Catacombs

Entering the Limestone Mines of the Paris Catacombs

Photo by Mari

Pharaonic Moonrise

“Pharaonic Moonrise”

Lori Gloyd (c) 2007

Digital Construction

 

The Lemurian Tour takes one to far away times as well as places…………………….

 

 

Hazel and Harry Firth, and the Day Before — Day 8

Posted by bfahrenbac in Leaning Birch, Lemurian Grand Tour, Barbara’s Journey, Home Hosts. add a comment , edit post

Hazel and Harry Firth could not be friendlier folk. When I return from my meeting with the Mine Keeper, they show me their home and outbuildings. The setting in the Lemurian Valley is a perfect site. To the west, there are the ancient rock formations — the hoo-doos — spiraling into the sky. To the east, the rolling hamlet of Leaning Birches is spread out below the homestead. Looking closely, I follow the Owl Creek which flows through the center of town, and winds towards Mount Olympus. Hazel points out seven or eight houses snuggled into the hollow and others dotting the country nearby. The town has a church, a general store, a livery, the raven postal service. Hazel watches me as she adds slyly, “and we have a coffee shop, complete with internet service.”

How is that possible, I ponder. Did I misunderstand? “Internet? Are you sure, Hazel? Our internet? Everything seems so –well — quaint. Not that it’s bad. I don’t mean that. I just didn’t expect….

“Expect that we keep up with the world? You’re mistaken, my Dear. It is possible for us to know what the world is like in your land.” Hazel tsked at me a bit. “It is simply that we choose not to follow your way. We prefer our life as it is. But if you wish to go to town and send a message to your companions, why there’s a computer all set up for travelers. I’ll take you there myself.”

I have to think this through. “Maybe in awhile, Hazel. First, I’d like to see the rest of your property. Everything is so lovely.”

Harry overhears me, and together, the Firths take me on a tour. We explore the garden, all a color with reds and pinks and whites. (”My favorite colors,” says Hazel.) The greenery is so deep and shiny, so multi-colored, it is a spectacle in its own right. Harry lets me peek into the garden shed which is as immaculate as a kitchen is at home. The brick floor is recently scrubbed, and the shelves are painted and embellished with tiny paintings of flowers. Each flower corresponds to the seeds above them. Against the other wall are bins of potato sets, soon to be planted in the furrowed fields. A storage shed is behind the garden; the potatoes from the recent harvest are stored there, ready to be distributed to the Lemurian colony. Behind the house is an enclosed pen housing chickens and goats. Two baby goats cajol and dance with each other, occasionally butting their tiny horns. I find myself amused with their antics, and I wish I could be as carefree as they seem. The chickens, Hazel proudly informs me, lay enough eggs to supply all of Leaning Birches’ families.

We return to the barn, which is a simple structure, yet light and airy. Harry has his own mule, a stubborn cuss named Simon, Harry says. “You can’t imagine your good fortune having a donkey like Damascus. The most impressive beast I’ve seen in many a year.” Of course, even though Damascus is gobbling down another stash of hay, he overhears everything.

“Why, pleased to have you be so kind,” says my donkey, demurely. Can I believe this? Not only is Damascus turning coy, why, he’s blushing. (I’ve been with him long enough now, I can read his every expression.)

I resist bursting into hysterical laughter by stepping into the house with Hazel. I hadn’t had time to look about the home when I dropped my pack off earlier this afternoon, but now I stand in the central room — all living room and dining room and kitchen in the one room. A pot belly stove sits on one side of the room and a wood burning cook stove is on the opposite wall. Comfy furniture and crocheted afghans and doilies make the room cozy and well-cared for. The dining room table is set with three places, and the smell of home cooking fills the room. Flowers in tin cans are set about the room and a canary sings on its perch. Everywhere I look there is yet another tiny treasure to enjoy.

“Now, you go on and wash up, Dear. Here’s your room, off the kitchen. A nice view of the flower gardens and warmth from the stove. Daresay, you’ll want for nothing.” Hazel shows me into a spacious room with windows for walls on three sides of the room, and flowers and vines climbing up the window trellises. The bed is dressed in pure white, layer upon layer of linen and pillows. A small bureau with a porcelain wash bowl atop it and a lovely cushioned rocking chair fill out the room. There is a basket on a shelf that contains everything I might need — soap, brushes, lotions, shampoos, and other goodies. There are rolled up towels and a plush white chenille robe in just my size. I sit upon the bed to think a moment.

Hazel calls to me through the door. “Why don’t you rest a bit before dinner, Dear? You have about thirty minutes.”

Grateful for a little time alone to calm my racing thoughts, I muster a thanks. There is so much to think about. How will I prepare for the mining of the cave? When will Harry tell me his secrets of mining? Will I succeed in my quest? I think of writing an e-mail to Riversleigh — now how weird is that? I decide to fore go modern technology and be satisfied with my journal.

Hazel calls me to dinner while I am yet mired in far flung thoughts. Breathing deeply, I gather myself together and come to the table.

“Look at this,” says Harry. “Why Hazel had gosh darn gone all out for ya, Dear! And I get to eat all the special treats, too.” Harry spoons piles of food onto his plate, while I decipher what is in these heaped-to-the-top serving bowls. Mashed potatoes in one, with gobs of melting butter sliding down the mounds. Scalloped potatoes and ham in a second dish. Potato and vegetable soup in a tureen. And potato dumplings in honey for desert.

“Why it all looks so good, Hazel. Let me try everything,” I say, a little amazed at quantity of the food. I only need look at the table a second to know I am amongst potato farmers. But I eat all the food, and fully enjoy it, especially those honeyed dumplings. Yum. I wonder what will be served for breakfast, but this is hours away and I don’t waste any thought on that.

