All beautiful below me as I wander.
Let my eyes see only beauty
This day as I wander.
In beauty,
In beauty,
In beauty,
In beauty!”
He let his arms fall. “Thanks!”
He rearranged the fire to make a lasting, small flame, enough to melt snow in the coffeepot for drinking and refreshing his hands and face. He looked over towards the niche, a shadowy place; the rocks on each side of it were touched irregularly with sunlight.
I nearly lost you, little sister, but now I have you for always.
He began praying again, quietly and earnestly, not in set terms, but according to his need. He had come out of that closet in himself now, and things had fitted back into place. He was grave, and there would be many times when he would go by himself to feel a beloved pain, but regret for the knowledge of happiness that had made that pain possible was ended. He had a clear conscience to pray.
He built his sweat-lodge, and, since it was hard to get mud out of the frozen ground, covered it with blankets. In the mid-afternoon he put in the hot rocks, stripped, and entered. He had made it good and hot; he sat in there chanting as long as he could stand it, then he burst out, rolled in the snow, and dressed hastily. He felt infinitely better. He looked at the sun, low in the west; the fourth day was ended.
He felt clearheaded, peaceful, washed, and very hungry as he tracked his pony. The animal greeted him with a whinny; its legs were stiff from the hobbles, and it had fallen off from lack of feed. He rode back to the camp, and tethered it while he broke his fast with coffee. Then he saddled and mounted. Before he rode on he turned towards the niche and sat still until his mount jerked at the reins.
But we shall never be far from each other,
he thought, always alone but never lonely.
As he rode away he repeated, “In beauty it is finished, in beauty it is finished, in beauty it is finished. Thanks.”
II
It was nearly dark when he climbed out of the head of the canyon onto the top of So Selah Mesa. He urged his pony along the level going, anxious to get to the settlement in Jaabani Valley as soon as possible. There was only a day-old moon, and a cold wind blew across the open. It was a talking wind, a voice of sorrow in the growing darkness, and Laughing Boy had been too long alone. He wanted a respite from self-communion; he wanted company and things happening, the old life, support. He was homesick for old, familiar things.
This cold plateau was nowhere, a waste land separating the human world from the enchanted. It was always dark here, and a cold wind blew, and there was always a small moon setting.
I shall be whimpering in a moment,
he thought. I am unworthy of myself and of her. Do I forget everything? It’s because I am cold and hungry. I might sing.
He began,
“I rode down from high hills …”
but the high-pitched love-tune affronted the night. He stopped, with a catch in his throat.
I will not cry. This is not a thing to cry over; it is a beautiful thing, to be thought of gravely. I devote my life to it, not just cry.
He began to chant, in a deep voice:
“With a place of hunger in me I wander,
Food will not fill it,
Aya-ah, beautiful.
With an empty place in me I wander,
Nothing will fill it,
Aya-ah, beautiful.
With a place of sorrow in me I wander,
Time will not end it,
Aya-ah, beautiful.
With a place of loneliness in me I wander,
No one will fill it,
Aya-ah, beautiful.
Forever alone, forever in sorrow I wander,
Forever empty, forever hungry I wander,
With the sorrow of great beauty I wander,
With the emptiness of great beauty I wander,
Never alone, never weeping, never empty,
Now on the old age trail, now on the path of beauty I wander,
Ahalani, beautiful!”
It was a prayer. He ended with four solemn hozojis that seemed to travel out from him and fill the darkness. That is a good song,
he thought. I shall sing that often, at evening, when I am alone. But I wish we would get to where there are people.
It had been night for more than an hour when he came to the edge of the mesa, looking down into Jaabani. He saw the little pinpricks of fires, very distant. Then, as he watched, near them another began, and grew, until a tall flame rose, throwing light all about it. He heard a drum beat and faint voices singing, and saw around the blaze a wide circle of branches, and people moving. They were beginning the last night of a Mountain Chant, the ritual within the Dark Circle of Branches.
“Come on, my pet!” His horse began slowly descending the trail in the starlight. As they went down, he sang his song again. This was very good. When Reared in a Mountain returned to his people from the homes of the gods, he taught them these prayers and songs, and they held the Mountain Chant for him, because he was unhappy among them. Even so was he. He was rejoining his people in the presence of the gods. Ah, if she could have been here!
The singing grew louder, the triumphant songs. Now he could make out the words. They were completing the magic of the tufted wands. He drew rein a few yards from one of the campfires, tasting again the sense of his isolation. Then he dismounted.
Only a few people remained outside the circle, but he found a hospitable pot of broth, some chunks of mutton still in it, bread to dip, and coffee.
“Where do you come from, Grandfather?” the woman asked.
“From Chiziai.”
“Where are you going?”
“To this
