by Ron Rayborne
Tom also passed time perusing the books of Julie’s favorite author, Loren Eiseley. She’d suggested he read them when they were dating, but he just couldn’t drum up the enthusiasm to digest melancholy nonfiction. The writings of a man in love with time itself. Now, though, he found the old books strangely compelling.
Then, hesitantly, he opened her drawer in their shared dresser, the one she kept her own writings in. Not her official work-related papers, those were kept elsewhere, but her personal ones. He felt guilty for doing so. Likely, if she were here, she’d fuss about it. She could be like that with him: didn’t want him to see her depression about the state of the world she so loved. But he wanted to hear her voice and began to read anyway. Took a gloomy Saturday and sat on the floor, absorbed.
As he looked through them, he came across one piece with “Julie Welsh, 12” scrawled in the corner. It was a poem.
The Field
Sit I upon this hillside fair
toward the close of day
and gaze in peace the land below
so green and still
but for the breeze
Far away a bird flock pauses
this moment in time given to them
pauses to eat some unseen food
unseen to me that is
almost to sleep am I ...
The birds are gone when I lift my eyes
I see a form, dark and so small
moving thoughtfully
among the grasses of an endless field
I hear no sound from her, the cat
she hears no sound from me
her world is what she sees
in that moment ——
Lies she down for a rest
then continues her journey
till I see her no more
Farewell my friend, farewell
Sorting through, he found another. In the corner was scrawled “Harrison Welsh, 7 - 22.” A poem by her father. Reading it, he was reminded of the dog she’d told him of, a cherished childhood pet, the mere mention of which could bring her to tears.
Ruddy My Heart
Years ago it was
when first I saw you
there at the pound
and yet it seems like only yesterday,
only yesterday
One of nine you were
a pup the size of a cat,
and now look at you, how you’ve grown
my boy, my beloved companion, my right arm
Almost did I choose a sibling
but what a mistake
that would have been
Then I saw you and
O how sad you looked
deliberately separated from frantic mother
alone, like myself
You did not look at me
did not jump or beg
but stayed behind, for you knew
that I would choose another
-and so I chose you-
I remember that first night
how you cried for mother
cried in the dark
and I brought you up onto the bed
and there you found comfort and warmth
your cries became whimpers
<><><><>
Like leaves blowing along
on a gusty day, we’ve drifted
down some trail here or there
and time has stretched out
for us, fine as a gossamer thread
silken, glistening, in the early morning light...
How many miles - who can tell?
and spring becomes autumn
and autumn spring once more
as one by one the years
drop away
like ripe plums from the tree
How gentle and fine
are lands that remain
wild and free,
still untouched
by the improving hand of man
May it ever be so
<><><><>
How do I write of this
the death of my heart
for you were
Ruddy My Heart.
For fifteen years we were
inseparable, you and I.
Will anyone ever be able
to understand our bond?
So pure of heart, unselfish and true
you never asked for more
than my love in return
(and how you delighted
when two we howled together!)
No shred of the evil was in you
that exists in the heart of man
———
I asked you remain
before ever I met her
and you did because you knew that alone,
alone...
*thank you*
———
How will the world cope
with your loss
a loss so profound because you were
the embodiment of goodness & happiness
A week before
you took a fall
and suffered a twisted stomach
unknown to me
until that night
when I took you out
for your last walk
and though you were in pain
still (slowly) you followed
- as always
but this time,
this time ...
I could not help
and into my eyes you looked
there at the clinic
deeply, one last time
trusting, never wavering,
and I stammered
“Okay”
and wept.
~ I am so sorry ~
I buried you there
at our favorite place to hike,
and that night
under the crescent moon
I howled for you
And now Tom wept as well. Julie had adored her father, an avid hiker. Reading this, he understood how she had become who she was. He wept for the goodness that was his wife. A ruby in a world of rubble.
Then, digging through, he found another. This one, much darker. In the corner it said, “Julie Pine, 25.” Four years ago.
Extinction
Time t’was to go
and though we perceived’t
we refused to accept
or admit us defeat
Oh! our history’s been grand
none to compare
from earth we took sand
and built without care
All the wars that we fought
and ships that we made
and lovers we’ve held
on bright sunny days
All the days that we cried
the days that we laughed
was it all just for naught
has the die just been cast?
