Spirits of the Wildflowers

by Parris Match

  Scattered well-worn byways winding, branching through the shallow channels split, rising and falling graveled pathways, linked all of the appealing villages on the quilted ornamental plateau. To unite the people of the settled designed plots, on the even plain, into a cohesive common state; living a calm harmonious peaceful shared existence, a brotherhood of plenty, and sufficiently more.

  By the Song of Grace, the joyous fields of many colorful flowers, of the variable flourishing plain, stood erect and together in the Spirits’ Sunlit favor.

  The puffy-clouded celestial sky of light, blue-sapphire with wisps of silken gauze; floated slowly, warmly covering the clutched little village of Bahcoo’ah. This closer family arrangement settled in a grove of gently wavering trees of a near surrounded hollow; tucked within the lower assenting golden foothills of the northern border of the undulating plain, not far from the yawning wide meandering river. A small cluster of shaded adobe dwellings served as the homes for Bahcoo’ah’s extensive family, which numbered forty-five; of men and women, and children. The well-planned complex, contained fields of green and yellow gardens to embrace their little houses; irrigated by a network of brim-full channels, originating from the deliberate flowing spring, found amid the rounded tawny matronly breasts of the constant sheltering hills. Thick mounds of maize and beans, the extended trailing plants of transforming many-colored gourds, melons, and pumpkins; fields of tiny buds with white tufts of early cotton, for the crafting of shielding clothes and dense cozy blankets; the village was a pleasing pastoral scene of the Spirits’ natural abundance. Bahcoo’ah’s family was an interlacing, bonded close, knit clan; fully satisfied, harmonious, living peacefully in this quiet little place. The near silent mellow concert of the very warm afternoon, a slight summer breeze through the murmuring leaves of the fluttering trees, and the soft whispers of the desert willows, lulled them to their nap.

  Bahcoo’ah had sent messengers to the various homesteads and villages spread throughout the plain, directing his selected brothers on where and when to meet, before setting off on their long journey to the illustrious Golden City. On the morning in question, Bahcoo’ah entrusted the well-being of his family to his eldest son Oceh and left his peaceful little home, nestled in the sunrise-lit bright verdant green hollow, protected within the low soft-yellow rolling hills. Fifty-four brothers met at the place designated by Bahcoo’ah; bringing their sacks, baskets and clay jars of food, and blankets and varied crafts; and then joining their many goods together, led by Bahcoo’ah, started on the difficult but exciting trip to the grand Golden City. The weighty cargo, transported in tandem, attached to poles and carried on the shoulders of several men, required a slow and arduous trek; four wide-ranging days of travel, up one the nations uniting deep furrowed arterial footpaths.

  Never touching, but adjacent to the nations northern boundary’s commanding wall; traveling parallel to the endless erratic line of redstone mesas, with sidelong revelations vanishing crooked to the east. The winding pathway to the Golden City, climbed and passed over the declining eroded spurs that protruded from the tablelands brilliant rust-colored cliffs, and then the rocky byway descended into the many deep-set ravines emerging from this lofty vermillion barrier. The powdery crimson well-worn yet stony trail, sparsely defined with noxious milkweeds or born emaciated and withered blooms; spiked showy thickskinned succulents remained in scattered staunch exception. Bahcoo’ah rightly kicked aside the errant rocks from the rough zigzagging pathway; why hinder any following fellow traveler’s progressive step?

  A single family, or several small families, lived in each limited side box-canyon; depending upon the least available flat tillable land, and the measured gift of water, gradually seeping from the mother-lodestone of the benevolent grand mesas. For several years Bahcoo’ah had been acutely aware of the dilemma his countrymen lived with, but the extent of the problem was devastating; would they unite in their enduring cause or put life in jeopardy. The nearer Bahcoo’ah and the brothers got to the Golden City, entering each subsequent canyon, the parched crops became more meager, the emaciated plants more stunted. Rabidly dancing dust devils, swirled alongside your rock spinal stem, then to pass on within the distant lowest flatland, to whirr their portentous omen, unseen dark clouds on every sunny day; a severe dull extended drought was slowly creeping over the central territory of The People of the Sun.

