by Tom Crockett
“Oriolis was happy. He had young Bakoo with whom to play and old Bakoo from whom to learn. He grew strong and confident on the fruit of the Assouh fig trees. But as a young man, his dark dreams of the desert returned. In his dreams the desert grew larger and larger, washing over fertile farmlands like a great wave. The dreams kept him awake at night and seemed to draw the strength from him.
“In the end it was his adopted mother, Nannu Passa, who told him what he must do. ‘You must go into the hottest part of the hottest desert where the Grandfather Spirit of the hot, dry wind dwells. You must ask this spirit about your dreams.’ Nannu Passa told Oriolis that he must go to the Abo Flat of the Assouh.
“Oriolis walked by night to the rim of the Abo Flat and prayed to the Great Mother Spirit for protection. At dawn he started to walk down into the Abo Flat, God’s Kiln, the hottest place known to the Bandu. By noon the sun and the Grandfather Spirit had sapped his strength, and, for a second time in his life, he lay down to die in the desert.
“It was then that he had a strange and powerful dream.
“The hard-packed earth beneath his back grew soft and dragged him down. His legs and torso, arms and neck were swallowed up. Finally the sand closed over his head and all was darkness. In the last moment of his last breath, his hand found something to cling to. His fingers closed around a thick vine that struggled upward through the sand. Oriolis held onto the vine with both hands, and it carried him free of the desert sand. He held it tightly as it lifted him off the ground. He noticed for the first time the green leaves of the vine and felt them cool on the back of his hands and against his brow. Higher and higher the vine lifted him until he could see all of the desert, and the mountains, and the lush green forests beyond. It was beautiful and rich and vibrant with living energy. The higher he went, the more the desert looked to be a dry island of brown in a sea of green, but the island was growing, and the sea of green was drying up. Still he marveled at the view.
“At its height, when the vine could carry him no higher, it began to shake him from his reverie. Oriolis clung to the vine as it swayed from side to side, but with each dip it grew more strained. Finally it snapped. Oriolis fell an agonized and twisting fall to land hard—broken in the darkness of the black desert night.
“For many days Oriolis lay as a dead man, ruined on the desert floor. In his hand was a broken branch of the great vine that had given him his vision. He had no strength left but to cry. He cried for the world he had seen from his great height. He knew that the desert he had seen was not a true desert, but a desert in the hearts of the people. They could no longer see the life in things. They used the land badly, for selfish ends. They lacked imagination and could not conceive of the land as a fragile and living thing. It had always been theirs for the taking and so it would surely remain.
“He cried for his world, and his tears, the last of his water, dropped onto the desert sand and called forth the Greening. First one tiny shoot, then another, pushed against his back. They lifted Oriolis up as they grew around him. They gave him water and sustenance and he saw their patterns. In awe and joy he watched the plants grow in the desert, and all at once he knew the meaning of his dreams. He knew his destiny.
“Now, how much of this was dream and how much truly happened, no one can say. Perhaps there is little difference, but after many days—far longer than any man had survived—Oriolis walked off the Abo Flat and out of the Assouh desert. He had with him the branch of the Greening Vine that grew to become his staff. He learned all there was to know about plants and trees. He came to know their names, their needs, their natures, and even their innermost thoughts. He traveled far and taught others to see the living energy around them.
“As the years passed, Oriolis became first a teacher, then a preacher, then a prophet of what he called the Greening. Wherever people were gathered together, Oriolis would speak of planting, nurturing, cultivating, and listening to the living song of the world. He would sing wonderful songs of the mythic forests of his dreams and frighten children with tales of hot and lifeless deserts.
“To some Oriolis was a fool. Those who remembered the strange little boy he had once been said he was surely touched by the madness of his poet father. To others he was a dangerous man, deranged by his years of wandering in the desert. When he first proposed the Landbond, some talked openly of imprisonment or worse. Most people paid little attention to Oriolis, and he might have died in obscurity if not for his dreams. His wild dreams of the Greening came to the shaman artists of the Bandu and other people as well. Soon paintings of the Greening were seen and songs of the Greening were heard. Slowly the Greening came to have a place in the world.
“No one is quite certain what became of Oriolis. Like most figures of legend, his ending is obscure. Some believe that when his time was over, he walked into the desert as his father had before him, never to be seen again. Others believe that he found his primal forest and grew into a great tree that still stands there to this day. Still others believe that he can be seen on moonlit nights in green places, secretly tending to young plants and trees. Oriolis had no children, but every Bandu village can point to a great ancient tree that, it is said, was planted by Oriolis himself.”
Marina thought the story beautiful but also sad, and it made her think again about forgetting what she had learned. “I’m afraid I will forget all this,” she confessed. “I’m afraid that if I should somehow make my way back to my life I’ll forget what I’ve heard and be no better off than I was before. What if I lose these new senses? What if I can’t find sanctuary?”
“Even in your world, I’m afraid you will not simply find sanctuary. You may find a place of power, a pulse point, but you must build sanctuary.” Téves’s knapsack lay at his feet. He pulled it to him and drew a small leather pouch from one of its pockets.
