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Kippler squinted in frustration, then hawked and spat on the ground. The cracked tawny earth sucked up his saliva on contact. It was impressive that he had any spit left. “Look, I promise I won’t bother this ‘maggot father’ of yours,” he said. The kurzu eyed him, then the damp spot on the ground. She said nothing. She was a fine one to judge, thought Kippler, wrapped in her odds and ends of rags, with her seedy pouch and drum. How could he appeal to such a creature? “I’ll give you silk.” The kurzu laughed without smiling. “I take nothing from you. You do not know the Fathers. You do not respect the Fathers. You have no song.” Kippler gave her an imploring look. How was he going to get back to civilization if this blasted native refused to barter? He couldn’t re-cross the mountains, the rock fall had seen to that. He couldn’t follow the trade route, as it looped too far around the wastes for one man to walk alone. His only hope was to rest here on this barely tentable patch of ground and find some water before he finished crossing the wastes. “Please, can I just have a guide through your land?” It was reasonable, and a guide would have to feed both of them. “It’s not ‘my’ land,” snapped the kurzu, “and if you are not gone by morning, the tribe will kill you. I am sorry, but it is the way now. We cannot let you disturb the Fathers. You have no song.” She turned to leave and Kippler grabbed her arm. “Can I earn a song?” The kurzu pursed her lips. “You cannot buy a song.” “That’s not what I asked.” The kurzu looked him dead in the eye and weighed him pound for pound. Kippler found himself sucking in his stomach and squaring his shoulders. “It is possible, the Fathers willing,” she said at last. Kippler relaxed and felt slightly ridiculous for worrying about his physique. All his wives said he was a fine specimen of a man, and they were right. After all, he had made it across part of the wastes alone. The kurzu rummaged through her pouch and produced a shriveled red berry. “Eat this. Walk back the way you came. If you are given a song, come back tomorrow. If not, keep walking.” Kippler took the berry and stared at it. “Isn’t this poisonous?” The kurzu smiled at him for the first time, full white teeth radiant in her caramel colored face. “Two berries are poisonous. Do not be greedy, Sitta man, and life will treat you well.” Kippler gave her a scathing look. How dare she poke fun at him? He was right. The ignorant little savage knew nothing of the wealth, power, and cunning he possessed. “That’s City man,” he corrected. Her pronunciation was horrible. “Yes, Sitta man, farewell,” she said. Kippler watched her depart with a snarl. He wanted to pick up a rock and brain her with it, just the way he should have brained Garret with a rock. “It was a mercy,” he muttered to himself, then turned around and faced the setting sun.
 He gave Garrett’s canteen a slosh and fingered the name embroidered on the side of it. It was a little over half full, enough for this idiotic adventure tonight, but not enough to get fully across the wastes. He popped the berry into his mouth. It was bitter, so instead of chewing, he washed it down with a quick gulp. He hadn’t had any sort of hallucinogenic since he was just a snotty kid. It could even be fun, tonight. He just had to come up with some little ditty to serenade the kurzu with when he came back tomorrow. And how hard could that be? He knew dozens of songs they had likely never heard of in their semi-isolated state. Kippler wandered into the wastes with confidence.  