From Ashes Into Light: A Novel

by Gudrun Mouw

  I nod and say, “Yes, I’m very happy.” I squeeze Jake’s hand sitting at my right, glance warmly at Mutti, who joins us at my left.

  At the end of the meal I search out the bathroom. There is no one inside. I am grateful. Certainly I am happy, but strong feelings have come to the surface and now I don’t quite know what to do with them. I hold on to the counter and close my eyes, and have a moment of comforting stillness.

  The Phoenix

  Saqapaya’s death moved me. His love for his people, his lonely sacrifice saddened and disoriented me for a time. Yet, as Phoenix, I cannot allow myself to get caught in one heartbreak or one incarnation alone. As always, I must survive the fire of life and death, over and again, so that another aeon may continue.

  More than a century later, I am perched on the roof of the refurbished presidio and archeological site in the middle of a city called El Paraiso. I sense Friede approaching, maybe today, maybe tomorrow. I feel she is ready to take on the work of Saqapaya’s vision, my vision, Ruth’s vision, the vision of those who embrace a path of light and love. I am rejuvenated by my anticipation and look around with curiosity.

  I see this does not look like the place that Saqapaya gave his life to protect. Vehicles pass by; the smell and noise are almost overwhelming. I notice a sign: Welcome to California, the Sunshine State! I sniff fog rising up from the ocean and shake the damp out of my feathers. I am grateful the place hasn’t dried up altogether. Earlier, I saw how creeks flowing down from the mountains were much smaller, and waterways, as they moved through the city, were clogged and dirty with debris. Still, the city seems to be proud of its past with its newly rebuilt and whitewashed buildings from the old Spanish days, historical plaques, and tourists carrying brochures.

  This is not the history I wish to celebrate. Now, at dusk, I hunch down on clay tiles, not an easy task, their round arcs are not the best shape for my feet to grasp. I back into a corner for stability. It is getting cool fast, but the tiles are still warm from the mid-afternoon sun.

  My travels have tired me. Sleepy, I barely listen to the conversation of tourists leaving the building below. When a particularly loud group stands right underneath me, I peer at them. One of them holds the inevitable brochure. He says in a voice that carries through the evening air with great authority, “Tomorrow I think we should go to the Natural History Museum. There are Native American artifacts there and many other interesting exhibits.” Suddenly, I am alert.

  I lean down from the edge of the roof. Under a light that shines from the building, the tourist opens a map inside the brochure. “Here it is, just a ways north, outside the city center,” he exclaims. I use my phoenix eyes to penetrate the distance and to better study the map. Yes, I will be able to find that place, but how, I ask myself, will I guide Friede there? I know there is something in the museum she needs to examine, something that will remind her of Saqapaya, but I am not yet sure what I will do when I see her again. Tired, I nod into my feathers, confident that the answer to my question will come.

  I sense this just before sleep permeates. When my mission is finished, this cycle might end and another begin, who knows when? But for now, it is time to rest.

  The next day I am happy to see Friede and her mother going into the restaurant across the street from the presidio. There she is. I want to sing to her: I knew you would be drawn here; I know you can’t help but feel that change is on the way. I flutter my wings vigorously with excitement and look down at the street. It’s early; there are no people on this side. Apparently Friede and Marta are having breakfast together. I must wait patiently. On the sidewalk beneath me I see that spot where the tourist holding the brochure had been standing. Something lies there.

  I look more closely. Ah, perfect. This has the map to the Natural History Museum. The man must have dropped it. I swoop down and pick up the brochure. Back on the roof, I have a plan. Friede and her mother will come out of the restaurant; I will fly over and let the brochure fall right at her feet. As I hold the gift tightly in my beak, I can’t help doing a little dance, even as precarious as this roof feels under my feet. Trilling sounds, deep in my throat, express my delight.

  Friede

  Sitting at a round table across the street from the El Paraiso Presidio, my mother and I prolong our breakfast with another cup of tea. Mutti adds honey, she stirs; her spoon clinks the side of the cup. When she swallows, a suppressed noise comes from her throat that sounds like something more difficult to swallow than tea. I touch my mother’s hand. My heart fills with compassion. I am newly married, happy, and wish that same feeling for my mother.

