no longer remain contained, until it bursts into being and ignites the world. Some were taken by cold, some others by the greed in their own hearts. Some asked us of their endings; even when we spoke of them, we were never believed.
We had taken to living near the routes into the highest mountains. Getting closer, but still not daring to walk into them. Frightened of what we would sacrifice. We lied to ourselves, saying that if we could acquire enough money, we could make the journey to free our mothers. But we knew the mountains the way we knew the forest, from a respectful distance, always more comfortable near the placid flat of water, be it lake or ocean. If we had possessed the courage of our mothers, perhaps we would not have waited so long. Would not have sought to make a living among the white men who sought to make
their
livings from the gold buried in the hills.
They wondered: where may we easily find the gold? Will you lead us to the river where the gold sits upon the banks as ducks do? There was no explaining that ducks did not sit on riverbanks as gold. The men were firm. They had travelled a long distance, a distance they said we could never fathom. They had heard of the way the water washes the gold onto the shores, the way the world shines when the sun splits the clouds. The world did this, I could never argue, but it was rarely the gold that gleamed.
For them, we burned our grasses into sweet smoke that made their heads spin, and within the smoke trails we saw images, possible paths into the hills where one might prosper. For one man, this meant discovering a hollow in the world, a hole into which he fell and was discovered by ladders of mushrooms and pillows of fungus. These crawled over him in riot until they made him one their own, digesting him even to this day. For another man, this meant discovering the great brown bear who parted his skin with her ragged claws to free his
khaa yahaayí
into the world forevermore. These paths did not always lead to the gold the men desired. But these men believed so fiercely that they would. Felt the weight of the rocks within their packs already.
Jackson, when he came to my table in the local tavern, was more knowing than any of them in combination. He was bent by the cold air, shoulders hunched, hands often curled into useless claws at his side. While he possessed the exterior body of any man—skin, reddened cheeks, mussed hair—he was never in these moments human. He was an ending, struggling to burst from the flesh that confined it. He was a creation of tentacle and fire, a serpent bound into flesh he didn’t yet understand despite the years that marked him. He looked as old as we two, when he came to hear us tell fortunes.
I was allowed this table at the local tavern, beside the window hung with lace, hired to ply my fortune telling because Soapy knew that the curiosity of me, and my “magic,” would lure more drinkers. These drinkers often thought I was a prostitute—so many in those days were, and Soapy said I was more than welcome, but this was not my way. Soapy surely knew I meant to leave as soon as I was able—every person in this place meant to.
Jackson had the means to carry people away, his train like something from a vision, a beast that could carry anyone away. He joined me at my table, sitting not in the chair opposite my bench but on the bench itself, his thigh warm against my own. He brought whiskey; I was drinking water. He was smoking a cheroot; I kept a length of sweet grass resting between us.
He stubbed out his cheroot and a grimace crossed his lined face from the pressure on his crooked hand. He made no sound of complaint, only looked at me with his eyes, behind which I saw swimming other eyes, the eyes of the bound creature he was. Men called my sight magic because they could not explain it; they called it magic because they
We had taken to living near the routes into the highest mountains. Getting closer, but still not daring to walk into them. Frightened of what we would sacrifice. We lied to ourselves, saying that if we could acquire enough money, we could make the journey to free our mothers. But we knew the mountains the way we knew the forest, from a respectful distance, always more comfortable near the placid flat of water, be it lake or ocean. If we had possessed the courage of our mothers, perhaps we would not have waited so long. Would not have sought to make a living among the white men who sought to make
their
livings from the gold buried in the hills.
They wondered: where may we easily find the gold? Will you lead us to the river where the gold sits upon the banks as ducks do? There was no explaining that ducks did not sit on riverbanks as gold. The men were firm. They had travelled a long distance, a distance they said we could never fathom. They had heard of the way the water washes the gold onto the shores, the way the world shines when the sun splits the clouds. The world did this, I could never argue, but it was rarely the gold that gleamed.
For them, we burned our grasses into sweet smoke that made their heads spin, and within the smoke trails we saw images, possible paths into the hills where one might prosper. For one man, this meant discovering a hollow in the world, a hole into which he fell and was discovered by ladders of mushrooms and pillows of fungus. These crawled over him in riot until they made him one their own, digesting him even to this day. For another man, this meant discovering the great brown bear who parted his skin with her ragged claws to free his
khaa yahaayí
into the world forevermore. These paths did not always lead to the gold the men desired. But these men believed so fiercely that they would. Felt the weight of the rocks within their packs already.
Jackson, when he came to my table in the local tavern, was more knowing than any of them in combination. He was bent by the cold air, shoulders hunched, hands often curled into useless claws at his side. While he possessed the exterior body of any man—skin, reddened cheeks, mussed hair—he was never in these moments human. He was an ending, struggling to burst from the flesh that confined it. He was a creation of tentacle and fire, a serpent bound into flesh he didn’t yet understand despite the years that marked him. He looked as old as we two, when he came to hear us tell fortunes.
I was allowed this table at the local tavern, beside the window hung with lace, hired to ply my fortune telling because Soapy knew that the curiosity of me, and my “magic,” would lure more drinkers. These drinkers often thought I was a prostitute—so many in those days were, and Soapy said I was more than welcome, but this was not my way. Soapy surely knew I meant to leave as soon as I was able—every person in this place meant to.
Jackson had the means to carry people away, his train like something from a vision, a beast that could carry anyone away. He joined me at my table, sitting not in the chair opposite my bench but on the bench itself, his thigh warm against my own. He brought whiskey; I was drinking water. He was smoking a cheroot; I kept a length of sweet grass resting between us.
He stubbed out his cheroot and a grimace crossed his lined face from the pressure on his crooked hand. He made no sound of complaint, only looked at me with his eyes, behind which I saw swimming other eyes, the eyes of the bound creature he was. Men called my sight magic because they could not explain it; they called it magic because they
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