He woke floating down the endless River of Repose within Father’s white canoe. He had no need of the paddle, as he was returning to the World of Sorrow effortlessly. He glanced up ahead at the procession; WhiteSkyCanoe towering like a tree-that-should-have-been-an-elder-owl somehow walking up the Starlit Path, the slain in their hundreds trailing in his wake. He then looked down at the man on the bench.

For a moment it occurred to him that the inside of the canoe was not the place for one of the Whiteman’s stone seats that they placed within their penned-in wild places for men who sought solace in beer visions, and women who drove their dogs to approved places of defecation. Upon this stone seat reclined a short somewhat heavy Burnt Man with a far-away look in his eyes. The man looked above to the procession of homeward souls upon the Starlit Path, and then looked below to a tuxedoed squirrel sprawled on the riverbank within the yellow chalk outline of a man.

This is the ghost of Mister Gerald Hicks. Engage him.

“Good morning Mister Hicks. It is I, Three-Rivers, your fellow tuxedoed trickster. May I assist you in some way?”

“Naw boy. I appreciate ebry ting you done. You alright fo a upidy big-talkin’ brat. I jus’ don’ know boy.”

“Don’t know what Mister Hicks?”

“Well, it were a bad deal bein’ a poor dumb Blackman in da Whiteman’s Worl. En id were a good deal bein’ a smartass squirrel in da Redman’s Worl. Now whad I do? I goes above whit yo daddy I be a lef’ ova drunk fo aternaty. If I goes back, whad kine’a man will I eva be?”

You must advise him without your own wishes impinging on the counsel.

“Gerald, if you were a good squirrel it was an indication that the inner man was good, just lost, up until your transmigration. As for your life as a squirrel, you attained the status of a man among my disciples and the warriors of five nations. You can make no wrong choice here Gerald. Just choose your course. Do you Gerald wish to rest, or do you wish to roll? I support your choice and will adore your memory if you decide to journey above.”

The dark-skinned man thumbed his chin like a man of science and wrinkled his brow, “Shoot boy, a lot a help you is—sheee I cou’ use a drink…”

He rushed up from the river bottom, apparently drawn into an eddy acting in reverse. When his head broke the surface he was not bobbing in a river as he expected, but laying flat on his back. Dead and dying and healing people were all around. Foremost among these was DeathSong standing over him solemnly. Suffice it to say that all of the warriors were staring at him in amazement, as was the Spanish priest who stood also with these men, holding one end of a stretcher that Three-Rivers should have been hauling.

DeathSong looked down into his eyes and drawled, “Welcome back boy—you been scarrin’ da tar outa folks. Looks like yer friend is comin’ too—must a jus’ been stunned.”

Three-Rivers looked down at his stomach and saw Mister Gerald Hicks the squirrel rolling over onto his side and looking about as if dazed, but apparently unhurt. The squirrel looked first at Three-River’s belly, which was glowing like the sun, and then down at the blood-drenched snow, which was perhaps three feet below the unseen bed upon which he lay. The squirrel then looked at Three-Rivers and spoke in an irritated voice, “Do ya mine boy. My ole ass be sore en I geddin’ too ole ta be jumpin’ inta dat mess. Lowa yo hoverin’ ass please!”

He felt his eyes cool down as he answered, “Of course Mister Hicks, as you wish.”