It was for this reason
that he could not open his heart to Sylviana. She did not believe; she
had said so. But what if she was wrong? Surely if such a being
existed, He must be obeyed and appeased. God the Father. Was he then
like Barabbas, a stern and forceful leader?
It was all too much for him. How could he, an ignorant hunter and
trapper, come to grips with the maker of the stars? Perhaps God was
right to curse him and laugh at him. He was small, foolish and evil.
Kalus was on the verge of despair. His body would not heal, and the
Cold World would not relent. How much longer could he trick himself
into going on, when he was eternally being resisted and punished because
of his ignorance?
It was a cold and cheerless night, as he climbed slowly up out of the
gorge with his meager prize: a small rabbit, that by some fluke had not
died immediately in his snare, but had to be killed after hours of
torment and fear. He had all but decided that he could no longer live
this way, that he must hunt as a man or perish. But even this small
dignity was not afforded him, since still the others must eat.
He stepped back onto the ledge with the cub beside him. The tiger was
gone. He knocked wearily on the door, his body aching, and after a
short time which seemed far longer, Sylviana opened it.
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