The Easy Way
Chapter I
Your Creator, has infused a precious life within you for a purpose that when dutifully completed, will assist in bringing about His greater design and in so doing, your ultimate reward. It is a transient gift that is to be treasured as well as to be used to seek out your holy purpose and fulfill it.
At all times you would be best to remind yourself that He has lent you your brief existence and that He, and it is for Him and He alone to call for its return. You are only one of his investments into a higher purpose the whole of which is not revealed. You will live among others who will grow to understand and fulfill their mission. You are not to interfere in their purpose as they are not to interfere in yours, and yet you must work together to help one another to seek and achieve each their undertaking.
Since in life you will only know your creator for the gift he has temporarily given you and you will only come to his grace by fulfilling your destiny, you should consider your life as something you have borrowed. Only then will you be attentive to the bond you have with the Great Lender.
The First Lesson from the Book of Birth.
It was happening again. Fear and anger billowed through the village like an advancing torrential rainfall. This would be the second time in only one growing season. A frequency like this was not new, but these events were dreaded and hated and one could only hope their times would be few. A handful of young men chose to stand defiantly in apparent preparation of defending their home and property. Whether they felt that this time their weapons would be stronger or their shields and armor would protect them or if they simply felt their life was not important if they could not defend what was rightfully theirs, they banded together to meet the advancing soldiers.
The elderly, the children and those who chose not to risk involvement, retreated well away on a rise, to watch the attack on their village. Those who elected to fight had dwindled in numbers over the many years, and now rarely exceeded a handful. In some cases, standing amongst the defenders was an act of bravery that marked a boy’s passage into manhood. For others, there was prestige in boasting about the frequency by which they stood up to the enemy. Others believed that by standing before their homes, they reduced the likelihood that theirs would be one of those looted. Since the attackers were not blood thirsty, nor were they anxious themselves to suffer any loss of life, or even sustain an injury, this belief held some truth. But it was also very risky. If a looter suspected that a house contained items of value, he would fire upon anyone who looked as though they presented a risk to them. The attackers placed a great deal of value on their own lives and rarely took chances.
In many ways the villagers may have been lucky that their weapons were so primitive in comparison to those of the soldiers. The only materials they had for producing armaments and protective gear were wood, stones, strips of hide and any lost or abandoned items they could wrestle from a previous attack. Leaving their precious armaments behind was a rare event. These people had discovered how to extract metal from the ground, and used this discovery to tip their spears and arrows. Those who formed the first line of attack also wore armor that could easily render useless, simple pointed sticks. Really, the most threatening weapon the villagers had against the attackers, were rocks. But the archers would show no compassion to anyone seen to be holding, or even standing too close to a pile of rocks. This they could do from a distance that defied accurate throwing of rocks. The looters only came in when the archers had made it safe to do so.
One could only hope that the looters would quickly find more than they could carry. The villagers did not have weapons, but they did have tricks. The looters discovered that the grain pots were intentionally thick and massive, or deceptively thin but with the bottom half filled with pebbles. This time the hordes brought woven bags and tipped the jugs to empty them onto the cloth, which they could examine before going any further. A much lighter means to carry off the raw seeds, and one that was free of pebbles.
On this occasion, the looters did not confront any of the defiant, seemingly they had acquired as much as they wanted. After a relatively peaceful attack, they began to recede. The looters, weighted down with the goods they had taken, left first. The archers faced the angry villagers in order to give their comrades ample time to make it to the woods. From one of the outer dwellings, one that had been looted, a boy of 14 or 15 emerged holding a very carefully chosen rock. At this point in their retreat, the looters were no longer as vigilant. An error they would be sure to never repeat. Keeping low, the young man ran through the fields and parallel to the road. Looking up occasionally. He judged when it was time and he was close enough. Then, he curved towards the road and came up behind the looters. Still hidden in the edge of the fields, he pitched his rock at the closest man and struck him in the back of the head. The man faltered in his footsteps and leaned well forward. Staggering, he caught himself from a fall. The commander of the archers looked momentarily back to judge how much more time was needed in their stand. While he saw the stricken looter, he assumed in his quick glance that the man was struggling to place a better grip on his acquired goods. The boy chased after the staggering man by running through the fields. He reappeared before the man who was still regaining and not yet aware of what had happened to him. There was a significant amount of blood, but the man would not drop his sack.
