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account. It was the Ache of Being, he said, and it was bound to strike me down sooner or later. The poisons had to be purgedfrom my system before I could advance to the next plateau of my training, and what might have dragged on for another six or nine months (with countless skirmishes between us) had been cut short by our fortuitious encounter in Wichita. I had been jolted into submission, he said, crushed by the knowledge that I would never triumph against him, and that mental blow had been the spark that triggered off the illness. After that, the rancor was cleansed out of me, and when I woke from the nightmare of my near death, the hatred festering inside me had been transformed into love.
    I don’t want to contradict the master’s opinion, but it seems to me that my turnaround was a good deal simpler than that. It might have started just after my fever went down, when I woke up and saw Mother Sioux sitting beside me with one of those rapturous, beatific smiles on her face. “Fancy that,” she said. “My little Walnut’s back in the land of the living.” There was such gladness in her voice, such an obvious concern for my well-being, that something inside me started to melt. “No sweat, Sister Ma,” I said, barely conscious of what I was saying. “I’ve just been snoozing is all.” I immediately shut my eyes and sank back into my torpor, but just as I was drifting off, I distinctly felt Mother Sioux’s lips brush against my cheek. It was the first kiss anyone had given me since my mother died, and it brought on such a warm and welcoming glow, I realized that I didn’t care where it had come from. If that chubby Indian squaw wanted to nuzzle with me like that, then by God let her, I wasn’t going to stand in her way.
    That was the first step, I think, but there were other incidents as well, not the least of which occurred a few days later, at a moment when my fever had shot back up again. I awoke in the early afternoon to find the room empty. I was about to crawl out of bed to make a stab at using the chamber pot, but once Idisentangled my ears from the pillow, I heard whispering outside my door. Master Yehudi and Aesop were standing in the hall, engaged in a hushed conversation, and though I couldn’t make out everything they said, I caught enough to determine the gist. Aesop was out there giving it to the master, standing up to the big man and telling him not to be so hard on me. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. After all the trouble and unpleasantness I had caused him, I felt mortally ashamed of myself to know that Aesop was on my side. “You’ve crushed the soul out of him,” he whispered, “and now he’s in there lying on his deathbed. It’s not fair, master. I know he’s a hell-raiser and a scamp, but there’s more than just rebellion in his heart. I’ve felt it, I’ve seen it with my own eyes. And even if I’m wrong, he still wouldn’t deserve the kind of treatment you’ve given him. No one does.”
    It felt extraordinary to have someone speak up for me like that, but even more extraordinary was that Aesop’s harangue did not fall on deaf ears. That very night, as I lay tossing and turning in the dark, Master Yehudi himself crept into my room, sat down on the sweat-soaked bed, and took hold of my hand in his. I kept my eyes shut and didn’t make a sound, pretending to be asleep the whole time he was there. “Don’t die on me, Walt,” he said softly, as if speaking to himself. “You’re a tough little bugger, and the time hasn’t come for you to give up the ghost. We have great things in store for us, wondrous things you can’t even imagine. You might think I’m against you, but I’m not. It’s just that I know who you are, and I know you can handle the pressure. You’ve got the gift, son, and I’m going to take you farther than anyone has ever gone before. Do you hear me, Walt? I’m telling you not to die. I’m telling you I need you and that you mustn’t die on