We the Trees: May 2009

Someone will remember us … even in another time.”
—Sappho (ca.600 BCE)

Chapter One
Some of you will feel this story resonate in the deep pool within your soul.
This story will be like a tiny stone that falls into you, falling, falling, at last splashing into the deep pool. It will make a sound only you can hear. The stone will revive you with concentric waves of remembrance. It will create silver light upon the waters of your soul, and the mysteries within you will begin to stir.

~*

Radiance! The highest reaches of the canyon in the red earth were aglow with ribbons of lavender, peach, and pink light, heralding the birth of a new day. Alana was overwhelmed by the intense speed of her unexpected, vertical flight. Her lungs felt as though they were being mashed against the bones of her rib cage. Numbness filled her limbs, her senses felt muddled. There were only puzzle pieces of hypersensitive perception.

Her grandmother’s voice echoed in her ears. “So what did you learn at school today?”

Strangely soft, the sound of feathers brushing gently against the wind. She looked to her right and saw her own flight was perfectly parallel to that of a beautiful falcon making its own flight up the canyon face. Alana caught her breath. The falcon’s eye, glistening like a polished stone full of limitless secrets, stared at her, then blinked. The falcon flew ahead of her and with a shrill cry disappeared over the edge of the precipice.

Bits of carved bone and shaped metal charms decorated a leather thong tied around the pastern bone of a gray horse standing at the edge of the canyon just above her. Tiger-striped black markings ran all the way up its slender legs. Shifting its weight from one front leg to the other, the horse lightly kicked a tiny stone with one hoof. The stone tumbled as if in slow motion over the edge of the cliff.

Alana looked up again. Next to the gray horse stood a black horse whose ice blue eyes were staring down at her. Rising from the horse’s pink nose, a wide, white blaze broadened, as if blooming across the horse’s forehead into a crescent moon. The horse’s rider, her own brown eyes bewildered and concerned, was also looking at her, an arm outstretched to offer assistance. Alana made eye contact with the rider of the black horse. A timeless stillness suspended the reality of everything around her.

Awareness instantly returned to all her senses when life and time began to move again with a frenetic energy. She was propelled into a thunderous collision with the rider.

The scene changed. Darkness all around. Stand still, she told herself. Don’t move. Figure it out first. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Where was she?

The unmistakable scent of damp soil filled her nose. She could feel cool air circulating in the rhythmic bursts of a damp draft. It was as if she stood in the throat of some great beast. Echoing from somewhere ahead were the sounds of crying and melodic humming. She thought her heart was beating loud enough that someone else would be able hear it. There was a slight glow just ahead. Alana moved toward it, toward the light.

A mass of thin, string-like protrusions brushed against her hands. A wave of adrenaline burned fear through her veins. With a few more steps, she came to the source of the light. A cleft in the wall of dark soil held a tiny lamp of red clay with a flame so weak it was barely visible. She reached for the lamp. The moment she picked up the lamp, the tiny flame fluttered into a living golden light that illuminated the area around her. The oval shape of the lamp fit naturally and comfortably in the palm of her trembling hand.

The chamber seemed to be buttressed by large roots that held the walls of soil in place. Thin, hairy roots burst in masses through the walls. Instead of feeling comfort in being in a better lit space, she felt more anxious as she saw the details the light revealed. Her breathing became more distressed. She nearly blew out the flame in her trembling hand. She could still hear the crying in the darkness ahead, but the humming had stopped.

She moved forward, toward the crying, toward the sound of suffering. Deeper and deeper, the tunnel wound its way into the earth. The light she sought seemed to be just around the bend. Now she could hear, in addition to the crying, the dull whooshing of something rhythmic and precise. As she came around the corner, she saw a woman with a slight hump on her back. She was working an enormous loom that was surrounded by several oil lamps.
Alana had the luxury of being undetected by the weaver. She looked around carefully, wondering if it would be best to speak and let the weaver know she was nearby. In her moment of quiet observation, she watched with a voyeur’s anonymity.

