Monk sat with the three human men. They sat apart from the others.

  It was not a victorious mood that had settled over the farm in the wake of the fighting. The other ogres, the females that had come with Monk to fight Tonk’s faction, wasted little time in beginning the process of gathering the bodies. The male bodies were mostly bigger and heavier than those of the females.

  The expressions of the females were mixed. Several moved with a kind of stone-faced blankness as they dragged the bodies of their kin. Those faces were void of expression, but that voidness spoke volumes. Others did their best to contain their feelings, but eyes glistened and leaked. There was little sound barring the rasp of dragging bodies and occasional snuffles and suppressed sobs.

  One of the females, far bigger than the others, large enough to almost match Donk in size, sighed as she picked Tonk up. The sigh was a long exhale, trembling and wrought with emotion.

  The three men found the experience unsettling in many regards. There was empathetic sadness. The tribe of ogres had been torn apart and kin had been forced to slay kin. This was sombre enough, but the display of gathering the bodies was disturbing to the core. Monk sat with them, observing the action with grave sadness, but not taking part.

  Eventually, it was Tiller who spoke. “Thank you?”

  Heavy-lidded eyes slid towards him. Monk seemed to be confused, as though he’d heard the words through a dreamy mist. He raised his brows in question, indicating that he hadn’t heard the words.

  Again, Tiller said, “Thank you?”

  Monk’s eyes contorted; an infinity of emotions came and went before he settled on detached acknowledgement, favouring Tiller with a weak smile. “We had no choice. We were bound to act.”

  Reader asked, “To protect us?”

  “Yes, that in part. Tonk and the others are… were of our tribe. We were responsible for their actions. If they had made the Meal of Owning then the shame would be on us. We were bound to act.”

  Reader said, “The Meal of Owning?”

  Cutter jabbed him with an elbow, hissed, “Some kind of ritual shit where they’d eat us! And probably get to take all our shit.”

  Tiller ignored them, leaning in. “In part?”

  “Huh?” Monk said.

  Tiller said, “You said you came in part to protect us. What’s the other part?”

  Monk shronked feebly. There was an uncoordinated slackness to him. Tiller could see he’d been through a terrible ordeal. He wondered if the ogre was suffering from PTSD.

  Tiller said, “You had another motive in coming here? Another reason to fight them?”

  Monk said, “They killed Father…”

  “You’re another son?”

  Monk chuckled flatly. “Not the favoured son. But yes. Tonk killed our father. That could not go unpunished.” Monk’s eyes flickered away, and Tiller could sense that there was more yet unsaid.

  Tiller said, “You could have fought him before he left the ranch.”

  Monk eyed Tiller as though seeing him for the first time. “Yes. That we could have done.”

  “But then he’d have put you all down,” Cutter quipped.

  Monk’s attention drifted from one to the other of them. “Yes. We needed the weight of your numbers and fighting prowess as well. We served each other in that regard. You helped us secure justice. We helped you to not be killed and eaten.”

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  Tiller eyed the ogre curiously. He licked his lips before speaking carefully. “What will become of you now?”

  Monk sagged completely at the question. “That… is hard to answer…”

  Cutter said, “Well you’ll need to choose a new leader, but I guess that’s easy enough. Got any sisters in the crowd there? No? Then I guess you’re the sole surviving heir. You’re head rancher now.”

  “No. I can’t be.”

  Reader found his voice again. “Why not?”

  Monk extended his arm, rotating the forearm to show them the markings on his band. The marking of his path was a long line that ended on a round ball, with springlike wavy lines.

  The three men stared at it. Monk’s expression suggested an expectation of understanding. Instead all three human faces just stared, without understanding.

  After a few moments Cutter spoke hesitantly, “You’re on a path where you make those robot dildo things on the poles? I mean, I guess that’s useful given your demographic…”

  It was Reader’s turn to jab with his elbow. Cutter issued a low, unimpressed “ow.” Reader said, “You’re a priest?”

