two bullets is true. But I can see by looking into your eyes that you are not invincible to grief and loss. This hide will help with that."
The old chieftain held the heavy thing in his thin, trembling arms. The Reverend thanked him and bowed. The two younger men helped their leader lift the wolf skin up onto the Reverend's high shoulders. Ahcho knew he should assist with this task, but he did not. In no way did he approve of the dead thing now draped across the Reverend's back. It was a primitive, superstitious, and ridiculous garment not worthy of his fine master.
But when the Reverend lifted his head and rose to his full height with the fur hide over his shoulders, he appeared enormous and otherworldly, frightening even to his manservant. The yellow eyes of the dead animal stared out at Ahcho and caused the hairs on his neck to rise. Although the Reverend offered a proud smile, Ahcho knew that nothing good could come of it.
Twelve
T he Reverend steered his trusty donkey along a precipitous path that seemed to grow narrower by the step. If he had not witnessed a camel caravan successfully approaching from the opposite way, he would never have believed it possible to traverse the path ahead. Camels, however, could be surprisingly agile, whereas an old donkey with clouded eyes and at least one sore hip was another thing altogether.
The Reverend put himself in the Lord's hands. He might survive the journey, or he might not. Since his son's kidnapping, he had steadily given up his former efforts to master his own destiny with overzealous care. It wasn't lost on him that the theistic doctrine to which he had always subscribed was being steadily eroded by a laissez-faire atheism, as dangerous as the sheer cliffs on either side of him now. But, no matter, he was on a private, nonecclesiastical mission.
In the face of great trials and tribulations, the Reverend maintained his focus and simply kept himself, his manservant, and his animal calm. Not in any higher, biblical sense but in actual practice. That seemed to be the key to survival in so many instances. The more complicated goal of maintaining goodness and virtue at all costs seemed somewhat beside the point out here in this godforsaken wasteland.
The Reverend found himself retreating to a basic principle passed on to him by his dear mother: the best a person could do in life was to maintain overall good cheer. And why not, given the dreadful way that things occurred? Although now, as he approached the obscure outpost that he felt certain harbored his stolen son, maintaining her suggested attitude felt remarkably easy.
He called back over his shoulder to Ahcho, "Nothing can surpass the evening skies of these foothills in their late-autumn glory. I find they infiltrate my whole being with serenity."
Ahcho replied with an anxious grunt.
The Reverend had noticed that his number-one boy— as loyal a man as he had ever met— lacked nerves of steel and was prone to worry. The Reverend found that if he kept up the timbre of his voice, then both his manservant and his donkey were more likely to relax. He wished he could impress upon Ahcho the benefits of his evolving come-what-may philosophy, but he did not want to bother the fellow while he was concentrating on the trail. The Reverend adjusted the animal hide on his shoulders and returned to reading.
"Sir," Ahcho called forward, his anxious voice echoing across the ravine, "shouldn't you set aside your book for the time being?"
"Heavens, no, man," the Reverend shouted back. "I need the Romantics more than ever in moments like this. A line from Wordsworth— just like the pealing of those distant bells— serves to remind me of the Lord's elegant intentions even in the face of misery elsewhere. We are blessed, are we not, to be in the midst of such beauty?"
Ahcho offered a feeble sound of agreement.
The man needed to read
The old chieftain held the heavy thing in his thin, trembling arms. The Reverend thanked him and bowed. The two younger men helped their leader lift the wolf skin up onto the Reverend's high shoulders. Ahcho knew he should assist with this task, but he did not. In no way did he approve of the dead thing now draped across the Reverend's back. It was a primitive, superstitious, and ridiculous garment not worthy of his fine master.
But when the Reverend lifted his head and rose to his full height with the fur hide over his shoulders, he appeared enormous and otherworldly, frightening even to his manservant. The yellow eyes of the dead animal stared out at Ahcho and caused the hairs on his neck to rise. Although the Reverend offered a proud smile, Ahcho knew that nothing good could come of it.
Twelve
T he Reverend steered his trusty donkey along a precipitous path that seemed to grow narrower by the step. If he had not witnessed a camel caravan successfully approaching from the opposite way, he would never have believed it possible to traverse the path ahead. Camels, however, could be surprisingly agile, whereas an old donkey with clouded eyes and at least one sore hip was another thing altogether.
The Reverend put himself in the Lord's hands. He might survive the journey, or he might not. Since his son's kidnapping, he had steadily given up his former efforts to master his own destiny with overzealous care. It wasn't lost on him that the theistic doctrine to which he had always subscribed was being steadily eroded by a laissez-faire atheism, as dangerous as the sheer cliffs on either side of him now. But, no matter, he was on a private, nonecclesiastical mission.
In the face of great trials and tribulations, the Reverend maintained his focus and simply kept himself, his manservant, and his animal calm. Not in any higher, biblical sense but in actual practice. That seemed to be the key to survival in so many instances. The more complicated goal of maintaining goodness and virtue at all costs seemed somewhat beside the point out here in this godforsaken wasteland.
The Reverend found himself retreating to a basic principle passed on to him by his dear mother: the best a person could do in life was to maintain overall good cheer. And why not, given the dreadful way that things occurred? Although now, as he approached the obscure outpost that he felt certain harbored his stolen son, maintaining her suggested attitude felt remarkably easy.
He called back over his shoulder to Ahcho, "Nothing can surpass the evening skies of these foothills in their late-autumn glory. I find they infiltrate my whole being with serenity."
Ahcho replied with an anxious grunt.
The Reverend had noticed that his number-one boy— as loyal a man as he had ever met— lacked nerves of steel and was prone to worry. The Reverend found that if he kept up the timbre of his voice, then both his manservant and his donkey were more likely to relax. He wished he could impress upon Ahcho the benefits of his evolving come-what-may philosophy, but he did not want to bother the fellow while he was concentrating on the trail. The Reverend adjusted the animal hide on his shoulders and returned to reading.
"Sir," Ahcho called forward, his anxious voice echoing across the ravine, "shouldn't you set aside your book for the time being?"
"Heavens, no, man," the Reverend shouted back. "I need the Romantics more than ever in moments like this. A line from Wordsworth— just like the pealing of those distant bells— serves to remind me of the Lord's elegant intentions even in the face of misery elsewhere. We are blessed, are we not, to be in the midst of such beauty?"
Ahcho offered a feeble sound of agreement.
The man needed to read
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