The Healer by Daniel P. Mannix Page A

probably with as much relief as did Billy and Wasser. Judging from the tracks, they had even started to lope here, for puffs of snow had leaped from their paws and their strides were longer. They had followed the road for perhaps a quarter of a mile and then turned off it to follow the path of a power line toward the woods.
    Here Wasser mutinied. The prospect of fighting his way through any more snow fields was too much for him. No matter how Billy called and begged, the dog refused to follow; whining, with his tail down, he crawled toward the boy, only to slide away when Billy tried to catch him. At last Billy gave up.
    "All right, you go home, chicken!" he called angrily. "I'll go on with Dracula."
    He started manfully up the steep hill that led to the woods. For a while Wasser watched him, but when the boy was half way up, the old hound turned and trotted off toward the farm. Billy saw him go regretfully. True, in the deep snow the hound was of no use to him, but he wanted Wasser for company. The boy was a little apprehensive as to what might happen if he met Wolf and the wild dog in the woods. With the men beside him and a pack of dogs, the wild canines had not seemed dangerous; but here, alone, they might turn out to be different animals.
    Billy kept on until he reached the edge of the forest. In autumn, the border trees had been thick with poison ivy and honeysuckle that made an almost impenetrable barrier. Now the barrier was gone. He slid under the weighted branches, sheaves of sparkling powder slipping from the firs and drifting glittering in the cold air to settle on the drifts as he passed. He had to walk nearly doubled up to get under the fir branches, shielding Dracula with his other arm from twigs, but ahead the white trunks of the beeches shone like friendly ghosts, and when he reached them, he could straighten up. He was out of the worst of the wind now, yet the forest seemed to close in around him, muffling all sounds and seeming still and ominous.
    Billy hesitated, looking ahead into the crosshatching of shadows. Ahead he could see blackberry and honeysuckle tangles where pheasants might well be lying. Again he wondered where Wolf and the dog had gone. The animals might be waiting for him in ambush. They might attack, and he had no gun. Abe Zook, he knew, was afraid of Wolf, and Zook was a grown man. He thought of the bloody sheep at the fence angle.
    Always before when Billy had gone into one of his trance states, it had come as an effort of will and he had had to be completely relaxed, either sitting or lying down. Now for the first time he felt himself slipping into his dream world, although he was tired and cold and had not willed it. Even as he glided into that pleasant other world, he knew why it was happening. This was a true adventure, as thrilling as braving a child-eating witch or entering an ogre's castle. But it was not imaginary; it was real. There was danger, but not great danger. He did not really think that the animals would attack him, yet they might be werewolffen, and it was scary in the woods alone. His head began to swim as it did at the beginning of a trance, and he longed for some companion. Suddenly he knew that his companion was Wolf and Wolf was himself. Like himself, Wolf had been abandoned by someone who had no use for him. Like himself, Wolf had been pursued by a gang of enemies. Wolf was someone who could understand him, perhaps the only living thing that could. Yet with it all, Wolf was still a menace; he had to be or the story would have no meaning. Billy had always had a deep sympathy with the menace in fairy tales, especially if the menace was an animal. He grieved over dragons slain by knights and eagles shot down with arrows, even if the eagles were agents of an evil wizard. Wolf, then, had to play the part of the menace as another boy might have. Yet Wolf understood, and Wolf certainly could not be killed—that would be to kill Billy himself. To Billy it all seemed quite