The four famous clans of Amadahai, its ladies and their sons, gathered together in the common hall of what people knew as "the palatial district". The core of the palace had overgrown the square, ring-like shape as new additions were built along the perimeter through the years. The symmetry of the structure was broken to accomodate the growing clans – and their growing entourage.

Half of the morning had already gone by, but the common hall was lit with oil candles and the glow of a central brazier: the sky outside was flat and grey, and whichever light filtered from the courtyard and the high windows on the outer walls of the palace were not enough to illuminate the faces of the clanpeople. They had taken their places on the ground, each kneeling on a soft cushion filled with cattail fluff, and would go on discussing as the morning went on.

The neighbouring village, Pabarha by the pond-of-many-lotuses, had refused to repay their debt. Two years before, the clans of Amadahai had come to their aid and provided them with plentiful rôdo in times of need; when the time came to hold their part of the bargain, however, they sent an empty-handed emissary with words of regret, conveying their intention to break the contract.

The youngest of the mothers present unfurled a thin stretch of birchbark where the two parties had impressed their promises, marked by five symbols. On top, was the picture of an empty granary, Pabarha's most pressing issue at the time. Below, their two choices: an empty granary and a farmhand working the fields or a full granary and a man at rest. At the bottom, two sigils representing the two parties participating in the exchange: the lotuses that gave their name to Pabarha, the village of the perjurers, and a bull atop a pecan tree, mythical symbol of Amadahai.

"When I drew those symbols," The matriarch said, as she passed the scroll around for all to see, "The terms of our exchange were no less clear than they are today. We saved Pabarha from a failed harvest: in return they had to either return the rôdo as soon as they could or would provide a number of farmhands to our city, for the entire period of their indebtedness." It was a fair exchange and, for a time, Pabarha had consented.

The farmhands were sent to Amadahai and they had soon proved themselves to be a profitable investment. They lived in wooden houses appositely built near the paddies and returned to their village every half moon to visit their wives and their families. That arrangement had continued for little more than a year. "The farmhands left four days ago and have not returned to their work – instead, what do we find? A young emissary has come in their stead, demanding Pabarha be allowed to forego her promises." The birchbark sheet had made the rounds amongst the reunited clanpeople and returned to her. "I ask the other mothers leave."

They women silently consented and the youngest, the writer of the contract, threw the birchbark onto the brazier. The mothers had forfeited their right to be a part of that conversation and, from then on, it would be the sons, not the mothers, to hold the first and last word. The clan had no other choice: promises had been forgotten, debts had not been repaid and that intricate tangle of promises, favours, debts and credits could be put in grave danger by such a simple refusal.

It did not happen often that the men gathered inside the high house took decisions without words of approval or lamentations from the elder women of the clans. It had never happened for Cebecajamân, a man who had not lived through his sixteenth year of age and was only recently invited to sit at the councils as one of the leaders nephews. He sat straight and looked around him as the tower of smoke emitted from the burning birchbark dissolved before them. Wordlessly, the women left the room.

For a moment, the men remained silent, reflecting on the weight of that moment – that meant war was the next solution, the only solution. Phazjedjei, Cebecajamân's uncle took his stick and his pipe, which was hidden in a pouch tied under his cape, and began smoking. The others followed his example. Six men, three uncles and three nephews, reflected and smoked. There would be a precise order to how they would speak and, as the youngest man admitted to that assembly, Cebecajamân would go first.

He cleared his throat – the pipe was still a little too much for him – and gathered the courage to speak: "Does... does that means we will have to kill them?"

_____

There were few places kinder than Amadahai on a spring morning. The sun would tickle the surface of the lake, then rise high – but never too hot – to the top of the sky. Those were the sweetest hours: the bright light streamed in like metal from Kamābarha, the same brassy copper that covered the points of Cebecajamân's arrows.

He was counting them, one by one, making sure his quiver was full and none of his precious arrows had been lost since his last tally. Most of the other men in his band would have stone arrowheads, others red copper, but that fine orange-gold one was destined only for Cebecajamân and the other clan-men, their leaders. No arrow was missing, so he took his quiver of woven cattail stalks, his bow and walked to meet the other men. As he passed under the passion fruit tree outside his home, he marvelled at the irony of life: preparing an attack as nature bloomed so beautifully.

He met them at the edge of the city, beyond the mound, where the groves began. Saying "a full unit of men" was something, but seeing them in person, each with his own quiver and bow, each with a straw, padded coat, was rather impressive. He greeted them with respect as he walked over the field to join the other members of his clan. There were three leaders for the attack, Cebecajamân was the youngest, but by far the best shot; then, there was Jajabadojôho, his cousin who was very quick and nimble, and Ineme, a young uncle who belonged to their same generation and who was well respected by the other men. He knew very little of the other men. There were some minor clanmen, children of true clanmen who had no claim to leadership: they often were better warriors, as they had much spare time and filled their days with pigeon hunts and competitions – Cebecajamân, was very envious about that; then, there were young men from the city: the son of the fisherman, the nephew of the butcher, the cousin of the man who sold the best preserves at the market; the rest were farmers who normally tended orchards or paddies and had been called to lend their bows to fight for the honour of their leaders. The best amongst them had been selected, and a hundred forty four good men would be more than enough to put a stop to Pabarha's defiance and dishonesty. As their Kabaima brought them pouches filled with crabapple sâna, the first spring wine, the three discussed the possibilities of a true battle.

"They are going to surrender immediately." Ineme said. There was no sign of worry or doubt on his face. He cocked an arrow absent mindedly as he spoke. "Then, we will either take the grain we need or bring them to the mothers and make a new contract." Swoosh! The arrow hit the the tree before them, which had been coloured with ochre to mark the height of a man. If that tree was a man, Ineme had hit his shoulder.

"I don't know, Ineme," Said Jajabadojôho, "They have the men, and the village is marshy all around and protected, on a hill."

"They do not have the number Cijajabo, and, considering they are not sending the grain they owe, they must be in dire straits – mother said so."

"Even then, they are proud people. They will not surrender without a fight. Cicebe," He said, turning towards the youngest, whose thoughts were rushin in hundreds of different directions and had been very quiet until that moment. "What do you think?"

He looked at his cousin, unsure about what he would say. Something strange and horrible was happening inside of Cebecajamân. Half of his soul dreaded the impending battle, and hoped that the young man facing them, from above the hill, would see how many they were and set down their weapons; his other half, however, had an ardent desire to be tested, to win, to prove himself before the mothers. He was a good shot – a great shot, in fact – and would stop at nothing in the face of danger. He wanted to fight, he wanted to stop his enemies from fooling the mothers of his clan – was that a bad thing? They said men were more impulsive than women, Always ready to fight rather than to discuss, and that the way of the mothers was the most virtuous. But Cebecajamân was a man, and there was little he could do about it.

He cocked his brass arrow and shot it across the field to hit the same tree his uncle had hit before him. His arrow burrowed into the wood just above the other one, where Ineme had intended to hit: the middle of the man-tree's head.

"Either way, I'm ready."

_____

They attacked immediately after sundown. They moved silently through the forest first, getting more and more quiet as the presence of the city became more noticeable. As they hid in the forest waiting for the right moment to strike, hearing the low voices of the Pabarhans, smelling the smoke of their fires, the fragrances of their dinners, Cebecajamân's heart pounded like never before.

"The heart of the fearful and a pigeon by the river..."

The battle ended before it could become too bloody, but Cebecajamân killed his first man that night. He would remember that blood he spilled forever, necessary blood, to remind everyone of the honour of his house, the honour of the promises the famous clans of Amadahai presided over – an honour he'd defend until his last day.