Appeasements for the Keeper of the Mine

Rooting down,
rising up,
flowering ecstatically
where I am planted

On to Home Hosts

Soulwright

Gift of appeasement

One of the most beautiful mineral specimens I have ever seen - it’s an inclusion of amethyst crystals in a heart-shaped lump of moss agate - and seems a fitting gift of appeasement to the alluvial mine.

Troubadour

Well, it is about mining - sort of

Another ‘Will’ story by papa

By Will Alone

I got to spend a day with Will and Mrs as a gift from the school district; one of those strange ‘teacher days’ which dumped kids on the streets mid-week without parental supervision. I needed a couple of bucks for pending birthdays in September; which as a just-teen I recognized was the result of Christmas holidays. Providence allowed that Mrs needed help cleaning their basement, which I would have done for free – giving the adventures lurking on the shelves, but that’s another story. Will pretended to help, but mainly wanted to insure that none of his precious memories were thrown out ‘by mistake’.

I dusted off a copy of The Big Bonanza by Dan DeQuill about the history of Virginia City. “Hey, I’ve read that,” noted my pretentious self. “And I’m pretty confused about prospectors and minors – the difference, I mean.”

“Been both, and it was always just me.”

“Seems that some prospectors were charlatans like old H.T.P Comstock, or panhandling ner-do-wells like Sad Gulch Sam. Minors like Bowers and Mackey got the real money, I guess.”

“It’s a matter of temperament for many – like me, when I was single; freedom – adventure – dreams. Whether you use a pan or a shovel, prospecting pays ya for the amount of dirt you move from one pile to another – doesn’t need no smarts at all. Mining is all about being smart – knowing where to dig, and building shoring and pumping water out and air in. Come with me!”

He always honked twice before backing into the street; one for telling the world he was about, and one to tell Mrs he was off again. “Mine elevators always ring twice before going down,” he mumbled. “Once to tell the cage is empty, and three times for hauling up quick! Prospectors don’t need any of that.” The first stop was at a store with outside produce bins. “Mrs wants some avocados for a tea party this afternoon. If I’d known yesterday we could have selected any of these hard ones here. If you put them in a brown paper sack with a tomato in a dark place they will soften up overnight – simple. But now we have to fondle them all to find ones that is ready now. NOW! – that’s the important factor. Advanced thinking allows for many options – lack of planning or communication leaves only one – do it NOW!” So, he foraged through the bin while I sniffed the cantaloupe for a gift for mom. Back in the car he queried, “Think on it – were we prospecting or mining – or maybe doing mill work?”

We parked behind an aging brick building in a spot that seemed reserved for him, though no sign was evident. “You’ll have to pretend you don’t know me and enter separately. Tell them you are researching a school project and don’t talk – like in a library. You enter first and sit against the wall and watch – then leave after I do.” We stood before an oversized door on the third floor – “STOCK EXCHANGE.” Never been here before. Dad had said the old Will spent a lot of time here and made a ‘fair living’ playing the market. Beyond knowing of the ‘Great Crash in 1929’, stocks and bonds were mostly a mystery to me, and ‘commodities’ were a foreign country. But with Will as guide I was game for anything.

Boring! A dozen machines with glass domes chattered away like angry squirrels and several young men scratched arcane markings on a lined black-board barely visible though the smoke. No women either – just men with ties sitting around nudging and whispering to one another. Occasionally one of them would signal for a ‘page’ and hand him a slip of paper. I had always thought big money was made and lost here – never saw a penny. Hardly noticed Will either. He had donned a green jacket and was shuffling around with a dust pan thing and a little broom. He still looked distinguished with his mass of brilliant white hair and a lanky frame that gave lie to his 93 years, but somehow his manner made him invisible. Someone had to clean up the cigar butts, paper cups and discarded notes, I guess – but Will? I knew that he didn’t have to work – and had even been asked to teach at the University. Why this?

After an hour he had managed to traverse the entire hall, nodding to a couple of people, but mostly ignored by these ‘pillars of the community’. Then Will made some notes and dropped them in a box on the wall before leaving. Me too! I didn’t dare ask any questions until we were heading for his house – then wasn’t sure what to say. He spoke slowly. “Some of those men spend hours each day researching stocks and market trends and pretending they are doing more than guessing. Some of them appear to be ‘luckier’ than others and are quite successful. Can’t always tell, though.” I didn’t say anything. “Most can’t help bragging a bit, however, but only to close cronies and fellow speculators. Long ago I found it was easier to research people than the market. I track the success of about a dozen of these folks – many the sons of people who would recognize me – now dead. You only have to listen – and let them do the work.”

“So, you were picking up tips and secrets and then buying what they do?” I murmured, not at all certain this was an honest way to make a living.

“Nope,” he explained. “I just develop a feel for the ‘now’ of it – buying some futures when those ‘in the know’ seem to tap an unknown well of inspiration, and selling short before they realize the magic is gone.”

“What are you buying then – metals, commodities, products – what?”

“I don’t usually know or care – just a three letter code – doesn’t matter what it represents at all. Buy low – sell high – then buy again tomorrow. I buy promises and sell fears.” We pulled into the driveway – one honk. “Don’t tell Mrs we went there. Just give her these ripe avocados.”

I think I understood the difference between mining and prospecting a bit better that day. Didn’t understand Will any better at all.

‘In that sleep of dreams…’

I did some of the reading Enchanteur directed us toward in the quest to find the elixir and how to mine in the depths of the subconscious, particularly dreams. ( Working (and Playing) with Dreams.)

When we were very close to the mines and within spitting distance of the Keeper I had to sleep. Mule had to sleep.The three of us could not take even one step closer because our bodies were wretched with exhaustion. We had grown almost close on the journey and I had dropped my guard - a little. I covered myself with three thick blankets and rolled up a  jumper to act as a pillow. Under the stars, no moon, pitch black and so cold, snuggling up was bliss.

“G’night Mule”

“Good night…..Janet?”

“Yup.”

“Will it be okay if I call you Jan?”

“I think so, as you care enough to ask. My family call me Jan. My doctors and people who don’t really know me - they call me Janet. When I’m angry I call myself Janet…..”

“Okay then, Jan it is, let’s be friends.”

“Mule.”

“Mmm.”

“The people close to me, the people I love and who have loved me…..they call me J.”

“J? Kinda short isn’t it.”

“I didn’t ask you to like it, I’m just telling you so you’ll know.  We’re not on J terms so it doesn’t matter.Go to sleep.”

“Mmm.”

“Mule.”

“Sleeping…”

“When I was 19 years old a kind, kind lady who let me talk to her when the black monsters came….she called me darling. I think that was the first time anyone called me darling. It crept into my heart and never left. She’s like, my ‘other’ mother, almost 90 years old now. It still makes me cry….that first memory ….you can’t replace those Mule, I’ve hung on tight for over 30 years.” He’d gone to sleep, I went with him.