  Bahcoo’ah felt a compelling responsibility to urge his kindred brothers, while sitting within the tarnishing perverted Golden City, to accept recognition of their mottled blight. He must use great caution in his generous presentation, so as not to cause any civil unrest or spiritual agitation; or to offend the self-centered powers, which calmly sit and disagree. An informal proffering, direct to the gentle misguided people, to avoid any threat or challenge to the existing authority, would so be required. He must relate a simple honeyed parable, in a voice of delicate sweet persuasion, like the lightest breath of cool fresh air; to encourage his disheartened withering brothers, to confidently solve their bitter inevitable circumstance. The ebbing drought may not subside, on this intent hot day or on another; this deferred dis-ease may become a spontaneous addiction, additional brutal sacrifices to the shrugging allowable dark Spirits, was not the answer. The apprehensive people would need an alternative binding resource. Bahcoo’ah could not ignore his purposeful duty to his brothers and his sisters.

  The very late afternoon Sun, with its distinct yellow-pinkish cast, still remained upon the weary and wind-blown, bent backs of Bahcoo’ah and his band of brothers, as they entered the shadowed passageway of the Golden City. Newly arriving rural brothers from every corner of the nation were filling up the few vacant spaces, setting up their open-air camps, readying themselves for the celebration of the summer solstice.

  Many containers of food-stuffs, brought by the visitors, were delivered to the cooking huts, to be prepared and distributed as was necessary. For those brothers, who were seeing the Golden City for the first time; they were in awe of the size of the multi-leveled-cubicle city and the great number of people who dwelled there.

  Choosing a less remaining site for their campground, Bahcoo’ah instructed the eager yet reluctant brothers to stay, and excused himself to pay his respect to his host Iicoo’ah. Soon finding Iicoo’ah in the company of several brother Story Tellers; including the chummily apparent followers, they sitting fawningly attached to his flanks, Coiedeh’ah and Hodaie’ah, Story Tellers from the most southern part of the nation.

  “Aie, Iicoo’ah, my Brother”, Bahcoo’ah said, as he nodded to his host; then recognized in scanned succession the others sitting beside and around him.

  “Aie, my brother, Bahcoo’ah”, Iicoo’ah responded; smiling.

  “Thank You, Iicoo’ah, for letting me be a guest in your home”, Bahcoo’ah acquiesced with a slight bow.

  “My esteemed brother, from the farthest removed western edge of our united nation, is most welcome in my home”, Iicoo’ah acknowledged. “We are discussing the ordinary mundane affairs of our nation …if you wish to sit”, Iicoo’ah offhandedly added.

  “I must see to the needs of my young brothers, the journey was long and wearisome”, Bahcoo’ah said; excusing himself from this seated, noticeably particular fraternity.

  Bahcoo’ah returned to the brothers of his sort and spoke to them regarding their proper conduct while they were guests in the Golden City; “not to be boastful of their abundance, not to shame the close brothers of Iicoo’ah, and not to challenge the Golden City’s rank and position, but to use sensible caution in their smiling, and decent words.”

  Night settled on the Golden City and all the people slept.

  When the programmed rituals’ first dawn appeared, the visiting brothers wandered about in small groups, taking-in the bustling activities of the waking city. These tasks not so different from their own villages; but the bestirred excited beehive of the larger organized population of the yellow honeycombed city, had an over-whelming effect on the simple rustic
brothers of the even plain.

  The Golden City’s benumbed thirsty brothers were lost in the scurry of a dumb flock, still keeping the routine of their necessary civilized customs; a protective measure of rational good-sense and procedure, though willingly and easily forfeited; consuming fearfulness would fill the void.

  There were three wide-stepped hollowed out arenas in the city, one very large and two slightly smaller; multi-tiered holes excavated in the sandstone base, that would hold many hundreds of dutiful spectators. During the following three days, prior to the summer solstice, Story Tellers from through-out the nation would continually narrate their perceptible stories, within these three arenas, for any and all men who would gather and listen, to see. They would relate a personal brief version of their families and their status; as well as their individual interpretation of their history, and the easily at tempered spiritual contents, of The People of the Sun.

