The boy looked at the body of the young man he had just killed. He knelt and withdrew his skinning knife from its sheath. Retrieving the whetstone from its holder, he whispered a prayer to the Skinner, then honed the blade as his father had taught him. He restored the stone and set to work.

The tribe watched from the edge of the circle as the blade twisted and flashed. The boy’s hands quickly became slick with blood, but his hold on the knife was secure: he would make no mistakes. Except for the occasional tug, the skin peeled back easily from the muscles.

His father took position behind the boy, who had never seen his father stand straighter or taller than he was now. The boy stood as the chief approached.

In a voice clear enough to be heard by the entire tribe, the chief proclaimed, “You are no longer a boy. You are a man among us now. A taker of life. A skinner.” He gestured to the corpse. "Take his skin, his weapons, his valuables and his place. What was his is now yours by rite of combat.”