The gods have fled the savanna, and now so must we.

They have been leaving for a long time. Grandfather says that only his own oldest-elders remembered a time when the gods were truly happy, when there was water enough, when Great Sun did not so often hide away, when the hooved-gods were tall and fat and just one could feed an entire tribe. When the gods of the grass and trees and streams knew contented green-and-blue. Now, so many of the gods have gone, and the ones that remain are sick old men and women, longing for times many seasons past.

Grandfather remembers something of war, too when first the gods began to flee. Fighting our neighbors for hunting-ground, gathering-ground, good water and fine shade. Now, there are not neighbors enough left to fight, it is only us kinsman and a few adopted new-blood wandered in when their own tribes became too few.

I say it and the wind hears, in all truth our tribe is barely kin, anymore. I say it and the wind hears, in all truth the adopted are not few, and we no longer care so much who is old-blood kin, because not enough of them remain.

Mother and Father are gone from this world-between, they gave the last of their strength to ensure that Brother Dala' and I would grow strong enough to face the flight of the gods. They knew, and I feel their spirits round the fire-embers between first and second sleep, and I weep to think we may be leaving them, that they may be bound only to fires of ancestor's lands. Brother Dala' weeps too, and I comfort him best I can because he is younger and my sister-duty has become mother-duty also, with Mother gone, with no aunties left.

We weep, but the gods have fled the savanna, and now so must we.

It was decided, among all of us. My voice among the loudest. We sit round the fire and we say, these are the best places, around our camp, the fullest hunting-grounds, the richest patches to pick and uproot and cut-careful. And still they are not enough. I am lucky, along with Brother Dala' I am lucky, our parents were clever and strong before they were gone, we had enough. But only just, and now there is not and the old people give up their food and grow weak, and babies do not grow in bellies because their mothers would have no milk to give.

My mind made its mark when Grandfather died. His spirit swirls around the sparks even now, perhaps will rise to the cold stars to follow us, I can only hope, I can only implore. I think my parents will remain, though there will be no new fires for them, perhaps in the lightning, perhaps following the sun, even in Her constant hiding. It is good. They loved this place. They have earned their rest. But I hope Grandfather will follow. I need his counsel, we all will.

Tomorrow we leave. Tonight, I push a stick into the fire, and flick the embers upward, watching them dance, hot among the cold lights. "Grandfather," I whisper, "If you will, if you would, be our guide, come with us to new fires, under new stars."

I wonder what the stars will be like, where we are going. Will there be a new sun, and a new moon also? Tonight, the moon is whole, and he gapes down at us. I look out into the almost-dark of his illumination, the dry grass, the struggling trees. I imagine the herds and hunters, moving in the dark. Grandfather says that once, the hunting-gods would stalk round the fire, eyes glowing, hoping for scraps or a wandering child. Now, they are too few, and we are not easy prey. This dry hungry time has hardened us, like fire licking the tip of a child's practice-spear, before they are given their first point of stone.

Time to sleep. I dream of stars, spinning around us like they do all the year under the great dome of the sky, only now they move also streaming past our heads because we are moving, far, far away. To the great sea, then north. To the place I found, islands-across-the-way, past the narrow-sea onto new lands.

Morning comes, and we move. I cry a few tears for Mother and Father, and share them with Brother Dala', he also knows that they must stay behind. But Grandfather, I think will come with us. I tell Brother Dala' this. He is not so sure, but hope is a precious thing to hold when so much else has been let go, and so he does not deny it.

It is a walk of three days to the crossing. I found the place during my own Long Walk, after the first drops of blood confirmed me a woman, found at the end of that long celebration of who I now was and what I could now do.

A few did not believe me, or thought I had been mistaken, perhaps hunger, perhaps thirst. But I was no child, I ate and drank well on the journey, I knew all the ways to take care of myself. Not only blood marked me a grown a woman. I take my pride in that, and now they see for themselves. They apologize, two of them. The other two hold their silence. I must watch them.

