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He stops speaking and looks at the three priests. They may as well be statues. They do not move. They say nothing. They regard him with severe stares that radiate from eyes that are carved from wood. He decides to wait them out. He waits for many minutes. He continues to wait; they continue to watch him, inanimately. He remembers how they had waited for him to respond, previously. They wait until their question is answered. He is telling them about a cat whose existence he believes he is making up. And their stares shake him from his narrative thrust. He could move. He could get up and leave this place. He knows this, but he finds that he does not want to move. He wants to tell them about the cat. But he cannot think of anything further to tell them. So, he concludes his story of the cat, Napoleon, rather lamely. Napoleon lived to be eighteen years old before he died, peacefully in his sleep. The stares continue. The end, he says. The mouth of the buzzard priest moves enough to speak. No, says the mouth. Tell us about the tribes of Napoleon.