Read Online The High Missouri by Win Blevins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Win Blevins
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“Education, tradition, religion, civilization—everything?”
“Aye, more than everything,” answered Dylan. He could still feel the stupendous vibration of the bells singing in his mind.
“In this state of emptiness will you consent to become a Welsh Indian?” His tone was both mocking and solemn.
“What…?”
“Ask not, laddo. Surrender.”
“Aye,” said Dylan giddily, “I surrender.”
“As a Welsh Indian you must undertake to seek the one true grail, life. Do you accept this quest?”
“Aye,” said Dylan.
“Do you accept me as your guide?”
“Yes,” said Dylan.
“Will you go adventuring with me into the vast wilds, or if the call comes, to the ends of the earth?”
Dylan looked the Druid in the eyes. “I will.”
“Casting aside all obligations, all ties, all previous promises, all preconceptions, all beliefs, all old ways, will you seek the grail?”
Dylan straightened, looked solemnly at Dru. “Yes.”
“As a sign that you are a new man,” said Dru, “I strip you of your old name.” His eyes were merry. “Sod Campbell.” He took out his belt knife and laid it on Dylan’s shoulder. “You will earn names aplenty, but first you will lose one. Now you must be known as Dylan Elfed Davies.” He touched his knife to the other shoulder.
“Rise, Sir Dylan,” he said stentoriously, “and go forth to adventure.”
Dylan stood up unsteadily, stumbled forward, grabbed Dru and embraced him.
Dru hugged him back.
When they moved apart, Dylan asked, “Where next, my guide?”
“You, laddo,” replied Dru, “are going into the wilds like a good Welsh Injun.”
“The wilds.”
“You are a Nor’Wester now.”
Part Two
JUMPING-OFF PLACE
Chapter Six
Dylan couldn’t believe himself. He was thigh deep in the coldest water he’d ever imagined. It made his knee bones ache.
He had his strength more or less into the cordelle, a braided rope sixty feet long. He and Dru were dragging a canoe gear and trade goods, and a full-sized human being in the boat. They were cordelling up the stream because the water was too swift and too rough for paddling.
Insane—when it’s too tough to paddle, you wade. Against the current, on a slippery bottom, with ice still lining the banks. Fall and you become an iceberg.
“Heave!” Dru shouted back at him over the roar of water. Then something about “lose it.”
Lose what, our lives? Dylan heaved mightily and resentfully.
One foot slipped and he went down hard.
He inhaled water. Bloody hell! He snorted it out hard and shook his head violently.
Now he was wet to his head. Not that he had any clothes to get wet, not to speak of. Dylan went like the others, in a cotton shirt, deerskin breechcloth, and moccasins. He was freezing now, and his nipples felt like spikes.
He heard a kind of chanting from the boat, echoed and fractured by the roar of water. Saga—the bastard Saga was singing while he and Dru heaved their guts out. Dru said Saga had to stay in the boat—you needed a steersman to keep the bow off the bank. Well, next time Dylan Davies would bloody well get to ride while the others slaved.
Bloody well.
They were eating sagamité . Again. Dylan couldn’t believe it. They’d had sagamité for every meal since they left Montreal. He’d lost track of the days, but it was more than a week—nearly two weeks, he guessed.
When Dru handed out the sagamité the first night, Dylan thought the old man was just muddling through because they’d had such a long day. Dylan fell asleep before they ate anyway, so he didn’t taste it. Until an hour before dawn, when they had it again, cold. A taste like corn, sort of, texture like pudding. Tolerable. When Dru served it up that night, Dylan began to wonder, and decided Dru was testing him. He refused to complain until the sixth or seventh or whatever night, and then he complained bitterly.
Which made Saga laugh at him. That was the first time Saga had laughed or otherwise indicated he had
“Aye, more than everything,” answered Dylan. He could still feel the stupendous vibration of the bells singing in his mind.
“In this state of emptiness will you consent to become a Welsh Indian?” His tone was both mocking and solemn.
“What…?”
“Ask not, laddo. Surrender.”
“Aye,” said Dylan giddily, “I surrender.”
“As a Welsh Indian you must undertake to seek the one true grail, life. Do you accept this quest?”
“Aye,” said Dylan.
“Do you accept me as your guide?”
“Yes,” said Dylan.
“Will you go adventuring with me into the vast wilds, or if the call comes, to the ends of the earth?”
Dylan looked the Druid in the eyes. “I will.”
“Casting aside all obligations, all ties, all previous promises, all preconceptions, all beliefs, all old ways, will you seek the grail?”
Dylan straightened, looked solemnly at Dru. “Yes.”
“As a sign that you are a new man,” said Dru, “I strip you of your old name.” His eyes were merry. “Sod Campbell.” He took out his belt knife and laid it on Dylan’s shoulder. “You will earn names aplenty, but first you will lose one. Now you must be known as Dylan Elfed Davies.” He touched his knife to the other shoulder.
“Rise, Sir Dylan,” he said stentoriously, “and go forth to adventure.”
Dylan stood up unsteadily, stumbled forward, grabbed Dru and embraced him.
Dru hugged him back.
When they moved apart, Dylan asked, “Where next, my guide?”
“You, laddo,” replied Dru, “are going into the wilds like a good Welsh Injun.”
“The wilds.”
“You are a Nor’Wester now.”
Part Two
JUMPING-OFF PLACE
Chapter Six
Dylan couldn’t believe himself. He was thigh deep in the coldest water he’d ever imagined. It made his knee bones ache.
He had his strength more or less into the cordelle, a braided rope sixty feet long. He and Dru were dragging a canoe gear and trade goods, and a full-sized human being in the boat. They were cordelling up the stream because the water was too swift and too rough for paddling.
Insane—when it’s too tough to paddle, you wade. Against the current, on a slippery bottom, with ice still lining the banks. Fall and you become an iceberg.
“Heave!” Dru shouted back at him over the roar of water. Then something about “lose it.”
Lose what, our lives? Dylan heaved mightily and resentfully.
One foot slipped and he went down hard.
He inhaled water. Bloody hell! He snorted it out hard and shook his head violently.
Now he was wet to his head. Not that he had any clothes to get wet, not to speak of. Dylan went like the others, in a cotton shirt, deerskin breechcloth, and moccasins. He was freezing now, and his nipples felt like spikes.
He heard a kind of chanting from the boat, echoed and fractured by the roar of water. Saga—the bastard Saga was singing while he and Dru heaved their guts out. Dru said Saga had to stay in the boat—you needed a steersman to keep the bow off the bank. Well, next time Dylan Davies would bloody well get to ride while the others slaved.
Bloody well.
They were eating sagamité . Again. Dylan couldn’t believe it. They’d had sagamité for every meal since they left Montreal. He’d lost track of the days, but it was more than a week—nearly two weeks, he guessed.
When Dru handed out the sagamité the first night, Dylan thought the old man was just muddling through because they’d had such a long day. Dylan fell asleep before they ate anyway, so he didn’t taste it. Until an hour before dawn, when they had it again, cold. A taste like corn, sort of, texture like pudding. Tolerable. When Dru served it up that night, Dylan began to wonder, and decided Dru was testing him. He refused to complain until the sixth or seventh or whatever night, and then he complained bitterly.
Which made Saga laugh at him. That was the first time Saga had laughed or otherwise indicated he had
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