It is my day, the Day of Brushfires on the Ntatsu Plain. My name is Jojo; this is what my mother called me, and this is what my father called me, and my brothers and sisters, they call me Jojo too. My goats, they do not know my name.

Today is a hard day, I think. The sun is risen, but there is a dark shape on the horizon. The winged thing, a dragon, heads toward the City of Cities. For now, it chooses a different path from mine. For now, we are safe.

Today, before the sun rests again, we cross the Ntatsu Plain. This is our goal, which the goats and I share. The plain is many days across, and we will not attain our goal. But the true worth of a goal is not in its achievement, but in its statement. So we state, today we cross the Ntatsu Plain.

My goatdog Chouri, she barks her morning call, alerting her charges to the coming travels. The goats know Chouri as their master, she of the black matted fur and angry stare. Though she is but the length of my forearm when on four legs and the height of my knee when on two, inside she is a giant. She is a lion. She is attitude. The goats understand attitude.

I uproot the leading pole, and form the goats into a herding march. Chouri begins her work. "Hark," she says, and "Hark" again, as she runs circles around the herd. This is her work today, as it is every day. When she is on the left side of the herd, the goats on the left bleat and edge closer into the pack. Then she is on the right, and those on the right must push against their herdmates. All the goats obey their goatdog.

All but Seven of Thirteen, of course. He is my special charge. This upstart does not accept Chouri as his master. He alone believes that Chouri's size determines her authority. He is wrong, but the knowledge of this truth is hard coming. He butts against Nine of Thirteen, a more junior goat who would prefer to follow the herd until the next waterhole. Nine of Thirteen bleats in protest, and I swat Seven of Thirteen about the brow until he backs away. "Seven of Thirteen," I say, "someday you may canter in the Freedom Plains, where I cannot reach you. Someday, but not today. Today you do my bidding." He bleats in protest, and again butts Nine of Thirteen.

We have not gone far, but we must rest at this grassland. I drive the leading pole into the earth, and let my goats graze. As Chouri keeps the goats in line, I separate Seven of Thirteen and Nine of Thirteen. Nine of Thirteen I lead away, holding his lead tight.

And then I see the Yellow Rock.

It glows, does this Yellow Rock, and I know it is evil. There is an image in the rock, though it is unclear to me. Perhaps it is a person in the rock, perhaps a malevolent god. I do not wish to know. I will lead my goats away from the Yellow Rock, and it will not know I was here. Someone else may find it, and feel its evil.

"Chouri!" I call, and am greeted by a distressed barking. I see the source of her dismay: Seven of Thirteen has escaped the leading pole. Chouri stares the goat down, but Seven of Thirteen vaults over her and slams into Nine of Thirteen. Nine of Thirteen stumbles forward, a great darkness falls across the land, and there is a sound I do not wish to hear.

It is a gulp. Nine of Thirteen has swallowed the Yellow Rock. Nine of Thirteen has a puzzled look on his face, as goats often do. But there is something else there, as if for once this goat has eaten something he cannot digest. Something he wishes he did not have to digest.

Seven of Thirteen rams Nine of Thirteen again. Nine of Thirteen opens his mouth, and immolates Seven of Thirteen in a blast of fiery breath. Seven of Thirteen falls over, burned to death.

Oh my, I think, this will not be a good day.