The Gathering
Noel Laflin
11-29-14
The old man walked the woods from dawn till dusk - searching, scrapping, digging and
collecting. He had trampled down forgotten trails
and dusty back roads, covering a great deal of territory during those twelve
hours. He had gotten lost on three occasions and sworn in quiet frustration at
least a hundred times throughout his quest. But, he eventually found what he'd
come looking for at every stop - not right away in each case, but eventually,
yes.
As evening fell, he settled into a final resting spot and prepared a simple cold meal. He leaned against a large, familiar looking rock and drank from an ancient canteen, filled with ice cold spring water sampled earlier in the day. He was suddenly very tired. He closed his eyes and dreamed a bit - haunting, lucid visions. The old man heard whispered voices drawing closer. He awoke with a start and glanced about. The place was dark and silent. A blanket of stars had crept into place while he slept providing the only light. It was enough. It's time, he thought.
He took a small trowel from his backpack - the one that had served him so well throughout the day - and began to dig at a darkened spot not far from where he'd dosed. Within a minute, he struck pay dirt. He smiled as he lifted fine shards of dark charred wood from the shallow hole and placed them in a much worn leather pouch. The man set the trowel down and weighed the bag reverently as he gave it a gentle squeeze. He could feel the crunch of brittle wood remains from nine very recent excavations. He set it aside as he made the final preparations.
He hefted eight blackened rocks from the well-worn backpack - these also claimed at each site visited today while digging for ashes of fires past – some were minor, lonely places long gone from any map. Major points of the compass had been covered in his wanderings - all boundaries of the land had been accounted for in his methodical scavenging of former gathering spots; the sites of storytelling and songs, tall tales and fellowship long forgotten by many. But the old man remembered.
He laid, by the aid of starlight, the eight fire-christened rocks in a circle atop the darkened ground. His gaze then fell upon a large, rough, blackened stone a few feet away from where he squatted. Perfect he thought, as he reached and lugged it into place it with the others - completing the ring.
The old man scooped together dried pine needles and kindling, laying it within the small makeshift fire ring. He raised himself stiffly and walked beneath the old familiar trees gathering an armful of dried branches. He tilted them carefully atop the kindling, teepee-style. Eyeing his surroundings, he began to brush away the immediate area about the ring, sweeping it clean of unwanted fuel.
He brushed the dust from his hands and reached into the old backpack one more time, bringing forth a small box of wooden matches. He struck one against the fine sandpaper and watched it flame to life. Shielding it carefully he laid it at the base of the small wooden structure and watched as the flame greedily sought out the dried tinder. The fire took hold within seconds.
As the twigs and larger branches caught on, small sparks wafted into the air. The old man watched them lift, float briefly and die away; he took note that the area was still suitable for a fire, even now. After all, it had been host to thousands of campfires long ago. It had always been a safe, comfortable ravine.
He gazed at the hillside immediately in front of him – a gentle slope where many had once sat, week in and week out – year in and year out – decades upon decades ago. There used to be logs terraced there, he mused- good seats. But no more. They have all rotted or been called away for other uses he thought. It's all right he reasoned - my guests tonight, should they decide to show, will not need the seating.
With that thought in mind, the former Scout reached for the much-worn leather pouch containing the soft, charred wood of communions past – delicate touchstones of nine sacred sites - and untied the rawhide laces.
He gently shook the blackened pieces – created in his youth - into a hand now spotted, scarred, and weathered with age. The old fellow stiffly rose and cupped his hands above the fire. The warmth of the flames gave comfort to arthritic fingers. He shot a glance heavenward and closed his eyes in silent supplication. He opened his hands and let the memories of so long ago fall into the fire.
The forest sighed and stirred; a sudden wind could be heard rushing down the mountain, filling the ravine with scents of alpines high and far away. The stars above moved in closer for a better look. A multitude of faintly glowing eyes peered curiously from behind fir and cedar - rock, pine and ancient oak. Ghostly figures stepped cautiously into the clearing – like legends freshly loosened from a forgotten tale or beloved, longed-for melodies set free once more.
As evening fell, he settled into a final resting spot and prepared a simple cold meal. He leaned against a large, familiar looking rock and drank from an ancient canteen, filled with ice cold spring water sampled earlier in the day. He was suddenly very tired. He closed his eyes and dreamed a bit - haunting, lucid visions. The old man heard whispered voices drawing closer. He awoke with a start and glanced about. The place was dark and silent. A blanket of stars had crept into place while he slept providing the only light. It was enough. It's time, he thought.
He took a small trowel from his backpack - the one that had served him so well throughout the day - and began to dig at a darkened spot not far from where he'd dosed. Within a minute, he struck pay dirt. He smiled as he lifted fine shards of dark charred wood from the shallow hole and placed them in a much worn leather pouch. The man set the trowel down and weighed the bag reverently as he gave it a gentle squeeze. He could feel the crunch of brittle wood remains from nine very recent excavations. He set it aside as he made the final preparations.
He hefted eight blackened rocks from the well-worn backpack - these also claimed at each site visited today while digging for ashes of fires past – some were minor, lonely places long gone from any map. Major points of the compass had been covered in his wanderings - all boundaries of the land had been accounted for in his methodical scavenging of former gathering spots; the sites of storytelling and songs, tall tales and fellowship long forgotten by many. But the old man remembered.
He laid, by the aid of starlight, the eight fire-christened rocks in a circle atop the darkened ground. His gaze then fell upon a large, rough, blackened stone a few feet away from where he squatted. Perfect he thought, as he reached and lugged it into place it with the others - completing the ring.
The old man scooped together dried pine needles and kindling, laying it within the small makeshift fire ring. He raised himself stiffly and walked beneath the old familiar trees gathering an armful of dried branches. He tilted them carefully atop the kindling, teepee-style. Eyeing his surroundings, he began to brush away the immediate area about the ring, sweeping it clean of unwanted fuel.
He brushed the dust from his hands and reached into the old backpack one more time, bringing forth a small box of wooden matches. He struck one against the fine sandpaper and watched it flame to life. Shielding it carefully he laid it at the base of the small wooden structure and watched as the flame greedily sought out the dried tinder. The fire took hold within seconds.
As the twigs and larger branches caught on, small sparks wafted into the air. The old man watched them lift, float briefly and die away; he took note that the area was still suitable for a fire, even now. After all, it had been host to thousands of campfires long ago. It had always been a safe, comfortable ravine.
He gazed at the hillside immediately in front of him – a gentle slope where many had once sat, week in and week out – year in and year out – decades upon decades ago. There used to be logs terraced there, he mused- good seats. But no more. They have all rotted or been called away for other uses he thought. It's all right he reasoned - my guests tonight, should they decide to show, will not need the seating.
With that thought in mind, the former Scout reached for the much-worn leather pouch containing the soft, charred wood of communions past – delicate touchstones of nine sacred sites - and untied the rawhide laces.
He gently shook the blackened pieces – created in his youth - into a hand now spotted, scarred, and weathered with age. The old fellow stiffly rose and cupped his hands above the fire. The warmth of the flames gave comfort to arthritic fingers. He shot a glance heavenward and closed his eyes in silent supplication. He opened his hands and let the memories of so long ago fall into the fire.
The forest sighed and stirred; a sudden wind could be heard rushing down the mountain, filling the ravine with scents of alpines high and far away. The stars above moved in closer for a better look. A multitude of faintly glowing eyes peered curiously from behind fir and cedar - rock, pine and ancient oak. Ghostly figures stepped cautiously into the clearing – like legends freshly loosened from a forgotten tale or beloved, longed-for melodies set free once more.
The old man opened his eyes and smiled.
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