1. Blood Moon BLOOD MOON
SHE SITS CROSS-LEGGED ON the sandy ground, intent on her work. Their most recent hunt was successful: she took down a stag with her spear. A windfall, for while there are few stags left, they provide much more than a roe deer: more meat, of course, part of which has already been smoked and left to cure; a hide that is easily worked yet very resistant; magnificent antlers and large bones from which to make countless tools and necklaces. In keeping with the traditions of the clan, she who fells the animal is first to choose a bone from which she may fashion whatever she pleases. Of the remaining bones, some are given to others to make tools and the rest are ground up using large stones in order to extract the precious marrow.

The winter is drawing to a close, but it has been mild, allowing all of them to eat their fill without great difficulty. Even the weakest among the group had only to slather themselves in grease for a few days to protect themselves from the cold.

Pensive, Blood Moon looks up for a moment and contemplates the graceful flight of the dragonflies a few steps away. Then she returns to whittling the bone she chose with the trusty flint that never leaves her side. Made by the legendary Blizzard—her Blizzard—who was gone too soon, it has always belonged to Blood Moon, who has never been able to give it up. She hones it regularly, whenever the edge begins to dull, shaving away sliver after sliver such that the sharp, thin flint looks increasingly like a delicate, fragile leaf. Blood Moon dreads the moment when it will inevitably break.

Having scraped away the tatters of flesh and scooped out the marrow, she sets about piercing holes in the surface. It is a lengthy job, but she does not lack for time. She is eager to play; when the breath of the goddesses flows through the flute, it sends shivers through her pale skin, weathered by wind and sun, and tears trickling down her cheeks. It is a small comfort, hearing the melody soaring toward the heavens and, perhaps, toward the memories of those that she has lost.

Next to her, Snow is sewing a piece of buckskin that has already been softened and tanned. The bone needle moves through the leather, stitch by stitch, to make a skirt. Mother and daughter exchange few words; the girl hums a melancholy air that rises and whirls like eddying leaves, whipped up by the chill wind of late winter only to settle on the ground again, wispy, evanescent. The reassuring presence of Snow, her voice at once sweet and rasping, comforts Blood Moon. She is roused from her reverie by a thunderous stampede: little Star Shower, now six or seven winters old, rushes over. Her shrill cries abruptly break the tranquil mood that had settled over the camp. Behind her, a number of young men, led by Azure and Summer Falls, are returning from their hunt, brandishing two rabbits and a partridge. Blood Moon looks up questioningly: Azure, by nature a taciturn boy, seems jittery. Even his blue eyes, usually so cold, are glowing with a feverish flame.

“Listen, people, listen! I have great news!”

The members of the clan pause their tasks. The children race over to the boy, while Star Shower skips about him like a young roe deer.

“We heard the first call of the cuckoo! Winter is over! Spring is here!”