Chapter 3

A month passed.

Archer and the primitive tribe had become inseparable. He joined them on their journey in search of good hunting grounds.

Anka had learned Archer's language remarkably quickly and could now speak it quite well. She had become his link to the tribe—his interpreter.

As she explained to him, the tribe called themselves the Shod. The reason was simple: unlike many of the other tribes they knew, they had learned how to make shoes from animal hides, an achievement of which they were extremely proud.

During their time together, the Shod had grown completely accustomed to Archer's supernatural abilities.

Every one of them had been given a chance to hold the Painter's magic brush, but none could reproduce its magic. No matter how hard they tried, the brush would paint objects into the air only when it was in Archer's hands.

And so, unwilling to deprive themselves of all the delicious treats the Painter could create, they happily returned the brush to him.

Archer also created several bows and began teaching the tribe's hunters how to use them. He himself had yet to fully master the skill, but he could hit a tree with an arrow from a hundred feet away. That was more than enough to impress the Shod—and make them eager to learn the same skill.

No matter how often the Shod asked Archer where he had come from or where he had gotten the magic brush, he had no answers for them.

When Anka asked about his clothing, which seemed strange to them, he told her that to him, these clothes were perfectly ordinary.

But her question made him think.

He might not remember anything about himself, but apparently, he came from a more advanced age.

Somehow, he knew what firearms were.

He knew they needed ammunition.

He knew what bread was.

He knew what normal clothes looked like.

During that same month, the Painter also discovered what gave the brush its charge.

Experience.

Ordinary experience gained through interacting with people and the world around him. The more intense the experience, the more the brush recharged.

Even so, he was almost always running low, because the Shod constantly demanded demonstrations of the brush's magic and begged him to create all kinds of culinary delights.

One evening, after the Shod had stopped for the night and the campfires had been lit, Archer noticed that the tribe was behaving a little strangely.

He couldn't quite put his finger on what was different.

Not that he gave it much thought.

But then the situation began to involve him directly.

Anka approached him with one of the hunters and the man's young daughter.

Archer immediately understood that they wanted something from him.

It wasn't the first time members of the tribe had come to him with a specific request. Sometimes they asked about his past, his beliefs, or what he thought about one thing or another. Other times, they wanted him to create something with his brush.

He didn't mind.

In fact, there was something he rather liked about being needed. About being useful. About having people depend on him.

He stood and turned to face them.

“Archer,” Anka began. “This is the hunter Pry and his daughter, Sibi.”

“Yes, I know. We've met,” Archer said.

“Pry gives you Sibi to be your wife,” Anka said.

Archer was completely dumbfounded.

He simply stood there, unable to process what he had just heard. His face went blank. He blinked once.

Then twice.

And slowly, he began to realize that they really were offering him what he thought they were offering him.

“What?” he asked, unable to come up with anything else.

“This is Sibi,” Anka said again, this time with particular emphasis as she placed her hands on the girl's shoulders. “Sibi will be your wife. Will you take her?”

Archer looked at the girl.

Flowers had been woven into her clothing, and a wreath of flowers rested on her head. So this must be what a bride looks like in this age, Archer thought.

The girl herself was smiling excitedly.

He looked at her father. Pry seemed pleased with what was happening.

Then Archer looked at Anka.

She was nodding encouragingly, a genuine smile on her face.

“She's still a child,” Archer finally said.

“A child?” Anka repeated. “No. She can be a wife now. Sibi is ready,” she explained confidently.

“No. I don't think so,” Archer said.

He turned away and went back to the campfire.

Pry and Anka began arguing animatedly about something. Archer couldn't understand their language, but from Pry's tone, it was clear that he was frustrated.

Anka walked over to Archer and sat beside him. She placed a hand on his knee to get his attention and spoke gently.

“Archer, Pry doesn't mind. Pry will be happy,” she said.

“That's not the issue,” Archer replied.

“Then what is?” Anka asked. “You don't like Sibi?”

“She. Is. Still. A child,” the Painter repeated, emphasizing each word separately.

“No, Archer,” Anka insisted. “Sibi already has blood. She can give you children. Understand?”

“Listen,” Archer said sternly. “I am not going to be that girl's husband. My answer is no. Do you understand?”

Anka fell silent, confused, and removed her hand from the Painter's knee.

Archer looked around at the people gathered by the fire.

Everyone was watching him.

Apparently, the whole thing had been planned. They had all known about it.

