Spirits of the Wildflowers

by Parris Match

  Yesterday;

  When I was a youngster, with my family or later as a boy scout, did find us occasionally on a trek amid the loftier mountains. As a high-spirited eager explorer, I would run ahead and gesture about the next viewpoints in the rising trail; ‘Look… Come… I can see it!’

  ‘Imagine… Come… I can see it!’

  This logbook is purposely found unedited,

  it is spaced to be interpreted and edited by the reader.

  First Readers: Bonnie Ubl Robyn Davis

  ____________

  Illustrations by: The Ancient Ones

  Spirits of the Wildflowers

  Copyright © 2018 by Parris Match

  Print ISBN 978-1-54394-665-9

  eBook ISBN 978-154394-666-6

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Content

  Spirits of the Wildflowers

  Oouna Yallah, Oouna Allyah, chai ta kay, see daay me nah…; ookla kwantay, geeswah untah, may de sah…; neechee bah laka, Aadai… ahnna cooh tah…; aiee dee coh too, beeechum do kee, eeedoh seettah…”

  That evil menace of those third hordes, as darkest clouds lastly invaded the acrid peace, to surge vainly forth with the shiniest…, though tainted…, touch of quicksilver; to over-come the majestic celestial triad, pointed and snow-crowned silhouettes. of the most exalted highest Mountains; nigh-distant erratic flashing tempest outbursts, delayed rumblings, fumed discordant bellowing threats, to cascade and tumble, then flow slowly but surely towards, thence to temporarily shroud, the wide desert expanse of the so much vanquished; the paled colorless desolate wastelands of this primal humanity. A brilliant spotlighted sudden shaft of precise golden Sunlight, pierced the rolling and billowy amassing of the befallen greyness, and directly shone down upon, those arranged corrupt wicked odd displays; to hang together, both bleached akin clusters of skeletal bones, that prominently draped the oversight, of an amber-lucent overhanging rocky out-crop; then quickly passed its aimed intent, to the uneven highlighted desert landscape beyond.

  The vast high-desert seldom met rain enough, yet the sullen and murky visiting overcast, still so cooled the land where those common primitives, the uncivilized and weathered Rabbit People, somewhat meagerly live. Very little stunted waxen vegetation grew, on the rising and eroding, badlands bleak-n-graveled knolls; given that by the lack of sufficient pure water, also with the recurrent harsh foreboding, flatfooted southeasterly furious windstorms; nevertheless several moderate insipid or bitter springs, offered duly from deep within the heated earth, made lowly human existence barely possible, in an unknown number of scattered shallow desert basins. Sands filled squalid depressions, where the scruffy dull Rabbit People made their short-lived hibernal, simple brushwood, lean-to huts; for these dusted grey other locust-weeds were known from the beginning, as an unclean dim-witted nomadic people.

  When the variable limited passaging rains, timely disembarked on this pallid land, the earth could burst into magnificent vivid color, delightfully adorning the entire outer seen surface, of this nearly colorless barren dry world. Chosen; vibrant azure to indigo blues, radiant glow of yellow and cups of gold, violets-pinks so purple, scarlet robes and occasional saffron, more accentuate by greener scenery, within, the brilliance of pure white, classic spectra in stature and grace; filling every obvious rocky crag and hidden cranny, and intricately stitching a gorgeous wonderfully quilted flowering field, as far as thine human-kind eyes could perceive. The passionate blaze of true color was so intense, it appeared and re-appeared in man’s peaceful dreams, or pleasant reverie; forever fixed in gradual remembrance if not brilliant inspiration, of anyone who had joyfully viewed this heavenly rainbow gifted spectacle. Perfected beauty in its season.

  If the proper rain did not descend, at the promising time, before the brief period of an early budding spring, the burrowed seeds of those certain beautiful flowers, lay anxious but dormant; year after year to the infinite, waiting for the Spirits’ kind manifest of generous tears, that would surely arrive one day; or on another.

