Not even to these intimates dared he say how glad he would be to see the last of these vigorous and enterprising young men. As hunters they were exceedingly valuable, but their existence had begun to trouble him. Their strength and skill were now a kind of insolence in his sight. And not they alone troubled him. He was beset by troubles on every side. The pains of his body, the weariness, the fears. Above all, the fears. He, the father, the Koor, was the greatest and strongest man in the tribe: in battle he could have killed any three of them in as many strokes: this was his creed and the creed of the tribe, and he dared admit in his mind no doubt of it. Moreover the gods were with him, working for his perpetual aggrandizement, protecting his person; and he in return served the gods by enforcing their laws. This was notorious, undeniable. But it did not comfort him. He was afraid. Every day he felt feebler in spirit; every day dreaded the least challenge to his authority; every day, to hide his fears from the sight of men, grew more greedy and testy and cruel. I am the Koor. They can’t touch me. They fear me. I am sacred. I am strong. I am the mighty one in battle, the great hunter, the lord of my people. All these women, they are mine. This house is the biggest house. When I say kill, the man is already dead. They daren’t touch me: I have good magic: the gods are my gods. Hasta says so, Hasta the wise one. . . . All day long, and sometimes half the night, his mind muttered these things; and at times his lips moved, too, without his knowing it. Mingled with his fears, fears none the less fearful for being shapeless, came fragmentary pictures of a vanished glory; but these, for the most part, he glanced at without recognition. They came and went quickly. Fear never went, except when driven away by appetite; and even then never went far. Fear watched for his waking, grinned him good day, and followed at his elbow like a sponging friend.
Koor shot glances this way and that: at Hasta the wise one, at Nigh the tale-bearer. They were afraid of him, and in their fear was solace and reassurance. His glance rested at last on Nigh, and became an angry stare. ‘Is there any more to tell?’ His tone was peremptory.
‘There is nothing,’ said Nigh.
‘That one is a good hunter, eh?’
Nigh grunted affirmatively.
‘Let him be careful what he’s up to,’ said Koor, with a fierce grin. ‘I am Koor.’