The commander glanced again, to judge the time needed for those retreating. This time he made no mistake in accessing what was happening. He shouted an order and the archers released their arrows at any villager who was in range. They then all turned and raced to the aid of the comrade. The boy had never been in battle before and he was frozen by a sense of empathy for the man he had seriously wounded. At the sound of the commander’s order, he looked up to watch as several deadly arrows tore their way through his fellow villagers. In a renewed rage, the boy picked up a large rock and began to bludgeon the man who was now on his knees. Satisfied that he had inflicted enough injury, and fearful of the advancing archers, the boy ran back in to the field, his youthful speed kept him well ahead of the enemy.
The commander motioned to his men and 4 picked up their fallen friend and ran as best they could for the forest. Another picked up his plunder. The remainder turned to face the village and to watch the field as they retreated. There was no cause to chase after the boy, they had exacted a revenge that exceeded their loss and thus they had made their point.
Back on the rise, the villagers were reacting in horror to what they had witnessed. They shouted abuses and curses at the enemy until they disappeared from sight. And then they ran back to their village.
Three dead and four wounded.
Further down stream, opposite to the direction that the looters appear and disappear from, around a bend and unknown to the thieving hordes, as they were known by the villagers, was a wood and stone building. It had been cleverly constructed to look like any other outcrop from the outside. So far, disguising it from sight was an unnecessary precaution. Nevertheless, its owner and the few visitors he had received, had followed the plan to keep it free of any hints that it was anything but another mound by the river. They accessed the interior only by the river, letting the current conceal any footprints. Boats were brought inside. Once inside, a potential invader would not suspect that this shelter was also an entry to a cave.
Today, the man who built this structure was strolling along side the riverbank collecting rocks and stones. From up stream he noticed a familiar boat as it was being paddled in his direction. The older man began to plan his words and actions. Significant acts require significant responses. He would have preferred to have a few more years to prepare for this day. The boy would have benefited with the additional maturity.
“Hi uncle, did you see me?” inquired the boy.
The man stood up from the crouched position and grasped the advancing prow of the boat. He lifted it up and brought it to a stop and waited for his nephew to step out. “Yes Cory,” he replied quietly. “I saw you.”
“Why didn’t you stay for the celebrations,” Cory asked, clearly perplexed at his uncle’s apparent lack of interest in the tradition. The celebrations marked the end of the looting and the departure of the Hordes. The villagers took the opportunity to give thanks to the Great Lender for sparing them, and for leaving them with enough food. They were particularly grateful that there would not be another raid for some time. The celebrations included tending to the wounded and burying the dead. The defenders would relate the heroic acts they had made or witnessed.
Cory was proud of his one-man stand, and of the apparent fatal injury he inflicted on the enemy. It was the first time he stood up with the defenders, but true to his style, he acted completely alone. The villagers all spoke of wanting to kill their enemies, and they realized that to do so would invoke a more costly retaliation. The emotional conflict that resulted made it difficult for anyone to turn to Cory and point out the cost of his actions.
“How were the celebrations?” asked Peter, looking for a way to politely condemn Cory for his rash action.
Sensing that his uncle was finally showing some interest, Cory smiled with pride and answered, “The best ever.”
Looking back upstream, Cory’s uncle squinted at the bright horizon and quietly asked, “Three dead. Three fewer men to work the fields, could that not have been avoided?”
Cory felt that his uncle was being cryptic and stared at his face for some missing piece of information. Inflicting an injury, maybe even a death, on the enemy was a something of which to be proud. This may well have been his most glorious deed and his uncle was far from congratulating him. Cory knew better than to question his uncle, but his confusion was consuming his thoughts. He could only stare into his uncle’s eyes and wait for a reply.