After dinner, Harry speaks up. “Dear, Damascus has finally had his rest and grub. He’d like to talk to you for awhile.”
I shake my head in shame. In all this time, I have not given a thought to Damascus and his needs. I am ashamed as I go out to the barn, but my feelings are dispelled. Damascus is in a fine mood and Pigeon has made himself a tiny nest and he is sound asleep. Both my companions seem content.

“Well, Dear, did you have a nice rest and dinner? I am truly satiated and my nap has revived me.” He hee-haws a few times to show me he is in good spirits. “I’d pass on that trip into Leaning Birches for the time being. Harry will talk to you tonight, and we’ll start out at dawn tomorrow for the Alluvial Mine.”

“Oh, Damascus. I don’t think I’m quite ready for mining yet. Maybe in a few days…”

“Sure you are, Dear. Just keep a stiff upper lip and listen carefully to Harry. You’ll do fine tomorrow.”

As Damascus returns to nosing about in the hay, Harry calls me. “Dear, meet me in the garden in a few minutes. Do you hear?”

“Sure, Harry. I’ll go now.” I turn to Damascus one more time. “Wish me luck.”

“Luck?” he guffaws. “Why, you need courage and discipline and persistence. Well, and maybe a little luck. Now, begone with you.”

So Harry and I walk and talk in the garden until it is black outside and I can see only the glowing windows in the house. I try to remember all the things Harry is saying, but I feel a little overwhelmed. When he finishes, he tells me to get my rest. That is the last thing he says to me. Hazel wakes me in the morn.

In the fragile light of dawn, I eat riced potato porridge and then half-stumble to the barn. Damascus is ready for me to load him and in mere minutes we are on our way. Pigeon flies ahead as our lookout. It is finally time for me to explore the mine.

Damascus turns his head and eyes me. Then he turns away, keeping his head forward, watching the road. “Courage, my Dear. Courage,” he says to me.

Courage, I think. “Yes, indeed, Damascus. Thank you very much.”

Home Host House

Home Host House

Painting by Mari Mann (after Vincent van Gogh)

Ah, le Enchanteur, So We Meet Again Day 7

March 12, 2007 · Filed under Leaning Birch, Lemurian Grand Tour, Barbara’s Journey, Appeasement, Home Hosts · Edit

 

“Look ahead, Dear. Straight ahead, then a bit towards the left. Do you see?” Damascus tossed his head, I think in excitement and pranced a bit. (If you’ve never seen a donkey prance, it’s quite a sight.)

“I see a bit of red, Damascus, and then what I suppose is Mount Olympia beyond that. Is that what I am to see?”

“Yes, Dear. Occasionally you show great promise. Now shove those packs over, and climb upon my back. I daresay we can make better time without you trailing behind me.”

“Damascus, I can keep up with you.” I’m a little hurt by his remark, but I do as he suggests. I squeeze up upon his back, although the handles of the mining tools stick into my back and jab with each step. I am not about to complain.

Damascus moves along and within a few hours we are within a quarter mile of red monstrous rock formations. They stick out of the sandy ground like mammoth fingers, some nearly ten stories high and some only the height of a grown man. They all have caps of whitened rock atop them and many have circumferences so large it would take half a day to hike around them. They are stark against the reddening sky. I think they are surely one of nature’s most awe-inspiring sights, and I have seen much in my long life of exploration in the wilds.

“So these are your hoo-doos, Damascus. They are amazing, you know.”

“Of course, I know. I thought they might allay your homesickness. And don’t deny you are homesick, for I know this sort of thing. I see you dabbing tear-filled eyes at times. Now do you remember seeing hoo-doos in your traveling days, in the days when you traveled and camped with your family?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. I saw them in Utah, on a trip we took westward from the Midwest. I loved them then, and I love them now. But how do you know such things and what does this have to do with my tour of Lemuria? Have you thrown me off track?”

“Oh, Dear, if you would just trust me. Do you doubt I take your journey most seriously? I do what I feel is necessary.” He snorted and I burst into tears. I can no longer bear his reprimands. And worst of all, he is always right-on-the-mark.

“Okay. Could you explain? I will listen with all my attention.” He stops, and I climb of to stretch my legs. Then I sit cross-legged on the dry ground and stare into Damascus’ eyes. Pigeon comes flying from nowhere, and alights on my shoulder, rubbing his feathers against my cheek. “Go ahead, Damascus. It seems we are both listening.”

“Very well.” Damascus coughs to clear his dusty throat. “We are approaching the town of Leaning Birches, which is the designated resting spot before you attempt to explore the Alluvial Mine. My grand friends, Harry and Hazel Firth, live in a most comfortable and pleasant home on the outskirts of town. Can you see the house? It is halfway between the hoo-doos and the town.”

“Yes, Damascus, I can see.” Pigeon nods his head, too. For once, he is on the adventure with us, and I am pleased to have his company.

“The Firths live in the shadows of the hoo-doos, where the soil is perfect for farming potatoes. They work hard in their fields, but they are also quite accomplished Home Hosts. They are only minutes from town, so you may feel up to exploring a bit, if there’s time. Hazel and Harry will provide you with sustenance and see to all your needs. When they feel you ready, Harry will offer you advice which you will be wise to heed. Of course, I will go part of the way with you and Pigeon is welcome, as well.”

I speak quickly, without a thought to what I say. “I surely am ready for food warmed and not from a tin, and a bed that doesn’t involve being stuck by pine needles.” Then I notice Damascus’ face. My dearest donkey has been nothing but kind to me from the start of my tour. I look away from Damascus so I do not see his expression. I can read his facial expressions very well these days, and I do not want to see his look of disappointment.

He sighs and forgives me quickly, as only a Lemurian donkey does. “Well, Dear, before you get all comfy, there is a task you must perform. Have you forgotten?”

