To read the first five chapters of this short novel scroll down until you find Part 1.
Day Three
Afternoon recording session
“The coffee is good this afternoon, Jilly.”
“Thanks Grandpa. Are you ready?”
“Yes. Stop me, Takoja, if what I say is not clear. I want to get this next part down in a good way. Are we on?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
The era of despair.
First Man said the end of each major cycle overlaps with the opening of the next. One is closing, another opening, but not like doors, not so clearly defined. He explained that during this long transition there will appear to be very different types of humans on earth. The time of transition will be blurred, and there will be difficult struggles as the long dark winter is ending and a new spring beginning.
First Man said several things would influence this time, whether we survive as a race, or simply blink out of all time. Most importantly, he said, we must take our gathering and belonging only from our ancestral line, and from the parents. The parents are like the spillway of a great reservoir high in the mountains. Like water spilling over a damn, the flow of life must enter us through the gateways of our parents and it is from there we take our truest belonging. We may choose to gather with others and belong, but all belonging is only fleeting and temporary except for the ancestral line. There we belong forever. And we must return to tribes and clans and follow the line of memory and learning through these pathways.
If we do this, if we create strong families, from these sturdy cradles will spring the new child. First Man was very particular about this. This child, rooted firmly in the family, will remember to remember. This child will see both forward and backward. He called these children “The Weavers.” This child, he said, would be able to see back before the time of the Wind and remember to whom he truly belongs. Because they are firmly rooted in the family, like the Aspen, they will be strong and have long lives.
I asked First Man why he named them so. He said they would be born with the potential to weave one realm with another-very important. With proper care, they would remember the spirit realm from which they came. The Weavers would have access to the higher realms and would, therefore, have special abilities to hear, to feel, to see beyond the physical body and into the spirit body, wherever it roams.
First Man told me we must take great care in the raising of the weaving child and that I would receive further instructions on that later. He said it is enough to know that in this new opening of the spiral-of gathering, belonging, separating, and alone-the gathering or bonding would be with the higher realms. The Weavers toss the net that makes this possible, the weaving of heaven and earth together into one continuous fabric.
I was entranced with that image, of small children weaving threads that tie this earthly life to the higher realms. He said the Watchers of my age become the Weavers in this new age.
When he had finished his long talk about the Weavers, I asked First Man the question that had been sitting on my breast ever since I came here to this place, or even longer perhaps, since I first came from the spirit realm as a newborn into my troubled family. He’d told me earlier that I chose it, it did not choose me, but I needed to ask again, “Why me, First Man?”
He looked at me for a long moment and then smiled. “Ah, that ancient question. Where would humankind be without that question?”
First Man began to turn away, but I was not to be put off. “I need to know. Why have you brought me here? Why have you told me about the spiral of life?”
“You forget so quickly, Albert. We did not bring you here. You came because of your question-and to find your father.”
“But I haven’t found my father.”
Then, in the odd manner of this realm, the moving points of light and energy rearranged themselves within the bird-like body of First Man. His flesh filled, his skeletal frame shifted before my eyes and, in a moment, First Man was my father. He said nothing. Just stood before me with the steely strength I remembered so well.
“Father.”
“My son.”
I was stunned to be looking into the eyes of my father. Around me, points of light flickered with remembered images-father putting me on a pony, father teaching me to hunt, father cornering mother to steal a kiss, father wiping morning milk from my sister’s mouth. The poisonous pain and grief that had so filled me to the brim two years earlier when he died rushed to my head. I nearly passed out. Deep within my belly the grief rolled up my body like thunder and, suddenly, an astounding sound issued from my mouth that was both human and animal, both call and cry. I couldn’t stop it. It was as if the wailing became like great birds that clutched my pain in their sharp talons, and then flew out of my body.
Father took me in his arms and held me. I couldn’t speak. There was nothing to say. He cradled my speechless body until the wailing ceased and only a breathless gasping issued from my mouth.
I grew calm again, resting deeply in his care. A bright, new sun rose in my body as I realized first, that he had not ever been gone from me, not where it counts, and second, that my strength was in my ancestral roots. Just as First Man had said, my true belonging was to my father and mother’s lines and in order to be strong in the world, I needed to remember that.
Finally, my grief-to my great relief-was exhausted. I pulled away from him and smiled at this man who had given me life from the seed of his body. “I found you.”
Father shook his head. “I was not lost. You were. What you found was yourself, Son. Come. Let’s sit.”
We chose a large boulder and sat in the sun. I wanted to know the connection between the man I knew as my father, and First Man, who had showed me the story of The Wind of a Thousand Years.
“There is no need to tell you all of my stories, Son. The many times my spirit has traveled from this realm to the others is like a man crossing a streambed-first on one bank, then into the water, then up onto the far bank. You also have been in and out like a frog in a pond.” He laughed and the sound warmed my soul. “We all have. Most of us are blessed with not having to remember. We are all traveling the same spiral.” He stopped a moment and cocked his head as if listening, or testing the wind. “We must finish this talk soon. You cannot leave your physical body for so long that it is damaged or dies.”
At first I laughed. I’d grown so accustomed to this place, I’d nearly forgotten the young, drunk Albert beneath another grove of trees. But then the laughter died and a flood of shame brought the gray net hovering over my head. “I haven’t been a very good son, Father.”