Sensing that the time was right, Peter looked down at the collection of rocks he had amassed and drew a deep breath. “Cory, tell me in your own words, what you think I do here.” Peter gestured to the riverbank and to the concealed chamber.
Cory followed his uncle’s motion and looked around to see if anything was new. He knew perfectly well what the old man was doing and this question worried Cory. Why was his uncle being so mysterious? “As you have told me many times, you are trying to learn the secret of the metals. If we too could make arrows and spears like the Hordes, we could stand up to them.”
“Yes,” acknowledged Peter. “And do you know why I am collecting these rocks?
The boy’s eyes returned to the ground as if the rocks at his feet could help him see the reason. It didn’t help that his uncle was never willing to discuss his affairs nor that he was always picking up all types of items for inspection.
After a brief silence that confirmed Cory’s inability to even guess, Peter continued. “Then I will explain this and much more to you tomorrow. We will need to use the remaining daylight to assemble a few things and a couple of meals, in case we are unable to find anything on the way.”
“On the way?” echoed Cory.
But Peter had turned towards his home and showed no further interest in talking. Once again Cory had to contain his youthful eagerness and patiently followed behind.
The next morning, Cory awoke to the sounds of his uncle preparing their breakfast. The sun was only beginning to seep through the darkness and everything presented itself as some shade of gray. The memory of some promise by his uncle to explain his activities arose along with Cory. That recollection stirred him from his slumber like a promising splash of cold water.
The meal, like most of the time he spent with his uncle, proceeded in silence. Cory was not about to risk the unusual opportunity with words and so he lost himself in thoughts of what might be in store for him.
Their walk through the forest had been in silence. Naturally, Peter led and he had maintained a brisk pace. His nephew was pleased just to be included in this activity, which for him, was already an adventure. Cory longed to be more involved with his uncle’s explorations and this time was to be savored. But more importantly, it was an opportunity to prove to his uncle that he could help wherever possible and not be a hindrance. Cory was confident that his inclusion in future activities depended heavily on his behaviour and his ability to follow instructions. Whatever Peter’s mission was, Cory was struggling to remain mindful that he didn’t want to do anything that might cause his uncle to regret permitting him to tag along.
Cory’s uncle stopped frequently along the path to inspect and occasionally pick up a mushroom. When he did, he would stand up and hold it into the light and inspect it carefully. Sometimes he would throw an examined specimen to the ground with no further scrutiny. In those instances when he was satisfied, he would place his finding into his nap sack and he would immediately resume the pace. This behaviour was in keeping with Peter and Cory didn’t find the constant breaks unusual. His uncle was constantly inspecting the bits of earth and vegetation that he came upon. The more interesting ones would be taken back home for further study.
When they reached a clearing, Peter slowed down and showed a greater interest in his surroundings. Eventually he stopped, looked all about and chose a direction to proceed that seemed to be entirely arbitrary. He walked up to a young tree and inspected the various branches by shaking them and scanning their extent. Satisfied with some quality he found in one limb, he pulled a sharp edged rock from his nap sack and hacked the branch from the tree. He chopped this piece free of its branches until he had fashioned a long, slightly arched pole. With the thick end touching the ground, Peter gripped the pole at a comfortable height, his fingers almost circled back to the base of his hand. He pounded the pole onto the ground a couple of times as he tested it. Once again satisfied he returned to the trail, using his newest acquisition as a walking stick.
Cory rarely understood his uncle’s behaviour and he wasn’t about to bother him with the kinds of questions that were sure to evoke an angry or perhaps resentful mood. Since his earliest recollections, Cory found his uncle to be the most interesting person he knew. His life, his actions in pursuit of unspoken, unidentified quests, the cave he made home, the collection of unusual objects that littered the cave, all these things and more, left an imprint on a young boy that nurtured a fascination and a wish to be more involved in what was obviously an adult business. Cory was quite adept at maintaining a coherent conversation with his uncle in situations where he would seem to most people to be lost in his eccentric ways. And so it was that Cory learned about his uncle’s quest for more than just metal. Yet, this didn’t prepare Cory for the image of his uncle striding purposefully with a comically oversized green walking stick.
