I was tired in body and soul from a day spent searching every part of the sweet-natured giant’s old campsite. Daimu was still somewhere out there in the surrounding forest, moving in gradually widening circles, seeking his uncle’s bones. We had found nothing, not even the smallest glimmer of a white finger bone in the thick, new growth of spring. I rested my face in my hands and sighed. What creatures had come to this lonely place and done such a thorough job of devouring poor Mori’s body? Even wolves left bones behind. Had there been wolves here? Would they have dragged away a man’s remains, taking it elsewhere for their grisly feast? I lifted my face and blinked in the waning sunlight. Soon it would be dark and we would have to go home. I heard Daimu’s approach through the underbrush. He entered the clearing looking disheveled, his hair a tangle of leaves, his expression the image of complete discouragement. “Nothing,” he said. “I found nothing.” He knelt beside me and lifted my hand to his cheek, then kissed me tenderly.
