The Gentle White of Knowing

A

single drumbeat echoed through the woods of central Pennsylvania as the sun rose and burned away the fog. After a few seconds another beat struck and then another in precise time. The hushed whimpering and low grief stricken moans of the women began to ensue. The shuffle of moccasins against dirt and ground flora mingled with the distinct ambience of ritual and profound sacredness. Leading the march was Tamanend. His stride was long, elegant and distinctly choreographed. His fingers held the Tibetan hand chimes that had once belonged to his beloved Unega. Just after the drumbeat he began a second rhythmic strike of the chimes. Ting…ting…boom…ting, into the infinite air. Around his neck he wore the saffron silk material Unega inherited from her father in Lhasa. With each step his intense eyes filled with water and streams of tears glided down his earthy, still face. It was the custom of the Delaware Indians to sit with the deceased all day and night as the elders said prayers. The women tended the body and the men would build the coffin and dig the grave. Children might while away the time playing the moccasin game. Before the white people invaded their land with their violence and their customs, burials were the only funeral rite the Delaware knew. However, long ago they would perform ancient prayers turning the body on its side facing East, burying the loved one under the longhouse or in the consecrated mound where the holy men performed their ceremonies. Flowers would be placed over the eyes and sacred possessions would be buried with the beloved.

With each step Tamanend could feel his chest tighten almost in ghost-like sympathy to her wounds. But the spasms seem to hold back the convulsion of tears. He knew there would be a time and place marked for his unguarded emotions. Perhaps near the river at dawn he might steal away and weep until his sides hurt and his face ached and his eyes stung bitterly from the unfairness and injustice that seemed to permeate his rule. At long last he had found the being that challenged him and made his heart soar, the one human that seemed to reach into the ethers and bring about profound understanding and even a kind of enlightenment. She had arrived a stranger in a strange land and yet she molded the people who would become her family. She brought with her the whisper of the great spirit.

The braves that accompanied Unega to Manhattan Island became the pawl bearers. When she died in the arms of a young warrior there just inside the wall of the once Dutch settlement, the Indians carried her for more than forty-eight hours back to the main village. They crossed the Hudson River into what would now be called New Jersey and walked non-stop day and night until her body was safely in the presence of their beloved chief. Upon their arrival Tamanend moved among his people who hushed their cries. He could see her stark white hair in the firelight. It had become a beacon and a symbol of infinity. As he stepped apprehensively toward her lifeless body he could feel the air leave his body. A slow penetrating squeal of spirit seemed to seep away until he fell limp, his gangly appendages moving like tree limbs collapsing one on the other.

He had recalled many an evening by the campfire when Unega and he were the only ones left as the embers died down. Sometimes they talked at great length of the spirit world and the coming changes. At other times they sat in complete silence gleaning meaning and understanding from the void of speech.

“It is the custom of my countrymen to burn the body on a pyre near a river.” Unega said softly one night.

“Burn?” Tamanend repeated almost confused. The idea seemed foreign and sacrilegious to his own beliefs.

“Yes. It is my desire to return to dust as my mothers and fathers before me.” She added.

“Ha! And you think you will die before me?” Tamanend said in playful sarcasm. He was twice her age after all.

“I only want you to know my wishes if something were to happen.” She said seriously.

He nodded and listened patiently. There was a long pause as Unega collected her thoughts.

“We burn our enemies.” Tamanend said softly. “To us it is one of the worst things humans can do to other humans.” He confessed.

“If you can take yourself outside of your experience.” Unega began. “If you can imagine yourself in a different country as a child with no knowledge of death and the soulful meanings around it…” She continued. “Can you?” She asked. He closed his eyes and took in a long breath. He held the air in his lungs for quite a while before slowly letting it escape into the ether. He nodded in agreement.

“My father taught me to believe that samsara is not the question but the answer to our existence here on earth.” She said enigmatically. “Our thoughts come before us. We become our thoughts, our imagination. Part of the gift of enlightenment is to manifest those musings for the greater good of humanity. It is a selfless practice and yet it requires the whole self.” She said.

