The wind carries the smell of death tonight.
It slips between the tall grass, whispering in the language of bones and dust.
Somewhere beyond the ridge, a lion’s roar breaks the dark — low and heavy, like the earth itself groaning.
I can hear a child crying… not from hunger, but from thirst.
We have not seen water in many suns.
If we do not find it soon, the ground will take us too.
Part 1 – “The Sky With No Rain”
I am called Lumo.
My bones are strong, my arms are good for carrying, my eyes still sharp enough to see the flicker of a snake’s tail in the grass.
I have seen twenty-one floods.
And now… I have seen three years without one.
The sun climbs early and stays long.
It burns the backs of our necks, bakes the ground until it cracks like old skin.
The air shivers above the rocks.
Every breath tastes of dust.
We live where the grass meets the stone hills.
Once, a river curled through here — wide and full, with water that sang over the rocks.
Children used to splash there, chasing silver fish that darted between their legs.
Now the river is nothing but a scar, its bed white and empty.
We move with the sun, always searching.
The small ones dig at the roots of thorn bushes to find the taste of damp.
Mothers chew leaves and press the green pulp into the mouths of crying children.
The elders… they walk slower now.
Too slow.
My mother is one of them.
Her hair is the color of ash, her skin lined like the dry riverbed.
She says she has never known the sky to be so silent.
At night, I watch her mouth move in sleep, as if she is speaking to the rain in dreams.
Today began with the cry of hornbills overhead.
They flew toward the east, wings flashing in the morning light.
The old hunter Talu says that birds know where the rivers hide.
But the east is not safe.
It belongs to the big cats, the spotted ones who watch from the trees.
Still… we must go.
The small ones are weak, and the milk of the mothers is thin.
Even the roots we chew give little water now.
We walk in a single line through the grasslands.
The ground is flat and open — too open.
Every shadow moves like an enemy.
I grip my stone club tight, feeling the smooth groove where my thumb always rests.
It is the only thing I own that can kill before something kills me.
By mid-sun, the heat makes the air heavy.
We stop under an acacia tree, its branches twisted against the sky.
The elders rest in its shade.
I watch the horizon.
In the shimmer, I think I see movement — a dark shape, low and slow.
It vanishes before I can be sure.
We eat little.
A few berries from the women’s pouches, a strip of dried meat.
I chew slow, letting the taste last.
The meat is from a gazelle we brought down two days ago — thin and tough, but it kept us walking.
When the light begins to soften, we move again.
The land here rolls like the backs of sleeping animals.
Tall grass hides the stones.
A place where snakes warm themselves before the night.
I hear them before I see them — the deep, coughing call of the spotted ones.
It comes from far off, but not far enough.
The elders glance at each other.
We walk faster.
As the sun falls, the air cools and the wind changes.
And then — a smell.
Faint, but sharp.
Water.
It is like a spark in the chest.
Our steps quicken, the small ones lifted and carried.
Even the elders find strength in their legs.
We come to a low place between two stone ridges.
There, in the shadow, is a pool.
Small. Muddy.
But it is water.
We kneel, cupping it in our hands, pressing our faces to it.
The taste is brown and sweet.
I drink until my belly aches.
But we are not alone.
Across the pool, half-hidden in the shadow, a pair of eyes glows amber in the fading light.
Still. Watching.
The water runs from my mouth as I freeze.
The spotted one steps forward, slow and certain.
Its muscles ripple beneath its coat.
Its tail moves like a snake.
My hand closes on my club.
The others are already pulling the children back.
The elder Talu stands beside me, his own stone in hand.
We will not run.
Not yet.
The cat lowers its head.
The sound it makes is not loud… but it makes the air in my chest go thin.
Somewhere behind us, my mother’s voice whispers my name.
Will they fight for the water, or flee into the dry grass?
Part 2 – “The Eyes in the Shadow”
The cat does not blink.
The last light of the sun makes its coat shimmer — gold and black, each spot sharp as a thorn.
Its breath rises in small clouds, though the air is still warm.
It smells like blood.
No one moves.
Not even the smallest child whimpers now.
We all feel the same thing — the weight of those eyes pressing down on us, testing, measuring.
Talu shifts his stance beside me.
His knuckles are white against the stone he grips.
I hear his breath — slow, steady, like the old hunter he is.
He knows the cat will strike if we turn our backs.
He also knows we cannot fight it for long.
I feel the wet earth under my toes.
The pool is between us and the cat, its muddy skin shivering with each breeze.
I wonder if it has been watching us since before we came.
If the cat drinks here every night, waiting for the thirsty to come close enough.
The sky above turns from red to bruised purple.
The air cools fast.
Shadows climb up from the grass.
The cat steps closer.
Its paws make no sound on the wet earth.
Its tail moves like a question.
I hear my mother’s breath catch behind me.
She is holding one of the little ones — her granddaughter — close against her chest.
I cannot look at her.
If I do, I might run.
Talu grunts, low and deep, a sound like a warning drum.
I understand.
We will not win by standing still.
We must become bigger, stranger, louder.
I raise my club high.
With my other hand, I slap my chest and shout — a raw sound that tears from my throat like stone from a cliff.
Others join me — women, elders, even the small ones squealing in high, sharp bursts.
The air fills with noise.
The cat stops.
Its ears flatten.
It blinks once, slow.
Then it huffs, a deep rush of air through its nose.
Its muscles stay tight.
We keep shouting, stamping the wet ground, waving arms.
I see the cat’s tail twitch faster now.
It takes a step back.
Another.
Then, with a sudden burst, it turns and melts into the tall grass.
Gone, as if it were never there.
