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For a second, Paris didn't understand what Soliss was saying. Then comprehension dawned, and with it anger. "You're not suggesting that Chakotay had anything to do with Matroci's death?"

Soliss did not answer.

"Come on, Soliss! You know what kind of man he is. He respects your customs. Besides, didn't Trima say Matroci had died of smoke inhalation?"

The unwavering gaze of the man who had nursed him and Chakotay back to health unnerved Paris. A second thought occurred to him.

"Soliss," he said slowly, "you don't think that I..."

"I do not know what to think," said Soliss at last. "My heart is heavy with grief, and my mind is clouded. But rest assured, your story will be verified, Paris."

"Good. Because it did happen."

Soliss again regarded him searchingly. Finally he sighed deeply. "Forgive my suspicions, but I fear with each day my ideals falter a bit more. Come. We will help you prepare for the farewell ceremony."

"What about Chakotay? He could be lost in the jungle."

"You tell us you survived a night alone in the jungle with two iislaks at your feet," Soliss said sharply. "Chakotay has all the knowledge you have. Today we are mourning the death of our Culil. Chakotay will return if he is alive... and if he wishes to."

Paris opened his mouth to ask what Soliss meant by that last remark, but something in the Minister's eyes caused the question to die in his throat.

No work would be done that day. As if the planet itself were in mourning, the bright skies clouded and by midafternoon there was rain. Soliss cursed the rain, for it would make the pyre on which Matroci's body would be sent to the Grafters that much more difficult to light and keep lit. Paris bathed and changed into fresh new clothes. He was surprised when Yurula, her eyes bloodshot from weeping, placed a beautiful scarf around his neck and then deliberately tore a hole in it.

'This represents Matroci's life, too soon ended," she said softly. "You will toss it on the pyre when it is your turn."

There was no sign of Chakotay. Paris badly wanted to organize a search party, but everyone was too caught up in the preparations for Matroci's farewell ceremony to assist him. And he wasn't about to wander out there alone again.

At one point, braving the drizzle, he ventured to the edge of the rain forest. Before him, green loomed, thick and threatening and almost impenetrable.

"Come on, Chakotay," he said softly. "Where are you?"

As the gray day turned into a gray evening, the rain finally stopped. It took hours for the pyre to become more than a sullen, smoldering pile of slimy branches, but finally it caught. The villagers fed it with precious kindling, dried out for use in their own personal cookfires. For the next few days, at least, there would be no cooked food or hot water until more branches had dried.

It was well into the night, and the creatures of the jungle were singing, when Matroci's body was brought out of Trima's hut. Paris stood silent, watching the slow procession by the flickering of several dozen torches.

Trima was in the lead, wearing the specially colored and styled robes of a Culil. Her long hair was bound behind her, and the combination of formal robes and plaited hair made her seem even more distant and cold. Her face showed no emotion. She strode forward slowly, regally, like a queen approaching her subjects.

Behind her, Soliss and Yurula bore the body of the dead Culil on a stretcher. He had been ritually

bathed and his limbs positioned properly. Wordlessly, Soliss and Yurula placed the corpse on the pyre.

"We come to say farewell to Matroci, our beloved Culil," said Trima, her voice resonant. "He was young to be taken from us, but like the Culil before him, he was too good for this existence. And so the smoke of the Sacred Plant filled his lungs and burst his heart, taking him for its own."

In the light provided by a dozen flickering torches, Paris could see that Matroci's skin was several shades