He woke and stretched. “Hu! Am I stiff!”

She thought of hugging him, but decided no. She would have to explain why she did it. Instead, she went to start the fire and make breakfast.

That summer Nia tried to spend more time with Anasu. But he was restless, silent. He liked to hunt and fish alone. When he was in the village, he worked at making arrows or on finishing a large piece of embroidery. It showed a man with large curving horns: the Master of the Herds. On either side of him were bowhorn does. Above him was the sun and a pair of birds.

“Don’t bother him,” Ti-antai said. “He is getting ready for the change. If you want to do something for him, work on his parting gifts.”

Nia made the gesture of assent.

The summer was rainy and unusually short. The sun was still pretty far to the north when the birds began to leave.

“A bad winter,” Hua said. “I’ll ask the tanner what she wants in exchange for a good fur cloak. Now, we’d better start packing.”

Just before they left the Summer Land, the sky cleared. For two days it was bright and warm. Anasu came to her then. “Let’s go catch fish.”

They made traps and set them in the river. Then they sat on the bank. Already the leaves on the bushes were starting to turn yellow. The sun was hot. A river lizard sat on a nearby rock. Head up, it watched them carefully. Under its chin was a bag of skin, orange in color. Once or twice, it inflated this and croaked.

Anasu picked up a twig and broke it into pieces. “I’m getting more and more irritable. There are days, Nia, when I can barely stand people. I think—the next one that comes near me I will hit.”

The change, Nia thought.

“I decided to tell you this. I want you to know, if I leave suddenly or get violent, it is because I cannot keep control any longer.”

“We all know this.”

He made the gesture of disagreement suddenly, violently. “You cannot know. My bones are on fire. It’s like a fire in a peat bog that never goes out. I have never felt worse than this, even when our mother died.” He stood up. “I’m not going to stay here, Nia. Good-bye.”

He walked away. Nia sat awhile looking at the river. A fish thrashed in the water where they had set one of their traps. She waded out to get it.

On the trip south she barely saw him. Once or twice, through the dust, she got a glimpse of a young man riding. It might have been him. One evening he came to their tent. His fur was rough and dull. His clothes were dirty. He sat down across from them and helped himself to dinner. Old Hua, who was usually talkative, said nothing.

At last Nia said, “How are you?”

He looked at her blankly. His eyes were not pure yellow, she noticed. There was orange around the pupils. She hadn’t remembered that.

He made the gesture that meant neither good nor bad. Then he went back to eating. After he was done, he left.

“Finish up your gifts,” old Hua said.

She did. The last one was a buckle made of iron, covered with silver. It showed a bowhorn fighting a killer of the mountains.

“Not bad,” said Hua. “You will do me proud someday.”

Nia made the gesture that meant a polite or modest refusal to agree.

“You have too little self-respect,” Hua said.

The trip ended. The people set up their tents next to the Brown River. North of them there was a stone ridge. Its lower slopes were forested. To the south, across the river, was the plain: rolling, tree-dotted, late summer yellow. The herd was pastured there.

There was no sign of Anasu. Nia felt uneasy.

“He will come,” Ti-antai said. “No man leaves without his parting gifts—unless, of course, the change drives him crazy. But that rarely happens.”

“You are not always a comfort, cousin.”

At first the weather was dry. Then it began to rain. Every day there were a few drops at least. Most days it rained or drizzled for hours. The air was cold. Hua said her bones ached. Nonetheless, she kept busy.

One afternoon they were both at the forge. Nia worked the bellows for Hua, who was making a long knife: a parting gift for Gersu, the tanner’s son, who was a little younger than Anasu.

When the hammering was done and the blade was in cold water, Nia set down the bellows. She rubbed her neck.

“Nia.” It was Anasu. His voice sounded hesitant.

Nia looked around. He stood nearby, holding his bowhorn’s reins. He looked worse than ever: shaggy, muddy, confused.

“Anasu?”

“I—” He stopped for a moment. “I have come for the gifts. I am going across the river.”

She made the gesture of acknowledgment, then the gesture of regret.

“You stay here,” Hua said. “No one will bother you. We’ll pack everything.”

They went inside. Hua put wood on the fire, then set a pan of milk to heat.

Nia got out the new saddlebags the tanner had made, then the cloth she had gotten from Blind Angai, the weaver, in return for a new pot. She or Hua or Ti-antai had made most of the rest of the things. She laid them out one by one: the new knife, the kettle, the brass needles, the awl, and the long-handled comb, the kind that men used to comb the hair on their backs.

What else? She was having trouble thinking.

“The new belt, ninny!” Hua was packing food: dried meat, dried berries, bread.

At last they were done. Hua poured the milk into a cup. They took the saddlebags to Anasu. It had begun to rain a little. He was standing where they’d left him, looking nervous. His bowhorn, sensing the nervousness, kept moving, turning its head, flicking its ears, tugging at the reins.

Just as they reached Anasu, he yanked the reins and shouted, “Keep still, you!”

The bowhorn bellowed and reared. Anasu pulled it down. He grabbed the saddlebags from Nia. A moment later he was astride the bowhorn. He bent and slapped the beast on one shoulder. The bowhorn began to run.

“Anasu!” Nia cried.

He was gone.

“Men!” said Hua. “They always make a spectacle. And here I am with this cup of milk. I meant to give it to him. Well, it will do me as much good.” She took a swallow.

Nia made a groaning sound, then doubled her hand and began to beat one thigh.

“That is right. Get the grief out of you.”

Nia kept hitting her thigh.

As Hua had predicted, it was a bad winter. It was cold, and there was a lot of snow. Nia wondered how Anasu was doing. She prayed to the Master of the Herds, asking him to protect her brother.

At the time of the solstice Gersu went crazy and had to be driven out of the village. Afterward, his mother took his gifts across the river. She hung them from the branches of a big tree. Maybe he would find them and take them. Most likely, not.

“He always had a bad look in his eyes,” said Hua.

Nia made the gesture of agreement.

Spring came early. The plain turned pale blue. The bushes along the river put out yellow blossoms. Nia felt almost happy.

“You see,” said Hua. “We get over everything.”

“No. I don’t believe that.”

“You will see.”

The mating season came. Ti-antai, who had just finished weaning her last child, felt the spring lust and left. Nia moved into her tent and took care of the children.

Ten days later Ti-antai returned. She looked rumpled and relaxed. “Well, that’s over.” She stretched and yawned.

“Did you see Anasu?”

“Of course not. Nia, what’s wrong with you? He must be far to the south with the other young men. I didn’t get down there.” Ti-antai rolled a blanket into a pillow, then lay down. She yawned again. “I got a big fellow, half a day’s ride from here. He does good carving. He gave me a salt horn full of salt. Hu! Do I need to sleep!”

None of the women had met Anasu, but none of them had gotten very far south. They had all mated with older men, who had their territories close to the village.

“Don’t worry,” said Hua. “In a year or two or three someone will meet him and tell you.”