Columbus Day

Dinner was done and the old man tossed the well-gnawed bone over his shoulder. The lop-eared dog patiently awaiting this moment immediately snapped it up and scurried for cover with two other mutts yapping after him. The old man wiped the grease from his mouth and gently massaged it into the rifts and crevices that were the landscape of his face. He open and closed his fists, then held his gnarled hands out, palms toward the fire and warmed them, dulling the ache in his old joints. One of the women, still busily doing chores, came by and draped a woolen shawl over his bony shoulders, running an affectionate hand across his back as she left.

The children squiggled where they sat, restless, trying to be patient, but what is only a moment to the elderly seems an eternity to the young. He watched them lovingly through rheumy eyes as the firelight flickered across his jagged face. Laugh-lines around his eyes and mouth danced, etched into the leather of his face by decades of wind and sun. His smile was perpetual—chiseled in the flesh by a lifetime of emotions openly expressed.

Another woman came over and gently chided the children to settle them down, then sent the old man a look of silent conveyance. Grandfather nodded. Story time was about to begin.

The children sat suddenly still and quiet—ten bright eyes full of dancing fire, awaiting the internal images that would soon begin to play within their minds.

“Tell us about Columbus again, Grandpa,” blurted out the tiniest lad, a straight-haired four-year-old boy.

“You really want to hear that old story again, young pup?” said the old-timer in a gravely voice.

“Oh yes,” responded a small round-faced girl with pudgy cheeks. “I love the part about the ships and the discovery of the New World, and how it use to be in the old days, before the teachings of Mu’akapu.”

“Yes please,” said a third, a half-breed boy with curly brown hair. “It’s our favorite story.” A large boy sitting next to him—his older brother—quickly elbowed him to remind him to be respectful and quiet and to infer that he was too mature to be sitting with the “children,” that he was ready to be with the older boys, talking about hunting, stringing bows or learning to nap stone.

The old man raised an eyebrow at him. The boy immediately sat up straight. “Yes, grandfather,” he said respectfully. “That’s a wonderful story.”

“All right, all right,” the old man chuckled. He stroked his wattles as he thought. “First, throw another stick of wood on the campfire,” he directed to the eldest boy, “and here,” handing something to the smooth-faced girl-woman, his granddaughter, who was seated on his right, “Please refill my pipe for me.” She took the tarry, long-stemmed clay pipe and opened the soft leather pouch at her feet. “Tonight I will tell the tale with as much detail as I can remember—the way my grandfather once told me so long ago.”

The old man grabbed the long, deeply carved story pole, sliding his hand along it until he found the worn markings of the history he was about to relate. Sparks spit and cut twisting orange meteor tails in the sky as the new log settled onto the coals. Grandpa leaned into the warmth and pulled the shawl higher over his shoulders. He freed his white mane, shaking his head so it flowed smoothly down his back. Pipe in hand, he pulled a burning ember from the fire and puffed the tobacco to a glowing cherry. He let the smoke roll from his mouth and nose. His eyes lost their focus as he fingered the symbols on the story pole, dredging the details from his memory.

“It was in the days of our ancestors, in the middle of the third age, one hundred and fifty seven years before Mu’akapu,” he began “Not one man is alive today that lived in those times.

"The world was nothing like it is today. People were lost, searching for something, but they knew not what. Those were days of murder and treachery, days of ignorance.

"Cristobal Colón, the man we call Columbus was a man of the sea—a man with a vision. He used his mind well. He reasoned that the Earth was round, for in those days most of his people thought that the world was flat and that the ocean poured over the edge and that if you traveled out across the great water you would surely be eaten by a giant sea monster or be swept over the edge of the Earth into nothingness.”

Giggles erupted from the group. Grandpa gave them a knowing smile and stopped his narration until the children settled down again.

“But Columbus was not perfect. He was full of greed and the desire for power and fame. He was a driven man, a confused man but not an evil man, though he traveled with evil companions. He was at worst a tortured soul, polluted with mythology and alienated from his true home. At best, he was a seeker of life’s true meaning, though he mistakenly believed that he already knew what it was.”

“Wasn’t he a fierce warrior, grandfather?” came a timid voice from behind the fire.

“No, Columbus was not a warrior himself, but a leader of warriors, from a nation of warriors.” The old man raised his face and both his hands up toward the sky, as if about to catch the waxing moon. “Above all else,” he said to the unseen above, “Columbus was a teacher.”

The old man paused to rekindle his pipe with another coal from the fire. He continued. “It was over five hundred years ago that Columbus sailed from the rising sun and arrived at the shores of the Old World.” The fire blazed. He pushed back a bit from the campfire and let the shawl slip from his shoulders.

“The wind of the morning sun blew three ships from where the sky and water meet, to the shores of our ancient homeland. It is said that The People paddled out in canoes to greet the strangers, and saw that the strangers on those ships were so different, so imposing that at first, they were thought to be gods. They bore colorful clothing of fine weave, and possessed longknives and arrowheads made of a hardened metal never before seen by The People. Intrigued, The People ferried them ashore and a huge feast was had by all.

