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the story they worked out would be that the Wendigo had walked through their village or encampment while they were sleepin and touched them. And the Wendigo was supposed to give those it touched a taste for the flesh of their own kind.”
“Saying the devil made them do
decided the ground had gone sour,”
I did it because kids need to know that sometimes dead is better,”
where the pain stops and the good memories begin.
Not the end of life but the end of pain.
That death was a secret,
time passes, and time welds one state of human feeling into another until they become something like a rainbow. Strong grief becomes a softer, more mellow grief; mellow grief becomes mourning; mourning at last becomes remembrance—a
I didn’t know there could ever be hurt like this, and that’s the truth.
its voice had been a kind of seductive lullaby, the voice of possible comfort and a dreamy sort of power, it was now lower and more than ominous—it
He dreamed that it had touched him, spoiling all good dreams forever,