We do not stop shouting until the darkness swallows the last glimmer of its coat.
Silence.
The night insects begin their hum again.
My chest heaves.
Talu’s eyes meet mine.
We have won, but only for tonight.
We drink quickly, filling skins with muddy water.
It is enough to carry us for two, maybe three suns if we are careful.
The small ones drink until they are heavy-eyed, the water running down their chins.
We do not light a fire here.
Fire will draw more eyes — not just cats, but hyenas, maybe worse.
We move away from the pool, climbing the ridge to sleep among the rocks.
The stars rise, sharp and cold above us.
I lie on my side, the stone of the ridge still warm from the day.
My mother sleeps with her arm over the little one.
Her breathing is slow, but not deep — ready to wake if danger comes.
I cannot sleep.
The sound of the cat’s breath is still in my ears.
The feel of its eyes, heavy on my skin.
I wonder if it followed us into the night.
Somewhere far off, a hyena laughs — a short, sharp sound that makes the hairs rise on my arms.
Closer, the grass sways with the movement of something heavy.
I grip my club again and wait for the dark to pass.
The next sun comes with pale light spilling over the grasslands.
The air is cool, almost sweet, before the heat returns.
We eat what little we have — a few berries, a strip of gazelle meat, some leaves chewed for moisture.
The elders say we will follow the bird’s path east, toward where the hornbills flew.
The grass is high, brushing our shoulders.
The ground is uneven, cut with small gullies and holes.
In one, we find the skull of a wildebeest, its horns worn smooth by wind.
The bone is dry and light.
I pick it up, feeling the hollowness inside.
By mid-sun, the heat presses down again.
Every step feels heavier.
The skins of water grow lighter on our backs.
We pass the tracks of other hunters — not our kind.
Long, three-toed marks pressed deep into the earth.
Fresh.
I know the shape — the big bird that runs faster than we do.
It can kill with a single strike of its foot.
We walk wide around its path.
The land begins to change.
Low thorn trees scatter across the hills.
The grass thins.
Here, the wind smells of stone and something else… something like wet earth.
By late light, we reach a place where the ground dips again.
A dry stream bed winds between the rocks, its edges high and sharp.
At the bottom, small green plants push through the sand.
When we pull them up, the roots are cool and damp.
We chew them, letting the water soak our tongues.
It is not enough.
The elders talk in low voices.
The way east is dangerous.
But the sky to the west is still empty, and the land behind us is dry.
If we turn back, we will die slow.
So we go on.
As night comes, we find shelter in a hollow between boulders.
The stone walls hold the day’s heat.
I sit at the edge, watching the dark.
Every shape moves.
Every sound could be the cat returning.
But what I hear is not the sound of a cat.
It is softer.
A trickle.
A whisper of water over stone.
I rise, heart pounding, and move toward it.
The others are still settling down.
Only my mother’s eyes follow me.
The sound grows louder.
I slip between two rocks, down into a narrow gap where the air is cool.
And there — shining in the moonlight — a thin stream runs over the stone, vanishing into the earth.
It is small.
But it is alive.
Will they risk gathering at the stream if predators are near, or will this secret water bring more danger than safety?
Part 3 – “The Water in the Stone”
The stream is no wider than my hand.
It slides over the rock in a thin silver ribbon, catching the moonlight like a snake’s skin.
My chest aches at the sight.
I kneel.
The stone is cold beneath my knees.
When I cup the water in my hands, it bites at my fingers before warming in my palms.
The first swallow feels alive.
It runs down my throat like it is trying to stay whole.
I drink again.
And again.
Only when my belly feels heavy do I stop.
The sound of the stream fills my ears, and for a moment, I almost forget the cat, the dry river, the empty days behind us.
But the stream is too small.
It will not feed us all if we drink without thought.
And in the dry season, anything that smells of water draws teeth and claws.
I stand in the narrow gap, looking back toward the hollow where the others sleep.
Should I wake them?
Or wait until the sun comes, when the danger of night eyes is gone?
A shadow moves.
I freeze.
The trickle of the stream seems louder now, almost warning me.
Something is in the rocks above.
I hear a shift of loose pebbles, the scrape of claws.
Then silence.
I step back, one hand on my club, the other brushing the wall for balance.
The shape on the ridge is too still to be wind.
It is watching.
A low growl rolls down the stones, almost too deep to hear.
My mouth fills with the taste of metal.
I take another step back into the gap, my club raised.
The growl fades, replaced by the sound of the shape moving away.
When it is gone, I hurry back to the others.
I do not speak of it.
Not yet.
The morning comes with a red sky.
It makes the rocks burn in the light, but the air is still cool.
I lead the group to the stream.
The narrow path forces us to go one by one, feet slipping on the stone.
When the first elder sees it, his face softens.
The small ones laugh when they touch the cold water.
Even the mothers smile.
We drink in turns, filling our skins, letting the rest flow on.
Talu says the stream must come from a spring higher up the ridge.
He wants to find it, to see if there is more.
We climb in a small hunting band — Talu, me, and two others.
The rest stay below to guard the water and the young.
The ridge is sharp underfoot.
Loose stones shift and roll with every step.
We move slow, scanning for tracks.
Halfway up, we find them.
Not cat.
Hooves — small, cloven.
A young antelope has been here.
It came for the water.
The path narrows, then opens to a hollow where the stone dips.
Here, the stream begins — bubbling from a crack in the rock, running down into a shallow pool before spilling away.
The pool is deeper than the stream below.
Clear.
I can see the black flicker of small fish.
The water smells clean, sharp with stone.
We drink again.
Fill more skins.
