Journeyman
by
Judith Kelly Quaempts
by
Judith Kelly Quaempts
I set out before dawn, the horizon an endless darkness shrouding the mountains.
As the sun starts its upward climb, my road narrows, begins to rise. A path opens into a wood. Scents of pine, rotted leaves, and wild honeysuckle rush to claim me. Shadows weave through the trees. Heavy wings beat overhead. Breaking into a clearing I discover a rushing stream. Drinking are a doe and fawn. Nearby, a blue heron stands beside a lean coyote with a jagged white scar on her flank.
The merciless eye of the heron chills me. Am I being accused or judged? The doe nudges me to drink. I bend my mouth to water, tasting wet stones, moss, a part of sky reflected on the stream’s lucent surface. When I have had my fill, Coyote takes my sleeve between her teeth and pulls.
Obedient, I follow.
Now a new path, clogged with brush and brambles. Coyote leads, but unlike me, appears to melt through every obstacle.
I walk until morning becomes the hour before night. At last the coyote stops before a cave, holds me with her yellow gaze until a great weariness overcomes me. Entering, I fall to earth and sleep.
I wake, exit the mouth of the cave and find them waiting – an eagle perched on the head of a cougar, coyote pressed to the great bulk of a bear. Elk, deer, snake and mole, wolverine and otter.
The coyote’s yellow eyes bore into mine. The scar on her flank begins to pulse with light. In a swirl of mist she changes shape. In her place, clothed in white buckskin beaded with stars, long silver braids wrapped in ermine, stands my grandmother, her face painted with the sacred colors: yellow, blue, white, and red.
I remember now the legends. Coyote, Shape-Shifter, able to take all forms, speak all languages except that of water.
“You have forgotten The Way,” Grandmother says. “You have forgotten your place in the universe. We creatures offer ourselves as food, clothing, and shelter, yet you show no respect for our sacrifice. You do not cleanse body and mind before you hunt, nor when you dig the roots the Old One places in the ground. Everything is connected. Everything. Balance must be restored.”
Her words lash like willow whips. I look down, ashamed.
“Do not look away from me.” This voice is harsh, no longer my grandmother’s.
I raise my head. Coyote is back.
“We guided you here to show you what pride and greed have stolen. Are you willing to journey with us for a time? Think hard before you answer, for when you return to your world, as you must, what you learn here must be shared with others.”
My heart pounds but my voice is strong. “I am willing.”
My bare flesh begins to sing. My bones glow and soften, realign their shape. I drop to all fours and a chorus of sighs comes from the creatures.
“Come,” Coyote says. “Your journey begins.”
*
I do not know how long we travel. Time is different here, guided by sun and moon and weather. Past and present braid together. I see the land as in my grandparents’ time; river shining in noonday sun, the leap and arc of salmon, then clogged with poisons, dead fish floating on the water.
Coyote leads me past woods ruined by cutting, valleys used for dumping. She leads me past the dead and dying – elk, antlers taken for trophy, meat rotting on the bone; birds, lead-poisoned; coyotes stripped of hides. Their spirits thin as smoke, accompany our journey. My grandmother’s words haunt me: “Everything is connected. Everything.”
I had put aside her teachings, telling myself they were the ramblings of an old woman unwilling to accept new ways. Yet what has my ignorance brought me? Brought all of us? At the end of the day we ourselves cannot explain our unease.
“Once,” Coyote says, “all shared what they had. Haven’t you seen how lonely the children have become without the wisdom of their elders? Their hearts are empty. They look to fill their emptiness with useless toys, or drugs, or fighting with others.”
Her words remind me of the children I see roaming our lands, their eyes empty or accusing.
*
We have come full circle, back to the cave. The creatures form two lines, male and female. They begin to chant, feet moving in time. My heart answers their rhythm, beating like a drum in my ears.
I am losing my animal form, but so are the creatures. All take human shapes. All wear buckskin bright with beads. The earth shakes with their dancing.
A terrible sadness overtakes me when the dancing ends, for I alone do not regain my animal form.
Coyote steps forward, the scar on her flank blazing blue fire.
“We have shown you what happens when balance between our worlds is destroyed. Now you are to share what you have seen with others. Many will mock you, but some will listen, and your numbers will grow.”
Yellow eyes hold mine. “We will not abandon you.”
Lightning bolts from a cloudless sky. Thunder shakes the earth, raising a cyclone of leaves.
When calm returns, I am alone.
*
I reach home before dawn. Leaves are scattered through the rooms of my house. On a windowsill lies a blue heron feather.
From a trunk I take my grandfather’s hand drum, put away these many years. Facing east, I wait for first light. From the distance comes a long, unwavering howl. Coyote, bidding farewell to night.
I strike the drum, begin the ancient song to welcome the new day. Though I believed the words forgotten, each one comes true and strong.
My journey begins.
Judith Kelly Quaempts's lives and writes in rural eastern Oregon. Her poetry and fiction appear online and in print, in such journals as Still Crazy, Windfall: A Journal of Place, and Buddhist Poetry Review.
