Likewise, there was very little Oren wouldn’t do for the Gibbor. Even so, he’d been dodging the old man for days. Now, bright and early, the Seer had caught him coming from Nadia’s tent before he’d even relieved himself.

            The old man was nothing if not persistent.

            They stood staring at one another in the morning mist. The air was heavy with dew and the scent of sex. 

 “Perhaps we could discuss this elsewhere?”

            Oren flushed to the roots of his white hair and headed toward the Jutting Rock. The Gibbor followed, his hands thrust into the pockets of his robe.

            Oren walked to the edge of the Jutting Rock, relieving himself over the rim. Below him was a panoramic view of the Canaan Valley. Oren stood here every spring, watching the valley from three directions lest anyone intrude during the Calling of Spirits. On those nights, he stood with sword and shield. The sword for any intruders in the natural realm and the shield against evils in the air. Both sword and shield had been warded with ancient words that carried weight. Only his arms were now strong enough to hold them.

He continued to stand with his back to the Gibbor, looking out over the miles. Just within the confines of the Canaan Valley, a community had sprung up occupied by a religious sect called the Shivelites, odd even by the strictest standards. They were up early, chopping, washing, tilling. Like ants, they were always at work.