How many would die this winter? There'd be a few more babies, but far more piles of stones. The Old Ways were a trap. The ceremonies and the rituals … - Alexander Knox

He whispered steadily along in this pearly place, but though his steps were steady, a tension had seized him. It was a quivering, high-note vibration rather than a trembling. His flesh did not shake: inside his tightened skin he hummed, making no sound — a silent scream.

Everything about the girl was like a round of yeasty dough. It cried out to be smoothed or pressed or moulded or lifted or patted or stroked or gathered up or folded.

First there was nothing, then the nothing became blue. This was sky and it was one blue. Then it became a mixture of pale blue and dark blue and the dark blue was heavier and came together, and it found it was water. Then the mud in the water came together, and it found it was an island. The waves in the water shaped the island like the back of a turtle and made it smooth. So it was learned that smooth things could be made of mud so why not make them? So, out of the mud of the island two people were made, smooth and good to look at. They were Wendet, people of the island. Everyone knows these people were made but who made them? No one knows. It was too long ago. Not even the spirit of the oldest tree, or a mountain, or the moon could tell you because even those old spirits are too young to have been there.