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to the next village.
    He gave the child some water, sang her bits of songs he remembered from his own childhood, and told her they would sleep a little while. She stuck two fingers into her mouth, looked at him solemnly, and nodded her agreement, then pulled with determination at the blanket he still had wrapped around his legs. He gave her the smaller deerskin, but she would not take it. Finally he shook a finger at her, giving a stern admonition. Since when did children tell grown men what to do?
    She pulled the fingers out of her mouth, bared her teeth, and growled. It was good that he remembered her as Fire Mountain Man’s daughter, or he might believe she was a Bear-god child. Then surely he would drop her into the sea.
    He sighed and again cursed his bad luck, then gave her the largest deerskin. She stuck her fingers back into her mouth and lay down beside him, reached over to pat his leg. He bared his yellow teeth at her, gaping though they were, four in front where eight should be. Her lips trembled and she closed her eyes, covered her little face with one hand. Water Gourd hawked and spat over the side of the boat. Was any man ever so tested?
    He began a song, and though it was a hunter’s song, he tried to sing it softly, patting her as he crooned out the words, until finally they were both asleep.
    When Water Gourd woke at dusk, he could no longer see the land. He breathed in hard to fill his nose with air and told himself that he could smell the earth. The girl was still asleep, and so when he began to paddle, turning the boat west, he used a gentle rhythm.
    By the time the sky was completely dark, the child awoke. Her dreams must have frightened her, for suddenly she was shrieking so loudly that Water Gourd had to set aside the paddle and gather her into his arms. He gave her water and half a chestnut cake, wiped her eyes and nose on a corner of her blanket. He could not remember what her parents called her, so he soothed her with the name of Daughter, and once again changed the rag between her legs. Then he set her down so he could paddle.
    He watched the horizon for signs of a village—beach torches, hearth fires, or the smoke of destruction—but though he paddled long into the night, muttering prayers to the boat and the earth, there was nothing but the sea. Finally his arms were so heavy he could no longer lift them. So he sat, watching until dawn, comforting himself with assurances that the morning light would bring sight of land, and if he had to wait another night, what hardship was there in that? He had water and food.
    But when morning came, fear brought bile to his throat. There was nothing on any horizon, and only by the sun’s place in the sky did he know in which direction the land lay. Daughter seemed to sense his fear, and began to cry, not with the shrieks that come with nightmares or the fussiness caused by urine burns, but a low throaty moan like an old woman mourning.

CHAPTER FOUR
    W ATER GOURD PADDLED THROUGH the day and did not stop until he was able to see land toward the west. He took time to eat and feed Daughter, then he followed the sun as it set. By the time the moon rose, the land loomed dark and large, black against the purple of the sea.
    He watched for the light of night fires, but there was nothing. Had the Bear-god warriors already destroyed every village? No, he assured himself. If they had, he would see smoke lifting from the ruins.
    Perhaps someone else from his village had also escaped and was able to get to those people who lived south, warn them not to burn night fires so the Bear-gods would miss their villages if they passed in the darkness. But without night fires, Water Gourd was afraid to beach his boat. He could not tell where he was, and when a man does not know where shoals and rocks lurk, he is wise to stay in deep water until morning light reveals the danger. He kept himself awake by biting the insides of his cheeks.
    Finally the sun broke the horizon, and he