A strange, hanging headpiece covered the weaver’s head and face; it took several moments for Alana to realize it was a shoulder-length veil. How the woman was able to work in this dim light and wearing a veil besides, she couldn’t begin to imagine. Alana moved forward until she was standing just behind the veiled woman, who was dressed in a simple, long-sleeved, gray tunic. Her hunched shoulders gave evidence of the long hours she’d spent bent over this great loom, weaving with a precision that could only be earned through endless hours of working her craft. The woman’s hands, her only unveiled aspect, had swollen knuckles, skin as thin as an onion’s stretched across bulging blue veins, and bony fingers neatly capped by short fingernails made glossy by long hours working with natural fibers.

The hanging roots around her grew in every color. When the weaver finished a row, she pulled a root out of the wall or ceiling and tasted it, confirming it was what she hoped for with a scratchy “Mhmmm.” Then she wove it into the emerging composition. But some of the roots were apparently bitter, and those she spat out onto the floor, though she often wove the root in just the same, murmuring to herself in a confusion of indiscernible sounds.

Because she was so deeply engrossed in her work, the weaver remained oblivious of the fact that she was no longer alone. Alana walked past her, still staring, and then she spotted the yards and yards of a massive tapestry piled neatly at the end of the broad horizontal loom. The crying she’d heard earlier was very close now, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the weaver and the dark pattern the old woman was weaving, with its slowly widening streak of gold contrasting against its surroundings.

The sobbing suddenly got louder, drowning out the sound of the loom and the old woman’s humming. Alana looked down. Lying beneath the loom on the cold, damp floor, cradled between two enormous roots, was a nude child. She bent down to look more closely at the weeping child, extending the clay lamp to illuminate the area. The child was shivering and filthy.

Kneeling down to reach for the child under the loom, Alana saw that the roots were part of a trunk. The tree trunk grew out of the roots cradling the child and branched out across the bottom of the tapestry the woman was weaving. The roots, trunk, and branches combined to create a stunning illusion that the woven tapestry might be the sky, it seemed to be so far above her. Alana wondered at the sight of the lush growth—branches, twigs, and leaves springing from branches beneath the tapestry and woven into the pattern with the roots the old woman selected. All this was done so expertly that they disappeared entirely into the pattern.

Alana turned her attention back to the child. A tangled mass of filthy hair hid its face. Above them, the shuttle was still moving back and forth. “Come closer,” Alana whispered, beckoning the forlorn child. Tears began to flow from her own eyes. She couldn’t make eye contact with the child because of the thick mass of its unkempt hair. She wanted to help the child. Clean it, feed it, dress it, brush its hair. Maternal desperation overwhelmed her.

She put down the lamp and crawled under the loom, finally going deep enough to wrap her fingers around the child’s arm. She pulled it from beneath the loom and into her arms. Rocking and comforting the child at last gave her a feeling of well-being she could share with the child. Gently, she pushed back the mass of filthy hair and tenderly brushed her hand along the child’s face. It was a girl.

“There, there,” Alana said. “You’ll be okay now.”

Sitting under the edge of the loom and comforting the child, she hadn’t noticed that the shuttle had stopped. The room was still. The old woman was crouched down now, silent and unmoving, looking over Alana’s shoulder at the forlorn child.

Feeling the sweetness of the visitor’s touch, the little girl curled up in her lap, resting her head on one breast. Alana looked into the girl’s eyes and was amazed to see, even in this dim light, that they were no particular color, yet seemed to have an iridescent quality that reflected all colors. The perfectly round iris looked almost silver.

“I must not be seeing this right,” she muttered to herself. She turned to reach for the tiny oil lamp.

The old woman leaned closer until her veiled face was nearly resting on Alana’s shoulder. Turning her head, Alana suddenly found herself face to face with her. The veil fluttered with the old woman’s breath as she hissed, “You must remember!”

Terrified, Alana pushed herself away as quickly as she could and stood up. Carrying the child in her arms, she tried to run away.

