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The Red One | Jack London | |
The Red One |
Page 8 of 17 |
A memory was not a star, was Ngurn's contention. How could a memory be a star? Further, after all his long life he still observed the starry night-sky unaltered. Never had he noted the absence of a single star from its accustomed place. Besides, stars were fire, and the Red One was not fire - which last involuntary betrayal told Bassett nothing. "Will the Red One speak to-morrow?" he queried. Ngurn shrugged his shoulders as who should say. "And the day after? - and the day after that?" Bassett persisted. "I would like to have the curing of your head," Ngurn changed the subject. "It is different from any other head. No devil-devil has a head like it. Besides, I would cure it well. I would take months and months. The moons would come and the moons would go, and the smoke would be very slow, and I should myself gather the materials for the curing smoke. The skin would not wrinkle. It would be as smooth as your skin now." He stood up, and from the dim rafters, grimed with the smoking of countless heads, where day was no more than a gloom, took down a matting-wrapped parcel and began to open it. "It is a head like yours," he said, "but it is poorly cured." |
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The Red One Jack London |
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