Becka Charlie Quotes in Medicine Walk
"'What he done was brave. You know that, huh?"
"Done what?"
"Tellin' you. That took some grit."
"I don't think it'd take much grit to tell what ya already know."
"Maybe. But it sat in his gut a long time. Most'll just give stuff like that over to time. Figure enough of it passes things'll change. Try to forget it. Like forgettin's a cure unto itself. It ain't. You never forget stuff that cuts that deep."
His father moaned and the kid regarded him. "He don't seem much of a warrior to me." He sipped at the tea.
"Who's to say how much of anythin' we are?" Becka said. "Seems to me the truth of us is where it can't be seen. Comes to dyin', I guess we all got a right to what we believe."
"I can't know what he believes. He talks a lot, but I still got no sense of him. So far it's all been stories."
She only nodded. "It's all we are in the end. Our stories." She stood and put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a pat.
He thought about what Becka had said and worked at finding some pattern to the shards and pieces of history he'd been allowed to carry now. They jangled and knocked around inside him. It felt like jamming the wrong piece into a picture puzzle. Like frustration alone could make it fit the pattern. He cast a look back over his shoulder at his father, who seemed to be asleep, but he'd mumble when the horse's step over a rock or a root made him lurch in the saddle. When the kid looked back at the thin trail they followed he felt worn and makeshift as the trail itself.
Becka Charlie Quotes in Medicine Walk
"'What he done was brave. You know that, huh?"
"Done what?"
"Tellin' you. That took some grit."
"I don't think it'd take much grit to tell what ya already know."
"Maybe. But it sat in his gut a long time. Most'll just give stuff like that over to time. Figure enough of it passes things'll change. Try to forget it. Like forgettin's a cure unto itself. It ain't. You never forget stuff that cuts that deep."
His father moaned and the kid regarded him. "He don't seem much of a warrior to me." He sipped at the tea.
"Who's to say how much of anythin' we are?" Becka said. "Seems to me the truth of us is where it can't be seen. Comes to dyin', I guess we all got a right to what we believe."
"I can't know what he believes. He talks a lot, but I still got no sense of him. So far it's all been stories."
She only nodded. "It's all we are in the end. Our stories." She stood and put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a pat.
He thought about what Becka had said and worked at finding some pattern to the shards and pieces of history he'd been allowed to carry now. They jangled and knocked around inside him. It felt like jamming the wrong piece into a picture puzzle. Like frustration alone could make it fit the pattern. He cast a look back over his shoulder at his father, who seemed to be asleep, but he'd mumble when the horse's step over a rock or a root made him lurch in the saddle. When the kid looked back at the thin trail they followed he felt worn and makeshift as the trail itself.
