Since venturing into the wilderness, I was experiencing a new kind of music, sometimes calming, sometimes inspiring, and sometimes annoying. Birds chattered; animals rhapsodized in camaraderie; water trickled, telling stories and whispering secrets; wind enlivened the voices of trees.
And tonight, I would experience the music of the Indian.
Pete handed me a turtle-shell rattle, with small mammal vertebrae, horsehair, and feathers secured to its body with rawhide lashing. “To symbolize the rain,” he said. “You’ll know what to do.”
He gave a cedar flute decorated with geometric symbols and dangling leather cords to Dr. Mendez. “Word has it you’re pretty good at this.”
“And Gentle Bear’ll share the songs of his ancestors.”
“Of course,” Veronica said with an eye roll that would have made a querulous teen proud. But when Pete offered her a rattle, she shooed it away. “I’ll sing with Ben.”
“The drum represents the heartbeat,” Pete said, presenting Joshua with what looked like a hollowed-out log with tanned buckskin stretched across the opening.
“With each beat of the drum,” Dr. Mendez said, “you will be pulled from ordinary awareness to the opening in the earth leading to the Lower World of mysteriously beautiful landscape, formed of mountains, forests, and trees, all illuminated by a subterranean sun.”
That, I thought, sounded like a description of where we’d already arrived, unless, of course, the doctor was describing the inner world of the unconscious, made accessible via the drum as a bridge.
Morgan sat facing me on the opposite side of the fire. Pete waved a one-stringed fiddle his way, which appeared to be made out of a hollowed-out vegetal stalk bound with sinew wrappings. Morgan shook his head and held up his camera.
“Did you bring your markers?” Ben asked.
I reached into my pouch and handed him five of my stones: yellow for the East, red for the South, black for the West, white for the North, and green for the Center.
Ben made a crude Medicine Wheel around the perimeter of the campfire and then asked Joshua to join him. They walked to each point of the wheel, where Joshua beat the drum with the palm of his hand to call on the powers of the Four Directions. Holding the green stone above his head, Ben cried out, “Great Spirit, we give thanks for our lives and for the gifts of the earth and the sky. Be with us on our healing journey.”
After placing the green stone in the wheel’s center next to the fire, Ben lit a smudge stick. The aroma of sweet grass and sage mingled with the musky smell of burning wood and pine needles to purify and bless each traveler in our group. As the blue light of late afternoon turned to the vibrant oranges and reds of twilight, Ben lifted his voice in song. “Nya Ho To Tya Ha.”
Joshua settled next to me, closed his eyes, and tapped the drum with the pads of his fingers. He’d obviously done this before. But when? Had he joined his father in healing rituals and ceremonies?
At Ben’s signal, I shook the rattle tentatively. At first, it sounded like beans shaking in a jar, but when I closed my eyes and imagined I was the rain, the rattle took on new life, blending seamlessly with the beat of the drum and Ben’s powerful chant-like song.
Dr. Mendez blew into the flute, and the resonance of its plaintive call caused my heartbeat to slow. As the air blew out and re-entered the flute’s chamber, I imagined the uplifting moan of the wind and the lonely howl of the coyote, and my body relaxed into—and united with—its pure melody.
Ben started to dance in circles in the ancient way. “Help me see the path with a heart,” he cried. Our instruments served as backups to Ben’s gripping prayer songs, and the blended sounds were so sweet that my chest ached and my eyes burned. The birds and animals became silent as if taking in, even understanding, our composite message.
Veronica’s singing mimicked Ben’s like an echo, “Oh Ho Mo Ne Me.” Their voices melded, and for a while, they became one, sharing a common goal.
I entered a serene state of stillness, no longer sensing a separation between my body and spirit. Following the breathy sound of the flute and the hypnotic beat of the drum, I journeyed out of my body. The heavens united with the earth and a thin space opened between them. Something bigger and more powerful than I, something more optimistic, more loving, more beautiful, drew me to the other side.
Sunwalker . . .
The drumming stopped, but the flute and singing continued, and just as I was about to pass through the space between here and there, I felt a tug on my arm. At first, I resisted its pull, but a second, more urgent tug caused me to open my eyes. Joshua knelt next to me, and in his silent, knowing way, he took my rattle and clasped my hand.
I looked over Joshua’s shoulder and met Morgan’s eyes, but in the shifting firelight, it was impossible to read the expression on his face.
Dr. Mendez lowered his flute onto his knees just as Ben raised his hands and cried, “Thank you, Creator, for sending forth Eagle’s gift of wisdom and healing.”
A hoarse, two-second kee-eeeee-arr screeched from above, followed by silence.
The doctor picked up the drum and tapped it steadily. “I’ll lead Ben home while he recalls his spirit.”
🗲🗲🗲
I opened my eyes, met Morgan’s gaze, smiled.
Until comprehension set in.
“What are you doing in my tent?”
His lips were so close to mine that I thought he was going to kiss me. And, darn, if I wouldn’t have let him. Instead, he said, “To invite you to watch the sunrise with me.”
“But it’s still dark outside.”
“Of course, it’s still dark outside, sweetheart,” he said with a John Wayne drawl. “That’s why we need to set out now.”
Was this man crazy?
“Don’t say no,” he said softly.
“Okay, okay,” I said, directing him outside with the point of my finger. “Give me a minute while I get dressed.”
He’d already seen me at my worst, so no use in primping now. I pulled on my jeans, sweatshirt, wool socks, and hiking boots, then snuggled into my hooded, down jacket and secured my hair under a beanie.
