There is a very subtle change in the language of the creeks. For many months, they are quiet, their babbling reduced to murmurs and dampened whisperings. Then, as the downy quilt of winter recedes, a trickle of conversation resumes. What is less noticeable a change, although just as significant, is the bubbling energy that pours new life into the monologue. The snowmelt from higher elevations infuses this jeremiad with the lexicon of spring, if only one is versed in the vocabulary and attentive enough to hear it.

For most, of course, the change is heralded by a far less nuanced sense of perception. It does not take much to notice the eruption of little purple flowers throughout the valleys, to wonder at the patchwork of soft petals and aroma of vanilla and honey saturating the still cool (but warming) morning air.

Be it the loss of snow, the fragrance of early blooming heliotropes, or the lively babble of flowing waters, the signals are all in place and the villagers know what will arrive next.

Next will come the sheep.

“Good morning, Georgi.”

“Morning Mrs. Wiśniewski.” Georgi nods to the elderly woman elbowing her way past the stubborn wooden door of the shop. “Need a hand with that?”

“No, I’ve got it dear boy,” she grumbles, ambling over and heaving a cardboard box onto the counter. “Violet buds in the valley today. They’ll be here soon.”

“And that means you are doing your spring cleaning.” Georgi begins to rummage through the contents of the box. “Microprocessors? You sure you don’t want to keep these? I can help you fix them, if they aren’t working for you.”

The old woman waves a hand in the air as if swatting away a fly (or a silly idea).

“I have too many as it is. Let them have these. It will be good for the village’s reputation to have something decent at the swap market this year.”

“Fair enough. I’ll get these sorted.”

“Thank you, Gosha.” The old woman nods as she adjusts the scarf covering her head and Georgi grins to himself. She is one of the only people who still calls him that. As she opens the door, however, she pauses and glances over her shoulder.

“It seems I have done my part to make our village proud.”

And with that she disappears, the heavy wooden door clacking against the frame behind her. Georgi listens as she curses at the door, shuffles onto her hovercart, and sputters off.

He sighs and returns his attention to the microprocessors she left him, fingers sifting aimlessly through the mixture. After a moment, he reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a stack of papers, spreading them on the counter in front of him. There are notes and ideas, quips and profound thoughts, sketches and charts.

And that’s when he hears the chatter outside.

Georgi cranes his neck to glance out the window, but he knows what the commotion means even before his communicator starts blinking. He flips a switch on the shop’s mainframe, activating the holo-AI assistant who flickers to life and politely bows as Georgi snatches a hat from the rack and presses through the door into the crisp spring air.

Quietly, Georgi dips into the current of villagers flowing downhill in a bubbling stream of elbows and whispers, pooling at the entrance to the village. It is still early, and a light fog clings to the trees of the valley. Then, a soft bleating cuts through the muffled quiet of the forest, followed by the clanging of little bells. The sheep appear like wooly ghosts, materializing from the fog, marching towards the village then corralling at the sides of the main gates. As they part, the shepherds emerge. Already dismounted from their horses and hovercraft, they walk with the deliberate strides of those practiced at stomping the earth, those taught by generational wisdom to find secure footing in even the most treacherous of mountain passes. They arrive at the village gate and stop, a single man from among their numbers stepping forward.

Georgi gently pushes his way through the crowd, finally making his way to the front. He adjusts his cap and takes a step.

All fall silent as Georgi approaches the man at the gate. No one speaks, and yet the energy filling the space is palpable, like a storm about to break. Georgi surveys the man before him.

“Otar Shotashvili.”

“Georgi Giorgadze,” the man returns.

Both are quiet a moment, before erupting in laughter and throwing their arms open. As they embrace, the shepherds and villagers break into cheers and one river swells into the other, creating a great crashing of laughter and gossip and hugs and handshakes.

With the melting of the snow, the soil is awakened. Germinating within it is a proliferating cosmos of microsystems, an infinitesimal universe of chemical transfer and nutrient exchange and rejuvenation. It is wild. It is entropy. It is chaos, and all chaos seeks balance, which is why the wise understand a very simple truth: the Earth desires to be trampled.

The pounding of hooves is the heartbeat of the season as keratin pestles crush nutrients into the soil, fertilizing the ground and breaking apart decaying matter. It is a ritual of fine and natural alchemy, the transition of death and decay into life and growth, the rite of winter blossoming into spring.

“Tell me everything,” Otar claps Georgi on the back.

“Well, the new atmospheric condensers the village installed up the ridge last autumn are functioning well—”

“Always the business of town headman with you, ever since you were elected last summer.” Otar laughs and waves a hand. “I want to hear about you, my friend!”

