John, unable to bear the sight of his prey escaping, let out a desperate “Hulloah!” and flung himself, as if he thought he could fly, down the six-foot riverbank and into the water, on top of the deer, falling head first in a wild dive so there was a resounding crack as deer skull met John’s forehead, and while he was still blinded by the blow they plunged down into the depths of the river and rose up together, and even gazed into each other’s startled, desperate eyes. John felt his hands close around the deer’s throat before a sharp hoof struck him like a bullet in his chest and pushed him down below the water again.
Attone, far from letting fly with his arrow at the disappearing head, far from picking off the deer which were slithering and plunging off the causeway, found that he was screaming with laughter at the sight of the Englishman, the despised, overanxious, women-guarded Englishman howling like a spirit from the dark world, bounding as if he could outrun a deer, and then diving headfirst into a shallow river. A man so filled with bloodlust, so insane with desire, that he could come nose to nose in deep water with a deer and still close his hands around its throat.
Attone gripped a tree for support and called in English: “Englishman! Englishman! Are you dead? Or just mad?”
Tradescant, surfacing and realizing suddenly that he was in cold, weedy water, that he had neither bow nor arrow nor kill, but instead a sensation very like a broken rib and a hoof-shaped bruise over his heart, and a cracked head for his pains, heard also the irresistible laughter of a Powhatan engulfed by amusement, and started to laugh too. He paddled like a weak dog to the water’s edge and then found he was laughing too much to climb up the bank. It was absurdly high and he recalled that he had dived off the top of it and actually landed head first on the deer. The thought made him collapse in laughter again, and the sight of Attone holding out his hand, his brown face creased in helpless laughter, redoubled Tradescant’s own amusement.
He gripped Attone’s hand but it was too much for both of them and their grip slipped as their helpless giggles weakened them so that all Attone could do was fall back on the soft grass of the riverbank and give himself up to it, while Tradescant lay back in the river and howled like a dog at the thought of his hunt and his madness and his incompetence.
When Suckahanna saw the men coming back to camp she went out slowly to greet them; she was proud, and this was a difficult matter for any woman. Her husband was the finest hunter among the people but she was proposing to leave him for an Englishman who had been seen by everyone as incapable of even shooting a pigeon with one of the white man’s infallible guns.
First he saw the kill. Six of the hunters carried in three deer lashed by their feet to pruned branches. It was a kill that any hunting party would have been proud to bring home, enough to feed the village and leave surplus meat for salting down. Suckahanna breathed in sharply and drew herself a little higher. She would not be seen by anyone running up to the braves and asking them who had done the kill. But three deer was a successful hunt; three deer was undeniable evidence that the braves on the hunt had done well.
Then she saw John. At first she thought he must be wounded, grievously wounded, for the man who was supporting him was her own husband, Attone. She started to run toward him, but then she checked herself after two paces. There was something odd about the way they walked together, it was not the stumble of a sick man and the load-bearing stride of his helper. They were clinging together as if they were both dizzy, as if they were both drunk. She watched, then she put her hand up to shade her eyes from the evening sun. She heard their voices, they were not talking to each other in low, anxious tones, like men helping one another home, nor exchanging the odd satisfied word, like men returning sated from the hunt. They were saying one word and then another and then they would do a little wandering detour in a circle, like drunkards, legless with laughter.
Suckahanna stepped sharply back into the doorway of her house and dropped the curtain of skins to hide herself. In the darkness she turned and lifted the side of the skin so she could peep out. The men carrying the deer were staking them out for cleaning and skinning, but Attone and John were not going to set to work. Arms around each other’s shoulders, they headed for the sweat lodge with most of the braves, and even as they went Suckahanna could still hear that sudden explosion of giggling.
“Dived in!” she heard, and then a crow of laughter from Tradescant: “But what you don’t know is that I fell on its head!” That was too much for Attone, his knees simply gave way beneath him.
“I saw you. You had no arrows?”
“Why does he need arrows? If he is going to fall on deer to kill them?”
There was another scream and all the braves flung their arms around each other’s shoulders and swayed together, their feet pounding to their bellowing laugh.
A woman came to Suckahanna’s doorway. Suckahanna pushed back the deerskin and came outside.
“What are the men doing tonight?” the woman asked.
Suckahanna shrugged with a smile which said at once, “Men!” and said, “How I love him!” and said, “How impossible he is!”
“How should I know?” she asked.
The half-sacred silence of the sweat lodge calmed them and the exhaustion of the day took its toll. They sat against the walls illuminated by the glowing coals, eyes shut, soaking up the healing heat, sweating out the aches and pains. Every now and then one of the braves would grimace and giggle and then there would be a little ripple of laughter.
They stayed in the heat for a long time until their sinuses were hot and dry, until the very bones of their faces were filled with heat. John could feel the bruise on his head swelling like a maggot and the hoof print on his chest growing dark and tender. He did not care. He cared for nothing but the deep, sensual pleasure of this heat and rest.
After a long, long while, Attone rose to his feet and stretched himself like a cat, every vertebra in his backbone extending. He put out a peremptory hand to John and spoke in Powhatan. “Come, my brother.”
John looked up, saw the proffered hand and reached up his own to clasp it. Attone pulled him to his feet and for a moment the men stood side by side, hand-clasped, looking deep into each other’s eyes with a measuring, honest look of respect and affection.
Attone led the way out of the sweat lodge. “I have a name for you, your tribal name,” Attone said. “You cannot be John Tradescant any more. You are a brave now.”
John took in the full meaning. So he was accepted. “What shall my name be?” he asked.
“Eagle,” Attone announced.
The grandness of the name caused a murmur of admiration from the other braves at the honor being done to John.
“Eagle?”
“Yes. Because you kill a deer by dropping on it from the sky.”
There was a scream of uncontrollable laughter and the men were clinging to each other for support again, John in the center, Attone with his arms around him. “Eagle!” the braves said. “Mighty hunter!” “He who falls like an eagle without warning!”
They turned and ran down to the river together to wash. The women pulled the smaller children out of the way of the laughing, shouting men. They plunged into the river together and splashed like boys before the celebration of huskanaw. Then Attone caught sight of a shadowy tall figure on the riverbank and straightened up and looked serious.
The werowance was watching them. Attone came out of the river and the men of the hunt followed him. They dried themselves and pulled on clean buckskins and then, when they were all ready, the werowance led the way to the dancing circle and the braves stood before him.