“Damascus, I remember no task. Only that I am to stay with my Home Hosts and then go into the mine. What have I forgotten?”

“Well, Dear, we have done things a bit backwards. You were to go to the Keeper of the Mine, and she was to introduce you to your Home Hosts. She graciously allowed me to introduce you to the Wirths since we are such great friends. But you must still go meet the Keeper and give her your gift of appeasement.”

“Oh, Damascus. I did forget. Whatever am I thinking! I must find my roll of parchment among my belongings.” I rummage through my pack which I had packed so neatly. Now therenothing is in its place.

“Dear. Please relax a little. We shall drop our belongings off at the Wirth’s — you can look for your gift there — and I must snack on my luncheon of hay. Change into clean clothing, and brush your hair. Then fill your canteen and grab a potato pastie and your be-ribboned roll of parchment. And do not think I will abandon you, even though I would like to stay and visit. No, I will guide you to the mine entrance. You must calm yourself. There is little to fear. I think you will find the company most interesting.”

It takes only minutes to be introduced to the Wirth’s, drop our tools in the barn and slide my pack inside the door. I shake visibly as I follow Damascus’ directions. Hazel smiles encouraging me and gives me a few pats on my arm. Then she passes out my food and we are on our way. Damascus again insists that I ride. “The way is uphill, and it becomes most rocky. I am more suited to the climb, so you’d best concentrate on your mission.”

Suddenly I grasp what I am about to do. Ever since I have come through the portal, I have pushed this moment from existence. Now my mind goes blank, as it usually does when I call upon myself to think creatively. Instead I count the rocks that Damascus climbs over. At least this calms me.

Damascus comes to a sudden stop, jarring me from a light sleep. “End of the line. All out.”

I cannot resist a smile. “You sound like a train conductor,” I say. Damascus looks back at me and swishes his head. He directs me to the cave entrance. “I’ll wait here, under these cooling willow trees and I’ll be here if you return.”

I take only a few steps and turn into a narrow pathway. On its eastern wall there is a mass of vines and thick growth, but I can easily see the entrance through the tangle. A casual hiker would never notice the cave. I take several deep, cleansing breaths and push the overgrowth aside.

The cave is dank, dark and narrow. I can barely make out a small table which is set to one side. Exploring its surface with my hands, I find several candles and matches much to my relief. However, whenever I try to light the wick, it fizzles. I am learning, however, even without Damascus’ hints. I pull the candle holder from the bag hanging from my neck and place the candle in it’s hole. When I light the candle, the flame burns brightly like a torch and the cave is entirely illuminated. My fear slowly subsides. I now see a woman dressed in a emerald green robe, a gold clasp holding it closely about her throat. She has a black lace veil covering her head and face. Seated on a velvet covered chair, she holds a gold scepter in her left hand. I feel a familiarity. She smiles slightly and beckons me with her left hand.

Holding my roll of parchment in front of me, I approach. I briefly consider kneeling before her, but then I refrain. I remain standing, proud and tall.

“Tell me, my dear Barbara. What have you brought me, so that I will be pleased and allow you to continue your journey? If you fail, do not despair; I will not leave you stranded in this strange land. There is a portal to Riversleigh to my left. It is available to you any time during your tour of the mine. Now show me that you are worthy of passage.”

I painstakingly untied the ribbon, and spread the sheet of parchment upon a table that had suddenly appeared in front of the Keeper. “Read, Barbara dear. Please read to me.” She closes her eyes and leans her head against the chair’s tall back. She unclasps her hands and puts them gently in her lap.

And so I begin to read.

Star, Shine Brightly

I am the babe born to an alcoholic factory worker and a fanatical housewife. I am the child raised by my elders who instill in me a sense of a work ethic. I am the youth who discovers the written word and thinks of worldly things. I am the teenager who struggles and strains against the family ties that bind. I am the twenty year old who studies with no rest and achieves what she seeks. I am the thirty year old who births three and practices the skills of motherhood. I am the forty year old, wife and mother, who still dances and travels, twirls and dreams. I am the fifty year old who watches my children fly away, who celebrates my life, who makes time to create, who loves spontaneously and who loves herself. I am passionate and curious and generous, and I am adventurous, a wanderer and a wonderer.

I offer this as proof that I am worthy of your kind consideration, that I may be given your gracious permission to explore the Alluvial Mine and perhaps a Mine that belongs only to me.

May the Star, Shining Brightly, let us see clearly, if only we look.

And so the Keeper and the Pilgrim, join hand in hand. And I, the petitioner, is given permission ready to continue on the journey .

 

March 12, 2007 · Filed under Leaning Birch, Lemurian Grand Tour, Barbara’s Journey, Appeasement, Home Hosts · Edit

 

“Look ahead, Dear. Straight ahead, then a bit towards the left. Do you see?” Damascus tossed his head, I think in excitement and pranced a bit. (If you’ve never seen a donkey prance, it’s quite a sight.)

“I see a bit of red, Damascus, and then what I suppose is Mount Olympia beyond that. Is that what I am to see?”

“Yes, Dear. Occasionally you show great promise. Now shove those packs over, and climb upon my back. I daresay we can make better time without you trailing behind me.”

“Damascus, I can keep up with you.” I’m a little hurt by his remark, but I do as he suggests. I squeeze up upon his back, although the handles of the mining tools stick into my back and jab with each step. I am not about to complain.

Damascus moves along and within a few hours we are within a quarter mile of red monstrous rock formations. They stick out of the sandy ground like mammoth fingers, some nearly ten stories high and some only the height of a grown man. They all have caps of whitened rock atop them and many have circumferences so large it would take half a day to hike around them. They are stark against the reddening sky. I think they are surely one of nature’s most awe-inspiring sights, and I have seen much in my long life of exploration in the wilds.

“So these are your hoo-doos, Damascus. They are amazing, you know.”

