Chunkey is different. It is always easy to find someone to play chunkey with. All you need are two people with their chunkey sticks and one chunkey stone. And, of course, the ground on which to play the game. Everyone who plays chunkey has their own pole. We make our poles ourselves, smoothing out a long stick and shaping it until it resembles a long spear. However, unlike a spear, a chunkey pole’s two ends are flattened and slightly upturned.

We do not have our own chunkey stones. Those stones belong to the town. Every town has its own stones. They are kept next to the town house. The only time they would ever be removed would be if—as has happened before—the village was forced to move. Then our chunkey stones move with us. No one knows who moves them. Some say that the stones move themselves. Others say that certain elders are secretly tasked with taking care that they are brought with us. Whatever the case may be, as soon as a new town house is erected and a chunkey field has been made, within a few days those stones appear piled near the town house.

Chunkey stones are as round as wagon wheels, but much smaller. They are all two fingers broad on their edges and just the right size to pick up and then roll in an underhand motion. Our town’s chunkey stones are very old. No one knows how old they are or who made them, though it is said that our great-great-grandparents played with them when they were young. The pale stone they were carved from is hard, so it must have taken someone who was very determined a long time to make them.

I look out through the screen of leaves at the five boys of around my age who are among my best friends. Usually I would be glad to see them. Just as they would be pleased to have me join them. But now I am uncertain how I will be received. I am sure that, like everyone else, they have heard about my visit with my father. That is the way gossip is. Even a fire in a field of dry grass cannot spread faster. I was seen by Tall Man, Galuloi’s father. And then by that family in the wagon.

What do my friends think of me now? Will they say anything to me about it? And if they do, how will I answer? That storm in my head is turning into a tornado.