As the sun starts its upward climb, my road narrows, begins to rise. A path opens into a wood. Scents of pine, rotted leaves, and wild honeysuckle rush to claim me. Shadows weave through the trees. Heavy wings beat overhead. Breaking into a clearing I discover a rushing stream. Drinking are a doe and fawn. Nearby, a blue heron stands beside a lean coyote with a jagged white scar on her flank.
The merciless eye of the heron chills me. Am I being accused or judged? The doe nudges me to drink. I bend my mouth to water, tasting wet stones, moss, a part of sky reflected on the stream’s lucent surface. When I have had my fill, Coyote takes my sleeve between her teeth and pulls.
Obedient, I follow.
Now a new path, clogged with brush and brambles. Coyote leads, but unlike me, appears to melt through every obstacle.
I walk until morning becomes the hour before night. At last the coyote stops before a cave, holds me with her yellow gaze until a great weariness overcomes me. Entering, I fall to earth and sleep.
I wake, exit the mouth of the cave and find them waiting – an eagle perched on the head of a cougar, coyote pressed to the great bulk of a bear. Elk, deer, snake and mole, wolverine and otter.
The coyote’s yellow eyes bore into mine. The scar on her flank begins to pulse with light. In a swirl of mist she changes shape. In her place, clothed in white buckskin beaded with stars, long silver braids wrapped in ermine, stands my grandmother, her face painted with the sacred colors: yellow, blue, white, and red.
I remember now the legends. Coyote, Shape-Shifter, able to take all forms, speak all languages except that of water.
“You have forgotten The Way,” Grandmother says. “You have forgotten your place in the universe. We creatures offer ourselves as food, clothing, and shelter, yet you show no respect for our sacrifice. You do not cleanse body and mind before you hunt, nor when you dig the roots the Old One places in the ground. Everything is connected. Everything. Balance must be restored.”
Her words lash like willow whips. I look down, ashamed.
“Do not look away from me.” This voice is harsh, no longer my grandmother’s.
I raise my head. Coyote is back.
“We guided you here to show you what pride and greed have stolen. Are you willing to journey with us for a time? Think hard before you answer, for when you return to your world, as you must, what you learn here must be shared with others.”
My heart pounds but my voice is strong. “I am willing.”
My bare flesh begins to sing. My bones glow and soften, realign their shape. I drop to all fours and a chorus of sighs comes from the creatures.
“Come,” Coyote says. “Your journey begins.”
*
I do not know how long we travel. Time is different here, guided by sun and moon and weather. Past and present braid together. I see the land as in my grandparents’ time; river shining in noonday sun, the leap and arc of salmon, then clogged with poisons, dead fish floating on the water.
Coyote leads me past woods ruined by cutting, valleys used for dumping. She leads me past the dead and dying – elk, antlers taken for trophy, meat rotting on the bone; birds, lead-poisoned; coyotes stripped of hides. Their spirits thin as smoke, accompany our journey. My grandmother’s words haunt me: “Everything is connected. Everything.”
I had put aside her teachings, telling myself they were the ramblings of an old woman unwilling to accept new ways. Yet what has my ignorance brought me? Brought all of us? At the end of the day we ourselves cannot explain our unease.
“Once,” Coyote says, “all shared what they had. Haven’t you seen how lonely the children have become without the wisdom of their elders? Their hearts are empty. They look to fill their emptiness with useless toys, or drugs, or fighting with others.”
Her words remind me of the children I see roaming our lands, their eyes empty or accusing.
*
We have come full circle, back to the cave. The creatures form two lines, male and female. They begin to chant, feet moving in time. My heart answers their rhythm, beating like a drum in my ears.
I am losing my animal form, but so are the creatures. All take human shapes. All wear buckskin bright with beads. The earth shakes with their dancing.
A terrible sadness overtakes me when the dancing ends, for I alone do not regain my animal form.
Coyote steps forward, the scar on her flank blazing blue fire.
“We have shown you what happens when balance between our worlds is destroyed. Now you are to share what you have seen with others. Many will mock you, but some will listen, and your numbers will grow.”
Yellow eyes hold mine. “We will not abandon you.”
Lightning bolts from a cloudless sky. Thunder shakes the earth, raising a cyclone of leaves.
When calm returns, I am alone.
*
I reach home before dawn. Leaves are scattered through the rooms of my house. On a windowsill lies a blue heron feather.
From a trunk I take my grandfather’s hand drum, put away these many years. Facing east, I wait for first light. From the distance comes a long, unwavering howl. Coyote, bidding farewell to night.
I strike the drum, begin the ancient song to welcome the new day. Though I believed the words forgotten, each one comes true and strong.
My journey begins.
Judith Kelly Quaempts's lives and writes in rural eastern Oregon. Her poetry and fiction appear online and in print, in such journals as Still Crazy, Windfall: A Journal of Place, and Buddhist Poetry Review.