It was late in the afternoon when the light-skinned man limped through the tall grass. He wore the traditional garb of Yirte men: a pelt around his loins and a leaf headscarf. A small pouch hung at his side, kept in place by a grass-weave strap that crossed his chest and disappeared over his shoulder.

We watched him for a long time, but he couldn’t see my brother and me. “He’s an Other,” Baakir whispered.

The man stopped about ten yards from us and brought a water skin to his mouth. With a horrible, throaty sound, he cast it aside. He sputtered words that I couldn’t understand, trailing into a moan.

Baakir pushed his kisujino in front of his face. I stared at the bloodstained, jagged teeth that protruded along its wooden edge and suppressed a shudder. “He isn’t armed,” I said.

“You don’t know that. Their weapons aren’t like ours. I’ve heard tales from Fahim about their long knives that shine like water and cut from either edge. The teeth are so small, they’re invisible.” My brother was seventeen, a full three years older than I, and he liked to bring up common knowledge as though I was too young to pay attention to Fahim.

“I don’t think he could use a sword even if he had one,” I said, recalling the name of the weapon.

Baakir glared. “You’re not as wise as you think,” he said.

“Really? Let’s see.” I slowly stood up, despite my brother’s whispered warnings.

When the Other saw me, he jumped back as though I were a snake. He held his hands up, splaying his fingers. “Who are you?” I asked.

“I from Other place,” he said, his speech coming slowly and with an odd accent. He jabbed his thumb into his breast, saying (among words I couldn’t understand), “Timothy.” When I realized he was speaking his name I laughed because it was the funniest sounding name I’d ever heard.

“Imanu,” I told him. Then, to my brother’s horror, I pointed down to him and shared his name.

Baakir rose next to me, but he brandished the kisujino towards Timothy. “Peace, peace,” the Other said quickly.

“Why did you come here?” Baakir asked.

Timothy pointed into the cloudless sky overhead. “Onarre sends me,” he replied.

Now it was my brother’s turn to laugh. “You came to the wrong family, Other. We do not follow Onarre, for he does not exist. Here we follow the stars and the spirits of our ancestors, for only they can help us to overcome the ogres.”

Timothy seemed puzzled, and I wondered if he would run from us. “I help,” he said. “Take me into family. You observe. I help.”

“How can we refuse a plea like that?” I asked with a grin.

Baakir looked from me to Timothy and at last lowered his weapon. “Fahim will slay him when he sees him. And then he will slay us.”

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