~*

The canvas hammock was rocking back and forth like a metronome timed to her breath. Alana sat up, her heart beating wildly, her mind still whirling. She opened her eyes. Headlights glared through the night, blinding her, forcing her eyes to close again. A big truck rumbled toward the cabin and turned along the dirt track that passed along in front of it. Samaria was still sitting in a chair at the other end of the porch. The magazine she was reading was folded into thirds, and her legs and feet were arranged lotus-style in the chair, her black, lug-soled, combat style boots lying on their sides beneath the chair. Moths flew in circles around the lamp above her. Katie sat on the other side of the lamp with a portable DVD player and headphones, watching a random selection of the recorded news programs her boyfriend sent her each week. She carried all of her technology toys in a juice pack with solar panels in what looked like a backpack. There was a place to plug in almost anything inside the pack. A few hours in the sun and she could recharge most of her toys.
Alana looked at the clock. Four a.m. A colored pencil rolled off her stomach and fell to the floor. She sat up quickly to try to catch it, which only sent the other five colored pencils to the floor. They landed and scattered, red, violet, green, yellow, orange, blue. Alana just watched as they came to a stop. Then she took the sketch pad wedged between her waist and the hammock and set it on the floor beneath her.

Footsteps and hushed voices drifted through the night. “What’s going on?” Alana asked Samaria. “It’s too early for anyone to be up and working.”

“Your question in a wee second,” Samaria replied, nodding and looking into the darkness surrounding the lighted porch. “I don’t know why you have all those colored pencils since you only use one pencil for the entire drawing. What was it tonight? Blue?”

“No, tonight I used purple.”

Alana rubbed her forehead with her work-stiffened fingers and lay back down on the pillow to enjoy the cool air. Nighttime brought the only reprieve from the intense summer heat of Cappadocia. Consciously taking deep breaths, she was trying to clear her mind of the residue of her dreams, which lingered in waves within her.

The unmistakable sound of Dr. Marge Kissels’ shuffling gait made it obvious, even in the darkness, she was the one approaching the porch, but it was also obvious that she wasn’t alone. Alana wondered if Marge’s long silver braids would reflect the porch light. She sat up just a bit. She didn’t want to be lying down for a conversation with the head of the project that was so important it warranted a two a.m. visit to their cabin.

The dig had been organized by Professor Marge Kissel of the University of California at Berkeley in cooperation with her counterparts at the University of Ezerum at Ezerum, Turkey. The dig was small, and all of the students working on it had been invited by Marge herself, who had sought the personal recommendations of colleagues around the globe.

“Good morning, Alana,” Marge said as she approached the porch. “Good morning, Samaria. Katie.” She nodded at each young woman. “Don’t you people ever sleep?” She didn’t pause to wait for an answer. “Well, since you’re all still awake, I thought it would be a good time to stop by for a quick chat. I’ll ask you to share this with everyone else in the morning as they wake up.”

Marge and her assistant, Antaya Mills, stepped forward. Antaya’s scarlet hair was clearly visible, even in the shadows. It always looked remarkable against her cocoa skin. They were followed by Duygu, a local woman hired to be a translator for the people working on the dig.

“Sleep is the twin of death,” Samaria replied.

‘Thank you, Homer,” Marge said dryly.

Alana couldn’t help but notice that even at four a.m. Marge’s braids were perfectly symmetrical; there wasn’t a single loose hair. To stave off the slight chill moving in the air, the professor wore a loose-fitting denim shirt and a white T-shirt underneath. She was by no means a fashionable woman, but her appearance captured Alana’s attention. The giant turquoise buckle on her belt stood out against the silver disks that circled her tiny waist. She seemed to be smiling, though it was hard for the three younger women to be sure.

Duygu was staring so pointedly at Alana that Katie and Samaria noticed it and glanced over at Alana, who was now lying on her side, preparing to sit up. She almost giggled at the faces of her friends, each imitating Duygu. She draped one leg over the edge of the hammock. The primary colors of the wide horizontal stripes of her socks looked ridiculous with the smiley faces she had drawn on her toes with a Sharpie marker earlier in the evening. When she wiggled her toes at Duygu, Antaya noticed the exchange and walked up onto the porch and sat on the end of the hammock, forcing Alana to sit up and hang both legs over the edge. When Antaya sat down, they slid together into the center of the hammock, rocking back and forth while the ropes holding the hammock squeaked with the strain.

