A sea of flowers lay in front of them, and at the end of the row, built on a little knoll that looked down into one of the watered hollows of the tundra, was Sokwenna's cabin.

Because Sokwenna was the "old man" of the community and therefore the wisest--and because with him lived his foster-daughters, Keok and Nawadlook, the loveliest of Alan's tribal colony--Sokwenna's cabin was next to Alan's in size.

And Alan, looking at it now and then as he ate his breakfast, saw a thin spiral of smoke rising from the chimney, but no other sign of life.
The sun was already up almost to its highest point, a little more than half-way between the horizon and the zenith, performing the apparent miracle of rising in the north and traveling east instead of west.

Alan knew the men-folk of the village had departed hours ago for the distant herds.

Always, when the reindeer drifted into the higher and cooler feeding-grounds of the foothills, there was this apparent abandonment, and after last night's celebration the women and children were not yet awake to the activities of the long day, where the rising and setting of the sun meant so little.
As he rose from the table, he glanced again toward Sokwenna's cabin.