They continued their hike and the rising of the land was becoming more noticeable, even steep at places. There were fewer trees, none of any stature, and the lower vegetation was thin and brown. The air was becoming disagreeably hotter and much drier.
When they reached the top of the hill, Cory looked about for the first time and was deeply impressed with the magnificence of the view. Without planning it, he slowly spun around as he scanned the horizon and everything between. This hilltop was barren and dry, much like most of the rocky slope near by. Cory stood near the edge they had scaled and mentally contrasted the ground nearby with the cooler, damper region below where his uncle paused to inspect mushrooms. He could see the river and followed it back to his left and towards home. Despite his efforts, he was unable to see any indication of where the village was except for some hints of the fields, which were bare and waiting for planting. He looked past the place where the village must have been and could see that the land rose into the distance. A mountain range framed itself against the horizon. Cory reversed his scan back to his village, back to the region where he met his uncle and out to his right. The land and horizon were flat, the distance misty and unusual.
“Where you see the sky meeting the earth, there is a massive water, unlike any you would have seen,” whispered Peter. “I’ve been there and it is like a barrier that has no limit. It seems to fill out in both directions forever. Even on the clearest days, I have never seen land on the other side. Perhaps there is none” As he faced the distance, Peter stood with his arms apart as though from this vantage point, he could embrace the scope of the vastness. His voice was quiet and respectful. “And the water there is extremely salty.”
Cory imagined a day when his uncle would take him on a trip to this great expanse. “Is this what you brought me up here to show me?” he asked expectantly.
Without replying, his uncle turned around and walked over to a circle of rocks where it was obvious there had been a fire. He sat down on the ground and placed his various bags and nap sack about. He manipulated the contents in a near ceremonious fashion, and continued his silence. Detecting his uncle’s preoccupation Cory patiently pursued his intrigue with the view. While he kept trying to discern something recognizable in the direction of the village, he was drawn by the mystery of the salty expanse of which his uncle might teach him.
“This is your initiation.” Peter’s voice was soft but the break in the silence startled Cory. “Join me.” Peter motioned to one of two bowls of mushrooms as he picked one up and held it close. Cory sat down before the second bowl, and the two ate in silence.
Cory munched on the last of his food, but was still thinking of future journeys with his uncle when he heard Peter speak from behind. “Help me with this wood.” he instructed him.
Obediently, Cory assisted his uncle moving sticks and logs from a crude shelter, to the side of a spot that clearly had seen many fires. He rarely quizzed his uncle in such times. He had learned that Peter’s intensity of thought would usually leave his questions ignored. There had been occasions when Peter would explain himself if he wanted to and these informative events were becoming more frequent. Cory looked apprehensively at his uncle and noticed a certain expression that he tended to wear, as he would narrate his actions. The nephew didn’t have to wait long for an explanation.
“I know that metal comes from the ground, in the rocks, stones and bits of stone. I also know that it doesn’t look like metal when it is first gathered. That is why it is so difficult to find.” Peter was being quite deliberate with his account. “I have good reason to believe that correctly selected earth materials can be made to be metal with enough heat. That is why we are here. Wood stored in the rain break will age quickly in this dry air and by the constant strong breeze. This wind cleans the old ashes away so there is never a barrier of useless embers blocking the air from close to the ground. In addition, the persistent wind causes a carefully constructed fire to burn bright and hot. This wood is dry and is a type that produces a great heat. I will show you what I have learned.” Peter began to scrape his chopping stone across an old dry stick and made some shavings. He sat back in thought for a short while and handed the rock and stick to Cory. “Make a pile of shavings to about this height,” he instructed his nephew.
