Large deep, dry cracks scared the ground, where once
flowing waters raced across the face of the riverbeds. These wounds stood as a silent
outcry to the constant rays of the sizzling sun, a testimony to the drought beleaguered
land. Animals had long left the area, their sounds disappearing from the wide expanse of
plains, and the plants that fed these creatures had dried with the relentless heat,
changing their once lush green stalks into dark brown bodies of dust. No one knew where
they could go to escape this time of trial, they trusted in the instruction of only one
person to help guide their decision. This man could understand the voices of the winds and
the rain, the songs of the faceless stones and the expansive sky, so all gathered before
the medicine man and asked him what they should do to bring the rains once again to their
beloved land. For four nights and four days the medicine man surrounded himself with
bundles of sage and sweet grass sitting within the sacred circle on the top of the hill
without food or water, asking the Great Spirit for help for his people, for a message that
he may take back to them, in order to bring the rain. When the time arrived to join the
waiting people with the message he had received, the medicine man first slowly searched
the eyes before him, hoping for just one who would carry the strength and the courage to
hear his words. As he spoke, the people did not like the words given to him to say.
"Everyone in the Comanche nation has been asked to give a gift to the fire. You must
take all that is most highly prized of all your belongings, and feed the fire with the
memories of their beauty and comfort. If you do this we will receive the rain that we need
for the survival of all our people". The people had already sacrificed greatly with
their constant thirst, lack of food and the passing of family members, what little they
possessed called to their heavy heart with the precious pictures of the past. No one
wanted to be the first to step forward toward the crackling height of the fire and give
what it was that was left in memory and in comfort. One voice broke the silence as it
cried out a plea. "Surely you do not ask for the quill work of my mother's mother, It
is all I have left that is a reminder of her hands and her heart." Another voice
fills the air, with their plea, " You could not mean the gathering of three winters
of furs from my husband." The tired hand patted the fur on the hide. "I can
still catch the scent of my baby on the deer skin."
All had a voice that spoke deep from within their heart, of
those they loved and lost. But from the back of the second circle where the remainder of
the young eyes sat in silence, a little girl who did not stand as tall as the rest, who
was of no strength at all, and did not even own her own horse, slowly moved in silence
with careful slow steps, clutching something very tightly in her hands next to her heart.
All eyes followed the footsteps as this small wispy figure
walked toward the great orange-yellow fire, slowly lowering her hand toward the flames and
dropping something humble and dark and precious into the middle. The tears that rolled
down her face did not stay, they were eaten from her cheeks by the heat of the flames,
leaving small black lines made from the ash depositing their design where tears had been.
COMMENTARY:
A story originating from the Native American’s living
in the southern territory of Texas. This story was given to those members of the Comanche
nation to teach the power of sharing and the mystical strength in the giving of a selfless
gift. Learning the precious value of those things we grant and receive in life that are
from the heart. |