We still have our plans
So much for to do
now our time is at hand
and our end is now due
The stars to explore
other lands to bring low
as we conquered our own
oh so long ago
We shall silence those say
our time is but up
that our day is now done
and of death shall we sup
We will not lie down gently
will fight to the end
for we are not ready
and we will not bend
For we still do not know
~ the meaning of life ~
But now at the end
now we do see
t’was not all the hurried
crazed activity
T’was not all the things
we might accumulate
nor even the faithless
we did habilitate
But alas do we learn it
too late, oh too late
T’is days warm and bright
that we shall never see
loud, crashing waves
the life in a tree
a mouse as it chews
/> a tiny grass seed
a bird as it sings
the song of the freed
Sunrises, sunsets
the thunder and rain
for us are no more
we cannot remain
Time t’is to go
we shall not refrain,
and after us will come
the hard cleansing rains
Ending, he felt stunned. He’d no idea that Julie had been so troubled. It broke his heart that he hadn’t been enough to ease her despondency. Looking at the paper, he saw the stains, marks of her tears as she wrote. Leaving her writings scattered around on the floor where he’d been sitting, he lay down to sleep.
When he awoke, he looked at the clock. Time for work. But he couldn’t. Not today. So he called in. Paul understood and told him to take some time off. The Oasis would still be there when he returned.
Tom ate and washed up, leaving the papers on the floor. Then he called a friend who, detecting a note of sadness in Tom’s voice, suggested he come by to visit. It was a long way, northwest Nevada, the place that he and Julie had last walked. He’d leave his motorcycle at the station and take a train. They still ran. He’d have a couple hours at his friend’s, then, back again, he’d cycle the nine miles home, through the crowds trying to beat sundown. There was time.
The scenery was bleak, and Tom resisted the urge to stare out the window. He knew what he’d see. Garbage, old, overturned cars and smashed appliances piled up along the tracks. Winos in fights and addicts with their heads in their hands. Racial epithets spray painted on the sides of buildings. The crass, flashing, phallic-shaped neon of the Hard-Up Hotel. And farther down the road, a dilapidated Baptist billboard that shouted: YOU’RE GOING TO HELL!!! The words surrounded by faces in flames. Across it were the scrawled curses of those angered by the ghastly message. In another sector, armed troops wearing gas masks raced through the streets. The ugliness of man at the end of his rope. It was all very depressing.
When he arrived, he sat and talked to the couple and felt better to know that there were still good people around. Then he left them to wander their land. To see if he could glimpse what it was that Julie perceived in nature. And in the quiet, it began to come to him.
Though what should be green was brown, a hue which matched the pigment of the sky, still, even now, there were patches of “natural” left. Here and there, like the stubborn hope that exists in the hearts of the good, he would find a leaf or two, green and beautiful. Though they were affixed to plants once considered “weeds,” now they were a welcome sight. Tom sat and saw something moving in the soil, ants wandering restlessly, as if preparing for a long winter. You don’t know how long, he thought. And then, lighting on a dead twig not three feet away, a dragonfly suddenly appeared. Its tiny head looked right and left. It flicked its wings. Turned around. Then around again, now seeming to look straight at Tom. It lifted effortlessly, then came near Tom’s face as if to study him. Soundless. A tiny beat of glassy wings catching stray sunlight, splitting it into color. It hovered there moment longer, then, suddenly as it had appeared, it was off. Gone on some unknown mission.
“Farewell my friend. Farewell,” Tom said.
He lay down there, as Julie had often done, folded his arms behind his head and closed his eyes, imagining the world as it once was. The world that Julie saw. Green earth and blue sky. Strong, proud oceans, teeming with life. Birds flying overhead and deer grazing sweetly a wild grassland. Yes, it is beautiful. As are you, my love.
Come home to me.
He closed his eyes.
Something.
Tom jumped and turned around. There, like an apparition, looking down at him, stood a man, if that it was. Ancient, red skin, wrinkles upon wrinkles. Hair, long and gray. Strangely attired, tanned habiliments, like, canvas perhaps, hung on his shoulders and around his waist. Even upon his feet. There were beads around his neck. A look vaguely familiar, perhaps something he’d once seen in a book. The old man looked down at Tom, saying nothing. Tom scooted back on the ground.
“Can I help you?” Tom asked.
The old man looked around as if seeing the entirety of the earth.
“You have forgotten. But the last shall be first,” he replied with a voice deep and halting.
Tom stood and stepped back. “Who - who are you? What do you want?”
“I am Grandfather. I am Algonquin and Cree, Hopi and Lakhota. I am Mohawk and Navaho, Nez-Perce and Onondaga. I am Chumash and Pueblo, Shoshone and Sioux, I am Ojibwa and Miwok, Wichita and Zuñi. I am a thousand tribes that walked this land. I am the hopes, the fears, the loves, the joys, the despair and the sadness of The People. I am the brave who holds his lover tightly under the boughs of ancient oaks. I am the maid who suckles her child in a field of flowers. I am the water as it runs over the stones. I am the cry of the hawk that says all is well. I am a thousand thousand dreams, and one.”