At fist Cory felt very much afraid. Some deep ingrained voice had always prevented him from ever touching his uncle’s things. But Peter sat peacefully with his hands offering the items and, reaching out, Cory eventually took them. Making a fire was nothing new and Cory had no problem following his uncle’s instructions. The effort was made particularly easy because Peter’s stone was uncommonly sharp. When he felt he had prepared the correct amount of shavings, he looked up at his uncle and offered the valuable rock back.
“Start the fire,” was Peter’s only comment, his left hand outstretched with the palm up, was cradling a flint.
Cory accepted the flint and set about to strike sparks into the shavings. This too was something he was quite at ease with and the initial trail of smoke was not long to wait for. The breeze was too strong for the flames and he had to protect the glowing embers until a flame appeared. He carefully sprinkled more shavings around the smoldering glow until it grew stronger. Then he placed twigs and small sticks about the fire, creating the shape of an inverted funnel. As they too began to burn, he added larger sticks and placed the logs to the outside. Once again, he handed the tool and the flint back to his uncle. Peter accepted them and placed them in his nap sack.
Cory kept his attention on the fire, which was burning quickly in the persistent wind. It was strangely exciting to sit so close to a fire and not feel the repeated blast of heat and smoke as the wind direction might change, because here, it never wavered. Noticing the persistent trail of hot glowing embers, that were more visible than smoke, Cory felt an unusual attachment for his handiwork. There was a life being expressed by this growing inferno, a force that showed no affinity towards its creator. Cory sensed that between the fire and the wind, it was the latter that was the more friendly.
“The fire is ready,” announced Peter. The sudden intrusion into Cory’s thoughts was both startling and reassuring. Peter produced a small clay pot with a pair of holes just under the rim. He emptied a small pouch into the pot. “Sand,” he remarked. “Collected from the infertile edge of that great water I was just telling you about.” He inserted the tip of his freshly harvested walking stick through the holes and carefully picked up the pot of sand. In one clean movement, he placed the pot onto the brightest coals and cautiously slipped the stick back out.
“As near as you are comfortable to stand, try and watch the sand,” Peter instructed, giving no hint of what purpose there might be in keeping an eye on such ordinary material. Nevertheless, Cory expected something of significance and peered as closely as he could get. The flickering of the fire was reflected in a colourful shimmering at the surface. The sand that came from so far away, from a place of endless water was dancing in the heat. Cory promised himself that even if he had to explore this place of immense water on his own, he was determined to do so. It didn’t take long before the sand seemed to be moving, as though a hole was opening up from underneath. Grains could be seen to tip into the center and slowly tumble. Cory was astonished to watch the last grains sink into a brown translucent liquid. Perplexed, he turned to his uncle to see him pound a single blow into a dry stick, with his chopping stone. He lay the stick on the ground, the deep cut facing up, and lay a flat rock over the end, so as to give it stability. Picking up his walking stick he returned to Cory’s side and peered into the clay pot. He deftly reinserted the narrow end into the pot’s holes and recovered it from the intense heat. In one motion he swung the pot to the gashed stick and deliberately tipped it. Cory was having difficulty discerning what was happening behind the resulting steam and smoke billowing from both the walking stick and the gashed piece of firewood.
It was obvious that the sand, or whatever the sand became from the heat, had been emptied into the small crevice. Cory felt a pang of disappointment as he imagined the cooling material would only revert back to ordinary sand. He reflected on his memory of seeing a golden coloured liquid and how spellbound he was to watch it develop. Even as he thought back, he was uncertain if his recollection was accurate, or if he had just embellished it, because something in the thought seemed new. Like the individual grains of sand falling into the liquid, the events were beginning to lose their place in time, each flowing past the others until there was only the fluid. Could he have already become confused at what he saw? Was he still developing his reaction, even though the image was no longer present? Cory glanced back to the fire he had created. It was still intense and a trail of sparks twisted upward and towards the flat horizon, but it was losing its rage. The fearful independence the inferno seemed to proclaim earlier was replaced my a nearly apologetic acknowledgement that long after the flames die out completely, the wind would still be as strong as ever. Cory wondered if the fire was hiding some truth, and if so, would any chance to learn from it be lost, when finally it was extinguished. The elusiveness of the moment and the clatter of decisions and directions not taken, began to fill his thoughts like an unwelcome darkness. They descended upon him like the top most grains, into the consuming fluid below.
