“Both dead,” were Amahast’s first words, lest they have false hopes that the others were following behind. “Diken and Hastila. They are among the stars. Are there many away from the encampment?”

“Alkos and Kassis have gone up the river, to get fish,” Aleth said. “They are the only ones not close by.”

“Go after them,” Amahast ordered. “Bring them back at once. Strike the tents, load the beasts. We leave today for the mountains.”

There were shouts and cries of protest at this because they were not prepared for this sudden departure. While on the move they would break camp every morning: they did this easily because just the essentials were unpacked. This was not true now. The summer encampment sprawled along both sides of the small river, while in the tents all their, baskets, furs, everything were spread about in confusion.

Ogatyr shouted at them, his voice rising over the women’s wails of distress. “Do as Amahast says or you will die in the snows. The season is late, the path long.”

Amahast said nothing more. This reason was as good as any. Perhaps even better than the real reason, for which he could give no evidence. Despite this lack he was sure that he was being watched. He, a hunter, knew when he was being hunted in turn. For all of this day, and the day before, he had felt eyes upon him. He had seen nothing, the sea had always been empty when he looked. Yet something was out there, he knew it. He could not forget that Hastila had been pulled beneath the ocean and had not returned. Now Amahast wanted them to leave, this day, pack the travois and lash them behind the mastodons and turn their faces away from the sea and what lay beneath it. Not until they were back among the familiar mountains would he feel safe.

Although he worked them until they ran with sweat, it still took the entire day to break camp. He shouted at the women and beat the youths when they slowed down. It was no easy thing to leave a summer camp. Scattered goods had to be brought together and packed, the tentacles of hardalt from the drying racks loaded into baskets as well. Nor were there enough baskets for all the hardalt and there was wailing and complaining when he ordered that some of the catch be left behind. There was not even time to mourn the dead; that would come later. Now they must leave.