“Of course, I know. I thought they might allay your homesickness. And don’t deny you are homesick, for I know this sort of thing. I see you dabbing tear-filled eyes at times. Now do you remember seeing hoo-doos in your traveling days, in the days when you traveled and camped with your family?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. I saw them in Utah, on a trip we took westward from the Midwest. I loved them then, and I love them now. But how do you know such things and what does this have to do with my tour of Lemuria? Have you thrown me off track?”

“Oh, Dear, if you would just trust me. Do you doubt I take your journey most seriously? I do what I feel is necessary.” He snorted and I burst into tears. I can no longer bear his reprimands. And worst of all, he is always right-on-the-mark.

“Okay. Could you explain? I will listen with all my attention.” He stops, and I climb of to stretch my legs. Then I sit cross-legged on the dry ground and stare into Damascus’ eyes. Pigeon comes flying from nowhere, and alights on my shoulder, rubbing his feathers against my cheek. “Go ahead, Damascus. It seems we are both listening.”

“Very well.” Damascus coughs to clear his dusty throat. “We are approaching the town of Leaning Birches, which is the designated resting spot before you attempt to explore the Alluvial Mine. My grand friends, Harry and Hazel Firth, live in a most comfortable and pleasant home on the outskirts of town. Can you see the house? It is halfway between the hoo-doos and the town.”

“Yes, Damascus, I can see.” Pigeon nods his head, too. For once, he is on the adventure with us, and I am pleased to have his company.

“The Firths live in the shadows of the hoo-doos, where the soil is perfect for farming potatoes. They work hard in their fields, but they are also quite accomplished Home Hosts. They are only minutes from town, so you may feel up to exploring a bit, if there’s time. Hazel and Harry will provide you with sustenance and see to all your needs. When they feel you ready, Harry will offer you advice which you will be wise to heed. Of course, I will go part of the way with you and Pigeon is welcome, as well.”

I speak quickly, without a thought to what I say. “I surely am ready for food warmed and not from a tin, and a bed that doesn’t involve being stuck by pine needles.” Then I notice Damascus’ face. My dearest donkey has been nothing but kind to me from the start of my tour. I look away from Damascus so I do not see his expression. I can read his facial expressions very well these days, and I do not want to see his look of disappointment.

He sighs and forgives me quickly, as only a Lemurian donkey does. “Well, Dear, before you get all comfy, there is a task you must perform. Have you forgotten?”

“Damascus, I remember no task. Only that I am to stay with my Home Hosts and then go into the mine. What have I forgotten?”

“Well, Dear, we have done things a bit backwards. You were to go to the Keeper of the Mine, and she was to introduce you to your Home Hosts. She graciously allowed me to introduce you to the Wirths since we are such great friends. But you must still go meet the Keeper and give her your gift of appeasement.”

“Oh, Damascus. I did forget. Whatever am I thinking! I must find my roll of parchment among my belongings.” I rummage through my pack which I had packed so neatly. Now therenothing is in its place.

“Dear. Please relax a little. We shall drop our belongings off at the Wirth’s — you can look for your gift there — and I must snack on my luncheon of hay. Change into clean clothing, and brush your hair. Then fill your canteen and grab a potato pastie and your be-ribboned roll of parchment. And do not think I will abandon you, even though I would like to stay and visit. No, I will guide you to the mine entrance. You must calm yourself. There is little to fear. I think you will find the company most interesting.”

It takes only minutes to be introduced to the Wirth’s, drop our tools in the barn and slide my pack inside the door. I shake visibly as I follow Damascus’ directions. Hazel smiles encouraging me and gives me a few pats on my arm. Then she passes out my food and we are on our way. Damascus again insists that I ride. “The way is uphill, and it becomes most rocky. I am more suited to the climb, so you’d best concentrate on your mission.”

Suddenly I grasp what I am about to do. Ever since I have come through the portal, I have pushed this moment from existence. Now my mind goes blank, as it usually does when I call upon myself to think creatively. Instead I count the rocks that Damascus climbs over. At least this calms me.

Damascus comes to a sudden stop, jarring me from a light sleep. “End of the line. All out.”

I cannot resist a smile. “You sound like a train conductor,” I say. Damascus looks back at me and swishes his head. He directs me to the cave entrance. “I’ll wait here, under these cooling willow trees and I’ll be here if you return.”

I take only a few steps and turn into a narrow pathway. On its eastern wall there is a mass of vines and thick growth, but I can easily see the entrance through the tangle. A casual hiker would never notice the cave. I take several deep, cleansing breaths and push the overgrowth aside.

The cave is dank, dark and narrow. I can barely make out a small table which is set to one side. Exploring its surface with my hands, I find several candles and matches much to my relief. However, whenever I try to light the wick, it fizzles. I am learning, however, even without Damascus’ hints. I pull the candle holder from the bag hanging from my neck and place the candle in it’s hole. When I light the candle, the flame burns brightly like a torch and the cave is entirely illuminated. My fear slowly subsides. I now see a woman dressed in a emerald green robe, a gold clasp holding it closely about her throat. She has a black lace veil covering her head and face. Seated on a velvet covered chair, she holds a gold scepter in her left hand. I feel a familiarity. She smiles slightly and beckons me with her left hand.

Holding my roll of parchment in front of me, I approach. I briefly consider kneeling before her, but then I refrain. I remain standing, proud and tall.

“Tell me, my dear Barbara. What have you brought me, so that I will be pleased and allow you to continue your journey? If you fail, do not despair; I will not leave you stranded in this strange land. There is a portal to Riversleigh to my left. It is available to you any time during your tour of the mine. Now show me that you are worthy of passage.”

I painstakingly untied the ribbon, and spread the sheet of parchment upon a table that had suddenly appeared in front of the Keeper. “Read, Barbara dear. Please read to me.” She closes her eyes and leans her head against the chair’s tall back. She unclasps her hands and puts them gently in her lap.

