fear and despair leave. Sam, this is not a finish but a start. Hope connects head to heart to feet. He takes a deep breath, and dashes into the yawn of the serpent.
Seconds later an extended foot sends him flying. He jumps up, starts running helter-skelter, and then itâs whap (pain), whap (pain), whap (no pain). Soon heâs not feeling anything; heâs just a function of the rite. He falls, somebody grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet, aims him deeper into the gauntlet gullet, and gives him a boot in the behind. He lurches from one side to the other, taking blows. Whap, whap, whapâdown again. Pulled to his feet, pushed back out onto the field. Whap, whap, whapâdown. Up. Run. Five times he falls. About two-thirds of the way, a kick knocks him through the line; he falls, rises, cannot keep his feet, collapses without a hand being laid on him. Caucus-Meteor waits for the rain of blows that will take the life of this young man, for he has not completed his journey, a violation of the tenets of the gauntlet. Instead someone grabs his hand and pulls him to a standing position. A moan, laughter from the crowd, and heâs allowed to collapse in a clump of new spring grass.
Furrowed Brow and a couple of kinswomen, one about fifty, the other perhaps sixteen or seventeen, come over to Sam. Furrowed Brow, the master, stands with arms folded across his chest while the older woman feels Sam up from stem to stern. As she works, she recites the results of her findings for the enlightenment of the young woman, who appears passionately engaged with the medical facts if not with the patient. No broken bones, no open arteries or veins, no signs of internal bleeding or brain injury. Many cuts and bruises. Vision unimpaired. A knock on the head will leave him with a slightly disfigured ear, but the drum that plays the worldâs music does not appear to be ruptured. The younger woman gives Sam a wooden noggin. âWater,â she says in her own language. Sam hesitates, drinks. Caucus-Meteor can predict the outcome. Some ethereal substance outside Samâs experience until this moment surges within him until heâs filled with the wonder of it. A minute passes before he knows what heâs feeling: happy just to be alive and, in a way he doesnât understand yet, appreciated. Caucus-Meteor is glad, blessed by the young manâs emotion; the old American knows that if he feels it, so do the other members of the gauntlet.
The next runner, stripped to the buff, is Captain Warren. Caucus-Meteor guesses that the gentle southerly breeze sashaying around his privates is as close to intimate touch as heâs ever allowed. The tormentors, admiring the deep chest, thick neck, powerful arms and legs, generous male dangle, are thinking that this fellow might be of some consequence as a man. That body hair, though, thick and matted, is repulsive to them. Only Caucus-Meteor is not sizing up Captain Warren. Caucus-Meteorâs eyes are on his own slave, Nathan Blake, who has also been stripped naked. Caucus-Meteor has seen legs like these before, on the Pure Men runners of the northern tribes. The women of his village make moccasins for such runners, who compete in races at summer trade fairs.
Captain Warren starts his run, and Caucus-Meteor remembers something the captain told him during his interrogation. âPeople admire my body, it is my currency; do not harm it, and I will tell you what you wish.â He holds his head high, runs steadily, does not seem to feel stings inflicted by his tormentors. A woman with a licentious eye touches him on the shoulder, as if giving a blessing. Captain Warren bows. Others in the gauntlet follow the example of the woman. Captain Warren runs slowly down the line, and no one strikes him with any force. Given his character, he feels by now a little more than human, thinks Caucus-Meteor. Cheers from the crowd behind the gauntlet urge him on. Surely, he believes his
Seconds later an extended foot sends him flying. He jumps up, starts running helter-skelter, and then itâs whap (pain), whap (pain), whap (no pain). Soon heâs not feeling anything; heâs just a function of the rite. He falls, somebody grabs his hand and pulls him to his feet, aims him deeper into the gauntlet gullet, and gives him a boot in the behind. He lurches from one side to the other, taking blows. Whap, whap, whapâdown again. Pulled to his feet, pushed back out onto the field. Whap, whap, whapâdown. Up. Run. Five times he falls. About two-thirds of the way, a kick knocks him through the line; he falls, rises, cannot keep his feet, collapses without a hand being laid on him. Caucus-Meteor waits for the rain of blows that will take the life of this young man, for he has not completed his journey, a violation of the tenets of the gauntlet. Instead someone grabs his hand and pulls him to a standing position. A moan, laughter from the crowd, and heâs allowed to collapse in a clump of new spring grass.
Furrowed Brow and a couple of kinswomen, one about fifty, the other perhaps sixteen or seventeen, come over to Sam. Furrowed Brow, the master, stands with arms folded across his chest while the older woman feels Sam up from stem to stern. As she works, she recites the results of her findings for the enlightenment of the young woman, who appears passionately engaged with the medical facts if not with the patient. No broken bones, no open arteries or veins, no signs of internal bleeding or brain injury. Many cuts and bruises. Vision unimpaired. A knock on the head will leave him with a slightly disfigured ear, but the drum that plays the worldâs music does not appear to be ruptured. The younger woman gives Sam a wooden noggin. âWater,â she says in her own language. Sam hesitates, drinks. Caucus-Meteor can predict the outcome. Some ethereal substance outside Samâs experience until this moment surges within him until heâs filled with the wonder of it. A minute passes before he knows what heâs feeling: happy just to be alive and, in a way he doesnât understand yet, appreciated. Caucus-Meteor is glad, blessed by the young manâs emotion; the old American knows that if he feels it, so do the other members of the gauntlet.
The next runner, stripped to the buff, is Captain Warren. Caucus-Meteor guesses that the gentle southerly breeze sashaying around his privates is as close to intimate touch as heâs ever allowed. The tormentors, admiring the deep chest, thick neck, powerful arms and legs, generous male dangle, are thinking that this fellow might be of some consequence as a man. That body hair, though, thick and matted, is repulsive to them. Only Caucus-Meteor is not sizing up Captain Warren. Caucus-Meteorâs eyes are on his own slave, Nathan Blake, who has also been stripped naked. Caucus-Meteor has seen legs like these before, on the Pure Men runners of the northern tribes. The women of his village make moccasins for such runners, who compete in races at summer trade fairs.
Captain Warren starts his run, and Caucus-Meteor remembers something the captain told him during his interrogation. âPeople admire my body, it is my currency; do not harm it, and I will tell you what you wish.â He holds his head high, runs steadily, does not seem to feel stings inflicted by his tormentors. A woman with a licentious eye touches him on the shoulder, as if giving a blessing. Captain Warren bows. Others in the gauntlet follow the example of the woman. Captain Warren runs slowly down the line, and no one strikes him with any force. Given his character, he feels by now a little more than human, thinks Caucus-Meteor. Cheers from the crowd behind the gauntlet urge him on. Surely, he believes his
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