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| The path I took to the mountains was a curious one, and what might be called, a mystical one. It began by my living the contrary life of the lowland people, the hustling, bustling, nerve-taut people with whom I stumbled and bungled through life. All the activity of doing something (which was really nothing) in the way of making myself a livelihood had worn me down completely, and I got sick - a fortunate occurence, though I didn't think so at the time. I was so ill, in fact, that my doctor advised me to get away from all the soot and grime of the city, and take myself to a more favorable clime. Not seeing the good that was to befall me for the misery at hand, I said my sad farewells, and made my way to what I thought would be a hostile land. On my first day out of the city, I drove into foothills resplendent with purple grapes full ripe for the harvest under purple evening skies. The scenery and the pungent odor of the land seemed a stimulant, and I was just beginning to think that perhaps things weren't so bad for me afte all, when my car began making curious noises. Before long, I was limping into a desolate, dingy garage which fronted a weather-beaten cafe. I was told by the mechanic that my oil pan had been shattered by a rock, and as it was late, he wouldn't be able to make things right until the next morning. After inquiring, and was told there weren't any sleeping facilities in the area for tourists, I had the singular choice of bedding down in the rear seat of my car for the night, a chilly prospect, for it was autumn and the weather had become quite cold. It was too early to think of retiring, and not having a better way to while away my time, I decided to have a few beers in the cafe - which was, after all, the way I passed most of my evenings in the city. Though in a remote spot, there were loud voices and the blare of music coming from the cafe, as if quite a party was going on. Before entering the cafe, I passed a pickup truck. A carcass of a buck was laying on the floor boards. Its head had been hung over the low railing of the truck so that the buck's huge antlers would not be shattered en route. Its body was torn by bullets as if many men had spied and shot it at the same time. The buck's bloodied tongue hung grotesquely from its mouth and its eyes were open and black with death. I sighed deeply. I was feeling a little depressed when I happened to look over the vast expanse of vineyards and saw a huge shooting star suddenly appear in the sky, cutting through the indigo night, burning fire-red, spraying the heavens with hot, yellow embers, then vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. This seemed a good omen, and my spirits rose. I entered the cafe and saw five begrimed, disheveled hunters seated at the bar, drinking and laughing, and all, apparently, talking at the same time. A few empty stools presented themselves at the opposite end of the bar, as far from the revelers as suited me, so I took one and ordered a beer. After two beers, I became irritated by the manners of the men and by the repetitive story they told of the hunt, so I decided to leave. But I unexpectedly heard a man's voice next to me. I turned and was amazed, for I hadn't seen him enter and there seemed no other way for him to have come in, except through the front door which I was facing. And as he spoke, I couldn't define what surpised me more - his sudden appearance, his countenance, or what he had to say: "The hunters come, dressed in bright red and yellow, carrying cold, metallic guns, supplied with fifths of whiskey, driving high-powered trucks. And they drink. They track the deer, not alone, but en masse. And they drink. They kill a buck, not alone, but with five separate shots from five seperate rifles, shattering the antlered buck and throwing its bloodied carcass in the rear of their truck, and drink. They go to the nearest tavern, brag about the hunt, and drink. They mount the head of the buck, and throw its flesh to the dogs. And the mighty hunters drink." Needless to say, I was impressed by what he had said, the manner in which he said it, and by the man himself. He was tall and massive, snow-capped and brawny like some contained mountain, yet he seemed gentle too, having th quiet nature of highland meadows. I was at a loss to comment on his little soliloquy, so I said, instead, "I didn't see you come in." "Oh, but you did," he said. "I did?" "Sure, on that shooting star that fell over the vineyards. You were feeling a little blue at the time." I looked at him askance, doubting my ears. He saw my perplexity, and laughed. So I took what he said to be a joke and laughed with him, but not with much convection. "Still, no matter what a man suffers," he continued, "when he sights a shooting star, his spirits fly also - he knows from the depths of his being there is hope." He paused a moment, then said, "I understand that your car's broken down and you haven't lodgings for the night. Now, if you'd like, you can stay at my place. It isn't much, but at least it's warm and comfortable. By the way, my name's