He tells me that his name is 'Marc – em ay ar see'. To me,
it sounds the same as 'maak', but then it is his name, not mine, and he can add
whatever sounds he likes to it. I shall call him 'you', when I have to call him
anything.
I told him my name was 'savage'. He said that 'savage' was a
thing, not a name. I didn't bother to argue with him, or tell him my real name:
the last time I shared my name I ended up falling through trees and smashing my
skull on the rocks.
It took an age to get the man to his feet, and another age
to shamble him from there to this grove. It was in this grove, I remember, that
I first saw Marc, hollering like a mad man, naked and not caring to guard himself
from the attentions of women. Now I understand why he acted like that: he is
not of Fol Huun; he has no concept of where he is, or how to survive here.
Such understanding doesn't make me like the man. He may be
my gang mate, but he will never be my brother.
For now I've left him sleeping in the grove's dilapidated bier.
I am on a quest for food and fresh water. And if I can find that guardian, some
answers.
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