Pillars of the Moon

by French, B. J. ;

  After the catastrophe of disease had taken its toll, most of the villages fell into decay; the encroaching forest swallowed up most of the conspicuous signs of their habitation. A paradox arose for these learned men, in one way they felt it was their obligation to preserve as much of the disappearing culture as they could before it completely vanished; the other, a conundrum, was to remove the heart of these people who relied so heavily on the spiritual nature represent in the totems and great carvings of their ancestors. A meritorious gesture by scholars if their purposes had been genuinely noble, would have been a greater attempt to preserve, and even revive, the spirit of the remaining people.

  In reflection on what I have been able to learn and read of these great people, it is the natural way of life for change, death, and rebirth. 'Why should we (aboriginals), living within the circle of earth bound life and environment, taking freely of its' natural bounty, and eventually, giving back to the earth of ourselves, worry about the things the earth has so freely given us to survive on time and time again? The spiritual entity of man, living beyond this earth, is only connected through the umbilical of the soul and body, to the earth for a short time.'

  There remains to this day within the spirit of some native peoples, this truth that our modern culture, in all its glory, has yet to embrace the beauty and simplicity of earth-bound life.

  In one of the old black and white photos of an archeological dig, there was a young native fellow who bore a remarkable resemblance to my gray-haired mystery man. He was a displaced Makah carver, fisherman, helping with the dig at Ninstints.

  Getting another cup of hot chocolate, I slumped back into my comfortable chair with the article on my lap, and closed my eyes. Relaxed, I drifted slowly through the scenes of the articles I had just read; slipping into a light sleep, I heard a gentle hum and felt myself soaring in the afternoon sky, above the earth, like a bird. The ground far below me was parched and dry, with deep crevasses pouring into valleys of shallow rivers. A thin green belt of grass between the canyons, gave the bleached red landscape a focused, sharp leader on which to navigate through the severity of the earth's convolute crust. Sandstone wedges thrust high into the air, as if to cut the horizon east from west, drove me further into the ancient volcanic remnants of this geological marvel. The sun cast elongated shadows like fingers, eastward, as monumental rock formations towered boldly above the plains and mesa. Swooping down into a narrow canyon, with red rock walls closing in on both sides, the creeks white banks gave way to sculptured stone, swirled with maroon, and ivory bands. The ferns, clustered in dark wet corners, beneath the trickle of water, along with swatches of dark green moss, cascaded down the rocks. In the clearing beyond, a small pueblo, with corn growing sparsely by the waters’ edge, seemed peaceful except a small band of women and children being corralled by half a dozen or so men. The bodies of two men lay motionless and bloody in the courtyard, waiting in silence to be cared for. Soaring high into the heavens again, I found myself fearless, and bold, my wings beating furiously the cushion of air.