Mya walked home without looking back. She tried to calm herself before she reached her home, but it was impossible. The arrogance of the Sitta man made her angry, to her shame. She struggled with the anger, to bite it back and hold it down, so that it might not escape onto her face. She had no right to judge the man. The Fathers would do that for her. As soon as the little girl saw her, she ran up and asked, “Mya, what has made you so angry?” Mya smiled. “Forgive me, Toddy, for showing my anger. I met a Sitta man today who was trying to cross the land.” Toddy’s face lit up in excitement. “A Sitta man! What did he look like? Did he have silk? Did he have books? Did he have chocolate?” Mya sat down outside her tent and gathered the little girl into her lap. “Well, he was red and fat and he had brown eyes and brown hair everywhere except for the top of his head. He wore a shirt and pants of silk and shoes of leather and wood, and he had many canteens dangling all over him. He wanted to cut through the land to get back to the low ground and the City. I’m afraid he had no books or chocolate.” Toddy looked disappointed, then said, “I know shoes.” Her own bare feet wiggled. “But what’s pants?” “Pants are something that only Sitta men wear,” said Mya. She took her symbol stick out of her pouch and drew a picture of the Sitta man on the ground for Toddy. “These are pants.” “Oh. Why wouldn’t you let the Sitta man cross the land, Mya?” “Because it was the Sitta who first disturbed the Father of Maggots.” Toddy snuggled closer. “I don’t know that story. Is it like when Lizard Father woke Turtle Father to ask him a riddle, and Turtle Father got so mad he took off his shell and scooped up all the water and took it to the east?” “No Toddy, it’s not like that at all. It’s a story for adults, but I will tell you a version of it so that you will understand. A long time ago, the Sitta disturbed the sleeping place of the maggots. They cut up the hill the Maggot Father was sleeping under because they wanted to build a City there.” “I bet Maggot Father was mad.” “He was so mad the anger blackened his face. And the Maggot Father came out and all his maggots came and they covered the world in a cloud and almost everyone died. When the maggots finally went back into the ground, little was left.” “All the people died? All the plants and animals?” “Yes Toddy, there was almost nothing left.” “What about the other Fathers?” “They were still sleeping under the ground. I don’t know if they could have stopped the maggots, but they didn’t. I think the maggots knew that there would be no one left to sing about them if the Kurzu all were dead, and so they left just enough of us to survive. Look at the wastes. Still the land has not healed there.” Toddy shivered. “That’s scary.” “That is why no more Sitta can come to this place where most of the Fathers sleep. That is one of the reasons we travel, so we can guard the Fathers at all the borderlands. I think if the maggots are disturbed again, there would be no one left.” “That won’t happen will it?” Toddy’s clear gray eyes were wide with fear. “Of course not. I gave the Sitta man an allaya berry and sent him back into the wastes. The berry will open his mind so that the Fathers can communicate with him, and give him a song.” “How will we know it’s a good song?” “We will know. We will toss our drums down and sing with him.” “What if it’s a bad song?” “Then we beat our drums before we kill him.” “What if the Fathers don’t give him a song, or don’t talk to him?” “Nothing, if he doesn’t come back. If he does come back, it’s the same as singing a bad song, isn’t it?” “I suppose.” Toddy wiggled. “I want an allaya berry. I want to talk to Turtle Father and Jumping Mouse Father and Blue Wings Father.” “You can eat berries when you’re older. It’s time you went to sleep.” Toddy began to protest, but Mya sang her a lulling song about Jumping Mouse Father, and the child soon drifted off. Mya carried her to bed, and then sat in quiet contemplation. She wasn’t sure what to expect from the Sitta man. He had to be more than what he seemed, or he would not have survived thus far. Mya wondered if she was wise to tell Toddy as much as she had. While Toddy always seemed to have a very strong natural curiosity, it would be bad for her to become too interested in the Sitta. Chocolates and books were worthless, and Mya wished the girl hadn’t mentioned them. She would have to keep a closer eye on her from now on. Mya wondered if she was properly fulfilling her obligation to help rear the child. She sighed. The girl was precocious, and Mya was doing the best she could. For now, that would have to be enough. Clear of conscience, Mya drifted off to sleep.
