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It puzzled me how they had wandered right past our pen with the last of the turkeys and completely ignored them.We still snared over the winter but we weren’t really out to collect furs as we now had iron to sell. We used what we caught to eat, and to use the skins we gathered as clothing and bedding.That spring nobody visited, so I went myself to fetch Mataoka’s ma to be a midwife, leaving plenty early enough. The path trampled from the smelting the year before was still quite visible and easy to follow.At the Indian village I could sense something was wrong. Lookouts spotted me as I approached, and I sensed that white men in general were no longer welcome, although I was their special friend.“Welcome,” said the chief, formally, in front of the crowd that had surrounded me as I’d come into their camp, “you, at least, are our friend,”“What’s happened?“ I wanted to know. It looked around at all the sour, worried faces. “I came to fetch a midwife to help Mataoka birth our second. He felt he had to ask the Pilgrim:"Pilgrim, I'm feeling weary, tired. I thirst. Shouldn't we stop and rest? If only for a little while."The Pilgrim did not stop, neither did he slow down. He simply carried on, using his walking stick to help him propel himself forward, as if it was a row for the sand. He did not turn to look at Molo, but rather replied in a crisp, somewhat stringent voice:"There will be no rest from now on, brother. The stone has served its purpose diligently for many years. It will soon cease to be of any use. We must make haste, take advantage of as much of its protection as it still lasts. So we walk."'So he does know the stone is failing, ' Molo thought. He then felt it would not be inappropriate to ask more of the Pilgrim, the strain from the arduous walking evident in his voice, gasps of breath between his questions:"Does that happen with every stone? Are they not very precious to you? Is this why you are on a Pilgrimage? The stones are failing?"The Pilgrim.
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