Beige carpets, a labyrinth of corridors, doors leading into unknown, unnameable places. We reach her office and she ushers me inside. Desk, computer, phone, bookshelves, many books, an ornamental, porcelain cat, a plant, tape recorder, dicta-phone, empty cup, two bags, one old, wrinkled, the other modern, a briefcase. Mountains of files, papers, filing cabinets, pens, clipboard, notes, thick, bulky, my life in bulky notes. We sit down, there is a low coffee table, low because we can’t have barriers, no threat, it’s the pose, the custom, a con, no barriers…. it’s a con. I put my feet up on the coffee table, my track shoe souls, immaculate… she comments sometimes, tells me I must float on air, how else can they be so clean?

Silence. We sit in silence. I have to speak first, I have to start, a rule…it’s the rule; the whole hour can pass but she will never break it, she will sit and say nothing, not her, she’s the canvas, the blank canvas…professional. Her speak, never… me, always, it has to be me first…always…always me… so I do speak…but sometimes she hates it.

“I’m okay, fine, in fact I’m nearly better now, I’m better, loads better… are you pleased, can you tell?”

Silence.

“My concentration - it’s good, everything’s okay, no problems this week… I want a job, will they let me get one, a job, I’ll be useful then, normal, I can do a job now…I’m better.”

Silence.

“Except I don’t get much sleep… I don’t sleep too good so I’m tired out… never enough sleep.”

“You don’t sleep.”

“No…sometimes…yes…no,  a little…not much this week - tired… I’m always  tired, and there’s no concentration.”

“Oh…so you can’t concentrate and you don’t sleep … but you’re better! You want a job now because you’re so well…garbage! Tell me…what’s bugging you, why don’t you sleep - what’s frightening you…tell me.”

“Why?”

“You know why. Tell me about it, come on…”

“I don’t know why… my head is revved… always revved.”

“Your head is revved.”

“I don’t know why, my head… it’s always revved….I’m so tired. I go to bed exhausted with my head revved and then I stay awake.”

“Mmm…any dreams?”

“No.”

“No, of course not, how silly of me to ask.”

“Well maybe…okay, maybe! One, or two perhaps… none, I don’t dream.”

“Which one of those answers should I go with I wonder… you do dream,  you’ve had one or two… about what, tell me…”

“I don’t know, don’t remember; I’ve forgotten, nothing…leave it.”

“What were they like, the one or two….tell me, the one or two, describe them.”

“In one…in one of them…your plant isn’t growing.”

“Evasion, come on…do some work… in one…..”

“Nothing. I don’t know…can’t remember.”

“You do remember…in one….”

“It was like the others.”

“Like the others, at last…tell me…how…in what way?”

                                                     * * * * * *

“Inside, night…upstairs, my bedroom. I’m awake, hear noises, I get upset, frightened. I get out of bed to look through the window. I push back the curtains, I can see the street lamp. I know someone is there, I don’t like it, too creepy, it makes me shiver.” 

“Where, someone is where? Inside, outside?”

“Don’t know, I can’t remember….nothing happens after that… I can’t remember..”

                                                        * * * * * *

Velvet velvet sky stars are eyes - damson lilac velvet folds… wrap round me - suffocating. I’m suffocating…. can’t breathe….can’t breathe…don’t choke, don’t CHOKE ME, DON’T CHOKE ME!….

Moon no moon light in the velvet stars silver…shadow..whose shadow? How?

Shadow…how…no light…HOW! WHO?

Soft velvet dawn come please light…morning chorus, cheepcheepchirrup  cheep…light…hang on… light’s coming… safety… light soon…hang on, sunrise safe…bring light…safety.

“Vincent! There is blood on your face, did your ear bleed? Vincent. In the velvet in the stars… violent…violent Vincent with his ear in his hand….are you painting your ear Vince, painting it red, are you going to fix it back on?” Velvet star night.

“I didn’t like it, my ear….I’m going to send it to my friend, Gauguin…he needs another ear…”

“He won’t like your ear, it’s hacked and bloody, I don’t think he’ll like your ear… are you sending it in the post?

“Yes. I am posting it to him, he needs more ears so he will hear better…”

“If we all have three ears will we hear better, will we hear whispers, or the tides going out and coming in….even though your blood is on it… you’ve got a hole now, a hole where your ear used to be.”

“I don’t like my legs. I want to cut off my legs and send them to someone. Would he like to have my legs, your friend? Should I send Gauguin my legs? He can paint on them… he can use them as book ends…”

“See how the air moves, it drapes me and mis-shapes, quivering, the buildings are shaking, they don’t keep still, watch them…shivering, shimmering, wavering…I have to send my ear away…the stars are listening to me, the sky is watching you…all of us… there is blood on my brushes…velvetplumbloodsky…crying… go to the cafe…pick sunflowers…  they watch, they whisper…the corn quivers…my paints are gone…none left…I’ll paint in ear blood and coffee…”

“Vince…are you going to leave? Are you going to leave me here, alone?”

“I won’t be far, just the asylum, only the asylum.”

“But you’re still leaving, even the asylum is leaving…why are you going? Why do you have to go? Is it your ear? Is it because you gave Gauguin your ear…because we can get you a new one…I can make you a new ear and then you can stay and I won’t be alone.”

“Someone is making me leave, some people…would you like to have my eyes, or just one? Then I can see you everyday and you will know I haven’t gone, I can gouge out my eye and you can keep it in your handkerchief. My paintings, you can have all of them…no one likes them, worthless, but good for making a fire…you could have a bonfire and I will watch it with you, through my eye…and we will see the same things… and when you see my paintings through my eye you will know they are worthless.”

“I don’t want to do that, I like them, your eye is all wrong. Is that why you have to go to the asylum? Because your eyes are wrong, and now you want to give me a bad eye and I will be wrong and go to the asylum?”

“I use cheap paint, the lines aren’t straight, the buildings move…I have to leave. Goodbye.”

“Don’t leave, don’t leave me, please stay Vince, I’ll be good, don’t leave…”

                                                      * * * * * *

“Hey, Jan, wake up, wake up! You’re dreaming.”

Hmm, dreaming, not dreaming, again, it’s cold, nightmare, another and another nightmare.

” Mule.”

“Yup?”

“In the Kingdom of the Blind, the one-eyed man is King.”

Jan 

Appeasment - Part Two: To Quote the Bard.

“Janet.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“We’re in the foothills here, the terrain is treachorous.” 

“Your point?”

“Be careful. Keep your wits about you and your eyes open.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m prepared, I’m ready.”

“Everyone who ever takes this road thinks they’re ready; I’m just warning you, stay alert, look where you’re going, watch your back.”

“I will, I am. Don’t fret, I’ve done my homework.”

“Janet.”

“Still here.”

“I need to tell you something, something extremely important that you must not forget.”

“Shoot.”

“All that glisters is not gold.”

“Mule.”

“That’s me.”

“You don’t half pick your moments!”

Jan

Appeasement - Part One

I dream of dancing nymphs

And the Graces pirouetting

In a  lonely starlit valley

Where a crescent moon

Shines kindly

And the goddesses onlooking

All utterly astonished

Seeing the exhibition

And performance of such beauty

Break their hearts in pieces

And quietly weep ice

Diamond crystal tears.

