Shadowplay

WATCHER 4

A child saw the Three. Nataminaho smiled at her and beckoned. Opalekis-Mimo laughed so infectiously she laughed, too. Nikamo-Oskinin played the kittkew so sweetly she clapped her hands and wept with pleasure. Time, the Singer sang, Pakoseo-Time is now. Then they were gone. The child ran to her mother and told her tale. Dozens of children in dozens of villages in west coast Nakiskwen saw and said the same.

Dressed in pilgrim green, with staffs and sandals and a foodpack of a minimum size, extended families on the western side of the continent laid down their tools, walked off their lobs and started east.

The Wik priests came hurrying after them, tried to convince them to return. The family elders listened as they walked, shook their their heads when the priests were finished and continued on the Pilgrim Road, staffs pounding on the dirt, prayerbeads clicking through their bent and horny fingers.

Afer a short time, an old woman began one of the ancient chants:

Milwakiwim Oppalatin, Blessings be on Oppalatin.

Her powerful, if ragged contralto rang out and drew a humming echo from her kin. Milwakiwim Oppalatin.