Free Cursed Be the Child by Mort Castle Page A

“Think I’ll do something middle-class and go get the car washed.” He glanced at his watch. “Back in an hour, and then we can sit down to a middle-class Saturday morning breakfast, lovingly prepared by a Super-Mom who manages to run the household while being active in her professional career.”
    “Don’t tease.”
    “Can if I want to. Says so in the marriage contract. Tell you what, I won’t work today. We’ll drive the clean car up to Brookfield Zoo this afternoon. Think Missy will go for that?”
    “I know she will,” Vicki said. “Me, too.”
    Grinning, he pointed at her. “You got it.”
    When he left, Vicki poured herself another cup of coffee. That Warren had been the one to suggest a family outing greatly pleased her. When he was working on a book, he often got so wrapped up that he acted as though nothing but his battle with the blank pages was at all important.
    Still, she wished there could be another family outing—tomorrow. Last evening, when they were getting ready to go out for dinner, she’d told him about Laura Morgan’s invitation and suggested he accompany Missy and her to church.
    Warren said he was more likely to visit Uganda than Grove Corner Presbyterian, thank you very much. Okay, if she wanted to go and thought she needed a fix of socially acceptable American voodoo, that was just fine. But for him, “Well, if God exists, then I’ve worked out a deal with him.”
    She said, “What’s that?” knowing he expected her to ask.
    She braced herself for what was coming, blaming herself for bringing up the subject in the first place.
    Warren said, “I stay out of God’s house, and He’d damned well better stay out of mine.”
    She wished he had not said that.
     
    — | — | —
     

Two: o Drom Le Vila The Way of Dark Spririt
     
     
    A number of years ago, a scholar of ethnology, working on his PhD dissertation, sought out the Rawnie, the great lady, Pola Janichka. He’d learned of her fame as a storyteller and wished to include a number of her Darane Swature in his work. He thought the swature would illustrate archetypal themes.
    When he explained what he wanted to Pola Janichka, she told him she was sorry, but she could not provide him a single swato. He tried to convince the Rawnie of the scholarly value of his work, but she refused. Swature were not meant to be written down. A swato must be spoken, coming from the heart so that it can reach the heart. When one heart touches another, the truth is shared.
    This is a swato of Pola Janichka:
    “Once a boy, a chavo, went into the deep woods to check the snares of his father. As his father had set out many snares, it would take no small time for this task, so the boy took with him food and water. He took with him three coins, since one can get along in the world with little money, but not without any money. To pass the time, he had in his pocket his favorite toys, a lead soldier and a tiny whistle carved from the bone of a hedgehog by his uncle. This was all he had with him when he went into the deep woods.
    “Late in the morning, the boy realized that he was lost, far from the kumpania. Naxdaran, he told himself, do not fear. He had water, he had food, he had money, he had toys, and though this was all he had, what more did a child need? He would eat now and drink, and then he would pray to O Del, the good God, to show him the way out of the woods. With this thought, he seated himself, his back against a tree.
    “But before he could eat and drink, and sadly, before he could offer up any prayer to O Del, the boy felt a great tiredness, and his eyes closed, and he slept.
    “And when he awoke, there were children gathered about him in a circle.
    “Had the chavo been older and therefore wiser, he might have seen that these were not ordinary children.
    “There was a sadness in their eyes that was not the sadness known by living children. But the chavo had known little sadness in his own life, so he could not understand. There was