  Next, I was sitting in human form a short distance from an open fire; the heat of the flames warming my face. The native people staring back at me were tired, their faces etched deep with lines of burden and hunger. A dozen men and women, wrapped in dusty woven blankets, sat on the hard ground, chanting, singing, and intermittently watching me, obviously expecting a response. Their dark eyes, reflecting the dancing flames, seemed to peer deep into my soul, as if to impress me with all they'd seen and endured. I looked over my shoulder to a fire-lit clearing, not a mile away across the ravine, with a similar fire and men dancing about it. A feeling of apprehension gripped me as I turned back to the solace of the group before me. Chants and talismans set the stage for what was about to occur. Cinders, in a great upward rush from the fire, drew me along with them to meet the stars that shone bright and clear. Horizon to horizon, they radiated a never-ending canopy of sparkling light. A gentle breeze blew in my face as I focused on the stars tugging at me harder, drawing me closer. I heard a woman's voice wailing in the background as I soared, once again, to hover above the little pueblo below the mesa plateau, not a mile away. A naked young woman, painted blue, lay tied down to a wooden bench, spread eagle on her back, her chest open and bleeding from a gash below her left breast. She lay lifeless; her eyes open to the very stars that had welcomed me aloft. A dark man in a knee-length shawl, holding up a ceramic bowl, paraded the fire-lit clearing before the half dozen men. An enormous shadow stalked about the arena as his feathered headdress bobbed back and forth from the motion of his step. With the bowl lifted high in one hand, and a staff with a carved head of an animal in the other, he jumped, and wailed away, as if in a state of ecstasy. Beyond the clearing, in the shadows cast by the fire, the helpless faces of others peered through the wooden bars of their captive cell. Until this moment, I had not been aware of emotion, but a feeling began to stir deep within me. Once again I was back before the elders at the fire in the compound above the valley. Their drawn faces seemed lifeless apart from the sparkle of the fire within their eyes. Slowly looking about to each of their individual faces, I was aware of a kinship with them. The eldest man in the group came to me, and we knelt together facing each other. While he searched my eyes, he put his hands out before me. As he opened his palms, he exposed numerous small white chips of stones and sand, similar to tiny opals, and gently poured them from one hand to the other. The light from the moon illuminated the stones to such a degree that they appeared to send faint shafts of reflective light up into the night sky. The light, held within his palms, brightened to such a degree of intensity that the light transformed his whole being. A gentle hum, as if the universe were alive and vibrating, brought me to a state of confidence and belonging. I looked back into his eyes, and for a moment we became one spirit, drawn up, once again, to the sky, hovering above the little village below. The scene below was gruesome, as the other men, also painted blue, carved the young woman's body as if to skin her. Feeling a sickness within me, I was drawn within the circle, face to face with the abhorrent priest, now adorned with a black skin and the head of a jaguar upon his head. With the feeling of sickness intensifying, and the clamorous impulse to jump at him very strong, the intense buzzing in my ears kept me from immediate action and sent me reeling back into the heavens once again. A last glimpse back caught the priest no longer in the black robe, but dancing in the fire light with the skin of the girl draped over him like a shroud. The remains were being carved, and the bones thrown down into a hole.

  I woke with a start and in a cold sweat. The chocolate I had so enjoyed and ingested just an hour before, smeared the front of my chest and magazine as vomit. Grasping the arms of my recliner as hard as I could, I tried to grasp all that had transpired in the last few moments. Dizzy and rife with fear, I gave a guttural scream that loosened my throat up into a sob.

  I sat in shock, dazed, staring beyond the collage of pictures on the wall, not able to recognize any of them. The smell of the vomit was filling my head, and I could bear it no longer. The mug, lying empty in my lap, crashed to the floor, along with the magazine, as I attempted to get to my feet. The hot chocolate that remained in a pool beneath me began to leak onto the floor. A stinging sensation, as my pants separated from the chair, cautioned me to my burnt genitals. I stood, teetering for a moment as I got my balance; I staggered from in front of the chair. A glimpse of my reflection in one of the large glass covered picture frames frightened me, as I was not at all familiar with the man looking back.

  Once in the bathroom, I crawled, fully clothed, into the shower and turned the faucet. The warm water rushing over my scalp sent rushes up my spine as I tried to stand erect under the pulsing water. My crotch began to sting as the warm water flowing down my pants came in contact with the tender flesh between my legs. Easing the clothes from my body, I watched as the water washed the fatty remains of chocolate covered french-fries down the drain of the tub. My head throbbed as the scene of the y
oung painted girl entered my thoughts again. The possibility that I was very sick, and that this was all from the knock on my head, became paramount. Shutting the shower off, I left the clothes in a wet heap on the tub floor and wrapped a towel about myself. I made my way through the living room to my bedroom opposite the alcove, ducking slightly to avoid the slanting ceilings and took a relaxant from the bottle lying in the drawer. Looking at the pill Maryse and I had so often kidded about in my palm; I stopped and pondered the effects that this could have should I have a concussion. I replaced the pill in the bottle and returned them to the drawer. Lying back against the pillows at the headboard, with my temples still throbbing, I pulled the comforter up over me and slowly drifted to sleep. The couple next door, bounding up the stairs in a fit of laughter, woke me at twenty to twelve. Thirsty, I somehow made it to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of cold water from the fridge. Looking through the open drapes to the high rises beyond; I stood motionless, trying to figure out why this was happening and what it meant. Taking a sip of cold water, I leaned my forehead against the cold glass and rolled it back and forth to ease the burning temperature within. The thought of hospitalization entered my mind again, but at this time of night, especially on a Saturday, the collection of societal oddities that would be waiting in queue, would be more than I could bear. Wandering over to the soiled recliner, I threw a tea towel on the seat to absorb any residual wetness and turned off the lights. The couch, within the alcove looked solemn, illuminated from the faint lights from across the bay. The darkness encompassed me as I sat; TV remote in hand, contemplating the many strange things and changes that had happened these last two days. The ringing in my ears and the metallic feel in my head had eased. I dare not close my eyes for fear of relapse. I guessed the TV program of cannibalism from the previous night had affected me more than I imagined.

