Go, Kwimu!” Skusji’j yells. The young men are playing the ball game. Stripped to their loincloths, they shout and jostle, throwing and catching, leaping through shafts of dusty evening sunlight. Dots of white and yellow paint flash on their faces as they follow the shifting patterns of the ball. It flies across in a shallow arc, and Kwimu snatches it. He twists and darts, evading pursuit, racing for the tall pole at the edge of the glade. “Go on, Kwimu!” shouts Skusji’j from the sidelines. “Run! Ow!” He winces. Another player has tackled Kwimu. It’s Kiunik, his young uncle. Seizing a handful of Kwimu’s glossy black hair, he jerks him off balance. Kwimu hooks a foot around Kiunik’s ankle. They fall to the ground, wrestling, and a third young man grabs the ball and reaches the post. His friends cheer, and as Kwimu and Kiunik pick themselves up, the game is over. “That looks like so much fun,” the Little Weasel says as they come over, disheveled and panting, to collect their things.
