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Show 47, Jeffries, Islamorada [Section 2] rangers are trying to build up their numbers, and the winters are so hard on them. . . Yes Row, he agreed, I wish you bluebirds in the spring. . . There was a spot near Spanish Harbor where he could go at night and there would be no homes and lights. He would picture long ago, back before the train and the planters, back five centuries, and there'd be a little key deer out there, taking the soft waters across to Yellow Bird Island. It was the way Row had trained him. Back on the Western Reserve. To feel the patterns of the old Eries, the cat people, on the Ohio land, back before the Iroquois, the Six Nations, had come down to exterminate them. Then, between the trees to the small rise, certain to be an old trail, he would abdicate, give up his apartment, wish away the homes of his friends--he felt them coming for him, gentle shell people, fierce Caribs, Dorian Clayton pursued by the remorseless woodwinds of the Matecumbe. They waited for him at noon. The cafeteria ladies. Those little Dixie naturopaths. Atom by atom working to turn him into a good old boy. He'd come along the |
