It had been a long, difficult process from the first day Lanta-eh had asked him to go for a walk until now, but Alex was so relieved it was over. All he wanted now was to get back to Winten-ah, retrieve Sanda-eh, and take as much time as necessary to nurse himself, Monda-ak, and Lanta-eh back to health.
A moment later, Sekun-ak appeared on the path. He did not hurry. He did not have Lanta-eh with him.
He came to Alex, didn’t say a word, but instead picked him up.
Carried like a child, Alex could not bring himself to speak.
He shook his head. He knew. He knew, but would not accept it.
At the top of the hill, Alex saw the crystal walls through blurry eyes.
Sekun-ak carried him inside and put him down beside Lanta-eh.
She was in the same position Alex had left her in—back against the stones, legs crossed, head tilted toward the sky.
Her eyes were open, but unseeing.
She was smiling.
Chapter Thirty-SevenArrival
Alex, Monda-ak, and the corpse of Lanta-eh rode in the cart on the trip back to the cliffside. Alex sat with his back to Sekun-ak, his legs—one of the few parts of him that wasn’t injured—stretched in front of him. Monda-ak laid on his left side, his right front leg and paw resting on Alex for comfort. Alex cradled the body of the girl who had given her life to the tribe.
Alex had never understood what the whole chosen one business was about. Now that Lanta-eh had completed her journey and died, he had even less of a clue.
Sekun-ak took the cart back without escort. All the other warriors stayed behind, and would work through the evening, trying to process as much of the meat of godat-ta as was humanly possible. As soon as Sekun-ak returned to Winten-ah, he would send both of their heavy carts to carry the meat and hide home.
Niten-eh stayed behind as well, harvesting some parts of godat-ta for her own mysterious uses.
“When will I ever have another chance to harvest the eyes and organs of the giant of Kragdon-ah?” she had asked before setting to work.
The guards greeted them in turn, as expected.
It was fully dark by the time they turned onto the path into the field. Torches were everywhere as the community waited for the story of what happened.
Alex expected the revelation of Lanta-eh’s death to be devastating to the community. She was their perfect child. Their hope for the future. Their chosen one.
He was surprised, then, when the first person to meet the cart clasped her hands to her breast, look to the heavens and started to sing. It was a haunting, wordless song. Sekun-ak joined in, as did everyone who ran from the caves to see Lanta-eh’s body.
Alex was disgusted with his brothers and sisters.
This beautiful young girl, so intelligent, kind, and unique, had somehow sacrificed herself, and a small Stone Age party was breaking out in Winten-ah. Alex could not even meet the eyes of the singers, the revelers.
Sekun-ak pulled the wagon to a stop in front of the caves. Hundreds of Winten-ah poured from the cliffside. Dozens of hands reached into the cart—not to touch Alex, but to lift Lanta-eh into the air. Her body was passed from hand to hand, round and round, all while the sound of the eerie death song echoed everywhere.
Alex cradled his injured left arm and climbed down from the cart. He called to Sekun-ak over the song. “Can you have someone help Monda-ak to my hut?”
Sekun-ak, as caught up in the spectacle of the death of The Chosen One as everyone else, only waved at Alex, but said he would.
Alex saw Sanda-eh at the edge of the crowd, moving her lips as she sang the song that must be in the DNA of every Winten-ah.
Alex called to her and she ran to him.
“Oh, Dadda! You are hurt! Where is Monda-ak? I missed you so.”
Alex swept her up in his right arm, but paid the price in pain. “Monda-ak will be along soon. Can you help me to our home?”
“Of course!” she said in English. She slid to the ground, took Alex’s right hand in hers and led up the path to their little hut. She threw the door open and pointed to the bed.
“You need to lay down, Dadda.”
“You are right. I do. But I will wait for Monda-ak to get here.”
Sanda-eh stood just outside the door, watching the ceremony below and humming along with the music. Finally, she said, “Here he comes!”
Four strong warriors carried Monda-ak as gently as a newborn. They placed him on his own bed and backed away. One warrior said, “Manta-ak, they say you killed godat-ta. Is that true?”
“It is,” Alex said, collapsing back on the bed.
Sanda-eh laid carefully beside him. “I’m sorry you are so hurt, Dadda. You don’t worry about anything. I will take care of you.”
And she did. Sanda-eh grew and matured over the next days and weeks, as people often do when thrust into difficult situations. Alex’s tribal brothers and sisters brought broths, easy-to-digest foods, and fresh kills for Monda-ak to their small cabin. Sanda-eh always directed them to put it on their table, then carried it to her two charges herself.
The first few days, Niten-eh visited three times a day, changing their bandages, adding more foul-smelling ground herbs to their wounds, and keeping a watchful eye out for infection. When she changed the wraps on Alex’s left hand, she noticed that he always averted his eyes, not wanting to see what the true damage was.
On the fourth day, she removed the bandages from his hand and cleaned around the edges of the healing wounds. “Much of the swelling is down now. I am going to make a stiff bandage for it to protect it.”
“Fine. Thank you,” Alex
