And Frederick ate, emptying the bowl. The food was good and the water Sandy gave him from the pail was fresh and cool. Frederick wondered where the woman had gone. He wanted to thank her. He wanted to thank her before—he went back. He said, “I’m sorry I dropped the bowl.”
Then Sandy reached inside the coarse shirt he was wearing and drew out a small pouch—something tied up in an old piece of cloth.
“Now, hear me well.”
Frederick set the bowl down.
“No way you can go now. Wise man face what he must. Big tree bend in strong wind and not break. This time no good. Later day you go. You go far.”
Frederick bowed his head. He believed Sandy’s words, but at the thought of Covey’s lash his flesh shivered in spite of the bright promise. Sandy extended the little bag.
“Covey beat you no more. Wear this close to body—all the time. No man ever beat you.”
Frederick’s heart sank. He made no move to take the bag. His voice faltered.
“But—but Sandy, that’s—that’s voodoo. I don’t believe in charms. I’m—I’m a Christian.”
Sandy was very still. He gazed hard into the boy’s gaunt face below the bloodstained bandage wrapped about his head; he saw the shadow in the wide, clear eyes; he thought of the lacerated back and broken rib, and his own eyes grew very warm. He spoke softly.