Excerpt from third short in the series
Abeyto sits still, calm, still, no breath, no ghost from his lungs leaving his lips, haunting the air. The trees sit with him, listen with him, calm, not betraying his movements to the dog children he sees, prancing in the distance. Abeyto’s eyes glimmer with weight, hand on spear, rough hand, killing hand, hand haunted by blood.
Licks his lips. These lips have tasted stories of all kind, have swallowed spirits from many realms. Words carved on them, carved down his throat, spilling into him, creating a warm womb of words beneath his flesh.
Ruins on the hill. Smoldering still. Dog children playing amongst the dead. Brothers, Abeyto whispers, brothers. I read the signs in the hanging wind and you would not listen. I saw the fall of our people in the eyes of each dog man and woman who passed me by. They did not know it yet. We did not know it yet. The future was still far away, smoke drifting in and out of vision, mist on the lake clouding the canoes who swim towards us.
