The woman came out again and looked at the sky, then went to the fire
and stirred the pot with a stick. "I wish you would try to get the
young animals," she said. "You always bring home the biggest ones and
they are hard to chew unless I cook the meat all day."
"My father said that if you wish to be brave, powerful and swift, you
must eat only the animals that are brave, powerful and swift," said
the young man obstinately.
"Didn't he eat roots, too?"
"Yes."
"Well, then."
The young man threw the scraping-stone hard against the side of the
cave opening and split it in two. "Roots are not animals!"
* * * * *
The young woman picked up the pieces and said, "I think I can make a
small scraper out of the big piece and a throwing tip out of the little
one, but this is a foolish way to get little stones. There are more
little ones than big ones."
"Show him your bent stick with the animal sinew," said her mate. "She
has a way of throwing very small spears with a bent stick," he said to
his brother. He had a dim feeling that there should be peace between
the other two, since they were near his cave, but he was scarcely aware
of the feeling.
The young woman looked pleased and went into the cave and brought back
a stick of springy wood with a thong attached to one end, and a few
dried reeds.
"See," she said, and took a dried reed which had a small sharp stone
stuck in the end of it. Then she bent the stick and strung the sinew
from end to end. The younger man had his first view of a bow and arrow.
"This was the way my mother showed me to throw little spears."
She fitted the arrow into the bow and, pulling it back, shot it at a
pine tree on the other side of the fire. The bowstring twanged and the
arrow wobbled, having no fletching, but it stuck into the tree trunk.
The young man jumped back in alarm and blinked his eyes. Then he went
to the tree and pulled at the arrow. It came loose, leaving the tip
stuck in the bark.
"What good is it?" he said derisively, to conceal his astonishment. "It
is a child's plaything!" He tried to pry out the arrowhead with his
thumb, and broke his nail.
"If any child of mine played with this," said the young woman, "I
should beat him." She put a larger arrow into the bow--one that had
a heavier tip--and shot it into the same tree. Owing to its superior
balance, this arrow did not wobble; it swished through the air and sank
its tip deep into the soft wood.
"You have no child," said her mate, "so how can you beat it?"
The young woman said nothing, but she looked angry.
"My other women have children," he went on tauntingly. "They laugh at
you."
"You have no child younger than ten seasons!" she said, and stamped her
foot. "_That_ is why I have no child! You are an old man!"
He started toward her with a look of furious intention. He had no
spear in his hand, but he held a club with flint splinters stuck in the
heavy head. She ran back to the cave mouth and put another arrow in
her bow and aimed it at him. They both stood silently staring at one
another. Then he threw down his club and turned away.
"Peace," he said.
"Peace," she replied, and dropped her bow. She went to the pot over
the fire and sniffed it, poking at the meat with a sharp stick. "The
food is ready," she said. "Will you take the pot off the fire? You have
braver hands than I."
* * * * *
Q. How are we to find out anything about them, when you are so
slow?
A. What are we supposed to find out?
Q. That is what you are supposed to find out.
A. I am to find out what I am to find out? You sound like
them--like men.
Q. Like Man?
A. No, men. The women aren't quite the same. That's why I always
choose to be one, but I wish you would send somebody else--another
part of our Organism. I'm tired.
Q. Absurd. Besides, you are the best; you cannot be tired.
A. The best! How am I the best? You do nothing but criticize. You
send me because I understand the intentions--the leanings--of live
things. You say I understand understanding. I suppose that makes
me some kind of epistemologist: the father confessor of the
inscrutable.
Q. Wouldn't it be mother confessor?
A. Not with them; they don't like women to be priests. They can be
holy, but they don't like women to tell them what to do. It's
called nagging. They get especially angry if the woman is right.
Q. Hmm. Now you say that we criticize you. You surely are not going
to claim to be above criticism _here_, are you?
A. Oh, no. I'm beneath it.
Q. Then why do you resent it?
A. Because it doesn't apply. If a mother is not a fool, she will
correct her child, but she won't blame it. You can't go looking for
good and evil motives in everything that happens. Does a stone have
a motive when it falls to the ground?
Q. If this is the way you always talked, I'm not surprised you
angered them.
A. I am sorry.
Q. You turn everything around that's said to you.
A. I will try not to. It's like the bishop--he complained about the
same thing, and I was only trying to--
Q. What bishop?
A. I forgot his name. He was the thin one; he was much cleverer
than the others. He gave me an impossible choice, so I chose to
make another start.
Q. You mean you got yourself burned again?
A. Yes! They did it to all their best people. Both sides did. I
would have looked a precious fool if I'd backed down.
Q. Can't you bear to admit you are wrong?
A. But I wasn't wrong. Anyway, they'd have made me out in the wrong
either way.
Q. Did they only burn the women, when they thought the women were
wrong?
A. No, of course not. And it was usually when they suspected the
women were right. Then there were the women who were thought to be
possessed by what they thought were evil spirits.
Q. They didn't suspect _they_ were right, surely?
A. No, but they were afraid they might be. They were very unsure of
themselves and their beliefs. That's when they burned people.
Q. It sounds very wasteful. They must be very careless of their
possessions.