The Healer of Harrow Point (14 page)

I nodded, trying to focus, trying not to cry. I ran my hands over the dog's coat. He shuddered, his wet brown eyes open, blood seeping onto the gravel underneath him.

“I think it's okay,” I said. “I think I can do it.”

The dog's spirit was pure fear and pain, almost overwhelming me in its intensity. I tried to soothe him, stroking him lightly, saying “shhh,” sensing more clearly the internal damage and how things could be set right.

“Gently, Thomas.”

“Yes, thank you. I remember.”

Some of the other boys had come up behind me by then. “That's so gross,” I heard one of them say. The coach arrived next.

“Singer, the dog's dead. Leave it be.”

“No, he's just stunned,” I said. I was hunched over the little body, trying to shield him.

“Easy, boy,” I said quietly. “Easy, now.” I could feel his spirit waver a moment, frightened, but not resisting me so much. I leaned closer, cradling the small dog against my chest, steadying myself, emptying myself.

“I bring strength,” I whispered, and set carefully, gently to work.

Peter Walpole is a writer, a National Public Radio (NPR) essayist, and a city letter carrier for the U.S. Postal Service. He lives in Virginia with his wife, Claudia, and their son, Max.
The Healer of Harrow Point
is his first book.

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