"I do know," said Mara. "I learned about how to mate animals."

"That would come in useful, to give orders to your slaves."

"Please," said Mara, "please."

"Bring your animal. But you must come alone. I'm not dealing with that old bag Daima. Alone, do you hear?"

Mara was angry that he'd called Daima an old bag, but she made herself smile. "Thank you," she said.

"And if the kid turns out to be male, I shall have it."

"Oh, thank you, thank you — " and she ran off.

She told Daima what she had done, and Daima caught her hand to her heart and had to sit down. "Mara," she said, "Mara... That was so dangerous. I've known Kulik kill someone who stood up to him."

"What is a Mahondi?"

"We are Mahondis. The People are Mahondis. Did he call you a Mahondi? Well, you are one. And me. And Dann."

"And he wants the kid if it is male. That means, we can keep it if it is female and have milk from her when she grows up."

"There are too many females," said Daima. "We can't feed what we have. He wants another male because his is old and he can keep control of who has milk and who doesn't."

"Perhaps Mishka will have twins."

"Don't wish for that. We would have to kill one. How could we keep them fed? You know yourself how hard it is to find food for them."

When Daima said that Mishka was ready, Mara put the rope around her horns and went through the houses to where the men sat.

She stood in front of Kulik with the beast and said, "Here is Mishka. I've come by myself, as you said."

"What makes you think I haven't changed my mind?" said Kulik, and went on grinning there, a long time, to keep her afraid in case he had changed his mind.

"You promised," said Mara at last, not crying, for she was determined not to.

"Very well, you come with me."

He got up, in his heavy, slow way — like an animal that has decided to tread all over you, Mara thought — and went towards the enclosure where his male milk beast was, all by itself. Mishka began to jump and rush about at the end of her rope.

Kulik turned his head to grin back and say, "Can't wait for it, can she? — you are all the same."

Mara had no idea what he meant.

At the entrance to the enclosure, which was a small one — just room for one animal and a bit over — he slid back a bar and pushed in Mishka, and then picked up Mara and lifted her over so that she was among the legs and the horns. Then he leaned his arms on the wooden rail, grinning, and watched while Mara dodged about, as the big male beast nudged and pushed and edged Mishka into position, and she sidled and evaded, and came back and all the time those great hooves were missing Mara by inches. Along the fence of the enclosure now were the men, standing there grinning and hoping that Mara would get a hard kick, or a poke from one of those sharp horns. It seemed to go on for a long time, the pushing and shoving in the enclosure, and Mara tried to get out through the rails of the fence; but the men pushed her back in, and this time she was just under Mishka's head. The male was on Mishka's back now and pushing Mishka down, but she was trying not to hurt Mara, keeping her head and shoulders away from the girl. At last it was done. The two beasts stood clear of each other. Mara was trembling so that she could hardly stand, and she felt her pee running down her legs. But she got the rope around Mishka's horns and stood with her at the place where the opening was. For a good long while Kulik did not take his arms from where they lay on the rail. Then he moved back, lifted off the rail and stood aside. Mara led Mishka out. She did not look at Kulik or at the other men, who were standing there grinning and pleased with themselves.

"Remember, it's mine if it's a male," said Kulik.

"I promise," said Mara.

"She promises," said the men to each other, in copies of her little voice, but lisping and silly, not as she spoke.

She took Mishka back to her place near the others, and stood for a time with her arms around one of the big front legs, because she could not reach any higher; and Mishka put down her soft muzzle and licked Mara's sweaty, dusty neck for the salt.

Then she went to Daima and told her. Daima only sat with her head on her old hand at the table and listened.

"Well, let's hope she takes," she said. And Mishka did "take": she was pregnant and she gave birth to a male. Dann could hardly be got away from Mishka and her kid. He adored the little beast, which would look out for Dann, who brought it bits of green he found in the grass, or a slice of the yellow root.

Mara said, "Don't love that little beast so much, because we can't keep him."

And Daima said, "That's right. He must know what the world is like." "Perhaps it won't always be like this," said Mara.

And then the beast, which Dann called Dann, was taken away by Kulik, who chased Dann off and said, "I'm not having any Mahondi brats, get away."

Dann could not understand what had happened. He sat silent, puzzled, full of grief; but then it seemed some sort of change took place in him. "I hate Kulik," he said, but not like a little boy. "One day I'll kill him." And he didn't cry. His face was narrow and tight and suspicious and hard. He was not yet five years old.

On the low hill overlooking the village was a tall rock, precipitous on three sides and sloping steeply on the village side. There on the top of it sat Mara, looking down at a group of half a dozen boys playing a game of fighting with sticks. Dann was taller than any of them, though he was younger than some, at ten years old, and he was a quick, always watchful child, who dominated them all. Mara was almost grown, with her little bumps of breasts, and she was tall and thin and wiry, and could run faster than the boys, which she had learned to do from having so often to rescue Dann from danger. He seemed to have been born without a sense of self-preservation: would leap off a rock or a roof without looking to see where he was going to land, walk up to a big hissing dragon, jump into a pool without checking if there were stingers or a water dragon. But he was much better, and that was why Mara was up here, watching quite idly, not anxious and on guard as she had been every minute of her days and nights. Only recently had she understood that her long watch was over. She had been strolling from the hill to the village, listening to the singing beetles and her own thoughts, when she had seen Dann rushing towards her with a stick, then past her, and she had whirled to see him attacking a dragon that was following her.

"You should be more careful, Mara," he had chided, and not at all as if he were mimicking her constant, Be careful, do be careful, Dann.

She had gone in to Daima and told her, and the two had wept and laughed in each other's arms for the wonderful ludicrousness of it. And Daima had said, "Congratulations, Mara. You've done it. You've brought him through."

This was her favourite place. Nobody came up here: not Dann, who liked to be always rushing about; not Daima, who was too old and stiff; not the villagers, who said it was full of ghosts. Mara had been here at all times of the day, and at night too, and had never seen or heard ghosts. The danger was the dragons, who were so hungry they would eat anything. That is why she sat on a rock that on three sides they could not climb up, while in front she could slide down on her bottom and be off as soon as she heard the angry hissing. Or she could wait up here, safe, throwing stones down at the dragons if they showed signs of climbing up. This rock rose out of a tumbling and piling of small, rocky hills, full of clefts and crevices where bushes and trees grew, and caves and cliffs and pits that were old traps, and in some places heaps of old walls and roofs. When she had played the What Did You See? game with Daima, she liked best to do this hill, because she was always finding new things.