Two monkeys led the procession, conducting the corpse with care, bearing a body that no longer belonged to the world, yet still commanded respect. Others trailed behind in silence, devoid of the usual agitation, devoid of chatter, devoid of petty squabbles. Even the youngest understood this was no moment for curiosity.
The form remained wrapped in broad leaves and damp fibers, yet one could still discern the stiff limbs, the crooked contour of the shoulder, the quiet shape of the head reclined to the side.
The water, the mud, the brief interval between disappearance and discovery had done enough to alter the monkey's appearance. No open wounds appeared, yet there existed a sort of violation in the manner the carcass had been returned.
Mokessa lowered her gaze slowly.
Sorrow arrived not as an explosion, but as a subtle pressure beneath her chest, as if the entire hillside had leaned a bit further upon their shelter. She did not tighten her visage. She refused to let her expression dissolve into something frailer and simply remained there, feeling what required feeling, without turning her grief into a spectacle for the troop.
Below, footsteps slowed. The group created space in the center of the firmer terrain, near the rock pillars she had erected days prior.
Huyn stood by Mokessa, equally mute. His gaze followed the remains with unusual gravity, and the light breeze sweeping between the platforms caused the shelter's fibers to sway with an almost primate-like whisper.
Down there, the pair bearing the dead knelt with effort and deposited it carefully onto the moist soil. The wrapping leaves were pulled back gradually, unveiling the deceased monkey in all its definitive stillness.
A murmur passed among those present, entirely respectful. Merely the collective respiration of a clan recognizing the loss.
Mokessa tightened her fingers upon the edge of the branch walkway. The wood yielded slightly under her strength, though she remained unaware. Her stare fixated on the remains.
On the stationary figure. On the lack of movement. On that which, after a heartbeat, ceased to be a monkey and started to represent everyone else who might still fall.
One of the elders bowed his head. Another folded his arms across his chest.
Mokessa descended. Neither with haste nor solemnity. Only with the firmness of one who had already made a decision before touching the ground. Her feet met the shelter floor without sound.
As she approached, the troop parted. Not out of fear, but out of reverence for her action: she was receiving the loss on behalf of all.
She halted before the body and raised her free hand. Her petrified arm weighed like a dead trunk.
The Matriarch contemplated the corpse once more, and then the ground responded to her gesture; a fine line of earth etched itself beside the remains, opening with delicacy.
The moist soil yielded in silence, as if recognizing the authority of that will. The fissure grew slightly larger, wide enough to receive the monkey without violence. Short roots retracted to offer space, and small stones rolled to the sides.
Those present watched without moving.
The earth required opening with care. There was no haste there. The form belonged to no one but memory. And memory, she knew, only found peace when there was a place to rest.
She extended her hand with greater resolve. The space widened sufficiently.
Then, the two who had brought the dead lifted it once more and placed it with respect inside the opening made by the earth. The body descended as if the soil had awaited it since the dawn of time.
Mokessa watched. For a moment, she stood still, hand suspended in the air, feeling the burden of the gesture about to conclude. The edges of the grave began to shift slowly, joining toward the center like lips closing around a word.
The damp clay rose in small waves, covering the carcass in a thick, silent layer. She finally closed her fingers, and the dirt obeyed.
No haste nor brutality occurred. The soil simply recomposed itself around the absence, and what had been an opening became a sepulcher.
A final mound of earth rose over the spot where the body had been left, flattening later into a discreet shape, nearly devoid of marks. Only a soft elevation—a signal sufficient for the living to know where death had been returned to the world.
She remained looking at it. The entire troop followed in silence.
After a few instants, one of the youths lowered his head. Another placed a hand on his chest, in an instinctive gesture of respect. Huyn remained near Mokessa, without interrupting her, but with his countenance set in a gravity he rarely sustained for so long.
It was then that a hardened voice announced:
— We should have hunted all the hairless ones, Mokessa.
The tone came from Grak.
He advanced a step. His shoulders were tense and his face replete with irritation—a rage that did not ignite in that moment, but merely found a reason to exit its hiding place. Grak was large, robust, with fur coarser than many of the troop, and he carried in his gaze a constant impatience with anything that smelled of waiting.
Mokessa did not turn immediately. Grak continued, louder now, sensing that the weight of the others granted him space.
— What stops you from acting? Do you want everyone to die before your decision?
Some monkeys shifted uncomfortably. Others cast quick glances in his direction, as if wishing to silence him without needing to be the first to do so.
Huyn tilted his body slightly forward, attentive. The wind passed between the columns, brushing the shelter's branches, but no one moved to interrupt Grak's speech.
Mokessa finally turned her face to him.
Her gaze held no haste. Nor surprise. Only the firmness of one who had already known that type of accusation before even hearing it.
— Do you think I am doing nothing? — she asked, in a low tone.
Grak shrugged, but did not retreat.
— I think you are waiting too long. While you look at stone and sky, the hairless ones walk too close. They already killed one of ours. They will kill another. And then another.
The Matriarch maintained her patience. Her expression remained controlled, yet there was something deeper in her eyes now: the same burden that had made her descend from the walkway to the body, the same acknowledgment of the loss.
— We do not know how many they are. We only have assumptions — she stated.
Grak frowned.
— Two predators cannot share the same territory, Mokessa.
— No — Mokessa said, firmly. — We are not predators; we are survivors of the Eternal Winter.
Grak opened his mouth, but she followed before he could interrupt.
— You speak as if anger were a safe path. As if the first violent step would bring back what we lost.
He let out a harsh sound through his nose.
— And does standing still bring it back?
Mokessa observed him, wary. The entire troop was listening. Even the most restless stood quiet, attentive to the exchange.
— I am not standing still — she said. — I am choosing what can be done without destroying Mogushal in the process.
Grak crossed his hairy arms.
— They already destroyed one of us. Only the rest of the troop remains.