Read Online The Night the White Deer Died by Gary Paulsen - Free Book Online
Authors: Gary Paulsen
Ads: Link
white horse, but something came from his eyes and moved down to Janet’s mother.
“But …”
Her mother fought the thing for a moment, battled with something inside herself that Janet couldn’t understand, and then seemed to sag a little back against the door.
“I’m sorry—I thought all the wrong things, from before, when I was with a man. Her father. I should have known better, that it wasn’t always wrong or that—you will not hurt her.” And here the iron came back in her voice. “Not in any way, do you understand?”
Still he said nothing, but only looked down, and yet there was that thing, that strange feeling or look or smell or mind-touch that passed between them, and when it was done, they knew each other in a way that few people ever know each other, and Janet felt that she’d seen something almost miraculous. Then her mother turned and her voice was a whisper, a soft
whush
of words.
“You can go if you want to.” She smiled. “He won’t … won’t hurt you. I was wrong about him.”
And Janet moved to the pony and threw herself onto its back and sat up and picked up the braided hand loop in the pony’s mane, which she took firmly in her hand. And Billy moved through the gate instead of jumping the wall, and the pony followed out into the dark of the road, the still wash of the night and moonlight. Billy headed off” in the direction of the mountains and the pony followed, with Janet on its back, and never once did she hesitate.
11
They moved through the night like a soft knife through water, so that the night opened in front of them and closed behind and left them just in their small pocket of moonlight and silence. Later, when Janet tried to remember the ride, all she could honestly remember was that her mind was blank and that images of great beauty would cycle through, come and go, but not really stay so that she could lock them in her thoughts.
They were out of town very soon, away from all buildings, and past the gate to the pueblo, on out into the country, up into the foothills that led to the mountains.
Riding was easy. She was amazed that it was so simple. She’d ridden some in the past, when she was a small girl, but then only in circles on led small ponies.
This was, if anything, easier; the pony moved to keep its weight directly under her, kept her comfortable and balanced, and soon she relaxed her grip onthe braid and began to move with the motion of the horse, which made it easier still, and once she relaxed, she began to see things in the night.
Once a small nighthawk swooped past, not four inches from her face, out of the night and back into it in silence, and she actually felt the kiss of wind from his wing, a brush so light on her cheek that it might have been imagined, a kiss by a ghost.
Billy moved ahead of her as they got out of the buildings and left the road and moved across the flats of scrub and piñon, and she watched him and felt … felt close and strange and safe and wonderful in a way she couldn’t understand and didn’t pick at because she sensed that to pick at it would ruin it.
It wasn’t love, not really, but something very much like it, and there was awe in it and richness and quietness and softness and power, and the feelings all cycled through the way the images did, so that she couldn’t remember later any single one, couldn’t say to herself
I felt this way
at any given time. It was very much like the touch of wind from the wing of the nighthawk, the way the feelings moved through her mind as they rode—soft touches of thoughts that didn’t always tie together but were always good and left her mind with a good taste.
She wasn’t cold, and that, too, surprised her. It was a chilly night, though very still, yet she wasn’t cold even with the movement of the horse, and she supposed it was because she was so caught up in everything else.
The trip across the high desert, out of town, and up through the scrub and sand washes might have
“But …”
Her mother fought the thing for a moment, battled with something inside herself that Janet couldn’t understand, and then seemed to sag a little back against the door.
“I’m sorry—I thought all the wrong things, from before, when I was with a man. Her father. I should have known better, that it wasn’t always wrong or that—you will not hurt her.” And here the iron came back in her voice. “Not in any way, do you understand?”
Still he said nothing, but only looked down, and yet there was that thing, that strange feeling or look or smell or mind-touch that passed between them, and when it was done, they knew each other in a way that few people ever know each other, and Janet felt that she’d seen something almost miraculous. Then her mother turned and her voice was a whisper, a soft
whush
of words.
“You can go if you want to.” She smiled. “He won’t … won’t hurt you. I was wrong about him.”
And Janet moved to the pony and threw herself onto its back and sat up and picked up the braided hand loop in the pony’s mane, which she took firmly in her hand. And Billy moved through the gate instead of jumping the wall, and the pony followed out into the dark of the road, the still wash of the night and moonlight. Billy headed off” in the direction of the mountains and the pony followed, with Janet on its back, and never once did she hesitate.
11
They moved through the night like a soft knife through water, so that the night opened in front of them and closed behind and left them just in their small pocket of moonlight and silence. Later, when Janet tried to remember the ride, all she could honestly remember was that her mind was blank and that images of great beauty would cycle through, come and go, but not really stay so that she could lock them in her thoughts.
They were out of town very soon, away from all buildings, and past the gate to the pueblo, on out into the country, up into the foothills that led to the mountains.
Riding was easy. She was amazed that it was so simple. She’d ridden some in the past, when she was a small girl, but then only in circles on led small ponies.
This was, if anything, easier; the pony moved to keep its weight directly under her, kept her comfortable and balanced, and soon she relaxed her grip onthe braid and began to move with the motion of the horse, which made it easier still, and once she relaxed, she began to see things in the night.
Once a small nighthawk swooped past, not four inches from her face, out of the night and back into it in silence, and she actually felt the kiss of wind from his wing, a brush so light on her cheek that it might have been imagined, a kiss by a ghost.
Billy moved ahead of her as they got out of the buildings and left the road and moved across the flats of scrub and piñon, and she watched him and felt … felt close and strange and safe and wonderful in a way she couldn’t understand and didn’t pick at because she sensed that to pick at it would ruin it.
It wasn’t love, not really, but something very much like it, and there was awe in it and richness and quietness and softness and power, and the feelings all cycled through the way the images did, so that she couldn’t remember later any single one, couldn’t say to herself
I felt this way
at any given time. It was very much like the touch of wind from the wing of the nighthawk, the way the feelings moved through her mind as they rode—soft touches of thoughts that didn’t always tie together but were always good and left her mind with a good taste.
She wasn’t cold, and that, too, surprised her. It was a chilly night, though very still, yet she wasn’t cold even with the movement of the horse, and she supposed it was because she was so caught up in everything else.
The trip across the high desert, out of town, and up through the scrub and sand washes might have
Similar Books
