Coming of Age and Manhood Theme Analysis

Matt took the watch in his hand as gently as if it were a bird’s egg. “You aim to leave it, Pa?” he asked.

“It belonged to your grandpa. Would’ve belonged to you anyhow sooner or later. Might as well be now.”

“You mean—it’s mine?”

“Aye, it’s yourn. Be kind of company, hearing it tick.”

The lump in Matt’s throat felt as big as the watch. This was the finest thing his father had ever possessed.

“I’ll take care of it,” he managed finally.

“Aye. I knowed you would. Mind you don’t wind it up too tight.”

He was still proud of that gun, but no longer in awe of it. Carrying it over his shoulder, he set out confidently into the forest, venturing farther each day, certain of bringing home a duck or a rabbit for his dinner. For a change of diet he could take his fish pole and follow the twisting course of the creek or walk the trail his father had blazed to a pond some distance away. In no time he could catch all the fish he could eat.

But even if Matt had had it in his hands, could he have held out against those burly arms? And to keep his gun, could he actually have shot a man—even a criminal?

It was only later, when his rage began to die down, that he felt a prickle of fear. Now he had no protection. And no way to get meat. Sick with anger, he sat staring at his row of notched sticks. It would be a month at least before his father returned. A month of nothing but fish! And what would his father say?

Wherever he went now, Matt watched for Indian signs. Sometimes he could not be sure whether a branch had broken in the wind or whether an animal had scratched a queer-shaped mark on a tree trunk. Once or twice he was certain he had discovered the sign of the beaver. It was a game he played with himself. That it was not a game to Attean he was still to learn.

This was noisier than any celebration Matt had ever seen in Quincy, even on Muster Day. Why had he ever had the idea that the Indians were a dull lot?

“Not take me,” he admitted finally. “I not have gun.”

“You’re a good shot with a bow and arrow.”

Attean scowled. “That old way,” he said. “Good for children. Indian hunt now with white man’s gun. Someday my grandfather buy me gun. Need many beaver skins. Beaver not so many now.”

Matt understood now why Attean had defended the beaver dam so fiercely. Was it true that beaver were getting scarce? Matt thought of the village they had just left, how very poor it seemed, how few possessions the Indians could boast. For the first time Matt glimpsed how it might be for them, watching their old hunting grounds taken over by white settlers and by white traders demanding more skins than the woods could provide.

Matt was speechless. He had never dreamed that anything like this lay behind Attean’s carefree life. He had never wondered about Attean’s parents at all, only accepted without question that the boy followed his grandfather and obeyed him.

But to his surprise, deep inside he felt content. Was it because Attean’s dog had finally trusted him? No, more than that had changed. He had passed some sort of test. Not by any means with flying colors; he had plenty of bruises to remind him of that. But at least he had not disgraced Attean. He felt satisfied. And for the first time since his father had left him, he did not feel alone in the forest.

Even though he dreaded that it would mean the end of all their adventures, Matt hoped that Attean would find his manitou.

He was proud that they had wanted him to live with them. But he knew that he could never be really proud, as Attean was proud, of being a hunter. He belonged to his own people. He was bound to his own family, as Attean was bound to his grandfather. The thought he might never see his mother again was sharper than hunger or loneliness. This was the land his father had cleared to make a home for them all. It was his own land, too. He could not run away.

“This land,” he said slowly, “this place where my father built his cabin. Did it belong to your grandfather? Did he own it once?”

“How one man own ground?” Attean questioned.

“Well, my father owns it now. He bought it.”

“I not understand.” Attean scowled. “How can man own land? Land same as air. Land for all people to live on. For beaver and deer. Does deer own land?”

How could you explain, Matt wondered, to someone who did not want to understand? Somewhere in the back of his mind there was a sudden suspicion that Attean was making sense and he was not. It was better not to talk about it.

His father would never understand. Before he could think about it another minute, Matt hurried back to where Attean stood waiting.

“I have a gift for you,” he said. “It tells the time of day. I’ll show you how to wind it up.”

Attean held the watch even more carefully. There was no mistaking that he was pleased and impressed. Probably, Matt thought, Attean would never learn to use it. The sun and the shadows of the trees told him all he needed to know about the time of day. But Attean knew that Matt’s gift was important.

“Fine gift,” he said.

“You’ve done a grown man’s job, son,” he said. “I’m right proud of you.”

Matt could not speak. It took his breath away to think that he might have gone with the Indians, that they might have come to an empty cabin and found that all his mother’s fears had come true. He would never have heard the words his father had just spoken. This was how Attean had felt, he knew, when he had found his manitou and became a hunter.