If All Else Fails (10 page)

The dark fears of
primitives are awash here. Don't pho­tograph me. I can't look like that forever. Don't capture my
soul, devil box, the beauty hoax. Souls don't look like that except when forced. Rabbit hutches
are filled with too many contents, all looking for a place to die on the photograph of their
souls. A place to die on the photograph of your soul.

I wonder if you
have seen Earth. Golden wasted acres of blame. Graceful fields of forage and bovine creatures,
harnessed to photographs of photogenic souls, plowing the literary worlds with foreplay-sharpened
elbows. And the hordes that await glitter, they swarm among you, beneath you, in carpools and
typing pools, writing indirect memos to the sun, typing double-spaced copy on Art Deco bedsheets.
A place to die on the photograph of your soul.

Sail into the wind,
Cassandra. The third planet from the sun is hungry for your votes and every vote is a vote and as
planned; there is no storm that can drink any more of you than you of it. Only where you spin too
loudly, only where you bulge the equators where others have planned some­thing polar and cold for
you, perhaps then they will be frightened of you. When you BECOME where formerly you BELONGED,
only then will the third planet from the sun, busy with some little war or other, stop for a
minute or two. Perhaps the world will uncircle the sun, hold its breath, con­sider itself in a
new light. Perhaps.

Ancient wisdom
exists only if you use it, knock down the
azure sky. Touch people with human hands. Cover the rab­bit hutch with stolen thunder.
The cattle are fat and mean in this weather. They like the grass prechewed. The fences men erect
don't fool anybody and they really don't count sheep to put them asleep. They don't.

They're afraid of
sheep and what lurks in innocence, buried deep. I am sheep. I toil not in the fields and eat not
of the grass therein. I have beautiful jeweled eyes. I live asleep on the blade of a dagger. I
crouch in culture fright on the edges of the cities. I await my liberation with eyes that stalk
not beauty but power and world-unfearing strength.

Hard sisters, sleep
here among the sheep but in the dark, carry scissors. Free us from the wool of men's eyes. Take
us away in your strength, take us with you, leave the cattle a place to die on the photograph of
their souls. I lose my legs angrily, they fall off in front of tourists and I won't dance
anymore. Lose your legs, too. Cut them off the photograph. The ears of the planet and eyes, cut
them, trim them out with strong hearts. The blood runs close to the surface, so cut
there.

Not temporary cuts,
cut deep. Not superficial cuts, cut deep. Take the tops off the mountains, let the forest grow
back there. Cut deep and wide and lovingly. Shoot the rifles tenderly. Life is more than the
space between your legs. Life is more than a place to die on the photograph of your soul. Carry
scissors—shear, snip away into darkling night.

Wound but wisely.
Look to each other for strength, back away from unlived life but not from unleashed power. Take
the sky away. Take the sky away in your power. Put people In it, send your thoughts up like tree
branches. Soft thoughts, keep them for private torment. Think strong.

Wield all things in
battle but your bodies. All things in battle but bodies. Man and woman. Not man with woman. Woman
and man and child.

The May queen,
seeking an equal, picks one; he wears no
wool, is not blind. Live like trees who lose their leaves. Man and woman. Woman and man.
Child. No other way leads with strength.

A tree without
leaves is a trunk, sexless in winter. A taste of wasted bone on the lips.

A man without
woman.

A woman without
man.

Like this, a taste
of wasted bone on the lips.

Like this, a place
to die on the photograph of your soul.

A child is from the
strengths of two wisdoms, conceived. Misunderstood in the light of the present day, voiceless in
the modern ear, it is yet to be. It will change. Nurse the thought in your strength. It will
change.

Have you seen the
Earth? Not he or she but we?

Tomorrow may come
any day. Watch for it.

He had the frost of
winter in his hair and the slowness of cooling ashes in his blood. The men in the village did not
know where he came from. One day he was there, standing under the drying racks, his eyes like two
soaring hawks as he watched the children at play.

Old Bear Teeth went
to him but the old one did not speak. He turned and walked back up the mountain. He gave no
answers to the questions shouted at his back.

He came back again
and again. He spoke to no man. He watched the children. The old chiefs spoke of him and they were
frightened of this old one who would not speak and whose purpose was unknown. They wrapped their
robes about them and muttered. And there were some who would kill the old one. On the day that
they decided this thing, the old one came dressed in a faded robe of our clan.

Old Bear Teeth went
to the strange one again. "Who are you, old one?"

The aged one from
the mountains looked into the eyes of Old Bear Teeth. His voice was thick and uneasy upon his
tongue as if it had slept a long time. "My name? It has been so long since I have used it. So
long since I have spoken to other beings of blood and skin. I was once called Long
Bear."

"Hai!" Old Bear
Teeth stepped back. "Long Bear was from this village! There was a child of that name. But
Long
Bear was taken as a child from this
place by a demon! Are you a demon, old one?"

"I was touched by
demons. The demons that touch all men in their deeds and their sleep. I am no demon. Do not be
afraid of me."

"Who are you who
says he is Long Bear? I knew Long Bear as a boy. We played together. The demons took him. This I
remember."

"I am he. Dimly I
remember. You were called Running Elk. That was yours before your man name."

Old Bear Teeth
looked deep into the face of the old one. His dim eyes probed the lines and seams of his face.
"Yes it is so. You are Long Bear. But were you not taken by demons?"

Old Bear Teeth
backed farther away. The fear was tight in the muscles of his face and the hollow of his
stomach.

"You need not fear
me. I can hurt no one," said the old one.

"Are you a demon?
Do you breathe? Do you sleep? I am afraid of you, old one, with the name and aged face of one who
went away with the dark ones of the mountains," said Old Bear Teeth.

