called on her to join them, and so she turned aside, happy for the companionship this time.
She watched while one started the fire for the stew.
“Watch this,” he said.
He drew a box from inside his pocket and took out a twist of paper. He flung it onto the kindling, producing only a sad puff of smoke.
The others laughed.
“I’ll fetch my flints,” said another.
“Wait,” said the man with the box, taking another twist and flinging it in its turn. This time the paper blazed, and a good fire flared up at once.
“Always a couple duds in the bunch,” he said with satisfaction. “But they’re worth it.”
She stood watch all night, not needing to sleep. Before the sun rose, the cook woke up to start the breakfast and Lakini wandered away, through the meadows starred with yellow and purple blooms, past where flat slabs of sandstone thrust at an angle from the soil. Past these she found the soft purple of foothills at sunrise and stood, unmoving, taking it all in.
The edge of the horizon looked like a transparent bowl filling with liquid gold. The sight warmed her before the actual rays of the sun could heat the night-chilled air. The great mechanism that made the world and all within and all without it cycled round and round, like all she had been and was going to be, born again and again like each day that dawned over village and ruin, city and sea, army and gravestone, rock and jewel.
