had told me. And so it was. Still, breaching that belly took the better part of two days, during which I nearly ruined my hardax, put bruises and cuts on my hands, sweated, cursed, tugged, banged away with large stones. I was attacking a plate on the dragon's skin much like the plate on a turtle's belly, and his bones were hard and tough. When at last I had one edge of the plate lifted slightly, I was able to force a branch into the rift to use as a lever. With all my strength I heaved, and one by one the bones gave and then the plate clanged off to ring against the stones and the hard pathway. Inside were wondrous things. Huge, horned arteries, which I attacked with my poor, mutilated hardax. When I cut through one of them the dragon spat fire at me and the feet stopped grinding away. I cut more arteries and small veins and began to gather them, the small veins, because they were indestructible and invaluable for tying things together, for fishing lines, for decoration, since they came in various colors. Soon I had a pile of treasures and was busily cutting my way deeper and deeper into the dragon's entrails. I cut a different kind of artery, and ichor or something similar jetted out. I got some of it on my hands and expected it to burn, but it was cool and slick. I tried to wipe it away. It was oily, like the extract of fat swimmer meat. I wished for something to catch it in, but I had nothing. It would have been invaluable for oiling skulls, for those who were lucky enough not to be cursed. But the true treasures were still beyond my reach after three days of hard and frustrating labor, and it was not until the fourth day that I found what I sought. I had cut and ripped my way into the entrails of the now thoroughly dead beast, and there were wonders. A store of teeth, long, hard, shiny. I took several, although they were heavy. And then the guts, the gaudy little pretties. They were in several boxlike compartments, all connected in a wondrous way, but the veins connecting them were small and flexible and it was the work of mere hours to collect enough to make a dozen necklaces. They came in various sizes, and different colors, with the little veins sticking out both ends, and I bent the veins together to form a huge multistrand necklace and stood atop the dead dragon, the token of my victory around my neck, sweating, bleeding from accidental contact with sharp points of dragon's skin, and sang my victory song. I had only two more chores before going home in triumph. I searched the dragon for a suitable piece of skin to replace my mutilated hardax. I found a small plate and used up the remaining edge of my old hardax to cut the bones holding it. Honed and ground and shaped, it would make a beautiful hardax. Then I bundled all the treasure I could carry into my sleepskin and rolled rocks to hide the carcass of the dragon. There was much treasure left. I would return, with all of the men of the family, and strip the carcass, making the family of Strabo of the Strongarm the richest family of the mountains. We could trade for buythings with every family within trading distance. And one thing else. The carcass of the lion. I was fortunate. The threat of the dragon's teeth had, apparently, kept away the small carrion eaters and even the flying eaters of the dead. The lion was swollen, and when I began to skin him he stank dreadfully, but his skin was intact. The extent of my triumph was just beginning to hit me. Not only dragon's guts, but a lionskin. The name of Eban the Hunter would live forever in the memories of my people. Well, to this day I don't know whether it was worth it, skinning a long-dead lion. Stench? Gods of man! I soaked in the first stream I crossed for hours and it was still with me, wearing off, but lingering on the skin, as I made my way homeward, singing my victory song as I went. Chapter Three They heard me coming. The small children were out first, laughing and pointing at me, for I had not scraped my curse and it was finger-long on my skull and finger-joint-long on my face. I paid them no mind. Then there were the women, some calling my name. Old Seer, hobbling from her hidehouse, her toothless mouth contorted in a welcoming smile. I had my treasures hidden under my sleepskin. «Logan brought a bearskin,» a small boy shouted at me. «Logan is brave,» I said. Gods of man, I was confident. «What have you got?» the lad asked, trotting along beside me. «Besides hair?» «You will see, small one,» I said. There was a gathering in front of the hidehouse of Strabo. I went there, beginning to wonder if I should not have halted long enough to scrape away my shame, but my hardax was ruined and I had not had time to hone an edge on my new one. «So,» Strabo said, scowling. «You have returned at last. What speak you?» «Am I not the last?» I asked. «You are.» «Then I ask to be heard last,» I said. Seer of Things Unseen was seated in the shade, making rhythm on a hollowed log. They spoke, in the order of their return. Teetom, first, had only swimmer skins. He said he had searched for dragons for a moon and they were extinct. Yorerie had skins and jewels of gods, some oblong and red. And so it went. There was a restlessness. It was known by one and all that they did not matter, that the decision was to be between Logan and, perhaps, the Haired One. And then came Logan, with his right leg bandaged, healing slowly, limping. The bear had reached him with its fearful fangs. He spoke well and bravely. In addition to the bearskin, he had flint. As he spoke, Strabas, mother of my beloved, smiled in