Scouts ran ahead of the caravan. The steppes often seemed eternal and unchanging, but changes did happen. Winters were harsh; they left their mark. Streams could change course, boulders used as landmarks could shift, and previously hard ground could become treacherous with holes. The greatest hazards, though, were the ones that moved and hunted. Hostile tribes and bands of young men on the Koryos stalked the unwary for whatever goods and cattle they could take, and packs of winter-hungry wolves would prey on any who strayed too far from the tribe.

  Warriors rode out on their horses, armed with swords, spears, and axes. They guarded the cattle and kept them on the move. Kyma’s father led them, hearing the reports of the scouts and choosing the best path to their summer grazing lands. Some of the warriors rode around the caravan, guarding their flanks from foes and wolves.

  There were two-wheeled carts pulled by hand or by goats, and larger four-wheeled carts yoked to oxen. The carts were loaded with tent poles and hides, clothing, cookware, and food, and everything they would need that the steppes wouldn’t provide. Trees were scarce on the steppe, so there was even one cart loaded with spare disks and planks of wood to replace any wagon wheels that broke. Most of the tribe walked beside the carts, loaded with packs. Only the very old or very young rode. Moving the tribe was a major undertaking.

  Kyma walked beside her mother. It had been a full day since she’d seen the little grass-spirit, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him. She hadn’t told her mother about the encounter. It was strange, but she felt like talking about it would somehow make it less special, less magical.

  “Kyma, look there, do you see that low mound?” Akayma pointed as she spoke, drawing Kyma’s attention to the west.

  The steppes, for all they were wide and open, weren’t flat. The ground had gentle dips and long, low hills, and shallow washes where streams had worn away the soil for season upon season. Ridges of hills and soaring mountain peaks edged the horizon. Clusters of low hills occasionally broke up the landscape.

  But the hill Akayma pointed out was different. It stood by itself. Low and oblong, it rose alone in an otherwise very flat plain. A line of stone stelae marked the path leading to it. Kyma knew what it was immediately. It was a kurgan, the burial mound of an honored ancestor.

  Kyma nodded to her mother, “Who lies there? I have not seen that one before.”

  “Your father has chosen a path farther west than the one we usually take. There must be some danger on the eastern trail. That is the sleeping place of one of your father’s forebearers. He was a great chieftain and war leader in his time.” Akayma went on, listing the names and achievements of warriors long dead, but Kyma only half listened.

  She was too busy wondering why her father had chosen a different course this year. Was there some danger that would threaten the tribe? She knew that sometimes other tribes would war over fertile grazing lands. Her own tribe hadn’t been attacked in many years, but it could happen. Or was there something else? Had the grass spirit come to warn her? Had he been trying to give her some message she was too ignorant to understand? A sense of foreboding settled in her belly and refused to leave.

  It was still with her when the tribe stopped to camp for the night. She did her chores, but her mind was not on her tasks. Her thoughts swirled with images of the grass-spirit, going over her memories of every facial expression he’d made and strange words he’d spoken. It didn’t seem like he’d been trying to warn her. Maybe she’d run off too soon. She hoped she hadn’t offended him by leaving so abruptly.

  What danger could have made her father change their path? She’d heard the adults talking. They would be settling farther west than normal this year. The warriors were tense. More of them stood outside the rings of firelight than usual, gazing out over the open ground of the steppe, watchful. The rest of the tribe could feel the tension from them. The talk was more subdued, and laughter came less often tonight.

  When the meal was done, Kyma took the refuse away from the camp to bury it. She didn’t go as far as she normally would. With the tension in the air, it seemed unwise to wander too far from the warriors and firelight. The moon was nearly full, though, and the silvery light made the night a little less ominous.

  As she was finishing up, a movement in the grass caught her eye. He was back. The grass-spirit watched her from among the stalks. Kyma was certain she only saw him because he let her. She bowed her head to him in respect. He smiled at her, and then vanished into the grass.

  That wasn’t the last time he came. Several more times over the next few days, Kyma caught glimpses of the little man as they traveled and camped. Kyma made a game of looking for him, and that helped to keep her mind off the tension and worry of the tribe. Her father’s face was grim each night as they ate around the fire, rather than the expansive laughter she was used to. Thinking about that made her heart hurt and her stomach clench up. Much better to watch for the grass spirit.

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  When the caravan reached the settling place, it wasn’t the one they’d used the year before. It wasn’t one that Kyma recognized. The tribe had several summer places that they used, but this one was farther west than they had settled for as long as Kyma could remember. When Akayma sent her out with a basket to gather herbs, she told Kyma to search west of the settlement, and to stay within sight of the warriors riding patrols around the cluster of tents.

