The Sister-Sows

1. Phaea said to Henwen back when the world was young: sister-sow, the acorns are murmuring in the north, do you smell them? Let us feast. It had been a hungry summer since their young mother died by wolf. They had no sounder of other sows, no ordinary matriarchate to guide them to the fruits and seeds. No memory-paths of snail runs, or where the ant hills shone, or which grass stems the glowworms slept in. They had only each other and what was remembered by their blood, their snouts and hooves. Morning after morning they foraged with their flanks touching. Soon they began to grow wise. Phaea had the kind of nose that could pick up the scent of anything, not just plants and animals but their dreams too. Henwen was more impatient but also more quick-footed, and better at foreseeing the weather. It was summer’s end when Phaea smelled the acorns. A pregnant, self-satisfied smell, the kind that preceded a bumper year. The oaks were talking about it all through their underground miles,…