Tom gaped, but not understanding said nothing in reply. Yet, he sensed that the old man was more than that, and that this visit had some significance — to him.
“You have forgotten”, the old man said again.
“Forgotten? Forgotten what?” Tom asked.
“But the last shall be first.”
He’d not noticed before that a strange sort of fog had gradually appeared. It drifted between the two, then dissipated. With it went the old man. Tom blinked.
As he thought about this, he suddenly heard the sound of dry foliage crunching underfoot. Footsteps. Tom turned. Another man, this one younger, and more — real — was approaching. He, too, was dark with long hair. But his clothes were obviously more modern. Then he spoke.
“The Great Chief, Luther Standing Bear, once said, ‘Miles were to us as they were to the bird. The land was ours to roam in as the sky was for them to fly in. We did not think of the great open plains, the beautiful rolling hills, and winding streams with tangled growth, as “wild.” Only to the white man was nature a “wilderness” and only to him was the land “infested” with “wild” animals and “savage people.” To us it was tame. Earth was bountiful, and we were surrounded with the blessings of the Great Mystery.’”
Tom shook his head. “What the devil is going on?” he demanded.
“Be calm, my brother. I am Kidütökadö, Numa chief of the Northern Paiute tribe. I understand that you do not. You stand upon sacred ground.”
Tom looked around at the browning foliage. Kidütökadö laughed.
“Even when a man has crushed the flower underfoot, he cannot erase its memory from time. Cannot remove its place in earth history.
“This valley,” he continued, “you once called Virgin Valley, it is my home.”
“I’m sorry,” Tom stammered, coughed. “Did I wander too far?” He glanced around, but no fence was apparent and he’d not crossed any.
Kidütökadö laughed again. “No, brother. Long before your friends settled here, The People were present.”
“Who was that old man?” Tom asked.
“He has told you and I cannot say more. With time it will be clear.” Then Kidütökadö said, “Sit, and I will tell you a story.”
Tom sat. Then the red man sat as well. He gathered together dry foliage around him into a little mound in front of them. Then he put his hands over it and began to sing. It was a soft, lilting song, and the man sang it in a low, melodic voice, rocking slightly. Tom looked at him, then something glinted and he looked down to see a small fire forming. It was warm, soothing.
“Long, long ago, longer than before even the dawn of The People, this land was sacred. Sacred above all others. At that time, there were many wild beasts, kin that we would never know. They lived here in great numbers,” he said, gesturing with his hands. “Where we now sit upon dry ground, a vast lake was. In beauty, brother deer and horse wandered the green hills that encircled it. And trees, spruce, hemlock, birch, chestnut, even sequoia, sang, sang with the songs of many birds. It was a paradise.” He paused, looking at Tom, who looked pecul
iarly back at him. “But it was also a time of great danger. Mother earth spoke violently and poured forth her blood. Over and over it flowed, mightily, and when finally she calmed, from her blood came life.
“The land itself was beautiful beyond compare. Like a young maiden bedecked in jewels, she was adorned in flowers all year, and the land was many colored. Eventually, Mother rested from creating, and for a long time, all was so. A golden season that was never before or after. But in secrecy she hid her blossoming, hid it in time. Shy as a girl.”
Tom was captivated and continued to sit, listening.
“By and by, she matured and outgrew this phase, as all must do. With time, things changed and she aged. Still, she held onto her youthful beauty. A blue-green jewel in the infinite deadness of space.”
“What happened?” Tom asked, seeming to understand the special wisdom of this man.
“Were it not for one of her creations, a people she formed in her haste and giddiness, she would still be magnificent and long would live in stately splendor. That child which she held to her breast, though, was greedy and turned against her. He grew to hate his mother. With knives he cut her hair and carried it off to sell. But like a mother that cannot be angry at her child, she did not rebuke him. And so he grew and became bold and continued to take and take. And now, like one mad, he holds the knife finally to her throat, the throat of his mother. The one that birthed and cared for him for so long, and slowly he draws it. Yet, still she loves, and will die for it.”
The red man paused, then, quietly, he began again to sing. Another language. Tom did not understand. As the man sang, he picked up dirt and debris from the ground and commenced to pour it over his head, then to weep. Tom, alarmed, got ready to rise. Yet, instead, he continued to watch. Then the red man reached into the fire with his hands. Flames licked around them, but seemed not to cause him pain. He continued his song. Tom made as if to pull the man’s hands out, but stopped. After a moment, the red man withdrew them, closed. His hands, though dirty, did not appear burned. Once again he sang, though this time Tom understood. He strained to hear.
“When the sky has turned dark, and your eye has grown dim, then, Mother, then will you rise again. In loveliness you will go, and I am struck. I am struck. Then will you rise again, and the circle will be complete.”