Anka got up and went over to Pry. The two of them talked for a while.

A minute later, Anka returned and sat beside Archer again.

“Pry will give you his hunting spear. Think about it. Good spear,” Anka said, this time without a smile or a friendly touch.

“Oh, God,” Archer said, covering his eyes with one hand. “Anka, how old is the girl?”

“Sibi is already ten,” Anka replied confidently.

“Exactly,” Archer said. “She needs to be eighteen.”

“Eighteen,” Anka repeated.

She opened her mouth to say something, then stopped herself.

“Eighteen?” she asked again. “Ten and eight?”

“Yes, Anka. Ten and eight,” he replied.

“Hmm...” the woman murmured.

“I understand,” she said.

Anka stood and went to speak with Pry.

This time, they talked calmly. Anka explained something to the hunter and then to his daughter.

The girl removed the flower crown from her head.

No one ever asked Archer to marry again.

The Painter never did make an effort to learn the language of the Shod. Anka had told him that other tribes spoke different languages, though they were similar to the language of the Shod and shared many of the same words and expressions.

The Painter decided that if he was going to learn a foreign language, it made more sense to learn one spoken by a large population rather than by a single small tribe.

Anka told Archer a great deal about the world they lived in.

Apparently, small tribes were the only form of civilization that existed here. Every tribe had reached roughly the same level of technological development as the Shod: wooden spears with stone tips represented the height of their achievements.

To them, bows and arrows were something extraordinary—weapons from the future.

Anka also told him that her tribe had been traveling in search of better hunting grounds for only six months and had explored a relatively small amount of territory. She believed the world went on forever, that the land itself was endless.

Her tribe had never seen a sea or an ocean.

They had never seen deserts or jungles.

All they knew were the four seasons: winter, spring, summer, and fall.

The Painter told Anka about the endless white expanse, but she couldn't understand what he meant.

She couldn't comprehend what it was like to have no memories of yourself, to know nothing about your own past. Nor could she understand what he meant when he said he was immortal—that whenever he died, he came back to life.

The weeks passed.

The Shod continued their journey, and the hunters continued learning archery.

Before long, some of them could shoot even better than Archer himself.

They began taking Archer with them on their hunts, and he welcomed the opportunity to gain more experience. One day, after delivering the killing shot to a boar they had trapped, Archer was surprised by how much the brush's charge increased.

It was becoming clear that if he wanted to continue using the magic brush, he couldn't avoid engaging with the world around him.

Then, one day during their travels, the tribe encountered a group of strangers.

The Shod really did stand apart from their fellow tribespeople because of their footwear. The strangers were barefoot and poorly dressed.

But they came offering a trade: mushrooms, nuts, and berries in exchange for meat.

The Shod agreed.

Anka explained to the Painter that refusing an offer to trade was considered rude and could even be taken as an insult. Nobody wanted wars between tribes. For that reason, custom demanded that any proposed trade be accepted, even if the exchange wasn't entirely fair.

The strangers showed particular interest in the Shod's bows—and in the strangely dressed newcomer whose clothing clearly didn't belong in this primitive age.

The chief of the Shod demonstrated the bow for them, and the strangers quickly understood how the weapon worked.

Anka translated the conversation between the strangers and the Shod hunters for Archer.

The strangers offered as much food as the Shod wanted in exchange for even a single bow, but the chief refused.

They also wanted to invite Archer to their camp.

The chief refused that request as well.

And with that, the negotiations came to an end.

The strangers disappeared from sight beyond the nearest hill.

That night, the Shod were attacked.

Under cover of darkness, a group of people crept into their camp and launched a brutal assault, killing anyone who resisted or tried to fight back.

The Painter rushed to defend the Shod, but a blow from a club struck him in the head and killed him.

When he came back to life, it was already morning.

He found himself at the Shod's previous campsite, a full day's journey from where the attack had taken place.

The moment he realized what had happened, he began running toward the site of the attack.

His body in this world knew no fatigue, and his breathing never grew heavier, but his heart was pounding like mad.

He was afraid.

The people of the Shod had become dear to him, and he didn't want to lose them.

He had to find out what had happened to them.

Whether any of them had survived.

It wasn't until evening that he managed to get his bearings and find the campsite where the attack had taken place.

All the men and two of the women from the Shod lay dead in the middle of the camp, their bodies stripped completely bare.

The attackers had taken everything.

Their possessions.

