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“
I
touched
his
cheek
,
”
someone
whispered
.
“
I
felt
the
gift
.
”
At
first
,
the
fingers
touching
his
face
frightened
Paul
.
He
clutched
the
cold
handle
of
the
baliset
,
feeling
the
strings
bite
his
palm
.
Then
he
saw
the
faces
beyond
the
groping
hands
—
the
eyes
wide
and
wondering
.
Presently
,
the
hands
withdrew
.
The
funeral
ceremony
resumed
.
But
now
there
was
a
subtle
space
around
Paul
,
a
drawing
back
as
the
troop
honored
him
by
a
respectful
isolation
.
The
ceremony
ended
with
a
low
chant
:
“
Full
moon
calls
thee
—
Shai
-
hulud
shalt
thou
see
;
Red
the
night
,
dusky
sky
,
Bloody
death
didst
thou
die
.
We
pray
to
a
moon
:
she
is
round
—
