Chapter 1 

Day 53, year 29075 NWE 

As the morning sun began to rise over the Oren river valley, the tribe packed up their camp and began to head north in preparation for the summer. This was the human experience in the valley – They would be following the largest herds of herbivores as they would seek out the greenest grass. Staying close to them was paramount, but it was also the tactic shared by carnivores, to whom they themselves were still readily on the menu. 

Eschel trailed back behind the group, spear in one hand, and pouch full of Kor-grass seeds. While the others were busy scouting the area to sleep for the night, Eschel was secretly running an experiment of his own. He noticed the way that each year, these grasses would turn golden just before the trees would drop their leaves, every year, without fail, but only if some of the seeds were mistakenly dropped by whoever was foraging them, otherwise the ground would be barren come the next year. At roughly the mid-way point in his journey, he stopped and withdrew his flint knife, bending down to tear small gouges in the dirt. He dug parallel lines and neatly placed the seeds in the dirt. If he was right, one of these seeds could turn into a dozen.  

"Eschel!” One of the leading men called, “What are you doing?” 

Eschel jumped at the challenge, “Sorry, father, I-” 

“You’re supposed to be looking out for bushwolves, not wallowing in the dirt!” 

“But father, if I’m right, we won’t have to keep chasing the herds to feed ourselves!” 

“I don’t care if you’re right or wrong, you’re one of our scouts, our first line of defence against predators! This isn’t the time to be playing games in the mud! Now, do your job before we all get killed by your distractions!” 

Eschel quickly schooled his disappointment into a dutiful “You’re right.”  

He rose to his feet, but not before kicking the dirt around the first two completed rows of seeds. The experiment was already in motion, and now all that was left to do was wait until they retreated south for the winter. To mark his passage, he hammered a neatly carved wooden stake into the ground before returning to his duty. From there, he continued to follow the tribe north for the next ten days. 

During the summer months, the tribe did as they always had every summer before, scouts would explore and make first contact with the other tribes and established allies in the region, gatherers would forage the surrounding landscapes for all sorts of vegetables, while hunters would split their duties, five would remain at the camp on vigilant lookout for predators, while the rest would chase down their own prey. They had settled near the mouth of the Oren River, where the grasses remained green enough that all the herbivores would also gather there during the summer.  

Most days, Eschel was tasked with trading resources with allied tribes. He had brought a host of stone tools, surplus foods, animal hides, spiritual effigies, and even coloured rocks. The rocks down south often had gorgeous, dark-red streaks, and whenever one would break free from weathering, they would be gathered up and ground into powdered paints, which when mixed with water could be used to create patterns on clothes and structures, which a large number of tribes would use to symbolise themselves. Many of them would be living under the pattern of the old stars, since the elders would cling to the idea that the first tribes were flung out of their old world as some kind of punishment, only to end up here, as such, they retained the old star signs as a way to please whatever unknown force brought them here, lest they be once again flung to a place that’s even more deadly than the first.  

Some days, however, he would get to accompany the foragers, harvesting enough food to feed them for days, or weeks if they were able to cure and dry it.  

One afternoon, Eschel had returned home after a successful trade, greeting the archer on the watch-mound. 

Over the millennia, the tribe had grown considerably, either by natural births or merging with other tribes, they numbered around fifty, allowing for more specialised groups. Four people were tasked with patrolling the perimeter, two during the day, and two during the night. These warriors were the first line of defence against predators or other tribes that might want to do them harm and were to lay down their own lives if it meant preventing any others from getting killed. Two more were given bows and stood on a raised mound of dirt, which offered a clear view over the camp.  

As Eschel returned to camp with a bag full of traded goods, he headed for one of the A-frame leaf huts to report what he’d managed to acquire. At one end of the hut sat an elder, and his father, who at the opposite corner. Eschel sat down in front of them, all three of them forming a triangle around the foot of the shelter. 

He laid the satchel down on the floor, untying the knot, allowing it to lay flat to display its contents: Several large clusters of dark orange berries, a pouch full of herbs, another with several varieties of nuts, and something else. They looked like beads – Small, irregularly shaped. Despite being a dull, brown colour, parts of them were shiny, glinting in the dappled sunlight filtering through the walls. 

“What’s this?” the elder asked, picking up one of the beads in his hand. “B’ckar, do you recognise them?” 

“I don’t know, the Aries tribe traded it to me for the blood-rocks. They said that they came from the stones surrounding their fire.” Eschel replied. “They use some of the rocks here to make green paints. Apparently, they fall off the cliffs here.” 

“And how is this going to help us? What’s a bunch of shiny pebbles going to do if we get attacked?” B’ckar asked incredulously, “How will they feed us during a drought?” 

