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76 The Messenger’s Finger John S. Read I arrived quiet in the modesty of my destination. Smoke lay asleep, across simple thatch cells incubating in a warmth of habitation. I listened, wet from the cold dew path, answered only by the morning fowls. Until a door flung francolin flying girls out in expectation. Suddenly struck still in flight before my pale image. An outsider assessed by an angry dog held the uncertainty of the moment. When behind them the hiatus broke with a mother’s maize-white smile, bright and warm as the fire behind her. That random path, capricious in its direction, Had brought me here with the night’s dark phrase. Carried by the insistent bell that now needed my interpretation. Seated in a circle, gracious in their patience for the message held. Silent in our laps we wept together for the son Who had passed in deep darkness for the Midas-gold my finger holds. ...

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