“But as time went on, it became apparent that these strangers were out of touch with the real world. Columbus thought he had arrived somewhere else. He didn’t realize that he had another, larger ocean to cross before he reached his destination. Misguided in their beliefs, they thought of themselves as superior to The People.

“The newcomers had a sickness for the cold Earth tears they called gold and silver and desired all of what The People possessed. Our ancestors were happy to give the strangers what they requested, but when all was given, the strangers still wanted more. First they threatened, then they tried force. Had it not been for the wisdom of Turtle Full Moon, the chief of that tiny tribe of People, history might have turned out much differently.”

Fire danced in the eager eyes of the children. The old man looked at each one of them, feeling the ever-present great love that flowed between them all. He searched the vast store of images in his mind, choosing carefully, searching for the soul of the past. The fire was at its zenith and they all basked within its bubble of light and warmth.

“Turtle Full Moon was the keeper of the past for his tribe—as I also am,” the old man said. “When you fill yourself with the past, you forfeit some of the present, but you are given a small gift of vision in return. Turtle Full Moon had great vision. He recognized that these strangers acted much like certain tribes of The People had behaved long ago, and he knew the outcome of the illness they possessed. He could see that these strangers were not gods or People, but animals in command of wind and sea, lost in illusion. He saw their power and recognized their danger.

"One night, in the dark of the moon, he called his warriors together. They paddled out to the stranger’s ships and quietly climbed aboard. Though the strangers fought fiercely, they were weak from their long journey. Once defeated, those who did not die in battle died nobly for the gods—all except their leader, Columbus.

The fire snapped and popped and sparks twisted skyward. The children sat quietly. “The ships were set ablaze for they were of no use to The People. The bodies of all the men from the sea, and the few brave warriors killed in the battle were sent back to the Earth and their hearts returned to rest with the Great Spirit.”

“And Columbus was afraid,” said a timid voice. It was the girl-woman granddaughter. The old man smiled. She listened well and remembered. Though as yet unlined, he could see in her face the soul of the historian, the ability to learn and reflect and relate events of the past to the immediate. When the time came, when the sharpness of his memories began to dull, he would hand the story pole to her.

“Yes, Columbus was very afraid,” said Grandfather. He reached over and tenderly touched her cheek. “But The People are just and kind and with the threat of the strangers gone, they treated Columbus with respect. Sick with illusion, his heart knew no peace. It took him many full moons and many harvests to change, but once he learned the way of The People, he released his sorrows and became a good friend of Turtle Full Moon, becoming a very important person within the tribe.”

The smoke swirled upward into the moonlight. The tiniest child listened intently hearing the tale for only the second time. His face was the antithesis of the Grandfather’s: plump, smooth, soft and innocent. His eyes sparkled as word pictures formed inside his head.

“After many rainy and dry seasons, Columbus had told us all he knew of his home land. It was a horrible place, full of disease—a place where people lived on top of each other in caves of mud and stone, much as our ancestors once did in the distant past, cut off from the sky and the Earth. He told them of the great temples erected to worship a vengeful god, a god who accepted his own son as a sacrifice. The People of this New World from which Columbus had come, were obsessed with power and stature, each scrambling to rise above his brother and control more and more of his surroundings. He told of the chief of the world he called king and his woman he called queen, and of the great power they had to command his people to war and pay them homage.”

The oldest boy scratched his head. He had heard this story before, but he never understood this part of it. The Grandfather sensed his befuddlement and tried to clarify things for him. “The days before Mu’akapu were much different times and these strangers far different from The People—but not so different as well. We too have some that strive to be better than their brothers—better hunters, better warriors, better traders, better mothers. The only difference is that The People do so to make their tribe stronger and to live more in tune with the Great Spirit. The strangers did so to make themselves more powerful.”

A chill fall wind whispered through the forest, brushing past the fire, engulfing the elder in a smoky pall. He closed his watering eyes and held his breath and for a moment, considered the message. When the breeze died and he no longer smelled the smoke, he opened them again. The children sat quietly, transfixed. Sensing the omen, even the women who had been tending other duties stopped to listen. The old man looked intently at the fire and saw the answer in the dancing flames.

The youngest innocent yawned and leaned back into the comforting arms of his sister as she studied the elder’s face, trying to decipher his thoughts and what the ancestors had communicated.

The conveyance completed, the old man continued: “Columbus taught The People evil magic, of using fire to turn rock to metal, to use fire to throw hot metal and ways to catch the wind in billows of cloth.” The oldest children listened intently, knowing that the elder’s story now cut carefully along the thin edge of taboo.

“Columbus did not understand that this was evil, nor did our ancestors. Having never experienced such magic before, The People had no knowledge of its potential for harm. They absorbed these teachings and began to use the new knowledge, slowly succumbing to the illness of their visitor.