approval. And now, at last, it was my turn. While the others talked, and all eyes were on them, I had arranged my treasures, keeping them hidden under my sleepskin. «How speak you, Eban the Hunter?» Strabo asked. «I have fared well,» I said. «My honorable father, I ask your permission to spread my boon among the family.» «Is it so rich, then?» Strabas asked, greed in her eyes. «Rich enough for all,» I said. «Permission,» Strabo granted. «First,» I said, pulling out the lionskin, «a special gift for Yuree, to warm her, to pleasure her, to give her honor.» There was a collective gasp, and the women crowded forward to finger the lionskin. I made no haste, willing to savor the moment, thinking of even greater triumph to come. I had planned it so carefully. I didn't know, then, that I was simply stupid to think that I could buy their love and respect. Oh, they accepted my gifts. They accepted them. «And now,» I said, «for the hunters, for the men of my family…» I reached into my pile of treasures and brought out the prearranged veins of the dragon and, with gasping and speculation, distributed one length to each man of the family. «A dragon?» Strabo asked, his eyes wide. «I have not forgotten the family head,» I said. «My father presented your father with the tribe's greatest treasure. I can do no less than match his generosity.» So saying, I pulled out a necklace of dragon's gut, a match for the one my father had given the elder Strabo. I hung it around Strabo's neck. He beamed and fingered it. The family was hooting in rhythm with Seer's beats. The sounds hung in the still summer air. I glowed with pride. «Is there nothing, then, for me?» Yuree asked, pouting. «Be patient,» I begged. «For the mothers of the family, each one, and for my friend, Seer of Unseen Things…» I brought them out one by one. One gaudy dragon's gut for each woman, three for Seer, who was the oldest. «You buy your death,» she whispered. I grinned confidently at her. The three dragon's guts looked good on her stringy neck. «And now,» I said, facing Yuree. «My greatest pleasure is to present the beautiful and desirable Yuree, and I pray that she will accept and honor me by choosing me, with… this.» Women cried out, began to scream and yodel in rhythm, for I held out and then put around Yuree's neck the greatest and most beautiful necklace ever seen. It was three strands thick and hung to her waist, and she went red with pleasure and smiled at me. «And as a further gift,» I shouted, over the din of the women's singing, «I have the carcass of the dragon well hidden, waiting for all the men in the family to gather treasure, to make the family of Strabo the Strongarm the richest in the mountains.» «Honor to Eban the Hunter,» Seer said. «Honor, honor,» the women chanted. «Honor to Eban the Hunter, slayer of dragons.» «It is honor to me,» Strabo said, kneeling in front of me. A family head had not kneeled to a man since Strabo's father knelt to pay honor to my father. I put my battered hardax on Strabo's shoulder. «The honor, honorable father, is shared,» I said. «And I renew my pledge to serve you and the family. I do this with great joy.» He rose. There were tears in his eyes. «Had I a son like you…» he said. «If it be God's will, I will be your son,» I said. «Yes,» he said. «It is time.» He turned. The chanting died. «My daughter,» he said. «You have seen. You have heard. Will you now choose?» Yuree opened her mouth. I saw it form that beautiful word, yes. But it was not to be. «We have not as yet been assured that the gods of man approve,» Strabas said, stepping between me and Yuree. «Woman,» Strabo said, «the choice is Yuree's.» «No,» Strabas said, «it is the custom. The mother has the right of last appeal to the gods.» There was a muttering. I'd never heard that one. Neither, apparently, had Strabo. He turned to Seer of Things Unseen. «It is true,» Seer said, shaking her head. «The right was last exercised in the time of your father's father, but it is the custom.» «So be it,» Strabo said. Did Yuree have a look of regret on her face? «With the dawn, then,» Strabo said. «If none of you needs more time for preparation.» Now, sometimes customs can be silly. I felt a great pity for the others, for the likes of Young Pallas and Teetom and Yorerie. They were out of it. Everyone knew it. Everyone knew that if Strabas hadn't spoken up, claimed her last appeal, Yuree would have chosen me and the gods could have gone on sleeping in their high places. Now, because an old woman did not want a haired one for a son, we all faced them, those sleek and fatal gods. Yet, because of custom and honor we went to our hidehouses and began to take out the birds, stored so carefully, the thin membranes of scraped hide, the tiny but strong lengths of hollowed wood. Because no preman could refuse, having gone so far, six of us would dare the displeasure of the gods of man in the light of a summer dawn. It is said that God gave man wings in a moment of weakness and, realizing it, then placed limitations upon man. And, the limitations being not enough, He then placed the gods of man in the heights to limit man's forbidden pleasure, his escape from the surface of the earth to be limited by his fear of retribution, by his weight, by the vagaries of wind and air. And yet the right to wings was man's from the time he could scrape skins. Only fools, however, abused that right. Wings were reserved for splendid and ceremonial occasions, and the flights were a hymn of praise to the God who loves chaos. I had flown last during the festival of the new growth, when the