The thin herd was made more so because receding ice let loose an invisible disease. Tlat was grey, burying bodies, setting pyres. The spade, dragged over ground from pile to pile and fire to fire, made a harsh metal uneven whitish noise mixed in with wind and the snaps of combustion. Tlat paused passing his wife, his daughter, his sisters, perhaps just to rest from the wearisome task. Tlat was sixty.
The offspring of Ptel, daughter of Frey, had carried on the spirit of Po. She had lived purposely developing her skills with a blade, as Frey had nurtured her to learn and took it upon herself to raise the lost children of the dead when so much had been inflicted on the fragile progress of a generation. She had set out scattering her children, leaving the younger with the older, across the continents and seas to escape the invisible disease. Succumbed to death, she laid under the constellations while her father buried the spade to pull out earth, to lay his child there. She was thirty.
(Soundtrack Credit: Begin Love & Mathematics by Broken Social Scene) Fires collapsed over the bodies and the smells stayed in the nostrils. The stars now shined in the dimming twilight as Tlat set out to find all the lost children and the families of the chosen ones to speak to each of continuing to nurture with a filigree of love and respect, despite and displacing the absentness of their predecessors. He procured supplies to last eleven weeks while the earth tilted the sun into night along the arctic boundary. He bent down beneath Ursas expecting to return before sunrise.