  California breeze, shadows, and leaves whirl in an improvisational dance, moving towards eastern foothills and mountains that will soon turn dry. I hear a bird singing, as if extolling riches not yet fulfilled in this semi-arid resort city. I look through the restaurant window at the archaeological site across the street where the city’s Historical Preservation Society conducts ongoing investigations. I have been there. I have read their brochures, yet something continues to nag at me.

  The Society’s Trust has begun to restore and reconstruct the city’s former stockade, the El Presidio, one of a chain of fortresses built to protect invading settlers against the native population. After the local chief told the founder of the Royal Presidio where he could find good water, this fortress, supporting the indigenous people’s destruction, was built nearby. The two pure springs were later sold. Still later, the springs were capped and a lagoon close by was filled with dirt for a baseball field.

  I notice the newly whitewashed adobe of the Presidio Chapel. Constant traffic noise and the smell of exhaust come through the open window. Though something about this sight unsettles me, I smile at my mother, wishing to reassure her. She is worried for me, as is her nature, and I have finally come to understand that her worry is an expression of love. I squeeze her hand.

  Mutti’s eyes, tired and faded, look at me. She smiles back, shyly. “I’m so glad you are spending this long weekend with us,” I tell my mother. “It’s good to get away, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.” Yesterday she and I had walked through El Paraiso’s Historic Park, a couple of miles away. There, the Native Americans had been put to work by Mission padres or jailed, and after all this time the stone walls of the prison have survived. My mother stayed outside, but I went in.

  There was no door and the roof had disappeared, but an aura of sorrow lingered. I felt oppressed. I couldn’t get out fast enough. I stumbled over the threshold and leaned against the outer wall. I could not hold back my tears.

  Now I lower my teacup to the saucer and look at my mother with a curious expression. My mother rarely speaks of East Prussia and my early years, but today, I hope, may be an exception. I examine my mother’s face, which looks more and more like my memory of Grandmother Pulver, but Omi’s hair was never this white. She had died too soon. I press the heel of my hand against my chest. I still miss my grandmother.

  Mutti begins to speak quietly, as though she isn’t used to being heard. She enunciates every letter. Her consonants sound like tiny pebbles plopping in water, and her “th’s” sound like “d’s.”

  “I remember my parents’ home. Lavender and jasmine bushes grew on the arbor, and in the evenings one could smell the fragrance from afar. In Wehburg,” she continues, “my sisters and I picked gooseberries, plump and juicy; we also picked red currants. We strolled arm in arm along the country lanes…” My mother stops. “No one had any idea what was to come.”

  “I wish I could remember that,” I reply “I hear roaring flames like a windstorm. I hear the sky exploding. I see the sharp end of a bayonet. I taste cold snow and feel myself breathing an uphill and painfully belabored breath inside a mine.”

  “I am sorry, Friede, you have such difficult memories so early in your life. Myself, I have tried to forget such things. I worry for you. Is it not too much?”

  “Not anymore. I am doing much better now. You know, of course, Rabbi Helderman ha
s helped me a lot. He has been like the good father I needed in this life. He made it possible for me to love.”

  “I know. I am very glad.” We get up from our table and stand just outside the door. For a moment I forget in which direction I had parked the car. I see a bird fly up abruptly across the street. It has unusual coloring, yellow, orange, and red, reminding me of fire. The bird flies directly overhead. Something drops. I look down at my feet, surprised to see a brochure lying there. It’s about the Natural History Museum. I’ve been wanting to visit. Perhaps today is the day. I pick up the brochure.

  “Look. What do you think? Would you like to go?” I show my mother the picture of the museum on the front of the brochure. I open to a map. “Here is a place I haven’t yet explored. It’s not too far. Shall we?”

  “Yes, that would be nice, Friede.”

  * * *

  At the museum I am fascinated by the exhibits and panoramas of how the land used to look. My mother is gracious as she watches me linger. I embrace her. “Look! Coyote is circling an early morning meadow. His eyes gleam shrewdly. He appears ready to trot towards the underbrush along trails only he knows.”

  My mother smiles. “I see what you mean.”

  “I can almost smell the sage, see the canyon sunflowers over there. And look at the crows!” I want to reach through the glass of the exhibition to touch the smooth, shiny feathers, the iridescent black.

  Then, I see it. A replication painted on sandstone. A pictograph. The sign says that the original was discovered inside a shallow cave in the mountains that rise up from the city. The colors are rust-red, almost like dried blood; there are white pathways and black lines. A cross is depicted, suspended in space, piercing a creature through the middle. This creature seems to writhe into a shape difficult to discern. I am struck dumb.