Ambrose." I introduced myself, and hastened to accept his kind invitation because he made it seem the most natural thing to do even though we had only met. I offered to see him to a drink, but he declined and rose instead, and I followed him as he walked from the cafe into the frosty night. It was the first night of the moon season and the land was rendered blue silver. The bold outline of distant mountains could be easily defined, and clouds moving overhead would have been no less white had the sun illuminated them instead of the moon. As we walked down the dirt road that led through the vineyards behind the cafe, Ambrose tilted his white-doomed head to look over the mountains. He scanned the skies from horizon to horizon, and contemplated the clouds flying north to east. He inhaled and flexed his massive muscles beneath his plaid shirt as if he were drinking in the entire scene. "It'll rain before long," he remarked. I found myself believing that statement like I never believed anything else I had ever heard said before. We walked a while longer in the same fashion - I in silence, and he speaking low, not to me as much as to himself, not to himself so much, it seemed, as to the moon. Ambrose stopped, and after offering me a smoke -for which I said no, but thanks - he lit his pipe. When the embers glowed scarlet, he began speaking. "The mountains say to man, 'you may come and look at me, but only at a distance. And a privileged few may scale my highest peaks, but only at the risk of death - and once scaled, they can only remain scant minutes to see and behold and love what I have observed for centuries - then the few who have seen must quickly depart, but know, in a small way, what it feels to be a god.'" As usual, he spoke with authority, and I, as usual, could only listen, being at a loss of what to make of my amiable, but strange new friend. As if reading my thoughts, Ambrose smiled, put his pipe to his lips, and began walking again. In a few minutes we were at his tent-cabin which was situated beside a stream and beneath a tree. He opened the door and we stepped in. Ambrose lit a kerosene lamp. The room was small, but neat and warm, being heated by a crimson stove. He told me to take his bed while he spread a quilted pallet on the floor next to the stove - - he would hear nothing of my protestations. He commenced to brew a pot of tea. After it was prepared, and we were sipping from our cups, Ambrose lowered the kerosene lamp. And as if it were the most natural thing to comment upon, he said, "a kerosene lamp gives a light hard to read by, but mighty easy to dream by - the lamp gives a good glow to reality. The light it gives is this side of a dream. It's easy to talk to friend in this light, and a man finds it most pleasurable to love a woman when the lamp is at its lowest. Gallant tales are told, and songs are softly sung, by the light of a kerosene lamp." Having provided me with another soliloquy, he turned the lamp out, laid down, and closed his eyes. As for myself, I lay sleepless on my bed, feeling comfortable with the knowledge of the cold night outside and the warm blankets that covered me - watching the stove glowing red with yellow flames. Flashing, darting light shot throught the vents of the stove, playing with shadows across the overhead canvas. There was the sound of fire consuming wood . . . then I heard a new sound. Something was moving nearby outside, and though I couldn't see what it was and never heard that paricular sound before, I suddenly, intuitively, and wondrously knew it was a lightfooted deer treading past. A thunderclap spoke, and it began raining. Dawn came quietly to the land, first, a soft light touched and colored a few scattered clouds. The skies became pale, gold, sharp gold. The crowns of the tallest pines glowed with light. The winds came slowly quickly up from the valley causing the pine needles to shimmer and tingle. The song of first one, then a dozen a hundred birds was heard, and as they burst into flight, The Sun! The forest about was all tawny: brown colored, red yellow in hue, of medium saturation and medium brilliance; the forest about was all silence and still . . exiting only in color and form. I was past the 5,000 foot mark by the side of a mountain road. My car, true to form, had overheated, and I had to stop to let it cool off. I had gotten up late that morning, and found that my genial host had departed . . where? - I didn't know, nor did find out. The morning sky had been washed by the rain to the deep luster of alabaster, and though my shoes became muddy walking the road back to the garage, I reveled in the clean, pure air. My car was ready. After I payed my bill and was about to leave, I inquired of the mechanic about Ambrose, but he couldn't tell me anything about my friend - even the description of him failed to receive a response. The mechanic offered the suggestion that Ambrose might have been a transient and camped by the stream as some people were wont to do. I had to accept this as an explanation and leave without thanking my host, for it was becoming late. It was midday now, and as I waited for my car's