The man began to speak … if it can even be counted as speaking. His mouth didn’t move in the least, but I heard him loud and clear: ‘Child, you are fated never to catch a boar, never to become a good hunter.’
‘What can I do then?’
‘What can you do?’ he asked me back. I discovered his eyes weren’t like human eyes. They were more like compound eyes composed of countless single eyes, the eyes of clouds, mountains, streams, meadowlarks and muntjacs, all arranged together. As I gazed, each little eye seemed to contain a different scene, and those scenes arranged to form a vast panorama the likes of which I had never seen.
‘What can you do?’