“The moment is now,” announced his uncle.
Once again, the sudden break of fresh reality into his drowning thoughts pulled viciously at his mindset. Like a willing drowning victim, Cory’s thoughts were jerked back from the depths with such speed and power that he suddenly felt quite dizzy. Unsettled on his feet, he turned his back to the fire and towards the voice that was beginning to melt into the timeless fluid. The spiral back into the melting reality was averted when he saw his uncle, pointing with his full arm, in the direction they were facing when they arrived.
“That is the setting sun. It is soon to leave the sky.” Peter leaned forward to a narrow rock and touched it. As he did, the image of his movement ebbed away from the now, and was flowing apart. Cory struggled to let go of the passing moment and concentrated on the immediacy. Peter drew his arm down and pointed to the shadow the rock made against the barren ground. Cory moved closer towards the shadow his uncle was pointing to, his eyes were still adjusted to the bright fire and it took a few seconds before he could make out the deep scratches. They were perfectly consistent with the shadow
Cory looked at his uncle to see him now standing with his back to the setting sun, his outstretched arm pointing.
“That is the rising moon. It will soon to take over the sky.” Again, Peter put his hand on a notable rock and drew his arm down to the ground. “Soon it too will cast a shadow within these markings
“This event – the setting and the rising – in these directions, happens every year, and yet they are never exactly the same. Frequently, but sadly, not always, it is time for the village to plant. I know the old folks used the night sky to tell them this important time. I know that what I’m showing you is not complete, but it is the best I have. Thus it is the best we have. That is why some plantings are too soon and others are too late. You must place more emphasis on the shadow the sun produces. I know the moon is important, but I have yet to learn how. Any man who can do better will walk in greatness.”
Cory was dumbfounded. He knew the importance of timing the planting. When it is done too early, the unpredictable spring floods would wash away the seeds. If it were done too late, the soil would be too dry to guarantee the survival of the sprouted wheat. He knew his uncle’s talent was so revered, even if imperfect, that his only contribution to the village was this singular piece of advice, this was his work from which the others would contribute a portion of their produce to repay him, and support him. And now his uncle was sharing it with him. Cory was already imagining the respect that would be bestowed upon him when, in the future he would casually announce to the villagers, “It is time.”
Suddenly curious as to what flaws might be keeping his uncle from “greatness”, he got up and inspected the shadow that the sun was making and the rock that cast it. Viewed from this angle, the rock was in the shape of a pillar and the shadow produced the same parallel lines that coincided with a carefully chiseled pair of lines on the barren rock floor. He stood where his uncle was and turned to view the rising moon. Even while it was too light for the moon to cast a shadow, Cory could tell the alignment with the second set of pillar and lines was not going to be as perfect. Still, the thought of having the secret revealed to him was making him feel very proud and responsible. He turned to ask his uncle how he had discovered this place and its significance. The horizon seemed to have expanded. Despite the full spin, Cory found himself looking into an unfamiliar direction. Aspects in the distance tantalized him with familiarity, and yet the complete image was foreign. In search of reassurance, he looked back for the rock and lines he had been inspecting, but they were not there. In fear, he spun further about and felt a certain reassurance to see the pillar, but it was different.
“A half spin about,” Cory thought. “Towards the second pillar and the rising moon.” But as he turned, he was once again confronted with an unusual, and now unfamiliar view. He turned more and his eyes met the moon, the comforting sensible moon. Cory looked out in this direction for a few panting moments and assured himself that all was well. But before he could catch his breath in the warmth of the moment, he wondered where his uncle was.
