In the cedar long house the People met.

Quiet filled the hall.  Only shadows moved –

in the dance and flicker of torches.

Heads bowed in mediation, the silence

screamed of sorrow, anguish and shame.

His transgression.

 

Waiting, outside, in the sunshine,

his eyes rose to the backdrop of cliffs,

mist shrouded. Combed by spiky spruce.

Jeweled with glimpses of blue. Spirit filled.

The silence pressed down surrounding him.

Alone in all the world with his thoughts.

His guilt

 

Closed ears woke to muted sounds of sorrow.

The call of the people, it was time.

Slowly he entered the long house, head bowed

to kneel, hands cupped,

before an emblem of his misdoing.

Their pity on his cringing back,

worse than harsh words,

more painful than the lash.

His shame.

 

Beside the icon, a twisted taper stood.

Cedar fiber, pine resin and down.

The masked elder stood, bowl in hand –

he placed a charcoal ember on up turned palm.

In the great hall the sound of rising wind –

whispered.  “Awaken the ember, light the taper.”

One chance.

 

Scorched skin shaking, breath fans black to red.

Placed by the taper, will the tinder catch?

Black turns to white, move the tiny coal.

Gently blow to quicken red again.

The down flares, the taper is alight.

The people are the first squall of a storm.

His hope!

 

Pitch gouts flash and spit.

The emblem still un-scorched,

bright hot the light but all alone the taper flames.

Fading, sputtering, then a lone flare jets blue.

Reaching out to the icon, supplication.

The sound in the hall was of a waterfall.

The emblem consumed by fire –

and in its dying leaves the ground.

His prayer.

 

The white ash flew, an insect in a grass fire.

A flaming locust, butterfly, or cobweb.

Then fell to earth nothingness on the earthen floor.

Head bowed, face against knee,

great sobs of remorse and relief.

Buckskin fringes soaked, with tears washed clean.

The people the sound of a fierce gale.

Forgiveness.

 

And The People raised a great shout.

Crash of thunder that drove the storm away.

Their cry of joy echoed against the cliff.

He rose to take his place, head held high.

Arms enfold him, warmth and understanding.

No longer outcast, part of The People.

The river of life flows past many rocks.

Catharsis.

David Garlick, Victoria, October 1995