“I don’t understand. Do you mean that I have to build some kind of structure for it to be a sanctuary?”
“Some people build temples, some build simple houses in the trees. But you, I think, are a traveler. Your sanctuary must travel with you.”
“I still don’t get it,” Marina said. She was getting sleepy now and frustrated by her own questions.
“Here,” Téves said, extending the leather pouch to her. “Some within the Greening use this tool to feel the force of the life energy.” Marina opened the pouch carefully and withdrew a simple but beautiful polished crystal pendulum. It was about the size of an acorn and hung from a fine silver chain. “Perhaps it will help you find your way.”
“It’s beautiful,” Marina whispered. She was tired and could feel tears coming to her eyes for this gift. She had not the strength to stop them. Fortunately, Téves seemed distracted.
She watched as he took out the disk of wood he had cut earlier that day. The heartwood, he had called it. He touched the blue silhouette lightly with his fingertips and laid it onto the brazier with careful reverence. Neither of them spoke as they watched it burn. Marina’s eyes grew heavy in the dance of the flame and she’d almost surrendered to sleep when the fire began to sputter and pop. It whistled and crackled and finally released some pent-up force in a fireball that hissed skyward in a shower of sparks.
“What was that?” Marina asked.
“Carolis’s spirit. She is free to be reborn now. Watch.”
Marina watched as a beautiful plume of blue-white smoke wafted up into the canopy. At first it was nothing, then it took on the shape she had seen in the cut log—a woman in a long gown, and then it was smoke again.
“I think you should find your bed,” Téves said softly.
“What about you? Where will you sleep?” Marina asked as she stood up.
“I often sleep out here on the deck. I’ll be fine.”
Marina was too tired to argue. She soon found the little bunk, pulled the blanket around her shoulders and fell into a deep sleep.
* * *
Marina woke in darkness, her travel alarm sounding insistently. She could see by the luminesc
ent dial that it was 3:00 A.M. She felt the gentle rocking of the ship. She had slept on top of her made bed so there was little to straighten as she slipped off it and into her silk robe.
“Marina.” She heard the voice from far away. A high, musical voice, familiar and yet strange at the same time. She looked out the cabin window. It was quiet and still as she had hoped it would be.
“Marina.” The voice called to her again.
She took a last look around her stateroom. It was neat and everything was in order. She had repacked all her belongings into her travel bags so there would be nothing for anyone to have to go through. She had thought this all out carefully.
She slipped from her stateroom, leaving the door unlocked behind her. She was barefoot and so moved quietly as she went down the steps to access the lowest of the outside decks. She saw no one.
“Marina.” It was louder now, more musical.
She found the spot she had reconnoitered earlier. She pulled the deck chair to the railing and climbed over the edge.
“Marina. Come back to me, Marina. You remember the way.” The voice that called her was delicious and intoxicating.
“Marina.” Impossible to resist and yet she did. She hesitated for a moment, teetering on the edge of the railing. Something wasn’t right. There was something she wasn’t remembering.
“Marina. Come now. Your time is nearly up. Come back to me.”
Still she hesitated. What was that thing she was forgetting. She would jump, she was ready, but there was something she must recall first. Some little thing.
“Marina. I will show you such wonders. We will fly, yes, you can fly. Fly to me now.”
The song was irresistible. A nightsong. She remembered something about a nightsong. But was she to swim toward it or fly from it?
She swayed, tipped, could fight the song no more, felt herself fall forward as she had once before. No, she had not fallen before. She had jumped out. It was passion, not gravity that had carried her
Something caught her, held her in midair. “Marina!” A different voice, alarmed but commanding. “Marina.” Softer now. “Adytum Wood is not the place for you to stop.”
Téves was holding her, his arm around her waist. She opened her eyes. He had pulled her back from the other side of the railing. “It’s a dream, Marina. But it isn’t yours. Not yet, anyway. I think you still have time.”
Time, Marina thought. What do I know about time? She looked around her. It was still dark but the first hint of dawn was lighting the sky. The turtle tattoo. She suddenly remembered it.
“My tattoo,” she said, turning to face Téves. “It was here last time I saw it.” She touched her cheekbone. “Can you still see it?” Téves turned her face to catch some of the light from the embers that still glowed in the brazier. He pushed her hair back off her forehead and tilted her head forward.
“I can just see it, here.” He touched her hairline with his thumb. “But it’s very faint.”
“Atana said I must get to the other side of the mountain before the tattoo fades completely. How long will that take me? Can I make it before the sun goes down again? I’m not sure I can make it through another night.”
“I’m sorry, but I just don’t know. I can take you to the edge of Adytum Wood. There is a trail that leads up from there, but I’ve never taken it myself.”
“Then, I’m sorry, but I must go now.”
“Right,” he said firmly and set about filling her water pouch and packing some food for her. Marina slipped her pendulum in its sack into her little bag next to the stone Atana had given her.
Quickly and quietly they both descended the stairs that wrapped around Sybil’s great girth. Téves again led the way through the dark forest and Marina followed closely. She was amazed that despite her agitated state, she could still see and feel the auras of the trees around her. As the light came up, however, the forest began to change in character. She could still see some of the patterns of energy, but there seemed to be less spirit, less life at the edges of Adytum Wood.