And so I begin to read.

Star, Shine Brightly

I am the babe born to an alcoholic factory worker and a fanatical housewife. I am the child raised by my elders who instill in me a sense of a work ethic. I am the youth who discovers the written word and thinks of worldly things. I am the teenager who struggles and strains against the family ties that bind. I am the twenty year old who studies with no rest and achieves what she seeks. I am the thirty year old who births three and practices the skills of motherhood. I am the forty year old, wife and mother, who still dances and travels, twirls and dreams. I am the fifty year old who watches my children fly away, who celebrates my life, who makes time to create, who loves spontaneously and who loves herself. I am passionate and curious and generous, and I am adventurous, a wanderer and a wonderer.

I offer this as proof that I am worthy of your kind consideration, that I may be given your gracious permission to explore the Alluvial Mine and perhaps a Mine that belongs only to me.

May the Star, Shining Brightly, let us see clearly, if only we look.

And so the Keeper and the Pilgrim, join hand in hand. And I, the petitioner, is given permission ready to continue on the journey .

 

Appease Please

An Italian pergola to sit under

A rose bush to contemplate

A chair to relax in

Sunshine

From Mari to le Enchanteur

Mining the Dream

In 2004, I went to live with my husband’s step-mother, who was living alone and recovering from a broken hip. She lived in Roswell, New Mexico. Nearly 10 years before this, my husband and I had driven and camped across the US, from our home in North Carolina to his birthplace in San Rafael, California and back. Along the way we visited Taos, New Mexico, and Monument Valley, and I fell in love with the Southwest. I longed to go back. In 2004, I got my chance. For six months I lived in Roswell but took trips all over New Mexico and also to Utah to go on a month-long archaeological dig. After six months it became clear that the step-mother needed (and was willing) to move to an assisted living place and I returned home. I had kept lists of places and things to show my husband when we would be able to travel back to the Southwest again and last October, we went back for a two-and-a-half week trip. We traveled all over New Mexico, returned to Monument Valley and Chaco Canyon and the Grand Canyon, and saw (for the first time) Canyon de Chelly and Bandelier. It was a dream come true.

In Canyon de Chelly, we took a Jeep tour led by a Native American man named Oscar Bia. Deep in the canyon, I heard some kind of high-pitched keening, like a hawk or an eagle. But when I asked Oscar what it was, he said it was a raven. We’d seen quite a few ravens in the canyons and mostly they seemed to be squawking. So I was skeptical that this keening was a raven but Oscar, giving me a strange look, assured me it was. I couldn’t see the raven either, but I took his word for it. Just recently, I had a dream of the Southwest. I have been a lucid dreamer for many years, and my favorite thing to do is fly. In this dream, I was some kind of bird and was flying over the distinctive rose, cream and teal colored mesas and buttes of the Southwest. And something inside of me was singing, “I’m home, I’m home.” The song sounded like a high-pitched keening and I know now the raven I heard in the canyon last October was me.

le Enchanteur’s Bag — Day 6

Damascus lay by the fireplace for hours, sleeping fitfully at first, then more peacefully. He wakes with a start and he seems more like his normal self. But he looks around at the inside of the cottage, heaves a great sigh, and shakes his head in disgust.

“Just why are you molly-coddling me,” he asks, staring particularly at me. “Because of a slight injury, we have lost nearly an entire day of travel, and you are even more behind the others. Can you not think if I am not nudging you in the right direction? Think, Barbara, think.”

I startle when he calls me by my proper name. He never calls me anything but Dear, and I have grown attached to the sound of it. “Damascus, what have I done wrong? You are hurt. Surely we cannot travel with your leg injured. Tell me where I am at fault.”

I look around for Rosa or Tom Tubby to support me, but they both have conveniently disappeared into the garden and are hoeing and weeding vigorously. Pigeon perches on the wood box, preening himself and turned away from me. Certainly he is listening, but he is not very helpful. Why should Pigeon be out of sorts?

“Perhaps if we talk to each other like decent human beings, we can solve this problem,” I say. Donkey hee-haws at this and now I know he is laughing at me. Pigeon jumps up and down. “Now what have I done to amuse you?” I am a little testy.

“Humans?” guffaws Damascus as Pigeon flies to settle on the donkey’s back. “You called us humans. I think you do us a disservice and perhaps you should watch what you say in the future. Pigeon and I forgive you this once, but now you must use your brain. I can no longer solve all of your problems. It is not my journey. Remember? You’re the one with grand ideas of adventure. I’m only along for the long haul. Tell us, what should we do?”

I am at a loss. Damascus seemed in charge of the trip so far. I had grown to trust his wisdom. But he’s right, as usual. It IS my journey. I sit down in the rocking chair, and move back and forth, racking my brain for the solution, according to Damascus, I should know.

I am no further in solving our problem when Pigeon flies to me, and lands on my shoulder. He digs into my neck with his beak which happens to be sharp.

“Pigeon, what are you doing? You’ve drawn blood.” I try to push him away, but he has the cord to le Enchanteur’s bag between his beak. He pulls it a few times, and then lets the cord drop. He returns to Damascus. I think I see a conspiratorial look pass between Damascus and Pigeon. Or do I imagine this?

I reach for the cord of my bag. Pigeon gave me a hint, God bless his soul.

My hosts are now working in the barn, so I take out my silken bag, and spread the contents on my lap. “Hmm. Think hard, Barbara,” I whisper. Of course Damascus can hear me, no matter how quietly I speak. (Sometimes I think he can read my mind.) He pulls himself to stand, and takes a painful step to me and noses about in my treasures. I lift each object, but the answer eludes me.

