Curled like puppies in his den, Loomahk and Doe talked the night away of what they'd done in the years since they'd seen each other. Loomahk spoke of his "silver-haired beauty" who'd borne him twin boys.
"Where are they now?"
"My boys head a pack of their own south of here. My mate was killed by a hunter two winters ago."
"I'm sorry. I wish I'd known. I could have sung for her."
"You used to sing all day, every day, when you visited me. Because of you I thought all human children were singers."
"You should have met more of us." She turned to lay on her back, looking up at the vault of rock. "I wanted nothing so much as I wanted to be a bard, but no one would train me. They said I had no discipline. I had to get work keening at funerals. They don't want a trained voice for that, they want someone who can project suffering." She smiled, not with her eyes. "Which I've always been able to do! But oh, it got too much, following death around. I was too good at what I did. The people wanted to turn me into their grief."
"So you gave it up."
"I gave up a lot of things to come here. I remember being happy in Gen-Re-Koh. It may be the only place I was ever happy."
They fell asleep at dawn.
When Loomahk first met Doe he thought she looked breakable. Thinking her delicate, he always did what we could to protect her--a trap many had fallen into, many times. He loved her unconditionally, like a father. She knew that and could tug at his emotions when she needed to. In a sense she was still a child, using the only power children have to make their way in the world. Loomahk wanted Doe to be happy, but did not know how he could help her. "You know you can't stay here indefinitely," he said to her as they ate a meal together (cooked rabbit for her, raw rabbit for him) a few days after her arrival. "And I know you're not the hermit type. I can't see you holed up away from the world of men in a hut in the woods. Have you thought of what you want to do now?"
She busied herself pulling bones apart, sticking her finger in her mouth when hot juice burned her. "When you're out hunting and I'm gathering firewood and berries and things wolves won't eat," she finally began, "I spend more time alone than I've ever spent. All my life I've gone from one lover to another, one funeral to another. The only thing constant is the crowd. I've had a chatter of voices surrounding me my whole life long. Here it's quiet, and I'm hearing a new voice--in my heart. I'll get the answers from it if I listen."
"How will you know it will tell you the truth?"
Abruptly, she asked, "Do you believe in Oo?"
It was his turn to concentrate his full attention on his dinner. He crunched bones wearing a thoughtful expression. "If you're asking do I believe in a God, the answer is yes. But I do not call Him Oo."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I said."
"Loomahk!" She swatted him playfully. He responded with a growl, but there was no menace in it. "This is important to me. I want to talk about Oo."
"I don't know anything about Oo."
"What God do you know?...You're not saying you worship Re?"
He said nothing, but blinked his pale blue eyes.
"The sun? You worship the sun?"
"You worship a number," Loomahk answered defensively.
"I never said I worshipped Oo." Her rabbit was cool enough to handle. She jerked strips of meat from the bones and spoke with her mouth full. "The priests say things that don't ring true with me. Oo corresponds to the number 'one,' but It isn't the number 'one.' That's the first bit I don't understand. It is or it isn't, you know? Because then they talk of God's attributes the way you talk about the number. Multiply one by one and it stays one--thus Oo is unchanging. Multiply any number by one and the number remains itself--thus Oo lets you stay who you are."
"Your priests sound wise," Loomahk said.
"That part is not what I quarrel with. They go on to say, Oo can be divided by Itself forever and never be diminished. Divide any other number by itself and it will become Oo. This proves, they say, we must divide ourselves by ourselves. They claim the goal is to renounce all we are and then we will reach God." She made a face. "I've spent all my time trying to become someone. I don't need to hear that God wants me to become nothing."
"I don't think I understand," Loomahk said. "The priests tell you something about your God and you don't believe them? Don't you know your God for yourself, what He is or what He isn't?"
She gave a start. "Who can know God that well?"
"They have you worship a God you cannot know?"
"You know yours?"
"Of course."
"Wait, wait wait..." She fluttered her hands, frowning in concentration. "The sun. Hawklion. Re. You really do worship the sun."
He looked uncomfortable, but his tail thumped the ground. "You can't deny it!" she crowed. "And it's the sun that's your God, not some abstract idea based on the sun, like Oo is an abstraction from the number. That yellow ball rising in the morning or covered by clouds--that's God to you."
"You're like the rest. We worship a God we can see so you think we're primitive, whereas we--some of us--think humans have intellectualized themselves out of the world around them. We can't believe you see God's light, you feel God's heat on your face, but you don't bow down. You've left God lonely."
It was Doe's turn to look uncomfortable, poking at the dying fire to avoid the wolf's eyes. "The priests don't like us talking about experiencing God. The senses are fleeting, they say--you must approach God through logic, the only lasting path. They don't like any sort of emotion much. I got into trouble with some priests just from singing at funerals. Too much raw emotion, they said, too--"
"--animal," Loomahk finished. Doe met his eyes, her own eyes widening with sudden comprehension.
"That's what it's all about, isn't it?" she said. "We can't have anything in common with you. Oh, Loomahk..." She clutched the ruff at his neck, and he tasted salt on her cheeks again.