Kindling
Valley Folklore
Thou carriest them away as with a flood;
they are as a sleep:
in the morning they are like grass which groweth up.
-Psalm 90The sacred registers interred beneath the Sage Wall and beneath the Medicine Wheel do not always agree upon philosophy, cosmology, or the nature of the self. They are in unfailing accord, however, upon the subject of the ending of worlds, and what they say is this:
There are only two ways in which the world comes to an end.
In Fire or in Flood.
It was the first day of the fall. Not according to the calendar, but according to the trees and the deer. Two old friends stood conversing under a massive cottonwood beside the river.
"I think that's the spot where Liam drowned all those years ago," one of the men said. They looked over at the spot. Two men fished there in the river. One man lifted up a rood and landed a fish in the net. The other left.
"I'm glad to see fish being caught in the river again," the other man under the tree said. "I remember for a long time after the year of the flood the river was as clean and sterile as a sun bleached bone."
He thought about a time several years before when he had gone down in the heat of the day to rest in the shade under the bridge. There among the fine black sand that sometimes washed up with little flecks of gold in it was a tiny trout, not much bigger than an alevin, flopping and gasping, exhausted. He shepherded the little life back into the water, careful not to touch him and breach whatever mucin still protected his skin. After a moment staring up at him and gulping water, the little trout shot off into the channel. That little son of Bóchra blessed the river that day and it's abundance had been on the mend ever since.
The men looked across the river. Two men were sawing at the mill. "Isn't that spot next to the mill where the old Finn-bath used to be?"
One of the men at the mill exerted himself to cut out a beam. The other left.
"Vasili got drunk and fell asleep in there one Saturday and by the time they found him on Monday he had cooked the meat off of his bones. They tore it down after that."
A moment of silence passed between them.
"I'm glad to see the mill up and running again," the other man under the tree said. "I remember for a long time after the plague of beetles began the forest was more dead than alive."
He thought about a time several years before when he hiked up to the drainage where his grandfather had shown him the Great Tree. He pitched his tent in one of the quartz tipi rings and sang the old songs as best he could remember to comfort the father of the forest in his grief. That great cousin of Yggdrasil recovered many memories that day and saplings began to cover the hillsides once again.
The men looked out at the range of snow-dusted mountains that sheltered the valley. The setting sun cast the alpenglow over many buckskin bodies of elk coming out to graze. Two men were digging in the cemetery on the hill that overlooked the mill.
"How many more are the stones up there than the last time we met under this tree."
"One of them now belongs to my mother."
A moment of silence passed between them.
"I'm glad to see the herd recovering," the other man under the tree said. "I remember for a long time after the hunger-winter when across the hillside there were scattered more bones than antlers."
He thought about the time about a year before when he came across the Old Bull bedded down in the dark timber just below treeline, nearly covered over with aspen leaves of orange and gold; shallow, irregular breath straining to leave the worn and battle-scarred body. He sat down by his old friend and recounted many dear stories from the days of the lumber camp on the far side of the mountain. Early days when they both were young. The monarch of the high country sallied forth once more that day and his quiet vitality was made manifest in the strong bones and hearty constitutions of many yearling calves.
The men looked up at the sky above them. A red-tailed hawk rode the wind with something dangling in it's talons. The blue day was giving way to red and a haze lingered on the horizon.
"The smoke is still making it's way down from Canada."
"Let’s hope we have good snow pack this winter" the other man under the tree said. "But not too much."
A moment of hope passed between them.
"The twilight brings to mind the words of the blessed skald:
Bad mem'ries passed down
Of Days that shall not return
Many songs are sung"And with that the two friends parted, each leaving to kindle a hearth against the gathering gloom.
Thank you to Matthias Behr for the cover photo.