Nia made the gesture that meant she understood. As she made the gesture, she thought—there was something wrong. Something out of balance. Why were people so often lonely?

They went north to the Summer Land. Once settled there Nia looked around for new friends. She had spent too much time with Anasu. She had relied on him too much.

She picked the younger Angai to be her friend. Angai was the daughter of the shamaness. She was a thin, clever girl, often sarcastic. But she knew many interesting things: the uses of plants, the meaning of flights of birds. Like Nia, she was lonely.

“I have many skills,” she told Nia. “But not the skill of friendship. How terrible!”

Nia looked at her. Was she being sarcastic? Yes. Her mouth was twisted down at one corner, a sign that she didn’t really mean what she had said.

At midsummer, at the festival, they got drunk together and fell asleep in one another’s arms.

In the late summer Nia made a necklace for Angai. Every link was a bird made of silver.

“Wonderful!” Angai said. She hugged Nia, then put the necklace on. “Everyone in the village will envy me!”

“You think too much of other people’s opinions.”

Angai looked irritated, then said, “That may be.”

For a day or two after that Angai was standoffish. Then she came to Hua’s forge and brought a gift. It was a salve that made any burn stop hurting.

“It’s my mother’s own recipe. I made it this time. My mother says it’s good.”

Nia took the jar. “Thank you.”

“Can we stop fighting now?”

Nia laughed. “Yes.”

The fall was dry, and the trip south was easy, almost pleasant. Nia and Angai kept together. Sometimes Angai rode in Hua’s cart. Sometimes Nia rode beside the cart of the shamaness. She never got into it, of course. It was full of magic.

One day they rode off, away from the caravan. They let their bowhorns run. When the beasts began to tire, they stopped. The land was flat and empty. They saw nothing except the yellow plain and the blue-green sky. Somewhere close by a groundbird sang: whistle-click-whistle.

“Hu!” said Nia. She rubbed her bowhorn’s neck.

“There are times,” Angai said, “when I get tired of people. I think, I would like to be a man and live by myself.”

“You have a lot of strange ideas.”

Angai made the gesture of agreement. “It comes of living with my mother. Let’s spend the night out here, away from everyone.”

“Why?”

Angai made the gesture of uncertainty.

“That is not much of a reason,” Nia said. “And I have no desire to do the things that men do.”

Late in the afternoon they rode back to the caravan. It was still moving. The carts and the animals threw up clouds of dust. As they came near Nia could hear the sound of voices: women and children shouting. For a moment the noise made her angry. She wanted to turn back, into the silence of the plain.

She didn’t. Instead, she rode on, looking for Hua’s cart.

When they reached the Winter Land, Ti-antai fell sick. Blood came out of her, and she miscarried. The shamaness held a ceremony of purification and a ceremony to avert any further bad occurrences. After that Ti-antai grew better, but very slowly. She was sick well into the winter.

Nothing else important happened, except that Nia found she could get along with Suhai. They took to visiting each other—not often, but once in a while. Suhai was getting old. There were gray hairs in her pelt. Her broad shoulders sagged. She complained of the winter cold and her children’s ingratitude.

“They never visit me. After all the years of care they leave me alone. Is this in balance? Is this usual and right?”

Nia said nothing.

“Well?” Suhai asked.

“I will not criticize their behavior. The proverbs say, don’t speak badly of kinfolk or anyone else you travel with. The proverbs also say, don’t intervene in other people’s quarrels.”

“Hu! I raised a wise woman, did I?”

Nia didn’t answer.

Suhai got up, moving stiffly. “I’m not going to listen to a child spit out wisdom like the fish in the old story that spit out pieces of gold. It’s unnatural. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, foster mother. I will visit you in a day or two.”

Spring came. It was early again. Nia began to feel restless. At night she was troubled by dreams. Often, in the dreams, she saw her brother or other young men, even crazy Gersu.

When she was up, she was usually tired. She found it difficult to concentrate on anything. She began to make mistakes at the forge.

“Can’t you do anything the right way?” Hua asked.

Nia stared at her, bemused.

“Well, that’s an answer of a kind. But not a good kind,” Hua said.

Finally she picked up a knife blade that was still hot. She burnt her hand badly. Hua took care of the burn, then said, “Enough. Get out. Don’t come back until you are able to work.”

Angai gave her a potion that reduced the pain. She slept a lot. Her dreams were fragmentary, unclear, disturbing. Always, it seemed, Anasu was in them.

At length her hand stopped hurting. Now, though, it seemed her body was full of eerie sensations: itches and tingles. Often she felt hot, though it was still early spring. The weather wasn’t especially warm.

She went to visit Ti-antai.

“The spring lust,” her cousin said. “I can see it in your face. Well, you’re old enough. Pack your bag now. Food and a gift for the man. Something useful. Cloth or a knife. You’ll be ready to go in a day or two.”

She packed. That night she didn’t sleep at all. Her body itched and burned. In the morning she went out. The touch of the wind made her shiver. Time to go, she thought. She got her favorite bowhorn and saddled it. After that she went to get her saddlebag.

“Take care,” Hua said.

For a moment she didn’t realize who the old woman was. Then she remembered. “Yes.” She went out, mounted, and rode away.

She forded the river. The water was shallow. There was a little mist. On the far side was a tree. A couple of rags hung from the branches. There was a knife driven into the wood. The blade and hilt were rusted. She glanced at all this, then forgot it and rode onto the plain.

At midafternoon she came to the edge of the herd. The first animal she saw was a huge male. One horn was broken. The long shaggy hair that covered his neck and chest was silver-brown. He bellowed, then lowered his head, as if about to charge. Then he lifted his head and shook it. A moment later he trotted away.

Good, she thought. She was in no mood for a confrontation.

She rode on. Soon she came upon other animals: yearlings and two-year-olds. They were too old to be mothered and too young to stand their ground against the big males, the guardians of the herd. This time of year they stayed at the edges of the herd, well away from the does and their new fawns. They didn’t like it at the edges. Often the yearlings would try to go in and find their mothers. But the big males would drive them away.

Nia stopped at dusk. She found a tree and tethered her bowhorn. Then she built a fire. The night was cold. She had forgotten her cloak. She stayed up and kept the fire going.

In the morning, at sunrise, the man appeared, He looked to be thirty or thirty-five, broad-shouldered, heavy. His pelt was dark brown. He wore a yellow tunic, high boots, a necklace of silver and bronze.

He reined his bowhorn and looked at her a moment. His gaze was steady and calculating. Then he dismounted. She stepped back, all at once uneasy.

“I thought you looked pretty young,” he said. “Is this going to be a lot of trouble?”

“I don’t know.”

His fur was thick and glossy. He had an interesting scar: a streak of white that went down his right arm from the shoulder to the inside of the elbow.

“Who are you?” Nia asked.

He looked irritated. “Inani. Do you mind not talking? Talking makes me edgy.”