Jaird sat watching the small fire as it burned in the firehole. A small pit, no bigger than three or four clenched fists, dug under a flap cut from the thick turf of the clearing contained a low, small fire made of wood collected one piece at a time during the walk that had brought him here.

He knew there was someone just out of sight on the sunward side of the clearing. They'd arrived a few minutes previously and courteously snapped a twig to announce their presence, though he'd noticed them long before - the changes in chirps and chitters of animals that had accustomed themselves to his quiet stop in the clearing had changed at the stranger's approach.

After letting them wait for a while, Jaird pulled a small pouch out of his buckskin bag and held it up to the stranger, who slowly walked out of the treeline with his spear slung across his back and a similar pouch in one hand.

He sat across from Jaird at the firehole and they exchanged goods with one hand while shaking with the other.

Neither spoke while they perused the contents of each other's pouches. Jaird brushed by a steel arrowhead, a polished quartz pendant, and a small bindle of joints to select a magnifying lens. As the host, he held up his choice first, and the stranger nodded before retrieving a chunk of rock salt the size of a thumbnail from a glass bottle in Jaird's assortment. They swapped pouches back, and the stranger spoke slowly and quietly, his posture of supplication to match the gift he had given.

"Hunting party to Babylon," he said. "We come from the Iron Mountains."

Jaird said nothing. He had heard of the Iron Mountains, but had never met anyone who had been there. It was said there were places there that Babylon never saw.

"We stopped two nights ago at your vill," the stranger said. "We were told you know the way."

Jaird only nodded.

"Will you take us?"

Jaird reached out his hand, and the stranger looked relieved.

"They said your price would be high," the stranger said. He untied a fat, oiled canvas roll-bag from his belt and offered it up.

Jaird took it carefully and unrolled it. Inside were fifty shells, shiny and new.

"Magnums," the stranger said. "Hard shot. Ten slugs."

Jaird finally spoke, asking, "Do you have guns?"

The stranger nodded. "We have a pump and a spike. We have more shells."

"Can you use them?"

"None of us have taken a machine, but we know the dances."

Jaird frowned.

"You want me to spike it."

"No," the stranger said, "Our chief's daughter wants to prove her place with a hunt."

Jaird frowned again.

"You have no warriors. You travel far to borrow one."

"It's true," the stranger said. "Our tribe has gone soft. We live far from Babylon. The chief's daughter wants to bring the old traditions back. The elders have tried to argue, but..."

Fifty shells, new-made, was a fortune. Jaird could sponsor a dozen hunts.

"Return to the vill. On the full moon, I will watch your dances."

He handed the roll-bag back to the stranger and began filling in the firehole.

"Go," he said. "Now."

The stranger scrambled to comply, and by the time he reached the treeline, the sod was folded back over the firehole, erasing any trace it had ever been there.

Jaird was gone too - in the direction of Babylon, to scout.

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.