  FOUR

  It was still dark and quiet as I slowly rose from the couch. My neck, stiff and sore from lying with my head propped on the armrest for several hours, felt cold to the touch, exposed to the open alcove window. In the background, I could hear the siren of an emergency vehicle blaring from across the bay. Easing my feet from the couch to the floor, my toe came in contact with the edge of a magazine that had been on my lap. The faint smell of vomit lingered in the room. Skirting the soiled armchair, I crossed to the kitchen and grabbed a small bottle of water from the case that lay beside the patio door. Sliding the glass door open, I spewed the rancid remains of my mouth over the balcony. The lights that sparkled on the ski slopes at Grouse Mountain, marking the contour of the eastern mountain range, remained suspended in the lingering darkness. It was a clear morning with only a light cloud cover beginning to sweep its' way up the strait from the open water toward the outer-reaches of the northern shore. The way to Tsawwassen was covered with mist; time to leave.

  As I drove toward the dark entrance of the Massey Tunnel, the sky was now beginning to lighten, the clouds to clear; the stars peeked through with their timeless scrutiny, eternal witness’s to primal assaults of humanity, including the scene at the pueblo the previous night, all those years ago. Down into the cement bowels of the delta I sped mindlessly; the orange sidelights flashed by me to form an unbroken fluorescent ribbon trailing in the rear view mirror. The damp-ness along the seams and cracks of the concrete slabs that made up the walls of the tunnel reminded me of the tombs and crypts I had visited in my adventure-driven adolescence. Would this be my tomb, consciously aware of many tons of water lying directly above? My foot pushed a little further to the floor.

  Scenes of the previous night’s dream continued to haunt me; the faces of the Indians sitting around the fire had left a lasting impression on me. The girl, of course, I was trying to forget. The thought of being with Maryse and spending a few evenings with her, excited me, and I began to feel more relaxed with every passing mile.

  Cars already lined either side of the narrow causeway to the ferry. Sport fisherman and clam diggers were making their mark in the early morning hours as they bobbed up and down in the misty reaches of the sandy ebb tide. With the receding tide exposing the sand and pebble beach, diggers of the feathered kind pranced carelessly about harvesting the bounty that lay in the exposed shallow pools. Rocks, garnished with algae and barnacles, shadowed the seaweed-lined tidal pools from all but the loftiest of scavengers.

  As I pulled into the parking lot, the sun was just clearing the mountain tops to the east, casting its yellow morning light across the shoreline of White Rock. A light mist hung white, translucent, suspended between charcoal-gray rain clouds blowing in from the north and the shimmering sea of yellow-ochre beneath. Down from the Frazer Valley, the cool air flowed like the clear waters it delivered to the open sea, parting the mist that lightly billowed in from the opposite direction, the sea. I sensed it would be a calm crossing.