Their women.

Their children.

Anka wasn't among the dead.

That gave Archer at least some hope.

But he had no idea where to look for the survivors. He wasn't a tracker.

Desperate, he simply ran in whatever direction his instincts took him.

Two weeks passed before he encountered another human being.

They were the same strangers with whom the Shod had traded food.

Archer's first instinct was to follow them, but the thought came too late. They had already spotted him.

He approached them.

Only when he was close enough did he notice that one of the men was carrying a bow.

There could be no doubt.

These were the people who had attacked the Shod.

Unfortunately, Archer had never learned the Shod's language. He knew none of the words spoken in this primitive world.

There was only one thing he could say that his enemies would understand.

Anka's name.

They smiled when he said it and gestured for Archer to follow them.

He saw no other choice.

With nowhere else to turn, he went with them.

Several hours later, they led him along a well-hidden trail to their camp, concealed inside a small canyon.

The Painter counted around twenty men and roughly the same number of women and children.

Among the women, he saw Anka.

She saw him too.

And froze.

They led him to a large campfire where the chief of the warlike tribe was sitting.

Beside the chief lay an enormous club, partially coated in dried blood.

The Painter wondered if this was the same club that had killed him during the nighttime raid.

The chief himself was a large, powerfully built man. His body was covered in scars, and part of his left ear was missing.

His eyes seemed to say:

I'm a killer.

And I know no mercy.

The mere sight of this imposing man made the Painter uneasy.

He understood immediately that nothing good was going to come from him.

The chief said something to one of his warriors, who shouted Anka's name.

Anka hurried over.

“I will translate,” she told Archer.

Archer said nothing.

He didn't know what to expect. He didn't know what to do. He had no plan.

And he was afraid.

Not so much for himself as for the kidnapped women and children of the Shod.

The chief began to speak, and Anka translated his words.

“Chief Grokan welcomes you to his camp,” she began. “He says the women of the Shod—the tribe he defeated—have told him about you. They told him you are the one who brought this strange new weapon to his lands. Chief Grokan also heard that you can make magic with a special stick. Show him your magic. He commands you.”

“All right,” the Painter replied.

He pulled the brush from his pocket and was surprised to see how much of its color had returned.

It held a considerable charge.

That gave him an idea.

He had enough power in the brush to create something formidable.

Grokan's warriors began gathering around the fire. Many of them were eager to witness the magic for themselves.

The Painter raised the brush and drew a handgun in the air with thick black strokes.

This time, the brush had enough charge.

Every detail of the weapon took shape, coming to life beneath the Painter's brush.

He seized the handgun by the grip, aimed it at the astonished Grokan—

and shot him in the chest.

The gunshot was so loud that the very ground seemed to shake beneath their feet.

Grokan's warriors flinched in terror. Some dropped their weapons. Some fell to the ground. Others simply turned and ran in blind panic.

The deafening shot stunned the warriors and threw both the attackers and their captives into confusion.

Archer didn't hesitate for even a second.

He aimed at the warriors closest to him and fired.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

His enemies dropped to the ground.

And Archer kept shooting, moving from one target to the next.

After more than ten shots, the handgun stopped firing.

The magazine was empty.

A thin wisp of smoke curled from the barrel.

Of Grokan's twenty warriors, eight now lay on the ground—dead or wounded, bleeding into the dirt.

The others had scattered in every direction, terrified by the thunder of the gunshots and the deadly power of a weapon that, to them, could only have been magic.

Grokan got back to his feet.

The bullet hadn't killed him.

He looked down at the bleeding hole in his chest, then looked at Archer.

Grokan's face twisted with rage.

He grabbed his enormous club and advanced toward him.

Suddenly, a spear plunged into his side.

Anka.

She had picked up the weapon of one of the dead warriors and driven it into her sworn enemy with all her strength.

The spear went beneath Grokan's ribs, making him double over in pain.

But the powerful warrior remained on his feet.

He hurled his massive club at Anka.

It struck her directly in the head.

She collapsed, unconscious.

Grokan shouted something at the top of his lungs, calling to the warriors of his tribe who were still nearby.

He yanked the spear from his side and pointed its tip at Archer.

Only then did he notice that Archer was using the brush to paint another black object—one considerably smaller than the handgun.

Grokan immediately hurled the spear.

It buried itself in Archer's chest and threw him several feet backward.

The object Archer had painted—a fresh magazine for the handgun—finished materializing and dropped to the ground.

