The ladies stared in silence at his sculpture. Some of them moved, to study it from another angle. Kiti knew that the workmanship of his sculpture was exceptionally good, and that the sheer size of it was audacious. He felt the clay fever stirring within him, and all the ladies looked beautiful to him. He saw their skeptical expressions with dread-he longed now for them to choose him.
Finally the silence was broken, "What is this supposed to be?" whispered a lady. Kiti looked for the voice. It was Upua, a lady who had never married and who, in some years, had not even mated. It gave her a reputation for being arrogant, the hardest of the ladies to please. Of course she would be the lady who would interrogate him in front of all the others.
"It grew under my hands," he said, not daring to tell them what it really was.
"Everyone thought that you would do honor to your otherself," said another lady, emboldened by Upua's disdainful question.
The hardest question. He dared not dodge it. Did he dare to tell the truth? "I meant to, but it was also my own face, and I wasn't worthy to have my face sculpted in the clay."
There was a murmur at that. Some thought that was a stupid reason; some thought it was deceptive; some gave it thought.
Finally the ladies began deciding. "Not for me." "Ugly." "Very odd." "Interesting." Whatever their comment, they took flight, rising up and circling, drifting toward the branches of the nearest trees. The men, no doubt feeling quite triumphant at the complete rejection of the supposedly talented Kiti, joined them there.
At last only Kiti and Upua remained upon the river-bank.
"I know what this is," said Upua.
Kiti dared not answer.
"This is the head of an Old One," she said.
Her voice carried to the ladies and men in the branches.