Then Talu crouches and studies the ground.
The prints are here too.
But they are not alone.
Over them, pressed deeper into the wet earth, are the wide, round pads of a predator.
The claws are faint — retracted.
Cat.
I feel my skin prickle.
Talu’s eyes meet mine.
We both know what this means — the spring belongs to it.
We are drinking its water.
We return to the group with full skins and quiet voices.
The elders listen as Talu speaks of the tracks.
Some say we should move on.
Others say the water is too good to leave.
In the end, we stay for one more night.
But we post watches.
I take the middle watch, when the moon is high and the air cold.
The stone under me is hard, but the sound of the stream is steady.
I listen for other sounds.
Owls in the distance.
The click of a beetle’s shell on the rocks.
Then… silence.
Too much silence.
I lean forward, peering into the dark.
The shadows at the edge of the ridge look thicker now.
One of them moves.
The spotted coat catches a sliver of moonlight.
It moves low, slow, its head down.
It knows we are here.
It knows the water is here.
My throat tightens.
If I shout, I will wake the group — and wake the cat’s hunger too.
If I stay quiet, it might come closer.
The cat stops.
Its eyes glint once in the dark.
Then it turns and melts away into the grass below.
I do not sleep the rest of the night.
The morning brings heat faster than before.
We leave the ridge, heading east again.
No one speaks much.
We all keep looking behind us.
The land begins to change again.
The grass grows shorter.
More stone shows through the earth.
The wind carries a new smell — not water this time, but something sharp and sour.
By mid-sun, we find its source.
The bones of a great beast lie scattered in a dry hollow.
Its skull is wide and heavy, the teeth long and curved.
The smell is from the meat still clinging to some of the bones.
Flies swarm in clouds.
Vultures watch from the rocks above.
This is a kill site.
Fresh.
We leave quickly.
The cat could be near.
Or worse — more than one.
By the time the sun lowers, we have found no other water.
The skins grow lighter again.
The small ones are quiet now, their eyes half-closed as they walk.
That night, we huddle in a ring among low stones.
The stars above seem colder than before.
I dream of the stream — its silver skin, the cold bite of it on my tongue.
But in the dream, the water turns dark, and two amber eyes rise from its surface.
When I wake, the air is still.
And somewhere far off, a low, steady growl rolls across the grass.
The predator is no longer just passing through — it is following them.
Part 4 – “The One Who Follows”
At first light, the grass is still wet with night’s breath.
It clings to our legs as we walk, leaving dark streaks on our skin.
The air is cool, but heavy — as if holding back the heat that will come later.
We move in silence.
The growl I heard in the night still echoes inside me.
I keep looking over my shoulder.
The grass sways in the wind, but sometimes… not with the wind.
Talu lingers at the back of the line, scanning the land behind us.
He stops once, kneels, and touches the ground.
When he rises, he says nothing, but his eyes tell me what he’s seen.
Tracks.
Fresh.
The small ones slow.
One stumbles, and her mother lifts her onto her hip.
Our skins of water are nearly half-empty now.
The elders’ steps are shorter, but they do not complain.
We all know there is no safe place to rest here.
By mid-sun, the wind changes.
It comes from behind us, carrying the scent of dry grass… and something else.
A smell thick and warm, heavy with blood.
Predator breath.
The land ahead breaks into a maze of stone and shallow gullies.
The sun bakes the rock, sending heat up into our faces.
There is no shade here — only the long shimmer of air bending in the distance.
We cross one gully, then another.
The stones shift underfoot, rolling away with small clatters.
Each sound makes my skin twitch, waiting for an answer from the grass behind.
When the sun is low, we find a small hollow between two flat boulders.
It is not much, but it hides us from the open plain.
We sit with our backs to the stone, eating what’s left of the dried gazelle meat.
Talu comes to me as the light fades.
He kneels, drawing lines in the dust with a stick — our path, the ridges, the grass.
Then he marks a curve behind us.
I know what it means.
The cat is circling.
It is not hunting in the open.
It is hunting us.
That night, we set no fire.
The stars are sharp and cold above, but the air near the ground is warm.
The wind has died.
Every sound travels far.
I take the last watch before dawn.
The moon is low, its light stretched thin over the stones.
The others sleep in a knot, arms and legs tangled for warmth.
Only Talu stirs now and then, his hand resting on his stone hammer.
The night is too quiet.
Even the insects are silent.
Then I hear it — the soft crunch of weight on dry earth.
Slow, measured.
Not close, but not far.
I crouch, peering toward the sound.
The darkness there is thicker, as if holding its breath.
Then two shapes rise from it — the faint gleam of eyes catching moonlight.
They move together, side to side, closing the distance without hurry.
One shape drops out of sight — the grass swallowing it whole.
The other stands still, head low, watching.
It knows I see it.
It does not care.
The air between us feels thin.
I grip my club so tightly the wood bites into my palm.
But I do not move.
If I wake the others now, panic will scatter us.
The eyes blink once, then vanish.
The grass sways, and the night is empty again.
But I know better.
The cat is not gone.
It is waiting.
Dawn comes pale and slow.
The air is already warm before the sun clears the horizon.
We eat nothing — there is nothing left to eat.
The skins of water feel lighter.
We drink only enough to wet our mouths.
Talu tells the group we must reach the canyon before night.
He says the walls there will keep the cat from circling us.
But his voice is low, as if he does not believe his own words.
We walk fast, heads down, eyes scanning the grass.
By mid-sun, the heat presses on our backs like a heavy hand.
Sweat stings my eyes, but I do not wipe it away — my hands are on my club and nothing else.