“Duygu came to my cabin half an hour ago,” said Marge. “To let me know that the last of the workers have decided to leave the dig. That was them in the truck you saw a few minutes ago. Unfortunately, that means that we will need to have some detailed discussions at the morning meeting about how to get the dig finished before our permits run out in thirty days.” She looked at the three young women. “What I’d like to do,” she continued, “is give you some time to think about it. I wanted to let you know as soon as possible. Duygu has asked to stay on, so we can include her in any plans we make.” The Turkish woman nodded in agreement.

Having noticed the interaction between Duygu and Alana, Marge put her hand on Duygu’s shoulder and said, “We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow. Rest, the sweet sauce of labor—”

“Thank you, Plutarch,” Katie interrupted, and Marge smiled and winked at her.

Squeezing Duygu on the shoulder, the head of the archaeological team turned around to go back to her cabin. Still staring at Alana, Duygu wagged her head back and forth and said very slowly, in a nearly condescending tone, “Silver is female. It is the color of the moon. In ancient days, it symbolized fertility and was women’s protector. Silver objects and silver jewelry were used in religious ceremonies. It was worn by pregnant women and is said to keep away evil spirits.”

Then Duygu turned to follow the professor. Her history lesson was so random and serious that Alana, Katie, and Samaria couldn’t help but giggle and mock the sober facial expression Duygu had when she openly stared at Alana. They all stopped giggling abruptly when Alana glanced out into the darkness and noticed the porch light reflected flashes of light from the silver disks on the professor’s belt as she made her way down the dirt track into predawn darkness. Then they giggled even harder.

Antaya turned to Alana to tease her in a friendly way. “What made you decide to wear white denim cut-off shorts, thigh-high toe socks, and that glamorously torn hoodie?” she asked.

“I like colorful clothes,” Alana replied. “Antaya, with hair like that, you must be able to appreciate colorful choices like mine.”

“I love bold choices,” Antaya responded. “Those socks are a bold choice.” She turned to Samaria. “Sam, what are you reading?”

“Hmmm? I’m reading an article about the dig a group did in the Parzryk Valley. Would you like me to tell you about it?”

“Sure. A little shop talk is always good at two in the morning. What have you got?”

“Well, this is an article about the Ice Maiden found in the Pazyryk Valley of the Altai Mountains in Siberian Russia. It seems that the local people still practice the ancient shamanic rites of their ancestors. When the 2,500-year-old mummy was found, her remains were moved to the Siberian capital of Novosibirsk to be studied. The people believe that shamans are mediators between the physical world and the world of spirits. That’s why, they say, only returning the Ice Maiden to her proper resting place will stop the earthquakes and other recent problems in the area.
“You see,” Samaria continued, glancing at Alana to make sure she was listening, too, “these ancient people lived in the area for centuries before Russia colonized it. That was only 300 years ago. The scientists, of course, don’t believe that earthquakes, suicides, and sickness were brought on by the removal of the Ice Maiden. But the nomads have their beliefs. Besides, if they reburied her, what would the rest of the scientific community think? Interestingly enough, the area has been known since the time of Herodotus as the Pastures of Heaven. An American archaeologist said the team that excavated the Ice Maiden site had a sense of foreboding. Members had frequent nightmares.”

Alana sat still, her face expressionless, but she could feel the growing ball of energy rising in her stomach, nauseating her. The group waited for Samaria to say something else, but her summary of the magazine article was apparently complete.

Antaya couldn’t let Samaria scare the other women, so she said in a very calm, motherly voice, “Sam, that sounds pretty much like action-hero crypto archaeology. Don’t you think?”

Samaria considered. “Well,” she said after a minute, “everything was fine until we found those graves encircled by white stones. The local people seem to have immediately recognized them. They said it was evil work to disturb the dead. Since then, we’ve steadily lost the entire crew of workers. Without explanation. Today we excavated the warrior. Tonight the last three workers left. It sure feels pretty much like action-hero crypto archaeology to me.”
“We are scientists, Samaria. Besides, aside from the obvious fact that none of you sleep normally anyway, no one here is being haunted by nightmares.”

Samaria and Katie couldn’t help but stare at Alana, who blushed and hung her head, staring down at her smiley-face toes.

Friday, May 8, 2009

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Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Chapter One

Early Praise for The Well of Time

What did the ancients know?

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