The chief stumbled out of his hut in a stupor. The girl cast her eyes down. The chief grabbed the girl violently off the mount and began to molest her saying thank you for bringing back my whore of a daughter. Eat this, it will make you feel lighter, he said, forcing  a purple leaf toward her agape mouth. Cato took off the chieftain’s head, holding it by gnarled locks toward the other villagers. Cato thought of the decaying cedar. The tree had fallen and his father had dug up the soil, revealing termites amidst the roots. He thought of the tomato plant and the aphids. I am your king now, if no man has virtue to oppose it, he said. None answered. Some circled the body like wolves circling a wounded elk, picking for his bag of gold. Cato showed them his sword and stood over the carcass, calling for wood.

Burn him so that he returns. He is not taken by the conflagration, he is given back. The chief was burned and his ashes blew into the wind. But Cato did not ward off the birds as he did the savages. He ordered the village to chip off pieces of that black snow angel and to feed them. Cato was warmed by the sight, he knew that the way would not be forgotten. There would be hope for the coming generations.