“Sure, I meant it, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked you.” “He said you’ve been acting friendly just because Ma said to.” “It’s true, Ma did ask me to show you the ropes, me and the Bomber. But she never made me. I had you pegged right from the start.”
“Pegged as what?”
“Well, as – as different, see? But good different. Something we didn’t have too many of around here. Remember ‘Icarus’?”
“I guess you thought that was nervy of me, naming your owl.”
“Not my owl. He was yours, right from the start. I told Bomber later, I said you were going to be a very interesting member of Jeremiah, very unusual. And you were. Are. So don’t pay any attention to what Reece – or anybody else – says. We’re friends now and we’ll go on being friends. When you come to our house, I’ll have my mom bake you her special lemon pie-”
“Great.”
“And my dad has a friend who’s a barnstormer. Maybe dad’ll get him to take us up for a spin. Is it a deal?”
“A deal.”
Solemnly they shook hands. Tiger lay back, fatigued. “Something else on your mind?” he asked, as Leo started to speak, then stopped.
“I was thinking…” Leo began again.
“What?”
“There’s something – you ought to know before you leave. I wanted to tell you before now, only… only…” He groped for words that wouldn’t come.
Tiger roused himself sufficiently to be attentive. “That’s okay. Whatever it is, just spit it out. That’s the best way.”
Now that he’d initiated the conversation, Leo was having serious doubts about going through with it. “You’ll probably get mad at me,” he muttered.
“Try me.”
Leo leaned close to Tiger’s pillow and lowered his voice; he couldn’t take a chance on anyone’s overhearing. “I’ve been keeping something from you. And if we’re going to go on being friends, it’s something you should know about. Only, after I’ve told you, maybe you won’t want to be friends anymore. It has to do with something that happened a long time ago, except – well, it’s still going on, in a way. I mean it’s still-”
He broke off.
Tiger studied him. “Does it have something to do with when you were in the asylum?” he asked.
Leo shot him a grateful look. “You remember that time at Dagmar’s? When I – when I – well, ran out of the room? During the storm?”
Tiger nodded.
“That’s when I remembered.” Leo stopped, then went on, confessing the truth of what had happened that stormy night in the house on Gallop Street, getting it all out at last. Tiger listened with the thoughtful, earnest expression Leo had come to know so well.
“And Rudy’s still alive, isn’t he?” Tiger ventured.
Leo was taken aback. “How did you know?”
“I just figured. He’s doing time in the pen, isn’t he?” Leo confessed that this was so.
“And that’s why you get those bad dreams,” Tiger went on. “Cripes, that’s enough to give anybody nightmares. I’d be screwy myself.” He produced a wan smile. “ ‘Ya done good in spite of it, camper,’ ” he said.
This affirmation made Leo feel better; his spirits were further cheered when he was instructed to open the table drawer: in it lay Tiger’s Bowie knife in its leather sheath.
“I want you to have it. To remember me when you go back to Pitt.”
“I can’t do that. It’s yours, you won it.”
“I’m leaving, remember? I won’t need it. But you might.”
Leo shrugged. “I don’t think I’ll stay, after you’re gone.” “Why not? Listen, I know the guys’ve pulled some lousy tricks on you, but you don’t want to let that stuff get you. Don’t give in to them.”
Leo shook his head stubbornly. “I don’t want to stay without you.”
“That’s crazy! It’s just what they want you to do – quit. You don’t want them thinking they licked you, do you? That you’re another Stanley?”
“Do you think I am?”
“ ’Course not. And you’re no quitter, either. ‘Never Say Die’ – remember the Count?”
Leo was in no mood for talk about the count. “They’re saying it’s my fault you’re sick. The Mingoes-”
Tiger was scornful. “Forget the Mingoes, they’re all full of you-know-what.” He gestured toward the knife. “Now take it, will you? I want you to.”
Following the command, Leo took the knife, undid his belt, and slid it through the slits in the sheath. He thought about what Kretch would say when he showed it off; how Measles and all his loudmouth bunch would carry on. Tiger’s gift was a token of friendship and esteem, honor, even, things guys like Measles didn’t know – or care – anything about.
They fell silent for a time. Leo’s eye wandered to the night table, where Tiger’s medicine bag lay, beaded and feathered, guarding its tantalizing secret. He still yearned to know what it contained, what made those provocative little bumps in the bag. From the Oliphants’ dock came the strains of music from Honey’s Victrola. Then, “Finish the poem, why don’t you?” Tiger said, opening his eyes. “I don’t want to go to sleep this time without knowing how it ends.”
Leo was agreeable. Opening Fritz’s book, he picked up where he’d left off three days before, with the Etruscan forces making a bid to cross the Tiber bridge.
Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of war-like glee,
As that great host, with measured tread,
And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,
Rolled slowly towards the bridge’s head,
Where stood the dauntless Three.
“The dauntless Three.” Leo glanced over to the bed to see if Tiger had heard, but his eyes were on the ceiling. Leo went on:
Alone stood brave Horatius,
But constant still in mind;
Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
And the broad flood behind.
“Down with him!” cried false Sextus,
With a smile on his pale face.
“Now yield thee,” cried Lars Porsena,
“Now yield thee to our grace.”
But the stubborn Horatius would never yield; he fought on until the bridge went down, and Rome was saved. For his valor he was awarded public lands to till, and a bronze statue was erected in his honor.
It stands in the Comitium,
Plain for all folk to see;
Horatius in his harness,
Halting upon one knees
And underneath is written,
In letters all of gold,
How valiantly he kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.
When Leo looked up he saw that Tiger’s eyes were shut, his cheek lay upon the pillow. Leo watched him a moment longer, then reached over to switch off the bedside lamp. Unwilled, his fingers went instead to the Seneca bag, lying in a pool of light. He picked it up and held it by its string. The chamois sack twisted slowly in the lamplight, not heavy, but somehow weighted by the mystery of its contents.
He hefted it, then let it drop into his cupped palm. What power did it contain? Just touching the bag made his hand tremble. Gingerly he kneaded its contents between his fingertips. What was it? Something small, hard, round. He inserted two digits into the neck of the bag, loosened it, and felt inside. Three small objects, round, sort of, about the size of raisins. Nuts? Beans? Checking to make sure Tiger’s eyes remained shut, he spilled the objects into his palm: three pebbles, that was all, just three ordinary pebbles, one black, one white, one red. It didn’t make sense. Why were three common pebbles of such significance? He was about to return them to the bag when one of them slipped through his fingers and bounced on the floor. He bent quickly and picked it up. When he straightened, Tiger’s eyes were on him. Leo turned scarlet with guilt.
“I – I-”
Tiger reached over and took the pebble, dropped it into the bag and closed the neck. “It’s okay, don’t worry,” he said.
“I only wanted to – to-”
“To know. It’s natural, I guess.” Tiger opened the bag again and spilled out the pebbles, then picked up the black stone and held it to the light.
“This stone is for the earth, who is the mother of us all, who births us and feeds us and protects us all our lives. And this” – holding up the red one – “is the blood of the Senecas, who are blood brothers, bound together in friendship and loyalty through all our lives. And this” -the white stone – “is for purity of soul. The shining spirit of the Great Manitou who awaits his sons in the Happy Hunting Grounds.”