We drink plenty of pure water. We are the pure people. We are the people of bone. We are the scant people with Him on our side. The water we drink comes from the ground, from deep wells near the road paved with flagstones, each flagstone a promise to the old ones, the ones we can no longer find in daylight. In the dark of night, though, they speak in voices carried by the wind. We are the ones who listen. Once they planted baskets of bone in pure ground. Now we build fences to keep out the ones who don’t belong, who can’t speak with the tongue of hard bone. We stay close to the burial mounds at the place where the flagstone road and the deep wells converge. Our water is mixed with the bones of the old ones who come in darkness. There is only one Him, and He is on our side. The bad ones who don’t belong can live, go hungry, find meat, or die. We protect the baskets of bone buried by the pure water. We are people of bone. We serve the old ones.

So it is spoken.