by Robert C. J. Graves
A priestess in training is always a threat to the establishment.
Our tribe first heard tales of the giant Anthal people when we left on our seasonal march in search of a winter home. Other travelers we encountered kept us enthralled with rumors of appalling horrors long after the evening fires had died. But Tor, chief of our hunters and fish charmers, said to me, “Don’t be foolish, Monna. Stories are nothing but poets’ bad barter for bread.” Yet I have always found there to be a great deal of truth in stories.