“Hard to separate the two,” Georgi mumbles. “It seems that my life is nothing but the worries of the headman now.”

He glances at the jostling islands of wool surrounding them. The sheep are mostly quiet as they graze, working their way through the woodland surrounding the village, clearing out dead undergrowth. Georgi notices a scar on a very old tree, remnants of a fire long ago, back before such grazing was part of their forest management. Next to it, the bark of the adjacent tree is pale, almost sickly. It’s not the only one.

“You know one of the main responsibilities of the headman is the protection of the forest?” Georgi asks.

“I do.”

“There have been some troubling signs over the last few seasons; inconsistencies in growth, respiration, dying trees, things like that. We’re not sure if some of our actions are causing this.”

“And now the burden of this lies on your shoulders.”

Georgi sighs, eyes wandering the forest. Otar watches him a moment.

“Another responsibility of the headman is to serve as tamada at the spring banquet, is it not?” Otar prods. At this Georgi’s eyes fall, and he kicks at a pile of dead leaves in the underbrush.

’This is my first year as toastmaster,” Georgi laughs, embarrassed by his own nerves. “I know my other duties are more important, but I just cannot pick the right theme to begin the toast.”

“You sure you’re not just worried that you won’t be able to handle your alcohol?”

At this, Georgi lets out a genuine laugh. The tamada is expected to empty his cup after every round of toasting, and the thought has crossed his mind.

“You villagers and your toasting,” Otar chuckles. “I know it is a venerated tradition but last year’s Keipi banquet knocked out four of our shepherds. We couldn’t travel for days after that feast. What themes are you considering for your first toast?”

“I keep coming back to the usual,” Georgi shrugs. “Community, harmony with the mountains, family, honoring ancestors past and generations to follow. Nothing too inspired. I don’t know. It feels like I haven’t had enough time to grow into my role as headman to say anything more eloquent.”

“So, you need a theme that is topical, but profound. How about—oh, hold on a second.”

Otar shudders, eyes closed, and Georgi takes a respectful step back. The shepherd is quiet, head tilting and swiveling as if he is listening for something. Finally, his eyes snap open.

“This way.” He jerks his head, and the two plunge into the forest, eyes skimming the outcrops of rocks and tangles of thick shrubs.

“There,” Georgi points. A ram has ventured up the rock wall of this forested ravine and is stuck in a bramble of tangled creepers, the signal light on its bell blinking its distress, not that its bleating isn’t enough of a cue.

“Ara,” Otar sighs. “Of course it’s you.”

Otar activates his lift pack and, with practiced movements, glides into the air to retrieve the frantic stray. He whispers and coos, and the animal calms. Georgi shakes his head. He has asked Otar many times to describe the sensation of the empathy chips connecting via neurolink shepherd and flock. Otar always says the same thing: all shepherds are naturally attuned to their flocks. The chip just amplifies it.

“Should we head to the swap market?” Otar asks, landing back alongside Georgi with a soft thud, the ram Ara now freed from his thorny prison and resuming his grazing on the forest floor. Georgi nods, running a hand through his hair.

“I suppose the village headman should make an appearance.”

Green buds indicate life, but the warming of the season is a prescient reminder that this new growth is also new fuel. The legacies of past fires remain ever-present in the charred limbs of dead trees and the ashes smeared across rockface like graffiti.

Other vestiges mark a different form of inheritance. The most recent scars carved into the forest are swaths of blackened earth, but those only a few seasons older are verdant. Saplings, the future inheritors of this valley that will guard over the great-grandchildren of the villagers, flourish in the nutrient-rich black soil. And, within the valley, other symbols of fire are seen in the wafts of smoke that appear in evenings as families and friends warm themselves in cheer around the hearth.

“Georgi, look at this! Look at this!”

Georgi bends down, taking the lace kite in his hands and ruffling the hair of his young niece. He looks over the intricate details, motifs of eagles and dragons and stars.

“It’s beautiful, Eteri.”

“Do you see the nanogenerators?” She gestures to the tail, motions sharp with excitement. Georgi chuckles as Eteri explains how her new kite will generate energy as it flies, how beautiful the design is, and how much she will cherish it.

“And what did you trade?” Georgi asks. “I hope you were fair.”

The little girl’s face turns solemn. She nods.

“Yes. I traded the mushrooms I grew.”

“Then we are lucky indeed to have visited your village!” Otar commends the little girl, and she beams.

“Thank you, Mr. Shotashvili,” she says, before dashing off to find her friends and begin the process of explaining her new kite all over again. Otar laughs as he strolls into the market to unpack his tent and help oversee trade.

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