“True,” said Dimi. “You’re right. We haven’t got a hope. But let’s go and search anyhow. So at least we’ll know we tried and failed.” As he said this, he looked to Fima like a pocket-sized edition of his self-possessed, rational father. Even his intonation was a reflection of Ted’s: the quiet voice of a well-balanced, solitary man. Dimi wiped his glasses as he added: “Tslil’s family are also to blame. Why did they go abroad and leave their dog behind when he was sick? They could have taken him. They could have made some arrangements for him at least. Why did they throw him out on the trash heap like that? The Cherokees have a law that you mustn’t throw anything away. Even a broken pot they keep in the wigwam. Anything you’ve ever used you mustn’t get rid of. It might still need you. They even have a sort of ten commandments, or less than ten, and the first one is, Thou shalt not throw out. I have a chest in the storeroom full of toys from when I was so high. They’re always shouting at me to throw them out, who needs them, they just take up space, they’re just gathering dust, but I don’t agree. ‘Throwing away is like killing,’ said Snow Daughter to Whispering Wind Lake, tightening her delicate fingers round the wolfstone.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a story about a Cherokee girl. Whispering Wind Lake was the chief of the banished tribe.”

“Tell me.”