engine to cool, I walked a few paces down the road. Scattered along the rim of the highway were huge formations of rock jutting from the ground and encircled by pines which were over a hundred feet high. There were some late flowers blooming in the afternoon sun, and occasionally a bird's quiet song would break the silence of the surroundings. Then a most curious thing happened - minute, yellow butterflies descended from above as if they were pieces of gold leaf which had flaked from the skies. They were many - countless - a mass. Their flight was irregular, and they seemed to dart back and forth without design. However, it was the bright colors of the flowers which attracted them, and to each other as well. They carried on this dance for quite a long time, then having completed their inspection of the earth, the butterflies ascended, rising to fuse and make whole the golden mantle above. No sooner had the butterflies disappeared when I heard the most exquisite singing of a bird. But after listening for a few moments, I discovered the melody sounded Elizabethan and had words. Turning to look at a small, sunlit hollow off the road, I saw a girl singing as she walked along a path. She was headed in my direction although she apparently was unaware of my presence. And as she sang and walked, she would pause every now and then to pick something that was growing along the path. She placed whatever it was in an apron she wore over a saffron colored dress. Her hair couldn't have been more golden if its color was taken from the sun, and as she came closer I could see she was no more than nineteen and quite lovely, having something ephemeral about her which was not quite of this earth. I discovered later that her most beautiful features (if one could be more attractive than the other) were her eyes which were large and sapphire green. Apparently still not seeing me, she stopped to rest, sitting on the smooth surface of a rock not too far from where I stood. She still sang her old-fashioned air with a voice that was of a quality I'd never heard before. I could have gone on looking at her and listening to her for hours I think, when she finished her song and turned and saw me. It must have been the most natural thing in the world for me to be standing there staring at her for she didn't seem surprised to see me, and smiled. I nodded, stepped closer, and said hello. She spoke, with a human voice after all, and said, "enjoying life?" I smiled at the question. "I'm enjoying it more all the time." "Your're new to these parts, aren't you," she asked? "Yes." Then after an embarrassed pause, I said, "do you live around here?" "No, just passing through. There are special kinds of herbs that grow here and I was collecting some. My home's on the other side of that ridge." I looked over to the only ridge I could see from where I stood, and it was a peak covered with snow. "I've also come for the dance," she continued before I could ask her anything about herself. "Are you going to the dance," she asked? "I don't know. This is the first I've heard of it." "Oh, it'll be wonderful. Music and dancing are the only things that will bring me down to these parts. Except for the herbs, of course." "Where will the dance be," I asked? "At the Sequoia Village." "That's where I'll be staying," I responded, somewhat quickly. "Good! Then I'll see you there." She stood and inhaled deeply. "The air is such that you bath in it more than breath it." She smiled softly. "You know, human beings simply exist mostly. They live only on cerain rare, magical occasions, and these times have to do with the sun, mountains, sky, forest, butterfly - flowers- stream." She paused, then asked, "you'll be staying long, won't you?" "Those are my plans." "Well, be sure you walk a lot - it'll do you a world of good. And you'll see things you've never seen before." I already have, I thought. "You'll see the doe," she continued, "as it treads the mountain trail, suspended between heaven and earth and surrounded by the elements, nosing the heather, brushing the dew, nibbling meadow grass. The doe moves as the moment moves, unaware of itself, but intensly alive." She began to stroll away. "See you tonight." I caught my breath. Don't leave . . not yet. "But what's your name," I called after her, hoping to restrain her a few moments longer. She turned, walked backwards a few paces, and said, "I'm called Stella." And with that, she turned again, and began singing again. I stood watching her, sad to my my heart, until she disappeared into a grove of dogwood turned pastel rose by autumn. Her eyes shone green bright by day, blue dark by night. Her skin was ivory pink in the sunlight, and marble rose in the moonlight. Her form was firm and true at the noon hour, and supple and dreamlike at midnight. Her hair, always soft to th touch, smelt of yellow roses in the sun, and perfumed heather in the moon; it was blonde in the daylight and blue silver in the nightlight. Her lips were scarlet, by day - violet by night. Her whole being was subject to, and reflected the light and shades, hues and time of the day - she was