But Stone did this, for the child was not to be cast out. “A child is born to the Men,” said Stone, lifting the child by the fire. Then he handed it to Short Leg. Her son was called Pod by Tooth, and the children.
“Have you seen Cricket?” asked Hamilton of Flower.
“No,” said Flower.
Hamilton gave the berries, except for those she had hidden for Cricket, to Old Woman, and began to look about the camp. “Cricket!” she called. “I have something for you!”
Tree had not been too pleased at what had come between him and his woman, Turtle.
The devotion, the love, which had been fully his, he must now share. It was clear he resented the child, for it came between him and the female.
“It is your son!” had laughed Hamilton.
“I am not a woman,” he had said angrily.
Among the men the mothers were clearly known, and children were spoken of as the sons of the women, or the daughters of the women. Beyond this they might be spoken of as the children, or the young, of the Men. The Men understood the relationship of seed to young, but the possessive concept of a specific, individual paternity, laying a unique claim to a given offspring, was not cultural for them. For the women it was biological. Generally, for the men, such a concept would not become significant until the victory of agriculture, with claims to specific possessions and lands, when inheritance would become crucial. Then, too, of course, with the coming of agriculture, and the need to guarantee specific paternity, because of inheritance rights, accordant cultural provisions would be established. Women would be consigned in impressive ceremonies to individual males. Chastity would become a virtue. Private ownership contracts would become universal. Fear and hatred of sex, and frigidity, and other economic desiderata, conditioned by agricultural priesthoods, would become the hallmarks of the exemplary female. The stirrings of a girl’s glands, for the first time, frightening her, terrifying her, instead of being an occasion for rejoicing, would become evil, and rationally so in the twisted net of economically essential perversions, soon to be invested with all the sanctimonious cant of ignorant pieties. In the trek of civilization, the hunt and the horizon, predictably, for at least a time, must yield to the soil and the hobble. The chains, once climbed upon, if to be lost, must be burned away, melted, in the heat of the stars.
“Look!” had laughed Hamilton, pointing to the tiny birthmark, the small, bluish black treelike stain on the child’s neck, beneath the left ear. It was as though it had been Tree’s own.
“From your seed I have made this child,” said Hamilton, in the language of the Men. “He is my son. He is your son.” It seemed strange to Tree to think of a man as having a son, though doubtless there was a sense in which it might be meaningful to say it.
“Hold him,” smiled Hamilton.
She held out the infant to Tree. Timidly, fearing to drop it, fearing that it might squirm, or cry out, Tree took the infant. He held it in his two hands, and lifted it, looking at it. He looked at the mark under the ear. Then he had held the baby again before his face. He knew that Knife was Spear’s son, though he did not think Knife knew this. Some of the other children he thought he could identify with certain of the men. But with others he was not sure. With this child, however, there seemed no doubt but what it had been his seed that Turtle had tended and nourished.
He looked at Turtle and smiled.
Turtle, radiant, touched him. “I love you, Tree,” she said. “It is your son. You have given me a son.”
Tree looked at the child. He hoped the boy would grow to be a good hunter. He thought perhaps, when the others were not near, he might talk to him, or show him things. He would want him to do well in the Men’s cave. Once, years ago, he had seen Spear teaching Knife. He never told Spear he had seen this. It was an unusual emotion which Tree, briefly, felt for the tiny animal in his arms, so weak, so helpless. “You have given me a son,” said Tree, slowly, thinking about it. He held the tiny thing in his arms. It weighed so little. Its hands were so tiny. He looked at Turtle. Never before had he seen her just as he saw her then. He knew she was beautiful. He knew she was his woman. “I do not think,” he said, “I will ever beat you again.” “Beat me when I deserve it, or you will spoil me,” smiled Hamilton. Tree looked at her. “I will,” he said. “I love you, Tree,” said Hamilton.
Then Fox had ventured by. He saw the child in Tree’s arms. “Tree,” he asked, poking Wolf, who was with him, in the ribs, “do you have a son?” In the language of the Men this joke was rich, for only women had sons and daughters. “When did you leave this son?” asked Fox. “Was it last night,” added Wolf, grinning.
Tree looked angry, and turned red. He thrust the child to Hamilton’s arms.
“A child is born to the Men,” he said.
“We are going hunting,” said Fox.
“I will come with you,” said Tree, quickly.
“Had you not better tend your son?” asked Fox.
Tree leaped to his feet and, laughing, as they fled away, slapped both on the back of the head. “Let us hunt,” he said.
Hamilton, smiling, secure, had held the child to her. She felt its hunger, its eagerness.
“Cricket!” called Hamilton, wandering about the camp. “I have something for you!” She held a handful of the largest, juiciest berries, taken from the sack, in her right hand. “Butterfly,” said Hamilton, “where is Cricket?” “I do not know, Turtle,” said Butterfly.
Short Leg, for more than two years, had been fed by Stone. But Stone was not a leader. He was strong. He was hard. He could follow like a bear or horse, but he was not a leader. And she was not close with him. He fed her, little more. Short Leg, who was an intelligent woman, considered the Men with care. Who, she asked herself, after Spear, will be first among the Men. She did not think it would be Knife. Stone, for some reason, did not like Knife. The others had not accepted Knife. Who, among the Men, she asked herself, was it who first proclaimed Spear again the leader. It had been one of them only, at first. It had been Tree. It had been he who had asked Old Woman who was first. It had been he who had, following her words, unemotionally declared for Spear. The others had followed. Tree, too, was strongest, and tallest, and the finest hunter. It had been he who, among the men, had first again declared for Spear. The others had followed. Short Leg had smiled to herself. After Spear, she told herself, it will be Tree who will be first among the Men. He did not want to be first, but it would be he, she did not doubt, whom the others would have as first among them. She could not see them, among the Men, following any other. It would be Tree, after Spear, who would be first. Short Leg was no longer young, but she could bear young; she could work; she knew what transpired in the camp; other women feared her; and she was wise; she could be a great asset to a leader. Short Leg was not the only one who could read the signs of the future. Flower, too, after Knife’s repudiation as leader, and the restoration of Spear, calculated that Tree would be the successor. Accordingly, when she could, she slipped away, usually to meet Tree on his return from the hunt, to lie beside the trail, on the grass, and, as he returned, to hold her arms out to him, and lift her body. “Feed Flower,” she would beg. “Flower will do anything for you.” Tree would look upon her, her uplifted hands, her eyes, her lifted body, begging for even his casual rape. Tree, a hunter, throwing his kill from his shoulders to the grass, and one angry with Hamilton of late, for she no longer gave him the totality of her undivided attention, but spent much time suckling and loving her child, was not one to refuse this free gift of beauty. Sometimes, furious with Hamilton, Tree would throw the startled Flower on her side and using one of her lovely legs as a fulcrum for his body, freeing it of the ground, release the full spasms of his irritation upon her, pounding her, she gasping, clinging to him, mercilessly, and then, leaving her, standing over her, she half shattered at his feet, her eyes looking up at him, her legs now drawn up, he would look down upon her. “Knife will feed you,” he would say.