History
Day Four of A Dozen Days of Magical Realism
Isn’t this a great party? I know, right! We’ve got stories that are spooky, cautionary, heartbreaking, and even joyful! Remember, you can post stories to ANY POST as long as the party runs— so if you’ve just come up with your ideas for Solitude, Forest, or Malice, write ‘em down and post ‘em up!
Now refill those piña coladas, we’re about to dive deep.
One of the many things my Cherokee friend taught me before he died was to see the spiritual symbolism of Yunwi Gunahita, the long man, in every river, flowing from the top of every mountain deep into the earth. Water is a connecting principle across all areas of life, just as it is in nature. This archetypal way of seeing makes for a very layered way of interacting with reality, and is what inspired me for today’s story.
History
What is the shape of the river? Where is it and who can find it? I looked for it, in ruined cities and burnt out libraries, in the mildewed, overgrown rot of ancestral homes, and still I found it not.
The sage on the mountain only raised his eyebrow at my query. “The water you seek has already flowed. Why bother with it? Only the Now matters.” He may have been quite correct, but I was not soothed by his wise response. Still I felt the currents of the past tugging at me like little fishes. “Look here!” they trilled; yet when I followed them into musty books and sterile collections, their whispers faded into nothing. I walked the halls of many museums, the artifacts teasing me, speaking only when I was out of hearing and dancing only when my eyes turned away. The scent of water trickled in the corners, tricked me again and again.
I found it at last in a dream, though I was wakeful at the time. I lay on the bank of my own little stream, which chuckled merrily in celebrating the spring rain. As I followed it with my eyes, it changed.
At first the stream flowed straight and strong, the long man of the myth, certain of himself and his place, broad and all-encompassing. It was sequential in a way I thought I could comprehend, unidirectional, even logical at times. Then I came to the cliffs, colossal punctuating catastrophes that recurred along the now snaking, surging rush of the river. Back and forth it changed again and again, carving a path that folded over itself just when I thought I knew where I was headed. Even the drops of the waterfalls exhilarated, for I expected the gravity of them to pull me down.
But then I came to the whirlpool, a vortex vaster than any childish Charybdis of human imagination. Terrified, I plummeted upwards as well as downwards, circular but not, a complete reorienting of space and time that seemed to spiral in all directions at once, accomplishing additional dimension for which I had no words.
I was placed on my feet at the trickling source of a mountain stream. In the distance, the long man, the river, spiraled up from his rest, stood and reached out to embrace me with his bloodied hands.
Your turn! What stories did the huge idea of history make you think of? Tell them below in the comments! If you don’t know what’s going on, look back at the party invitation!
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Based very loosely on a tale from my family history:
Patrick's stomach twisted, yearning for something, but he ignored it. He might be six-years old, but he knew that there wasn't any food available to satiate his craving. There had not been enough food for his family for some time now, ever since his Father dug up the rotten, blackened potatoes that were their only source of sustenance. They had no money to buy grain, buy seeds to plant, buy life. Father had already gone, across the darkened sea, Ellen at his side so that they might find jobs in the Land of Plenty. What little they could send back was all Patrick's mother had to feed the rest of them.
So instead of begging his mother for food that didn't exist, Patrick wandered out of the yard into the rolling hills behind their hut. What used to be emerald grass was now mud with patches of green growth. Hoping to find something - onion grass, dandelions, anything - to eat, Patrick roamed in the early morning mist. His stomach curdled and groaned as he trudged slowly to each little tuff of green as the fog grew oddly thicker.
Suddenly, Patrick came up short, only narrowly missing walking face-first into a large stone. He blinked and then panicked, because there was nothing of this kind of old, worn stone near his village, to say nothing of the greater ring of stones he saw when he took several steps backwards. A chill ran up his spine. He knew his history - this was the work of the fair folk.
Patrick was about to turn and leave, when he saw a pair of glassy-green eyes staring at him from the other side of the stone. It was a woman and, except for her eyes, she looked exactly like Ellen, his sister lost across the sea. She smiled and reached out. When he saw what was in her hand, Patrick jerked forward. It was an apple, bright red and beautiful. All the stories his mother told him flew from his head at the sight of food. The Ellen-woman didn't say anything, didn't need to. Patrick took one step, then another.
He was at the very rim of the stone circle, a hand's breadth away from the Ellen-woman when a hand caught his too-long hair from behind, yanking him painfully backwards. Patrick barely had a chance to screech in pain when the hands lifted him into thin, strong arms. His stomach ached and turned as the arms carried him swiftly and a voice heard prayers to the Virgin murmuring over his head.
Before Patrick could even begin to gather his thoughts he smelled the acridity of dung fire and the arms loosened around him. He looked up and his mother's pale face looked back. They were sitting on the floor of their hut, the morning fire and the thin rays of sun through the door lighting haunted features. Silently, Patrick's mother ran her hands tenderly over him, searching for any sign of hurt or curse. Finding none, she breathed out and kissed the top of his head. Patrick's siblings were gathered around, equally quiet, all knowing something dread had happened. Her mouth still by his hair, Patrick's mother told them all "We are leaving for America as soon as we can reach the sea. I won't lose a child to famine or fair folk."
And from then until he first set foot on New ground, Patrick's family kept eyes on him and never once did the fair one try their luck again.
I spring lightly along the edges of the words that preserve records, dancing from one page to the next, soaking in the power of the victorious, all those who dominated, who controlled, who crushed their adversaries.
Each volume of conquest feeds my insatiable thirst for power. There will never be enough to fill me, but satiety is not what I seek. I seek greatness. I seek dominion. I seek omnipotence.
As I continue my whirling caper throughout the vast collection of recorded knowledge and events, I find myself becoming heavier and clumsier. The weight of the ages of warring conquest begins to pull me down and slow my reveling movements. My once sprightly limbs have lost their agility and grace. Now, the ecstasy of vanquishment has become burdensome rather than energizing. My steps become onerous and I stumble and fall, collapsing into oblivion under the weight of my appetites.
Bring him over here.
Now put him down. Gently!
I am wakened by whispering voices which fade away as I continue to lay with my eyes closed, attempting to regain my sense of equilibrium. Slowly I sit up and look around, trying to understand where I am. The lighting is dim and the volumes of records are dusty and dilapidated; some are even crumbling, falling to pieces with the passage of the centuries. I cautiously begin my dance again, tracing the letters that form the words, but am nonplussed by their unfamiliarity. These records do not speak of conquest and victory, nor do they speak of power and control. As I wander through the words I find myself dancing different steps, steps that mirror what I find here. These words speak of purity and meekness. They tell of making peace instead of war. They trace the lives of those who mourn their own sins and the state of the world; they speak of revilement and persecution for the sake of an Anointed One. And most of all they speak of bliss. Not the bliss that turns into heaviness and drags me down, but a different kind of blessedness which begins to make my steps lighter and more graceful than I have ever felt them to be before. I dance and dance, drawing from the pages fullness and life, my grace-filled movements drawing me ever closer to the source of all.