Read Online The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse by Louise Erdrich - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Louise Erdrich
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walk north, into the land of the Ojibwe, to the place on the reservation where he had told her he was bound.
L ITTLE N O H ORSE
1996
A gentle morning. Lucid, calm, the sky a sweet wash of virgin’s cloak blue and a sparkling freshness of temperature. A visitor knocked loud and hard on Father Damien’s door, but there was no answer because wild floods raged in Father Damien’s sleeping head. Trees cracked over in his dreams. Walls crumbled into the river. Stones. The visitor, a priest, grew discouraged and left, but returned in the early afternoon to find Damien sitting just outside the door on his tiny patio, snoring mildly in the unusually warm slant rays of sun. Although the visiting priest drew a chair up noisily and sat, creaking and shifting his weight, although he coughed and even muttered aloud, Father Damien did not stir. The visitor was forced either to disturb the ancient one or to wait with uncharacteristic patience for the old priest to awaken naturally.
The man’s vibrant red-gray hair was plastered down in stubborn tufts. Though polite, he looked from his sharp eye to have a temper and a fluent tongue. He was Jude Miller, a thickly built, shrewd and impatient priest. An athletic concentration in his stance suggested a man anticipating a tennis serve . . . that never came. At last, he folded his arms, the forearms lightly downed in coppery hair, and put one hand to his squared-off jaw. His fingers were blunt and he looked to have a powerful grip. He wore a clerical collar, a casual short-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and soft-soled court shoes. After sitting in obvious frustration, he came to a decision to use his time, somehow, if only to observe. He leaned forward in scrutiny of the old priest, who still slept in warm sunlight next to the remains of a late breakfast.
In his age, Father Damien had developed the odd and almost alien appearance of a wrinkled but innocent child. His head still grew bits of fluff and it was large in proportion to the rest of him. His body was hunched and leathery, his lean arms and legs bent wood. Because of his tender feet, he wore soft moccasins at all times. On his off days, he shuffled to keep his balance and used two canes, one in each hand, like ski poles to anchor and guide him. Other days, he was fervently young and walked in surprisingly limber strides. When asked, he said the source of his longevity was not God but the devil, who constantly tempted him with healthy idleness. He took long walks around and around the yard, the grounds of the church, the cemetery where he greeted and sometimes reminisced with the dead—for Father Damien was more connected with them than with the living, and even sensed their changing moods.
Father Jude Miller took in the venerable, elfin appearance of the man who slept, head thrown back in the chair, sensitive mouth slightly gaping in a frown. Other than his mouth, the old priest rested neatly, feet close together, hands clasped, head cradled by the fold of the battered easy chair.
A great leaf-shaped pattern of clouds passed over the sun, and a breeze lifted, but the day was still unseasonably warm. Now, as though summoned from within, the still sleeping Damien leaned forward and propped his hands on his knees. His eyes drifted calmly open. They were vast and staring, and had returned to the murky blue of newborn’s eyes, so his look had a fixed, blind, amphibious clarity. He gazed straight at Father Jude. “Are you there, my Lord?” said Father Damien. “Where is the soup?” Father Jude Miller had heard of the old man’s waking confusion. Instead of pursuing any possible answer he sat in polite suspense until Father Damien’s thoughts focused. It took some time. At first, Father Damien called the younger priest closer and whispered in some anxiety that there were no stamps. He needed stamps. Foreign postage. Airmail.
“Commemoratives, please,” said Father Damien, looking significantly at the visitor. He
L ITTLE N O H ORSE
1996
A gentle morning. Lucid, calm, the sky a sweet wash of virgin’s cloak blue and a sparkling freshness of temperature. A visitor knocked loud and hard on Father Damien’s door, but there was no answer because wild floods raged in Father Damien’s sleeping head. Trees cracked over in his dreams. Walls crumbled into the river. Stones. The visitor, a priest, grew discouraged and left, but returned in the early afternoon to find Damien sitting just outside the door on his tiny patio, snoring mildly in the unusually warm slant rays of sun. Although the visiting priest drew a chair up noisily and sat, creaking and shifting his weight, although he coughed and even muttered aloud, Father Damien did not stir. The visitor was forced either to disturb the ancient one or to wait with uncharacteristic patience for the old priest to awaken naturally.
The man’s vibrant red-gray hair was plastered down in stubborn tufts. Though polite, he looked from his sharp eye to have a temper and a fluent tongue. He was Jude Miller, a thickly built, shrewd and impatient priest. An athletic concentration in his stance suggested a man anticipating a tennis serve . . . that never came. At last, he folded his arms, the forearms lightly downed in coppery hair, and put one hand to his squared-off jaw. His fingers were blunt and he looked to have a powerful grip. He wore a clerical collar, a casual short-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and soft-soled court shoes. After sitting in obvious frustration, he came to a decision to use his time, somehow, if only to observe. He leaned forward in scrutiny of the old priest, who still slept in warm sunlight next to the remains of a late breakfast.
In his age, Father Damien had developed the odd and almost alien appearance of a wrinkled but innocent child. His head still grew bits of fluff and it was large in proportion to the rest of him. His body was hunched and leathery, his lean arms and legs bent wood. Because of his tender feet, he wore soft moccasins at all times. On his off days, he shuffled to keep his balance and used two canes, one in each hand, like ski poles to anchor and guide him. Other days, he was fervently young and walked in surprisingly limber strides. When asked, he said the source of his longevity was not God but the devil, who constantly tempted him with healthy idleness. He took long walks around and around the yard, the grounds of the church, the cemetery where he greeted and sometimes reminisced with the dead—for Father Damien was more connected with them than with the living, and even sensed their changing moods.
Father Jude Miller took in the venerable, elfin appearance of the man who slept, head thrown back in the chair, sensitive mouth slightly gaping in a frown. Other than his mouth, the old priest rested neatly, feet close together, hands clasped, head cradled by the fold of the battered easy chair.
A great leaf-shaped pattern of clouds passed over the sun, and a breeze lifted, but the day was still unseasonably warm. Now, as though summoned from within, the still sleeping Damien leaned forward and propped his hands on his knees. His eyes drifted calmly open. They were vast and staring, and had returned to the murky blue of newborn’s eyes, so his look had a fixed, blind, amphibious clarity. He gazed straight at Father Jude. “Are you there, my Lord?” said Father Damien. “Where is the soup?” Father Jude Miller had heard of the old man’s waking confusion. Instead of pursuing any possible answer he sat in polite suspense until Father Damien’s thoughts focused. It took some time. At first, Father Damien called the younger priest closer and whispered in some anxiety that there were no stamps. He needed stamps. Foreign postage. Airmail.
“Commemoratives, please,” said Father Damien, looking significantly at the visitor. He
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