At the valley leading to their cavern, the boy stops to wait for his Ovì. The woman runs to him from behind and slows to a walk. As they stroll towards their cavern side by side, the boy reaches a hand up and slips it into the woman’s grip.
“You’re already faster than I was at twice your height,” the woman says to her child.
The boy looks up at her face. “I want to travel.”
“I’m sure you will soon. And you’ll probably be much younger than I was when I learned. But be patient. There’s no reason to hurry.”
Hand in hand, the two weave through the valley to their cavern entrance. As the woman always does, she pauses to look at the top of several nearby hills. Before entering their dwelling at the end of each morrow, she makes certain that the guards are alert. Only after seeing them at their respective posts does she lead her child through the tunnel.
The woman’s loyal female servant and the servant’s child are already waiting inside the cavern when the woman and boy arrive. Adhering to their custom at the end of most morrows, the four sit at a wooden table together and drink sap. Surrounded by the purple light of the tiny grubs burrowed in the ceiling, the woman learns of the two children’s activities earlier that morrow. Her servant, she knows, is well equipped to teach the children the basic skills needed for survival, but the woman takes responsibility for teaching them to fight.
After cleansing her child in the small waterfall at one end of the cavern, the woman lies beside the boy on a large mattress. Running her fingers through his hair, she admires the sleek lines of his face. Unlike most morrows, she doesn’t close her eyes after he falls asleep. Instead, she rises from the bed and crosses the large room to the small adjoining cave where her servant and her servant’s child have a bed of their own.
The woman quietly explains that she needs to go out to check on the others at camp. Taking her spear with her, she leaves the dwelling and walks the quarter-mile to the other side of the hill. She glances at the entrance to the former Traveler’s cavern but decides not to go in.
She hurries through a broad valley and up to the top of a hill. The tall Murkovin, her most trusted companion, is already sitting on a rocky ridge that runs along the crest. She stops beside him, rests the tip of her spear on a rock, and looks down the slope at the circular flat area below. A lone sustaining tree grows in the center, its upper branches all tied with rope. Stakes embedded in the bark feed tubes that lead to a steel transport. Three more transports reside on the ground nearby, all full of sap.
A dozen Murkovin, an even mix of male and female, sit at the base of a hill on the far side of the tree from the woman. Occasionally drinking sap from wooden cups, they’re engaged in light-hearted conversation. The sight of her kind peacefully interacting with one another is one the woman takes great pride in seeing. One morrow, she knows, this is how the entire population of the Barrens will exist. Those who refuse to adapt to the new ways will die at the hands of those who are loyal to the woman.
In the center of the row of Murkovin sits the long-haired young man who was learning to tow a transport earlier that morrow. As the woman’s eyes scan the others, she spots a man seated a few feet from the edge of the group that she doesn’t recognize. Brawny and clothed in worn, crudely-sewn garments, the man’s hair is short but unkempt. Sitting alone on a rock with a scowl on his face, he silently examines the others.
“Who’s the man on the far left?” the woman asks the tall Murkovin. “I’ve never seen him before.”
From his seat on the ridge, the tall Murkovin looks up at her. “I brought him here earlier this morrow. He has good traveling skills.”
“Where is he from?”
“The far northwest,” he answers.
The woman scrapes the tip of her spear across the top of a rock. “The men from that area are often set in their ways—ways I don’t like.”
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m keeping an eye on him. He’s skilled at blending his light, so he’s worth a try.”
“The two men who once tried to make me their captive were good at blending their light.”
The tall Murkovin nods his head. “As I said, I’m not letting him out of my sight until I know more about him.”
The woman’s attention is drawn to movement at the bottom of the slope on her far left. With no weapon in hand, the former Traveler walks around the side of the hill. Her thick, black hair, a few streaks of white intertwined, flows down her back. She has curves where a woman should, the woman thinks to herself, and knows how to make sure they’re noticed when she wants to.
The former Traveler approaches the row of Murkovin sitting at the base of the hill. As she walks past the new recruit from the northwest, the brutish man stands to his feet. With a lustful gaze in his eyes, he reaches out a hand and slaps her behind. The former Traveler spins and swings the back of one hand at the Murkovin’s face. After catching it in his grip, he forcefully twists her arm until she winces from pain. The long-haired young man jumps to his feet and dashes towards them.
“Stop!” the woman shouts.
The brute releases his grip on the former Traveler’s hand. He and the former Traveler look up the hill at the woman. The long-haired young man who was rushing to the former Traveler’s aid stops a few feet behind her. At the woman’s side, her most trusted companion springs