“...I don’t know, father, but how will clay effigies help us eat? How would the blood-rocks WE were trading help the other tribe? How will-” He began to protest, before- ‘WHACK!’ 

Eschel fell to the floor with a thud. He rolled over, seeing his own father standing over him, his fist balled and still moving with inertia. 

“How dare you question the old stars?” B’ckar roared, his arm still returning to its relaxed position. “The sacred icons remind us of where we came from, you ungrateful runt! They’re the most valued treasure that we could ever make!” 

“But father, I-” 

“I don’t want to hear it! Last season your little obsession was trying to make the dirt turn into grass, now it’s worthless, shiny pebbles! You are to return to your hut and reflect on your words, you hear? Don’t even think you’ll be sharing in the spoils when the hunters return! And take this rubbish with you!” He growled, thrusting the beads against his chest. 

“Yes, father...” Eschel replied brokenly, raising his bruised head shamefully as he collected them, and turned and walked back into the night. 

As Eschel made the shameful journey to his own hut, his hand rising to dab at the trickle of blood running from his nose, the archer on duty at the time called out to him. 

"What happened? Did you get attacked out there?” A voice called out from the watch-mound, stopping him in his tracks. 

“No, S’ra, I’m fine, I just-” 

“People who are ‘fine’ don’t walk around with bleeding noses.” 

“It was... just a disagreement with my father. He... didn’t like what I brought back from the Aries tribe.”  

“You’re the son of B’ckar, yes? That man has always been obsessed with either survival or the old stars. Anything else runs the risk of incurring his wrath.” Sra replied, shaking her hooded head. “Not like he has much of a right too, all he does is sit around in his hut all day while everyone else does the surviving for him.” 

“How can you say that, S’ra? He’s our leader, he’s carried us through-” 

“Listen to yourself, Eschel!” S’ra snapped, the motion of which caused her hood to drop inadvertently. “You just spent all day out there in that heat risking your life to acquire anything that you think would benefit us. So what if they’re not completely necessary for our survival? The hides we wear, the symbols we paint on ourselves aren’t going to magically feed us. The fact you brought back anything at all should be proof that you care about all of us, even if the man in charge can’t see it.” She remained quiet for a moment, considering her next words carefully. “Tell me, what did you bring back that got him so upset?” 

“Honestly, I’m not sure...” Eschel replied, his hand opening sheepishly to reveal the beads. “The Aries tribe said that they come off the rocks in the fire. They look like sand, but they feel much harder. It feels colder to the touch than rocks. Smoother too.” 

“In a fire?” S’ra wondered aloud. “Maybe if it burns hot enough it’ll-” 

“Eschel!” B’ckar’s voice grated through the air once again. “What do you think you’re doing distracting the archer? I thought you’re headed for your tent!” 

“But B’ckar, the hunters haven’t returned yet, he should at least-” 

“Eschel made his choice when he questioned the old stars, he’s lucky I didn’t send him out to fend for himself. Now get back to your post!” 

Eschel merely left the scene, the fear of more humiliation, of disappointing his father further was too much now. He crawled into his shelter and dropped onto the rugged floor, simply reflecting on the days that passed. He thought of the old winter camp, the journey, his experiment with the seeds he put underground. He wondered if he was right, or if he’d just return to a patch of dirt during the next migration south, and he wondered what these strange pebbles really were. Sleep came slowly and was fitful at best. Outside, the moons drifted lazily overhead, blissfully ignorant of the ongoing drama below. 

Meanwhile, B’ckar returned to his own shelter, where the elder was still sitting, reflecting. 

“That... was out of line, B’ckar.” The elder said, “The boy still managed to bring back plenty of food to keep us going. You ought to forgive him for a lapse in judgement in favour of his own curiosity.” 

“I can’t believe you’re defending him, father. You heard what he said about the old signs!” 

The elder was silent for a second, “He... is right, even if it was a little blunt. The effigies we wear, the symbols we paint onto our skin, they do little to aid us in our lives, yet we wear them anyway to remind us of where we came from, to not forget those who came and died before us. Remember, this whole valley was given this name for a reason. The first of us who passed away so that the rest of the tribe could live. These people weren’t gods, B’ckar, they’re just names that we hold close to our hearts.” 

"But you know exactly what this ‘curiosity’ leads to, remember what happened when mother was simply ‘curious’ about the bushwolves? I’ll be damned if I let my own son fall victim to the same foolishness.” 

A flicker of old pain surfaced in the elder’s eyes; anger boiled beneath his breath. “There’s a difference between blind curiosity and a natural, healthy interest in wanting to learn more about the world, B’ckar. Perhaps he could find something that could indeed help us in our survival.” 

