Keeper of the Flame

It had not been difficult even in the dark, moonless night, to locate the family burial grounds. Once there, it was easy to discover the tiny mound, now tucked beneath the scrawny limbs of a shrub, at the outer edge of the plot where for many years her family had placed the departed relatives. Quickly now with her digging tool she unearthed a small scrap of dried, dirt covered skin, crumpled with age and rolled into a thin cylinder. It was held together with a thin leather tie.  Her hands shaking convulsively, her heart pounding and her mouth parched dry, she impatiently ripped the tie off the treasure she sought and spread the skin on the ground.  She breathed upon the firebrand she had brought along.  The soft, red glow dimly illuminated the scrap of hide enough that she could see the words that would prove she had once existed, even though it had been for a brief time.

There they were, clear and positive; no room for error. Scrawled in faded, but legible letters, upon the aged skin was the proof she needed.  Clutching the remnant to her breast, she lifted her face skyward and screamed into the night winds, “I live, I am real, I truly am a person.  I am Moon Flower.  I exist the same as Bright Star.  I exist.  I am,” she still murmured through a flood of scalding tears pouring down her face.

Daringly she mentioned the name she has heard only in whispers, as a departed myth.  Falling to her knees she pressed her face into her shaking hands.  Great, soul-wrenching sobs tore from her throat, and snatched pieces from her wounded heart.“

“I am.  I am.  I exist.  I live.”

Her tears continued to flow until her heart slowed and ceased pounding as though trying to escape her chest.  Sorrow embraced her as an holy mantle.  Within her mind she heard the quiet voice whisper,

“Rise, my child. Seek the mountain peak where visions are waiting to be discovered.”

Looking in every direction for assurance that she was alone, she determined the unfamiliar voice had come from within, rather than from without. 

Yes, she was indeed alone.  Of course she was alone. Since forever she had been that solitary shadow that lurked near the outer edges of life. That ugly thing that died at birth.  It has no name.  It does not exist.  It never became.

“But I do exist.  I have found my name and I am, I live; I truly am.” she exclaimed to the trees, the grass, the worms within the earth. They were all that ever heard her voice anyway, since the death of the evil priest.

If she allowed him to ‘examine’ her to see if the evil spirit that indwelled her body was spreading, he permitted her to speak with him.  When he was feeling especially solicitous toward her, he taught her many things from his books.  He had many talking pages, her people called them.  Through his efforts she had learned to read and write over the years, a rare accomplishment among her tribe.  Learning quickly, she had nothing to distract her attention other than the ministration of the priest.

There were the rare occasions when the shaman, Gray Feather, would allow her to visit with him if she covered her head and did not speak.  She was not allowed to open her mouth while in his presence.  Long ago he admitted to himself only that his medicine was not strong enough to over-come the evil spirit that indwelled her body. 

Listening closely to him, she considered those times to be an opportunity to learn about that which she was not allowed to partake of.  Alone in the forest later, she practiced the sounds of the words she heard.  Even the creek had heard her words and song as it rushed downstream over the stones.  Through him she had heard the story of her birth, and why she was considered to be dead.  He also explained many things to her she would not have had the opportunity to learn had she been like her twin, Bright Star.

All of that made no difference to her now.  Finding and retrieving the tiny scrap of leather with her name scrawled on it was the last thing she must do before she completed her plans to go on her vision quest.

She had told no one as she was not allowed to speak or open her mouth.  For many months she had been packing small items she would need in the bottom of her gathering basket.  Rising from her sleeping mat before the others, taking her basket, she headed for the meadow, or the stream.  Sometimes she went into the forest, but always to her well-hidden cache of supplies.  This was the only means she had to prepare for her journey to a far away land from her people.

None would notice, or care, that she was gone.  It was her custom to rise before first light tinted the sky with soft hues of rose and gold.  Her pony would be glad to see her when she spread her blanket across the small mare’s back.  Moon Flower would vault upon the horse’s back and turn her head toward the sacred mountain.

Gaining the top of the hill, she sat overlooking the village where she had never lived the total of her six and ten summers.  Gently she pulled the horse to a stop.  For a moment, but no more, she looked down upon the sleeping settlement for the last time.