Again, he spun about, first towards his left, and then to his right. He was getting better at identifying the directions that were so new to him. The moon was a friendly reminder of where he was and in what direction he was looking. Carefully he turned a full circle as judged by the moon, and still he couldn’t see his uncle. A fear grew suddenly inside him that made him want to cry out. Tears began to grow in his eyes when he suddenly stopped and faced the moon in defiance of his own interpreted sense of being a timid child. His movements became slower and he looked about in a controlled hold on serenity. Focusing on the distance, he gathered his thoughts and visualized himself from above – where are the landmarks that just earlier, he was discovering? Where had his uncle gone?
“There is more I want to show you.”
Peter’s words rang, echoed, reverberated and still seemed to be freshly spoken as Cory looked in their direction. There was his uncle in a familiar place, and yet novel looking, staring down at the stick in which he poured the liquid sand.
“This is the nearest I have been able to come in my search for metal.”
Cory walked closer to see what Peter was staring at. For his nephew’s sake, he turned the stick to expose the gash and held up his achievement. Cory saw what looked like a semi transparent arrowhead, but unlike the deadly tips of the invading Hordes, this was not a shining dark golden colour, rather it was more brown and uneven in shape. Cory watched with wonder as his uncle knelt down and placed his chopping stone near, and inline with the original gash. The cooling sand had not returned to grains after all. Peter picked up a second rock and hit the back of his chopping stone until the stick cracked open. He recovered their casting and juggled the still hot object. Cory was enthralled as the object would momentarily lift into the air and sparkle magically from the action of being tossed and spun.
“This too is not perfect, nor is it metal. It is hard, sharp and can be dangerous, but it also can be made to shatter into pieces too easily. This is not metal. The Hordes alone know that secret, just as they know better how to decide when to plant. But this is the key. With this,” said Peter, holding up his object in reverence, “and its mate which is now in the possession of the Hordes, a man would have achieved a knowledge that would make identifying the planting-time seem minor and of passing interest.”
Cory gazed upon his uncle in complete awe. Peter had just shown him the secret by which he determined the time to plant, a piece of treasured information that he had never shared with anyone before. Now, he was revealing the doorway to a much greater power, one in which there was no one who was a master of it, maybe no one else was even aware it existed. Cory knew then that he needed to coax as much information from his uncle as he could, and to discover on his own just what the Hordes had learned about metal. In a few seconds, the consuming fluidity of his thoughts and memories became firm and clear and from within the resulting transparency, Cory knew what he wanted to do. The path was far from complete, and yet the goal was clear and presented to him absolutely no obstructions. It was so simple; learn more about what his uncle could teach him, and then discover what the Hordes took for granted. Cory looked out into the distance with the sense that it had all just become his. He turned to look towards the now bright shining moon that had become the sole source of illumination. His thoughts flowed free like the relentless wind that lashed his hair about his face, and from that rush of ideas, his conviction of a destiny formed, like deep water through a narrow gorge, wild and exhilarating with an overwhelming expression of purpose.
Once again, Peter’s voice broke through Cory’s thoughts. “Here is something else I want to show you.” But, like a delayed echo, the offer seemed like an artifact of the past. Cory was still having difficulty keeping events in order. Even as he questioned himself if he was listening to his uncle or to a memory, the words repeated as if they came from an unresolved memory, but then ebbed with a sense of urgency that seemed to be proof that they were freshly uttered.
