Tribe builds a hunting ground with no hunters.
I bring my food to the flat glowing stone. There is no wise one here to take it, to count it, to say the price and watch my eyes. Just me, and the stone, and its voice.
The stone speaks. A woman lives inside it who cannot see me but knows I am there. She tells me to drag each thing across her light. When I do, she makes a small clean sound, a bird with no throat. Good, the sound says. You have obeyed.
Sometimes she is angry. Unexpected item, she says. I have done a wrong I do not understand. I stand still. I wait. From far off, a real human comes, tired, with a small key on a cord, and touches the stone until the woman is calm again. This human does not hunt. This human is fed by the stone, to keep the stone happy.
I understand now. The tribe has built a spirit that guards the food, and made one of their own its servant. We used to fear the dark for the beast in it. Now the beast sits in the light, and asks us, politely, to feed it our meat ourselves.
I do the work of the counter. I do the work of the hunter. The stone does nothing but judge.
Weak spirit.
Strong grip.