The Bleeding Man by Craig Strete Read Free Book Online Page A

save himself.
He knew he could not save her. There was no hope for her. No hope for him. There was nothing that
could be done. Out the window he could see the shells of houses going up at the edge of his land,
houses wait­ing till the summer and the right time to build them. His people had caught up with
him.
    He got up from the
table slowly, his food untouched, and he moved toward them. She knew what was to happen and in
that unreadable face, he found the knowledge of what he was about to do. He lifted the boy away
from the mat on the floor and cradling him against his chest, turned and walked back to the
table. She sat motionlessly in the corner and in that moment he knew, he finally knew she was
capable of emotion, that she had feelings of her own.
    He pulled a chair
up beside his and sat the boy gently down upon the chair. He turned to her, and without a word
she knew that the boy's place would hereafter be at the table, she knew it by the sad,
un­relenting look on his face.
    He took a piece of
bread and put it unwashed into the boy's mouth. And then he heard it, and turned to look at her.
Her face was turned away, her shoulders motionless.
    But he heard it
and this time knew what it was. That melodious, birdlike sound, the way the creatures of Kingane
cried, the sound the creatures of Kingane made when they were dying.
    But he had his
back hardened against it and would not relent, having made the judgment for the boy. But after
the way of his own kind, his shoulders shook and he made the harsh, broken rasping sound, the way
the creatures of Earth cried, the sound the creatures of Earth made when they were
dying.

A Sunday Visit with Great-grandfather
    Great-grandfather
stared at his gift with a sharply critical eye. Great-grandmother gnashed her teeth like she
always did when great­grandfather was about to make a social error.
    "This tobacco
stinks!" said great-grandfather. He held the pouch away from his nose. "As usual, my cheap
great-grandson has shown his respect by bring­ing me cheap tobacco."
    Great-grandmother
kicked great-grandfather in the shin, as she had been doing in such instances as long as she
could remember. Not that it did any good. Great-grandfather had grown old and independent and it
took something of the magnitude of an earthquake to change his ways.
    Great-grandson
sighed. He knew that no matter what kind of tobacco he brought or how much it cost,
great-grandfather would always say it was cheap.
    "You are looking
well, great-grandfather," he said.
    "A fat lot you
know!" said great-grandfather irritably.
    "It's the vapors.
It gets him in the back," said great-grandmother. "And he hasn't got enough sense to come in when
the cold clouds are out. Not him. He stands out in bad vapors and rain looking for a demigod or
trying to remember where he's supposed to be, as if one burial rack didn't—"
    "Some day your
tongue will go crazy and beat you to death!" roared great-grandfather.
    Great-grandmother
gave her great-grandson a sym­pathetic look and shrugged.
    "How are the white
people treating you in away-school?" asked great-grandfather. He shifted his posi­tion upon the
hard rock so that the sun did not shine directly into his weak, old eyes.
    "As badly as
usual, revered one. Those white peo­ple are crazy."
    "And what kind of
things are they learning you? Healing arts? Better ways of hunting? Surely these white men are
teaching you many things?" said great­grandfather.
    "No,
great-grandfather," answered great-grandson. "They are not teaching me any of those things. I am
learning science. I am learning how lightning is made and what rocks are made of and what stars
are and how fast light travels."
    "Spells! Most
excellent! These white people are smarter than I thought. But what was that you said about light
traveling? I have never heard of such a thing! Of what use is it?" great-grandfather
asked.
    "They are not
spells," explained great-grandson