People of the Thunder(40)

“I see.” Flying Hawk glanced across at Burnt Hand. “Is that correct?”

“Yes, High Minko.” Burnt Hand made a gesture, and Flying Hawk could see the scar tissue on his left hand for which he’d received his name. “The trouble is that now he wants it back.”

“No,” Fine Clay insisted. “I don’t. The Clan does. They say it’s theirs.”

Flying Hawk looked at Vinegaroon, who pointed to Black Tail, the Hawk Clan chief who had sat quietly so far.

Black Tail sighed, and rose to his feet. “High Minko, Fine Clay is a member of the clan. He knows that what we make is unique. Of course, any simpleton can craft a pot. We offer the finest pottery available. We do not dispute that Fine Clay made the journey on his own to find the stone for his mold. He put days of labor into grinding it to the shape he wanted.”

“I didn’t like the way the jars looked when I was finished,” Fine Clay muttered. “Then, when Burnt Hand saw the finished jar, he liked it. I Traded my mold to Burnt Hand for seven white shell-bead necklaces.”

“And where are the necklaces now?”

Fine Clay spread his hands wide. “They were a gift to Redbud’s family.” At Flying Hawk’s raised eyebrow, Fine Clay added, “She’s a Crawfish Clan woman. My wife. The seven necklaces were a wedding gift.”

Flying Hawk nodded. The seven necklaces were now scattered far and wide, having been distributed to who knew where among the woman’s relatives. “So Hawk Clan wants the mold back, but ownership of the mold is at question.”

Black Tail shifted uncomfortably. “High Minko, Fine Clay knew perfectly well that any mold he made would become property of the clan. That is our way.”

“But no one liked the finished jars that came out of the mold!” Fine Clay protested. “I didn’t even like them. The balance was wrong, the neck too high and thin. They were”—he made a face—“ugly!”

Flying Hawk sighed. “If no one liked the way the jars looked, why does anyone care if Fine Clay Traded off the mold?”

“Because,” Blood Skull interjected, “Burnt Hand gave the mold to his cousin in High Town. Now she’s making jars on the mold. Her jars are being Traded up and down the river. When we sent a runner to ask if she’d give the mold back, she said no. It was hers now.”

Flying Hawk shot a look at Black Tail. “You’re telling me that now this woman is making jars, and you want the mold back?”

“That is correct, High Minko. It wasn’t Fine Clay’s to part with in the first place. The mold belongs to the clan.”

“Even if you don’t like them.”

“Even then.” Black Tail crossed his arms.

Flying Hawk leaned back on his stool and straightened his leg to ease the pain in his knee. “Fine Clay, did you ask anyone if you could Trade the mold?”

The man stiffened indignantly. “Why should I? It was my mold. I made it myself. I got the stone for it. I collected the sand, did the grinding. My clan did none of that labor. Worse, when I finished it, they made fun of the jars.”

“They were ugly jars,” Black Tail insisted.

Flying Hawk turned to Blood Skull. “You say the jars are in demand now?”

The warrior spread his arms helplessly. “People seem to like them. They are being Traded up and down the river. The workmanship is good, and while they tend to tip over easily, they are different enough that they stand out.”

Flying Hawk considered the claims. “Very well, it will be settled this way. The mold will be returned to Hawk Clan.”

“What?” Fine Clay cried. “Why?”

Flying Hawk gave him a narrow-eyed squint. “Because you are a member of your clan. You may have quarried and shaped the stone molds, but your clan taught you the skills. I don’t care that they didn’t like the jars that came from it. From now on, when you make something, you owe part of that skill to the people who taught you the craft.” Then he pointed to Black Tail. “Hawk Clan, however, will send seven strings of quality white shell beads to Burnt Hand in repayment of the Trade. And as to Burnt Hand’s cousin, Hawk Clan will send her all the jars she wants, made from those very same molds. In return, you will receive a tenth part of all her Trade.”

Black Tail threw his hands up. “Why give her anything?”

“Because,” Flying Hawk growled, “they are your molds, but you didn’t like the jars. Burnt Hand’s cousin, on the other hand, realized that people liked them. For that, she is to be rewarded. The tenth part of her Trade is to pay you back for the labor of making her jars.”