The Morning After

The grating sound of shrill beeping shattered the silence, reverberating off the corrugated metal walls of the narrow, dimly lit room. He awoke with a start, fumbling with the buttons of his Diver’s Timex. 

            “Six-thirty” he groaned, “Time to start a new era.” 

            The weary man ran fingers through his hair as he gazed at the sleeping form of his beloved wife. It had been a rough couple of days for all of them, most especially her, but it was time to awaken to a new day and a new way of living. 

            “Wake up sleepy head … I’ll go roust the kids.”

            His eleven year old son shot up like a rocket, but such could not be said for his daughter, six years young and cranky when stirred. 

            He propped her up in the cot, attempting to ease her into consciousness, to which she responded with a gentle descent back to her pillow. 

            “Just a few more minutes Daddy.”

            “C’mon sweetheart, Mommy needs your help in the kitchen.”

            “O-kaaay.”

            Young Daniel was invigorated by the prospects of this new morning, brushing his teeth, combing his hair and dressing in record time. His father watched proudly, enthusiastically timing him with his stopwatch. 

            “Well done Danny, one minute, twenty-two seconds!”

            Suddenly, Clarissa became inspired, leaping into her jumper, strategically draped over a nearby side chair the night before.

            “Show off” Danny exclaimed.

            The young family gathered around a metal dinette set in an adjacent chamber as Dad gave assignments to each member. 

            “Honey, why don’t you whip us up some breakfast while I hook up the topside cable and antennas? Danny, you and Clarissa check the gear.”

********************^********************

            Their breakfast of bacon and fresh eggs never tasted so good, a sensation enhanced no doubt, by the distinct possibility that it may be a long time coming before the next such feast. Powdered eggs, though bearable, were a poor substitute for the real thing as was the freeze dried bacon-jerky stored in abundance within the well-packed pantry. 
            Danny ceaselessly scrolled the frequency dial of the compact radio atop the dinette table, searching for signs of anything unusual. 

            “Same old stuff Dad, maybe we missed it.”

            Danny’s father exchanged a wry smile with his wife. “Now don’t believe everything you hear … or don’t hear son, most of those stations are on autopilot, everything’s recorded. We’ll be finding out soon enough.”

            “Well, I’m ready Dad, how about you?”

            Clarissa cried out, “Me too … I wanna go!”

            He knelt beside his daughter’s chair, softly brushing her cheek. “No no sweetie, you help your mommy check the TV stations, Danny and I will look outside.”

            “O-kaaay.”

            The pair maneuvered through the tight maze of steel cubicles, stopping at a wooden armoire near the exit.

            “Put your mask on son, and make sure it’s sealed around the collar.”

            The man retrieved an M4 rifle from the cabinet and turned toward the welded-rebar egress ladder then paused. “Uh, Danny … you forgetting something?”

            “Oh yeah …” The young man eagerly grabbed the 30 ought.

            “No … the Mossberg!” He lightly slapped the side of his magazine. “Remember, assault rifle for general-purpose, shotgun for close encounters. Don’t be forgetting your training at a time like this son.”

            “Sorry Dad …”

            He gave the boy a reassuring hug. “That’s okay buddy … now, let’s go have a look at day one!”

            The pair emerged through a hatch, discreetly hidden within the mock tool shed in their back yard. Poised at the door, the duo prepared to greet the new age with a hope and a promise, not to mention an ample supply of ammunition. 

            With Danny bringing up the rear, his father burst through the door, assuming a battle stance! To their great surprise, the homes were still standing, the sky was still blue and their neighbor, Phillip Jenkins was standing still, motionless behind his sputtering mower and gawking … at them.

            Not daring to spook the well-armed pair, he eyeballed the father and son, adorned head to toe in their camouflaged combat regalia. Must be another drill, he thought. 

            Danny pulled off his gas mask, waving a khaki arm enthusiastically. “Hey Mr. Jenkins!”

            Phillip stood dumbfounded, his mouth agape with befuddlement. Recovering from his stupor, he managed to raise a hand, wriggling his fingers in response, then added a weak smile before cautiously returning to his labors. Jenkins shook his head in disgust as he rounded the corner, disappearing out of sight. At least he didn’t set off that obnoxious siren again.

            Crouching low, the father and son team darted from bush to hedge along the side yard, periodically popping their heads up for a quick reconnoiter of the neighborhood …nothing, absolutely nothing had changed!

            Undaunted, they stealthily made their way back to the shed, returning to deliver their report.

            “Anything over the airwaves honey? It’s situation normal above ground!”