"Why are you here,
aged one? What do you seek?"

The old one sighed
and shook his head. A sad smile ap­peared and it was full of black meaning. It was the smile of
lizards watching with hidden eyes in the rocks below the graves of the dead. Old Bear Teeth
pulled his robe tight about his shoulders and hurried away. And the old one came and
went.

With the patience
of a snake, the old one came and went, watching the children. Watching them all, day after
day.

The village was
full of talk about this strange one who came and went. The mothers of the village feared for
their children. But none knew why until the day of the death of the crippled bird.

Little Birch,
daughter of Elk Son had gone far, gathering
the berries. In her eagerness to fill her pot, she left the women and other small ones
her age.

As she scurried
over the ridge, picking berries as fast as her good, bright hands would allow, she heard a little
cry.

Crawling over a
rock, she found the crippled bird. It was a young hawk with a broken wing. She cried out, seeing
it suffer. It was a white-head hawk, lying on its side, crying at the sky.

She set her berry
pot down and gathered the crippled bird up in her hands carefully. The bird did not fight her.
She walked back down the ridge, the bird held gently in both of her hands.

As she came upon
the women, they made noises and gathered to look at the crippled bird. The hawk, angry with the
noisy women, hissed and spat at them, trying to peck the ones that touched him. Little Birch
pushed them away, shielding the bird with her body. The bird was well settled within her
touch.

"Bring the crippled
bird to me!"

Little Birch turned
in surprise, hearing the harsh words.

Domea, the shaman,
beckoned to her. "Come. I want to see this hawk." His tone of speaking was harsh but he was kind
behind his eyes.

Little Birch walked
through the women and set the bird gently down at Domea's feet. "I found him in the rocks," she
said.

The shaman bent
over and examined the crippled bird. He spoke softly, trying to touch the bird as Little Birch
had touched him. But the hawk shrilled fiercely and scuttled back to Little Birch, dragging his
broken wing on the ground.

"You have not found
him, he has found you. It is an omen of good. See how he comes to you," said Domea. "The
white-head hawk will watch over you and protect you as long as he lives. It is a very good
sign."

At his words,
Little Birch felt brightness and warm sun flow through her. There were not many good omens for
Lit­tle Birch and her family. Her father had been struck with the withered arm, and many times,
there was little meat be­cause of it. But with the coming of the crippled bird, this
changed.

Many deer fell
beneath Elk Son's clumsy bow. There was magic in this, the people of the village said. The deer
did not run from him, said the old men of the village. It is all be­cause of the white-head hawk
that Little Birch cares for with her skill and her love. And for the first time, Little Birch's
family had a time of plenty. Now they had meat where others had none.

And they shared
their good fortune with others. And of all the children, Little Birch was the most honored among
the small ones. Even small ones many snows older than her gave her first choose in the games. And
thus things went until the day the crippled bird was killed.

Not all of the
small ones honored Little Birch. Blue Snow, the son of Antelope Runs, had only envy and hatred
for Lit­tle Birch and the crippled bird.

One day while the
others were at play in the hills below the village, Blue Snow snuck into Elk Son's lodge and
stole the white-head hawk. He put the bird in a basket and ran away into the hills, far from the
others.

He took the bird
out of its cage. Its wing was almost mended.

"I hate you bird!"
he cried and he broke the mending wing. And the bird cried.

"I hate you!" and
he threw the bird upon the ground and killed it with big stones. Then he ground his foot on the
bird and spat upon it. He hated.

He felt a hand upon
his shoulder. He looked up, scared to
be
found out. The old one who watched the children looked at him.

"Let me go," said
Blue Snow fearfully.

"You enjoyed
killing the crippled bird. This is true," said the old one.

Blue Snow looked
into the old one's eyes and could not lie.

"Yes! I liked
killing it! I hate it! I hate it!"

"You knew what the
white-head hawk meant to Little Birch and her family and you did this thing."

"I don't care!"
screamed Blue Snow, struggling to break free from the old one's grasp. "Let me go!"

The old one
squeezed Blue Snow's shoulder. But he was not angry. He jerked the boy to his feet but behind his
roughness he was gentle and sad.

"You hate me!
You're like all the others! They hate mel They all hate me! I hate you! I hate you!"

"Walk," said the
old one, pushing the boy, kicking and struggling, in front of him. "We will talk later when we
are where we must go."

"Where are you
taking me?" cried the boy as the old man led him up the mountain, away from the
village.

The old one did not
answer. They walked until the dark­ness closed about them, the boy fighting to be free, but the
old one was strong beyond his years and held him firmly.

"You are strong,
old one."

"It is not my power
that moves me. Keep walking. You cannot escape."

As the way became
dark for the going, the old one led, dragging the boy behind him. He neither turned aside nor
hesitated. It was as if he saw as well in the dark as in the day.

All night they
traveled and far into the next day. The boy grew hungry and tired but the old man was unmoved by
his pleas and seemed to grow neither tired nor hungry himself.

They reached the
valley of the Aomi when the sun was at its highest in the sky.

Blue Snow looked
upon the valley with dark fears grow­ing through his shoulders and legs. A sickness and a chill
came upon him and his teeth touched ice in his mouth. A cold wind and the smell of old things in
the ground blew in his face.

"What is this
place?" asked Blue Snow.

"This is the valley
of Aomi. And there, coming alive in the rocks, is Aomi." The old one pointed and a bright but
dull thing rattled upon the rocks. It rose and it slithered and it rolled and its shape changed.
It grew and it went lit­tle and it was a small animal and it was part of the ground and the wind
across the grass and insects whirring up in summer.