I lift each item. “The candlestick? I can’t possibly think what I can do with this. Doesn’t even have a candle. Then my tiny scissors? There is nothing that needs cutting. I hook the spectacles over my ears, but I see nothing unusual. The wings? The dream seeds? Why can’t I figure this out?”

I pick up the last object. It is the well-worn medallion with the imprint of the Unicorn barely visible. Obviously it is very old and well-used. Again, I am clueless. I stare at the features of the mystical creature. An idea blossoms and I wonder outloud.

“Damascus, let me hang this medallion around your neck. Maybe the Unicorn will work his magic.” The donkey leans his head forward so I can reach him. I touch the medallion to his neck, and a blinding light surrounds him. Damascus does a sort of jig, of all things, and shakes off the brightness.

I stare in amazement.

At just that moment Rosa and Tom Tubby come in, hauling a pail of fresh vegetables. “Thought I’d make the invalid a nice pot of vegetable soup,” says Rosa. But then they both look at Damascus. Tom Tubby’s eyes google and Rosa opens her mouth in wonder.

Damascus’ injury is healed. Now my donkey starts braying — braying loudly – and continues to dance around the cottage, knocking over the pail of vegetables. Distracted by the food, he noses about and eats a red pulpy bulb similar to Riversleigh’s radishes and a parsnip-shaped tuber or two. He looks me in the eye and I see a twinkle of mischief.

“I’m full. Let’s go,” he demands. “Rosa, would you be bothered to pack a cold meal or two for Dear? We have far to go and if we don’t have to search for food we will make better time.”

Rosa moved closer to Damascus and ran her fingers through his mane: she gingerly touched his injured leg.. “Oh, my, Damascus. There’s not even a scratch. If this isn’t something. I’ll have your food packed in the time it takes you all to be ready.”

I run upstairs for my gear and stuff everything back into my pack.

“Put your pack on my back, Dear. Just because there’s a bit of magic around, I’m still your old Damascus. And I’m stronger than I’ve ever been.” He nearly skips, if a donkey can skip, as he goes outside. “Just a bit of hay and I’m ready, so pack me up.” I fasten our gear onto his back and Rosa tucks a package into my pack. Damascus, Pigeon and I are ready to go.

“Wave your good-byes and move on out,” says Damascus. “We’re on the road again. Next stop, a visit to the hoo-doos and a good friend of mine.”

“Hoo-doos?” I say, unsure if I hear correctly. “Just what is a hoo-doo?”

“Why, you’ve become most curious, Dear. But I’ll not ruin the surprise. Towards mid-afternoon, you’ll find out for yourself.” Damascus hee-haws and hee-haws until he’s nearly choking. This time I’m not fooled. He is laughing at me. I’m 100% certain.

Pigeon and I laugh along with him, and when all quiet down, we begin our journey in earnest. Or more truthfully, perhaps, I begin my journey again and my friends honor me with their company.

.

Safety and Danger — Day 5

 

Damascus plods along the Owl Creek Road with Pigeon on his back. I walk along side of him, sometimes skipping a bit, sometimes singing a few lines of a ditty. Although Damascus warns me my gallivanting will use energy I will be wanting later, I cannot not help but show my excitement traveling on Owl Creek Road. On my way to where, I cannot imagine, but I know there is a mine ahead and I’m sure it will provide adventure. Well, I’ve never been one to shirk from a little sport, and I am in the most pleasant of companies, so I am happy. But after we walk hour after hour, with no end in sight, I begin to question my donkey’s wisdom..

 

 

 

“Damascus, where is this creek? After all, this road is Owl Creek Road. Surely there’s a creek. My canteen is empty and I’m getting quite thirsty. Hungry, too.” After an afternoon of walking, I am uncomfortable and a little whiny. The road covers me with a heavy layer of dust, and I also swallow my share. My mouth is so dry, I can hardly force my words out.“Be patient, Dear. I was warned you travelers are an impatient bunch, and that’s truly true. The creek is several miles yet. A sharp curve towards the mountains and then we will travel along the cooling water. Then you can drink until your body and spirit are quenched and I shall greedily join you. Do you not think beasts of burden thirst and become uncomfortable, yet I try not to complain? And have you noticed that Pigeon has been gone quite awhile? It would be wise for you to pay attention to your surroundings instead of dancing about. As for Pigeon, I daresay he has already partaken of his share of liquid refreshment.”

I become quiet. Damascus is right, of course. He is right most of the time, I discover. It is good that I try to pay more attention to his words. Words from Donkeys are surely of a magical nature.

“I am sorry, Damascus. I suppose my human-ness is showing.”

“Why, Dear, do not fret. Do you not yet know a Donkey’s patience is seldom tested? Now look up ahead and celebrate a bit if you must. Here is the curve in the road. See the stream; it is ahead.”

I must admit I half-run to the flowing waters. It races clear and cool, passing over small rocks and sandy flats. I pull off my shoes without further thought and wade into the sand. Scooping water with my hands, I assuage my thirst and splash my face and arms. Damascus joins me, stepping into a rocky portion of the creek, slurping water and spraying it upon my clothing.

“Stop. Stop. You are acting like a wild animal.” I laugh at his antics. I think he is laughing, too, but remember it is hard to read a donkey’s facial expressions. He is braying though, and that seems to indicate he is pleased. I spot Pigeon bathing in a shallow pool.

“Pigeon, where have you been? I have hardly seen you this entire day. You must stay with us for it is now dusk and our dinner can’t be far away.” I try not to let my worry show.

“Do you not know my job in this foreign land?” he cooed. “I am the look-out, watching the road for the least sign of danger. Do you think I am flying about on a lark?” Pigeon sounds indignant, as he may very well be. He is right. I do not notice what I should.

For the second time in as many hours, I find myself apologizing to one of my companions. I hang my head down; I want to cover my face and cry. “Sorry,” I say. Of course you are doing me a great service.”

