Children of the Frost | Page 6

that the wild goose and the swan and the little ringed
duck be born here in the low-lying lands. It be known that they go away before the face
of the frost to unknown places. And it be known, likewise, that always do they return
when the sun is in the land and the waterways are free. Always do they return to where
they were born, that new life may go forth. The land calls to them and they come. And
now there is another land that calls, and it is calling to my man,--the land where he was
born,--and he hath it in mind to answer the call. Yet is he my man. Before all women is
he my man."

"Is it well, Tantlatch? Is it well?" Chugungatte demanded, with the hint of menace in his
voice.
"Ay, it is well!" Keen cried boldly. "The land calls to its children, and all lands call their
children home again. As the wild goose and the swan and the little ringed duck are called,
so is called this Stranger Man who has lingered with us and who now must go. Also there
be the call of kind. The goose mates with the goose, nor does the swan mate with the little
ringed duck. It is not well that the swan should mate with the little ringed duck. Nor is it
well that stranger men should mate with the women of our villages. Wherefore I say the
man should go, to his own kind, in his own land."
"He is my own man," Thom answered, "and he is a great man."
"Ay, he is a great man." Chugungatte lifted his head with a faint recrudescence of
youthful vigor. "He is a great man, and he put strength in thy arm, O Tantlatch, and gave
thee power, and made thy name to be feared in the land, to be feared and to be respected.
He is very wise, and there be much profit in his wisdom. To him are we beholden for
many things,--for the cunning in war and the secrets of the defence of a village and a rush
in the forest, for the discussion in council and the undoing of enemies by word of mouth
and the hard-sworn promise, for the gathering of game and the making of traps and the
preserving of food, for the curing of sickness and mending of hurts of trail and fight.
Thou, Tantlatch, wert a lame old man this day, were it not that the Stranger Man came
into our midst and attended on thee. And ever, when in doubt on strange questions, have
we gone to him, that out of his wisdom he might make things clear, and ever has he made
things clear. And there be questions yet to arise, and needs upon his wisdom yet to come,
and we cannot bear to let him go. It is not well that we should let him go."
Tantlatch continued to drum on the spear-haft, and gave no sign that he had heard. Thom
studied his face in vain, and Chugungatte seemed to shrink together and droop down as
the weight of years descended upon him again.
"No man makes my kill." Keen smote his breast a valorous blow. "I make my own kill. I
am glad to live when I make my own kill. When I creep through the snow upon the great
moose, I am glad. And when I draw the bow, so, with my full strength, and drive the
arrow fierce and swift and to the heart, I am glad. And the meat of no man's kill tastes as
sweet as the meat of my kill. I am glad to live, glad in my own cunning and strength, glad
that I am a doer of things, a doer of things for myself. Of what other reason to live than
that? Why should I live if I delight not in myself and the things I do? And it is because I
delight and am glad that I go forth to hunt and fish, and it is because I go forth to hunt
and fish that I grow cunning and strong. The man who stays in the lodge by the fire
grows not cunning and strong. He is not made happy in the eating of my kill, nor is living
to him a delight. He does not live. And so I say it is well this Stranger Man should go.
His wisdom does not make us wise. If he be cunning, there is no need that we be cunning.
If need arise, we go to him for his cunning. We eat the meat of his kill, and it tastes
unsweet. We merit by his strength, and in it there is no delight. We do not