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Many songs were shared that day. This was one of hers.

Open ways on a desert track
Water bags on an ass's back
Lowing beasts and a long-horn bull
Fire's bright, but the moons are full
And so we pray

Dance, dance, caravan
-For the gods we dance
Dance, dance, wander-folk
-Until the day is young
Sing, sing, desert man,
-For our loves we dance
Sing, sing, to the smoke
-Feel magic on your tongue

Hardened hooves and a broken bone
Leopards wait 'til you're alone
Water's gone and the fire's dead
On these desert tracks we bled
Yet still we say

Dance, dance, caravan
-For the gods we dance
Dance, dance, wander-folk
-Until the day is young
Sing, sing, desert man,
-For our loves we dance
Sing, sing, to the smoke
-Feel magic on your tongue

Though the people of the river begged Whisper to sing a song of her own people, her quiet stubbornness defeated them all one by one, and her music remained only of the kind that they themselves had taught her. Eventually, well after night had fallen, Whisper asked the elder to teach her a farewell, and she repeated it; And then she burned away into a dirty smoke and left that place on the wind.

In the morning, the foraging hain found the remains of a bull elephant in a field of fine ash. There was no ivory for them to salvage, nor any decaying flesh, or even bones; Only the tip of its trunk and a few of its teeth. The foragers turned their back on that place, and said nothing. For the memories of last night were clear in their minds, and among them was this: That they had offered much food to the stranger, and yet she had eaten nothing at all.