The Chieftain was old. His arms were loose shells of skin over bone and his face was pinched with wrinkles; even the eyes were misty and bluish with age. And his voice, when he broke the silence, was thin and querulous.
"You have returned," he said.
The four remained quiet, sitting with their legs coiled under them as pillows. After a while, Neju answered, "Yes, we have returned."
The ritual question and answer gave the old Chieftain time to get his emotions under control; his eyes were clouded with grief, and his head bobbed loosely on his skinny neck. And then: he was unsure as to why there were tears in his eyes.
"He will not join us," Neju said quietly.
The old one sighed and rubbed a wrinkled hand over his face.
Outside, the mourners began their chant, slow, terrifying. A distant drum picked up the beat and throbbed out the heart-rhythm.
"We took one of the weapons," Neju said. "But we were prevented from entering their village."
The old one nodded. He closed his eyes and turned his face toward the ceiling of the lodge. He was tired; it was odd, how suddenly tired. Yesterday there had been ... no, that was not yesterday. His son coming up from the stream with his first catch. The air had been bright (it was no longer bright any more) and he had laughed, saying.... But now there was something about a demon somewhere, wasn't there? A fearsome thing. It was hard to believe in demons; yes, and in Gods, too. That summer when his father pointed to the moon being eaten by shadow, he had believed in Gods, then. He must tell his grandson about that. It was very strange. And there was an old ritual one should make when the drought came....
"Here, their weapon...."