The hour approached midnight, and the moon hung high above. Torches crackled, and the dancing light flashed against the ochre-colored felt yurts. Smoke from the incense wafted upwards, lazily filling the air with the smell of balsam and citrus—the ritual was beginning. The Shagrahn chanted his words. With a swelling voice that boomed across the steppes, he intoned the names of ancestors who had been long dead. Drums sounded a dull rhythm that gave accent to every word of the Shagrahn. The Shagrahn raised his arms, which were covered by a brown leather cloak with red feathers traveling its length. His hands were trembling as if he were in awe of this ritual. He approached the small mound of rocks that approximated a rudimentary altar and placed both of his hands down onto the surface. A moment of silence. He voiced soon after.

	“May the God of Clouds and Rain look down upon us this night,” the Shagrahn said, “for we have no greater need for his favor and mercy in these days.”

The sound of the drums swelled, with each beat seeming more thunderous than the last. The priest genuflected at the altar, venerating the burnt offerings and made his supplications. Overtones from the throat singing lowered in pitch, and with the beating of the drums, formed a strange cacophony of primal music. There was a brief respite and a break in the music, and the tribesmen looked upon the priest. On his knees, the priest grabbed the edges of the altar. He hesitated for a second, rose, and turned to the gathering.

	“The spirits are quiet, and the Sky-Father watches. His answer; a mystery. Our fate depends on strength of our men and horse,” the priest said.

The ritual had ended, and the men extinguished the fires. They went to their yurts in silence, for the next day was to be a long one. The yearly event known as a guiding was to take place. This rite of passage for the young of the tribe stood for two purposes: masculinity and survival. The guiding always took place during the last weeks of the short autumn weather, and the major task of the young men was to bring back big game. Prominent families within the tribe were selected each year to serve as watchers and to keep honor within the initiates.

	Kohtohnek awoke from his slumber. His sleep was uneasy, and anxiety pulled at his thoughts during the night. Kohtohnek threw on his yellow sun-bleached tunic and grabbed his bow. He lifted the yak leather drape to see the steppes outside, and there was a slight nip in the air. The camp bustled with activity, and the sound of horse hooves shook the ground. He had woken late.

	‘Finally awake?’ A man to his right said, ‘You should rush, don’t want your kinsmen waiting on you.”

	“Ah, Kehnbish, my brother.’ Kohtohnek said, ‘Why would you be so worried about this?”

	“Don’t want you to have a bad presentation, this being our family’s first guiding.”

	“I will do fine. Our family will not be dishonored. You can be sure of that.”

Kohtohnek gripped hard on his bow. Kohtohnek was not fond of Kehnbish, and the two had their feuds in the past.

	“Why the burden came to you, I’ll never know. At least learn to wake up on time,” Kehnbish said.

	“And you learn to not be hostile to your kin, brother.”

	“Not hostility, but gentle suggestion.”

	Kehnbish pulled his knapsack off the ground, and he went off to attend to his business in the camp. When Kohtohnek arrived at the camp, young men were fletching arrows and arming themselves in preparation for the guiding. Kohtohnek heard talk amongst the common people about the lack of omens for the guiding, but he never gave much thought to omens, or the lack of them. The customary meal had been served moments before Kohtohnek arrived, and the men were eating bits of dried horse meat, tenderized by placing them in between the saddle and the steed, and fermented mares milk.