  Each Story Teller would take his turn, one after the other in solo, their narration being timed by the aligned shadow of two etch-carved and designated sticks, courteously placed in the sand, to measure the movement of the over-searing Sun; and after they were finished with their fundamental story, moving on to the next arena, as official messengers and professors, to see that every citizen of the Nation of the Sun, essentially heard their words.

  Expressive and animated story telling was a welcome diversion, respectable talent was in the telling, a fireside chat without the flames; to criticize or to rail against presented authority, were not looked upon as acceptable behavior.

  The brothers stopped and listened to a common Story Teller from the eastern fringe of their nation; some of what he said was fully understood, and some was not; the chanting language of The People of the Sun was limited in words, made more clearly by nuance and expressive gesture. By the repeated telling of the stories, the Nation of The People of the Sun, remained united; a common aggregate history, a shared current time being, a foretold sometimes questioned future.

  Maacoo’ah, modest Story Teller from the east, made known his tenacious thick-skinned darker people, living on the shifting edge of a vast almost impassable desert; a semi-nomadic people residing within a temporary settlement of movable hide-shells, periodically forced to retreat from the encroaching empty desert; not said in complaint, but as a matter of cultural fact. His people had existed on this land for many generations, his villages of clans slowly growing and prospering; then joining the Nation of The People of the Sun. He spoke of the large tribe of uncivilized people, whom lived on the other side of the wide discouraging desert, within an isolated rugged minor range of wooded mountains. An aberrant aggressive and vile people, known as the Wolf People, who traveled in greedy vicious packs; and as a deviant playful sport, would rather covertly raid a timid covey of quail; tufts of feathers and aimless heads flying, to kill and to plunder for naught, rather to live in pastoral peace. Because of the extreme distance across the desert, with rare exception, they had been able to stay apart from one another, living out their separated existence. Maacoo’ah and his brothers were forever vigilant, constantly looking for any intrusion by the rabid bloodthirsty Wolf People, to infringe upon their limited land of The People of the Sun.

  He related in detail the most recent abandonment of his family’s plot, soon after the winter solstice, moving a little closer towards the Golden City; it had become apparent, to Maacoo’ah, that there would not have been sufficient water for the planting time soon approaching. Maacoo’ah described the new location of his little village; the people settled in a shallow basin where the water lay just beneath the surface of the earth, enough water to serve his people. Maacoo’ah gave fervent praise to the mother earth and to the father Sun for the continued fertility of his family; the palms of his hands facing up, the rhythmic tamping of his feet, his head alternately bowing to the earth and then raising towards the sky, ah-chanting-ah-chanting-ah-chanting, his heart-felt sacred song of supplication to the honored Sun-Spirit.

  Maacoo’ah the Story Teller from the east, a cautious concerned outsider with minimal influence, reminded the assembled brothers, to not forget the sturdy strength and mixed color of the shared-blood brotherhood, which existed between them. That the fluttering spirits of chance, of the unseen gentle wavering breezes, might they smell so harsh, swirling or wafting ancient currents around them; yet would look to their needs if they remained trustworthy to their long-time traditional rules of civilized conduct.

  The brothers sat and listened to the story of Maacoo’ah and his family; the shadow-curtain of the Sun-Spirit closed upon the second stick. The arena was filled by now, hundreds of brothers from throughout the nation, prepared to give full attention to their respective Story Tellers. Maacoo’ah finished by giving tribute to the people of the Golden City, offering them acknowledgement for their gracious welcome and their greatness; with honor and recognition going to the Iicoo’ah only through deference to his people. A resounding, “Aie”, rouse up from the listeners, showing their proper respect for the Story Teller; Maacoo’ah passively exited the crowded arena, to hand over an open sandy unstable platform for the following Story Teller. A calm then light placid breeze was followed by the primal winds of chaos.