“I did not bring the white man here.” Tamanend said bitterly.

“No, but he may not have been a white man in an earlier existence. He may have been a Creek warrior and fur trader you once knew. He may have been your brother. He has come back to learn something just as you have come back to learn. This is a central point of the wheel. A covenant has been forged and so the thoughts of the prior life play out within our free will in this one.” Unega explained. Tamanend’s head began to hurt.

“As my world begins to collapse due to death I will be in the process of creating the next new world and move into it.” She explained. “Fire wipes away all that is material so there is nothing to hold onto.”

“Fire erases existence. This is why we burn our enemies so there is nothing left for their people mourn, there is no anchor.” Tamanend replied.

“Turn this idea upside down. If there is an anchor in this world then the spirit is not truly free. Is it? We are made of five elements, yes?” She said. Tamanend agreed. “Fire is used to complete the fifth element and send our spirits back to our original creation. Fire is love.” She said softly and something within the great chief understood. His mind did not grasp the idea but the sound of her explanation made sense to his heart and so without knowing why he agreed to her wishes.

As the tribe walked in procession with Unega’s body hoisted on the shoulders of the braves, Tamanend led them to the banks of the Delaware River. The women had picked wildflowers of yellow and orange and made a wreath of sorts around the body as it lay lifeless on the litter. The teenage boys had been sent out earlier in the day to build a pyre for the wise one. They placed her on the pyre with garlands of flowers. The women had created a cloth cover. Tamanend lit the bundle of sacred sage and tobacco. He took four puffs for each direction, said prayers to each point and then lit the corner of the shroud. As the smoke increased the women could not help but weep. Some tore at their clothes as others began to ritually cut their hair. The men stood stoic as did Tamanend. As the smoke spiraled upward into the crisp blue sky Tamanend realized his days were short.

Mr. Watkins had found a piece of rope just inside the barn that had been closed for the winter. It had taken him half an hour to trek across the deep drifts to the snow covered building. His hands red and almost frozen dug away at the snow that blocked the opening of the hayloft. As he reached the wood planks he forcefully kicked in the door. It crashed and split apart as it hit the floor. The barn was oddly warmer only because it had been buried and was immune to the biting wind. Finding the rope was like finding a gold brick. He leaned inside and threaded it from its place in the pulley. It would be the only way he could get Victoria out of the collapsing house. He also grabbed a lantern that had been hanging from one of the rafters and made his way back to the half imploded manor.

“Are you all right?” Richard asked?

“Yes---yes, I’m all right. I’m a bit frightened at the moment.” Victoria replied.

“Mr. Watkins will be here shortly with something to pull you out with.” Mrs. Hopkins said as her face peered halfway through the opening of the hole. Her white face, black bonnet and deeply set black eyes were piercing and severe against the white snow. Victoria could see Richard from her stance in the half collapsed house. The sun shown on his features and as the amber light struck him he looked like Gabriel himself. It took her breath away. She also noticed that he was shaking and that the cold was affecting his already compromised lungs.

“Richard? You’re not well?” She said when his head bobbed out of sight momentarily. He nodded trying to reassure her. Then a deep moan issued from the house and a wall on the eastern side began to shift.

“Victoria!” Richard said.

“YES! Yes! Don’t leave me here---RICHARD!.” She screamed.

“We’re not going to leave you.” Mrs. Hopkins said.

“Our weight might be too much for the structure.” Richard added. Then there was silence.

“Richard?” Victoria said as she backed farther into the room and towards a corner. The wind howled through the broken planks of the upstairs floorboards that had been exposed and jutted upward like a fork into the blue sky.

“Richard?” Victoria repeated and she was met with silence. The house creaked and moaned as the wind blew unrelentingly against it. It picked up snow from the drifts and the silvery golden flakes caught the light of the setting sun as they spun up and outward like a dust demon into the sky.