color, lines, rhythm, form, substance, effervescence, gossamer, real, unreal. She was woman - she was goddess - she was love. The square dance was composed of young men and young women, small boys and somewhat smaller girls, of old and middle-aged men, and of middle-aged and old women. Their costumes were all plaids: scarlet, red, greens, blues and yellows corduroy and flannel . . levis and calico . . boots and slippers. The light was of fire and electricity: the floor, smooth and polished, the walls, planed, knotted and oaken: the ceiling, broad beamed and flickering shadows. The music was recorded, but the calling was live . . nothing sad about the music, or sentimental - it was all salt and pepper, and full of other strong seasonings. Partners were taken, squares formed, the dancing began! And then . . . the strong, heavy-boardered walls of the dance hall swelled and almost burst because they could hardly contain all the music dancing calling whooping laughing colors life movement life fast beating hearts . . . life! After a half dozen dances were played and called and done through - came an intermission: the older people sat down, caught their breath, and carried on lively conversations: the children played, slid across the floor and laughed. the young men and the young women stepped outside onto a pine railed porch . . . the air was so fresh and pure they became drunk from it, the heavens were so black and pierced by lightning stars, they reeled from it . . . and to keep from fainting, the young women clung to their young men, and, the universe was made whole. And so passed the second night of the moon season. All was golden that autumn, the pines were golden, the meadows and the mountains were golden, the sky was all burnt gold. At sunset, the gold melted, becoming the intense color of rust red, becoming rich indigo, becoming blue night quivering with the light of an infinity of stars. And I knew joy. I was alone, and walked the high mountain trail, beneath blue steel skies, and through carpets of jade underbrush and meadows of purple sage, past a lake so high, one that reflected the sky so honestly, it seemed suspended in space. I walked amongst towering pines with red brown bark. The trail ascended, and through the boughs of the tallest trees I caught glimpses of marble faced, ivory topped mountains. I came to a clearing at the rim of a ridge where a mass of stone lay opulent in the sun - gleaming purple, rose, gold, silver - a giant throne of radiant stone from which to view endless vistas of pine forests, canyons, range after range of mountians, cloudless azure heavens across whose indefinite breadth soared the eagle. Once more I found myself in the depths of the forest, made heady by the resin-heavy scent of pine cones and pine needles - thinking not a thought, but absorbing - drinking - each sight, smell and sound through every pore - becoming as the tree, the stone, the earth, the scent, the velvet air. A fresh cold wind arose, taking my heart with it, and I began running on the rim of the mountain - equidistant between earth and heaven. And I knew I was truly alive. And I knew joy. This day passed into the third night of the moon season, and the gods sat on the topmost mountains, under the early moon and the late sun, looking to the distant horizon, feeling the slight impulse of humanity at their feet . . and the gods knew that this impulse - this trembling - would soon end, and the season of the earth would be theirs again. I was hiking in a fir covered cayon when I came upon a waterfall that seemed to cascade from heaven - it was a fine, thin line of white gliding down over a backdrop of wet rose stone, spraying over a cluster of boulders at its bottom and settling as a mist onto a dark pond. In that hushed, secret hollow, the abudant dogwood glowed mauve red, and the ouzel sang while darting through and about the cascading water. Peace . . . and in and out wove the eternal - ever constat, always felt - yet, never seen or know. I tarried there awhile, relishing the moment, and holding my various thoughts - thinking that in a primeaval forest there is such order, that its very wildness, taken away, would destroy it. Time passed, and I moved on, climbing higher. The gentle, undulating sound of the waters receded . . . finally not a whisper of it could be heard, its voice hushed by the enclosure of pine behind me. How still all had become, yet I learned that the silent forest is not always so, for on days filled with wind, the pines sang: the slighter the wind, the more individaul the song: the stronger the wind, the more voices joined togehter. And when a gale blew across the broad face of heavily timbered mountain, the pines roared in a mighty chorus, the sound like waves dashing against a rugged coastline in a heavy sea. Such a gale abruptly arose, without warning. The suddenness and force of the wind took me completely unaware, yet I was not frightened for it brought a warmth that was surpising and a fragrance of the sea and turned the heavens from blue to rose. The noise was deafening, and the strength of the wind such that the tree tops were arched perpendicular to the