Post by Cirrus Winter on Jun 29, 2020 0:13:14 GMT -6
MARCH 31st, 2017
Wipers sloshed the rain back and forth across the windshield as the orange jeep cruised westward down Main street, eventually turning south onto East Main and starting the gradual climb up the hilly embankment of the Sterling River. Up ahead the tall pale trusses of the Land Trust bridge were stark against the dark grey clouds. Up river, the sturdy stone arches of the Omensvale bridge were vague in the rain, the long Neck Avenue bridge to the west even more so.
The Sterling River separated the newer districts from what some referred to as ‘old town’ and as one came off the Neck Avenue or Land Trust bridges, they first passed through the cottage district of Sterling Beach, a swimming area preferred to the icy waters of Black Lake. Tons of beautiful white sand had been added to the beach and poured into what was the widest point of the river. The calm crystal clear waters usually took on a turquoise hue, but beneath the rainy sky were a deep green.
A straight southward drive that took only a few minutes cut through a forested area that separated Sterling Beach from Laketown. There, at an intersecting road, was the marina. Were he to continue south along the western bank of Black Lake he would arrive at his home, but Totem Island was the east side, so he took a hard left and followed Church street through the resort town that he called home. There the roads began to wind and weave, thick canopies of the many trees growing into shady tunnels, all the darker on a rainy day. He drove over the old Waterstone bridge that crossed over a tendril of the lake the locals called the Black Canal. Here he could feel the pressure of the boundary, always far more pronounced than that of the Land Trust bridge, but the crossing was the less than minute and he recovered quickly.
Sterling road followed the eastern edge of Black Lake, turning into Edgemere Avenue, the namesake of the area, at the opening of the canal. At this point, Totem island came into full view from the vantage of the high, steep embankments. Cirrus could already feel it’s power imposing upon his own, acting upon his abilities the closer he got. He supposed it was different for others like him, in his case, the essence of the old gods that inhabited the island imposed their pantheon upon his, in a sense forcing him into their hierarchy; essentially, ‘Putting him in his place’. These were not sentient beings, but collective memories, like the one’s that had been amalgamated with his own mind. There was no reasoning with them, no conversation, just their will and his.
Cirrus turned right at the sign for Totem Island and pulled into the empty lot. He parked near the pavilion set on the cliff’s edge, overlooking the lake, stepped out of the vehicle, and followed a winding trail downward to the water. The rain had lightened up, but his hair was sopping wet by the time he reached the foot bridge, his pony tail dripping down the back of his three-quarter length tench coat. To make the ‘crossing’ go easier, Cirrus whispered the ‘story of creation’ in the Lenape tongue as he ventured across. The boundary was strong, ancient memories of another time flashed across his field of vision, stories come to life in vivid colour. Strange lightening blazoned the sky, he saw great birds silhouetted before it, and mountainous figures moved in the distance, their titanic feet shaking the earth. The world around him began to fade, but he forced his body forward, legs mechanically moving, one step flopping before the other until stepped off the bridge. Cirrus felt his shoe sink into the wet packed gravel path and all at once the visions subsided. He let loose a long exhale, thankful that leaving the island would not be fraught with the same disorienting ‘crossing’. It was harder for his kynde. Cirrus usually avoided such places but Slate would not have suggested it if there wasn’t good reason.
The trail followed the perimeter of the small island, he followed it until he arrived at split, either continuing onward, or turning west toward the center of the island. Cirrus chose the latter, passing by a wooden sign engraved with word ‘Monument’. It was a slight uphill climb, the trail winding it’s way through dense forest until it entered a clearing, the expanse continuing to the far side of the island, only a few scattered trees obscuring the view of the white capped waters beyond. At the center of the open area were four sculptures ranging from nine to ten feet in height, the ‘Keepers of Creation’, semblances of four powerful Lenape spirit-beings — Rock, Fire, Wind, and Water.
Humbly, Cirrus approached the gods. This was their island and he assured them that he meant no disrespect. He stood before the east facing statue, this was Muxumsa Wapànewànk, the Grandfather of the East, the giver of springtime, the breath of life, birth and new beginnings. He was also his totem in the pantheon of the Lenape. Each step closer, he could feel the connection, an overwhelming pressure as his aspect collided with the version living in stone simulacra. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, emptied the contents into his hand and crushed them. Reaching up, he placed the pulverized rolls of tobacco in the outstretched hand of the statue and whispered a few words in the Lenape tongue in combination with a gesture of respect. The wind began to pick up, zephyrs swirling about the clearing, pulling the tobacco high into the air, and that’s when he saw him.
Standing at the far side of the clearing, the dark figure of a man in a rain coat stood staring out at the churning waters. Cirrus could feel the power rising from the stranger. A preternatural of immense power! Who was he? He could only see the man’s back, he needed to see his face. He started toward him, and the winds began to rage. The trees swayed and whipped in the gale, water pelted Cirrus’ face, but still he continued toward the stranger. The sky darkened, clouds churned and slithered above the island, he felt sick his head began to spin, but he needed to see! The soft cadence of a chant rode upon the howling winds, strengthening him, pushing him on. The stranger began to turn, his features coming into focus. His thin lips curled into a devilish grin, and his eyes were empty voids.
Cirrus gasped and breathed in deeply. He was standing before the Grandfather of the East. The winds had stopped, the clouds had lightened, and the stranger was gone; if ever he actually was here at all. He might not have been, but Cirrus knew he was real.
Making his way back across the foot bridge, Cirrus looked up and spied two familiar figures in the pavilion and knew then it had been their voices upon the wind.
, Jr.