  Then to remember the three majestic cragged granite peaks, be the highest snow hooded crowns, in-touch with the changeable expanse of the blue celestial sky; those dark ridged sincere towering mountains, where and when the ultimate Sun took its interim leave. That near not impassable barrier for these simple selected children of the mountain Spirits living within this contained marginal world. A dusky red and deep dark purplish cliff flowed along the greater portion of the lengthy edge of this mountain range, preventing hooved animals or people traversing to or from their lofty heights.

  Towards the exposing thirsty desert, from the soaring final mountain boundary, a mammoth formidable deposited stonemasonry escarpment beheld; left in place, jutting directly from the earth’s firm mantle, an almost impenetrable sandstone veil, virtually the full extent of the mountains long reach; a solid rock wall, a safe implied fortress, whichever are barren and stark of any living thing. Within-between the Three Mountains’ exact boundary and the shielding escarpment, lay a deep pocketed bountiful emerald-green canyon-valley; nourished by the purified water continually seeping from their rocky wrinkled facets, down the sheer rising cliffs, of the, when observed, imposing exalted white cloaked Spirit mountain. This was the secure harmonious, concealed and out of insight, well-chosen homeland of The Forgotten Ones.

  Part-of-a-days lighted journey from the certain cliffside to the curtained other side, but a day-and-a-half journey in length, the remote contained narrow valley, provided isolation and protection, with all the necessities for life. The Forgotten Ones had lived and thrived in this hidden valley and field, for forty-five plantings and forty-five harvests, watched over by the open ayes of those all-benevolent Great Spirits, and under the sensible direction of a well-aged most wise Story Teller.

  The Forgotten Ones resided within partially closeted caverns dug into the bottom side edge of the mountains cliff; and grew maize, beans, and squash; hunted small quick game round about hillocks and basins of the valley; and occasionally ventured into the lower foothills of the mountains, to the north, to gather pinion nuts, and to search for the elusive tasty white-tailed deer in the higher tree-screened meadows.

  The Forgotten Ones were a good and loyal people, strong and vibrant and exceptionally attractive, then, formed with special grace; keeping true faith with all of the Spirits of the same Elements; of the mother, same Earth; and of the father, same Sun; and of the pure clear water, compassionately provided by the divine.

  Hoocoh waited patiently for his brothers to return from the planned daylong hunt. He had been here since the earliest of morning and now it was nearing the end of the Mountains’ sunlight. This elevated place, the northern boundary of the valley, was where the hunters climbed up, over and above, a huge tumbled mass of enormous boulders, to grab the sharp exact rim of the warmer canyon basin, for them to reach the contiguous yielding accessible forest; hoping to return with the white-tailed deer, or any wild-game for their defined tribe. The thin pine-tree forests located in the upper foothills and the deep-set thickly forested steep-sided vales of the greater mountaintops, contained scarce game for them; but the needs of the family made it necessary to make regular forays, into the Spirit’s wooded resort, to insure they would provide enough meat and hides, while their main source of food was from agriculture. Pinion nuts were collected every fall in the median foothills, at just the right time for storing into winter; for the soft sweet meat of the pinecone heart would last only about four full moons, and then begin to deteriorate and go sour to the taste. The killing
of a necessary deer would mean a momentous requisite celebration for the family; Hoocoh was anxious for his brothers to reappear.

  Sounds of unconcerned deflected upcoming clatter, as the men returned from the hunt, first heard around faintly, for the immense rounded boulders hid them from view. The chitchat rowdy banter of the braves; cautiously assisting each other to lower their spears, bows, quivers of arrows and themselves down the rough steep granular surfaces of the colossal jumble of huge massive rocks. A minor slippery blunder could be disastrous, resulting in severe injury, if not sudden death. An easy path or passageway did not exist in this part of the valley; any egress from, and proper access to, this boxed-in canyon sink, was quite apparently limited to that singular solitary gate.

  Hoocoh could not see them until they were right upon him, to appear and arise over the last gigantic boulder; they carefully lowered their gear, and slid-dropped onto the valley floor. He noted with slight disappointment, that, other than bows/quivers and spears, there was nothing else; no felled game or any object was being transported by the huntsmen. It had always been a burden for Hoocoh, although he is elder, not to be fully included in the men’s sportive exercise; but from birth he was afflicted with a stunted twisted clubfoot, which made it impossible to keep up with the pace that was necessary in a hunt. Smaller and slender, he longed to take part in the adventurous manly activities of the other brothers; but reluctantly settled for the things that he might fully achieve. He did whatever he could; including tending the gardens and harvesting, making clothing, interwove mats and moccasins, and other work usually performed by the women of the family.