  The Golden City was bustling with activity, with brothers moving about, some curious to the intra-city movements of the people, but most fulfilling their duty, sitting in the arenas and carefully listening, giving close heed to the evolving Story Tellers; confirming the essence and direction, their various colorful people would journey to in the future. When the brothers were selected to accompany their Story Tellers on this mission to the Golden City, they knew that their foremost responsibility was to witness, transfer, and to disseminate the fundamental nature of the Nation. The People of the Sun; listen beside the blue-white flame of the fire, to impart confidence to their separate communities and individual families.

  Coiedeh’ah stepped to the center of the large arena; he placed the two sticks to measure and mark the set time, for his telling story. A low identifying murmur swept over the crowded gallery of brothers, since he was looked upon as a formidable and powerful figure. This man, standing self-composed, before the brothers in the middle of the sunken arena, was much taller than most, with a thick muscular body, a fierce and intimidating presence; his strong reputation as “The Brave Soldier of the People”, was known throughout the nation.

  Coiedeh’ahs’ people lived far to the south, five complete days travel from the Golden City. His receptive village tucked within a wideopen to restrictive admitting entrance, to a narrow canyon passage, on the eastern edge of an extensive double-ridged range of high rugged mountains; that likely stretched beyond, several hundred miles further, toward the southern mystery. For this acknowledged gatekeeper, Coiedeh’ah, and his distinctly unified brothers of the exclusive mountains, to gain the presence of the Golden City, they traveled over an immense gullied plateau, between his home and their final destination. Occasionally passing little snug villages, cozily located in small sandy canyons of the intermittent streams, and lower basined depressions, below the relatively flat stunted landscape, where the Spirits’ constant water lay just beneath the easily excavated surface. Looking towards the westerly distance, across the raised plateau, appeared a few nestling yellow clutches of ovate scattered low hills, providing sparse small tufts of flaxen grassy slopes; with exception of those pocketed grey-green copse of pinion pines, gathered on the shadowed northern bias of the overly heated inactive mounds, which hazily dotted this otherwise barren landscape.

  One lone highly elevated colossal mountain spire, a gigantic vainglorious pillar of scarlet rock, sculptured by the changing winds and fickle rains of mans’ eternity; a rigid staff of vermilion sandstone, piercing the clear blue sky, stood so erect in the center of the flat horizons plane. Near visible for twenty-seven miles, it served as a single shining beacon to the Nation of the Sun; the most crucial sacred place to The People of the Sun. To all but an innocent few of the multitude, the extended
tribe of The People of the Sun, this was the true pulsing heart of the nation, a symbol of the Spirit’s promise of consistent vitality and renewal. As described and retold by every Story Teller, this eminent crimson monument, jutting into the Spirits’ transparent sky, stood for the perpetual regeneration of their entire nation, from boundary to boundary.

  Within the deeper interior of the mountains where Coiedeh’ah and his clan lived, contained many villages and hundreds of the simply-disposed, rift isolated families, and their respective Story Tellers. These clans located in small protective narrow valleys, interspersed throughout the entire length of this parallel arrangement of rugged mountains, extending far to the south.

  A hardened flat crusty desert border, hemmed the total eastern flank of the mountains, land that hardly ever felt the touch of rain. Scintillating first prisms-light that shimmered over the pock’ marked skin-deep surface, distorted tiny skeletal trees of salt crystals barbarously spiked from the desert floor, warningly sparkled in the heated intent of the passing Sun. Tender-footed man nor cautious padded beast could dare not walk upon it.

  To the west of these long fault lines of mountains another drier desert there is, mound after mound after hill of pristine blown sand, and ever-recurrent powdered soda lake-beds; a passing chanceful shadow of a sharp-eyed goshawk, skittering adaptable sand lizards, treacherous versatile side-winders, bent dispositions of tail-stinging scorpions, too little to no actual life survived here. This unbroken chainlink of mountains, splitting dry desert from drier desert, was a speaking conduit from the south, transmitting the tales and repeated rumors of the useful fantastic peoples; supposedly living, faraway, very far away, in a fictitious land so far distant; the overly dramatic tale bearing Story Tellers, and the wide-eyed People of the Sun, only more than half-believed; They or it, even existed.