He stood for a long time outside the house， and at last the ceremonies within were finished. The door opened； they came out. Kothlu came first， his right hand out-stretched and tightly closed， as though over some precious jewel. Her clenched hand similarly outstretched， Kiakimé followed. They walked in silence， and in silence， behind them， came the brothers and sisters and cousins and all the troop of old people.
They walked out of the pueblo， across the mesa. At the edge of the clid they halted， facing the early morning sun. Kothlu opened his hand. A pinch of corn meal lay white on the palm； he breathed on it， murmured a few words， then threw it， a handful of white dust， towards the sun. Kiakimé did the same. Then Khakimé’s father stepped forward， and holding up a feathered prayer stick， made a long prayer， then threw the stick after the corn meal.
“It is finished，” said old Mitsima in a loud voice. “They are married.”
“Well，” said Linda， as they turned away， “all I can say is， it does seem a lot of fuss to make about so little. In civilized countries， when a boy wants to have a girl， he just…But where are you going， John？”
He paid no attention to her calling， but ran on， away， away， anywhere to be by himself.
It is finished Old Mitsima’s words repeated themselves in his mind. Finished， finished…In silence and frum a long way off， but violently， desperately， hopelessly， he had loved Kiakimé. And now it was finished. He was sixteen.
At the full moon， in the Antelope Kiva， secrets would be told， secrets would be done and borne. They woud go down， boys， into the kiva and come out again， men. The boys were all afraid and at the same time impatient. And at last it was the day. The sun went down， the moon rose. He went with the others. Men were standing， dark， at the entrance to the kiva； the ladder went down into the red lighted depths. Already the leading boys had begun to climb down. Suddenly， one of the men stepped forward， caught him by the arm， and pulled him out of the ranks. He broke free and dodged back into his place among the others. This time the man struck him， pulled his hair. “Not for you， white-hair！” “Not for the son of the she-dog，” said one of the other men. The boys laughed. “Go！” And as he still hovered on the fringes of the group， “Go！” the men shouted again. One of them bent down， took a stone， threw it. “Go， go， go！” There was a shower of stones. Bleeding， he ran away into the darkness. From the red-lit kiva came the noise of singing. The last of the boys had climbed down the ladder. He was all alone.
All alone， outside the pueblo， on the bare plain of the mesa. The rock was like bleached bones in the moonlight. Down in the valley， the coyotes were howling at the moon. The bruises hurt him， the cuts were still bleeding； but it was not for pain that he sobbed； it was because he was all alone， because he had been driven out， alone， into this skeleton world of rocks and moonlight. At the edge of the precipice he sat down. The moon was behind him； he looked down into the black shadow of the mesa， into the black shadow of death. He had only to take one step， one little jump.…He held out his right hand in the moonlight. From the cut on his wrist the blood was still oozing. Every few seconds a drop fell， dark， almost colourless in the dead light. Drop， drop， drop. To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow…
He had discovered Time and Death and God.
“Alone， always alone，” the young man was saying.
The words awoke a plaintive echo in Bernard’s mind. Alone， alone…“So am I，” he said， on a gush of confidingness. “Terribly alone.”
“Are you？” John looked surprised. “I thought that in the Other Place…I mean， Linda always said that nobody was ever alone there.”