  Ahcoo’ah, the certain prophet, had often declared; “Some flower’s petals are incomplete, but they are found still beautiful.”

  Eight men neared Hoocoh and recognized him with the customary, “Aie, Hoocoh”; for all members of the family were treated with proper respect.

  Hoocoh stepped forward, and reached out to one of the hunters, offering to carry his spear back to the village; this young man was Dacoh, admired hero to Hoocoh, a sensual wholesome handsome young-man, held in high regard by the whole tribe.

  Gathering together, they started walking towards their village, so as to arrive before the Sun Spirits’ aureolus light took leave from the Mountain Spirits darkening peaks.

  Purposely striding in the curved soft sandy pathway; the descendent winding channel of a narrow, rock strewn gully; dodging with athletic agility, between scattered portions and huge boulders, the eight brothers intensely made their way back to their burrowed homes. The crippled Hoocoh, hardily keeping up, with tedious difficulty, one tattered foot dragging somewhat askew; the blunt shaft of the pointed spear following in a wandering etched groove. They dropped down through the shallower gully into the lower valley and continued hastily walking to their honeycombed contentment-holes, ensconced within the welcoming heart of the Mountains’ magnificent darkened mauve cliff.

  The village was situated at the forefront of a cooled cleft indentation, set deep into the cliff wall, open to the sky, with many like caves facing one another opposite a large open area used for communal living. This shared part of the village contained a cluster of open-sided huts with thatched roofs for storing, preparing, then cooking food; also several weaved oval wicker-lodges, used for special purposes and social privacy; and an open gathering quarter, including a large circle surrounded with well-spaced-rocks with a fire pit as the center of the village. Back in the deepest recess of the village, in a sacred natural grotto, beneath the cliffs, lays a pool of the purest water, where some small melodious waterfalls issue forth from the green mossy-rock facade. To create a tiny burbling brook that dissected the village’s communal section, continuing down a gradient slope, passing the once seeded fields of crops and beyond, until reaching a reedy-marsh encircled pond, besides the lowest grassy meadow of the nurtured valley. It was ‘Forbidden’ to use this water for any purpose other than to sustain and quench their thirst, or for the irrigation of their hallowed flourishing gardens.

  Dacoh, the brothers, and the lame Hoocoh, quickened their pace when they came into sight of the village. As they approached and walked nearby the already harvested fields and entered their close community; men, and women, looked-up from their usual occupations and greeted them with … … “Aie”, “Aie”, “Aie”.

  The slowly retreating cerulean Spirits were ceding their last comely light, with a promising pinkish-golden aura outlining, the darkened jagged peaks, setting so high above this peaceful village.

  As the men separated to meet with their families, Dacoh went to his cave to leave the spear and quiver of arrows and bow, and to announce his return to his mother, who shared this living space. On entering the cave, Malee, mother of Dacoh, welcomed him with a softer, “aie”, and he responded the same. Malee sat quietly, enjoying the close of the day; she depended upon her son for comfort and support, and Dacoh willingly provided all of her needs. He placed his spear, bow and quiver, in a nook in the cave, turned to his mother and said a single word; “Ahcoo-ah”, and then walked away from the cave.

  Dacoh dutifully crossed the common area, to fluently leap over the little dividing stream, making his way to another cave in the niche, no different from the rest. He entered with a welcoming nod of the occupant’s head, then approached the figure sitting cross-legged on a carpet of soft fine thatch, almost entirely covered with pillowed deer skin; and said respectfully; “Aie, AhcooAAH”, for this was the honorable Story Teller, the single most wise chronicler of all the family history, and family traditions, of and for The Forgotten Ones.

