Bad Grrlz' Guide to Reality: The Complete Novels Wild Angel and Adventures in Time and Space with Max Merriwell by Pat Murphy
Authors: Pat Murphy
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took to carrying rounded stones in the pockets, ready for use at any time. When the weather grew warm, she used her knife to cut off the trouser legs, but continued wearing the rest, unwilling to give up the convenience of pockets.
Another time, she spied on a man who sat by the river and sharpened his knife, honing the blade on a stone worn smooth by the river. That, too, she had imitated, using a river rock to sharpen the blade that she wore at her side, honing the steel to a razor-sharp edge.
Sometimes, she stole from the emigrants, snatching clothing that had been spread to dry on rocks by the river. When she outgrew Robby’s trousers, she stole another pair. More than once, she slipped silently into emigrant camps at night, wandering among the sleeping travelers, looking for items that she could use: a pair of wool socks, a new pair of moccasins, suspenders to hold up her trousers, a hunting knife that was stronger and sharper than hers.
By the time she was seven years of age, she was an amazing young savage. From her youngest days, she had done her best to keep up with the pack. As she grew older, her stamina increased until she could run for hours without tiring, eating up the miles with an effortless loping pace.
She could climb like a squirrel, scrambling up rocky faces and sprawling oak trees with ease. She could sit quietly in the forest while a covey of quail walked within a few feet of her, unaware that the motionless figure beneath the trees was a human being. She knew every rock and tree in the pack’s territory—the best time and place to find berries and birds’ nests and edible greens, the best hunting grounds, the best places to hide.
Her life among the wolves was happy. Wauna and Yepa were her mentors; Beka was her friend. She remembered her true parents only dimly; they were vague figures that appeared in her dreams. Mama was a soft voice and a comforting lap, a memory that blended with her memory of cuddling up to Wauna’s warm fur. Papa was a rough voice and a pair of hands that lifted her high above the earth.
She knew that she was different from her packmates. Their bodies were covered with warm fur, while hers was smooth and hairless. Their teeth were strong and sharp, while hers were small and blunt. She had a flat face and a tiny nose and she ran upright, rather than on all fours.
Even so, she thought of herself as a wolf. She watched people—the Indians and the miners—but she did not think of herself as one of them. No, she belonged to the pack. She watched people; she stole from people, but she was not one of them.
PART TWO
1855
9 STONE WOLF
“There are many humorous things in the world; among them, the white man’s notion that he is less savage than the other savages.”
— Following the Equator ; Mark Twain
S TANDING ANKLE DEEP IN MUDDY WATER , Malila dug for nettle roots. The village chief was suffering from aches and pains in his joints. Malila’s grandfather, Hatawa, was the village healer. He said that bathing in water in which nettle roots had steeped would soothe the chief.
A short distance up the creek, Hatawa was gathering the shoots of the horsetail plant. A tea brewed from these plants would ease a feverish patient. Malila could hear him chanting, giving thanks to the horsetail and the nettle for their help. A shaman and healer, Hatawa knew the proper way to behave. In a world that was changing, it was his duty to strive to maintain the balance between the people and the spirits, a task that had become more difficult since the coming of the strange people who seemed so intent on destroying the world.
The snows had melted in the high country, and the streams were full. The air was cool and carried the scent of green, growing plants.
Before the white men came, Malila’s people had lived on Rock Creek. It had been a rich land, abundant with deer in the hills and fish in the streams. A few white men came, then more, and still more. Then many, many white men, as
Another time, she spied on a man who sat by the river and sharpened his knife, honing the blade on a stone worn smooth by the river. That, too, she had imitated, using a river rock to sharpen the blade that she wore at her side, honing the steel to a razor-sharp edge.
Sometimes, she stole from the emigrants, snatching clothing that had been spread to dry on rocks by the river. When she outgrew Robby’s trousers, she stole another pair. More than once, she slipped silently into emigrant camps at night, wandering among the sleeping travelers, looking for items that she could use: a pair of wool socks, a new pair of moccasins, suspenders to hold up her trousers, a hunting knife that was stronger and sharper than hers.
By the time she was seven years of age, she was an amazing young savage. From her youngest days, she had done her best to keep up with the pack. As she grew older, her stamina increased until she could run for hours without tiring, eating up the miles with an effortless loping pace.
She could climb like a squirrel, scrambling up rocky faces and sprawling oak trees with ease. She could sit quietly in the forest while a covey of quail walked within a few feet of her, unaware that the motionless figure beneath the trees was a human being. She knew every rock and tree in the pack’s territory—the best time and place to find berries and birds’ nests and edible greens, the best hunting grounds, the best places to hide.
Her life among the wolves was happy. Wauna and Yepa were her mentors; Beka was her friend. She remembered her true parents only dimly; they were vague figures that appeared in her dreams. Mama was a soft voice and a comforting lap, a memory that blended with her memory of cuddling up to Wauna’s warm fur. Papa was a rough voice and a pair of hands that lifted her high above the earth.
She knew that she was different from her packmates. Their bodies were covered with warm fur, while hers was smooth and hairless. Their teeth were strong and sharp, while hers were small and blunt. She had a flat face and a tiny nose and she ran upright, rather than on all fours.
Even so, she thought of herself as a wolf. She watched people—the Indians and the miners—but she did not think of herself as one of them. No, she belonged to the pack. She watched people; she stole from people, but she was not one of them.
PART TWO
1855
9 STONE WOLF
“There are many humorous things in the world; among them, the white man’s notion that he is less savage than the other savages.”
— Following the Equator ; Mark Twain
S TANDING ANKLE DEEP IN MUDDY WATER , Malila dug for nettle roots. The village chief was suffering from aches and pains in his joints. Malila’s grandfather, Hatawa, was the village healer. He said that bathing in water in which nettle roots had steeped would soothe the chief.
A short distance up the creek, Hatawa was gathering the shoots of the horsetail plant. A tea brewed from these plants would ease a feverish patient. Malila could hear him chanting, giving thanks to the horsetail and the nettle for their help. A shaman and healer, Hatawa knew the proper way to behave. In a world that was changing, it was his duty to strive to maintain the balance between the people and the spirits, a task that had become more difficult since the coming of the strange people who seemed so intent on destroying the world.
The snows had melted in the high country, and the streams were full. The air was cool and carried the scent of green, growing plants.
Before the white men came, Malila’s people had lived on Rock Creek. It had been a rich land, abundant with deer in the hills and fish in the streams. A few white men came, then more, and still more. Then many, many white men, as
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