Whitefish River Visvi

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The hawk's screams grate at his inner ears. Disgruntled, he watches it as its broad wings eclipse the sun above him.

The woman, a mongrel, speaks first in a language he does not understand, and then in common.

Tláykʼ, the iceman responds. Confusion spasms across his face.

Qang'a, he tries again, in the tongue spoken by the coastal people further north. But no luck. He has never seen anyone like her.

Goot'á kwáan sá wa.é?

His patience chafes. If he were not already distracted by the presence of the desert man, he might have resorted to his usual aggression. But the girl, with her foreign ways, her hair and eyes both flaxen, is easy enough on his eyes.