Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

276 :: JOHN R. MABRY
ly, as if waiting for him, and some talking and joking in low
voices. He and Jaguar found gaps in the circle and filled
them. Dylan sat cross-legged, close enough to the grandfather
who seemed to be in charge to hear him plainly. Dylan
called him Old Leatherface, though not to his leathery face.
The elderly Indian rocked back and forth, a gap-toothed
smile playing on his ancient and weather-beaten jowels.
He didn’t seem to notice Dylan or Jaguar, but did start to
hum after they had been seated for a while. His humming
seemed tuneless, almost random, but it did have a rhythm to
it, more or less matching the beat Susan was pounding out,
still audible, though distant.
When he finished his song, a deep silence descended on the
room. No one spoke, although Dylan could see a lot of
smiles on the twenty or so Native faces.
“I think last time you were here we named you Sleeping
Bear,” said the old man, and chuckles spilled out into the
room from the other grandfathers and grandmothers.
“Yeah, Ah’ve put on a few pounds, even since Ah saw ya’ll
last.” Dylan also thought the name apt because he would
really like to be taking a nap about now.
But there was business to tend to, so he forced himself to
stay awake and alert. Grandfather seemed to notice. “Sleep,
if you want,” he said. “We’re in no hurry. Not our way.”
Dylan knew all about their “way,” and it was precisely
because of this that he had sought their council. If there were
a path, a “way” to Mikael, he wanted to know it.
“Ah’m sorry to take up your time, Grandfather, Ah just
don’t know who else to ask about this stuff.”
“First, let us have a smoke,” the old man said, in a tone
that left no room for negotiation. A peace pipe was produced,
and filled with sacred tobacco. It was passed around
the circle. When it came to him, Dylan noticed that it was
packed with sticky green bud, not tobacco at all, apparently,