Red Prophet: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume II by Orson Scott Card Page B

drink. North with the black noise so loud I don’t know where north is, but still north because I don’t dare to stop.
    Very dark night. Black noise so bad the land says nothing to Lolla-Wossiky. Even the white light of the dream beast is far off and seems to come from everywhere at the same time. One eye sees night, other eye sees black noise. Have to stop. Have to stop.
    Very carefully Lolla-Wossiky found a tree, put down the keg, sat down and leaned against the tree, keg between his legs. Very slowly because he couldn’t see, he felt the keg all over to make sure of the bung. Tap tap tap with the tommy-hawk, tap, tap, tap till the bung was loose. Slowly he wiggled it out with his fingers. Then he leaned over and put his mouth over the bunghole, tight as a kiss, tight as a baby on the nipple, that’s how tight; then up with the keg, very slow, very slow, not very high, there’s the taste, there’s the likker, one swallow, two swallows, three swallows, four.
    Four is all. Four is the end. Four is the true number, the whole number, the square number. Four swallows.
    He put the bung back into the keg and tapped it into place, tight. Already the likker is getting to his head. Already the black noise is fading, fading.
    Into silence. Into beautiful green silence.
    But the green also goes away, fading with the black. Every time it goes this way. The land sense, the green vision that every Red has, nobody ever saw it clearer than Lolla-Wossiky. But now when it comes, right behind it comes the black noise every time. And when the black noise goes, when the likker chases it off, right behind it goes away the green living silence every time.
    Lolla-Wossiky is left like a White man then. Cut offfrom the land. Ground crunching underfoot. Branches snagging. Roots tripping. Animals running away.
    Lolla-Wossiky hoped, hoped for years to find just the right amount of likker to drink, to still the black noise and still leave the green vision. Four swallows, that was as close as he ever came. It left the black noise just out of reach, just behind the nearest tree. But it also left the green where he could just touch it. Just reach it. So he could pretend to be a true Red instead of a whisky-Red, which was really a White.
    Tonight, though, he had been without likker so long, two months except for a cup now and then, that four swallows was too strong for him. The green was gone with the black. But he didn’t care, not today. Didn’t care, had to sleep.
     
    When he woke up in the morning, the black noise was just coming back. He wasn’t sure whether the sun or the noise woke him, and he didn’t care. Tap on the bung, four swallows, tap it closed. This time the land sensed stayed close by, he could feel it a little. Enough to find the rabbit in the hole.
    Thick old stick. Cut it here, slice it, slice it, so splintery burrs of wood stuck out in every direction.
    Lolla-Wossiky knelt down in front of the rabbit hole.
    “I am very hungry,” he whispered. “And I am not very strong. Will you give me meat?”
    He strained to hear the answer, strained to know if it was right. But it was too far off, and rabbits were very quiet in their land-voice. Once, he remembered, he could hear all the voices, and from miles and miles away. Maybe if the black noise ever went away, he could hear again. But for now, he had no way of knowing if the rabbits gave consent or not.
    So he didn’t know if he had the right or not. Didn’t know if he was taking like a Red man, just what the land offered, or stealing like a White man, murdering whatever it pleased him to kill. He had no choice. He thrust the stick into the burrow, twisting it. He felt it quiver, heard the squeal, and pulled it out, still twisting. Little rabbit, not a big one, just a little rabbit squirming to get awayfrom the splinters, but Lolla-Wossiky was quick, just at the moment the rabbit was at the burrow mouth, ready to get free and run, Loila-Wossiky had his hand there, held the rabbit