Could we pierce beyond that cloud, smooth away those ripples, his memories would be clear to read: how it all began, this dire trouble, many days ago—and ‘many’ to him means ‘more than seven’, for after seven is mystery—many days ago when he and Hawkon, his brother and comrade, met with some few others of the sons of Koor and talked mischief of their father. The conference took place, as was most necessary, deep in the forest and far from the clearing, the broad green valley, where, with Koor’s great squat for centre, the tribe lived. Even so it was a desperate and dangerous affair. But Hawkon today was intoxicated with himself. He had done wonders, he said. He, he alone, had raided a foreign people half a day’s journey distant, and was come back with a tale of having killed many men and captured a woman for wife. The many men killed may have been a fiction: a theory that does not impugn Hawkon’s honesty, for on the journey home, with a bride for company, he had had time to weave fancies, and the capacity to distinguish, in retrospect, between fancy and fact was not general among the sons of Koor, for whom the life of dreams was as valid as waking experience and often in memory confused with it. But whatever men he had slain or not slain, of the woman captured there could be no doubt, for there she was, young and taking, and already following Hawkon’s every gesture with slavish adoration. There she was and you could look at her if you liked, but if you were wise you would not look too long or too appreciatively, lest Hawkon should be tempted to add to his greatness by thrusting his flint-headed spear into your belly. For, though to kill sib was a crime, to punish adultery—even before it was committed—was a virtuous deed. Since Hawkon had touched this woman, and taken her for wife, she was to all others forbidden; only by enforcing such taboos, which encouraged every man to acquire a foreign woman for himself, could Koor be sure of retaining his own monopoly rights over all the women of the family. The law, however, was not of Koor’s invention: he had had it from his father, and there is no doubt—or in Koor’s mind there was no doubt—that it had come in the first place from those mysterious unseen powers who were, as it fortunately chanced, chiefly concerned with maintaining the prestige and power of the Old One. Koor and his wizard frequently communed with these gods, and seldom failed to profit by what they heard. If drought could not be brought to an end by the ritual watering of the sacred stone, then a child must be buried up to its neck in the ground so that by its lamentations, and still more by the small rain of its tears, it should soften the heart of the rain-god. These or similar things had only to be done often enough, and rain would certainly fall, or cease falling, whichever was desired. Thus, by the scientific method of trial and error, for every evil could be found a remedy: one needed only a little patience, a little reverence, and much faith.
Hawkon’s woman was tall and dark and very lusty. She nestled in the crook of her lord’s arm and gazed at him dumbly while he discoursed. ‘She is my woman,’ said Hawkon, not for the first time. ‘She is my woman. She’s a good one, I can tell you. I shall call her name Flint, because there’s fire in her.’
‘A woman!’ sneered Ogo. ‘What name can a woman have?’
Ogo was consumed with jealous hatred of this outlandish big-breasted female who was engaging all his beloved Hawkon’s attention. Moreover his question was pertinent; for Hawkon must have known, as well as anyone else, that a woman, though she might be called this or that, could have no very name of her own, as a man had. Ogo was called Ogo; Hawkon was called Hawkon; but these were not their names. Each had a secret name, known only to himself and to the god who, communicating through the wizard, had given it to him at the first audible sign of puberty, which is the breaking of the voice (for it is then that the man enters the child and speaks in him). To utter one’s true name aloud was the gravest risk one could take; and to whisper it in the ear of one’s friend was the mark of the most absolute love and trust, since it made him a gift of one’s very soul. It was to say, in effect: ‘My life is in your hands; I would not live a moment longer than you wish.’ This extreme of devotion being naturally a rare experience, another name was chosen that should stand for the true name without betraying it. Ogo, for example, was called Ogo; his name was called Urding; but his name itself only he knew, he and his one comrade, Hawkon, to whom he had confided it. So, in declaring that he would call his woman’s name Flint, Hawkon was talking offensive nonsense. If he had said that he would call
‘It shall be as I say,’ said Hawkon, glaring fiercely at his friend.