“You better believe it, Dear. Now look ahead. Lights twinkling from a window. We have come to our place of rest. You rely on Damascus and me, we will care for you as if you were a helpless babe, crying in your cradle.”

Now chagrined at my lecture from Pigeon, I refuse to speak until we arrive at the house. Before I open the rose covered gate, the door to the cottage opens and an enormous man stands in its interior’s illumination. He steps forward, and I see an sparkling grin on his whiskered face. His frame fills the entire entrance.

“Welcome. Welcome. Damascus said we would have company tonight.” He waves a hand and belly-laughs.

I slip Damascus a surprised look. This donkey is worth more than I first figured. Here I thought I would be caring for him, and it is I who am being cared for. Just then Pigeon lands on my shoulder. I stroke his feathers and he ruffles himself. I am lucky to be in the company of my two friends.

I turn my attention to my host. “Why, thank you. I do admit we are tired and hungry. Damascus said we should stop at your home. I hope we are not causing trouble.”

“Trouble? Heavens no. We have dinner and a soft bed prepared for you and accommodations for Damascus and your bird friend. Rosa has a tub of steaming water for you to bathe in and dinner is nearly ready. I shall feed and bed down Damascus and I believe I have seed here for your bird. Go on in.”

“But I don’t even know who you are,” I say, hesitating at his invitation.

Damascus rolls his eyes and hummfs at me. Under his breathe he mumbles. “I never got a proper introduction from Dear until Pigeon stepped in, and now she questions my good friend! What manners do these travelers have?”

I hear Damascus and blush with embarassment. “I am Barbara, although my new friends call me Dear. I am pleased to stop at your home.”

“And I’m Tom Tubby. Pleased to meet you, Dear. Now up and in over the threshold. Rosa is most eager to have some woman-talk.”

Damascus whispers to Tom Tubby and Pigeon hovers over the two of them. I slow my walk so I can hear too. “Any trouble lately? You both doing okay?”

“No. It’s been quiet and I hope it stays that way while we have a guest. Our dogs are out and about. Jess and Jobie will set up a ruckus if they come anywhere near.” Pigeon looks over at me, hesitating on the stoop. “Big ears,” he says, so they break up their meeting and get to the evening chores.

I wash up and change into fresh clothes while Rosa takes my dusty shirt and pants and soaks them in a pan in the sink. I bring my sketchpad and pencils into the kitchen. “Can I help you do anything or would you mind if I sketch a bit and write a few words? I want to remember everything.” As if I would forget, I think to myself.

“Go right ahead, Dear. I gather we’ll hear your stories over supper, and a treat that will be. All these days passing, with only a man to talk to. Gets a frightful bit lonesome, though don’t take that as complaining. I love my Tom Tubby.”

She scrubs my clothing with lye in a pan of water. “I usually use the creek for washing, but it’s not always safest outside. The dark brings out all manner of creatures. You never mind though. Our home is cozy and safe. Now go ahead and do a bit of writing. Your clothes will be fresh in the morning.”

Quite awhile later, Tom Tubby squeezes himself through the door. “Let’s dish that stew up and pile that cornbread on the platter. Why, Rosa, it all smells so grand.” He rubbed his belly and turned to me with a big grin.

“My Rosa is the best cook along side the whole of Owl Creek,” he boasted. “And Rosa, Damascus says our traveler has had herself an exciting time since entering Lemuria. We’re sure to hear a good tale tonight.”

The couple and I exchange pleasantries over the hearty food, and then the real conversation begins. I tell them of the day’s happenings. They cluck and tsk over my story of the anchor and I feel embarrassed for a second. Then they say how fortunate I was to have the tiny anchor, and they think that everyone from the Old Place would be well to have one while in Lemuria. They do not know of le Enchanteur’s parting gifts.

After the hearty supper, Rosa scoots me off to bed. I lie awake in the comfort of the feather bed, piles of quilts covering me, and think over the day’s events. I am drifting into my dreams when I am yanked fully awake by a spooky howl. The howling is not in the distance; it is too nearby to feel comfortable. The dogs begin barking, and I hear shouts downstairs and a door slam.

“Rosa,” I call as I clatter down the steps. “What is happening?”

She is looking out the only window in the cottage which faces the barn, dressed in her nightgown with a quilt thrown over her shoulders. “Why not go up and climb back into bed, Dear? Tom Tubby can handle everything.” She turns away from me and peers closely out the glass. Again I hear the piercing howls. Again it is nearby. I find myself unable to leave Rosa; I look out the window, too.

“Ah-ooo! Ah-ooo!” I see dark shadows nearing the fence which surrounds the yard. It is only a picket fence and provides decoration, not safety. “Hee-haw! Hee-haw!” Now Damascus is braying from inside the barn. I see Pigeon no where in sight, but surely he is safe from whatever travels on the ground. His wings carry him far from danger.

“Not to worry, Dear. Tom Tubby has a gun. He protects us when the wolves attack.” My heart does a double beat as I hear a gun fire. Then several more shots ring through the air. Tom Tubby is yelling, but I can’t make out the words. Minutes seem like hours, but finally the door latch turns and Tom Tubby lumbers through the door.

“They’re gone, Rosa and Dear. Gone for now. I’m afraid they were after Damascus, but we fought them together. Your donkey is safe enough.”

“You both fought them? How is that possible?”

“Why, Damascus does a sort of kick-boxing. Didn’t you know? All the companions of travelers are trained in the arts of protection. You couldn’t ask for a braver donkey. Afraid he’s got a bit of a wound on his leg, though.”

“Damascus is hurt?” I start for the door, but he holds me back.