Jan 

Bag of Rocks

This story is inspired by Heather’s “unburdoning” drawing,
but based on real characters I met in Salt Lake City years ago.
The Canary wasis a real person –
the ‘facts’ were only stories whispered in soup lines.

Someday I might write a play about street people
based on what I learned as a volunteer there.

papa
………………………………………………………………………

“Have you seen the Canary about?” I asked the trio huddled close upon the garbage fueled blaze in the oil drum. The suspicious silence was predictable but they didn’t drift away, as well they might – seeing that I was not one of them – a street person, I mean. “I have a winter coat might be his size, and I’d like to say hello. Haven’t seen him since he jumped the rails up to Fargo – heard he was back.”

“Just leave it there on the fence. We’ll get it too him.” I wasn’t afraid they would steal it as Canary is five foot three at best and round as a pumpkin. Actually, I’d had the coat cut down for him.

“There’s a bunch more coats in the back of the van – take your pick and pass out the rest. I’d be obliged.” Then I waited to see if they would check first, or trust. I tossed Canary’s coat over my shoulder and joined them by the fire.

“Yer the one, ain’t ya? I don’t know which one spoke as they all had the same thought. “Canary has a spot behind that Italian restaurant on 5th – to keep the dogs away in return for first pickings you understand. Doesn’t get around like he useta.” I left the van in their care and protection and strode off toward the river, while crowds of shuffling indigents gathered to a silent call. They would wait until I was ‘round the corner.

“Lordy be! – why’d he bring us these coats – ‘n what would he want with the Canary?” Questions were as numerous as sleeves measured and pockets explored, and not just out of curiosity. Everyone liked Canary. Finally, an ex-preacher said he’d tell the story – not that that led any truth to it. Slip on a coat and listen in.

“First I’ll tell ya about Canary – how he got his name and all up there in Sing-Sing. Those few of you ain’t been in stir might not know that a man who snitches on his friends is called a canary – leastwise behind his back. The DA calls it ‘turning state’s evidence’, but we know better. So calling a person ‘Canary’ to his face is a compliment, meaning that he could of but didn’t and suffered for it. The name became permanent when Canary pulled his famous fainting spell. Didn’t hurt that he kind of looks the part.”

“I’ve never heard it – what was he in for anyway? Knowing how Canary is always helping folks, I’ll bet he didn’t do it.”

“Well, you’d be wrong – not that it matters much. Who a person is right now is more important than where he’s been, I recon. Canary was a medical student about to do the residency thing. Seems he came home late one night to find a burglary in progress and his wife dead on the dining room floor. The thug was just getting into a car out back. He gave chase in his truck ‘til the murderer flipped his car and crashed into tree at over a hun’ert. Some justice. Canary was convicted of man-slaughter as his only statement was ’I wished him dead and he is!’ He could’ve beaten the rap except there was another burglar there at the house – crying. Canary had let him go so as to chase the murderer, and wouldn’t give the police any descriptions or assistance about this man he claimed ‘helped him’.”

“So this coat guy is the missing burglar?”

“Maybe yes – maybe no. There is more to tell if’n you’ll shut up. This kind of loyalty to a commitment may seem strange to you, but was natural for the Canary. Up at the Place, he was more-or-less let be – a kind of respect, you know. He didn’t have to join any gang and didn’t become anyone’s slave neither. Didn’t hurt he used his education to teach and help others file appeals and such – even did taxes and healing for free. Rumor has it a couple of gangs were about to have a real set-to and Canary got the leaders together to talk. They settled matters peaceful like, but were about to get caught violating curfew, and the guards would assume the worst. So Canary pretended to faint or have a stroke or something and blocked the door shut while so the guards couldn’t get by.”

“I get it now – miners used to take canaries into the tunnels for protection. If air got thin the bird would always collapse first. Hear tell the astronauts might take them into space too.”

“But who is this coat guy then? Doesn’t act like a guy what’s been inside long.”

“A couple of years back Canary was in St. Louis – just doing his thing – picking up every little pebble and twig he found in the park – making things neat for other people. Never bothered nobody but was classified as a vagrant by the authorities. Seems a man can’t just decide to live alone and poor in this free country. Well, one day he just collapsed by the fish pond and no one stopped to help. A policeman assumed he was drunk and started kicking him around. Hear tell a stranger stopped him and fetched a bunch of trouble, but other people rallied around in time. This guy said he had heard Canary whistling a tune and knew he was OK, but to take off his backpack. Now this thing musta weighed 200 lbs – all those pebbles and sticks in there had simply driven Canary to his knees. With it empty Canary had no trouble getting up and ambling away – whistling and picking up things.”

“That’s plumb crazy! Prison musta done him in.”

“No, not crazy,” I called from the edge of the crowd. Our little friend believes that the problems of the world are cause by people tossing their worries and woes away with no concern about how they affect others. As he picks up grains of sand and withered leaves he also picks up those discarded miseries as well – just to keep others from tripping over them. Kind of a pay-back, you see.” Nobody said nuthin’, but there was a lot of foot shuffling.

“He paid his debt.”

“This man is the gentlest spirit I have ever met. Yet he was driven to anger and it cost another man his life. Canary will never judge others, squeal on another, speak unkindly of another because he has never forgiven himself. By choice he will carry the burden of strangers and whistle a happy tune – and foolishly fill his sack with worthless rocks – just so that you and I don’t have to.”

“What’s it to you anyway – you the man in the park?”

“Yes, but my help was not an accident. I was looking for him. To tell him something. His wife had been pregnant when she died, but they were able to save the child when the other burglar called an ambulance. He could feel the tiny heartbeat through her cloths as he tried CPR – didn’t have time to tell Canary before he rushed off. – and no one ever did. Crazy, huh?”

“He musta found out in prison though – enough to drive any man loco — another ‘good thief, huh?”

“That’s when he started picking up other people’s problems – committing himself to make the world a better place. Don’t try and stop him – just wave when you see him – and help empty that stupid bag of rocks.”

“Thanks for the coats mister. I’m sure Canary likes his!”

I wandered off so they could not hear. “Least a son can do.”

Burrow On

Were I not in compressing darkness, I might describe a house of glass, for I sense endless reflections of my being – and fragile for all of that. Perhaps an image of a crystal seen from the inside will better convey the spirit tone and echo. I do know that the facets number seventy-two, a count rather special to me as both ‘Trebusca in Thrine’, and ‘Three filled folded thrice less three in square’ as from an ancient spell. So I do not understand if this number guides me or if, by projection, the universe bends to my intent.

The glow that I perceived before is formed in flux by myriad points of light, grouped within the facets in a chaotic way – that is, not discernable by wits alone. Fine! I reach out towards a random wall which shrinks away in balance with a surging of memories in my raging mind. I am not supposed to be here! I settle to the floor – breathless.

I drift, and sort out the thoughts like plucking leaves from my sleeve – some to fall to my feet and others to drift in a caressing breeze. Behind and around, other sparks of interest ebb or grow in sympathy, with attendant song and color-shift that I can only embrace as ‘propensity’.

