The woman stirred leached acorn flour into the basket of boiling water. She was proud of her basket– woven at two hundred stitches an inch from dried rushes, so tightly woven that when coated on the inside with asphaltum, the basket would hold water. She had dropped heated stones into the basket, one-by-one, until the water came to a boil. As the acorn gruel began to bubble, the woman’s stomach growled.
She was hungry most of the time. The coastal oaks which provided the acorns were scarce and she had gathered most of the acorns from the local trees. She frequently walked down to the mouth of the canyon creek where it emptied into the Pacific Ocean. She would scavenge the rocks for mussels and the beach for clams. Even these had grown scarce as well. She would have to move her camp up the canyon to the Topanga, the “above place” to find more oak groves and their precious acorns.
Moving camp was dangerous though. It stirred up the bad spirits that lived in the canyon. They tormented her, whispering things in her head. But when they came, she would be ready for them. She would sing. She would draw upon the songs of the ancient Tongva and some from the Chumash from up north. Sometimes the spirits dragged her away into darkness– but she would come back– she always did.
The woman sat beside the firepit and looked at the domed hut she had constructed from willow branches. She regretted having to take apart the structure, but then she brightened: at her new camp she would construct a temescal, a sweat lodge. Ordinarily, only men used a sweat lodge for purification and vision questing, but sometimes women would as well. Yes, she would build a temescal.
After she finished breakfast, the woman quickly packed up her camp, bundling the willow branches and filling a large travelling basket with her tools and other belongings. She slowly stepped her way up the boulder-strewn canyon, pushing her way through the choking brambles. She kept watch for snakes and listened for the voices that were sure to come.
By the time the sun had peeked over the rim of the canyon, she had reached a clear area near a familiar outcropping of rocks. Within a short time she had kindled a fire and reconstructed her hut. She found a grove of oak trees nearby and replenished her cache of acorns. When she returned to her campsite, she filled a small basket with acorns and climbed with it to the flattened top of the rock outcropping. She found the mortar holes that the women of the canyon had used for thousands of years to mill acorn flour. Centuries of pestle stones smashing and grinding the hard seeds had worn deep holes in the rock.
The woman paused for a moment to feel the presence of the women who had gone before here, to ask for their blessing as she worked. Then the woman knelt before one of the holes and dumped a handful of acorns into it. With her stone pestle, she crashed it into the acorn-filled hole. She quickly fell into a rhythm, rocking to and fro, pounding stone against stone.
In keeping with the rhythm, songs began to fill her head and eventually they issued from her mouth. She chanted of Quaoar, the Creator, who sang into existence the three worlds: the sky, the earth, and the place of the spirits. She sang too of Coyote who flung the stars into the vault of heaven. And she sang of Swordfish who provided the People with all good things from the sea.
As the woman sang and rocked, she felt herself melting into the fabric of the canyon. She became the trees, the rocks, the trickling water in the creek. She smiled as she sang.
Then a voice pierced her mind: “….no fires here….trespassing… must come with us……”
The woman stood up and dropped her stone. She began to dance atop the rock, still singing. She called upon the spirits of the People to protect her. A strong hand gripped her elbow.
“C’mon, Professor… you know you can’t have an open fire this time of year… you wanna set the whole canyon on fire?” The woman tried to pull away from Sheriff Whiting. Her singing grew louder.
“Aw c’mon, Professor, don’t give us a hard time. We’ll just take you to County Med, get you stabilized, and you can go home. Okay? Ramirez, give me a hand here, will ya.”
The Sheriff’s partner took hold of the woman’s other arm and together they pulled her off the rock.
“Ramirez, stamp out that fire– Professor, I’m gonna just put these cuffs on you, real light, just so we’ll all be safe, okay?”
The woman stood before the men, still rocking and singing softly to herself.
“Why do you call her ‘Professor’?” asked Ramirez.
“She taught at Southhill– anthropology or environmental science– something like that– an expert on the local tribes. A real activist– y’know that ‘get-in-touch-with-nature’ stuff.”
Whiting and Ramirez led the woman up the canyon trail towards the highway.
“What happened to her?”
“Dunno. Just flipped out one day and the school canned her. She lives in a house down near the mouth of the canyon– perfectly harmless when she stays in her own backyard– but then she starts wandering up and down the canyon, ticks off the neighbors with her wailing, lights fires, geez….”
“And no one knows what set her off….”
Sheriff Whiting gently eased the woman’s blonde head into the police unit and shut the door. He chuckled, “Maybe it was the evil spirits….”
Ramirez frowned at Whiting, but the woman laughed and sang even louder.
Image and story: Lori Gloyd (c) 2006
Heather Blakey
Anita Marie
imogen88
Lori
shewolfy728
traveller2006
cheshire7
cronelogical
manonf
peacebird
soultide
Chefleur
woodnymph
Jill
jodhiay
murcha
artrites
gailkav
annestri
soulsister