He was aware of a very big yellow moon rising behind the cedar trees. Then he was aware that a girl was pulling at his blanket. She wanted him to dance.
He was shy — really and truly shy — because he had never before danced with a girl. He did what she wished and found himself going slowly round and round in the firelight, while the girl held tightly to the back of his blanket.
He kept his blanket wrapped around him so that the girl would not pull it off. His feet moved like all the feet, but he was sure that no one’s heart beat as fast as his. He had strange new feelings.
He thought it must be the sound of the pottery drum, or the chorus of men’s voices that made him feel so queer, or maybe it was the extraordinary size of the yellow moon, which came up slowly as if it, too, were keeping time to the drum.
Everything was timed. He knew that, but he thought his heart was out of time. It beat too fast. Whenever he became conscious of the girl’s hand taking a tighter grip on his blanket, his heart beat out of time. His feet were all right. They shuffled along like all the other feet and turned him slowly round and round.
The moon rose higher. The firelight gleamed on the silver belts of the dancers and intensified the red of the blankets.
Everyone seemed to be going slowly round and round. That was right. Everything was right except his heart. He knew it beat too fast.
There were very many of his people sitting on the ground under the moonlight. Always they had done that. Years and hundreds of years back they had sat that way while the young men danced with the girls.
He could feel how the songs and the drumming were telling of his people — of their living, of their wars and of their victories. He could feel how the ground itself was part of his people, how the trees were part of them, and how the Moon Bearer was one of them.
The Moon Bearer was a very old one of his people, and he carried the moon because he liked its beauty.
This girl, who held so tightly to his blanket — she was like the moon when it is young. He would like to be the bearer of a young moon.
When he thought that, his heart gave a great thump. It seemed as if he could hear its beat above the drum, and then he could feel the blood coursing through his veins, warming his body and making him conscious of all the men and women and children about him, whose veins carried the same blood as his.
His heart sang a new song. It was a song of his people who had lived in the land when the Ancients dwelt in the cliffs — his people, who had hungered and fought and made songs as they carried on — his people, who could sing — mothers who could weave — uncles who could heal — children, who laughed — and young men and girls, who could dance in the moonlight.
The little hand at his back clasped his blanket more tightly, and he knew that a new song was being born in his heart. It was the song of his people, who carried on, who persisted, who danced to the throbbing music of their hearts.
At last he understood the pain of beauty that he had felt on top of the western mountain. He remembered how he had wondered if there were anyone in the world who felt as he felt.
Now he knew that all of his people felt as he felt. Had not the little pottery drums been telling the secret in the moonlight for thousands of years ?
As the pale light in the eastern sky foretold the coming of the sun, the drum ceased its throbbing and the men’s voices were stilled. The girls returned to their mothers.
Younger Brother greeted the east with a consciousness of new power rising within him.
Dawn Boy was making way for the Bearer of the Day.
www.doverpublications.com
Waterless Mountain Page 16