I am now where ‘what was’ and ‘what will be’ are the same! I have always thought that ‘who I am right now’ is an amalgam of all I have been and experienced – and that my future options will be guided in part by my self imposed limits of perception. Not so! These dancing twinkles are my actualization of threads of creative energy that pass through me – endless when and forever more. As I find balance in past choices I also engender what I may be. There is no right or wrong in this, nor future penned by another’s hand. Source has granted me this gift in return for suffering this physical Attention. I can change the importance of any past event, and thereby nudge butterflies and kindle nubile stars. I need not see into the future – for tomorrow is but an extension of me; and the only choices of importance is how I interacted with others and the songs of strangers never met.

‘tis said all paths cross in the forest. In truth, all paths cross through me – me, but one of a jillion quivering souls. And they also pass through you, sister – as all crystals of Light touch in this Goddess dance.

……..

I open my eyes and am again in the main passage, feeling faint – in need of air. Guess I must have passed out. But I recall dreaming too. Now if I can only remember … hush! Do you hear it?

Nihush, nihush, ne zaman – Nihush ni…

faucon

Hoping to Appease

I wake up in a clean bright room, on clean fragrant sheets and in a clean new dress. Deciding not to think too hard about how I got into a clean dress, I get out of bed and go over to the window. It’s a beautiful day and I wished I could stand here all day and enjoy the view but I needed a shower and some food.

I had assumed I was still in Beatrix’s house but when I opened to door and peeked out, I recognised nothing of the room beyond. I felt a trickle of fear but then decided to go looking for the owner of the house. I padded barefoot on the wooden floors made out of that same strange wood. It felt odd, kind of soft and spongy but still stable.

I found Oliver in the kitchen preparing something that smelled absolutely delicious.

“Hi Oliver,” I said.

“Oh hi, Soultide,” Oliver said peering at me over his shoulder. “Are you rested?”

“Yes, I feel a lot better than I did yesterday. Sorry for losing it”

Oliver laughed and said “Yesterday? You’ve been sleeping for four days.” He laughed again, obviously very amused at my confusion.

“How can that be?”

“You had reached a level of exhaustion that is only achieved by those who journey through Owl Creek Valley and along the Owl Creek Road. It is no ordinary journey and for ones such as you, there needs to be extra guidance.”

Oliver was making no sense and he seemed to have lost his ability to explain things clearly to me. I didn’t know whether to be worried about him not being clear or myself for not understanding. Oliver showed me the bathroom where I could shower and told me that everthing I needed would be there and so I thoroughly enjoyed my shower and returned to the kitchen even more hungry than before.

Oliver set the food out on the table and I forgot about everything else except my stomach. We both ate heartily of the homemade bread, scrambled eggs, honey, herbal tea and fruit juice.

As we digested our food and made chitchat, Beatrix knocked and let herself in. Her face was bright and smiling, like the day outside and it made me happy to see her. Instinctively I knew that she and I had to have a conversation and maybe now was the time for that. Oliver cleared the table and excused himself from the room, giving me one of his famous smiles as he left. He said he’d see me later when I’d got my things together and was ready to leave.

That brought my reality crashing home. Beatrix spoke and I listened. The first thing she told me was that normally the journey from a portal to Owl Creek Valley could take months due to wights and other undesireables causing delays and tricking travellers in order to stop them from getting to her. She told me that she was working with Enchanteur to help guide a group of travellers whom Enchanteur wanted to start of their journey into the mine to search for the creative grail also known as the elixir of creativity. I was one of these and there were many others too. She told me that before I would be allowed to enter the mine, I needed to give something to appease Enchanteur who is also known in these parts as the Lady of the Mine. Beatrix couldn’t tell me what but she said I’d know what was appropriate if I looked into my heart and listened to my inner voice. I didn’t know what inner voice she was referring to but I nodded understanding all the same. Beatrix left me to absorb all of this information and told me that I had to be ready by tomorrow. I fretted but later Oliver calmed me down and suggested I go to my room and meditate. Instead I wrote this:

It is you I have come to
Instead of staying safe
Not by choice
But by urgings and intuitions

The journey I took here
Felt shorter than it should have been
And I know that was you
Some magic of yours, some power

I ask that you use this power
To help me on my way into the deep earth
To show me my own power
So that I may learn as I need

I will see this to the end
Even though I know not what awaits me
Curiosity is mingling with apprehension in my gut
Such typical feelings
But my own nevertheless

I give you these verses now
Only the first of more to come
And I will be open to the flow
With a creative woman’s heart
In the morning, I was ready with my pouch, my equipment, my gift and an open heart.

by Soultide

Burrow

I am by nature, disposition or distraction a prospector rather than a miner – content to unearth a nugget or vein and turn it over to others for development. My faith and perversity cause me to venture where others fear to tread, but I am easily bored with less than a creative flux. Yet, by commitment here I am called to grovel and burrow within the bowels of Mother Earth in search of internal spiritual revelations. In the past I have discovered nuggets within the tailings of my own detritus, and therefore do not mind delving the tunnels of other’s efforts to see what may have been ignored or passed over in frenetic digging. In this manner I found the crevice – and heard the whispers.

It was nothing more than an angular crack in the bedrock filled with softer dirt and pebbles. This I shoveled out to form a channel barely wide enough for my pear shaped form to squirm through. I tunneled quite deeply, pushing the excavated waste behind me – effectively sealing myself in a moving tomb – yet reassured of safety by the gentle whispers. That I could breathe here was a mystery – until I came to understand that the fill was not natural, but a blockage placed within the defile to deter others, or attract the likes of me, one. The assemblage of gravel allowed for air flow – and for hearing the whispers. I chanted a most ancient invocation:

“Nihush, nihush ne zaman” — ‘heed the whisper ner the sign’

At length I broke through and tumbled most unceremoniously onto the floor of an immense chamber. Empty! My helmet had fallen off and the affixed lamp shattered – yet I could see enough for that. The walls glowed. Besides, surely I could sense without vision the presence of one powerful enough to whisper through walls of stone. Thus it was that I was once again alone, sightless, witless – in answer to a call. I could but reach out with untrained third eye. Now I must tell of what I see.

faucon

Just Grand

I was explaining to Emmie about this Mining adventure,
and she asked if I had written ‘Just Grand’ for this project.
“No,” says I, “I wrote that in response to Lorijayne’s
story about divination at the Gypsy Camp.”

“Seems more suitable for a quest than a campfire!”

So I post it here also.

papa
…………………………………………………………..

‘twas a bit of climb up ta ridge to Grandie’s place, but he managed at nigh on a hun’ert, so I recon I wouldn’t be breathless long. Seeing as he was s’post to have ‘The Sight’ I didn’t send a message ahead, but brought a sack of goodies fer hospitality. Didn’t take any magickal divination to bring chocolate chip cookies and smoked oysters and sweet pickles. I threw in one of those new fangled combo pliers ‘n foldin’ tool gismos just in case. Them what have the ‘gift’ never charge but shore be likin’ gifts and carin’ – or so I’s been told.

