high overhead and let the heart’s blood run down your arms. After that, when you fight, you will paint yourself with owl’s blood where it runs on your arms.
“You will cut off the owl’s feet,” he went on, “and tie one on each upper arm, between the chest and arm, claws into the arm.”
Web understood that he was being given the power to grip strongly.
“You will take the heart and the skin and keep them in a bundle.”
Web knew that if he lost the bundle, he would not only lose the power but also would become crippled or otherwise handicapped.
Owl began once more to sing the song:
Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,
Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,
Coming to me through pieces of light and dark.
He did the dance, weaving, hopping, fluttering his wings, going up the gully, back to the south, the home of the Owl. The moment he flapped his wings and lifted off the earth, Web saw him no more.
Seemingly, without lying down, sitting down, or even falling down, Web passed into a restful sleep, free of dreams.
Chapter Nine
Flare eyeballed it. He wondered why the others didn’t see it. He always wondered. The wondering stirred him to high-flown thoughts. The mission folk kept their heads so high in the sky, hunting for Truth, that they couldn’t see what was around them. Which was a bleedin’ horse with a bleedin’ saddle and. no rider standing a couple of hundred yards out.
To Flare the missionaries were a source of infinite variety and amusement.
The saddle was Indian. Flare couldn’t see what tribe it was this far away. But it meant trouble for some poor critter.
He looked around. They were all jawing away, as usual. Their eyes must be on heaven, ’cause they surely weren’t on earth. Mother of God, you run from the Holy Church in Ireland and get caught by Protestants in the deserts of the New World.
Funnier yet: There was no God in this forsaken country, that was clear enough. And Michael Devin O’Flaherty, who’d spent his life getting away from God-ridden people, who’d left civilization to live among the pagans, was bringing Jehovah to the country, in the form of superstition-bound missionaries. Mother of God, but it was rich.
He looked at Miss Jewel, who had some sense to go with her fine, plump bottom and fine, rounded bosom. Which made him want to get her into his blankets and jolly her good. He smiled ironically. Faint hope of that, me lad. She was discussing the doctrine of transubstantiation with Dr. Full.
He nodded slightly at her. “Miss Jewel, I’m going to get that horse.” Don’t explain, just inform.
She looked, saw. “Yes, Mr. O’Flaherty. Of course.”
She probably didn’t see the saddle. Well, it wouldn’t do its owner any good anymore. But it would tell a story. And someone would want to know.
Miss Jewel stopped her horse. Flare would never quite get over her forked there on the saddle—he’d seen no other white woman do that. The whole party stopped, wondering what was on the mind of the guide who pushed and pushed and never let them stop. He reined away and walked his horse. No sense spooking the lost critter.
Funny, though. The lost critter didn’t act spooked. Waggled its head back and forth, making the reins flip about. Trotted a few yards. Stopped and looked back at Flare. Trotted again, looked back, trotted. Finally headed for that gully.
“What do we have here?” asked Dr. Fool.
Flare just let it sit.
“A fallen child of nature, to be sure,” said Dr. Fool. “But aren’t they all fallen?”
He knelt over the boy and started mumbling. Over the weeks of the trip Dr. Full had become pure fool to Flare. Or sometimes Flare called him Dr. Full-of-Himself. Like the Brits, fundamentally not worth thinking about.
But Flare was not amused by Dr. Fool’s officiousness now. Time to do some doctoring.
The boy had a broke leg. Maybe Dr. Fool could set it and save the lad’s life. If they could get enough water in him in time, and fever didn’t get him. If Dr. Full
“You will cut off the owl’s feet,” he went on, “and tie one on each upper arm, between the chest and arm, claws into the arm.”
Web understood that he was being given the power to grip strongly.
“You will take the heart and the skin and keep them in a bundle.”
Web knew that if he lost the bundle, he would not only lose the power but also would become crippled or otherwise handicapped.
Owl began once more to sing the song:
Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,
Mom-pittseh, Mom-pittseh,
Coming to me through pieces of light and dark.
He did the dance, weaving, hopping, fluttering his wings, going up the gully, back to the south, the home of the Owl. The moment he flapped his wings and lifted off the earth, Web saw him no more.
Seemingly, without lying down, sitting down, or even falling down, Web passed into a restful sleep, free of dreams.
Chapter Nine
Flare eyeballed it. He wondered why the others didn’t see it. He always wondered. The wondering stirred him to high-flown thoughts. The mission folk kept their heads so high in the sky, hunting for Truth, that they couldn’t see what was around them. Which was a bleedin’ horse with a bleedin’ saddle and. no rider standing a couple of hundred yards out.
To Flare the missionaries were a source of infinite variety and amusement.
The saddle was Indian. Flare couldn’t see what tribe it was this far away. But it meant trouble for some poor critter.
He looked around. They were all jawing away, as usual. Their eyes must be on heaven, ’cause they surely weren’t on earth. Mother of God, you run from the Holy Church in Ireland and get caught by Protestants in the deserts of the New World.
Funnier yet: There was no God in this forsaken country, that was clear enough. And Michael Devin O’Flaherty, who’d spent his life getting away from God-ridden people, who’d left civilization to live among the pagans, was bringing Jehovah to the country, in the form of superstition-bound missionaries. Mother of God, but it was rich.
He looked at Miss Jewel, who had some sense to go with her fine, plump bottom and fine, rounded bosom. Which made him want to get her into his blankets and jolly her good. He smiled ironically. Faint hope of that, me lad. She was discussing the doctrine of transubstantiation with Dr. Full.
He nodded slightly at her. “Miss Jewel, I’m going to get that horse.” Don’t explain, just inform.
She looked, saw. “Yes, Mr. O’Flaherty. Of course.”
She probably didn’t see the saddle. Well, it wouldn’t do its owner any good anymore. But it would tell a story. And someone would want to know.
Miss Jewel stopped her horse. Flare would never quite get over her forked there on the saddle—he’d seen no other white woman do that. The whole party stopped, wondering what was on the mind of the guide who pushed and pushed and never let them stop. He reined away and walked his horse. No sense spooking the lost critter.
Funny, though. The lost critter didn’t act spooked. Waggled its head back and forth, making the reins flip about. Trotted a few yards. Stopped and looked back at Flare. Trotted again, looked back, trotted. Finally headed for that gully.
“What do we have here?” asked Dr. Fool.
Flare just let it sit.
“A fallen child of nature, to be sure,” said Dr. Fool. “But aren’t they all fallen?”
He knelt over the boy and started mumbling. Over the weeks of the trip Dr. Full had become pure fool to Flare. Or sometimes Flare called him Dr. Full-of-Himself. Like the Brits, fundamentally not worth thinking about.
But Flare was not amused by Dr. Fool’s officiousness now. Time to do some doctoring.
The boy had a broke leg. Maybe Dr. Fool could set it and save the lad’s life. If they could get enough water in him in time, and fever didn’t get him. If Dr. Full
Similar Books
