Resolution: Selection of a Mate for a Feisty Daughter
So, the King went in the house and reasoned with the chief men. The people on the outside began to talk too. Some said don't give the gal to none of them; it is the only thing to do. Others said the one who caught the bull deserved the gal. Some more said it's not fair: look at how the young gal and the little brother love each other. The gal didn't say a word. She just looked up at the big brother all wrapped up in a bloody bullskin with flies crawling all on it and started to cry.
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The audience began to argue. The older people said nothing. (Some in the audience thought the elders knew the answer. But there usually was no "answer" to these riddles. The same problem, depending on the mood of the audience or the emphasis of the individual storyteller in outlining the situation, frequently found different consensus with each telling.) The young women and girls felt the choice should be the girls. The storyteller said it was the father's responsibility to decide. The argument continued. Identifying with strength and success, the young men argued for the older brother.
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After a while, the storyteller told what happened:
After a lengthy consultation the father came back and addressed the three. He told the daughter to cease weeping and to remember that it was her haughtiness and foolish pride that had brought them to this predicament. Then he addressed the brothers. He told them that the entire town was impressed with their worth and valor. The younger one had chased the animal longer than anyone else. Thus, they knew that he was strong, determined and he loved their daughter. But, having subjected himself to great hardship and finding himself in distress and without hope of success, he had turned back, as who wouldn't? Thus, he had proved himself to be human, with human failings. But, in turning back, he had not completed the task, and had, therefore, failed.
The older brother on the other hand would not accept defeat. With a fanatic single mindedness, no doubt inspired by love, and with a strength and endurance that was greater than anything in living memory, he had persisted and ultimately succeeded, nearly killing himself in the process. It was a deed that would live forever in legend and song, bring perpetual credit to his name and the memory of his fathers. Here, the father took up a bag of money and, as though at a signal, his young men—armed with machetes—casually drew near. He told the victorious brother, to take it and leave immediately and never return, for a man like him, loved strongly and hated even more so. He had demonstrated that once his mind was set on an idea no suffering, privation, not even death itself would sway him. It was awesome but it was inhuman. Every married couple had their fights; every family their disagreements. If the King gave his daughter to him, he would live in fear for her safety and worse, would know that there was no reasoning with him.
On the other hand, the younger brother was a man like them—brave enough but with limitations and frailties. Such a one could be lived with, but there was no living with a man whose will knew neither fear nor limits. He should take his money and his fame and go his way. The elder brother sprang to his feet, looked at the young men's machetes, at the bag of money, and at the weeping girl. Without a word, he left, taking nothing but the bloody hide.
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Again, there was silence. Then an old man spoke. "It's truth the man talk ya know, the living truth." The older people nodded their heads in agreement and a murmur of assent rose up. Age had taught them that a spirit of compromise, to bite one's tongue, to "take low," to be flexible, was the most important quality that life taught if one was to live in human society.
A young teenage boy in the audience was on his feet; inarticulate and stuttering from his sense of outraged justice. His fury was focused on the storyteller, who regarded him with a tolerant smile. "That's wrong…you're a wicked man. That's not justice."
"Ah, my son," the storyteller said. "You are young but you will see. If you were a king or a father you would see different. Justice is not a straight thing you know. It's a crooked and curvy thing. It has to twist and turn and bend up—here he made a sinuous, twisting motion with his pipe—"to get to where it must get to."
Then, a grandfatherly man spoke: "Sit down and cool your temper, young boy, it's only a story."