Thar was a body scarce when I ‘rived the shack, but smoke still curled from the fire pit and his jug was by the porch rocker tellin’ he was near by. There was an axe honed mean stuck in the choppin’ round, with half a pile of kindli’ on one side, and a pile of chucks ‘tuther. I set my sack in the spring-house an’ savored a dipper of cool delight on my neck and sippin’ swaller. ‘twasn’t work, really. I get’s simple pleasure from choppin’ wood – an easy flow of muscles and getting’ done – the finished pile rightfully larger than the startin’. When I got done and looked up ole Grandie was a smokin’ in his chair, like he been there all ‘long and I just didn’t see.

“Glad I could do that fer ya,” he smiled. That puzzled me a tad as I’d been thinkin’ I was doin’ it fer him. Then I realized that while I was a choppin’ my thoughts had kinda come together ‘n I was more prepared to ask ‘n listen. “Yer pa’s leg still painin’ him?” Grandie asked. This was done jest ta rattle me, I’m sure – seein’ as I had never met Grandie and my pa was settled eighty miles ta north.

“Thanks ya sir fer askin’,” says myself. “He’s off dem crutchers now but complainin’ jest ta get attention. I be thinkin’ he’s anxious ta get back ta his place at the mill – kinda worried ‘bout the young sawyers without his beady eye a trainin’.” I set on the top step ag’in the shaved post so to look up at him – seemed proper. “Been visitin’ my Aunt Mod down Pine Hollow way ‘n thought I’d come by to ask the truth of it – ‘bout this divination stuff ‘n magick ‘n all. Mod t’was sayin’ I’s got a bit a healin’ gift ‘n ought to be learnin’ more. Don’t rightly know.” Then I just sits ‘n listen to the jay birds.

He took a sip ta jug, but di’n’t offer none. I took out them pliers thing and worried a nail out of my boot. Then I opened a blade after searchin’ through a dozen wrong ones and started inta whit’lin’ this branch. Tired of that quick though and stuck that tool in the plank ‘tween us with a couple of foldin’ things stickin’ out like points of a midnight star. Then I drifted to the spring ta bring back lunch and ignore the tool was gone. He had laid out some jerkey ‘n pan bread ‘n apples – ‘nuff fer blenin’ into a fine spread with my bringings tumbled out. A canvas- wrapped stone bottle of cider was drip coolin’ from a peg, while he stuck to his jug o’ sweezings. Still say nuthin’ though, but din’t send me away, which was enough.

Bye ‘n bye he starts in askin’ questions. “Yer leanin’ agin a roof post – tell me ‘bout it – what makes it special?” “On the path up ya heard the tinklin’ song of a waterfall – what did it say to ya?” “In a bit of a glade behind the house some of my kin are buried – how many, ‘n how as they died?” and more … Some answers came easy as I was mountain born and kin ta the forest – leastwise always thought so. Never bathed ‘cept in a stream ‘re rain barrel. Always et some gift of the meadow every day: berries, wild onions, nettle root, ‘re cress – just like mom dun tol’ me. Never kilt nuthin’ I didn’t plan ta eat and could tickle trout …

Tellin’ of things I’d never seen was different, but I spoke right out. On my first try I was jest faerie guessin’ and Grandie called me up right quick. “Be startin’ with what ya know fer sure. Then ‘low yerself to be in my shoes and look fer the balance of things – knowin’ what be right fer peace and utility.” He never told me if’n I be right or no, but I began to sense a kinda glow ‘bout him when I ventured some ‘extension’ – leastwise that’s what Grandie called em. As I be readin’ these as indicators of true er close guessin’, I began to describe things small first ‘stead o’ tryin’ to grasp the whole imagine. When I sensed the glow – better with my eyes closed – I built on that. When his “truth reflectin’” sang low ‘re quiet, I tried agin with no fear atall. Thirsty work, though – cider mostly gone. Grandie’s jug was down ta dribble too.

“I talk better walkin’,” he mumbled while creakin’ outa that rockin’ chair. We drifted gentle through the woods, pacin’ some old trails and discoverin’ new – passed a mossy busted still and ‘nother cabin burnt down. He told me stories ‘bout these ‘n other glimpses of past folk gone long. Some were not fer believin’ but fer makin’ a point. Others seemed to have no meanin’ atall but ta be anchors like fer other mem’ries and musin’. All the while he was a movin’ his hands and shiftin’ his feet peculiar like ‘til I caught on. His body kinda moved ahead of what he was sayin’, pointin’ where his thoughts were goin’, and whether he was plannin’ to feed me some dream tea. Then we came upon this broken bridge never fixed, as a log fall now served fer one ‘n carts never came by no mo’. Ole Grandie wandered around a bit, but din’t say nuthin’. My turn.

I started in tellin’ a story ‘bou why the bridge had been built, and by what folk, and how it came to be broke up, ‘n the tragedy of the place and what lessons were to be learned. I took clues from where he had stood, ‘n how his hands twitched while a ‘memberin’ how it had been. When I didn’t get any glow clues I talked about little things I saw – knew to be true like a patch of wild flowers ‘re the way a tree had been chopped – ‘til I found a bit of truth to grow on – then I storied what I thought up seemed ta fit the flow o’ things. He didn’t say nuthin’ durin’ the tellin’, nor move from the stump ‘cept fer puffin’ on his pipe. Finally, I just kinda ran out a thinks ta tell.

“No body coulda saved her, you know. Twasn’t yer fault none.” You’d a thought me the old man and him but fourteen from the tellin’ it so. We chatted some there by the tumbly rocks with both of us aged somewhere in between – jest friend ta friend, ya know. I won’t tell ya where he picked up a new jug, or how I knew who had left it fer him. Ya already be quessin’ that this twisty walkin’ stick I use now be the one he gifted me that day, ‘re that it took him twenty years to carve it. ‘re that it was meant fer his son. It isn’t magickal to know such things.

All it takes is bein’ alive – and knowin’ that ya are,

and learnin’ to listen to heart ‘n hands –

and a watchin’ fer the soul glow.

Going up??

I was surprised at the number of open chambers and meeting rooms way down ‘neath the surface — and I haven’t even reached a digging point yet. I was even more surprised to stumble across a class for ascention want-a-be’s, though ascending is the only way to return home — forget any transcendental stuff. I evesdropped a bit — attracted by the sign identifying the moderator as one

“Swami Inflictus of the Ascension Oracles School of Bio-Sophistry.”

He was fielding questions from the class …

QUESTION: Do I have to verify having had a precious life before I can get on with another, future one?

There is nothing like the present, my child, from which to launch your Ascension. After all, what you remember of tomorrow can hardly be worse that what you forget of yesterday.

QUESTION: I tend to be crabby and mean spirited in my dealings with others. When I have Ascended will that change automatically, or is there some ritual to go through?

What you describe is not a state of being, but of choices that you make. Ascension is all about choices too. When you choose to be nice to others and kind by nature you may discover that you have already ascended. If you enjoy inflicting misery on others why are you looking to change anyway?

QUESTION: Several friends who are very into Ascension talk about quickening vibrations and reaching new heights of transcendence. Is your school a sex clinic?