The Painter was still conscious, but the searing pain had paralyzed him.

Lying on the ground, he reached for the spear protruding from his chest.

A moment later, he saw Grokan looming over him.

And the enormous club in his hands.

Grokan raised it and, with one decisive blow, crushed the magician's skull.

Archer regained consciousness the following morning and immediately clutched his head.

For a moment, he could almost still feel his shattered skull.

But no.

Everything was where it belonged.

His head was intact.

He had come back to life in the same place as before.

The Painter sprang to his feet and quickly scanned his surroundings. There wasn't another person in sight.

Then he remembered the magic brush.

It wasn't in his pocket.

It wasn't in his hand.

All he had was the handgun with its empty magazine.

The brush was still in Grokan's camp.

Trying to remember the way and unwilling to waste another second, Archer ran as fast as he could.

As before, he had no plan.

No certainty.

Only the hope that all was not yet lost.

And an overwhelming need to put things right.

To save the captives.

To save Anka.

There was no one in this world closer to him than she was.

But Archer had never been particularly good at finding his way.

He went in circles, wandered off course, and repeatedly lost his bearings.

An entire month passed before he finally recognized the surrounding landscape and found the hidden canyon.

When he did, he drew his hunting knife and entered, ready to fight.

Ready to die.

But Archer encountered no resistance.

No one guarded the entrance to the canyon or the path leading into the camp.

The entire place seemed abandoned.

When he reached the camp itself, he saw that much had changed.

First, there were no women or children.

Second, only four men remained.

Instead of the great fire that had once burned there, there was now only a small campfire. Beside it sat a young warrior with Grokan's club.

One of the warriors spotted Archer entering the camp and gave a loud whistle.

All four men immediately jumped to their feet.

The Painter prepared for a fight.

But Grokan's warriors didn't attack.

Instead, they quietly dropped to their knees and bowed their heads.

One of them extended his hands in offering.

And returned to the Painter his brush—

along with a fully loaded magazine for the handgun.

The Painter cautiously approached the four kneeling men.

Knife in hand and ready for a fight, he took the brush and the magazine from the warrior's outstretched hands.

Once the Painter had retrieved his belongings, the warrior began speaking to him, his head still bowed. The Painter couldn't understand his words, but his tone sounded submissive.

Guilty.

Afraid.

Archer backed away from the four warriors, replaced the empty magazine in his handgun with the full one, racked the slide to chamber a round, and looked at the brush.

It was bursting with color.

Fully charged.

He hadn't seen it hold this much power since his time in the endless white dimension.

“Anka,” Archer said to the warriors. “Where is Anka?”

One of the men looked up at him, then rose to his feet and gestured for Archer to follow.

They walked about two hundred yards beyond the slope of a hill.

There, the Painter saw some twenty freshly dug graves.

The warrior led him to one of them, pointed at the mound of earth, and said:

“Anka.”

“Damn it,” the Painter said.

He gestured for the warrior to leave.

The man obeyed.

The Painter crouched beside Anka's grave and thought.

He looked at the brush in his hand, filled with color, and imagined what he might be able to do with it.

If he could come back from the dead, why couldn't Anka?

This world clearly didn't obey the ordinary laws of existence.

Which meant Anka could be brought back.

He closed his eyes and imagined a magic brooch that would give life to whoever wore it.

Then he swept the brush through the air.

When he opened his eyes, the brooch materialized before him and fell to the ground.

The Painter picked it up and examined it carefully.

It looked like an ordinary brooch.

He placed it on Anka's grave and waited.

He didn't have to wait long.

Anka rose from the dead.

First, her hands broke through the earth.

Then came her head.

Her shoulders.

Her chest.

And finally, Anka pulled herself completely free of the grave.

With one hand, she seized the brooch, as though somehow sensing that this object had given her a second life.

“Archer,” she rasped.

Then she saw her hands.

Grave worms had already eaten away nearly half the flesh.

“What did you do to me?”

“I brought you back to life, Anka,” Archer replied, trying to hide his revulsion at the sight of her decaying body.

Anka stood up straight, brushed the remaining dirt from her body, and stared at herself.

She had the body of a decomposing corpse.

And she smelled like one.

“Is this really life?” she asked.

Archer covered his nose with one hand. The stench of the corpse was overwhelming.

“It’ll do for now,” he replied. “We’ll figure something out later.”

