It is winter. It is night. A deadly white blanket covers everything. Icy north winds howl across the frozen land, bringing more snow. Storm clouds darken the stars. In defiance of the harsh winter night, the tribe gathers in the sacred cave. The warmth of the ever-burning clan fire keeps the tribe's spirits high. The light of the roaring flames dances with the lingering shadows. The crackling, flickering glow animates the images painted on the walls. The sacred animal guardians of the clan come to life. Drawn on the bare stone with vivid earth pigments, depicted over and over again inside the cave, one powerful beast prevails above all others. The mighty bison. Around the fire, the clan feasts on the bison's rich meat. They gain its strength and vigor while honoring its sacrifice for their survival. Reenacting the holy rituals passed down by the ancestors, the tribespeople celebrate and renew their primal bond with their totemic guardian. Playing drums made of its skin and flutes carved from its bones, the clan calls upon the mighty bison. Led by the shaman's chants, empowered by the spirit of the bison, they sing and dance through the long night. They give thanks and invoke blessings. Outside, the snow storm rages on. Darkness grips the earth. Winter knows no mercy. Yet the mighty bison endures. And so does the tribe.

It is spring. It is dawn. The moon is setting. Only one star shines, heralding the new day. Past the mountains, on the eastern horizon, light starts to emerge. Basking in the first glow of the new day, the old chieftain breaths in the morning breeze as he sits and watches the sunrise. The snows have melted into rushing brooks. Flowers bloom in the green meadows. Fresh leaves fill the branches. Over the ridge, the sun's first yellow glow lights up the sky. The call of a hawk resounds among the cliffs. The chieftain's gaze follows the effortless flight of the hawk. Riding the winds, ascending in ever wider circles, the hawk rises higher and higher in the sky. The sun peeks over the ridge line. Dawn breaks. Light pours into the valley. It is always the beginning. The cycle has no end.

It is summer. It is noon. Headed south through the deep woods, the tribe journeys to the gathering of the clans. Even the canopy of the ancient trees can barely hold off the midday sun. Dazed by the stifling heat, the youngest of the hunters lags behind. The buzzing drone of the insects and the sultry murmur of the undergrowth whisper to him. The boy heeds the call of the forest, and steps off the path. He should stay with the tribe, he knows. But he can't. Driven by a strange intuition, he wades through the lush wilderness. The sunlight filtering through the branches forms a trail on the ground. He follows it to an oak grove that opens into a meadow crossed by a stream. On the other side of the stream, drinking from the singing waters, stands a huge stag. The boy freezes at the edge of the clearing. The stag raises his head high. He stares straight into the boy's wide eyes. With the blazing sun above him and the oak trees behind him, the stag is power incarnate. His strong presence, proud stance, lustrous red coat and glorious crown of antlers proclaim him as the lord of the forest. The boy counts fourteen tines on the stag's massive antlers before he realizes that the regal beast is not running away. Instead, the stag throws back his crowned head and lets out a loud bellow. In the noonday heat, the boy shivers. On instinct, his left hand goes to his bow. His right hand nocks an arrow. The stag stares at him and snorts. The boy hesitates. The stag bellows again, louder and fiercer, glaring at the boy, declaring that the woods are his own dominion. That primal sound awakens screams of fear and doubt inside the young hunter's head. The boy's hands are sweating. The stag's big hoof paws the ground. Bowstring pulled tight, arrow aimed at the stag's chest, the boy holds his breath. His eyes lock with the stag's. His fingers hurt. In his ears, the crazed drumbeat of his heart is deafening. The stag lowers his antlered head and charges. Sitting on a fallen oak, Death watches and waits. She won't leave the grove alone.

It is autumn. It is sunset. The shaman walks along the creek. Her right hand holds her grandmother's staff. Her left hand rests on her pregnant belly. She watches the water flow, carrying red and yellow leaves toward the falls. Sighing, she sits on a rock and listens to the murmur of the waters. The black night sky is crouching behind her and the wind brings the smell of rain. The shaman turns to the west and watches the setting sun as it carries the fading light under the horizon. The flow of the stream beside her and the rush of the falls ahead remind the shaman of her grandmother. She knew those waters by name and talked with them easily and often. She could understand everything they said. She can't. Gripping the staff and stroking her belly, the shaman closes her eyes and lets the tears flow. She can do that here. Away from the tribe. Away from duty. She has been the clan shaman for five moons, since Death came for her grandmother. For almost as long, she has been with child. So far, she has managed. Just barely. In the cool evening breeze, the tears warm her cheeks. She doesn't know what to do. Her grandmother would have known. She was wise and powerful and confident. She is not. Yet she must be. But how? She doesn't know. As the shaman starts to sob, she speaks her grandmother's name. She begs for guidance. She needs help. The chanting murmurs of her prayers blend with the gurgling song of the creek and with the distant rush of the falls. Something breaks the shaman's focus. Her eyes blink open. She turns. Beside the nearest tree, a bear is watching her. Huge and dark, the bear lets out a low growl. As the shaman holds her breath, two small furry shapes peek from behind the massive bear. Cubs. The shaman knows that no bear is fiercer and more dangerous than a mother protecting her little ones. She knows she should be terrified. But, to her own surprise, she feels no fear. Instead, she hears herself laughing. Blinking away her last tears, the shaman looks at the mother bear and her cubs, and smiles. The bear tilts her head and grunts. Suddenly, the shaman feels a kick in her belly. Her heart jumps. She looks down. Another kick, on the other side. Staring at her belly, holding both hands to it, the shaman gasps. Again, she feels kicking. From two sets of feet. Breathless, exhilarated, the shaman forgets where she is and what is happening. All she knows is that she is having twins. A boy and a girl. Blessed by the ancestors. Gifted with great power. Yes. She can see, clear as day. Then awareness rushes back. The shaman turns her head up. The bear and the cubs are gone. For a long while, she sits on the rock and listens to the steady flow of the waters. She bathes in a new sense of tranquility and purpose. By the time she leans on her grandmother's staff and stands up, the sun has set. It is night as the shaman heads back to her tribe through the peaceful forest. The full moon lights her way.