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cuffed Pell brutally to the ground.
    His shout brought other members of the tribe crowding around. They had all looked aside uncomfortably when Pell entered the cave earlier with his injured finger evident . Now they stared in excitement and amazement at his finger. Pont boomed , “ My mixture of the special herbs put his finger back! Does he offer his gratitude? No! "
    Pell opened his mouth to protest again but Tando, the respected hunter who’d lost his own small finger grasped Pell by the shoulder , “ Don 't argue with your healer, boy. Just be glad your finger is better. It may still turn out badly, look how swollen it is."
    Pell stumbled back , holding his finger in his other hand and slurring. “It wasn’t the hemp! I fixed it! I don’t want your ginja poultice either!” The finger was warming up and the feeling was coming back with a vengeance despite the hemp he’d ingested. The finger was throbbing and tingling but Pell somehow felt that that was good. He stumbled over to the pile of leaves and furs where he and his mother slept. There he collapsed and slept .
     
    When Pell awoke the next morning, only the urgency of his bladder dimmed the pain in his finger. It throbbed with each beat of his heart as if he were striking it with a knapping stone. After he had stumbled out of the cave to relieve himself, he quickly began to wish for more hemp. However he was sure that he would be unable to face the healer with a request for the mind addling leaves. He sat a wh ile cradling his injured digit. E ventually he resolved to beg the healer’s forgiveness when he awakened.
    Pont awakened in a surly mood however. He beat Lessa for some offense even before going out to relieve himself. When he returned he immediately began rummaging in his baskets and chewing on a mixture of his herbs.
    Pell considered this a good omen, as Pont chewing on herbs usually became Pont in a good mood. After some time passed, Pell sidled over and, in a timid voice, asked if he could have some more of the hemp.
    “Ha, what is this? Is this the young ginja who proclaimed my medicines useless last night? Get out of here! You’ ll get no more of the blessed hemp!”
    Pont had spoken in the booming voice he cultivated for important ceremonies, so everyone in the cave heard. There was scattered laughter, which brought a flush to Pell’s face, but as he looked around he saw horror on the faces of many in the tribe . Pell realized with dismay that the healer may have sealed his fate as an outcast. He had been worried before because he was a poor throw, and therefore a third -rate hunter. His father had predicted his inferior hunting skills. Pell’s mother had consoled him with stories about how Roley himself had been clumsy until after his adolescent growth spurt . However, a gnawing fear that he would never prove to be an adequate hunter was always yammering in the back of Pell’s skull. Pell’s long dead father couldn’t teach him the secrets of flint knapping, a skill Garen had been so good at that the tribe had kept him despite his small, twisted foot which, in addition to his natural lack of hunting skill, had left him useful only as a beater during large hunts. Pell had tried working some flint in hopes that his father’s gift had somehow passed to him naturally and would blossom without training. Unfortunately, the points Pell had made so far had been no better than the untrained efforts of any of the other tribe members and worse than many . To get good points the Aldans were forced to trade with other tribes at the summer gatherings.
    Other than his mother, Boro was Pell’s only friend. It often seemed as if that friendship was only a result of the fact that Boro’s social standing was as low as Pell’s. Both c lumsy, they were social outcasts bound together by their unspoken fear of becoming ginja. Once Boro and Pell had, in a fit of emotion, pledged to leave the tribe together if either of them were cast out. Pell looked over