ground. The gusts were behind me and I was taken by the force of them to the head of the trail. I thought I was going to be tossed over a precipice, but the tempest abated, as quickly and suddenly as it had started, its entire, wild like lasting but a few minutes. A breeze lingered in the tree tops playing a haunting melody through the pine needles. And then I realized I heard another song, one from a different source. I climbed to the top of the ridge, and saw, to my amazement, a young man standing on the edge of a cliff, playing a guitar, and singing robustly as he looked out over the forest and canyons and mountians that lay before him. He stood straight and tall like a sugar pine etched against the rose painted sky. He finished his song, and turned my way as if he knew I was standing there, and came to me as if he had been expecting me. When he was before me, I was struck by the familirity of his face, for he looked exactly like Ambrose who had befriended me in the foothills, only the man before me was blond instead of white-haired, and his face was smooth and not wrinkled. Yet, his stature, the way he walked, every feature of his face was identical to that of Ambrose. It was as if Ambrose had regained his youth and stood before me now. "Hi-ya," he said. "I'm glad you made it through the wind storm. Good to see you're venturing into the highlands." Seeing I was a at loss for words, he continued. "I saw you at the square dance, and was told you'd be staying up here for a while." "Why, yes, I will be." I hesitated. "you must excuse my confusion, but your appearance was unexpected." I stopped, collected myself, and contiued. "But I didn't see you at the dance." "Oh, I was sort of hovering in the sidelines." "You know, you're the living image of a man I met a few days ago, only he's a lot older than you. You don't happen to have a father who's in the valley now?" "There's a bunch of look-a-likes down there. I guess I have mine too." "Well, the resemblance is amazing." Then a thought struck me. "Do you happen to know a girl named, Stella?" "You mean the one whose voice resembles the nightingale's and whose hair is the color of the sun?" "Yes," I responded eagerly. "That's the one." Though slightly archaic, his desciption was accurate. "Yes, I know her very well." "Wonderful. she said she'd be at the dance, but I didn't see her. Could you tell me anything about her?" "Oh sure, but I was wondering . . " He paused to sling his guitar by its strap from his right shoulder to his left. "If you aren't gong anywhere in paricular just now, maybe you'd like to take a little hike with me. I'm on my way to the giants." "Do you mean the Sequoias?" "Yes." "I've been meaning to see them, but I don't seem to have any luck finding the right direction even though I've gotten detailed instructions from the guys at the ranger station." "Well, I'll get you there. Just follow me." Having settled that dilemma, he turned on his heels and began striding, I should say, bounding, up the mountain trail. His pace was such that I could hardly keep up with him, let alone ask any more questions about Stella. And then he began whistling, and after a few moment, all thoughts, other than those of the country about me, left my mind. "There's timberline," he called back to me over his shoulder. He pointed to an elevation some thousand or so feet above us. "The Biristlecone pine stands apart from all others there, gnarled, weather-beaten, alone, but majestic and mighty. The most ancient of all living trees." He turned, and seeing I was laging, he slowed down, pausing so I might gulp some air into my lungs. After the color of my face seemed to satisfy him, he began walking again, only at a more human pace. "By the way, my name's Dion." I told him mine, and said I was glad to meet him. "It's all downhill now," he said. "The giants will be appearing soon." We took a trail that turned from timber line, and descended. Stand in a grove of ancient Sequoias and one stands in the midst of eternity. the Sequoias live while we dream the dream of life. Once a fallen Sequoia whose heart had been burned hollow, was a home. It was high enough to accommodate human beings, who had a mind to live there . . . and a bar was constructed within, for those who wanted to drink there . . and the fallen redwood was used as a stable, for horses were given shelter there. Now, ghosts reside there . . . ghosts who especially like the season of the full moon to sing there silent songs by, and laugh their quiet laugh by . . . ghosts who have become as the Sequoias have become . . . ageless . . . sentinels of the night and creation. I went to the base of a giant redwood, at evening, at the hour when the forest was most quiet and still. I looked up through its massive boughs, and saw a flashing star. I touched the tree's thick, red, fibrous bark, and felt it's heartbeat . . . the centuries, eons past, were realized . . . awe, and a great peace was known. The day had passed imperceptibly into the fourth night of the moon season. The moon was so bright it hurt my eyes to stare at it. The giant redwoods, the forest floor, the clouds, the heavens