games

By KATHERINE MacLEAN

Illustrated by ASHMAN

onny was playing by himself, which meant he was two tribes of Indianshaving a war.

"Bang," he muttered, firing an imaginary rifle. He decided that it wasa time in history before the white people had sold the Indians anyguns, and changed the rifle into a bow. "Wizzthunk," he substituted,mimicking from an Indian film on TV the graphic sound of an arrowstriking flesh.

"Oof." He folded down onto the grass, moaning, "Uhhhooh ..." andrelaxing into defeat and death.

"Want some chocolate milk, Ronny?" asked his mother's voice from thekitchen.

"No, thanks," he called back, climbing to his feet to be another man."Wizzthunk, wizzthunk," he added to the flights of arrows as the bestarcher in the tribe. "Last arrow. Wizzzz," he said, missing one enemyfor realism. He addressed another battling brave. "Who has morearrows? They are coming too close. No time—I'll have to use myknife." He drew the imaginary knife, ducking an arrow as it shotclose.

hen he was the tribal chief standing somewhere else, and he saw thatthe warriors left alive were outnumbered.

"We must retreat. We cannot leave our tribe without warriors toprotect the women."

Ronny decided that the chief was heroically wounded, his voicewavering from weakness. He had been propping himself against a tree toappear unharmed, but now he moved so that his braves could see he waspinned to the trunk by an arrow and could not walk. They cried out.

He said, "Leave me and escape. But remember...." No words came, justthe feeling of being what he was, a dying old eagle, a chief ofwarriors, speaking to young warriors who would need advice of seasonedhumor and moderation to carry them through their young battles. He hadto finish the sentence, tell them something wise.

Ronny tried harder, pulling the feeling around him like a cloak ofresignation and pride, leaning indifferently against the tree wherethe arrow had pinned him, hearing dimly in anticipation the sound ofhis aged voice conquering weakness to speak wisely of what they neededto be told. They had many battles ahead of them, and the battleswould be against odds, with so many dead already.

They must watch and wait, be flexible and tenacious, determined andpersistent—but not too rash, subtle and indirect—not cowardly, andabove all be patient with the triumph of the enemy and not maddenedinto suicidal direct attack.

His stomach hurt with the arrow wound, and his braves waited to hearhis words. He had to sum a part of his life's experience in words.Ronny tried harder to build the scene realistically. Then suddenly itwas real. He was the man.

He was an old man, guide and adviser in an oblique battle againstgreat odds. He was dying of something and his stomach hurt with aknotted ache, like hunger, and he was thirsty. He had refused to letthe young men make the sacrifice of trying to rescue him. He washostage in the jail and dying, because he would not surrender to theenemy nor cease