  Monk said, “I’m on the shaman path. I can’t own property. I can’t weigh myself down with those concerns.”

  Tiller and Reader spoke over each other. Tiller said, “But you need to manage the ranch; you’ve got family that need you,” while at the exact same time Reader said, “But if you’re a shaman, what was all that bull Tonk was spouting about the old ways and eating us?”

  Monk selected Reader to answer first. “Those old ways are not our way. Those were old paths that led us to the place we occupy now. But they are not the paths forward, only the paths back. This reality brewed much discontent in our clan. Too many wanted to follow the old traditions, but I am the shaman, I am the one with the sight to see the way forward. A path leads in two directions, forward and back. We had reached the end of the forward with our ranch. Disappointed as Father may have been in my path, he supported this notion. He believed in this truth and followed it.”

  Monk let out a shuddering sigh, his eyes sheening. “That’s part of what brought us to this sorry day.”

  Day it was. Light was beginning to creep over the edge of the blank whiteness. With so little landscape between them and the horizon, day broke quickly.

  Tiller pressed again. “Then who will lead your ranch? You’re the heir apparent, and the survivors will need someone to cling to.”

  Monk shook his head, a little sadly. “A shaman can’t be concerned with things like that. I can’t run the ranch and dedicate myself completely to finding the path forward. Besides, there are further concerns.”

  Reader said, “More factions within the clan?”

  “Ha! No! The factions have ended now. Sadly, there is only one. If but there was a way for us to go back to our arguing. But Tonk ended that possibility when he took our father’s head.”

  Tiller said, “Then what is it? What are the other concerns?”

  Monk sighed and sank lower, waving towards the females as they dragged the bodies. “Sigils. Paths.”

  Tiller frowned. “What do you mean? I don’t understand.”

  Cutter said, “Come on with it!”

  Reader hissed at Cutter, “Easy up. He’s had a hell of a day.”

  “Him and me.”

  “You didn’t involve yourself in the killing of your own family.”

  “Oh… yeah…”

  Monk seemed mostly unaware of their conversation. He was fixated on Tiller. He was inspecting the human, eyeing him up carefully. Tiller felt the inspection and understood there was significance in it, even if he couldn’t explain the why.

  Monk said, “The ranch is a… carefully constructed system. You think we grow cattle I suppose.”

  Cutter laughed. “Ah, dude, we know you grow cattle. That’s like your whole thing.”

  Monk shook his head. “We don’t grow cattle. Growing cattle isn’t about growing cattle.”

  “Then what the hell is it about?”

  It was Tiller that answered Cutter’s question. “It’s about growing grass.”

  Monk looked startled, but maybe a little pleased. “Yes. Everything revolves around the grass. We grow the grass and the beasts graze. To some extent they grow themselves as long as there’s enough grass there to feed them. The ranching and farming sigils in our clan all belonged to males. All of them are dead now. They either died defending Father, or died here trying to kill you. Father’s sigils were amazing—in potency and combination. Everything depended on him to work. Without him… without the others… the animals will starve when the grass slows…”

  Tiller leaned closer. His own heart was starting to beat a new rhythm. “So what’s the solution?”

  Monk’s hand dipped into a pouch and came out as a clenched fist. He extended the fist, knuckles up, towards Tiller. Tiller watched the closed hand as though it was a coiled snake.

  Monk rotated his hand until the clenched fingers faced the sky and the knuckles faced the ground. Then he relaxed his grip and the fingers peeled away. One by one they slid from the grasped object until a sigil orb was revealed.

  It blazed with light. It bore a symbol, unmistakably of a tuft of grass.

  Monk’s eyes flashed towards Tiller. Tiller was struck by how soft, how sensitive those eyes were in the savage face of the ogre.

  Tentatively, softly, voice nearly breaking, Monk said, “You might be the solution.”