KUJUR
Stopping on a rise to catch my breath, I gaze across the forest that fills the valley bottom. Pines and trees with spreading branches cast shade over the river. Charging down the trail in a cloud of dust, the buffalo head straight for the rolling hills in the distance, joyously rumbling, bucking, and kicking up their heels. Far ahead now, the buffalo flow up a hill and disappear down the other side.
Only the big bull remains, placidly grazing in the tall grass to my right.
Where is the other boy? After he crested the rise where I now stand, he vanished. I have not seen him since.
Using my sleeve, I wipe sweat from my face. I don’t know why—there’s nothing here to fear—but I’m suddenly afraid. The other boy is gone. The buffalo herd is gone.
As I force my feet to continue down the trail, my only companion is the big bull. He stays with me, striding at my side toward the pines that line the river. My heart almost stops when I see tiny threads of gray rising above the trees.
“Is that smoke?”
As we get closer, I glimpse lodges hidden in the shadows. They are not the dome-shaped lodges of Sealion People, but the trayalon tents of Rust People, like the lodges I grew up with. Familiar sounds drift to me: voices, laughter, dogs barking playfully.
Warm wind blows down from the surrounding mountains, flapping my sleeves around my arms. As I slow to a walk, the mixed scents of wet earth and wood smoke rise.
A tall man in a silver cape steps out of the trees carrying a bowl. When he dumps it on the ground, a gray haze of ash blows through the air. He starts to return to the village, but stops, lifts a hand to shield his eyes, and studies the trail where I stand beside the buffalo bull.
Suddenly, the man cries out, drops the bowl, and puts a hand to his chest, as though in pain. In an instant, he leaps forward and pounds up the trail toward me, his silver cape billowing behind him.
“He’s here!” he shouts.
Other people duck from lodges and stand watching, talking excitedly. Suddenly, a woman shoves through the crowd and flies up the trail behind the man.
Tears slowly fill my eyes.
Why has it taken me so long to recognize my old mother and father? It’s been three summers since I’ve seen them, but they look exactly as they did before the lions came. Father is in the lead, his arms outstretched, running toward me as hard as he can.
“Father! Mother!”
I race down the hill and throw myself into Father’s arms. Mother is right behind him, crying, “My son! My son!”
Off to the right, almost invisible in the pine shadows, I see the big buffalo bull expel a deep contented breath. He watches me for a time, then leisurely lopes for the distant horizon to find the rest of his herd.