very edge of the world unrolling into the great black night. It was the edge I feared, the nothingness dropping out through the void around the tower of eternal turtles carrying our word through the emptiness. I’ve not see the Lord Turtle, I’m uncertain He exists. There must be some tangible, some tactile matter under the deep black waters that carries our floating soil, buoyant and thin; but I am uncertain. My father once told me below the black, the world starts anew like a city of the dead parallel to the surface. At night they come up from their buried homes to map the land of the living, replication a staple for their survival. “Not our dead. They are remnants of the ancients swallowed by the Turtle in the earthquake of fires.” We tell this story often – our voyage east sailed on the wind of its telling – how the Turtle chewed through rock and tree and man, swallowed into the god’s belly. That was why we left, to run from the signs. Fire was coming, rumbling signs ran under foot. So we burned the boats, no need or hope for return.