The boy was cold. The hut he lay was well sealed against the winter wind, and the fire had not died. The boy was still cold. It was not like the cold of morning where you feel the nip and stillness before dawn struggling for the sweetness of sleep unable to find it for the tramp of warriors feet and the stirrings of the women. This cold was very different and the boy knew this. Pulling his wrap tighter around him he turned his face to the east and fell into a sleep.

He saw them in his dreams rising from the ground like the dead awaking to life. These were not cloaked with the mantle of the dead. They bore sword and spear, their faces were pale but warm, their voices cried like thunder over and over the same refrain—words he did not understand “Melki narthon dolgur taur, laur, saur!”

The boy awoke with a jump. The hut was dark. He looked down its long interior lit by a dozen fires hidden from the sleeping families by hanging curtains. Across each home a warrior lay. Where the husband did not lay his son did so, and to the widows who had no son another youth lay at the doorstep. They were the Mankanu. Guardians.

The boy arose from his place and pushed aside the curtain of his tent. No Mankanu lay there, he was only the boy. They had found him on the wayside crying to the wind. He was but a child of four and little memory did he have of his family. Faces, words, feelings. He was not of this people. Walking past the Mankanu with a soft word of mateo (as it should be) he came to the outer door of the hut and saw the stars.

“You are out late little one,” the grin of the dark faced guard in the moonlight showed bright white.

The boy snorted, “I have no Mankanu,” he looked the man in the eye his height almost even, “I am my own coming and going.”

The guard nodded his head, “soon you will be old enough to be a man, you will pass the test.”

The boy nodded absently and struck out across the camp. There were four long huts, one for each of the clans. They were not clans of family because the ruling Mankanu chose to mix blood that the camp was strengthened, not divided. They were instead chosen by birth season. The boy had been found in the winter and that was his clan hut. Not truly his clan the boy thought, perhaps when the test of manhood came he could call himself one of the clan.

He did not seek any of the tents tonight, he sought the Maleu. Place of the aged. Only those of greatest age lived there. Those who no longer wished to be around the children of the clan. The children were not permitted near this place. The guard moved to block his way as he approached but the look he gave him caused him to back away. Tonight the boy was not a child.

He touched two fingers to the hanging braid which adorned the entranceway and gave thought to the protection of this place. Beyond the curtain it was much the same hut as any other, but lower and shorter. Here the tents were smaller, and a night caretaker sat by the fire talking in low voices to those who could not sleep. Here the boy went. Sitting in the circle with a light grace as that of a cat stretching, or the movement of a doe lying to rest the boy waited.

“You have a question to ask child?” An old man who before had sat silent spoke across the flames his head bowed.

“A dream,” the boy answered.

A murmur ran through the circle at this, and then anticipation.

“Tell us.”

The boy told. He left nothing out and when he was finished fell silent.

“Have you had this dream before?”

The boy nodded, “yes, three times now. Always it is the same.”

There was a long silence and then the man across the circle spoke, “dreams are dangerous without proper interpretation. I will not pretend that I am wise enough, or touched enough to do so.” He opened his eyes, “tell me son, what do you believe it means?”

The boy opened his mouth and then shut it. Closing his eyes he clenched his fist and spoke softly to himself. “I must do it.” He opened his eyes, “I am in the dream. I must be where this is happening.”

“Do you know where that is?” The old man asked.

“No,” the boy bowed his head.

The old man laughed, his laugh though old and worn for much use was still strong and lifted the spirits of all present. “My son if your dream is of Eo, of He who is, then your dream will find you—you must wait on it."

"Wait?" The boy grew still, fear was growing at his limbs as the cold had. "How long shall I wait?"

"Until Eo's purpose is fulfilled." The old man frowned, "you are not of this tribe my son, you are the one they found in the snow. This then would be your quest of manhood."

Quest of manhood? A dream that was not understood. How old would he be when the dream was finished? Manhood was what he had lived for, what all boys lived for. He asked the question that all the boys asked before they accepted their task. "What would happen if I were to abandon this quest?"

"Only Eo knows that."

The boy laughed, suddenly it was deeper than it was before, "that is what is said to all who ask." He smiled as something deep within warmed his bones and made him hold his head higher. "Thank you father."

All in the circle stood and bowed as he turned to leave, "Yio, yio, son of mystery." The old man smiled, "that which will be, my son.'

The cold was gone. A chill of wind bit around his ankles, and the bitterness could be felt on his cheeks. The boy was not cold. He bowed to the man at the gate and made his way back to his tent. As he reached out his hand to lift the flap to his tent he paused. Looking down at the ground where so many Mankanu had slept before he smiled.

There was no one in the farthest tent in the hut of winter that night. On the ground, in the place of the Mankanu, slept the man.