The boy did not wake until morning.
The night had been long and quiet in the shaman hut. The fire burned low, fed carefully so the heat stayed gentle and steady. Anna slept sitting upright beside him, her back against the wooden post, waking every time his breath changed or his body shifted in pain.
At dawn, pale light filtered through the woven walls. Birds called from the trees, and the village slowly came back to life. The boy stirred, his eyes opening slowly, confusion giving way to memory—and pain.
He cried out softly.
"I know," Anna said immediately, placing her hand on his shoulder. "Don't move. You are safe."
The elder woman was already awake, grinding dried roots into powder. She mixed them with warm water and honey, creating a bitter drink meant to calm the body and dull pain. Anna helped the boy drink, supporting his head carefully.
His leg was swollen, but the splint held. The herbs had kept the inflammation from worsening overnight. That alone felt like a small victory.
"He must not walk," the elder said. "Not for many days. Maybe moons."
The boy's face fell. "I want to help," he whispered.
"You will," Anna replied gently. "By resting."
Word spread quickly through the tribe. People stopped by the hut quietly, bringing food, fresh leaves, and clean water. Children were kept outside, told to speak softly. Even the hunters lowered their voices as they passed.
Mike arrived later that morning, studying the splint with careful eyes. "It's stable," he said. "But we should improve it."
With his tools, he shaped smoother wooden supports and softer bindings. Together, they adjusted the splint so it would not rub or cut the skin. The boy clenched his jaw but did not cry this time. He trusted them now.
Kehnu stood nearby, arms crossed, watching everything.
"This happened because he climbed where the rock breaks," Kehnu said quietly. "We have more people in the mountains now. More risk."
Anna looked up at him. "Then we must learn from it."
That afternoon, after the boy fell into a deeper, calmer sleep, the elders called a gathering.
People sat in a wide circle beneath the large trees near the path. The mountains rose above them, beautiful and dangerous all at once.
Anna spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully so everyone could understand.
"When we lived only near the shore, falling meant sand," she said. "In the mountains, falling means stone."
Murmurs of agreement passed through the group.
She continued. "We cannot stop climbing. We need the caves. We need the higher ground. But we can change how we move."
Mike stood and demonstrated with sticks and stones.
"No climbing alone," he said. "Two at least. One watches."
He placed stones in a line. "Paths must be clear. No loose rock. If it moves, remove it."
The elder woman added, "Children do not climb trees on stone ground."
Kehnu spoke last. "If someone falls, do not pull them up fast. Call. Bring help. Carry them."
The rules were simple. Primitive. But they were rules.
That alone marked change.
Over the following days, the tribe adjusted. People walked more slowly in the mountains. They warned each other of loose stones. Children were taught where they could and could not play. A small horn made from bone was placed near the upper huts—if blown, it meant someone needed help.
Back in the shaman hut, the boy healed.
Each day, Anna cleaned his leg, replaced herbs, and checked the bindings. The swelling slowly decreased. His pain lessened from sharp agony to a dull, constant ache. He learned to breathe through it.
Kate visited often, bringing him small carvings and dried fruit. Sometimes she sat beside him and talked about nothing at all—clouds, birds, games. It helped more than medicine.
After a week, the boy could sit upright without crying.
After two weeks, he smiled again.
One afternoon, as sunlight warmed the hut, the elder woman nodded. "The bone is holding. Not healed. But holding."
Anna felt her chest loosen for the first time since the accident.
Outside, the tribe continued its work—paths growing stronger, huts reinforced, tools refined. Life moved forward, shaped by experience instead of fear.
That evening, Anna walked with Kehnu along the stone path they had built together. The road was rough, imperfect—but solid beneath their feet.
"We are learning," she said softly.
Kehnu smiled. "We always were. Now we remember to teach each other."
Above them, the mountain stood silent. Below them, the village glowed with firelight.
Pain had come. But so had knowledge.
And knowledge stayed.