Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 Read Online Free Page A

Phillip reached over and laid his hand on the
leather-bound Bible that rested on his desk like a silent guardian. Isn't there
anything of me in him?
                  

TWO

                   Mankind are so much the same, in all times and
places, that history informs us of nothing new or strange in this particular.
Its chief use is only to discover the constant and universal principles of
human nature, by showing men in all varieties of circumstances and situations,
and furnishing us with materials from which we may form our observations and
become acquainted with the regular springs of human action and behavior.
                   —David Hume, Of Liberty and Necessity
     
                   Her name was Heals Like A Willow. She stood
shivering, rubbing her half-frozen hands while the wind blew snow down over the
cracked sandstone cap-rock. Misty white flakes swirled around her in a mocking
dance. The tiny crystals pattered on her cold face and dusted the buffalo robe
wrapped tightly around her.
                   Her true people were the Dukurika, the
Sheepeaters of the high mountains. The husband she was in the process of
burying had been a man of the Ku 'chendikani, the Buffalo-eaters who traveled
from basin to basin on horseback, hunting bison, fishing the rivers, and
ambushing the elk. She had fallen prey to his flashing smile and warm humor. In
the years since leaving her father's lodge, she had lived like the red-tailed
hawk, rising high during times of plenty, only to plummet during those of
hunger and warfare. Even in the direst of days, her husband had kept her happy
with his reassuring smile and the twinkle in his dark eyes.
                   With the birth of their son, their souls had
grown together like tangled vines of nightshade. How much of herself had been
torn away by death?
                   You can't afford to feel. Not yet. Soon, she
would. Life, by its very nature, would force her to find out how deeply that
wound ran.
                   Save that for the eternity stretching before
her. Just live now. Finish this last responsibility.
                   She braced herself awkwardly on the steep
slope. Here, just under the rimrock, the footing was treacherous. Above her the
red sandstone rose in a sheer face, the surface rounded by eons of wind and
storm. Each step had to be placed with care. Snow had drifted in around the
angular rocks that had tumbled down the slope. Old drifts, newly mantled, had
crusted hard, broken here and there by branches of sage and bitterbrush, and
chunky red stone. When she found a rock the right size, she kicked at it to
break the frost's stubborn hold. When it finally broke free, she picked it up
with mittened hands and stared upward at the long crack in the caprock. Most of
the crevice had been carefully rocked in. Only one last hole remained, black
and gaping—like the wound in her souls.
                   She retraced her steps back through the
wind-driven snow and studied the rocked-up crevice. Stretching, straining, she
grunted as the stone wavered in her grip. As if for once Tarn Apo favored her,
she slipped it into place, arms trembling from the effort. She teetered for a
moment, caught her balance, and sighed as she rubbed her stained mittens on the
heavy buffalo robe she wore.
                   "That is the last. Rest well, my loved
ones."
                   The numbness lay heavily upon her souls,
unbreachable even by tears. As she stared at the dull red cliff, small flakes
of snow chased angrily past her and the wind ripped at tendrils of hair pulled
loose from the hood of her buffalo coat. Above the red cliff the sky brooded
with heavy clouds and the continued threat of snow.
                   How did I have the strength to do this?
Images, dreamlike, spun through her head.
                   She had needed a juniper branch to wedge