  I take my mother’s hand and I am shaking. She guides me to a bench. We sit. I can still see the pictograph, but I cannot speak. Elbows on my thighs, I hold my chin and sway back and forth. Tears fall. People walk by and look at me strangely, but I am beyond caring what they think. Grief moves through my body, and after what seems like a long time is replaced by something else.

  Taking deep breaths with my eyes closed, I see into the future, my own aging hand moving just above red pigment on rock. I see the one who wears a wolf cape lying on a cave floor. The name, Saqapaya, comes to me; the slender man. Yes, the slender man who I’ve seen before. How long has he been watching over me? Or is he a part of me?

  Eventually I wipe my face and touch my mother’s knee. This image of a 150-year-old pictogram identifies something I’ve struggled to put into words my whole life: beware the destructive force of those who are narrow-minded, arrogant, and who do not know their own ignorance.

  I turn to my mother and share the message the pictograph is giving me. I tell her I must find the source, that I need to speak with the curator. My mother listens and nods her head. Afterwards, we walk towards the museum office, arm in arm. Mutti’s understanding makes me feel grateful and determined. When I find where this replication came from, I’ll go to the mountains, touch the land with respect, and pray for those who have been displaced, the plants, animals, and peoples everywhere who have suffered.

  German Glossary

  Blumen - flowers

  Fräulein - Miss

  Kommandant - commander

  Liebe/Liebchen - Dear/Sweetie

  Mutti - Mom

  Oma - Grandmother

  Onkle - Uncle

  Omi - Grammy/Grandma

  Schlampe - slut/bitch

  Schnell - fast

  Tante - Aunt

  Verdammt - damned

  Wienerwald - Vienna woods

  Weh ist mier - alas

  Samala Glossary

  Ahashoosh - ghost, spirit

  ‘asuyepeyepen - shaman with bear powers

  kopkop - toad

  Kumqaq’ - Point Conception, the Western Gate

  Ku’n - cottontail rabbit

  maniwoch - to be in mourning

  maqshtush - a children’s game of hands

  Maxiwo - bald eagle

  Momoy - jimson weed/datura

  Shoop - Mother Earth

  S’xamin - Mother Ocean

  Tomol - canoe, boat

  washiko - ceonothus

  Xuxaw - coyote

  Spanish Glossary

  Puedo ver hasta la salida, y a dónde fue? Hernandez, búscalo - I can see to the end, and where is he? Hernandez, look for him.

  * * *

  No podemos registrar cada agujero de la Montaña. Necesito agua, comida - We can’t search every nook in the mountains. I need water, food.

  * * *

  Es un inferno. Tengo hambre, y no he visto nigun conejo. - It’s hot as hell. I’m hungry and I haven’t seen a single rabbit.

  * * *

  pues, Vámanos - Ok, let’s go

  * * *

  Comandante - Commander

  Acknowledgments

  I appreciate my editor, Maxima Kahn, for her deep comprehension and clarifying skills. I am deeply grateful to the Santa Ynez Band of Chumash Indians for sharing their Samala-English Dictionary. I am also grateful to my daughter, whose enthusiasm has kept me going. I thank my teacher, Reverend Sri Swami Satchidananda Yogiraj, for his inspiration.

  I am grateful to Jack Kornfield, Gil Farnsdale, Stanislov Grof, and Ray Castellino for the transpersonal work they do. I wish to acknowledge Phillip (Prahaladan) Mandelkorn and Perie Longo for their insight and encouragement. The late Jarvin Heiman M.D. and Christina Grof were crucial and fearless guides in the process of my spiritual journey through visionary states.

  I also wish to honor the maternal line: Mutti, my mother; Omi, my grandmother Richert; and my great-grandmother Dietrich. The strength they did not know they had has carried me.

  About the Author

  Gudrun Mouw is an award-winning poet, a writer, and a teacher. Born in East Prussia during World War II, she immigrated to the U.S. at age seven. Mouw has lived in the Santa Barbara area for over thirty years. Her first collection of poetry, Wife of the House, was published in 2014. From Ashes into Light is Mouw’s first novel, and it won the 2016 International Book Awards in Visionary and New Age Fiction.

  Honest reviews of this book are greatly appreciated.

  * * *

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