His mind was jumbled with questions, but with the steady beat of the drum and the old man’s voice, they started to drift away. The words of the song meant nothing to him, but he felt a warm sense of calm settle over him. He noticed the sun on his skin, the grass tickling his exposed ankles. Somehow, even over the singing and drumming, he heard a river, or perhaps the aspen leaves, as if it were right beside him.
He didn’t know these people, but he felt, at least for a moment, like he was accepted by them.
While he logically knew it wasn’t true—he was a stranger and he’d never been fully accepted into any group—the visceral sense of community and togetherness wrapped around him and he let his worries go.
After some interminable time, the singing stopped, and a hush fell over the clearing. Birds called into the silence. It felt, Declan thought fancifully, like they were continuing the same song.
The man with the drum looked at Declan. “You are new here.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” Declan responded, hoping he had gotten that right. The man had a sense of quiet dignity that seemed to deserve his respect. “I live with Geir, I guess. I mean, he said I could stay with him. And he’s really nice, so I think he meant it. And I’m so excited to be here. Everything is beautiful. There’s so much art everywhere.”
A few of the adults tittered behind him and one of the kids gave him a smile. The old man didn’t speak, but murmurs swept through the small crowd in some other language. He caught Geir’s name. The tone was surprise, but not animosity.
When the crowd quieted, the man finally spoke. “I have a story for you.” He had a sense of the dramatic.
Other heads turned to look at him. “Thank you. I love stories. And I’m, really honored, I guess.”
The drummer nodded and began. His voice was still slow and warm, but now filled with animation as he painted a picture with English words. Declan always enjoyed stories, but this was something different. More powerful. Almost immersive, like he was held captive by the story.
“In the long-ago time, before there were many people, there were three brothers. They were mighty hunters and had many successful hunts. But as they grew older, the hunt lost its appeal. The younger brother suggested that they seek new experiences and walk to the edge of the earth, where the sky touches the salt water.”
Though the man’s words were sparse, Declan felt gripped by the story. He felt a sense of curiosity and wonder, like he was one of the brothers setting off on an adventure.
“The brothers started on the journey, traveling for many years, always walking straight westward. At last, they came to the place where the sun slips under the edge of the sky as the sky bends down and sinks into the water. They camped there, watching, and noticed that just at sunset, the water pulled back to reveal a road. Other men came and tried to slip under the edge of the sky, but the sun fell quickly and crushed them.”
Declan felt the brothers’ surprise, then their shock. It turned into determination as the story progressed.
“The younger brothers wanted to pass under the rim of the sky, but the older brother was afraid. The two younger brothers ran ahead, though the water was all around them and the rim was thick. Seeing that they were safe, the oldest brother ran after them, but he was not fast enough, and the sky came down on the sun’s road and killed him.”
Grief gripped him, laden with guilt and worry. Recriminations for everything he’d done wrong. All of the losses he’d felt in his life, all pouring out as he mourned his fictitious brother. Then, surprisingly, hope.
“The other brothers saw his spirit, his notwai’sha, shoot by. On the other side of the sky, everything was different and bright. They came to a house made of white bark. There, an old man said that he would purify their bodies. He put a shell over each brother’s mouth and sealed it with clay. Then he took off their skins, separated their muscles, and scraped their bones. He washed all of their organs to purify them and put them back together again. When he loosened the clay from their mouths, they woke up, and they had every power. They were strong and fast, and could kill animals with their hands. They could not die of arrows or disease and never grew tired.”
Part of Declan’s mind knew that pulling off skins and scraping bones was gruesome, but he felt only gratitude and peace while he listened. He almost slept as the brothers slept. He awoke when they awoke. He was strong, vigorous, capable of anything. Energy burned through his veins and his legs twitched to jump and run.
“The sun brought a message that there was a great war raging on the earth. The brothers went to a high hill where a tree had been uprooted and looked through the hole. They saw houses burning and people crying. Warriors yelled war-cries and armies crashed together.”
He felt fear. Righteous anger. His people were being massacred. This was wrong. His personal grief became a collective grief, but one that fueled his rage. He would fight for his people, defend them, make someone pay.
“‘Men will always do this,’ said the old man, and led them away. They learned many things in the upper world, but sometimes wanted to return. One day, they waited until the sun went over the edge of the sky in the east and returned to their village. It was overgrown with trees. They traveled on and found another village of their people. They told their story, but the only person who knew them was their sister, who was now old. The war that they had seen, she told them, had ended fifty years ago.”
Declan felt curiosity, and then surprise and sorrow for the family lost. A sort of sharp grief, that faded until it was replaced with… nothing. A curious lack of emotion, like the world was flat and gray.
“There were still other people in the lower world and other wars raging, but the brothers did not care for the earth now. They were not like other people, and wanted only to return to the upper world.”
Declan felt like he was floating in time. His body trudging on, but the world around him lacked meaning. He could still see the people around him, Ro right beside him with the child and kitten on his lap. But they were distant. Removed. Irrelevant.
The storyteller paused, and Declan listened, waiting for the next part of the story. The brothers, who he’d felt such kinship to a moment ago, were untethered and apathetic now. Would anything shake them from their endless lives of indifference? He leaned forward.
“Eventually, they were struck by lightning and they died.”
In a sudden rush, he was released from the storyteller’s control. The unnatural apathy lifted, and he was filled with questions.
The first one was: Was that the end? Like, for real? They just, like, died?
The people stirred around him and murmured quietly, a short phrase that seemed to signal the end of the story and perhaps gratitude for the teller. Declan looked around. That was it?
The drummer began a new song, with a repeated call that the rest of the group took up. He sang in a language made of guttural stops and fluidly changing pitches, but now his voice was just a voice.
Declan tried to decide if he had merely imagined everything. No, it had been too visceral. Too beyond his control. Which meant, logically, that it had to be someone else’s control. So, these people had some sort of magic. That was way cool.
It didn’t look like he’d be learning any more about it, though, so he switched to picking apart the story itself. Why was it intended for him? Was there a message there that he was supposed to pick up? Was it supposed to be allegory to something? The part where the man had taken the brothers apart and washed their organs was grisly, though it hadn’t seemed so at the time. The part where the oldest brother had died for doubting and being too slow seemed harsh and cruel. Were either of those supposed to be a message?