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was taken up in working out the arrangements of the exchange. In the end, Jhelum agreed to prepare the new snuffler in return for threefourths of the grazer meat and the whole skeleton. Ordinarily Born would never have gone so high. He had worked nearly a week to get the grazer, and taking such prey involved uncommon risk. But he was tired, frustrated by the indifferent reception, and confused by Brightly Go. Besides, Jhelum showed him an exquisite section of green wood pipe, almost blue in spots, that could be used for the weapon. It would make an exceptionally handsome snuffler. He would not be cheated, but neither would he get a bargain.
    He climbed alone into the upper reaches of the village, to where trunklets started to rejoin to form a single bole. From there he could look back at the village and out at the forest wall.
    The village center was the largest open space he had ever seen in his life, save for the Upper Hell, of course. Here he could relax and study the world without fear of attack. As he watched, a glass flitter touched down alongside a pink vines-of-own blossom. Red and blue wings fluttered lazily, the sun shining through the transparent organic panes.
    This was another thing that prompted some in the village to call Born a little mad.
    Only he sat and wasted his time watching things like flitters and flowers, which could neither nourish nor kill. Born himself did not know why he did such things, but something within him was gratified when he did.
    Gratified and warmed. He would learn all there was to know about everything. Reader, the shaman, had tried numerous times to exorcise the demon that drove Born to such wastefulness, and had failed as many times. Born had submitted to such ministrations only at the urgings of the worried chief couple, Sand and Joyla. Eventually, Reader had given up, pronouncing Born’s aberrations incurable. As long as he harmed no one, all agreed to let Born alone. All wished him well. All save Losting, naturally. But Losting’s dislike had its roots not in Born’s aberrations, but in one of his obsessions. A drop of lukewarm rain hit Born on the forehead, trickled down his face. It was followed by another and more. It was time to join the council.
    He made his way back through the trunklets into the village. The fire had been lit in the center of the square on the place scorched tough and black by many such fires. A broad canopy of woven leafleather kept the rain off and there was room beneath for all the villagers. Already most of the people were assembled, Sand, Joyla, and Reader foremost among them.
    As he trotted down through the now steady rain, he spotted Losting. Entering the circle, Born took his place among the men opposite his rival. Losting had apparently learned of Born’s return and his offer of the grazer pelt, for he glared with more venom than usual across the fire at him. Born smiled back pleasantly.
    The steady patter of warm rain falling on the leaf-leather and dripping to the woodground murmured in counterpoint to the sounds of the assembled people.
    Occasionally a child laughed, to be shushed by his elders.
    Sand raised an arm for silence. Beside him, Joyla did likewise. The people became quiet. Sand, who had never been a big man—perhaps about Born’s size—now, shrunken and bent with age, appeared even smaller. Nevertheless, his presence was still impressive. He was like a weathered old clock that spent all its time patiently, solemnly ticking, but struck startlingly loud and clear at the necessary moment.
    “The hunting was good,” someone reported.
    “The hunting was good,” the assembly echoed approvingly.
    “The gathering has been good,” Sand intoned.
    “The gathering has been good,” the chorus agreed readily.
    “All who were here last are here now,”
    Sand observed, staring around the circle.
    “The sap runs strong in the Home.”
    “The faring of the ready pod,”
    announced one of the women in the circle.
    “The seed of Morann