The Plague of Doves by Louise Erdrich Read Free Book Online Page B

chair.
    â€œThe hairy white man flips over me, and as he does, I bite off one of his fingers.”
    â€œWhich one?” said Shamengwa.
    â€œI just got the pinkie,” said Mooshum. “But now he’s foaming mad, so I let him come at me again. This time, I strike like a weasel. Snap, a thumb comes off!”
    â€œDid you eat it?” said Joseph.
    â€œI had to swallow it down whole, no chewing. It tasted foul,” said Mooshum. “I needed it for strength, my boy. We blasted out again. The next time I slowed he went for my liver—but only ripped a chunk out of my left cheek here.” Mooshum pointed at the baggy seat of hispants. “I tore a bite from his hindquarters, too, and wrestled him down and got a piece of thigh, next. I kept after him. I was young. We must of ran for twenty, thirty miles! And over those miles I whittled him down.”
    â€œHowah!” cried Shamengwa.
    â€œBy the time he dropped from blood loss, he was down six fingers. I got one of his ears, the whole thing. I took a couple of his toes just to slow him down. Those, I spit right out. And I got his nose.”
    â€œYuck,” I said.
    â€œIt’s my lucky piece,” said Mooshum. “Want to see it, Father?”
    â€œNo, I do not!”
    But Mooshum had already drawn his handkerchief from his pocket, and with an air of reverence he unwrapped it to show a blackened piece of leatherlike gunk.
    â€œA bit of Thamnophis radix ,” said Joseph, peering at it over Mooshum’s shoulder. “Why’d you keep it?”
    â€œIt’s his love charm,” Shamengwa said.
    â€œThat is…positively pagan!” Father Cassidy spluttered the words out and Mooshum’s eye lighted.
    â€œIn what way, dear priest?” he asked with an air of curious innocence, pouring whiskey into the coffee cup that Father Cassidy gripped in his shuddering fingers.
    â€œA nose!” cried Father Cassidy.
    â€œAnd what piece of good Saint Joseph is lodged in our church’s altar?” asked Mooshum. He spoke in a nunlike voice, gentle and reproving.
    Father Cassidy’s mouth shut hard. He frowned. “To compare , even to compare …”
    â€œI was told,” said Joseph readily, “as he is my name saint of course, I was told that our altar contains a bit of Saint Joseph’s spinal material.”
    Father Cassidy drank the whole cup back.
    â€œSacrilege.” He shook his head. Wagged his empty cup, which Mooshum promptly filled again.
    â€œIt saddens and outrages me,” Father Cassidy said, sipping moodilyoff the brim. “Saddens and outrages me,” he repeated in a fainter voice. Then he got all stirred up, as if some thought pierced the fog. It was the same thought he’d had already.
    â€œTo compare …” he blurted out, almost tearful.
    â€œCompare, though, I must,” said Mooshum. “When you stop to consider how the body of Christ, the blood of Christ, is eaten at every Mass.”
    Father Cassidy’s tears vanished in a wash of rage. He blew up at this—his cheeks puffed out and he swayed monumentally to his feet.
    â€œThat is the transubstantiation , which is to say you speak of the most sacred aspect of our Mother the Church as represented in the Holy Mass.”
    Father Cassidy was building up more and more gas, and soon a froth of fresh bubbles dotted the corners of his mouth. Mooshum leaned forward, questioning.
    â€œThen do you mean to tell me that the body and the blood is just, eh, in your head, like? The bread stands in for the real thing? Then I could see your point. Otherwise, the Eucharist is a cannibal meal.”
    Father Cassidy’s lips turned purple and he tried to roar, though it came out a gurgle. “Heresy! What you describe. Heresy. The bread does indeed become the body. The wine does indeed become the blood. Yet it does not compare in any way to the eating of another human.” Father Cassidy