had become blue silver violet . . . stillness . . a most supreme quiet and calm . . the stars quivering . . the redwoods intensly alive and free - a harmony - a majestic chorus singing with the mute voice of moonlight and starlight . . there remained . . the dream gods dream. The golden mantle sleeps, curled round as a ball, soft as down, beneath the crystal snow and the resilient earth, sleeps; its golden color lost to darkness, sleeps, quietly, warmly, comfortably, and securely, sleeps. In late autumn, the golden mantle and chipmuck scurry swiftly across the ground, over boulders, up and down the massive trunks of junipers and firs, gathering their winter store, making the vast forest floor throb with life. I was absorbed by the antics of the animals and tripped a couple of times from looking at them instead of the trail I was walking on. It was a lush, sunny day, and I saw the dart and flash of a turquoise bird amongst the shadowed pines. Somewhere beyond my range of vision, yet within hearing, there was the crack of a dead limb parting from a tree, falling, bouncing off lower limbs and hitting the ground with a muted thud. Going a short distance further, I suddenly noticed a three-point buck staring at me from a meadow I was walking past. The animal gleamed majestically in the sun, and I had a desire to touch it, but had to be content with talking to it instead. The buck listened. I whistled a few songs and it seemed transfixed. But when I made a move to get closer, the buck turned and ran across the meadow, bounding from the ground with all four hoofs, disappearing into the thicket. I continued hiking and came to a rise in the trail which offered a fine view of a small valley of pine basking in the autumn sun. Directly behind me, the land lay flat then rose abruptly to a ridge some thousand feet higher than the ground on which I stood. I paused to look at the azure sky clear of clouds, and saw an eagle at its height - a black, pwerful, free thing soaring throught the wind whipped heavens, In that instant I envied the eagle, cursing my own earthbound fate. I watched the eagle for long moments as it flew further away, and higher and higher until it disappeared into the actinic light of day. I happened to turn and glance at the ridge behind me just as clouds began pouring in great, white swirls over the rim of the mountain, tumbling through the trees and bathing the land with dew. In practically no time, I found myself surrounded by fog. Thick portions of it advanced quickly at times - hesitated - then swirled on the ground and rose swiftly though the boughs of whie fir and red. The fog seemed like a forest sprite, a blurry feminine form, floating, curling seductively in and about the great trees, obliterating the forest save for a few massive trunks swathed in the most delicate veils of blue mist. Pines would appear and disappear with the most gentle undulations. And I too was made invisible as I passed though the mist, reveling in the luxury of having a cloud as my domain. I had walked some time in the fog when it vanished as quickly as it had appeared. I found myself in the sun again, standing in a glen where a pond lay shimmering in the light. I was then startled by a yell behind me, a sort of yippee or whoopee, and when I turned I saw an elderly woman sitting in a swing on the porch of a cabin not twenty feet from me. She was knitting, and watching me, and laughing. The cabin fronted a grove of autumn dogwood - each more fragile than the next - each with its own delicate shading of mauve or purple. "Hope I didn't startle you, son," She said. "Well, you did sort of surpise me." "Come on up to the porch and rest awhile. You had to walk a long way to get here, I know." As such unexpected encounters kept happening to me lately, I simply took this occurrence for granted. I introduced myself, then sat on the landing of the porch, turning to face her. And she, in turn, told me her name was Letty. "Now that we have the formalities out of the way," she said, "you can relax and enjoy the season. I'll put a fresh pot of coffee on the stove later on." Letty chuckled, looked over the porch railing to the horizon and gave another whoopee! After laughing heartily, she said, "you've got to forgive my exuberance, but the day's too beautiful and grand not to yell about it. Besides, it makes me feel good too." There was something which seemed timeless about Letty. Her hair was the softest and the most lustrous white I had ever seen. Her face was round and smooth, only slightly wrinkled about her eyes and mouth. She was short, having a matronly figure well suited for the colorful print dress she wore; a figure fine for wrapping wool seaters about the shoulders. Her hands worked swiftly with the needles and yarn. Letty told me that she never knew what it was like not to work - not that she didn't know what it was like to sing, dance or play either. Even at her advance age, she said, the only time she was still was when she slept, and then, oh, what dreams - she raced through flowered mountain meadows as a girl again, accompanied by a fawn. "Are you married," she asked? And when I