It might be said that intense communication from a position of love is sexual, but Ascension isn’t about “getting it up”, though some protection may be required for those will poor spiritual hygiene.

QUESTION: Is the Ascension process anything like a Twelve Step Program?

Well, they both require a lot of faith, and one deals with coming to grips with what you were and the other being comfortable with what you can be — you choose which.

QUESTION: I can’t channel with any former lives. So if I Ascend and can’t remember this life now, how will I gauge if I am better off?

You chose this Agreement, and are now trying to get out of it. Don’t try asking for a refund too. Caveat emptor always applies, especially if you are expecting a prize in the box.

QUESTION: I was going to buy a book on Ascension but one review said something about “The Emperor’s New Clothes.” Do you know what that means?

If he was speaking about religious beliefs I would say Ascension is “clothing optional” — other than that nothing is apparent.

QUESTION: Some thoughts I’ve read on Ascension seem “half-baked”, while others are very over-done. I can’t even figure out if the process is an hors oeuvres or a desert.

It is more of a main-course, and plan on pot-luck instead of a banquet, with you bringing more that you expect to receive. A well stirred life-stew might work if seasoned with enough compassion.

QUESTION: Can I do this ascension thing part-time? I am an attorney and have trouble thinking of spirituality when working with crooks and perverts all day. Maybe Monday night after football I can set aside a couple of hours.

I am at a loss for words — one essential criterion for starting ascension is to be human first.

QUESTION: Is achieving Ascension an either-or proposition, or can we rely on probabilities? Out of a dozen want-a-be’s, how many are likely to find a new spiritual level without dying first? Does trying here help your chances later on?

For any sizeable population, the chance of achieving Ascension is directly proportional to your congruency coefficient of ‘doing the work’, and inversely proportional to the time you have spent in any organized religion, with a credibility level of your age minus years in government service. Of course this assumes a bell curve distribution of reciprocal charity — also known as the ‘ding-dong’ effect.

……………………………………………

I figured it was time to move on

faucon

Gifts from the Heart

A gift crafted by the hands of the giver is always something very special. This is an object alive with a quality that no purchased present could possibly imitate. Never mind that the end result may not be perfect; indeed any imperfections merely add to the delight and hidden meanings of the gift. For such an object hearkens from the soul of the one who made it. Every stitch, each passing of the threads, the choosing of colours, the planning of the design — all is done with only one person in mind, that to whom the gift shall be given. And so it is that the end product is much more than the object it has become. It is a piece of the maker, a part of their soul, a physical representation of their love and affection, a constant reminder of their blessings heaped upon the recipient.

Thus it is in this manner that I spin, dye, design and knit tokens of love for my nearest and dearest. It always seems to me that each time I pick up the tools to work on their gift, that I am praying for and blessing them. When I present the object to them it is as if I am wrapping them in my love. And so it is that my favourite gifts are scarves and shawls for it is part of their very meaning to enfold and wrap and keep warm. There really is nothing quite like the feeling of cuddling under a handspun and hand knit shawl. Such a gift cannot be bought. It cannot even be earned. It can only simply be given from one soul to another. It asks for nothing in return, and doesn’t even expect thanks. The gift is in the giving for both the giver and the receiver. In this way it is a metaphor for the spiritual realms wherein I try to breathe even while living in the physical world of which the shawl is part. We walk between worlds every minute, every hour. A shawl such as this is a talisman to remind us that there is more, always much more, than what we see and hear and feel.

Another Gift for the Keeper

Pulsing with viriditas, a mandala reminiscent of black opals seems an appropriate gift for the Keeper of the Mine.

 

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

Seed Appeasement

Orlando and I set out the following morning in the renewing sun, knowing we had to see the Minekeeper, a woman of infinite wisdom and discernment.  Maude has told us so many things, some of which would not be realised until much later on.  Leaving her house was like squeezing though a tiny hole, and when we looked back it was nowhere in sight.  We knew then this was no ordinary journey, to search for and find the elixir of creativity, and Mnemosyne warned us there was something more to this.  She had explained the centre parts of the earth were sacred, like a womb, where things were birthed.  Partly we felt unworthy of this trek, and we knew we did not want to violate the sanctity of the meaning there, as respect had to be paid.  So it was right that in meeting the formidable, simply dressed woman, we gave her the single gold coin, like for like, and some poppy seeds for her rich garden.  It flourished green, bursting the boundaries of the wooden fencing, and forming a lush, long, verdant belt through the valley.  Mnemosyne had reminded us to put these things in our travelling packs, but we had not known what they were for.  “Instinct” — Maude had said, was the key.  Now it seemed right to offer them, and indeed it was true, the Minekeeper was pleased.  Orlando also reassured her he knew the ways of right travel through these parts, as we had been through the darkness of fear and superstition, and stayed a night in Hades.  She smiled as if in feint remembrance, and I wondered if she knew the glowing jewels Maude had, and indeed, if she had been the giver of those.  There was an uncanny likeness, but not sameness about them, as if they were sisters in some way or another.  After she had given us a rich brew of herbs, done in her own special way, she sent us on with brief instructions, and wasted no time at all in planting the seeds we had given her, in her flourishing garden that covered that part of the valley.

 

(copyright Imogen Crest 2006.)

Passing Thought

Each morning at the Manor House at Sakin’el, Odo, our Zen cat, desires to be let in from his nightly task of guarding the grounds. Branwen, Emmie’s Service Dog, desires to get out for an inspection of the front yard. When the door is scarcely more than a wide crack, the two pass each other by a method unfathomable, and as natural as leaves blowing in the wind. I am drawn to contemplate how intelligent people pass by each other in a confined space. Further, I imagine the narrow and dim passages of the Alluvial Mine, and what transpires when two people meet in confabulation.

Two strangers (unrecognized friends?) approach collision in the tunnel. Each is burdened with a rucksack full of rocks and twigs – memories on which there is no closure. Each is stooped a bit from bearing a cross or trying to save the world – or the weight of unwanted responsibilities. The passage is scarcely wide enough for one, given that each person’s communication with the Divine is a solitary journey. If the two are in Tegsh Balance far to the spiritual side and unrestrained by cultural frippery, they can simply hug each other, do a ‘pirouette in twain’, a gliding spin and both be on their way. However, such closely snuggled contact and gyrations would not be acceptable to most – either physically or of ‘invaded space’. Each, of course ,could turn and retreat – avoiding any close brush with another spirit all together. Hardly a viable choice for anyone who fought hard to enter the mine – had earned the right.

There is another way (the other right answer). I saw it done but once – two construction workers approaching on a two-foot wide catwalk with only bare girders on the sides. The result of a misstep was but 100 ft, but they were steel workers and beyond fear. They did not slow or give any hint of signal or preparation. As they met each stepped with right leg into the step-space just passed the other’s foot. For each, their own legs were now in line with the catwalk, one in front of the other. Each now swung their left leg out into nothingness in a counter-clockwise rotation, pivoting on their right toe. With left foot down again they had passed – never touching each other – never in danger.

