The white-haired old man shook his head resolutely. If the waters towards the sunset were gone, they must turn their attentions inland. There were still birds and lizards to eat.
The aged sister wasn't listening, continuing her querulous complaints. Where, she wanted to know, were those strangers who had shown the village hunters how to make those curious weapons that flung sharpened and feathered sticks so hard and so far? They had not returned, had they? Who was going to protect their village now? Strangers they might have been, but the red man and the golden woman had undeniably had the powers of the painted men, even if they used them in such a puzzling fashion.
The old woman shrugged as both elders looked ques-tioningly at her. She had no idea where the strangers were
and that saddened her. They had shared the spoils of the hunt instead of fastening on the villagers like leeches, as any other painted man would have done. She struggled not to feel despondent as the three of them trudged on through the clotted ash, past thistly plants defaced by dirty smears and scored with deep burns from the rain of searing embers. The wind had had less chance to scour away the thick carpet of fallen stones here and they crunched through drifts of clinker.
The aged sister had a point. Who was going to defy any painted man if one did arrive somehow to claim the village for his own? She tried not to think of her likely fate if a beast and a painted man appeared together. She and all the elders would be sacrificed to satisfy the beast's hungers. That would please the painted man, and a contented painted man could summon clean water out of the dry earth and kill birds or lizards and roast them over fire that needed no fuel.
The upthrust fingers of the spiny thickets were burdened with dried black mud like the nut thickets. A group of children were trying to salvage something from a sprawl of fleshy-leaved plants choked with ash. The hunter with the stooped back was keeping watch. He carried a spear as well as one of the new curved weapons the tallest stranger had made. He grinned at the elders and held up a feathered stick that had skewered a dappled scratching fowl.
The old man congratulated him and tarried to tell of his own near-capture of a much greater prize. The aged sister and the old woman walked on to the village. Most of the able-bodied men were still busy repairing the thorny barrier that had been ripped asunder by the violent winds on the night of the catastrophe. Arms and legs bloodied from countless scratches, they paused to let the old women pick their way through the gap they were mending.
They paused to look past the broad fire pit to the charred ruin of the great hut that had belonged to the dead painted man with the skull mask. Falling cinders had set fire to the thickly grassed roof that these villagers had built him with so much time and effort. The hut had blazed with a ferocity to rival one of the distant peaks. The lesser huts had suffered as well. Several had collapsed under the weight of the rain of mud. Others had gaping holes in their roofs where falling rocks had crashed through to terrify those within. But they could be rebuilt, and new huts built beside them.
Then the old woman realised there were newcomers gathered around the central hearth. She squinted as she drew nearer and felt a tightness in her chest as if the ash-laden winds had returned. The leader of the newcomers was a man wearing strings of coiled seashells, white and gold. He waved a demanding hand at the racks of meat set to dry in the sun. One of his followers seized a gourd of water from a young girl and drank greedily, one hand fending off his two companions who would plainly have snatched it if they could.
The village women and the spearmen who had returned over the past few days didn't look impressed. The tallest, the scarred warrior who was the white-haired elder's son, stepped forward. Fearful yet desperate to hear what was being said, the old woman edged closer, clutching the stuffed lizard stomach so tight that her swollen knuckles ached.
The scarred hunter was denying the newcomers any share in the salvaged meat, or in the roots that the children had gathered from the torn earth, or even in the boring beetle grubs that were feasting on the fallen trees. If they were hungry, he told them bluntly, they could forage for themselves.
The man wearing the strings of shells scowled and
promised that the scarred hunter would regret such arrogance. Who was there to defy him here? he wanted to know. He turned to the women standing silently around the ring of blackened stones. Didn't they want his protection for their children? he wondered ominously.
The old woman wondered if she was the only one who saw the tremor in the man's hand. One of the elders, the man with the clouded eyes, spat into the dust with deliberate contempt. Who did these newcomers think they were, to demand food from the village's hearth without offering anything in return? Peering up at the sky, he allowed that he might not have seen a beast flying overhead given the webs blurring his sight, but he had heard their wings often enough in his long life. Why had these people come here? he demanded to know. What could have driven them out of their home if they had a painted man to call on?
Several of the newcomers spoke up. Their village had been beyond that ridge of high ground. They pointed, their hands shaking. The stream in their valley had run backwards when the land towards the sunset had reared upwards and the day had turned to night. It had disappeared utterly into the sands and dig as they might, they had not been able to find any water.
Why were they trying to take food and water from the mouths of this village's children, the scarred hunter challenged, when they had a painted man to satisfy their hunger and thirst?
The youth who had snatched the gourd of water lowered it, drops glistening on his chin, and stared at the man wearing strings of shells. Evidently that question hadn't occurred to him. But the old woman noticed several of those who stayed silent looking at the man with growing disillusion, their eyes dark with sorrow and loss.
The man with the shells raised a threatening hand
towards the scarred hunter. The newcomers looked eager, even those who hadn't spoken. The old woman bit her lip and felt the tears that came so easily since the cataclysm prick her eyes. The scarred hunter was the best spearman in the village and the strongest willed. Without him to defend them, for the sake of his white-haired father, surely all the elders were doomed.
The man wearing the shells screwed up his eyes and turned his face to the sky. His upthrust hand began to tremble and soon his whole body was shaking. Nothing happened. No murderous shards of ice stabbed the spearman. No painted fire split his scarred skin anew or melted his flesh and burned his bones to ash. He didn't collapse, frothing at the mouth as he drowned where he stood, or clawing at his throat as the very breath of life was denied him. Instead, taking everyone by surprise, he sprang forward and struck the newcomer a brutal blow with his clenched fist.
The newcomer fell sideways, knocked clean off his feet. He didn't try to get up, just cowered in the black dirt, weeping now, utterly desolate. When the scarred hunter took a pace towards him, he scrambled away on hands and knees, wailing like a child. His followers recoiled, some blank-faced with this new shock. Other faces were more resigned, showing that a fear they had dared not voice had now been realised. A few turned around and began trudging back the way they had come.
The scarred hunter didn't let the supposed painted man escape. In a few strides, he caught him and ripped the strings of shells from his neck. The pale shells scattered across the dark mud. One of the newcomers stamped on one, crushing it with vehement fury. A village spearman stepped up to offer the scarred hunter his club. The scarred hunter raised it above his head and the powerless newcomer curled up in futile protest. The stone-studded