“Now worry does one no good, so let’s not think the worst,” Tom Tubby gently reprimanded. “Rosa, I’d like to bring Damascus into the cottage to care for him. He’s a gentle animal and will cause you no trouble. He’ll be safer in here if the wolves attack again. He can’t protect himself as he is.”

I held my breath, waiting for her reply. Would Rosa let a donkey inside their home?

“Of course Damascus is welcome. Let me get the spare blankets so he can lie down comfortably. Dear, help me move the table and chairs against the wall so there’ll be room.”

Tom Tubby and I went out and half-carried Damascus into the warm room. Damascus could barely put weight on his foreleg. We gently placed him on the pallet. My heart sank when I saw his injuries, but perhaps when the wound was cleaned, it would look better. My friend, Damascus, was hurt and I no longer had my donkey to accompany me on my journey. I burst into tears. Not only was I heart-broken, I was also terribly afraid.

 

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The First of Many Lessons — Day 4

 

 

The moment my feet touched the ground, I heard the most terrifying screech I could imagine. Although I looked about me, to the left and to the right and behind me, I could see no person or thing. But hear them I did. Horrid name calling that I had heard throughout my entire life was being replayed in my mind. Words that I thought I had erased from my memory, numbed from my consciousness, were being re-broadcast on my own personal tape recorder. Over and over, the caustic words echoed.

Panic gripped me as I listened to my past’s ghostly voices and then I felt my feet disappear into the mucky sand. Suddenly I remembered my companions and their pact. Were they really going to help me or were they going to ignore me in my predicament?

I turned about, searching for Damascus and Pigeon, as the sandy ground continued to suck fiercely, now engulfing my ankles. Damascus stood placidly at my side, yawning and swinging his tail. He was nonplussed by my situation; in fact, he was totally unaware of it. If anything, the donkey looked quite relaxed, almost asleep standing upright.

“Damascus, aren’t you going to help? You did say you’d help me, you and Pigeon.”

“Hmm. What’s up, Dear? You look a little troubled.”

“Troubled? Troubled? Of course I’m troubled. Those voices. Can’t you hear those devilish voices tormenting me? Screaming insults at me. And aren’t you worried about the quicksand? I’m sinking deeper and deeper. Can’t you see?”

Damascus took his time, but eventually he swiveled his eyes downward and examined the sand which was gripping me more tightly. He looked a bit irritated. Then he blew a warm swoosh of air into my face.

“Of course I can hear and see. What kind of donkey do you think I am?” I think he gave me a nasty look, but I couldn’t be sure. Damascus shook his head, pawed the ground. I noticed he was standing on solid ground. “I’ve heard of these sorts of problems, but I’ve never come face to face with such things. Voices, you say? Nasty ones?”

“Yes, nasty. Very nasty. Calling me all sorts of names. Stupid. Liar. Traitor. Crazy. Bad. Scaredy-brat. Even worse names and screaming in voices I recognize. Mother. Father. Friend. Teacher. Are you listening to me, Damascus?”

“Perhaps you need to clean house before those voices will disappear. It’s been said that one can’t carry old baggage in Lemuria, because there’s too much new baggage to carry. See those mining tools next to the brush. There’s our new baggage.” Damascus turned his head away, reached for a bit of grass and chewed it.

“But I don’t understand. Damascus, you aren’t making sense.”

“Dear, give up those voices. Throw off those names. Too much baggage, understand?”

I closed my eyes and underneath my voice I began to chant. I am good. I am smart. I am brave. I chanted over and over until I started to believe what I was saying. “I understand now, Damascus, about the voices. I can make them be still and disappear. I am in charge of what I hear, of who I am. Is that what you were trying to teach me?”

“Yes, Dear. A good lesson learned.”

“But the quicksand? I still can’t move.”

Damascus shook his head and snorted. He looked me straight in the eye. “Are you sure that old baggage is gone? Its weight can take fast hold of you, make you unable to go forward. You won’t be able to make progress until you forgive the past, focus on the present and plan for the future.”

“Those are pretty philosophical words from a donkey’s mouth,” I couldn’t help saying that, but he didn’t seem to hear me. Or did he?

“Yes, indeed. I’m a pretty philosophical fellow. If only you keep listening, we’ll get along fine. By the way, how are your feet?”

I lifted my right foot, then my left. “They’re free. Oh, Damascus, you know the answers. You’re wonderful.”

“Aw, Dear. Not wonderful. But perhaps old donkeys become wise, forever traveling strangers through this mysterious land. Now to be certain you’ve shrugged off those voices for good, open your bag from le Enchanteur and take out the little anchor.”

“And just why do I need an anchor in the middle of this country. I see no water anywhere.”

“And you’ll need no water for this anchor to do its job,” sighed Damascus just a bit. “Throw this net, yes it’s invisible but it will do, over the remains of the voice-makers. Now fasten it to the earth with the anchor.”

I lifted the anchor, but I could only move it a fraction. Damascus helped nudge it with his nose and together we pushed the anchor into place.

“You needed a mighty heavy anchor to hold down those memories, Dear,” said Damascus, ” but this part of your journey is done. Now if you would please load that pack of tools on my back, we have many stops yet to make. Let’s be off.” Damascus smiled, though I didn’t notice. It’s hard to tell when a donkey smiles.

“Wait. Let me signal for Pigeon.” I whistled through my fingers and there was Pigeon, perched on Damascus’ back.

Damascus brayed and Pigeon hopped from foot to foot. “Now we shall follow Owl Road while it is still light enough to see. I’m starving and I know just the place to find a home-cooked meal. Let’s take the welcomes while we can, for soon enough we’ll be eating many a meal from a cold tin, and looking over our shoulders at every sound.”

« An Introduction to Damascus, the Donkey Day 3 Safety and Danger — Day 5 »

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Author : bfahrenbac–>
• Date : 6 March 2007
• Categories : Barbara’s Journey, Grand Tourists