  The little grass-spirit, Tolus, approached her again while she was searching for the yellow flowers her mother used to treat wounds. He walked up and peered into her basket, where it sat on the ground. Kyma paused and watched him as he lifted out one of the tiny yellow blooms. He asked a question in his bubbling language, but she couldn’t understand him.

  She thought for a moment, then pointed to the flower and said its name. He looked at her with his head cocked, and she repeated the word. He said it back and smiled. Then he pointed to the basket. She told him the word for it. He learned the words quickly. He pointed to everything he could find, and she taught him the words for them all.

  Every day after that, Tolus found her, and she taught him her words. The words for things were easy. The words for actions weren’t so hard. The words for questions and things that couldn’t be done or pointed to were a challenge, but they managed. It took a full turn of the moon before Tolus knew enough of the language of the tribe to hold a broken conversation.

  “Your people are called the Poluk?” Kyma asked, unsure of her pronunciation.

  “Polwuch,” he corrected, then added, “But you close.” He smiled and plucked another stem of grass. Kyma had noticed that he always liked to have his hands busy when they talked. At the moment, he was weaving several stems into a tiny basket.

  “Where do your people live? Do they live to the west? This is the farthest west we’ve ever settled for the summer. That would explain why I’ve never met anyone else like you.”

  Tolus shook his head and considered his words, “No… is hard to tell with no many words. Live… other place. Um… through door in hill. World like this, but not like this. Understand?”

  Kyma was puzzled. Her eyebrows drew together as she sorted through what he’d said. Hesitantly, she asked, “Door in hill? Do you mean you come from the spirit world? From the kurgans?”

  Tolus bobbed his head side to side in a non-committal way, “Is maybe yes and no… home is more spirit than this,” he patted the ground in illustration, “but not all spirit, is…” he trailed off, looking for the right word. He brightened as he thought of a way to show what he meant. He took two blades of grass and laid them on the ground a few inches apart. He pointed to one of them and said, “Is this world, yes?” Then he pointed to the other blade, “Is spirit world.” Then, he pointed to the space between the two, “Am from here. Not one, or other.”

  “Between?” Kyma offered.

  Tolus nodded, “Yes, is word. Between.” He drew a circle in the dirt between the blades of grass. “But… I do not know this word… kurgan? Is word for hill?”

  “The kurgans are where we lay the bodies of the chiefs and honored warriors of the tribes when they fall. We build hills for the dead, where we remember our history and honor our ancestors. There is one just a little south of here where some of my father’s fathers are buried.” Kyma plucked two blades of grass and tried to copy Tolus’ weaving as she spoke.

  “Ah, now I see. No, am not from world of dead. My place is world of life.” There was something wistful in Tolus’ voice as he spoke. “Is a place of wonders and magic.”

  “You sound sad. Can you not go back there?” Kyma glanced up from her fumbling with the grass to see his face.

  “Am… what is word… can not find door back. Came here… not by purpose,” he paused and pointed up at an eagle circling in the distance, “Was almost eat, had to run. Now, can not find door again.”

  “Lost. That is the word for when you can’t find your way.” Kyma bit her lip and considered for a moment. Then, hesitantly, she offered, “Maybe I can help you find your door.”

  Tolus brightened at the offer, then shook his head, “You do much already. Give food, teach words. Already there is imbalance. I cannot make even.”

  Kyma’s brow crinkled again, “I don’t understand.”

  “Balance. Is… you give, I give.” He held out his hands palm up as if holding something and moved them back and forth as if making an exchange. “I have nothing to give to make balance.” He opened the fingers of the hand held toward Kyma and turned it as if to show that it was empty. “Do you see?”

  “I think I see. We call that trade. But… you don’t have to trade with me. I’d be happy to help a friend.”

  Tolus shook his head, “With my people, balance is all. All must be in balance. With no balance I would be…” he used a word from his own language that Kyma couldn’t make out. It sounded like water bubbling over rocks. “Is not good to be this way.”

  Kyma stayed quiet, trying to work a third grass stem into her weaving. Eventually, she asked, “Can you tell me about your world? Would that balance us?”

  “Some. Words will balance for words.” Tolus smiled and started to tell Kyma all about his home.

  Every moment that she could slip away from the tribe, Kyma went to find Tolus, and they talked, her teaching him and him telling stories that she could barely believe about his home and his people. She never stopped worrying about how to help him find a way home. It was easier than worrying about her brother, who should have been home at mid-summer but had yet to return, or about the worry and quiet mutterings of her parents and the tribe’s warriors.