CROSSING

Long, long ago, in the north, it was said the mountain opened herself to the people. A stream of the clearest water once flowed, there, where she provided shelter from windstorm and rain. The people of the mountain moved as shadows with their bows and spears through her forests. They gave thanks for she allowed them a crossing through her folds. Among these hunters, there was one who was blessed, for a diwata visited her.

 

In dreams, the diwata instructed her, and she instructed the others—with voices together, silver-winged birds trilling, then turning and curling like the mountain stream itself, it is said they sang songs of thanks and lament to the hunted, while in a stark vision, thunder and black smoke. In the sweet waters of the mountain stream, this stream she knew soon would rot, she cleaned antler, bone, and hoof as if she were bathing her own children. She adorned her robes and headdress, so that by firelight, she came to resemble these fallen animals. Then she called to the midnight sky.

 

I did not see this for myself, for this was many, many years before even my mother’s mother was born. How tall the hunter woman stood, graced as she was. It is believed she crossed that bridge, the one between village and ancestors. She spoke words no one living could understand. She saw what no one living could see. Seas seized by great vessels, she said. Our men, huddled in the blindness of their hulls, bound.