“Wolakweti, Houpati,” Aolo responded to what was undoubtedly some form of greeting, repeating his own. Was she offering him hospitality? He looked at the ones around her. She seemed in a peaceful mood and that extended to her people as well, they were relaxing. She must really be a Head. The last thing she had said was clearly a question. He depended on her goodwill towards him now, Aolo knew – so it was good to attempt some sort of answer. One asked names early when meeting new folk, so maybe it had been that. “Aolo,” he said, putting one hand on his head, for the spirit rested in the head. “Aolo. Voun Dunacelruogo como. Aolo. Nami tin, Houpati?” Heads were usually proud of her name and it was a polite gesture to ask them. It gave them an opportunity to recount their clan and great ancestors, of which Aolo had none. He felt coarse among these well-clad strangers with his beard growing wild. Especially the Head – she was like the Spiritfriends in the Holy Ring with whom the Heads slept each year.