Read Online Tsuga's Children by Thomas Williams - Free Book Online
Authors: Thomas Williams
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taught him, in the strange language he now also knew, how to make the soothing medicine for his father? Yet he knew that the greatest evil is not easy to read, for it gives a little in order to take away more. It is patient, and waits, speaking in convincing ways. He knew this through all the old stories, where death is real and comes to the good as well as to the bad. He had hurt himself before, and had been in pain; he knew what happened to all living things—trees, animals, the pig they had butchered and eaten, the tall grass cut down in summer and fall. But even so he found the tracks along the narrow ledge, read them as his father had taught him, and went on.
He never thought his body would betray him and make him fall; if the ledge held, he would hold. He was tired and hungry, but he was nearly a man, the only man in his family who was not sick, and he would go on until he saw for himself what had happened to his little sister—or until what had happened to her happened to him.
He came to the narrow shelf of rock and found, behind the hurtling columns of water, the same dark entrance Jen had found. With the water hissing past him and the roaring from below, he held on carefully and looked around. Yes, there on the rock were small scratches that must have been made by Jen’s crampons. His mother, from her tracks and what she’d said, must have come just this far, and he wondered why she hadn’t seen, or mentioned, the cave entrance. For a moment he thought he must be in the wrong place; but then he remembered his father having told him that tracks are as sure a sign as the thing that made them, even though they tend not to stick in the memory as well. He must believe the evidence of his eyes, and never forget. Jen, Oka and a deer had come here, as had his mother, and only his mother’s tracks had returned. He knew that he was logical and practical, especially compared to Jen, who tended to hear odd voices and do things without thinking them out beforehand. Like the night she insisted on looking into the old lady’s eye. She tended to do things like that, for reasons she could never explain.
What, he wondered, had made her go into this dank cave all alone, searching for a cow? What could have made her care so much for a cow? She had reasons, unreasonable reasons. He knew that he was going in because he had to find his sister and bring her back home. For a little while, even in his fear, he thought proudly of himself. But then a small voice said to him, Yes, but partly it is Jen’s authority, her unknown reason, which lets you be brave enough to enter here. She went in first, alone; you go in second, with the possibility of finding company in that darkness.
He took off his crampons and tied them to his pack, tightened up all the straps so the pack rode high and easy on his shoulders. There at his belt was the knife with its bright, slightly curved blade his father had forged for him and he had filed and polished. He had selected part of a deer antler, taking care that it curved the right way for his hand and was the right thickness, and fitted it with rivets through the tang. Then he had carved a scabbard from two thin pieces of cured spruce, two pieces that he fit together and bound with buckskin, sewn while it was wet so that it shrank around the scabbard taut and hard.
He undid the thong and pulled the polished blade from its scabbard. It was sharp, honed and stropped sharp as a razor, and it gave him, through his pride in having helped make it, a feeling that he was ready, that this fine tool might help him in whatever he had to do. He turned as if to say goodby to the light. He did have flint and tinder in his pack, if it became necessary. But he knew that Jen hadn’t any, and he would save the fire for dire need. Then he entered the cave.
The roar of the falling water receded as he felt his way deeper into the mountain, until it was only a faint sigh, farther and farther behind him. He could tell by the
He never thought his body would betray him and make him fall; if the ledge held, he would hold. He was tired and hungry, but he was nearly a man, the only man in his family who was not sick, and he would go on until he saw for himself what had happened to his little sister—or until what had happened to her happened to him.
He came to the narrow shelf of rock and found, behind the hurtling columns of water, the same dark entrance Jen had found. With the water hissing past him and the roaring from below, he held on carefully and looked around. Yes, there on the rock were small scratches that must have been made by Jen’s crampons. His mother, from her tracks and what she’d said, must have come just this far, and he wondered why she hadn’t seen, or mentioned, the cave entrance. For a moment he thought he must be in the wrong place; but then he remembered his father having told him that tracks are as sure a sign as the thing that made them, even though they tend not to stick in the memory as well. He must believe the evidence of his eyes, and never forget. Jen, Oka and a deer had come here, as had his mother, and only his mother’s tracks had returned. He knew that he was logical and practical, especially compared to Jen, who tended to hear odd voices and do things without thinking them out beforehand. Like the night she insisted on looking into the old lady’s eye. She tended to do things like that, for reasons she could never explain.
What, he wondered, had made her go into this dank cave all alone, searching for a cow? What could have made her care so much for a cow? She had reasons, unreasonable reasons. He knew that he was going in because he had to find his sister and bring her back home. For a little while, even in his fear, he thought proudly of himself. But then a small voice said to him, Yes, but partly it is Jen’s authority, her unknown reason, which lets you be brave enough to enter here. She went in first, alone; you go in second, with the possibility of finding company in that darkness.
He took off his crampons and tied them to his pack, tightened up all the straps so the pack rode high and easy on his shoulders. There at his belt was the knife with its bright, slightly curved blade his father had forged for him and he had filed and polished. He had selected part of a deer antler, taking care that it curved the right way for his hand and was the right thickness, and fitted it with rivets through the tang. Then he had carved a scabbard from two thin pieces of cured spruce, two pieces that he fit together and bound with buckskin, sewn while it was wet so that it shrank around the scabbard taut and hard.
He undid the thong and pulled the polished blade from its scabbard. It was sharp, honed and stropped sharp as a razor, and it gave him, through his pride in having helped make it, a feeling that he was ready, that this fine tool might help him in whatever he had to do. He turned as if to say goodby to the light. He did have flint and tinder in his pack, if it became necessary. But he knew that Jen hadn’t any, and he would save the fire for dire need. Then he entered the cave.
The roar of the falling water receded as he felt his way deeper into the mountain, until it was only a faint sigh, farther and farther behind him. He could tell by the
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