“RICHARD?” Victoria yelled. But there was no answer and for a moment she thought that maybe she was hallucinating. Maybe the exchange had all been in her mind. A wave of panic began to overtake her and she shivered and she wanted to cry but she swallowed hard and she told herself out loud that Richard and Mrs. Hopkins and Mr. Watkins were all working hard to free her from the house. She needed to be patient and calm if not for her then for the baby. She began to walk about the grand ballroom whose ceiling sagged terribly under the weight of the unsecured second floor. Then something strange caught her eye. She peered into the chaos that had once been the staircase. Upended stairs, floorboards, plaster, wall papered pieces of the hallway and large rough hand hewn planks corkscrewed under the terrible weight of the snow. It was the remnants of a terrific disaster standing like silent sentinels in the dormant day. There, trapped under the torn planks, shingles and wood was the old wooden Indian, Tamanend. The heavy statue lay on its side under the debris. As Victoria crept closer there was something of color peeking out from its toppled base. She moved closer and to her amazement the base had been hollowed out. There in that space lie the most vibrant piece of saffron colored silk. It looked like the rays of the sun. And although it had been hidden and cast in shadow it shone brightly like a promise. She knelt down and deftly reached into the maze of splintered wood. The cloth was just out of reach. She pressed her shoulder ever harder against the spike of the broken planks and her fingers brushed against the corner. It was electric and filled her with a wave of insight and knowing. Her fingers tingled just like when she touched Ashley. She knew something ethereal was at work and so she stretched as far as she could and finally the saffron silk was within her grasp. She pulled it out and wrapped it around her and immediately the cold vanished. Even her breath was invisible. The wind blew hard again and the house moaned and shifted and suddenly Victoria felt as though the house might completely collapse. She stepped quickly back through the grand parlor and closer the opening. There she spied the piece of rope.

“Victoria?” She heard Richard call.

“Yes?” She replied as she reached for the end of the rope.

“Do you think you can wrap the rope around you?” He called.

“I’m afraid for the baby.” She responded.

“Mrs. Rhys. Listen carefully.” She heard Mr. Watkins say. “Place the end of the rope on the floor. Sit down on it and see if you are able to wrap it about your bum, just under your hips.”

Victoria did as instructed and tied the rope into a double knot. “All right!” She called.

“Now hold on tight. We’re going to pull you up.” Mr. Watkins yelled. And at that moment she moved upward as though in a swing. Inch by inch the two men pulled until finally Victoria could see over the collapsed roof. Mr. Watkins tied the other end of the rope to a large support beam as Richard climbed to the opening. He took her hands and single handedly pulled her directly from the edge of the roof onto the precarious second floor remnants. She could feel herself melt as he touched her. Then standing in the setting sun she took him in. The hair at his temples had turned white. She had never noticed before. He looked a bit older and more distinguished like a wise man. She let her fingers drift through his thick hair and he smiled. But it was the smile of someone older, someone who had experienced an epiphany or revelation. Someone privy to some arcane knowledge laced with deep compassion. He was an alchemist even if he was unaware of the magic. Then he kissed her there as the snow settled about them.

“The day is slipping away, sir.” Mr. Watkins said from his spot on the ground. “We’ll need to make our way quickly.”

Richard nodded and then turned and kissed his wife again. He would not be hurried.

“We’ll need to make our way to the edge of the drive at least before the sun is completely down, sir.” Mr. Watkins warned impatiently. Victoria and Richard crept down carefully and as Victoria stepped onto the firm earth Mrs. Watkins embraced her and wept.

“If we can manage to get Michelangelo out of the drift then we may be able to make our way home expeditiously.” Mr. Watkins advised.

“I need to retrieve something first.” Richard said and he trembled as he disappeared into the dark kitchen. As he emerged he wrapped the Buffalo robe about him. Something about his demeanor and the few strands of white hair at his temples roused something deep within Victoria. It was sensual but the feeling plumbed to an ever deeper place. Suddenly the physical world and the cold and the wind and their dire situation seemed like an illusion. A peacefulness rested there within her. Death would not take away her living. The great robber of faith was only a shadow and under the saffron scarf she was in a state of perpetual blessing.