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.

‘Did the man who wants Suckahanna kill his deer?’ the werowance asked in their own language.

There was a moment’s complete consternation.

‘We brought three deer home,’ Attone said smoothly. ‘A fine day’s kill, and the man who wants Suckahanna was at my shoulder the whole day. He did not hang back, he did not fail, he did not tire. He planned the hunt and his plan was a good one. It drove the deer to the river and we killed three.’

‘Which one did he kill?’ the werowance asked.

Attone fell silent.

‘We could have killed none without his plan,’ one of the other men volunteered. ‘He saw that we could drive them to the river. He showed us the way.’

The werowance nodded leisurely as if he were prepared to spend all night on this inquisition. ‘And which did he kill?’ he asked. ‘One of the bucks? The doe?’

John, following this interrogation as well as he could, understood that the hunters could not conceal his failure. He felt a great wave of disappointment wash through him: that the hunt and the laughter and his naming should all come to nothing because an old man, old enough to be his father, should stick to the letter of the law. He thought that the way of a brave would be to acknowledge his failure, like a man, and then walk away from the village and never look back. He stepped forwards, he opened his mouth to speak. He took a moment to think of the word which meant defeat in Powhatan and realised that he did not know one. Perhaps there was no word for defeat in Powhatan. He framed a sentence with the words he did know. Something like – ‘I have not killed. I cannot marry.’

‘Yes?’ The werowance invited him to speak.

There was a cry from the women at the edge of the dancing circle.

‘Whose deer is this?’ someone asked.

A woman came towards them. She had hold of the front legs of a deer and was dragging it towards them. From the loll of the head it was clear that the neck was broken.

‘That’s my deer!’ John exclaimed. He hammered Attone on the shoulder. ‘That’s my deer!’ He ran towards the woman and took the delicate legs from her hands. ‘This is my deer! My deer!’

‘I found it at the river’s edge,’ she said. ‘It had been washed downriver. But it had not been in the water long.’

‘The Eagle killed it!’ Attone announced. At once there was a ripple of laughter from the braves. The werowance shot a quick sharp look around them.