Read Online The Night the White Deer Died by Gary Paulsen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gary Paulsen
Ads: Link
She was following the story, but had no ideawhere it was going or what it truly meant, or why he was telling it to her.
“When at last their wings could no longer support them, when they had flown through darkness and it seemed they would have to fly thus forever, they fell to earth.
“Down and down they fell, end over end, two black birds tumbling through the blackness of before time, and when finally they hit the earth, it was at the same place at which they had started to fly, the same place they’d been put by the Great Mother.
“And it is this way and so. Where they landed was this place we now stand, as it always will be the place where The People stand. Because where we start is where we end and where we end is where we start, and that is the end of the story.”
He nodded and sat, or dropped into a squat, facing her.
“I …” She didn’t know what to say, what was expected of her. “It is a good story.…” She let it fall off, waiting.
“It is the ritual story always told in courtship between a young brave and the maiden who rode his pony.”
“Oh.”
The light was brighter now, a yellow-red glow over everything, and she looked around at the trees and down at the pond without trying to look around at the trees or down at the pond.
“Now they ride in trucks, and there is no ritual.” His voice was tight with scorn. “They ride in trucks and do not mind the beauty of things, the way they used to do.
“Now we would sit for a day and another night, and I would go and kill a deer, and you would eat of it, and when we went down the mountain, we would be married.”
She said nothing, but she thought of the deer that he mentioned and that brought back the dream, and she wondered if she could have read somewhere about the deer and marriage business. It seemed to fit so well.
“Now they ride in pickups and go to the church with the walls and the man in black with the backward collar says they are married, and so they are married, and then they drive around with much sound on the horns of the trucks and get drunk on beer so their heads are loose and go to bed and that is that … tscha!” He turned and spat. “That is less than nothing. Where is the beauty in that?”
He stood, an upward movement that seemed to lift him, and spread his arms to show his buckskins. “Look. Oh, look, I stand in good relation to the gods. Is not this suit worthy?”
She looked up, smiled. In the full light the bead-work was incredibly fine—almost beyond human doing.
“My mother made this suit. I was married to Easter in it.” He smiled, and his ugly teeth did not show butonly beauty. “Isn’t this better than a pickup and horns making sounds?”
She nodded. And meant it.
“Ahh, and it was this way and so. Back before time men were men, and there were no horns and no trucks. And no wine.” A sadness crept in. “No wine—only beauty.”
“Tell me.” She sat up, wrapped the blanket tighter. “Tell me what it was like … all of it.”
He looked at her, let his eyes close and open. “You would not believe it.”
“Tell me anyway. Please.”
And he stood, and began moving and talking, and in less than a second Janet was whisked back before time.
12
It was more than the way he talked, the words rolling like half-music from his tongue, rolling down and surrounding her with what they said and were; and it was more than what they said and were; and it was more than the way he moved, sometimes with immense grace, half-dancing, and sometimes with jerky movements, but still dancing, only not just dancing but
telling
.
It was everything, all of it came together—the movement and the words—and Janet thought this must be the way it was back when people lived in caves and the hunters returned from the hunt and told the story of how it went around the fire.
Something moved inside her, watching him talk-move, and it was a strange and new and yet somehow very, very old thing, and it scared her but
“When at last their wings could no longer support them, when they had flown through darkness and it seemed they would have to fly thus forever, they fell to earth.
“Down and down they fell, end over end, two black birds tumbling through the blackness of before time, and when finally they hit the earth, it was at the same place at which they had started to fly, the same place they’d been put by the Great Mother.
“And it is this way and so. Where they landed was this place we now stand, as it always will be the place where The People stand. Because where we start is where we end and where we end is where we start, and that is the end of the story.”
He nodded and sat, or dropped into a squat, facing her.
“I …” She didn’t know what to say, what was expected of her. “It is a good story.…” She let it fall off, waiting.
“It is the ritual story always told in courtship between a young brave and the maiden who rode his pony.”
“Oh.”
The light was brighter now, a yellow-red glow over everything, and she looked around at the trees and down at the pond without trying to look around at the trees or down at the pond.
“Now they ride in trucks, and there is no ritual.” His voice was tight with scorn. “They ride in trucks and do not mind the beauty of things, the way they used to do.
“Now we would sit for a day and another night, and I would go and kill a deer, and you would eat of it, and when we went down the mountain, we would be married.”
She said nothing, but she thought of the deer that he mentioned and that brought back the dream, and she wondered if she could have read somewhere about the deer and marriage business. It seemed to fit so well.
“Now they ride in pickups and go to the church with the walls and the man in black with the backward collar says they are married, and so they are married, and then they drive around with much sound on the horns of the trucks and get drunk on beer so their heads are loose and go to bed and that is that … tscha!” He turned and spat. “That is less than nothing. Where is the beauty in that?”
He stood, an upward movement that seemed to lift him, and spread his arms to show his buckskins. “Look. Oh, look, I stand in good relation to the gods. Is not this suit worthy?”
She looked up, smiled. In the full light the bead-work was incredibly fine—almost beyond human doing.
“My mother made this suit. I was married to Easter in it.” He smiled, and his ugly teeth did not show butonly beauty. “Isn’t this better than a pickup and horns making sounds?”
She nodded. And meant it.
“Ahh, and it was this way and so. Back before time men were men, and there were no horns and no trucks. And no wine.” A sadness crept in. “No wine—only beauty.”
“Tell me.” She sat up, wrapped the blanket tighter. “Tell me what it was like … all of it.”
He looked at her, let his eyes close and open. “You would not believe it.”
“Tell me anyway. Please.”
And he stood, and began moving and talking, and in less than a second Janet was whisked back before time.
12
It was more than the way he talked, the words rolling like half-music from his tongue, rolling down and surrounding her with what they said and were; and it was more than what they said and were; and it was more than the way he moved, sometimes with immense grace, half-dancing, and sometimes with jerky movements, but still dancing, only not just dancing but
telling
.
It was everything, all of it came together—the movement and the words—and Janet thought this must be the way it was back when people lived in caves and the hunters returned from the hunt and told the story of how it went around the fire.
Something moved inside her, watching him talk-move, and it was a strange and new and yet somehow very, very old thing, and it scared her but
Similar Books