“I know, Albert.”
“I am ashamed.”
“It will be better now, my boy. Not easy, but better. There is much that needs to be done, and you mustn’t replace pain and anger with guilt. Guilt is a useless thing unless we learn.”
“But what am I to do? What is the meaning of all of this?”
Father said, “The lessons have been clear. You will understand more and more as you age. One day, when the time is right, you are to give these lessons away. You are in your own small cycle, Son. You are gathering. You will go home and carry these things for many, many years, and then you will set them apart from you, give them away to others, and you will be alone once again.”
“How will I know when the time is right?”
“I can’t tell you that. You will know. All I can say is that one day when you are old and nearly ready to come back to this realm, a young woman will come to you. You will give her this story. Write down all you remember from your time here, and all you learn from it as you move through life. Keep it for her.”
“Who is she?”
“She is First Man’s wife. I call her First Woman. She is part of my story. You see Son, we are all part of long story lines. Occasionally, we remember them. Most of the time, we don’t. First Woman’s story also begins with the coming of the Wind. It is nearly time for you to meet her.”
Above my head the sky grew dense and gray. This clouded world was becoming familiar to me, caught by the net of my own fear and doubt. “Father, what if I fail? What if I don’t do this in a good way, whatever purpose I am to fill? How will I know?”
“You will know, Albert. We always know when the path is right. But then we must choose that path. There are other Watchers, many of them now around the world, who have been given a similar task. Your part is not so great. In fact, it is quite, quite small actually.”
Father must have seen the balloon of my pride deflate a little and he chuckled. “A holy man you’re not. Never take this gift in a prideful way. It is the only sure way to fail. Do you understand? You will be silent except with a few guides you will meet along the way, until it is time to complete this moment.”
“Yes Father, I understand.”
“Also understand, I will not be so far away.”
“Thank you, Father.” And then I thought of the little desk in the grove and laughed. “Why the school desk?”
Father laughed with me, and then slapped my shoulder. “If you would have gone and looked, you would have seen your initials carved into the corner. Come, now you will go to First Woman and get her teachings and then it will be time to return.”
There was so much I wanted to ask him, especially about the gunshot, the blood, the death, my mother and sisters, how I would explain to them-but all the questions fled my mind like nervous sparrows as soon as they landed. It was clearly not the time to ask these questions, and I thought about what he’d said about always knowing the right path. I did, however, keep my eye on my father’s back as we walked, fearful that he would vanish in a swirl of moving points of energy. Grief began to rest on my shoulders like a shawl cut from the blanket of gray. Must I lose him a second time, I wondered. Why?
Before we’d walked a quarter mile, Father stopped walking and turned back to me, as if he’d sensed the direction of my thoughts. He put his hand on my shoulder and turned my body away from his. “Look again, Albert, out into the great valley to the grove of trees.”
I raised my eyes and stared out across the vast lands, my father at my back, his hand resting on my shoulder. Over my head he said, “This is my place always. You cannot lose me, just as my father holds his place forever at my back, and his behind him. You must plant this feeling, this energy, deeply into your body and then fear will no longer rule your life.”
I stood a long time and did as he told me. I took the radiant heat of his presence behind me and sunk it deep into my belly. As I did this, the fear, the grief, the grayness left once again.
“Good,” he said.
I turned, knowing this would be my final full look at the form of my father. “I love you, Father. I hadn’t told you that, not for a long time. That was the hardest thing. I never told you.”
Father smiled. “You didn’t have to.”
Albert’s Notes
Poor Jilly. This was proving to be an emotional task for her, acting as my secretary. Her cheeks were wet with tears yet again. She too had lost her father at a young age. “Come my takoja, let me show you.” Takoja means grandchild in Lakota. It was what my own grandfather called me when I was a boy in need of comfort.
I took her hand and pulled her to her feet. She had done all of the recording sessions sitting on my floor at my feet. Jilly swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. It made her look six and not twenty-three. We are always a child to our parent or grandparent. I turned her body so she could look out across my golden prairie, and then I stood behind her just as my father had done, my hands resting very lightly on her shoulders, to add presence and not burden. “Close your eyes,” I told her. “Now, let yourself feel your father behind you, and his father behind him here.” I pressed my fingertips against her right shoulder. “And on the other side, the line of your mother, stretching so far back you see only the haze of time.” I pressed my fingertips into her left shoulder. “Your strength comes in here, from behind you, from the strong men and women of your line. It comes to give you courage.”
Jilly nodded.
“You feel it?” I asked her.
She nodded again. I felt the subtle shifting of energy, the realignment of her body beneath my palms. I grinned and whispered in her ear. “Now sink it deep.” I waited a moment. “Good. Now open your eyes and look out there at our beautiful world. If you look very carefully, you will see the play, the points of light moving, always moving.”
When Jilly turned around to face me, she wrapped her arms around my waist and hugged me. “Thank you, Grandpa. I got it. I sunk it deep.”
“Wonderful. Maybe we need a short walk. Let’s go see if the air out there is made of sugar this morning.”
We had a lovely walk and returned to my humble dwelling much refreshed. Jilly cut up some more chicken breasts for our supper and we ate it with one of those dull salads people are so wild about these days. Then I retired to my room to watch the darkness come and the pale light of the moon rise over the earth.