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“It’s crazy to cross that gorge,” you tell the Indian boy. “Go alone!” You raise you arms and with both hands toss the sapling out over the gorge. Slim and flexible, it quivers horizontally for a split second like a vibrating violin string, then tips and falls like an arrow to the bottom of the abyss You look to the Indian boy, now halfway across the gorge, the pine log rolling treacherously under his feet as he struggles to keep his balance. There is no sign of life on the other side, no indication that a shaman with bow and arrow waits to exact a coward’s penalty.



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