For two days we stay on the shore, making rafts. We comb the beach for shells, and we eat well. The crossing goes well, from island to island, north and east, but it carries a surprise when we look back. More people on the shore, looking out and over. Word has gotten back that our tribe has left. Some have followed. They are making rafts of their own.

Some among us take this as a concern, the possibility of war again, but I am not worried, we will find the best place we can, we will defend it if we must, though I do not think it likely and anyway the other tribes have the right also to flee the savanna, just like the gods.

At the opposite shore we rest. Nothing is very different here. We comb the beach, we eat, and we move on. North, a little west. Here there is more green. Here we find more to pick and uproot and cut-careful. Not all is familiar. Still we comb the beach. The younger among us try some of the new plants and roots and berries, daring each other. Two become very sick, and we have to stop, make camp for them to recover. We are lucky, and neither dies.

But another tribe catches up behind us.

I go out to speak to them. This journey was my idea, so I am given both the honor and the risk. It is easier than I expect. They wish to join us. If they had know, they say, if they had known we meant to flee the savanna along with the gods, they would have asked before.

I go back and tell the others about this following-tribe's intentions. Some are wary, but I tell them, we have already taken so many, why not more? We go to strange lands, we may need the help, and if the land cannot feed all our mouths, we are not tied together like knapped stone to a spear-shaft, we can find our own places still.

These first many-days, I am too tired to properly dream, in my sleep I only perform the day's tasks again, over and over, or I see the savanna again and wonder what I am doing back here in the land the gods have fled. I do not look for Grandfather in the fire or the cold stars above. He will understand, Grandfather is a patient man.

Tonight, I rest easier. I have accepted that Mother and Father are left behind. I have accepted that I must be a new person in new places, and I can feel Grandfather's smile. I tell Brother Dala', and he tells me Grandfather has spoken to him every day, but also told him, do not tell Sister Falau, she bears the burden of the whole tribe but will learn and I will find her again soon.

I smile, and it feels new, and I hug Brother Dala' by the fire, and that night I dream of cold places yet to come, and strangers in the dark, I cannot see their faces.

The next day I notice it is indeed getting colder, as we walk along the shore. Perhaps I noticed before, perhaps my spirit knew, perhaps Grandfather told me.

The day after, the cold has become a discomfort, rather than just a thing noticed. There are murmurs among us.

Nearing mid-day, we meet the Strangers.

They are short and wide, and they speak in tongues more different than any tribe I have ever met. They carry spears and axes, of different make to ours, strange knapping-patterns. But most different of all is their skin and the way they cover it. It is paler, but only a little can be seen under animal skins that have kept their fur. This seems wise. We cannot ask them where these long-furred-gods reside, we cannot ask them anything, we keep back wary from each other. So I tell some of the hunters, listen, would you find these gods, and we will take their hides along with their meat.

The young men are eager to prove as much as they can, even more now that we are on what they see as this great adventure. They go. Only one pair comes back dragging a carcass, but they tell us where there are more.

Our first fur-coverings are crude, but they are warm. I send others to observe the Strangers, hope to catch them making clothes, hope to learn from them. Soon a few words are exchanged. Fortunately there is no violence, not here, not now. I worry always about the young men, I tell them, do your spear-boasts about the fur-gods we need so badly now, cease your talk about how you are stronger than the Strangers, clearly it is nonsense anyway, look at them, we must learn, not foolish-fight. I have to tell them carefully. Brother Dala' is a help.

We have found a place, near the sea but sheltered from her cold blowing gods. Grandfather has settled into the fires here. The Strangers are not too far, a respectful but still useful distance. We will stay, for now. I think when there are babies again and perhaps I am Grandmother to many, or perhaps Grandmother-Auntie, I have yet to bear children, I have other duties for now, perhaps then some of us will move on farther.

For now, this is a new place with new gods that have not abandoned it, and I can feel Grandfather's smile. You have done well, Granddaughter, he tells me. I am glad. I say it and the wind hears, this is a good place too, though we will have to learn many new ways to thrive, make acquaintance with new gods. Hope says they will not flee, wisdom says that if they do, so will we. Gods are fickle beings, and we must be strong ones.