The Bedazi took Jorge on a hike that took several days and nights to one of the Heldrazi mountaintops. It was said that the best tools are made from the black volcanic stone from the source. Along the way Jorge was taught the basics of their language. It was a soft tongue, and often combined signage into its intricacies. Oftentimes, signage was the only thing they’d talk with since speaking out loud might scare off prey. Jorge had taken sign language before as an elective to impress a deaf girl. He stopped when he had learned enough to see the girl tell him in nervous gestures that she was afraid he might crush her.

But enough of the past. Jorge looked forward to the nights. It used be that he couldn’t sleep until it was technically morning. Surrounded by the locals, he slept well, and they let him sleep. They didn’t seem disgusted to look at him. And if they did, they did not make it obvious. They let him carry all the heavy baggage and it made him feel useful on their journey. He noticed how their attitudes and body language changed when speaking to different members of their tribe. Soft and reassuring for the young ones. Firm for their peers. And relaxed when with him. Jorge thought about it long and hard.

Why was this primitive tribe so emotionally intelligent? The civilized realms of Earth where he grew up were ruthless in their judgment. Whether it be the real world or online, he met a constant deluge of hate and admonishment for impropriety. But there were a thousand times a thousand definitions for what is ‘proper’ and what is ‘just’. And everyone thought they were right.

“My friend, the chief told me he feels sorry for you.”

“Why?”

“Because where you are from, food is clearly very plenty. But when the Bedazi have plenty food, they eat enough. They don’t eat like you. He thinks the only reason you ate like that is because you were in pain. Pain they do not understand, but can feel the immensity of.”

“What? No! No, I’m fine…”

The stars were bright in this universe. So bright they formed the most vivid constellations even underneath thin clouds. If Jorge relaxed, he could almost see them blur as the planet spun and feel the blanket around the world slip over him in cool streaks. Was this world where he truly belonged? Or was it simply that anything better than Earth? The question floated in his dreams as he fell asleep.

The days passed quickly. They had made it to the mountaintop. The village smith brought Jorge to the edge and pointed at the basin of hot magma in the crater. Using slow gestures the smith explained that the best stones were the smoothest ones, heavy, and of the deepest black.

Jorge began to climb down the crater. The villagers began to cry out in alarm, pointing at his feet. He looked down and shrugged. The rock here should be near boiling, and yet Jorge felt fine. It only began to feel uncomfortable when he neared the reddish-black mud. The hot sludge was constantly renewing, growing like slime mold. Near this hellish shore, he could see a beach of the black stones. When he touched them, the sweat instantly evaporated off his fingers. He tapped the stones tentatively, experimenting, before he gained the confidence to grasp them tight and begin to roll them up the crater. The heat was finally getting to him. His skin was beginning to blister.

It took nearly half an hour for him to move the first of the stones back up to the edge of the crater. He was met with excited cheering. He glanced around in confusion. In poor signage he expressed the question, “Why?”

“Look at what you’ve brought!” The smith said to him in rapid Bedazi speak.

Jorge looked at the stone. It didn’t seem that remarkable. Upon closer inspection however he noticed that it was the size of a stack of car tires. No human would have had the strength to budge such a thing, let alone move it uphill. Hell, a human would have been baked being so close to magma.

“I don’t understand,” Jorge said out loud. But the villagers were already busy, chipping the stone with special picks to divide it into smaller chunks. The Bedazi moved quickly, and didn’t dwell on questions. Jorge was beginning to see the value behind such a philosophy.

The trip back to the village took a day longer than the going. Although Jorge carried the largest chunk of the stone, he still walked slower than what he could maintain so they weren’t exhausted. The night they came back home, a feast was prepared. A large pit made in the driest part of their canopy village housed a raging flame. The villagers formed rings created by interlocked fingers and danced around the bonfire. Nearby, smiths worked on the stone. Their foreheads were slick with sweat from their labor and their concentration was absolute. They had been working since they returned.

Jorge satisfied himself with a small trout-like fish baked within leaves and a nest of herbs and tubers. Then he joined Lyosha, who sat near the outskirts of the light.

“I didn’t know this was a cause for celebration,” Jorge said.

“Any journey taking this long is cause for festivities,” Lyosha said. “But my friend, you don’t know what you’ve done for them.”

“I brought them a large rock.”

“Heldrazite, Jorge. When this land was watched over by a goddess of ice before that Aldren cyka took her and razed her favorite tribe, the mountaintop was frozen over and no one could get the pure stuff. It’s better than most steels. It’s not even really stone, I don’t have the English to explain what it is.”

“A ceramic? Alloy?”

“Ehh no. No word in Earth language for it. This is not Earth anyhow.”

“Wait, what are you saying?”

“You’ve changed the balance of power here in the forest, Jorge. You’ve decreased the chances of survival for the other tribes.”

“I thought you said these were peaceful people?”

Lyosha laughed, holding his chest in his hands.

“Jorge, my friend, the noble savage is a lie. Do you read history books back on Earth? Documentaries? Aboriginals killed and enslaved each other all the time! The Bedazi are one of the better ones. They do less of that kind of thing. But now who knows.”

“I…”

“You what, my naïve boy?”

“I don’t care. I’m just some city boy remember? If this is their way, then so be it.”

“Ho ho! Better men would have felt bad, maybe even judged.”

“I’m not going to judge,” Jorge enunciated. “I’m never going to judge.”

When morning came, Jorge was roused awake by the smiths. They all stood before him with their backs straightened. Two of the seniors presented Jorge with a large axe. The edge was curved and colored a midnight black. Its head was wrapped around a handle made of a dark wood Jorge had never seen before, a rich and solid structure that curved ever so subtly at its belly into a strapping made of fine leather.

The oldest smith said out loud, in understandable English, “Thank you.”

Jorge accepted the gift, feeling its weight in his hand. It felt… right. He smiled wide, his cheeks straining at the unfamiliar command, and said, “You’re welcome.”