The old one opened his eyes once more. His young friend, Neju, was handing him a strange thing. He marveled at it, thinking that perhaps the Gods had left it when they went away.
"It is dangerous."
The old one was trying to think. There was something about the new Gods who had come down from the sky; but they brought demons with them, so perhaps they were not Gods at all and it was quite confusing, being old. He must remember to ask his grandson to tell him all about it. They placed the weapon before him and rose, making their bows, and left him in peace.
He stared at the weapon for many minutes. His grandson, Zoon—no, Zoon had been his son—his grandson's name was—was—ah—Zoee, yes. A little child.
An odd thing, what weapon, and perhaps.... No, it was not for spring planting. And winters used to be longer: we plant earlier—a moon earlier, now, at least. And Zoee was a grown man, and Zoon was dead. Or was it the other way around?
He blinked his eyes, and strangely, it seemed that they were both dead. They were playing the funeral dirge out there in the sunshine.
The old one stirred uneasily.
Neju sat on the white sand before the fire place. Two of his hands plucked nervously at the sliver of wood. A group of hunters formed a semicircle around him.
"The old Father is ill with sorrow," he said, after a while. "And with time."