  There were already several dozen cars waiting at the terminal for boarding the ferry, as I routed the ticket booth. Sitting quietly for a few minutes and finishing my coffee, I watched as the deck hands busied themselves with last-minute preparations. To kill the few idle moment’s left, and relieve the agitation of the burn from the previous evening, I eased myself from the car and gingerly walked across the parking lot to the vending machines. The walk seemed to take forever as I carefully, and slowly, strolled bow-legged to where the machines and several people were standing smoking cigarettes. A couple of elaborately made up young women in short skirts and an equally made up young man, in leathers and earrings, gave me the eyeball as I walked by. The young man had a familiarity about him. Not wishing to ignore them completely, I gave them all a nod and kept on walking till I came to a spot, along the boardwalk beyond, that I felt was comfortable enough to rest.

  The weather had not been overly cold to this point, but the late arrival of spring had definitely deepened this to a crisp morning. With a long vapored sigh, I watched and listened to the seagulls perched atop the dock piles, welcoming me with their garish arias of unabridged scat. Beyond, patches of clear blue sky amid the clouds, drifted carelessly northward to the mountains beyond. The wet mist rolling in from the strait limited the view to the south and Point Roberts and deposited a film of dew over my face and clothes. It felt refreshing and helped to shake the remaining weariness of an uncomfortable and fitful night from my head. As I leaned on the top rail, with a view to the blue sky intermittently reflected in the water, I couldn't help but think of the girl in my dream, and how she had been killed. It struck me as odd that this type of behavior –human sacrifice- with its roots so far back in time, has continued in varying ways to this day.

  Hidden from our unsuspecting eyes, man’s dark side surfaces most often in times of war and domination as if addictive behavior. What is it in man that continues to sweep him away helplessly? Do these uncontrollable undercurrents tug at our subconscious primeval roots so hard as to leave some powerless to their influence? Perhaps it is natures’ attempt to test the life force that so eludes our understanding, that it ultimately forces us to impose the seeming paradox of life. The continual reference to the afterlife and underworld, have been a part of man’s ancient belief since he has been able to communicate his deepest anxieties and fears. What has caused this ‘appeasement of the gods’, human sacrifice, to become the malignancy that has blighted mankind into this distorted apparition of his true value and purpose? Regardless of the reason for the abhorrent behavior, the young woman's painted blue complexion, and beautiful soft face staring straight up to the stars, will be etched in my memory for a long time.

  The ferry's horn sounding for boarding echoed back from the mist and close mountains. The pedestrian ramp, to the second story of the ferry, came alive with cyclists and backpackers flowing from the waiting area inside the terminal. Along with the handful of people by the kiosk, I strolled back to my waiting car. The silence broke into a rumble of starting engines and shouting, as motors and motorists ignited to life. The many vehicles, full of Sunday travelers on their way to a var
iety of outings and islands, began their slow procession into the bowels of the ferry. Even on a not so perfect day like today, tourists from all over the province and elsewhere, pour into the many flower gardens and shops around Victoria, and visit her many tea rooms for the experience of the proverbial 'afternoon tea'.

  The channel water, even though rolling, was relatively calm which guaranteed a steady, and constant, stream of people in line for breakfast. On the more rough days, breakfast lines were shorter, with the lavatory lines longer. The more seasoned ferry traveler always knew where his most urgent natural directives were best served by gauging the pitch and yawl of the boat. Either way it is always a delightful occasion for me. Relaxing with a light meal in the cafeteria this morning would be especially pleasing as all I had eaten during the last twenty-four hours was a muffin with coffee, and a large fries, which I hadn't digested. Watching and waited patiently, napping occasionally, the line eventually shortened to just a few and I casually walked to the follow the last individual.

  "Hey! That's my stuff," came the cry of an elderly man running over to the table as I pushed the refuse aside. Realizing there was an article in the Globe about the Newstadt Exhibit; I slid my tray over the paper and sat in the chair closest to the window. With a stern look, he whisked the remaining stack of papers away.

  "Sorry. Were you sitting here?" I asked looking up at him. He gave me a curt look, tucked the papers under his arm and walked away.