told her I wasn't, she said, "a man must have his son every bit as a woman her child - the fruitless man is as grievous as the barren woman." With that, she placed her knitting into a basket by her feet, got up and told me to come into the kichen with her for the coffee, which I found, came with boyseberry pie. I spent the afternoon in the sunny kitchen, talking with Letty as she made bread, feeling infinitely fortunate at having found my way to her cabin. When it began to grow late, and the skies began to darken, I arose, saying I must leave. "Nonsense," Letty responded. "It's too early. Besides, I'm expecting company shortly and I wouldn't want you to miss them, and believe me, you'd be sorry if you did." "But it would be just like me to get lost going home in the dark." "Not with the moon behaving as it has these nights." And, she added, convincing me completely, "my company'll get you home safe - no fear of that." So, I remained. We went into the sitting room where Letty sat in a deep-cushioned chair and took up her knitting before a blazing fireplace. Sitting in the warmth of the fire I was quite conscious of the frost outside, of the ice air, of the diamond-hard stars studding the black heavens. I was almost dozing in my chair, listening to the gentle drone of Letty's voice, when I had an impulse to rise, and went to the door of the cabin. I stepped onto the porch, and from what seemed a great distance, I heard singing. "That's my company coming," said Letty. And at that moment, the earth passed through the tail of a comet and the night heavens went amuck with brilliant shooting stars. Meteors would suddenly appear out of the blackness and burst into fire, streaking in criss-cross patterns, spraying the skies with red hot ash, then burn themselves into nothingness. But no sooner had one meteor vanished than another flamed to take its place. The display lasted some time, and it wasn't until the last ember of stardust glowed and flickered out that I noticed Stella and Dion at the foot of the porch looking up at me. They were smiling broadly as if sharing a big joke. And my joy was such upon seeing them that I welcomed Stella and Dion as if I had known them all my life. They greeted me heartily in return and we went into the cabin to join Letty. We all made small talk, telling jokes and laughing as Stella popped corn in the hearth. Dion and I drank from a bottle of red wine he had brought and my insides glowed from its warmth, and my soul was made at peace because of it. The corn was soon done, salted and buttered, and as we began to eat, Dion and Stella prevailed upon Letty to tell a story. They told me Letty was a prolific spinner of tales and loved to tell them, so she began one without too much coaxing. Her story on that cold, autumn night before the fire of the hearth, and on the fifth night of the moon season went like this: Long, long ago, before time began and life was still a dream, there were only two beings living in the deep, wide firmament . . and they dwelt in a manificent palace at the center of a perfect celetial sphere. One was a young minstrel named Bragi, and the other was his lovely princess name, Ithunn. Their palace was of marble and red pillars, and had high, sloping roofs of jade tile with curved tips pointing to the heavens. There were no walls within the palace so it was open on all sides to a constant balmy season, and the many rooms of the palace were simpley separtated by diaphanous silken surtains. The surrounding gardens spilled into the chambers with luxurious greens, and the place merged with the gardens with broad staircases. Pink, blossoming trees rose to brush the stars, and the heavens embraced the earth. Every evening, between sunset and twilight, Bragi and Ithunn climbed the slope of a high hill which overlooked the palace, and a valley, and the broad horizon. They sat beneath a tall slender willow that dipped its flowing branches into a passing stream so that they might watch in veneration as the One flaming Star set, disappearing from view only to illuminate the Moon and reveal a multitude of lesser stars which had been hidden - not by a cloth of darkness - but by a shield of light. Ithunn began to sing while Bragi accompanied her on a lyre. When the last trace of colors had left the heavens, when twilight mixed with dark night, when the One flaming Star continued to penetrate the blackness through the medium of the Moon, Bragi and Ithunn unfolded countless tales of untold lives that were to be lived in ages still slumbering in the womb of imagination. Bragi spoke of meaningless battles, of terror and of violence, of hate and death. Ithunn prophesied the arts, the good which would be performed, of men and woman ingrained with passionate ideals and the love which would be given by those who were to be born into a world not for their intention and foreign to their soul. And so, Bragi and Ithunn wove their fantasies throught the night - they wrote of others as their own lives had been written - by writers whose own lives had once been written - by writers whose own lives had once been written - and so on, back through eternity