Free Whisper in the Dark by Joseph Bruchac Page B

decapitated and the blood drained from their bodies. Most gruesome.”

17
WEAKNESS
    H EADS . AND NOT only had they been cut off the bodies of the dozen or so dogs and cats that had been killed over the last few days, they’d also been missing. Which meant that whoever cut them off took the heads with him. It sent my mind back to one of the more gruesome customs of some of my own ancestors.
    One of the pictures that you often get in history books and movies about Indians is that of scalping redskins. Maybe not so much nowadays, but plenty of stuff still has that image. Like any John Wayne western. But anybody who knows much about our real history knows that scalping either didn’t exist or was really rare among the Indians before Europeans came. But after the British and the French got here, and brought their wars with them,things changed. Maybe Europeans didn’t invent scalping, but they made it big business. The colonial governments paid bounties for Indian scalps, and there were bands of white men back in the eighteenth century who made their living as scalp hunters. And those Indian scalps were sold on the street corners in London and Paris to people who bought them as collector’s items.
    But before you think I’m just going off on a rant about the awful things that white people brought, let me finish where I’m going with this. Heads. In battle, my dad told me, we Narragansetts sometimes took the heads of our enemies as trophies. And the Whisperer in the Dark was also supposed to do that. The story goes that when he killed his victims, after he drank their blood, he would take their heads with him.
    That is why Mr. Patel’s remark shook me up so much. I know it bothered Roger, too, but only because it was just another gruesome detail. To me, though, it was like hearing a heavy footstep in the hall late at night just outside your door when you thought you were all alone in the house.
    I don’t recall much more of the conversationduring our short ride to the library. The next thing I knew, Roger was paying our fare and the two of us were standing on the curb outside Mr. Patel’s cab.
    “Remember, Maddy,” he called back to us over his shoulder as he leaned out the passenger side window, “if you need help, just call for Patel.” He grinned broadly. “We Indians must stick close together.”
    Then, like a woodchuck ducking into its hole, he dropped back onto his seat. With a ceremonious gesture, he flicked on his left turn signal and pulled out into traffic.
    “You sure were right, Maddy,” Roger said, watching the taillight on the cab flash. “He does use those signals.”
    I didn’t say anything. I was still too upset at what Mr. Patel had told us.
    “We have to check on Aunt Lyssa,” I said, running up the stairs.
    But even though I was running, I was still trying to think. I had to be logical, even if everything that was happening seemed to defy normal logic. Our traditional stories were meant not just as entertainment. They taught survival lessons. One of themajor lessons is to keep calm when there is danger. That way you won’t run headlong into the jaws of whatever is threatening you, like a panicked jackrabbit running in a big circle right back to the place it started from. When you are calm, you can think. My mom once told me that is how my dad was when he served in the military over in the Middle East. He was a Marine. When his convoy got ambushed, my dad was the one who stayed cool, figured out where the ambush was coming from, and led the assault team that took out the enemies. That earned him a Silver Star.

    Stay calm. Think logically. I could do that.
    I pushed through the library door and looked around. Aunt Lyssa was not at the front desk, but that wasn’t unusual. She was probably in her office. Everything was okay. I didn’t have to hurry. I had to calm down. I had to think.
    I stepped back into a corner and lowered myself into a cross-legged position. Roger sat down next to me,