Finally Téves came to a halt. He gestured to a path that clearly led up. “This is as far as I may go. Follow this path and I think it will take you where you need to go. I only hope I have not caused you to linger too long in my woods.”
“If I’ve lingered, it was to learn what I had to learn. Don’t feel any guilt on my behalf. You’ve given me a great gift.” She felt like crying again, but bit her lip instead.
“Well, if you choose it, you will always be welcome here.”
Marina kissed him quickly and impulsively on the cheek, then turned away. She had no time for crying now, no time to waste. She did not know how she could be so certain, but she knew that she had to be over the mountain before the sun set again. It was the only way back to the life she knew. It was a slim chance. She did not know by what mechanism or philosophy she could return to life, but it was a chance she wanted.
It was an odd feeling after so long, to want something again.
CHAPTER 6—DARK CIRCLE, STONE CIRCLE
Those who study such things have discovered that biogenic magnetite crystals—submicroscopic bits of lodestone—form naturally in the snouts of sea turtles. Could it be that they carry some deep sensitivity to the ley lines, the magnetic ebb and flow, the dragon lines of Feng Shui? In a ruined temple in Central America a Great Mother Turtle Goddess has a body carved of one kind of stone and a head carved from magnetic ore. How could they know? It is almost as if she might one day use this compass to find her way back into the molten sea from which she was born. Or, barring that, she might somehow pull her heart’s desire across thousands of miles of open sea to share her temple of stone. What would I give to remember my heart’s compass?
Now the path grew steep and the climbing was hard. For the first time since leaving Rafael’s hut, Marina questioned whether she had the strength to climb up and over this mountain. She kept hoping to find an intersecting path that perhaps wound around the mountain, offering a more gentle trail to the other side, but, in her heart, she knew she must climb this mountain or turn back. There was no soft path for her now.
That the intensity of her desire coincided with the difficulty of the climb seemed appropriate. If she had wanted it less or the grade had grown steep sooner, her will might have failed her, but she now was determined.
As she walked into the morning, she still saw faint auras of shimmering energy around the trees. Occasionally she would walk through patches of fog, thick mist that obscured the detail of things, but through which she could still see the trees and plants. When she no longer noticed the auras, it wasn’t so much that she stopped seeing them, but rather that she had to work so hard to lift and place each foot along the rock-strewn trail that she couldn’t look anywhere but down.
She had been barefoot since waking on Turtle Island, but now, for the first time, it hurt her feet to walk. If distracted for even a few seconds by the raucous call or bright plumage of some bird, she would place a foot wrong, twisting, scraping, stubbing, banging. She fell once, skinning her knee and bringing a blush of crimson blood to the surface.
Her clumsiness and inattention made her mad, and then it made her cry.
She stopped to pour water over her wound and rest, breathing in deep, chest-wrenching gulps. She looked at the skin on her legs. Aside from her fresh wound, her legs were still smooth and supple. She still had the skin she had been reborn to when the Turtle Mother had wrapped her, buried her, and forced her to dig her way free—almost a baby’s skin. The scar from the machete wound was still a thin, pale, pink line on her calf. She had to feel for it before locating it. I must be more careful with this skin, she thought.
There was no mark on her ankle where the Turtle Mother had tattooed her. She wondered where the tattoo was by now. Was it crawling through some dense forest of her own dark hair? Was it even still visible? She brought her hand up to her scalp. She found a leaf tangled in her hair.
How many days had it been since she’d bathed or
washed her hair? Three? Four? She hadn’t felt dirty before. Now the bright woven jacket Rafael had given her seemed worn. It was damp with her own sweat and hung open unevenly. The shoulder bag that Atana had given her pulled at the right side of the jacket, opening it and exposing more of her breasts than she would have chosen to reveal if anyone else had been present.
She set off again—moving before her knee could begin to ache. It was past noon and hot, though the sun was still filtered by the canopy of trees. She had little concentration to spare on reverie and thoughts of her own past, but the exertion of the climb seemed to draw sense memory from her own muscles.
Despite herself she slipped back to other times and places where she had climbed hard like this.
In her pilgrimage period, after Chechnya, she had climbed all the sacred mountains she could find. She was never sure what she expected to find at the top, but she climbed them all the same. She explored the ruins of Machu Picchu. She clambered up the steep step pyramid of Chichén Itzá in Mexico. She climbed mounds in Ireland and Wales, scrambled up Ayers Rock in central Australia, and climbed with the tourists and pilgrims to the top of Mt. Fuji in Japan. She trekked in Nepal and visited Lhasa in Tibet.
She had made these climbs to get her strength back after being bedridden from her wounds in Grozny. At least this is what she told others. In truth, she was searching for something—something she thought she would find high up in places of power. She sought out holy men and religious leaders, but could never be still long enough to hear the answers behind the words. She supposed now that all she had really been doing was confirming the opinion she had adopted—that there truly was nothing more than pain and suffering in life.
Emptiness is what she had gone in search of and emptiness was what she found. When she failed to call out across the mountain and into the canyon, no echo returned to her.