crops were peeking out of the ground, and we flew, the young ones, to praise God and to beg for the rains and the gentle sun. And now I would fly for another reason, the best reason I'd ever had. And, moreover, instead of the brief and swiftly finished hop from a small hilltop in a hidden valley, secluded from the eyes of the gods of man, I would fly from the dome upon which I had built my fire, created my chaos, prayed to God before I went to slay the dragon. And beside me would be five others, risking all, some of them, all of them save myself and Logan, for nothing. For from that dome, high above the surrounding hills, there was no protection from the eyes of the gods of man. The gods of man would look down, see, select, and choose to speak or remain silent. What was it in me which prevented me from scraping my shame on that night of all nights? Pride? Was I so sure of my manhood, having slain a dragon, that I no longer feared the disapproval which comes to a haired one? I have learned, since, that pride is a sin against the God of chaos. I spread my wings and oiled them carefully, making the very thin membrane soft and pliant. I reinforced the riggings with the veins of the dragon, making mine the strongest wings of all. I spread them and rigged them, and they arched up. I tried the saddle, and it was soft and comfortable, and, with the wings ready, I prayed, rubbing my godsticks, until the village was quiet. Then I slept to waken to the happy and excited cries of the young ones as they anticipated the glorious day when six sets of wings would adorn the sky at once and fly high, not in a sneaking hop from a low hill. God made man smaller than the deer, so that his body weight could be lifted by the wings. With so much pre-planning, then, how was his gift of wings so frivolous? If he had not meant man to fly he would not have given him wings, and that was a puzzle, for the gods of man, the killbirds, always waited. Man never knew, even on a short and secretive flight, when God would be angered and send His messenger flashing down from the skies. Never before had I felt His presence so vividly as I carried my wings to the dome, Young Pallas trudging along behind me, Logan in front of me. The men were working atop the dome, clearing a path for takeoff. There was feasting and singing. I passed nearby Seer, and she touched my arm. «Oh, Eban, it is not too late,» she said. «She is the daughter of a family head,» I said. Pride. My pairmate-to-be deserved the test. The last time a mating had been put into the hands of the gods of man was during the lifetime of Strabo's father, when Strabo's younger sister had come of age and was sought not only by men of the family, but by men of an adjoining family from whom our family had since been separated by distance, thanks to the inspired move by Strabo of the Strongarm. Yuree deserved the best, and without the ultimate test of courage, without the approval of the gods of man, she would not be getting it. I regretted, momentarily, that Yuree was not on the dome to see the takeoff. But it made sense. She was far away, down the long slope, in the valley, at a distance of the walk of a four fingers' movement of the sun. There she could greet the victor, the final choice. I could almost feel her arms around me. «May the killbirds be sleeping,» Seer said, as I left her. «Are there any who would withdraw, without malice?» Strabo asked. As he expected, as demanded, no one spoke. Teetom was white of face as he fussed with his wings. «You know the custom,» Strabo said. «He who flies longest, who tempts the gods longest without destruction, is the victor.» «We know,» Yorerie said, in his thick-tongued way. We all knew. We knew that once we had cleared the ground there was no dishonor in ending the flight as quickly as we chose. In fact, honor came to the man who landed first, for he did not continue to risk a precious life. But I was not after honor. I had honor, more than any man in our family. I was after Yuree, and to win her I would fly to the low clouds, to the dim blue of the high places, into the lair of the gods of man, the killbirds, themselves. But there was a look of determination on the face of Logan, too. «May the killbirds be sleeping,» Strabo said, making a gesture with his hardax. There was a low, mourning chant as we poised there in a line, standing in the cleared runway with our hearts pounding, looking forward to that glorious freedom of flight and fearing it at the same time, none of us knowing who would be chosen by a streaking killbird. Above us there were soft little white clouds and vast areas of blue sky. Clouds would not have helped, for killbirds see through them. «God have sympathy,» Strabo said, as we began running. Then the ground fell away under my feet and I leaned and felt the wings bite into the air and experienced the giddy happiness of leaving the ground with the trees brushing my feet before my wings caught hold and lifted me. Below I could see Teetom's wings tumbling as his feet dragged a treetop and he was out of it. The first. Five of us left. Logan above me and Yorerie, yelling a crazy song of happiness, by my side. «Ha, Yorerie,» I called, trilling the words. «Ha, Eban,» he trilled back. And then he was off on a wind, lifting, and I felt the same uplift and soared, the green trees growing smaller below me, the valley coming into my view. I soared to within a few wing lengths of Yorerie. Below I could see Cree the Kite landing in a hillside clearing. Two down with honor. I looked up. The sky was clean. No telltell track of whi