“Yeah, right. As if some pebbles could help us do anything.” 

B’ckar and his father sat around the fire outside and conversed throughout the night, until the fire between them collapsed into dark red ash. He’d never admit it, but the elder noticed B’ckar staring up at the stars often. His eyes lingered on the brightest three that were arranged in a neat line, the ones that were found in different positions depending on the time of year. Perhaps this ‘curiosity’ was something that everyone indulged in, no matter how foolish it may seem. 

As the days of summer began to wane once again, the tribe began to pack up for their journey back down south. Eschel once again found himself just in front of the guards at the back. With backpacks full of tools and food, they bid farewell to the northern mouth of the river and worked their way back upstream, following tracks left by the animals that they’re following. 

Several days into their journey, Eschel remembered something: The seeds he had sown way back in the spring.  

His mind reeled with the possibility that he was onto something, but it was held back by the thought that maybe he was wrong, that he’d return only to find nothing but a patch of bare dirt. As the sun crested the sky, however, the whole tribe spotted something, and then he did. He rushed ahead to find what he was hoping for: Around thirty golden stalks of Kor-grass, their bulbous flowers each containing at least a dozen seeds. Next to it, Eschel saw something else, the stake he plunged into the dirt two seasons ago.  

“I did this!” Eschel exclaimed to the others, gesturing wildly to the stake on the ground. “I put these in the ground during the spring migration, see?”   

The tribe murmured in astonishment as they approached the tuft of grass. Eschel began plucking the flowers off the stalks, joined by the foragers as they began separating the seeds from the rest of the plant. Even B’ckar’s eyes reflected mild approval as he watched the commotion. 

“I’ll... admit, Eschel, this is impressive... But I wouldn’t expect this to work every time. Perhaps this occasion was a lucky coincidence.” 

“Perhaps, father. But you can’t deny this. I put these in the ground, and they gave us more food as a result. Each seed became one stalk, and each stalk yielded many more! And even more of them grew from the top.” Eschel retrieved the bulk of the seeds from the rest of the foragers, filling a small pouch to the brim with them and already separating more for the next season. See how much we managed to get? From a pinch of these seeds, we got an entire handful.” 

Eschel’s enthusiasm was contagious, it seemed the entire tribe had a spring in their step as they continued back upstream to their winter camping spot.  

The winter came and went without issue, The foragers were efficient, the hunters ruthless, and the guards kept everyone safe to travel again. 

This spring, however, Eschel had a new plan. He’d left his little stake in the ground from last year. As he noted it again, he stopped, this time without hesitation. 

“I’m not going any further.” He announced loudly. 

“Eschel, what are you-” B’ckar started. 

“Last year my idea to put seeds in the ground came up with real results. You said it might’ve been a fluke, and I intend to prove you wrong, father. I’m staying here for the summer.” Eschel replied, his voice brooking no argument. In his satchel sat their own pouches of different kinds. 

“Eschel, you’re one of our best scouts, you can’t just-” 

“Yes, I can, father. You can survive without me. I have to try this. Don’t worry about me. I’ve saved up enough rations to get me through the summer.” 

“Fine, Eschel. If you want to starve out here with your idea of planting your own food, that’s fine by me. One less mouth for the hunters to feed.” 

With that, the rest of the tribe departed, leaving Eschel to reflect on whether or not he actually made the right decision. He wondered, would he starve? Or had he stumbled upon a way of life that no others had before him? 

As the last of his tribe drifted beyond the horizon, Eschel got to work, using the same technique as he carved evenly spaced trenches in the dirt. This time, he planted at least a thousand Kor-grass seeds, saved up from his own foraging. By the time he was done, he was left with a small, square plot of bare dirt measuring at least ten square meters, then he started on the next one. The bright yellow Z’harfruit was always his favourite growing up. He dug out a separate row and planted their respective seeds and finally finished up the day by planting a few seeds from fruits he had traded in the past. 

By the afternoon, the ground was a patch of brown dirt, lightly soaked by the proximity of the Oren River, and by sunset, he had constructed his own sturdy A-frame shelter overlooking his handiwork, weaving vines in and out of the sticks making up the frame, before covering the whole thing with two giant leaves. 

The first few days passed without incident. Eschel checked the patches every day that he could but could only see one thing: Perturbed dirt. He’d spend the days sitting by the river, he even managed to catch a fish on the second day, however, as the days dragged on, he feared that the work he had put in had gone to waste.  

By the fifth day, he’d given up hope, assuming that his experiment had failed, he was preparing to pack up the shelter and return to his tribe. As he wondered whether or not they would actually accept him back into their fold after he decided to remain here, he poked his head out one last time. 