We find more tracks.
Large pads, claws half-shown in the dust.
Fresh.
Too fresh.
The canyon appears in the late light — a long cut in the earth, its walls steep and red.
We climb down the loose slope, stones sliding under our feet.
The air here is cooler, the shadows deep.
But the walls feel close, the sky a thin ribbon overhead.
There is a dry stream bed at the bottom.
The sand is soft, holding every mark.
And there, pressed deep — the same round pads, walking the same path we do.
We are not escaping.
We are walking into its hunt.
We choose a place where the canyon narrows.
The walls here are too steep for the cat to climb easily.
We pile stones at one end, making a barrier as high as our shoulders.
It will not stop the cat, but it may slow it.
The elders sit in the shadows, their breathing slow.
The small ones lie with their heads in their mothers’ laps, eyes half-closed.
The heat has taken much from them.
Talu comes to me.
“We will not sleep tonight,” he says.
His voice is flat, but his eyes are sharp.
I nod.
We take turns at the gap, watching the sand.
Every whisper of wind sounds like paws.
Every shifting shadow feels like a body.
The night deepens.
The air cools.
The moon rises, throwing pale light into the canyon.
And then — it comes.
Not with a roar.
Not with a rush.
But with silence, so deep it swallows the sound of our own breathing.
A shadow moves in the gap.
Then two amber eyes appear, floating above the sand.
They blink once.
And then the cat steps forward.
The first direct confrontation in the canyon, where escape is limited and the predator tests their defense.
Part 5 – “The Night of Stone and Teeth”
The cat stands in the gap, still as carved rock.
Its coat is a map of gold and shadow, each spot edged with moonlight.
The air between us feels thin, stretched to breaking.
No one speaks.
Even the small ones seem to know sound would only feed it.
Talu steps to my side, his stone hammer hanging loose in his hand.
He does not look at me.
His eyes are on the cat — always on the cat.
It takes a step forward.
The sand sighs under its weight.
The tip of its tail curls and uncurls, slow as breath.
Behind us, one of the mothers gathers the children close.
I hear her whisper to them, but the words are too low to catch.
Another step.
The moonlight glints off its teeth as it opens its mouth in a silent breath.
I can smell it now — warm, heavy, thick with the scent of old kills.
Talu grunts low, like he did at the waterhole.
I join him, slapping my chest once, the sound sharp in the canyon.
Others rise behind us, adding their voices — shouts, barks, anything to make the air thick with noise.
The cat pauses.
Its ears flatten.
It tilts its head, studying us.
Then it steps sideways, pressing its flank against the stone wall.
It is looking for another way in.
I move to block it, my club raised.
The barrier of piled stones is to my right, the canyon wall to my left.
If it comes now, there will be no time to swing twice.
It crouches.
The muscles along its shoulders ripple.
The sound it makes is low but steady — a growl that vibrates in my chest.
Then it moves.
Not a leap, not yet — but a slow glide forward, each paw placed with care.
It is close enough now that I can see the pale scar above its left eye.
Talu shouts again, louder this time, and slams his hammer against the stone.
The clang echoes through the canyon, sharp as lightning.
The cat stops, tail twitching hard now.
Its eyes narrow.
For a long breath, nothing moves.
Then — it turns.
Not away, but back into the gap, melting into the dark.
We do not sit down.
We do not sleep.
The night is only half done.
Every so often, I hear it again — the scrape of claws on stone, the soft shift of sand.
Sometimes from the gap, sometimes from above.
It is testing us, waiting for the moment we loosen our grip on the night.
The elders take turns at the barrier, their voices hoarse from shouting.
The small ones drift in and out of sleep, their dreams broken by sudden bursts of noise when we drive the cat back from the gap.
Once, I catch its eyes high above, on the canyon rim.
They shine for a moment, then vanish.
It is climbing where the walls are not sheer.
I tell Talu.
We press more stones into the narrow places, but I know they will not hold if it truly comes.
When the sky begins to pale, my body feels carved from wood.
My arms ache from holding the club.
My throat is dry as bone.
But we are still here.
The cat has not taken one of us.
Not yet.
As the sun clears the rim, the warmth spills into the canyon.
The shadows retreat.
The gap is empty.
Only paw prints remain in the sand, deep and clean.
We eat a few berries, drink from the last of our skins.
The elders argue — stay another night in the canyon, or leave while the light is on our side?
Talu says the cat will follow no matter what we choose.
But in the open, at least, we can see it coming.
So we climb.
The slope is loose and steep.
Stone rolls under our feet, clattering down into the canyon below.
The heat comes fast, the air shimmering before we reach the top.
From the rim, I look back once.
The canyon lies still, as if it has swallowed the night whole.
But I know the cat is not gone.
Its paws will find our trail in the sand.
We walk east.
The land is harsher here — more rock than grass, more sky than shade.
Every step takes water from our bodies.
By mid-sun, our skins are almost empty.
The ground ahead dips into a wide basin scattered with thorn trees.
The wind here smells faintly sweet.
Talu says there may be a hidden pool among the roots.
We move carefully.
Basins hold more than water — snakes coil in the shade, and sometimes the big crocodiles lie buried in the mud.
In the far corner, beneath the largest tree, we find it — a pool no bigger than three sleeping mats.
Its surface is still, but the smell of it makes my mouth ache.
We drink in turns, watching the shadows.
A dragonfly skims the surface.
Somewhere below, I hear the slow pop of bubbles.
I keep one hand on my club as I drink.
When the skins are full, we move back to the edge of the basin.
The elders want to rest here until the heat fades.
But my eyes keep going to the far rim, where the grass bends without wind.
