Seventh Day

 

 

My feet barely make a sound as I kneel on the hill overlooking Orphan Village. Laughing children play in the plaza. It is a tiny village, one story, maybe seven rooms, held in the tree-veined palm of rolling grass-covered hills. Turkeys squawk and strut. Dogs lie in the shadows, their tails wagging when the children dash by.

But I have eyes only for the hawk. A passing stranger told me about her. She clings to the willow bars of her cage in the northeastern corner of the plaza. It is a large cage, a full body-length tall and two wide. She is a truly beloved pet. Most owners would not prepare such a lavish cage; they would merely tie her legs and tether her to a post, throwing her food when necessary.

Feathers cling to the willow bars, marking all the places she has beaten her wings against the wood.

In the summer, the Chief of this village robs a fledgling from its nest and brings the bird home. It is part of his Spirit vision. It is said that his Helper is Packrat, and that by caging one of Packrat’s greatest enemies, the Chief pacifies and gains the blessings of his Spirit Helper.

The hawk beats her wings, and striped feathers flutter through the warm sunshine. Her sharp eyes focus on the turkeys strutting arrogantly in front of her cage.

I understand her desperation.…

Though she has never been free, never soared through crystalline skies, or dived for prey, the hunger lives in her heart. With every flap of her wings, she is hunting, hunting …

Like me.

A wild creature lurks in my soul, and it longs to sail free through endless skies. Yet I have spent my life building my own cage. I tie each stick into place as if my life depends upon it. My mother taught me, and her mother taught her, and her mother taught her.

It is what we do. Humans cage things. Dogs, turkeys, and hawks. We domesticate corn, beans, and squash. Any wild strain is promptly plucked out and killed.

Especially if the strain grows in our own hearts.

Wildness is dangerous.

So we line the deserts with roads. That way no one ever strays from the path. We build huge houses to separate ourselves from earth and sky, then paint our walls with majestic images of mountains and rainstorms, and ask, “Don’t they look real?” We busy ourselves making lamps and torches, and boast that we’re not afraid of the dark.

But in our hearts, we are afraid.

For all our efforts, the pretty cage is not safe. A desperate hunter beats his wings against the bars, longing for a leap from a towering cliff, or to dive through rain-scented storm winds.

The hawk below me screams again. The shrill desperate cry echoes from the hills, and in my soul.

I know how she feels.

Inside the cage, the hunter can only hunt himself.