Halaavi cleared vis throat. “When I was young and still wandered with the Yavinaha, we saw many things. It is a stranger life than we live, the wanderings of the Yavinaha. No livestock, you know. With no yaks, no goats, you get rooted to the land. Pasture does not matter so much. Think on it, a life where pasture does not matter so much. The Yavinaha wander, but their wanderings are dictated by the ebb and flow of clan routes, and not the growth of grass. The Yavinaha wanderers are at the mercy of the clans they find. No milk without kindness; no furs without generosity. The Avolayla found a Yavinaha band, and they saw in that band a child: ragged, hungry, and calm. And the Avolayla took me in. That Yavinaha band still wanders, but not to the Avolayla.”

The clan was quiet for some time. A Rishnalla youth fidgeted. “I am just a goatherd, and I am young. Very young. And boring, so you may ask me to stop telling this story anytime you want. I am sure an Idok has a much more interesting story.” Ve cleared vis throat and seemed to run out of steam. A Vrala next to vim patted vis back and gave vim an encouraging nod. The Rishnalla goatherd continued. “I am a goatherd. I’ve been one not so long as many of you, but long enough to have this story. Some of you might remember when this happened. There was a time a few walks before this one where the rainy season came hard and vengeful. Storms came up suddenly; the land was chaos and danger. It was hard to find good pasture; the rains lingered too long in the soil, and the grass rotted on its stalks. Some of the goats got sick. It was a hard time, and it got harder. A day came where we found decent pasture for the goats and sent them out. I and three others took our herd to pasture. A storm came. A terrible storm. The rain came down in sheets, dark sheets, like night fell early. We drove the herd back towards camp, but one of us counted them and saw we’d lost a few, which was bad since we’d already lost so many to bad pastures. Two of my comrades went off to find them. I and Vrala Savanli drove the goats we had back to camp. The rain eventually stopped, but our comrades didn’t come back. At first we thought they’d taken shelter to ride out the storm, but a day passed, and then another, and it was clear something had happened. The runners found them. They’d been washed up in a flood. The runners said their bodies were smashed, splintered. A violent thing, the runners said. All because they could not bear to lose three or four half-dead goats.”