“What?”

“The shamaness is angry. If you stay, there will be a quarrel—a bad one. There is nothing worse than an angry shamaness.”

“I suppose you’re right.” I thought for a moment. “What happened to the old shamaness? The greedy one? She must have been angry when you found someone to replace her.”

“She was furious. But she had no power. The spirits had stopped listening to her. She went off onto the plain. Most likely she died. Or found another village.” Eshtanabai sounded completely uninterested.

They were a cool people. Was it because they did not love the way we did? Then I remembered Hakht and Nia. Neither one was cool.

“Tonight we will eat well,” said Eshtanabai. “Fish from the river and a fat bird. Tomorrow I will give you food for the trip.”

“Thank you.”

We did eat well. The fish were stuffed with vegetables and roasted. The bird was made into a stew. We drank plenty of bara.People came to visit and stare at me. The old lady from next door showed off her necklace. One of Eshtanabai’s children played a flute. Another beat on a drum. All at once Eshtanabai jumped up. She grabbed a branch from the fire and whirled it around her head. Then she ran out of the house. The rest of us followed. Out in the street my host was dancing, turning, and waving her torch. The other women shouted, “Hola!” The two children kept playing flute and drum. Eshtanabai sang in her language, which I did not understand. She strutted back and forth. The other women made gestures of agreement and affirmation.

What was going on? I looked around. Nia was leaning against the wall of a house. Her arms were folded, and she was frowning.

“What is this?” I asked.

“I can’t tell you the words, but I know what they mean. She is bragging. She is saying, ‘I am wise. I am prudent. I can settle every quarrel.’ She is telling them, ‘I am generous. You have eaten my food. I have found a way to get rid of these strange people, who have made everyone uneasy. You see all the good that I do for you.’ This is what she is saying.”

It was a political speech. I watched with interest. More torches appeared. Everyone was dancing now, except for me and Nia. Children climbed up on top of the houses. They leaped amid the foliage and shouted. Eshtanabai kept up her chant.

After a while Nia said, “The Copper People are always the same. They always make too much noise. I am going to bed.” She limped off.

The party broke up an hour or so later. All the food and drink was gone. Eshtanabai had said everything she had to say. We all went to bed. At dawn Nia came and shook me awake. I groaned and rolled over.

“Come on,” said Nia.

I stumbled off to the privy. When I got back, Eshtanabai was up. I gathered my belongings. She gave me a bag of food.

“Good-bye, hairless one.”

I answered with the gesture of parting, followed by the gesture of gratitude.

Nia said, “Come on.”

I followed her out. At the moment the air was cool, but it had the feel of a summer morning in Minnesota or Wisconsin. The day would be hot. Nia led me through the village. She didn’t have the staff, and she was having trouble walking. In the end I helped her. We reached the gate. She opened it. We went out. Off to the east the sun was rising, hidden by the village. Its light filled the sky. There were two animals tethered by the gate: quadrupeds—and herbivores, I was almost certain. They had long legs and wide chests. Their tails were deerlike. Their horns were narrow and curved like the horns of antelopes. One jerked its head and snorted. The other stamped a foot.

“These are bowhorns,” Nia said. “They are in good enough shape, though one is getting old. I can’t say much about the saddles. They ought to last until we get wherever we are going.”

She untied one animal and mounted. I hesitated, then untied the other animal. It moved.

“Wait a minute,” I said. I put a foot in the stirrup, grabbed onto the saddle, and pulled myself up. The animal moved again, taking a step and tossing its head. Somehow I managed to get into the saddle, but I dropped the bag of food.

“You don’t know how to ride,” said Nia.

“Not well.”

She swung her leg over the saddle and stepped down, as easily and casually as if she were stepping off a curb. As she reached the ground, she winced and groaned. She muttered to herself and reached for the bag. A moment later she was back on top of her animal. “This is going to be a long trip,” she told me.

We forded the river. On the other side Nia found a trail. We followed it up the bluff and over, onto the plain. In front of us the trail led toward the western horizon.

“Who made it?” I asked.

“Women. The ones who take gifts to the Amber People and bring gifts back.” Nia slapped the reins. Her animal started forward. My beast followed, and I shifted position, trying to get comfortable.

The day came through on its promise of heat. Our animals ambled west. Nia was quiet and I spent my time looking. There wasn’t much to see. The plain was almost featureless. The sky was clear. I saw no animals except bugs.

At noon we stopped and dismounted. I did stretching exercises, then drank from Nia’s water bag. The water was warm and had a funny taste.

“How are you?” Nia asked.

“Sore. But I can keep going.”

“That’s good.” She drank and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “I hurt, too. I have not ridden for years. We’ll stop early tonight.”

Late in the afternoon we stopped by a low mound. I dismounted and stretched and groaned.

“I will take care of the animals,” Nia said.

“Are you sure?”

Nia made the gesture of affirmation. “It’s evident that you know nothing about bowhorns.”

I made the gesture of agreement and went up on the mound. Above me a single bird moved in a great slow circle. I did my exercises, then meditated. I was so stiff that I could barely get into a half-lotus position.

Nia finished with the animals and wandered off. She came back with her arms full of stuff. It was round and gray and crumbly.

“Dung,” she told me. “It’s left from the spring, when the herds came through.”

She built a fire, using the dung as fuel. We ate dinner: bread and a piece of meat that looked and tasted like leather. When we had finished we sat and watched the fire.

I asked her about her ankle.

“It hurts. So do my other injuries.” She paused. “I have felt worse. I will survive.”

The word she used meant “last,” “keep,” “remain usable,” “not wear out.”

“Good.” I glanced at the mound. It seemed unnatural to me. Artificial. What was it doing all by itself in the middle of the plain? “Where did that come from?” I pointed.

“I don’t know. It was not built by animals. It’s too big. Maybe by women. Or demons. The spirits do not build.” She sounded uninterested. Did her people lack a sense of history? Or was she tired?

“Where are we going?” I asked.

Nia frowned. “Is there a place you want to go?”

“Another village. I want to learn more words and customs.”

“The people to the west of here all travel, and their villages are in the north right now. But if we keep going we ought to be able to meet the Iron People when they come south.” She paused. “It has come to me that I would like to see my children.”

“Those people drove you off. Aren’t they likely to do that again?”

“They might, if I came to them alone. But you are a stranger. Who could possibly be more strange? And they know—better than the Copper People do—what is owed to strangers.”

“What?” I asked.

She looked surprised. “Food. A place to sleep. Help, if help is needed. Stories and gifts. It is never right to drive a stranger off, unless he is violent.”

“But it’s all right to drive off a member of the village?”

“Yes. What harm can be done by someone who is passing through? If a traveler has unusual ideas, that is to be expected. If she behaves oddly, she’ll be gone soon enough. But if a villager is perverted or quarrelsome or crazy … Hu! That is a serious problem!”