The cat is there.
I cannot see it, but I can feel it — a weight in the air, a shadow under the sun.
As the light softens, we move on, climbing out of the basin into open ground again.
The sky ahead is streaked with thin clouds — the first in many days.
They are high and small, but they make the heart lift.
For the first time, I see smiles among us.
But mine does not last.
Because in the last light of the sun, on the ridge behind us, the cat stands clear against the sky.
Watching.
Following.
The group faces the choice — try to outrun the predator into unknown land, or set a trap and confront it before exhaustion makes them too weak to fight.
Part 6 – “The Trap in the Dust”
We camp in the shadow of a low ridge, the sky above already deep with night.
No fire.
No voices.
The air is warm, heavy with the smell of our own sweat and the dust clinging to us.
I can feel the cat out there.
Not in sight, but near enough that my skin knows.
Every shift in the grass sounds like it.
Every pause in the wind feels like it holding its breath.
The elders speak in low tones.
Talu does most of the talking.
His voice is flat, but I hear the weight behind his words.
We cannot keep walking with the small ones slowing and the skins growing light.
The cat will take us one by one.
It will start with the slowest.
We must face it.
The word sits in my head like a stone.
Face it.
Not chase it.
Not scare it.
Kill it.
At dawn, the plan takes shape.
We will choose the ground — a place where the cat cannot circle.
We will make it come to us.
And when it comes, we will be ready.
The ridge we camped beneath runs east, its side broken by a wall of stone.
Beneath that wall lies a narrow cut where the ground drops into a pit of sand.
On three sides, the stone is too high to climb quickly.
The fourth side, open to the grasslands, is where we will stand.
We gather stones, heavy ones, smooth enough to throw far but not so heavy we can’t lift them high.
The women cut fresh branches from the thorn trees, piling them into a low wall.
The elders dig shallow holes in the sand for our feet, so we will not slip when we strike.
By mid-sun, the trap is ready.
The heat presses down hard now, the air quivering above the rocks.
Sweat runs into my eyes, but I do not wipe it away.
We wait.
The land beyond the trap is wide and flat.
The grass ripples in the wind, bending toward us.
Talu stands at the center, his hammer in hand.
I take the left side, my club resting across my shoulders.
The small ones are hidden high on the ridge, with two of the women watching them.
They will not see what happens here — not unless we fail.
The sun drops lower.
Shadows stretch across the flat ground.
The wind stills.
Then the grass parts.
The cat steps through as if it has all the time in the world.
Its head is low, its eyes fixed on us.
Its muscles roll under its skin with each slow step.
It stops just outside the open side of the trap.
I can see its breath moving the fur around its mouth.
Its tail sways once.
Talu shouts, a sharp bark that echoes off the stone.
The cat’s ears twitch.
It steps closer.
We shout together now — not to scare it, but to keep its eyes on us, to make it walk into the open where the stones can fly and the clubs can fall.
It comes another step.
And another.
Then it crouches.
The moment freezes.
The world shrinks to the space between its eyes and mine.
I can hear my own heart.
Then it leaps.
The sand explodes under its paws.
Its body is faster than thought, a blur of muscle and teeth.
The first stone flies from Talu’s hand, striking the cat in the ribs with a sound like wood on wet hide.
It grunts but does not turn.
I swing my club as it lands in front of me.
The wood cracks against its shoulder, jarring my arms.
It snarls, a sound that tears the air open.
Another stone hits — this one to the side of its head.
Its leap falters.
Talu rushes forward, hammer high, and brings it down hard across the cat’s neck.
The cat twists, claws raking the sand where my legs had been a breath before.
The smell of its breath fills my face — hot, metallic, full of hunger.
I swing again, aiming for the skull.
The club connects with a heavy crack.
Its body shudders, but its eyes stay locked on me.
Then it does something I do not expect — it steps back.
Not in fear, but in calculation.
Its tail lashes once.
It circles just out of reach, looking for a way through the thorns.
We do not let it rest.
Every step it takes, we follow, forcing it toward the pit.
The cat snarls, swipes, but each time we drive it back with stones and shouts.
At the edge of the pit, it hesitates.
The sand shifts under its paws.
It knows.
Talu feints left, drawing its eyes.
I lunge from the right, swinging low at its legs.
It leaps sideways — into the soft sand.
Its paws sink.
The movement slows.
It turns, but the walls are too steep to climb without speed.
We close in.
Stones fly, clubs rise and fall.
The sound of the blows is heavy, dull.
The cat thrashes, snarls, but the sand steals its power.
One last strike from Talu’s hammer lands square on the skull.
The sound is different this time — deep and final.
The cat’s body goes still.
We stand over it, breathing hard.
Its eyes are half-closed now, the gold fading.
I touch its side.
The fur is warm, softer than I expected.
The elders gather around.
There is no cheer, no victory shout.
Only the slow release of breath we did not know we were holding.
We will take its meat, though it will be strong and bitter.
We will take its hide, to warm the small ones in the cold nights ahead.
And we will take its bones, for tools and for memory.
The sun has nearly set.
The sky is red over the grasslands.
The wind carries the scent of blood far into the distance.
It will bring others.
We will not sleep here.
The victory is short-lived as the smell of the kill draws a new danger from the plains — one they cannot fight the same way.
Part 7 – “The Teeth in the Dark”
We leave the ridge before the stars are fully awake.
The cat’s hide is rolled tight and slung over Talu’s back.
Its meat hangs in strips from sharpened sticks, the blood dripping into the dust as we walk.
The smell follows us like a shadow.
Rich, sharp, thick with promise for every nose that hunts the night.