to the first of writers whose own life had once been written. The Moon set slowly over the horizon. Bralgi and Ithunn fell silent. So deep - so still became the night. A deep blackness, shutting out the stars, fell. Not a murmur of a breeze. Not a sound of beast or insect. Not a movement. Not a breath. Death calm. The disappearance of all things. Everything became nothing. Nothing was. Nothing existed - a boundless void - devoid of emptiness. There was neither life nor death - not sound nor silence - not light nor blackeness - not time nor motion - not matter nor vacuum. Nothing existed. Nothing was. nothing a song out of the deep void from no direction from no source a voice sang high and melodious nothing was nothing existed only a high and melodious singing out of nothingness and for a long, melancholy eternity there was only a most singular singing high and melodious that nothing more slowly slowly the light of the One rising, flaming Star seeped through the nothingness. Bragi and Ithunn arose, and returned to their bed to love, to sleep, to dream of an eternity to come to dream of an eternity gone by We were all quiet for a long while, then Letty broke our reverie by saying, "sing us a song, Dion. You too, Stella, for though it be ten thousand times we hear a thing of beauty, it is not enought, not nearly enough." Dion began to sing, accompanying himself on his quitar and filling the small cabin with his body and voice: Dion was big and strong, and so were his songs. He was a fire contained, yet so intense, so bright, he couldn't help but light up the world around him. And when he had finished, Stella lent her song to the night: it seemed that nothing in the entire universe existed except her fragile beauty and the voice of the nightingale. I wrote her name once, then twice, then over and over again. Her name . . . and it was as if she were near. On the sixth night of the moon season, the snow fell . . . in a matter of hours an entire new world shimmered under the moon: it was a fragile world now - ephemeral - all white, deep white, powder white . . . and the land seemed more of the the heavens than of the earth. I donned a pair of snow shoes, and went for a moon-lite hike. The air was rich and opulent, cold and sharp. The mountains were cloud formations, the pines, tapered candles of ivory. Between the snow-crusted trees, avenues of blue crystal stretched into a heaven of indigo night across which stars shone icy and hard. The light of the moon was so intense, and the snow so pure and flashing, I felt as if I were walking over stars. I looked down and saw them glittering at my feet. I looked up and was dazzled by them. I looked about and found myself surrounded by stars. I came to a grove of redwoods and became immersed in an unearthly beauty. The massive trunks of rich copper stood out in bas-relief against banks of white snow. A delicate curtain of mist waft about the boughs of the pine, diffusing the moon's broad rays between the redwoods in a most soft, blue light . . . a dream. I passed through the milky way that night . . . my body was forgotten for the moment, and my soul flew. At midday, Dion put his hands into a cold, white, ice cold, pure white drift of snow: his hands turned blue: they formed a snow ball, and he threw it at his unsuspecting love. Stella screamed. Dion grabbed her and put a handful of snow down her neck. She cursed him, and planned revenge. Came night, Dion walked the slippery icy trail, his mind on the moon and WHAM ! one, two - a dozen snowballs found their mark on his body. From behind a tree, and from her ready-made arsenal, Stella flung her missiles, laughing triumphantly. Dion retaliated. Stella became exhausted. Dion grabber her, flung her onto the snow and washed her face in it. Stella found it hard to catch her breath from laughter, and she ceased to struggle. Dion held Stella close for a long, quiet moment. They arose, and each with an arm about the other, walked up the icy moon trail. I saw this happen, and did not feel envious, but was glad for them. The line was thin and long, not having a beginning nor an end. The line was stretched taut, and upon it was played the immortal song. Dion went to his mountain top on the last eve of the moon season, to sit upon his throne fashioned of stone. Before him lay the quiet majesty, the supreme beauty of the forest, distant mountains, valleys of jade pine, and range after range of white marble ridges. This land of soft, blue shadows merged with heavens of the purest indigo, laced with diamond hard piercing constellations. Dion placed his guitar on his knee and began playing. Stella took her place on the peak opposite Dion. They were shelterd by the heavens and enveloped by the stars, themselves becoming brilliant constellations spinning through space. And to Dion's accompainment, Stella began singing her everlasting song. Letty, on the last night of the moon season, went to her own private moutain top. Her's was the highest peak, facing away from Dion and Stella. She looked to the north covered with snow and stars. She sighed, then took our her knitting, and began telling a tale. |