Across the river, the bone eaters bang out rhythms and chant. They beat out their music on wood and bone and stone. They dance together in wide circles, their flowing robes spinning and trailing behind them, throwing sparks and dirt up into the night air. He sits on the opposing bank covered in mud and ash. He sits cross legged and staring blankly into the empty air. He lets the night’s cold numb him. The small fire he lets smolder, he needs it only for the light. The music from the camp comes rushing at him in waves. His hands sweaty and shaking, he writes…coercing the letters forth to form words and words into statements, with the greatest effort. He sits wrestling with language, with his thoughts. He writes the black letters, writes them like fire on the scraps and strips of liquidy white paper before him…black fire on white flame. He lefts his eyes up and holds out his hands and prays. The mournful sound of a lone man chanting prayers in the desert night becomes mixed with the primitive music flowing from the camp. He gets caught in the sounds. His eyes go blank and he stares at the rivers water rippling and rushing. The Labbok, the river, muddy before him pulls his attention deep down into it. He finds himself in a trance. A hand comes up out of the water and he watches it come closer and closer to him until it grasps him and pulls him down into the waves. He sinks into wet cold river and sees before his eyes a morbid mirror reflection of himself. The reflection puts his hand over his eyes and blinds him. The reflection swims behind him and pulls him down down towards the bottom. Fighting and gouging and struggling, the water gets into his lungs. He coughs or tries to, he struggles to get free, biting and poking and punching and pulling. He fights for his life. The blood of both beings bubbles up to the top of the water and stains the surface. What seems like hours of battle ensue until he pushes free of the reflections hold and kicks his feet hard in the zombie like reflections face and eyes and swims sightless to the surface. As his head comes to the top of the water, he can faintly hear the music from the camp. He climbs out of the water and lies down without a sound on the muddy bank. He lets the cool rushing desert wind dry him as the bone eaters bang out their rhythms and songs, as they dance and tell tales. He lies barely alive, barely awake, all down wrestle with gods and men.