The air is cooler now, the heat still hiding beyond the horizon.
The grass whispers against our legs.
The small ones walk close between us, their heads turning at every sound.
Talu keeps looking behind.
He does not have to say why.
I hear it too — the distant pad of many feet moving together, too light to be cats, too many to be one beast.
And then, the sound that makes the hair on my arms rise: a low whoop, climbing at the end.
Hyenas.
We walk faster, but the meat slows us.
It pulls at our arms, catches on the grass.
The elders want to drop it, leave it for the scavengers, but Talu shakes his head.
We risked our blood for this.
It will keep us alive longer than water alone.
Another whoop rises behind us, answered by one to the left.
They are spreading out.
The smell of the meat will draw them closer with every step.
The moon climbs higher.
It paints the grass silver, turns the rocks into pale bones.
Our shadows stretch long in front of us.
The first hyena appears at the edge of sight — a dark shape loping low to the ground, its head too large for its body.
Its eyes catch the moonlight.
It does not rush.
It does not need to.
A second shape joins it.
Then a third.
We keep walking, but the space between us and them shrinks like skin drying in the sun.
Talu gives the call — two short clicks of his tongue.
We stop at a cluster of low rocks.
The meat is piled in the center.
The small ones are pushed into the middle, the women around them, the hunters at the edge.
The hyenas do not wait long.
The first one pads into the open, its head swinging side to side.
The others fan out, circling, their paws making no sound in the dust.
One gives a sharp cackle, the sound bouncing off the rocks.
Another answers, closer now.
Talu hurls a stone.
It strikes the ground in front of the lead hyena, sending up a puff of dust.
The beast flinches but does not retreat.
I grip my club.
The wood feels slick in my hand from sweat.
I know their strength — jaws that can crush bone, necks thick with muscle.
They will test us before they commit.
The first rush comes from the side.
A shadow bursts from the grass, jaws snapping at the air near my leg.
I swing, the club catching it across the shoulder.
It yelps, stumbles back, but another takes its place.
They dart in and out, quick as lizards, looking for an opening.
Every few breaths, one lunges for the meat pile.
We drive them back with shouts, stones, and the crack of wood on bone.
But there are more now.
I count seven, maybe eight, their shapes melting in and out of the moonlight.
The sound of their calls wraps around us, high and wild.
The small ones cling to the women’s legs.
Their eyes are wide, their mouths open but silent.
One hyena breaks through, grabbing a strip of meat from the pile.
It whirls away before I can reach it, the meat swinging from its jaws.
The others surge forward, the smell of fresh blood in the air.
The fight tightens.
There is no more circling — only lunges, swipes, and the thud of bodies against ours.
A stone from Talu catches one in the ribs, sending it rolling into the dust.
It rises, limping, but still growling.
My club finds another’s skull with a deep crack.
It falls, legs twitching, but the rest do not stop.
The meat is the center of their world now.
Then Talu shouts a word I have never heard from him before — short, sharp, urgent.
He points beyond the rocks.
In the distance, a pale light shivers on the horizon.
Not the moon.
Not fire.
Water.
A flat, shining skin stretched under the starlight.
A lake.
The hyenas sense our shift in focus.
They push harder, snapping at our legs, lunging for the pile.
Talu makes the choice — he seizes the hide bundle from his back and hurls it far into the grass.
The pack turns like a single body, rushing after it in a blur of dark shapes and snapping teeth.
Their calls fade into the distance.
We do not wait to see if they return.
We gather what meat remains and move toward the pale light on the horizon.
The ground is soft underfoot now, the air cooler, damp against the skin.
Every breath tastes sweeter.
As we crest a low rise, the lake spreads before us.
It is wide, still, the moon floating on its surface.
The smell of it makes my knees weak.
We kneel at the edge, cupping the water in our hands.
It is cold, clear, deep.
I drink until I feel the weight of it inside me, until the dust in my mouth is gone.
The small ones laugh — not from thirst this time, but from joy.
The sound is strange after so many days of silence.
We camp in the shelter of a low spit of land that juts into the lake.
The water laps softly at the shore.
For the first time in many suns, I lie back and feel my body loosen.
But even here, I do not forget.
Out there in the dark, the hyenas will finish the hide, and when they are done, they may remember the taste of our scent.
And somewhere beyond them, in the endless grass, other eyes are always watching.
The lake gives life.
It also draws death.
At dawn, the lake’s promise is shattered when they discover it’s already claimed — not by predators, but by another band of their own kind.
Part 8 – “The Ones at the Water”
The lake lies quiet in the dawn.
Mist drifts over its skin, pale and thin as breath.
The sky above is washed with the first gold of the sun.
I kneel at the shore, cupping water into my mouth.
It is colder now, almost sweet.
Each swallow fills the hollow places inside me.
Behind me, the small ones play in the wet sand, tracing lines with their fingers.
Their laughter feels strange after so many days of silence and fear.
But Talu is not smiling.
He stands at the edge of the spit, staring across the lake.
His head tilts slightly, the way it does when he hears something the rest of us do not.
I follow his gaze.
At first, I see only the mist, the soft curve of the opposite shore.
Then the shapes appear.
Figures.
Moving.
They come slow, their bodies half-hidden in the fog.
I count five… no, seven.
Some carry long sticks.
Some have skins slung over their shoulders.
They are like us, but not us.
The air changes.
The mothers pull the small ones back from the shore.
The elders gather the few weapons we have — stone clubs, sharpened branches, heavy rocks.
The shapes on the far shore stop.
For a long moment, they do not move at all.
The mist curls around them, hiding their faces.