Kippler sat shivering on a rock. He rubbed his arms and legs to try to rid them of gooseflesh. As he rubbed his legs, he found that the texture of his pants was the most amazing feeling his fingers had ever experienced. After a few minutes of happy rubbing, he reasoned that he couldn’t very well sit around all night rubbing his legs, so he stood and stretched. Above him, the stars glistened. In the waste they shone like the eyes of his wives. He felt that they were watching him. This at first made him warm and happy, but slowly the happiness gave way to discomfort, until he took refuge by a large rock pile. Shaking, he hid from the watching night as best he could. Soon he became too scared to shake. He sat there, utterly frozen, for so long that a little brown mouse hopped out of the rock pile and landed on his foot. Kippler grinned. “A mouse,” he said. “A Sitta man,” said the mouse. Kippler gave a little squeal of delight. “A smart mouse! You like to talk? Will you talk to me? Will you teach me a song?” He offered his hand, and the mouse leapt into it and sniffed his skin. “There will be no Jumping Mouse song for you,” said the mouse, and leapt back into a crevice in the rock pile. Enraged, Kippler began to dig through the rocks, tossing them over his shoulders. Mice should respect men, and he had great plans to teach the mouse just that. He uncovered something white and spongy. He stared at it. It was a hand. Kippler backed away from the hand. All around him were fallen rocks and half-crushed wagons. Again he heard horses screaming, and felt the vibration of the rockslide hitting the wagon train. He was in the pass again. He couldn’t make it across the waste without any water. He’d have to raid the corpses. He felt his tongue become heavy in his mouth, like a piece of dried out liver. Everyone was dead. Everyone was dead. “Leave me alone!” Kippler screamed, brushing at his clothes. He was covered in dust from the fall, and it wouldn’t come off. It was a bad trick, a mean trick, and he needed water or he’d die. He turned to run, and tripped. He fell hard onto his belly, and when he opened his eyes again, there was a green turtle in front of him. “What do you believe in?” asked the turtle. “What?” Do you believe in water?” “Yes.,#148; Kippler panted just thinking of it. The turtle climbed out of his shell. “Then have a drink.” Still laying flat on his belly, Kippler grasped the shell in sweaty palms and lifted it to his mouth. The water was cool and sweet and he drank his fill. As his belly filled with water, fear emptied from his soul. He set the shell back down in front of the turtle. “Will you teach me a song?” He felt returned to himself. “No,” said the turtle. “You are not right for the Turtle song.” “Kippler,” called a voice. Kippler looked questioningly at the turtle. “Go,” said the turtle. The voice called him again by name, and he clambered over rocks and boulders and death until he reached the voice’s source. “Garret!” Kippler was surprised. “I didn’t think you were still alive. It’s been two weeks.” Garret lay twisted under a pile of rocks. His eyes glowed up at Kippler. “Men are large and maggots are small,” he said, “but I can teach you a song. After all, you didn’t kill me.” “I told you.” Kippler couldn’t contain his excitement. “Murder is an evil sin. I had to protect my soul. Yours too.” “Even though I begged you.” “You were wrong.” Kippler frowned. “I wasn’t sure up until now, but now I’m sure. And it has all worked out. If I had killed you, you wouldn’t be here to sing me a song.” “You are perceptive, Kippler.” Garret paused to smile up at Kippler. His lips looked strange, as if the muscles were smiling instead of the man. “Listen to this song I learned. It’s a song of maggots.” Garret began to sing tones. They started low and grew higher, discordant and off pitch. Kippler’s neck hairs stood on end, but he listened very carefully. When Garret finished singing, he opened his mouth wider and wider, until tendons and bones snapped. A cloud of flies boiled out of Garrett’s throat. They blocked out the stars in the sky. Kippler closed his eyes, so he wouldn’t have to watch. When he opened them, he was back in the waste and the sun was rising.
Mya wasn’t surprised when she saw the figure of the Sitta man trudging closer and closer to where she stood. She heard a little sneeze behind her. Mya stalked towards the bush that had sneezed and yanked out Toddy. “Toddy, go home.” “But I want to see the Sitta.” Toddy was on the verge of tears. Mya was all set to give the girl a good dressing down when the man interrupted her. “The fathers came to me. They gave me a song. Just wait until you hear it.” “Sing,” said Mya.
Kippler had her. He knew he did. When the first notes emerged from his mouth, and the first flies came dancing from his lips, he knew he had bested the kurzu. The shocked expression on her face said it all. The little girl took off running, probably to bring the rest of the tribe to hear the City man sing. They would give him gifts and feed him, and guide him through their territory. And they would apologize for how shabbily they had treated him. Kippler swelled, he saw the song in his eyes and he heard from a faraway place the beating of his heart. When he looked at the kurzu he saw she was playing her drum, so hard and furious she shook. It was a rhythm to accompany his song. He opened his arms like a saint, in blessing and forgiveness, as he heard the sound of other drums moving closer.
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