty-two respectively, they were both small, slim, wiry men with nut dark skin and crisp black hair.

They maneuvered their boat through water clogged with reeds, tangled flood debris, and stranded trunks. The trees lining the banks were cheesewood, teak, mahogany, karaya, and tall mangrove. A tremendous translucent curtain of spiderwebs hung over the forest, catching the light and dimming the intensity of the green within. But the heat lay over the river like a great lid, and the air was drenched with light. Already Ejan was sweating heavily, and the dense moist air lay thick in his lungs.

It would have been hard to believe that this was the middle of the latest glaciation, that in the northern hemisphere giant deer roamed in the lee of ice caps kilometers’ thick.

At last they reached the open water. But they were dismayed to see how crowded it was.

There was a dense traffic of bark canoes and dugouts. Some families were using two or three canoes lashed together for stability. Between these stately fleets scuttled cruder craft, rafts of mangrove and bamboo and reed. But there were also fisher folk working without boats or rafts at all. One woman waded from the shore with a pair of sticks she clapped around any fish that foolishly swam near. A group of girls were standing waist-deep, holding a series of nets across the river, while companions converged on them, with much splashing, to drive fish into the nets.

It was all a great divergence of technology from the simple log floats once used by Harpoon’s people. Spurred on by the great riches available from the coasts, rivers, and estuaries, inventive, restless human minds had come up with a whole spectrum of ways to work the water.

The brothers maneuvered through this crowd.

“Busy today,” growled Ejan. “We’ll be lucky to eat tonight. If I was a fish I’d be far from here.”

“Then let’s hope the fish are even more stupid than you.”

With a flick of his wooden paddle Ejan casually splashed his brother.

There was a cry from further down the river. The brothers turned and peered, cupping their eyes.

Through the murky cloud of sunlit insects that hovered over the water, they made out a raft of mangrove poles. Three men stood on this platform, slim dark shadows in the humid air. Ejan could see their equipment, weapons and skins, lashed to the raft.

“Our brothers,” said Ejan, excited. He took a chance and stood up in the canoe, relying on Torr to keep the little craft stable, and waved vigorously. Seeing him, the brothers waved back, jumping up and down on their raft and making it rock. Today the three of them were going out into the open ocean on that raft, attempting a crossing to the great southern land.

Ejan sat down, his concern outweighing his evaporating elation at spotting his brothers. “I still say that raft is too flimsy,” he murmured.

Torr paddled stoically. “Osa and the rest know what they are doing.”

“But the ocean currents, the way the tide surges—”

“We killed a monkey for Ja’an last night,” Torr reminded him. “Her soul is with them.”

But, Ejan thought uneasily, it is me who bears the ancient name of the Wise One, not any of them. “Perhaps I should have gone with them.”