by Kit Duncan
Silas told me once that we already know all there is to know. Our entire existence is simply remembering.
A few afternoons after the thunderstorm, I had my first clear memory of my first life. Sallie had gone to town with Silas. They took the Radio Flyer, and were planning on getting a few groceries. Sallie wanted to visit with Khalid's wife, and Silas was planning on helping mow the softball field. They'd be gone most of the afternoon.
"Don't worry about supper," Sallie called behind her as they left the porch. "We'll bring home some carry out."
I walked out to the locust trees and sat on Silas' rocker. I closed my eyes, opened them again, closed them. I wasn't asleep, I knew I wasn't asleep. What cascaded onto my mind was as real as any memory I've ever had.
The sky was blue, with very thin hints of white clouds far overhead. The air was a little thinner than I was accustomed to. The landscape was rugged, sand and rust colored cliffs jutting up from of a wide, open plain. The tall grass was thick and more brown than green.
I remembered a young boy, maybe seventeen years old, and I was only a year or so younger. I could not remember his name yet, but I knew I liked him very much. We were best friends, had been since we were toddlers. But sitting in Silas' rocking chair that afternoon I did not remember details of my first childhood, only the end of that childhood.
It was a custom, as it was among many of the native nations in that land, that when a young man wanted to court a young woman he made a flute, then stood outside her home at night and played it for her. If the girl liked the boy she would acknowledge his song, they would fall in love, and live happily ever after. If she didn't like his playing, she ignored the music, and that was the end of the courtship.
At least, that's how I remembered it.
My best friend was a brave young boy with a wonderful, gentle heart. He was also the shyest guy in the village.
I knew he cared for me as deeply as I loved him. A lady knows these things, sometimes before the gentleman does. All he needed, I thought, was a little push.
I decided that if he wouldn't play for me, I'd play for him.
In my village girls didn't learn how to make flutes, and they didn't learn how to play them. They only knew how to listen to the music, which I'm told is in and of itself a great gift. But I was impatient and stubborn.
For weeks, after supper, I slipped away quietly from my village and disappeared into the thickets. There was a small cedar grove not far from the village. I had found an old discarded knife of sorts, an arrowhead-like stone wrapped around a thick stick with a strip of rawhide. I carved a little totem of an animal, but now, thinking about it in the rocking chair, I couldn't quite remember what animal it was supposed to be. And I still couldn't remember the boy's name.
I collected a little pile of thin cedar branches and, after many weeks of trial and error, mostly error, I had what looked a little bit like a flute. It was ugly, but yes, it did resemble a flute.
The evening after I had whittled out the last hole in the wood, I looked around to make sure no one could see me. I covered the five holes on top with my fingers, and barely whispered into one of the ends. The sound was gentle and sweet, and as beautiful as any flute I had ever heard. I hid it under some cedar branches and returned home to wait for my opportunity.
A few days later the boy went up to the top of one of the cliffs. There was a grassy mesa up there, and sometimes people, mostly the boys and men, would climb up there just to get away from everyone else for awhile.
I sneaked into the cedar grove, grabbed my flute, and followed the boy from a distance. I watched him climb the side of the cliff, surefooted as a goat. And it wasn't that high of a cliff. From where I stood, maybe fifty feet.
Love takes you to new heights.
Of course, sometimes you have to climb up a steep, rocky wall to get there.
I didn't have pockets, so I clenched the flute between my teeth and started up the rock. Most of the climb wasn't that bad, just awkward and rough. As long as I used my hands and feet for balance, I did fine. I slipped once, but quickly regained my equilibrium. Just before I crested the top, I heard music.
I pulled myself up to the edge of the cliff carefully and peered through the brush. I could barely see him.
He was standing away from me, and he was playing a flute. He hit a few rough notes, but that didn't matter at all. His playing warmed my heart better than any fire. I knew he was practicing his song for me. A lady knows these things. I pulled myself up a little higher to get a better view.
My left foot slipped under some loose rocks.
I didn't scream on my way down the side of the cliff. I was clamping down as hard as I could on my flute.
And then things went dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