By flashlight, Morgan led the way to a spot some distance from the camp. Although sheltered by oak and pine, I sensed that we’d soon be privy to a spectacular view of the eastern horizon, jutted with neck-craning red-rock spires. Morgan spread a blanket for us to sit on and then turned his attention to the predawn sky.
“The sun won’t rise for a while yet,” he said, “which gives us a chance to talk.”
Good. Now maybe he’d answer some questions, like what he was doing here and what was up between him and Veronica.
“Have you called your mother since you’ve been out here?” he asked.
Whoa. Hold it. What right did he have poking his nose into my business when he was so tight-lipped about his own? “You don’t even know my mother, and you obviously don’t know me,” I said. “But just to set the record straight, she’s very controlling and wants to live my life for me. Bet you wouldn’t put up with her meddling, if she were your mother.”
“Would it be that detrimental to make one call?” he asked.
“Yep.”
We faced each other, his eyes warm and penetrating and mine likely shooting out sparks.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“I already have a shrink, Morgan. I don’t need another.”
We hadn’t seen or heard from each other in ten years, and now, within days of our re-acquaintance, he had the nerve to comment on my behavior. What was it about me that drew people’s unsolicited advice? It couldn’t be my appearance. Veronica and I looked identical, and I hadn’t noticed anyone leading her by the collar.
“Are you punishing your mother because she wants to protect you or because she can’t let you go?”
“Don’t make me question myself, Morgan. I can do a pretty good job of that on my own.”
“You think I’m picking on you?”
“Yes, and I believe I might understand why. I remind you of your sister, the way she’s treating your mother and your family. But is what she’s doing so wrong? Have you ever considered that maybe she needs a little space? A loving family can really cramp your style.”
He ran his fingers alongside my cheek and under my chin, before cupping my face with the palm of his hand. For a second time, I thought he was going to kiss me, and in spite of my objection to his none-of-your-business questions, I closed my eyes, probably even puckered my lips.
Instead of a kiss came another question. “What is it you’re searching for?”
The conversation had taken a new turn, even fuller of potholes than the previous one. I sighed and reopened my eyes. “I’ve come to the recent conclusion that I’ve been a little too proficient at following the say-so of others, including my family, my boss, and my church. Instead of freeing me to get in touch with myself and my reason for being, they’ve pressured me into conforming to rules and rituals.”
“Rules and rituals are meant as aids, not hurdles,” Morgan said, dropping his hand from my face and leaving the chill morning air in its wake.
Though part of me knew that the coldness of separation was a small price to pay for being able to speak my own mind, another part of me ached for the warmth of his touch. “I no longer feel connected to life . . . and to God.”
“Has that changed since you’ve come here?”
“Almost. Last night with the chant-like songs, for instance, I felt something, really felt something.”
“Ben calls them vocables, but I know what you mean. The Church has chants.”
“No comparison, Morgan. And you know it. The Gregorian chants in church don’t belong to the people. Only the priests sing them and usually only during High Mass.”
“Indian ceremonial songs were led by tribal medicine men and lead singers,” Morgan said, “not exactly ordinary people.”
“The vocables I heard last night were simple and accessible, like outpourings.”
Morgan wiped the moisture pooling under my eyes. And I didn’t stop him. It felt good to release some of my pent-up emotions of late, to admit to having longings and desires.
“I agree they were beautiful,” he said, “and that your intentions are good, but. . . When we get back to town, will you join me for Easter Mass?”
An image of Cliff and my mother, their trickery, their betrayal, had me shaking my head. “I tried going back to church with a different attitude and it didn’t work out too well.”
A blush of salmon glowed above and between the eastern ridge of rocks, turning the black horizon into an orange-blushed blue.
“You’ve definitely been a good influence on Joshua,” Morgan said.
“He doesn’t try to change me.”
“Actually, I don’t want to change you, either,” Morgan said, covering my hand with his, “which is what I’ve been trying to tell you, though apparently not very well. You see yourself as a caterpillar, and I see you as a butterfly.”
Tired of talking about me, I pulled my hand from Morgan’s and changed the subject. “I can’t get a grasp of Joshua’s love.”
“I’d say Joshua is love,” Morgan said.
“You mean the way the Bible defines love? Patient and kind, bearing, believing, hoping, and enduring of all things?”
“God’s message in a nutshell,” Morgan said.
“So that’s the answer? All one has to do is love? Morgan, tell me straight. What do you want from me?”
He didn’t answer.
“Do you want my love?”
He stiffened, made no comment.
“I’d love you in a heartbeat,” I said, “if that were the answer. Every bone in my body tells me you’d fulfill a need in me like no other man on this earth. I’d come so close to heaven, I’d be tempted to give up my search altogether, but then I ask myself, ‘At what price?’”
Still no comment.
“That’s why I can’t give in, Morgan. When I look into your eyes, see your tenderness, your strength, I want—”
“Stop it, Marjorie.”
“I just want—”
He grimaced as if my words were hurting him, and then he got up and walked away.
Too late, to retract my outburst of honesty, the truth I’d hidden for so long, even from myself. But I didn’t regret what I’d said. Secrets come out eventually, and Morgan had asked for it. Too bad I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted Cliff, and too bad he presented such a big threat to my freedom.
Losing my freedom, yet again, was not an option.
I watched the sunrise alone, nearly blinded by the intense light.
Maybe, that’s how it is with God. If I could actually see Him, I’d be blinded. Maybe, like the sun, the Great One is meant to be felt, not seen.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.