Robert F. Young

“ Ryan stood by the fire alone. He was the youngest male of the tribe. He and Merium had been the last children to be born. The tribe had numbered in the hundreds then, and the hunting had been good, the dogs still tame and easy to find. There had been other tribes too, wandering over the dust-veiled land. Ryan wondered what had become of them. But he only pretended to wonder. In his heart, he knew.
It was growing colder. He added more driftwood to the fire and watched the flames gorge themselves. Flames were like men, he thought. ”

“ Ryan shook his head. He could not understand it. But there were so many things that he could not understand. The Dance, for instance. Why should the mouthing of mere words to the accompaniment of rhythmic movements give him pleasure? How could hatred make him strong?
He shook his head again. In a way, the Dance was the biggest mystery of all....
Merium brought him his supper, looking up at him shyly with her large brown eyes. Illogically, Ryan was reminded of the last dog he had killed and he jerked the earthen pot out of her hands and walked down to the water's edge to eat alone. ”

“ A voice answered from the group of old men: "A tree is a green dream."
"What has become of the living land?"
"The living land is dust!"
The drum beat grew louder. Ryan's throat tightened. He felt the refreshing warmth of anger touch his face. The opening phase of the Dance always affected him, even when he was expecting it. ”