Here the fire never dies. It waits in a white stone box, low and orange behind glass, and the old woman feeds it the way you feed a fire that keeps the whole cave alive.
She is small now. But she is chief. I know this the moment I enter, because every other body bends toward her, and no one sits until she waves a hand. Her hands are the oldest thing in the room and they never stop. They fold, they pinch, they turn meat in the hot fat. She does not look when she works. She has done this so many winters the hands remember without her.
The smells hit me before the door is shut. Fat. Onion. Something sweet burning slow. This is the smell that means the tribe will not go hungry, and my whole body loosens at it, the way it loosens when the hunt has gone well and there is enough for all.
She pushes food at me. I am not hungry. She pushes more. To refuse is to insult the fire itself, so I eat. She watches me eat with a hunger of her own, though she takes nothing. This is her power. Not the strong arm. Not the loud voice. She feeds, and by feeding she owns us. We will carry her name after she is gone into the ground, only because of what she put in our mouths.
The young ones do not see this yet. They think she is old and slow and in the way.
They are wrong.
She is the fire-keeper.
When she stops, the cave goes cold.