Then one steps forward.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
Something white marks his chest — bone or shell, I cannot tell.
He raises a hand.
Not high, not fast.
A slow lift, palm open.
Talu does not raise his own.
His voice is low when he speaks: “They are not from here.”
The two groups stand with the water between us, watching.
The sun climbs higher, burning the mist away.
I see their faces now — narrow eyes, wide mouths, hair bound back with strips of hide.
Their skin is the same sun-dark as ours.
But their eyes are sharp in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
The tall one lowers his hand.
He crouches at the water’s edge, dips a skin into it, and drinks.
The others follow.
They do not take their eyes from us as they drink.
When they rise again, they do not turn away.
They begin to walk.
Not along their shore — across the water.
The lake is shallow here.
The water reaches only to their knees.
With each step, they grow clearer — the lines of their faces, the scars on their arms, the tools in their hands.
Talu steps forward, planting himself at the point where the spit narrows.
I take my place beside him.
The rest form a half-circle behind.
The strangers stop a short distance from the shore.
The tall one speaks — a low, rolling sound, broken with clicks.
I understand none of it.
But the tone is not soft.
Talu answers in our words.
The tall one tilts his head, then speaks again, slower this time.
Still I do not know the meaning.
He gestures toward the water, then to the skins on our shoulders.
His eyes are steady on Talu’s face.
I know this look — it is the look of one asking without asking, of one ready to take what is refused.
Talu says nothing at first.
The air between them feels thick, pressing on my chest.
Then he nods once, short and sharp, and steps aside from the water’s edge.
The tall one wades forward.
His people follow, filling their skins, splashing water onto their faces and arms.
One of them crouches to drink directly from the lake, scooping with both hands.
We watch, but we do not lower our clubs.
When their skins are full, the tall one steps back.
He looks once more at Talu.
His gaze drops to the strips of meat hanging from our sticks.
He says something, his voice rising at the end — a question.
Talu does not answer.
The silence stretches.
Finally, the tall one gives a short huff through his nose, turns, and wades back the way he came.
His people follow.
They do not look back.
We do not move until they are once again shapes in the mist.
Even then, Talu keeps his eyes on their shore.
“They will return,” he says.
Not as a question.
Not as a warning.
As a fact.
The elders speak in low voices.
Some say we should leave before night.
Others say the lake is too good to give up — the water, the fish, the shelter of the spit.
Talu looks at me.
“What do you think?”
The question feels heavy.
I see the small ones chasing each other in the sand.
I feel the weight of the skins against my side.
And I remember the way the tall one’s eyes lingered on our food.
“They will come hungry,” I say.
“Maybe more than before.”
Talu nods once.
“Then we will be ready.”
That night, the lake lies still under the moon.
The air is cool, the scent of water thick around us.
But my sleep is broken — each time I close my eyes, I see the strangers wading through the mist again, their faces clear now, their hands not empty.
Somewhere in the dark, a fish jumps, breaking the water with a soft slap.
It fades quickly, but the ripples keep moving, long after the sound is gone.
The tension with the strangers escalates as resources tighten, and the lake becomes both a lifeline and a battlefield.
Part 9 – “The Shore of Knives”
The sun burns higher each day.
The clouds that drifted in the mornings are gone now.
The wind is dry again, tasting of dust and stone.
The lake shrinks.
It is slow at first — the waterline sliding down the sand by the width of a hand.
Then faster, as if the earth is drinking with us.
We take only what we need each day, filling skins before the heat climbs.
The strangers come too, always in the morning, always with the same silent stares.
No words.
No smiles.
The tall one still leads them.
Sometimes he wears the white shell on his chest, sometimes not.
But his eyes are always the same — sharp, searching, weighing us.
On the fifth morning, they arrive earlier.
Mist still clings to the lake, but they are already at the shallows when we wake.
Their skins are full.
One of them is gutting a fish, the silver body flashing in the dim light.
Talu’s jaw tightens when he sees this.
We have not yet taken fish from the lake — we have only drunk its water, fearing to foul it with blood.
But they are pulling life from it now, and life we do not have.
The mothers look at the small ones, thin arms, hollow cheeks.
Their eyes say what their mouths do not.
We need more than water.
That night, Talu calls the hunters to him.
We will fish at dawn, he says.
We will take what we can before the strangers arrive.
It is not just hunger in his voice.
It is the need to show we will not take the smaller share anymore.
The plan is simple:
Four of us will wade into the shallows with sharpened sticks.
Two will stay on the spit to guard the small ones and the meat.
I do not sleep.
The lake lies black under the moon, as if it has no bottom.
Every ripple makes me think of eyes below, watching, waiting.
We are in the water when the first light touches the horizon.
It is cold, numbing the skin, pulling the breath from my chest.
Small fish scatter at our steps, their bodies flashing in the low light.
Talu moves slow, each step careful.
When he strikes, it is quick — a splash, then the spear rising with a wriggling silver prize.
The sound of it hitting the sand makes my mouth flood.
We take more.
Three fish.
Five.
Seven.
Then a shout.
I turn.
The strangers are on the far shore.
No mist today — the air is already too hot for it.
They see us in the water.
They begin to run.
The tall one is first, his long legs cutting through the shallows.
The others follow, water splashing high around them.
Their faces are set hard, their hands gripping sticks and stones.
Talu shouts for us to the shore.
We run through the water, fish slipping from our spears.
The women are already pulling the small ones back from the spit’s edge.
The strangers reach the shore before we do.
They fan out, blocking the narrow land behind us.
The tall one steps forward, his voice sharp, the words strange but the meaning clear — the fish are theirs.