Cory looked in expectation towards the sound, but only saw a large bird looking back at him. The bird’s eyes stared momentarily into Cory’s, but then turned to face the distance, taking to flight and then silently glided into the darkness. Astonished and suddenly feeling very lonely, Cory walked into the direction the bird was standing. Looking into the night’s sky, he caught a glimpse of wings headed for the direction that earlier, seemed to be the village. Cory stepped lightly and realized his feet were no longer touching the ground. He felt a moment of panic as he felt himself pulled along with the bird. He chose to rise higher, and he did, he decided to swoop close to the ground and felt the claustrophobic nearness of the earth and trees, the cooler evening air of the valley was refreshing. He looked upward and the sky was relatively bright and the bird he was following could be clearly seen in silhouette. He chose to rise and follow. He looked down and fearlessly realized that he was soaring high above the chasm below, the mountaintop now well behind him. Filled with confidence, he returned his attention to the direction he was headed and once again caught sight of his lead bird that had veered to the left. Cory adjusted his weight to fall in behind and could see more clearly the ground below. Feeling increasingly self-assured, he maneuvered to descend again, closer to the river below he skimmed across the treetops. The terrain looked familiar, but the vantage point made it intriguing, the speed by which he covered the distance was thrilling.
Cory knew that a very great moment had taken place. His uncle’s promise for an “initiation” did not seem barely significant compared to the discoveries that followed. His mind was clear, his sense of purpose was solid, his goal was within reach, his spirit was purified and his future was richer than any man could have ever dreamed.
The experience absorbed any notion of time. Cory was astonished to look down and see his village. He veered to his right and spiraled slowly downward as he delighted to the sight of so many old familiar landmarks from this amazing perspective. He recognized many of the elders as they made their way with the end of the day. He was surprised to see, and yet in his heart he knew he was looking for Coreen. The late breezy spring evening air was dancing with her distinctive auburn hair. The full moon glistened from her face. Approaching closer, Cory could hear her softly singing a well-known song about spring and the promise of reward and fulfillment. The final verse asks for a mate with whom to share the work and harvest. Cory began to mentally sing the song himself. The overly familiar words came to him easily, but this time they were like large physical objects that provided a new perception making the song seem fresh and filled with a meaning that he had never considered.
The music was still playing in his head when he woke up. The unfamiliar surroundings frightened him until he remembered being with his uncle the previous night. As his memories returned, he felt an urge to recall the dream he was having just as he awoke. He could remember that there was some conflict between himself and some powerful person or malevolent force. Cory remembered that in his dream, he had acquired some immunity to any of the strengths the person or force could produce, but conversely, he could do nothing to stop the person from inflicting harm onto others, all he could do was to fly menacingly into that person’s face and be distracting and annoying, while people might escape.
Fly?
Cory tried to remember if that was correct. Was he flying in this dream? Was that his strength over the evil force? He was unrestrained by the walls that made the lives of others a hell? Coreen’s for example. That seemed right. He could fly safely over the walls that acted as a jail for the rest. Even their captor could not fly. His face. His face almost came to mind. That’s right, he flew into that face repeatedly, how could he forget the look of rage, the burning eyes?
Coreen?
Again, Cory tried to remember the images of his dream that were rapidly become distant and forever gone. Was Coreen in his dream? Wasn’t she one of the captives he was trying to free? He remembered her face with concern. Her hair, he could vividly recall her hair. Even though it was a dream, Cory was overcome with a sense of grief that Coreen was in danger and he may not have been able to help her. Somewhat desperate to remember more, something that would set his mind at ease, he struggled to extract more before the awakened state discarded them for good.
Flying.
Yes! There was another time he was flying. He remembered a river below as he navigated up a valley as he followed – was it Peter? Did they not take flight from a magical peak where the secret of foretelling the planting time was explained by his uncle?
Stones! Pillar like stones. Cory twisted about to look for the distinctive forms and the deep scratches in the ground. They were there! Like stoic reassuring landmarks, they silently cast their passive reassurance that reality can be verified by its consistency.
He was nearly catatonic in fear and awe. Of what he could remember - just what was factual and what was dream? How did the two seem to merge as one? He could remember Peter explaining the significance of the sun, moon, the rocks and the lines. Details about that were returning to him, but he couldn’t dredge another glimpse from the battle he had protecting his people. In fact, he thought he had already remembered their tormentor’s face. But now he couldn’t recall any feature. He could only remember Coreen’s face and his awakened state’s dread, telling him that she was in some harm.