  Ahcoo’ah was tall in comparison with the other members of the tribe; very thin with sinewy arms and legs, bony hands, and a gaunt face covered with rutted leathery skin; inset with sunken piercing black ravens eyes. “Aie Daaacooh”, Ahcoo’ah said affectionately, and motioned Dacoh to sit on a flat rock directly in front of him. A small fire burned mid the entrance to the cave, flickering very little light throughout the walls of the simple home of the Story Teller; enough light to see Ahcoo’ah’s wrinkled aged face, and then to catch the sight of Ahcoo’ah’s grotesque disfigured hands, as he placed them both upon his lap. Each gnarled talon gruesomely lacking a severed thumb, a mangled incongruous boney nub in their place. It was the duty of Dacoh to provide a reckoning of the day’s happenings to Ahcoo’ah, for Ahcoo’ah was the prudent guardian of the harmonious disposition of his people.

  The brief, in detail, recountal of the hunting expedition reported by Dacoh, was related in very few words; emphasized by making directly etched inscriptions in the sand floor of the cave with a stick, quickly brushed away in the transient light. They could not see quite clearly in the tiny wavering flickers of the conservative fire, but they had communicated with each other, so often, since Dacoh was a child; either one understood every motion and nuance given. Dacoh told of the brothers and himself climbing out of the valley, seeing no signs of intrusion by anyone; on the abutted slopes of the pine-tree covered foothills, or upon the upper northern perimeter of their home. The hunters had gone to the places known for possible success in finding their wild game; green glades and pocketed grassy mountain meadows, were stealthily stalked to look for their needed quarry. But the weather was getting cooler and the deer chose a wider lowland range, making it more difficult to secure a kill, in just one day. He described to Ahcoo’ah the journey coming back from the hunt, and of the sudden unexpected encounter with the filthy louse-infected Rabbit People.

  When Dacoh and the brothers tumbled from the shaded dense mountains heights, to emerge into the more light, from the thicker forest; at the beginning of a diverging fork of a declining spine ridge; one of many, reaching down towards the desert below; is when they surprised a grazing milling herd of inferior Rabbit People, who were in the annual process of indifferently harvesting the perfect pine nuts. Separated by a deep abrupt box-ravine, Dacoh and his enraged brothers, charged at the ignorant intruders, yelling and howling wildly. As crazed and furious wasps, they
swarmed around the inner rock-slide rim of the ravine, towards the unclean darker Rabbit People, who were at least thirty-six in number. By the time they got to the other ridge, the parasitic trespassers, fearfully startled, were fleeing madly through the crackling brush and stumbled rock, quickly escaping down the steep mountainside. The brothers let out one more high-pitched blood-curdling howl, as a clear warning to the offenders, not to come even near to the prosperous valley of The Forgotten Ones. The diseased ragged Rabbit People had previously paid the highest price for ignoring this rigid uncompromising reservation.

  ‘It would be an opportune time for the people of the valley to go and harvest the pine nuts, a winter staple in their diet’; they agreed with a nod.

  Dacoh finished his disciplined narration to Ahcoo’ah, by assuring him that all of the brothers had returned safe and uninjured to the family.

  Ahcoo’ah nodded his head in silence; Dacoh got to his feet, asked Ahcoo’ah if he needed anything and received a quiet reply of, “Na”. Dacoh left the cave, first going to the little waterfall at the end of the alcove to fill his leatherngourd with fresh water and then returning to his home, to receive a bowl of corn mush, held and provided by the coddling Malee, and then to sleep.

  The new arising resplendent most eminent all seeing Spirit, encouragement to spark over the jaggedly pinnacled escarpment, exploded with brilliant light; then gradually unveiling the divinely beautiful sleeping valley of the abiding Forgotten Ones, and to radiate a bronzed silicate-glow, from the split and rutted cliffs higher above. Numerous stone structures of honed serrated rock pressed on the cliffs facade, separated by deeper shadowed scars in the apparent skin of the elder mountain Spirits, aspiring magnificently up into the unclouded blue sheltering sky; countless shades and hues of red, pinkish-red, rust, golden-pink, and orange precious amber, accentuated, framed in darkest mauve, gleaming in the transitional light of the earlier morning Sun.