Talu does not step back.
He lifts his hammer and points to the fish piled on the sand.
His voice is low, but the weight in it is heavy.
These are ours.
We took them.
We will keep them.
The tall one’s eyes narrow.
He takes one slow step closer.
The shell on his chest swings with the movement.
The air feels thick.
No wind.
Only the sound of water lapping at the shore, soft and steady, as if it does not know it is about to see blood.
The first move is small — one of the strangers lunges for a fish at the edge of the pile.
I step in, my club swinging low.
It cracks against his forearm, and he stumbles back with a shout.
The stillness shatters.
They rush us.
The sand explodes under our feet, the fish scattering as bodies collide.
Sticks strike bone, stones fly, voices roar.
A blow catches me on the side of the head.
The world tilts, water rushing into my ear.
I swing back blind, my club hitting something soft, followed by a cry.
Talu is in the center, his hammer rising and falling, driving two of them back into the shallows.
One slips, vanishing under the water with a splash.
The fight does not last long — not because either side wins, but because both sides know the cost of losing.
We break apart, panting, the fish scattered in the sand between us.
Blood drips into the water, swirling into thin pink ribbons.
The tall one looks at Talu, his chest heaving.
Then he spits into the water, turns, and leads his people back across the shallows.
We gather what fish we can.
Some are crushed, some gone.
We have enough for one meal each, no more.
That night, the lake is quiet again.
But the air feels different — charged, waiting.
The small ones sleep close to the mothers, the elders sitting with their backs to the water.
I watch the far shore.
No fire burns there.
No movement stirs.
But I know they are awake, just as we are.
Waiting.
At dawn, something happens that forces both groups to decide between finishing their fight or facing a greater danger together.
Part 10 – “When the Sky Broke”
The wind changes before the sun rises.
It comes hard from the west, carrying a scent that makes the skin prickle — heavy, hot, and sharp.
Not rain.
Not water.
Something else.
I wake Talu.
He lifts his head, nostrils flaring.
His eyes harden.
“Fire.”
By the time the sky turns pale, the far hills are crowned with smoke.
It moves low, curling over the grass like a living thing.
The sun rises red through the haze.
The mothers gather the small ones close.
The elders look to Talu.
We all know — fire runs faster than we do when the wind is with it.
And the wind is with it now.
The lake is our only safety.
The water will stop the fire, but the smoke will choke us if we stay on the shore.
We must move into the shallows, to the deeper parts where the heat cannot reach.
But we are not alone here.
Shapes move through the smoke on the far shore.
The strangers.
They see the fire too.
Even from this distance, I can hear their shouts over the crackle in the air.
The tall one points — not at us, not at the water, but at the strip of land that curves into the lake.
It is the only high ground close enough to stand on until the fire passes.
We are already on it.
Talu’s jaw tightens.
The elders mutter.
If we hold the spit, we can keep them away.
If we fight now, before the fire reaches the lake, the smoke will take us all.
The strangers begin to wade across.
They do not carry skins or sticks this time — only their own bodies, moving quick and low.
I see the tall one’s face through the haze.
It is set, but not hard.
Talu meets my eyes.
His voice is low.
“If we hold them back, we burn.”
I understand.
So do the others.
We step aside.
They come onto the spit without a word.
The tall one glances at the small ones, at the fish drying on the rocks, but he does not reach for them.
He looks to Talu, then to the fire.
It is closer now — a moving wall of orange and black, the wind pushing it fast across the grass.
The heat reaches us before the flames.
It licks at our skin, making the air shimmer.
The sound of it is like a thousand clubs striking at once.
We move into the water.
The small ones cry out at the cold, but the mothers hold them tight.
The smoke rolls over us, thick and choking.
We keep our mouths low to the surface, breathing in the cool air just above the water.
The fire reaches the shore.
The grass at the edge bursts into light, the heat slamming into us even from the shallows.
Ash falls like black snow.
The wind drives the flames sideways, racing them along the shore toward the spit.
For a moment, the fire is all there is — light, heat, and the roar of it drowning out every other sound.
Then a scream.
One of the strangers — a woman — is waist-deep, struggling.
Her leg is tangled in something below the surface, a root or branch caught in the mud.
The fire is moving toward her, the smoke thickening.
Talu does not hesitate.
He lunges through the water, the tall one following.
They dive, hands disappearing into the murk.
The woman thrashes once, then breaks free, pulled between them.
We all push deeper, into the cooler water where the smoke thins.
The fire races past the spit, its heat clawing at our backs.
When it is gone, the world feels hollow.
The sky is still choked with smoke, but the light is strange — dim, red at the edges.
The air smells of ash and wet skin.
We climb back onto the spit.
The land beyond is black, the grass burned to nothing.
Only the lake still holds life.
The strangers sit near us now, their chests rising and falling with each breath.
The tall one meets Talu’s eyes.
No words.
Just a small nod.
It is not peace.
But it is not war.
That night, we share the fish.
The meat is split without argument.
The small ones eat until their bellies swell.
Even the elders take more than they have in many days.
The fire has taken everything around the lake — the grass, the cover, the shade.
There is nowhere to hide now.
But for a little while, there is enough food and water for all.
The strangers sleep close by.
Their shapes in the dark look like ours.
Their breathing sounds the same.
I lie awake, watching the moon float on the water.
The world feels larger than it did before the fire.
And smaller, too — as if every living thing is now crowded into this one place, waiting for the next change in the wind.
I do not know if we will stay with them when the grass grows back, or if we will part again when the waterline falls.
I only know that we are still here.
And sometimes, that is all there is.