He checked the brush.

Almost all of its color was gone. Very little charge remained.

“I remember the short battle,” Anka said in her hoarse voice. “You made thunder with some strange object, and our enemies fell one after another. But then you stopped, and then...” She paused, trying to remember.

“And then Grokan got back up and joined the fight,” Archer said.

“Yes...” she recalled. “I managed to stab him with a spear, but he threw his club at me. I lost consciousness. When I woke up, you were gone. Grokan was wounded. He accused me of helping you and ordered them to execute me.”

Anka ran her fingers over the deep indentation in the back of her skull.

“After that, I remember nothing. They killed me,” she said thoughtfully.

She looked at the grave she had just crawled out of.

Without turning toward Archer, she asked:

“How long was I underground?”

“I think it’s been a month,” Archer replied.

Anka fell silent for a moment.

Then she said:

“There’s nothing there.”

“Where?” he asked.

“After death,” she said. “There are no gods. No spirits. No people. There’s just... nothing. Not even darkness.”

She paused.

“I don’t want to go back there.”

“You won’t,” Archer said. “You’ll stay with me.”

“I feel like...” Anka said, opening and closing her hand, “this body doesn’t belong to me anymore. Like I have no right to be inside it.”

“Anka,” Archer said.

He walked over and took her hand.

“Can you feel me?”

“Barely,” she replied slowly.

“We’ll fix that,” the Painter assured her. “What matters is that you’re here with me.”

“You need me,” she said, half asking, half stating it.

“Yes, Anka. I need you,” he said. “More than you can imagine.”

She took his hand in hers.

“What happens to us now?” she asked.

“We’ll find the other survivors,” Archer replied. “And we’ll rebuild the Shod.”

“All right,” Anka said.

They returned to the center of the raiders’ camp, where the four warriors were still sitting around the small fire.

When they saw Archer accompanied by a living Anka, they once again dropped submissively to their knees and bowed their heads.

Now that the Painter had an interpreter, he began questioning the four warriors.

He asked what had happened to the captured women and children. They told him that the captives had been set free, and that those who refused to leave Grokan’s camp had eventually been driven out by force.

The warriors also told Archer what had become of Grokan and the other men of his tribe.

Grokan had died from his wounds.

His tribe had fallen apart.

Many of the warriors had abandoned the camp in search of other tribes to join.

Only these four had remained behind, waiting for Archer to return.

The Painter asked them why.

One of the warriors explained.

They had seen Archer create something from nothing.

They had seen—and heard—his terrifying power. His ability to summon thunder and kill warriors from a distance.

And most importantly, they had watched Archer’s body simply vanish after Grokan struck the fatal blow.

The four remaining warriors had stayed in the camp because they were convinced that Archer was a powerful spirit.

Or a god.

Or some other supernatural being.

They had waited for his return so they could beg for mercy.

They pleaded with Archer not to kill them.

Not to hunt them down.

Not to take revenge for what they had done.

They were terrified that he would place some terrible curse upon them.

Anka laughed when she heard this.

But to the four warriors, there was nothing funny about it.

Even now, they were witnessing Archer’s supernatural powers.

Who but a spirit or a god could bring back to life a body that had spent a month in the grave?

The warriors begged him for mercy.

“What do you think, Anka?” the Painter asked her. “What should we do with them?”

“We should probably kill them,” Anka replied without a trace of sympathy. “But if we want to rebuild the Shod, we’ll need strong men. Men who can hunt and protect the tribe from outsiders. They can serve us. If they’re this afraid of spirits and gods, they’ll serve faithfully.”

“You did the right thing by staying here and surrendering to me,” Archer told the four men.

Anka translated his words.

“You will atone for what you’ve done by serving me faithfully. Do you agree to serve me?”

All four warriors agreed.

“You are chief now,” Anka told Archer. “Chief of the Shod.”

“Why don’t you be chief?” he replied.

“A woman can’t be chief,” she said with a laugh. “No one will obey a woman.”

“Hmm...” Archer thought for a moment. “What if we do this?”

He pulled out his loaded handgun, took Anka’s hand, and placed the weapon in it.

He showed her how to use the gun, and she fired a single practice shot.

Archer warned her that the handgun held only a limited number of rounds. Once they were gone, she would have to reload it.

“Yes,” Anka said. “People will obey me now. But then they’ll think we’re both gods. They might think you and I are equals.”

“Let them,” Archer replied.