they were accounted for on this great chart. These people revelled shamelessly in various fun-looking activities. One cave featured men sitting at a table feasting lustily on gigantic piles of food: meats and cakes and breads and cheeses. In another, women smoked cigarettes and sashayed about in fancy clothing, and in a third,men and women lay in bed together in various states of undress. In another, people lay around completely idle, sleeping, doing absolutely nothing. There appeared to be no end to the imagination with which these brown people took their pleasure; and this, Father Lafleur explained earnestly to his captive audience, was permanent punishment. Champion-Jeremiah was hoping to find an accordion player in at least one cave but, to his great disappointment, there was no place for musicians of his ilk in hell or heaven.
“And this,” Father Lafleur crowed, “is the devil. D-E-V-I-L. Devil.” He scratched the word on the blackboard at least a foot below “GOD” and finished with such force that the chalk broke and fell to the floor. Excellent student that he intended to be, Champion-Jeremiah copied the word, slowly, painstakingly, on the right-hand page of his scribbler: “DEVIL.” The
L
took such effort that he completely forgot to add a period.
In the largest, most fiery, most fascinating cave of all, on a huge black chair of writhing, slime-covered snakes with flicking tongues, sat the being with the biggest horns of all, the longest tail, the most lethal-looking pitchfork, his head crowned by a wreath of golden leaves. Champion-Jeremiah wished that he could understand what the priest was saying, for this king was absolutely riveting. He narrowed his eyes to slits so that he could peer into the eyes of this shameless, strutting personage to whom, apparently, modesty was unknown. He took careful note of the fact that the king — “Lucy,” the priest called him — was not glaring venomously. King Lucy was grinning, King Lucy was having a good time.
“And the sins that will get you there,” said Father Lafleur in a tone that Champ ion-Jeremiah was sure had a tinge of something not unlike enjoyment, “are called the seven deadly sins.”
Champion-Jeremiah looked down at the word on the right-hand page of his little scribbler and found the
D
of “DEVIL” not quite perfect. He reached for his eraser. “And these seven deadly sins are called …” Champion-Jeremiah applied the eraser to the
D
, “pride, envy, gluttony …” — erasing was such a waste of time — “sloth, covetousness, anger, and …” Champion-Jeremiah hated making mistakes, “lust.” The word burst forth like a succulent, canned plum. The priest wiped his brow with a rumpled white handkerchief. Champion-Jeremiah seized the moment to look down at his scribbler: “EVIL” was right there at his fingertips.
He thought it rather pretty, especially the way the
V
came to such an elegant point at the bottom, like a tiny, fleeting kiss.
A cold wind came sweeping down over the vast field of gravel that was the boys’ playground, a six-foot, steel-mesh fence holding at bay the surrounding forest of pine and spruce, birch and poplar and willow. If you stood on the monkey bars or flew high enough on the swings, you could see Birch Lake in the distance, down the hill behind the school building, transparent emerald, unlike the opaque blue of Mistik Lake.
“The winds of late October …,” said Champion-Jeremiah to himself, then stopped. His Cree must not be heard or he would fail to win the prize: the boy who acquired the greatest number of tokens from other boys by catching them speaking Cree was awarded a toy at month’s end. Last month, the prize had been an Indian war bonnet; this month it was to be a pair of cowboy guns. Sitting in the gravel with his back against the orange brick wall of the school, Champion-Jeremiah suddenly didn’t care whether he lost or won the guns. “The waves on Birch Lake must be climbing higher
“And this,” Father Lafleur crowed, “is the devil. D-E-V-I-L. Devil.” He scratched the word on the blackboard at least a foot below “GOD” and finished with such force that the chalk broke and fell to the floor. Excellent student that he intended to be, Champion-Jeremiah copied the word, slowly, painstakingly, on the right-hand page of his scribbler: “DEVIL.” The
L
took such effort that he completely forgot to add a period.
In the largest, most fiery, most fascinating cave of all, on a huge black chair of writhing, slime-covered snakes with flicking tongues, sat the being with the biggest horns of all, the longest tail, the most lethal-looking pitchfork, his head crowned by a wreath of golden leaves. Champion-Jeremiah wished that he could understand what the priest was saying, for this king was absolutely riveting. He narrowed his eyes to slits so that he could peer into the eyes of this shameless, strutting personage to whom, apparently, modesty was unknown. He took careful note of the fact that the king — “Lucy,” the priest called him — was not glaring venomously. King Lucy was grinning, King Lucy was having a good time.
“And the sins that will get you there,” said Father Lafleur in a tone that Champ ion-Jeremiah was sure had a tinge of something not unlike enjoyment, “are called the seven deadly sins.”
Champion-Jeremiah looked down at the word on the right-hand page of his little scribbler and found the
D
of “DEVIL” not quite perfect. He reached for his eraser. “And these seven deadly sins are called …” Champion-Jeremiah applied the eraser to the
D
, “pride, envy, gluttony …” — erasing was such a waste of time — “sloth, covetousness, anger, and …” Champion-Jeremiah hated making mistakes, “lust.” The word burst forth like a succulent, canned plum. The priest wiped his brow with a rumpled white handkerchief. Champion-Jeremiah seized the moment to look down at his scribbler: “EVIL” was right there at his fingertips.
He thought it rather pretty, especially the way the
V
came to such an elegant point at the bottom, like a tiny, fleeting kiss.
A cold wind came sweeping down over the vast field of gravel that was the boys’ playground, a six-foot, steel-mesh fence holding at bay the surrounding forest of pine and spruce, birch and poplar and willow. If you stood on the monkey bars or flew high enough on the swings, you could see Birch Lake in the distance, down the hill behind the school building, transparent emerald, unlike the opaque blue of Mistik Lake.
“The winds of late October …,” said Champion-Jeremiah to himself, then stopped. His Cree must not be heard or he would fail to win the prize: the boy who acquired the greatest number of tokens from other boys by catching them speaking Cree was awarded a toy at month’s end. Last month, the prize had been an Indian war bonnet; this month it was to be a pair of cowboy guns. Sitting in the gravel with his back against the orange brick wall of the school, Champion-Jeremiah suddenly didn’t care whether he lost or won the guns. “The waves on Birch Lake must be climbing higher
Similar Books
