Free Born with a Tooth by Joseph Boyden Page A

wings to the safety of the middle of the pond. It made Painted Tongue so nervous that he wrapped his arms around his chest and moaned out loud.
    He heard the sudden, angry shouts of a small group of people through the trees by a hill to his left. He guessed they were about fifty metres away. He could see a good deal in the moon’s light, but the men shouting were somewhere in the shadows of the trees. Their voices were sharp and mean, three of them, maybe four. Then some other man screamed, Leave me alone! In his fear he almost sounded like a woman. Painted Tongue got up on his haunches, rocking slowly and humming quietly, Where are the police? They sleep in their cruisers while men are beaten in High Park.
    They were hitting the man with the high voice. Painted Tongue held on to himself tighter. The man was wailing now, and his pain filtered through the trees with the thud of bootsand open hands on flesh followed by screams. Painted Tongue searched hard for his warrior song but it wouldn’t come. This man needs help, he hummed. They are hurting him bad.
    This was an empty part of the huge park. There was no one around but Painted Tongue and the men hidden in the trees. He could hear the honks of cars far off on Lakeshore Boulevard hundreds of metres over one hill and another. Finally it got quiet again. After a little silence, Painted Tongue stood in a crouch. He wanted to look in the trees. The voices erupted again.
    Motherfuckers! the wounded man screamed.
    He’s running. Grab the bitch!
    A naked man came dashing from the trees towards Painted Tongue with three men close behind him. He was streaked red in the moonlight and ran hard, but with a limp. Painted Tongue dropped quickly into the shadow of a bush without the man’s seeing him and held himself rigid as the other men swooped by.
    They quickly caught up to the wounded one and tackled him. They took turns kicking his head and groin and stomach with their boots. Two had shaved heads and the other wore his hair long like Painted Tongue. They chanted, Dirty faggot, cocksucking faggot, through their clenched teeth. Painted Tongue tried again, but his warrior song would not come. The long-haired one pulled out a knife.
    Don’t. Please don’t, the man on the ground said, curled up and holding himself. He was close enough to Painted Tongue that Painted Tongue could taste the copper tang of fear in his own mouth. The long-haired one dropped down on his knees with both hands held above his head.
    Do it, one of the standing men hissed.
    Stick him. Fuck him, the other said.
    Die, bitch, the long-hair said after a few seconds, then swung down hard. The bleeding man howled. Painted Tongue shivered as the three men ran into the darkness.
    Painted Tongue stood up after a long while. He slowly walked up to the body on the ground, bent over him and peered down. The man blinked at Painted Tongue and Painted Tongue jumped back quickly. The man’s chest was gurgling and his lips opened just a little. Then his chest stopped moving. Painted Tongue’s legs told him to run away as fast as he could, but instead he hummed a death chant for the man slowly and quietly. Your last moments were spent in fear, he hummed, but now you are peaceful and sink into the waters of sleep. Your last moments were spent in fear and I could not help you, but now all is peaceful as you slip into sleep.
    Painted Tongue thought he could see his own face for a second, reflected in the man’s open eyes, but knew that wasn’t possible. He realized as he ran back towards downtown that the man’s last sight had been of an Indian standing over him and humming, looking down like a death angel, an Indian with a hook nose and black hair almost long enough that it tickled the man’s face.
    Two hours later, Painted Tongue made his way into a bar at Queen Street and Richmond and took a seat in one of the dark corners. He couldn’t sit quietly, so he got up and went into the