In memory’s eye they were as graceful as ice-skaters in a dual spin, bound by faith alone. They were both American Indian, though I do not know if that matters. There is perhaps a special bond for those who dare the heights – some instinct or primordial skill revealed. Did their spirits embrace even though their hands did not? If we can learn to hear the music, are there dances awaiting beyond conceptualization? Who is to know?

What I do understand is that every meeting with a stranger is an opportunity for a ‘dance’ – friends also, but there a hug might serve. I must not seek to just safely pass by, but must close my eyes and trust – ah beyond trust – such that we blend, meld, caress – for a click of time. Surely, to pass through each other’s presence must be a most divine embrace. M’thinks I will run down the mine tunnels. Where are you?

papa faucon - BrightKnight

Antique Drawn Thread Work….posted by Soul Sister

The above are 2 examples of antique drawn thread work, otherwise often referred to as whitework.Drawn thread work is considered by many to be a type of lace work. It is traditionally created on a background of linen fabric from which chosen warp and weft threads were carefully removed in order to create a pattern which was then further embellished and reinforced with decorative embroidery stitches and needle weaving in the open areas. There are many examples to be found in collections worldwide, some of which date back as far as the 15^th century. Much of this type of needlework was made in Italy, Sicily, Bologna and England. There are many variations within drawn thread work, two of the most elaborate being referred to as ‘reticella’ and ‘punto in aria’, as in the examples above.

Gifting Divinity - Appeasing Enchanteur

Copal resin has been used ritually by Mesoamericans for centuries. Crystallized copal resin chunks are placed on burning charcoal which produces a thick, sweet smoke. Copal resin is traditionally burned in protection, cleansing and purification ceremonies. Large amounts of Copal Incense were burned on top of the Aztec and Mayan pyramids.

This is a non-combustible resin incense, which means heat must be applied to release its fragrance (usually with a self-lighting charcoal tablet). To use incense, ignite a charcoal tablet and place in a heat-proof container. Grind the incense to a fine powder and sprinkle on the glowing tablet.

 

 

When the world was young the women burned precious incense to nourish the gods of creation. “Food for the gods”, a bitter sweet resin called copal was served to the divinity of the mine.

Swing the censers,

May the sweet, pine perfume of the copal
satisfy the gods

May they let us mine safely.

 

posted by Heather Blakey

Contemporary Drawn Thread Sampler

This is an offering from the hands of Soul Sister to the Lady of the Mine. It is given both as an appeasement in the hope that She will ease my passageway through the dark tunnels of the mine, and as a gift to honour all Her hidden magnificences which lie in wait of our discoveries on this, our latest sojourn with l’Enchanteur.

The Choosing

I doubt anyone can top Lori’s story on Divining Rods,
but the thought of using objects to focus one’s ‘gifts’
is an ancient practice, now lost perhaps.. I post this
to cause each to ponder on ‘what flows through them’ now.

papa
…………………………………………………………….

Branch of Orlas

No one told the gathered youths that the time of choosing was nigh. Even the Norok, the Elder Shaman, could not foresee such blending of life and spirit elements that churned within the fiber of the selected few. The youngest was but three unfilled in age (9), and the eldest but a couple of winters add. An equal number more, still at chores or study were, by grace of Her hand, unawares of the Gathering Song. They would become the millers, and wheelwrights, and farmers and fathers sure that would hold the village together. In their silent peace they would give thanks for the gift of not choosing.

Wonder’s birds sang in unison for a change and tossing clouds took on edges of brass and vermillion. The Testing Ring was not ordained by tradition or cast upon by chance or adult order. Swirling wind-devils drew leaves from hidden clefts and heaped marking drifts of concentric piles. One for each boy. They knew their spot, yet also knew the beginning order meant nothing. Gusts of troubled wind howled through unmoving branches to deafen any men who hastened near. The lads heard naught inside the rings save tinkling chimes from some hidden brook. She was near!

A staff threw down to be impaled into the center, unclaimed mound. From its three pronged crest hung a gnarled, shiny branch of unknown tree, its true nature disguised by past clasp and caress of countless young hands. In length it might have been the leg bone of a mighty harte. In girth a man’s thumb might serve to standard. In rightly spaced span hung five braids of auroch mane, each of different measure. From each suspended a different token; a bell, a stone, a ring, a coin, a blade. Simple, earthly things from the Spirit Pouch of the warrior/priest named Orlas, dead now 700 years. His name is never spoke aloud, but he would surly speak this day!

A gentle breeze stroked their pulsing throats and swept clean juvenile fears and loneliness. One by one the dangling tokens stirred and trembled. A deep voice, unheard except in heart and mind, called off the secret names.

Bier is the stone, see it spin free.
Find here your link with Mother Earth,
Touching with pulsing life of tree
And bird and furry small and death.

Ikie is the bell, feel its soul touch.
The spirit guides your knowledge find
Through Given grasp to ever search
Of fear and awe and will to bind.

Euch is this ring, honor entwining.
Balance such gifts within your heart
Twixt compassion and fine timing
To dream amiss or action start.

Dort is the coin, to guide fine trade
Of hand’s toiled art and life task.
Friendly exchange must greed avoid,
of honest charity ever ask.

Besh is the blade, pierce your pride.
Valor is by discipline bound
to warrior quest or family bride,
answer in community found.

Clutch now this Branch of Orlas,
With arm strength and tender love.
Your future needs this test to pass
That She may share your life to prove.

Each dauntless youth approached the stand and in an ancient rite that bound their clan, raised the rod and held at full reach, to test the blending of will and fate. Each token moved in a spirit dance, some to swing and some to spin and some to shiver not at all. To sway so to and fro told of internal strength to sustain the selected element of life. The spinning circle glide foretold a life where the elements did command by fate. To remain at rest within trembling grasp told of peace and balance of attribute most rare. She did not direct or interfere, but watched in patience borne of eternal bond of moon and earth, and dreams and pain of birth, and laughter’s wink in distant stars. By this test observed they would be instructed in turn as warriors, or merchants and teachers.

They would leave the nature circle with resounding faith in self and spirit and ready friends. They came as children and left as men. Save one — one saved alone. He would sit in silence on the now barren fateful mound where his tokens sang mostly still. Only Stone and Ring did swing and spin to become entwined and anoint the one so chosen.

Then Norok held out his hand and together these two watched the Silver Moon appear in splendor full while Father Sun drifted to mountain rest. A life to grow and one to pass. Yet by Orlas’ hand the Shaman bond would never die.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving….

Little Tokens From Anita Marie  

You know it’s the handmade gifts that mean a lot, right? They are that little personal touch that not only says ‘ I care ‘, but  “this is a part of me..”

That is SO true you know.

I learned that in a biology class.

When you touch something you leave some of your cells on it. Those cells are called Epithelial tissue and that tissue covers your entire body.

So I guess in that the chances of you leaving a basket full of Epithelial Tissue on a hand made present isn’t really a chance but a sure thing.

With that in mind here are little handmade tokens that I’ve collected off the net …I’d like to pop them in the trunk…and boy would I love to be there when The Keeper opens it.

Enjoy!

This is the Fiji Mermaid…it’s a fake I’m sorry to say. So when you see them you know they were made by hand. If you ask me, this is true artwork.

