Free The Night the White Deer Died by Gary Paulsen Page A

what he was when he told the story, loved not just what he was but what he should have been, loved what he
could
have been if the time had been right for him.
    She loved him. Because he was the Indian in the dream, but he was more than that too; more than simply a dream person, because when he’d told the story of the battle, she had actually seen him change and become a warrior in the fight. And even now, after the story and battle were done and he stoodsilent, he was still all that he should and could have been, and she loved him for that; and all the wine and all that other part of his life were gone—shed like old skin or waste. Gone.
    And what was left she loved and more, it was more than just love—she was awed by the strength of him, the power that had taken him and made his nostrils flare and his eyes blow fire and youth, and it scared her a little. But only a little, and it was a good fear—almost a fear of herself and the kind of fear that kept her out of trouble.
    They were silent the rest of the morning, silent as the sun came up and made them warm, and they sat, Billy down by the pond, Janet on the blanket, through the whole day, off and on dozing and getting warm, and in the middle of the afternoon Billy uncoiled and stood and turned, and his face was soft, but still young.
    “It is time.”
    She had been dreamily looking at his back and the pond, staring into her mind, and she stood with him. “Time for what?”
    “You must take the pony and go back down the mountain. I will stay.”
    No
, she thought, but it didn’t come out, didn’t make it to her mouth.
No
cut through her thoughts and seared across the middle of her brain; no this is wrong no don’t do this no you don’t have to stay on the mountain, no I love you no don’t stay because there is no need; no, no, no.…
    “You do not move.” His tone admonished. “You have something to say?”
    “I would rather you didn’t do this—didn’t stay.” Some part of her wanted to run to him, run screaming and hold him and cry, but some new part wouldn’t let her do it, made her reserved. She hated the new part, but understood it.
    “It is time.” He repeated, his voice flat. “I have done most things once. It is no good to do things twice. Down there,” he pointed with his face back in the direction of the pueblo, “there is only the wine. Only that.”
    “But …”
    “It is time.”
    “I …”
    “I know. I feel the same.” And a kind of torment slid into his words, a tremor, a smell of something unsure. “Do you think this thing is easy? Do not make it harder for me. It is time. Go. Now.”
    She turned and walked back into the trees where he had tied the horses and untied the pony and climbed onto its back and rode out into the meadow and down in the direction of the pueblo and town because she knew it was something she had to do, had to leave him now, though it tore at her to do it.
    She rode out across the meadow and started down the trail that led back to town and home, a fifteen-year-old girl with a mother who was divorced and with Julio who followed her and made the sounds in histhroat so she would turn and see him ignoring her. But at the last moment, just as the pony started on the down trail, she turned to look at Billy once more because she knew she would never see him again, and she loved him.
    She loved him. For what he could have been, and she knew that he loved her the same way, for what they could have been. But when she turned to look, he had his back to her and was facing the pond and his shoulders were straight, and she knew he was waiting, waiting for his last battle, and that he wouldn’t be thinking about her. And she turned and rode down the mountain, and she did not look back again, did not once look back, though she cried and cried and was still crying so badly in grief for a love that was gone before it came, still crying so deeply and tearingly that when she rode into the courtyard of her home, she could