There, the patch of Kor-grass had changed. Instead of a barren patch of dirt, neat rows of tiny green-white shoots poked out of the ground. And that wasn’t the only thing. All of his patches had begun to spring forth from the ground. It was undeniable now that instead of spending his life chasing after animals, he could simply plant his own food and stay in one spot. However, no matter how successful this test was, it was unbearably isolating. Eschel was unsure whether or not he would even see his old tribe again.  

The first hurdle was the storm. A massive downpour quickly overwhelmed his A-frame shelter, and with nowhere to go, he had to grit his teeth and wait out the rain and wind as it lashed against him through the night. He quickly realised that he would have to improvise something sturdier if he was to remain in this place.  

He again built an A-frame this time, however he sharpened one end of the sticks on the perimeter, plunging them deeper into the dirt, and placed more of them along the middle. It worked as a temporary respite, but he knew that it wouldn’t hold against another storm. He had ample time until the seasons changed again, ample time until his crop turned a golden-brown colour, and ample time to improvise. 

The next few days, Eschel tried something new. He gathered a clump of silt from the river, mixing it with the grass that he wasn’t growing, and eventually, he placed it in a rough cube shape atop a large boulder. After several hours uninterrupted in the sun, the block of mud became hard as a rock. 

He spent the next several days erecting a sturdy mud-walled hut, topping the structure with a securely bound thatch roof made with loose grass and other fibrous materials that he found around the river. 

As the shoots began to lengthen, the flowers began to bloom, and eventually the grass started to slowly turn a gorgeous golden colour, Eschel had a lot of time to simply reflect on his current predicament. He had chosen this life, but he also chose to stay behind while the only friends and family that he ever knew continued on with their lives. That was almost worth it, but the sheer isolation, never even encountering any foreign tribes during this period gnawed at him. Oftentimes he’d find himself narrating his own movements, and every other day, he’d contemplate abandoning his little self-imposed experiment to link back up with his tribe, but he was determined now. And he knew that the effort he put in was beginning to show its reward. 

Several cycles after building his hut, Eschel heard footsteps – No, not footsteps, hoof-beats. He saw the massive herds moving south, along the Oren River, barely noticing Eschel in his hut and near ready-to-harvest crop. One of them came within meters of his hut, shaking the ground with every hoofbeat. A young calf locked eyes with Eschel, briefly before bounding off to join its mother. Here, neither were predator, and neither were prey, Eschel knew that, and it seemed that the N’shabeasts knew that, too, as they regarded him calmly as they travelled through. This was the first real interaction Eschel had since he made the decision to remain in this valley. 

The next day, the tribe ventured through the same stretch of land, following the fresh hoof marks in the dirt when they saw something that wasn’t there in the Spring. There, by the river, stood a thatch-roofed, mud-walled hut. About four meters in diameter. And that wasn’t all. Next to it, neat rows of Kor-grass bloomed a beautiful shade of gold. S’ra was the first to break formation, gently running her hand along the stalks of one of the crops, while B’ckar loomed towards the back of the group, hesitant to believe his eyes. 

Roused by the commotion, Eschel finally emerged from his hut, immediately recognising the faces of his former tribemates. The weeks of crippling isolation instantly felt worth it as he saw the look on their faces. 

“What is this?” B’ckar asked, taking a cautious step forward. 

“This is where I live,” Eschel replied, before proudly gesturing to the rows of neatly lined crops. “And this is my food for the next year.” 

“You did this?” Even B’ckar couldn’t hide his own astonishment beneath his detached exterior as he asked this question. 

“Yes, father. This is what came from ‘wallowing in the dirt’.”  

Eschel was more than happy to play host to his tribemates after all this time, telling them the story of the first storm, building his new mud hut, and the general experience of how he lived in their absence. He shared a meal, each one had a mixture of the food he had grown over the summer, before the tribe once again departed for the winter. B’ckar remained sceptical throughout, however his body language was beginning to tell a different story. Beneath the criticisms, the doubts, deep down, he genuinely did seem impressed by his son’s accomplishments, although he would never admit such a thing. 

As he watched them dip over the horizon, footsteps behind him caused him to immediately swivel on one foot to face the source of the sound and noticed that a bow now rested against the outer wall of his hut. From the bow, his eyes finally rested upon a familiar figure. 

“I figured that if you’re going to be staying here for the rest of your life, you’re going to need someone to ensure that your food is safe...” S’ra said, almost casually, as she already had begun to clear a patch of grass without permission, a half-cleared circle of grass rested mere meters beside his own hut. 

“Well,” Eschel countered playfully. “As long as you don’t expect me to build your shelter... but… I’d appreciate it if you wanted to stick around.”