All of these ‘Monsters’?

Created by human hands or human pride or human hubris or simple human curiosity…but hand made they were.

So I think I’ll pop these guys in the trunk too.

I’m giving one of these because well, it’s a laugh isn’t it? Plus I like that look people get on their faces when they see these guys. I like it when they ask, ” this is fake right? This isn’t real is it?”

And last but not least, this is a little drawing that I think sums up that little feeling I inspire in people when they read my work.

So it’s a truly personal gesture to the Keeper of The Mine on my part.

Plus, I just think it looks super funny.

 Anita Marie

To Whom Much is Given…..

by Lori Gloyd

Inspired By The Alluvial Mine Project:  Divining Rods

*****

Laurel-Ann perched herself on a large granite stone under the dying oak tree. Pale brown leaves, dried and curling, fell around her like a papery snowfall. Waves of heat shimmered from the ground. She grimaced as she fingered the brass tubing of the divining rods she held in her hands. I never should have come up here, she thought, but Great-Aunt Maybelle had called and so nagged her that she found herself jumping the next flight to SeaTac and renting a car. The drive up to Owl Creek Valley on the Road was slow and winding and gave her plenty of time to think.Her ancestors in the old country, she had been told, received the Gift of dowsing and used it serve their communities. It was an honored profession and, presumably, it had been passed down the generations, first to the farming New Englanders and then on to the NorthWesterners when then came to the mining camps.

Great-Grandpa Horace had helped the miners find their veins of gold but when the mines played out, Horace settled on farming and used his dowsing skills to sink wells into an ever-changing water table. The Gift had been passed to his daughter Bernice and then to Aunt Sally. Both had been dead for several years.

It was said that Laurel-Ann was the One with the Gift, but she did not want it. The Gift was no longer the honored profession of her ancestors. As a child she had endured the whispers and the side-ways glances.  Once, she flattened a classmate, Lewis, who had called her “Water-Witch” and had beaned her with a loaded water balloon. As soon as she was old enough, she left Owl Creek Valley to make her way in the big city down south.

But now drought had come again to Owl Creek, which had become a mere trickle, and the farmsteads of the Valley were thirsting for water. The community leaders, some of whom as children had taunted her in school, had come to Great-Aunt Maybelle and pleaded for her to help them. Maybelle could not. She did not have the Gift. Cousin Rodney tried his hand at it until, unfortunately, he dowsed the septic line at the Mayor’s farmstead and filled the entire lower Valley with noxious odors when they drilled the well.

It was then that Maybelle called her.

“Honey, we need you– they need you. You must put aside your feelings and help these people. You have the Gift. You are the One. “

Maybelle pleaded and then argued with Laurel-Ann for nearly an hour and then finally ended the call with “Mind you, ‘For of those to whom much is given, much is required’”.

“Oh, all right, I’ll come!” Laurel-Ann always caved in whenever Aunt-Maybelle quoted the Book.

When Laurel-Ann arrived at the farm, she was quickly whisked away by Rodney and Maybelle. They rattled up the Road in Rodney’s old pick-up towards to the Mayor’s place.

“He’s worst off,” said Rodney. “If we can make him happy, I figure we’ll get clients lined up from all over the Valley.”

“Rodney, we do NOT charge for our services”, said Maybelle. “Never have, never will” she warned. “And don’t make that face, Rodney…..Here we are. Laurel-Ann, honey, you just go have a seat under the tree and compose yourself. You remember how Aunt Sally taught you, right now?”

“Yes. I remember.”

“Good, here are Aunt Sally’s rods.” Laurel-Ann took the rods and slid out of the pickup. She crunched through the dead leaves to the tree and sat down on the rock.

A few minutes later, Laurel-Ann heard the sound of voices. They were coming. A lot of them. It seems half the Valley had shown up to watch, including Lewis who had never quite forgiven her for beating the daylights out of him up when they were kids.

Laurel-Ann sighed and lifted the rods. She felt the thin rods resting lightly in her hands. She stood up, shifted one way and then another, taking a few steps forward and swinging around. She heard murmuring from the crowd. She glanced up and glared at the crowd.

“It’s alright, honey, just relax. You can do it,” urged Maybelle.

Laurel-Anne refocused and tried to remember what Sally had taught her. She felt the rods begin to vibrate. She felt compelled to turn to the left and head away from the tree.

The Mayor shouted, “Hey, where’s she going? I need that well sunk here, not way over there. It’ll cost a fortune to pipe that water from way out there.”

“Ah, don’t worry Harold”, chimed Lewis, “she’s not going to find a thing.”

“Yes, she can!” Rodney turned to Lewis and the Mayor and began to argue with them.

Laurel-Ann tuned out the exchange. Her attention was fully focused on the divining rods in her hands. They were crossing and un-crossing. She turned and stopped. They crossed again. Then the rods pulled downward. She felt the power coming up from the earth through her feet, through her body, down her arms and to the rods. The rods began to get warm. She had found water.

“Hey, look at her. She doesn’t know diddly-squat.” shouted Lewis.

“Shut up!”

“Losers– all of you!!” With that Rodney rushed towards Lewis and shoved him in the chest. “I said, Shut up!”

Laurel-Ann’s attention was drawn back to the group. The momentary glow of her success faded away as she saw the two men struggling with each other. She threw the rods to the ground and stomped towards the Road.

Maybelle called to her: “Laurel-Ann, where are you going?”

“Home. I don’t need this. It’s exactly what I said it would be.”

“You can’t leave. They need you!”

“They don’t deserve anything! They deserve to rot!”

Lewis gave Rodney a huge shove that sent him sprawling to the ground, and then shouted after Laurel-Ann. “See? Look at her run away. WITCH!”

Laurel-Anne broke into a run and headed down the Road, the jeers of the crowd in her ears. The last thing she heard was Maybelle yelling: “You can’t leave! Much is required. You are the One!” Laurel-Anne covered her ears and continued running.

When she was out of ear-shot, Laurel-Ann slowed down. Breathing heavily she finally stopped. She was at a low point in the Road, where a dry gully cut across it. In the rainy season, the Road was often washed out at this point. She sat down on a large boulder on the side of the Road.

Maybelle’s words echoed in her mind: “To whom much is given, much is required.”

“No! Not from me!”

A rumble from the mountain echoed through the Valley and large drops began to spatter on the hot pavement. Good, they don’t need me afterall. They’ll get a good soaker and that’ll be that.

The wind picked up and the rumbling grew louder and more constant. That’s not thunder she thought. The leaves swirled around her as the wind turned into a gale. The rain began blowing sideways, stinging her face and arms,  and the rumbling grew louder. Laurel-Ann got up from the boulder and turned around, looking for some sort of cover.

That’s when she saw the enormous wall of raging water come crashing down the gully towards her.

No one ever knew what became of Laurel-Ann– not that they gave her much thought. Their water problems were over, it seemed, at least for a while. The rains returned, the water table rose, and Owl Creek flowed.

But Maybelle knew: to whom much is given, much is required– one way or another.

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006