"By the time Columbus returned to the Great Spirit 35 years later, much to the dismay of the dying Turtle Moon, The People had command of the air and the sea, had sailed south to Tenochtitlan, the land of the Mexíca where this evil took deep root.”

The eldest boy now listened intently, for this was his favorite part of the story. The youngest slept quietly in his sister’s embrace. She caressed his forehead while silently mouthing every word the old man said. A distant owl called his approval as the story progressed.

“Enthralled by the stories told by Columbus, Montecuzoma II sent a fleet of ships to the new world. Ten quezalcoátls, as the ships were called, and fifty Mexíca warriors sailed into the rising sun. “Upon arrival, great battles ensued. The primitive people of the new world rode great beasts and fought fiercely.”

“And then the Great Spirit intervened,” blurted the eldest girl-woman, unable to hold back her excitement.

The old man smiled. “Yes, the Great Spirit intervened. After many days of battle, the Mexíca warriors retreated to their quezalcoátls, outran the primitives and returned to the old world. Three quezalcoátls arrived with only ten survivors. Montecuzoma II was dead, but his son Montecuzoma III, pleased by the reports of vast fertile lands and cities of gold, mounted yet another expedition.”

At this, the turning point of the story, the elder paused to refill his pipe as the children impatiently fidgeted, visibly agitated by the violent rendition. After puffing his pipe to life, the old man continued.

“But when the Mexíca sailed once again to the New World, this time in 20 fully armed quezalcoátls ready for battle, they found the Old World had changed. The cities were deserted and the few original inhabitants who remained offered no resistance.”

The two eldest children nodded their understanding, but the young brother wanted to hear more. “What happened to all The People, grandfather?” he asked.

“The infinite wisdom of the Great Spirit presided in favor of The People. During the battles of the first expedition, some of the food dogs escaped the ships and ran off. One of them was ill and the Great Spirit spread dog sickness amongst the primitives. As you know, The People do not suffer from dog sickness, but to the primitives it was a deadly disease.”

“In the name of Columbus, taking this opening of the New World as a sanction by his sun and moon deities to fulfill his omnipotence, Montecuzoma sent more quezalcoátls filled with Mexíca to “colonize” these new lands.”

“Wasn’t this the beginning of the Dark Ages, grandfather?” asked the woman-child.

“Not the beginning, my child, the beginning of the end. In this new world, the Mexíca captured slaves and built pyramids to the gods, but back in Tenochtitlan rebellion brewed.”

As if on cue one of the fire logs collapsed deeper into the bed of coals. Sparks crackled as rising flames illuminated the children’s faces with dancing light, mirrored in the eyes of the elder as he leaned toward the fire.

“Falling into the primitivism that caused the downfall of the of the new world’s inhabitants, for many generations the Mexíca crossed the ocean, growing ever more powerful, learning better ways to take while giving back little. They petitioned favor from their gods with ever more sacrifice, succumbing to the illness of Columbus and the strangers, losing touch with the Great Spirit and the souls of their brothers and sisters.

"As it had been in the new world, a very few of the most powerful Mexíca lived in splendor while vast numbers of People lived in squalor. This led to unhappiness, unrest and much bloodshed.”

The old man sat back puffing on his pipe.

“And then came Mu’akapu,” blurted the curly haired boy.

The old man smiled. “Yes, and then came Mu’akapu. Mu’akapu was not a Mexíca but a slave whose ancestors were captured to work the lands around Tenochtitlan for the heirs of Montecuzoma. The Great Spirit entered his body and he escaped into the vast forests of the south, relearning the old ways, teaching The People how to live in harmony, curing the disease of their hearts. He gave us spiritual laws so that we would never fall back into primitivism again. His teachings crossed the oceans transforming the hearts of all People of the world. The People walked away from the old ways, abandoned the pyramids and the worship of false gods, returning forever to the realm of the Great Spirit.”

The old man lay the story pole down beside him signaling the end of the tale, then picked it up again and held it out to let the woman-child feel the markings he had just deciphered. Her green eyes sparkled as she traced the engravings with her slim white fingers while her other hand held back her long blond braids to keep them away from the fire.

Cool air drifted off the Alps and whispered through the ancient conifer forest presaging the coldness of fall and the approach of winter. The fishing was still good along the banks of the, clear Rhone river, but the spirits had told him the time was near to begin the annual migration to their warm, ancestral winter camp along the great southern sea.

As the children rose to leave, the old man sat staring into the dying embers of the fire. He pondered the old world, trying to envision what it must be like. He would never know. The quezalcoátls had stopped sailing many generations before he was born. In the ghostly moonlight, he surveyed the primal forest that surrounded him, listening to the music of the awakening night and the quiet rushing of the river. Could it be as beautiful there as where he was at this moment? Yes, he thought, the Great Spirit would see to that.

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image: pixabay.com