            She shook her head. “Not a thing baby, I think we may have dodged the bullet.”

            “Nah, it can’t be. This is the day after; we allowed plenty of wiggle room for all the time zones. I just can’t understand it.”

            His loving wife pulled him close, cradling his cheek against her neck to console him. “Well hey …” she said. “Everything’s O-K, that’s a good thing isn’t it!?”

            He gazed at the painted metal floor brooding, not yet ready to surrender to reality. “Well of course it’s good that the planet hasn’t suffered mass destruction on a global scale unlike anything witnessed by the whole of humanity, but then again, I was kinda looking forward to a fresh start.”

            He wrestled with the chaos of lingering doubt for several moments until reason regained a foothold, driving him to revive his determination. “NO, too many people agreed … today IS the day!”

            She massaged her brow, trying to think. “Maybe it’s some kind of, I don’t know … reverse Rapture. Could it be that only the righteous remain!?”

            Her husband shook his head. “Nah, Phil’s still around, we just spotted him from the backyard and I’m pretty sure I saw Jack’s wife rifling through boxes in her garage.”

            His wife nodded wholeheartedly, acknowledging her husband’s moral assessment.

            “Well, I wouldn’t let it upset you honey, there’s never a bad time to be prepared. Who knows what tomorrow may bring?”

            “It’s not tomorrow that worries me babe.”

            “Well what is it?”

            He paced the makeshift kitchen floor obsessing. “For starters, there’s only three more shopping days till Christmas and I haven’t bought a thing! It was hard enough convincing the kids that we didn’t need a tree this year but now ... they’ll be expecting presents just like the rest of their friends.”

            The couple scanned the seemingly endless rows of vacuum sealed canning jars, dry goods and Mylar packets of meals ready to eat. So much planning, so much preparation, had it all been for naught? 

            Suddenly, something occurred to him, an avenue he had not yet explored. In an instant he ran to the laptop, quickly going online to fire up his search engine with renewed vigor. 

            His fingers raced across the keyboard, then he hit enter. Not finding the object of his desire, he tried different keywords. Again and again he maniacally plied the engine for answers.

            Baffled by her husband’s newfound enthusiasm, she leaned close, peering over his shoulder. 

            “What are you looking for babe?”

            With his eyes ablaze and hands trembling ever so slightly, he turned to her with a beaming smile. 

            “I’m wondering whether the Incans might have had a calendar too!!”

Service with a Smile

Claude Adams had seen many years in his lifetime with precious few remaining, though admittedly, the majority of them were rather uneventful. Such couldn’t be said for those most recent however, since Claude was enjoying a whirlwind of instant celebrity as of late.

Publication of the firsthand account of his one noteworthy adventure was six weeks on the bestseller’s list and his newfound fame and fortune had brought him recognition and admiration unseen in previous decades.

A modest man, he preferred the simple, familiar life at first imposed by necessity dictated through limited resource and humble prospects. His generous new royalty checks afforded him the opportunity to purchase a moderately sized apartment centrally located in an upscale neighborhood of San Francisco. This he shared with his full-time living assistant, Caroline Baker.

Caroline readied the car for a very special appointment arranged weeks in advance by her employer. Claude was rather secretive about the affair, leaking only the slightest of details to the curious aide. The location given wasn’t particularly unique though the well-known local eatery did feature a rather novel menu … anything you could imagine to order.

Obviously, the Omnivore was prohibited from offering endangered game or inherently fatal cuisine but as long as the delicacy was free of legal as well as lethal restriction, anything was possible.

Apart from the six month ordeal that altered the course of her employer’s unremarkable life, Claude Adams was not a man given to extravagant exploits whether culinary or otherwise. Baker daily served meals that could only be described as conventional and commonplace … so why the sudden longing for the exotic?

They pulled up to the converted Victorian facade just as the hostess hurried from the restaurant steps to open the passenger door. Leading with his red-tipped white cane, Adams exited the auto reiterating final instructions before his assistant departed.

“Caroline, I’ll see you in one hour, yes?”

“Of course Mr. Adams, I’ll return in one hour.”

The hostess seated their new client at a small table near an ornate oak-mantled fireplace in the center of the room with a clear line of travel to the front entrance. He folded his cane, setting it in the chair seat beside.

“No need for a menu eh Miss? Not that I could read it anyway. Is your chef ready to serve?”

“I believe he’s plating right now. Would you like something to drink?”

“Just water please, and maybe some bread to cleanse the palette.”

“Right away Mr. Adams.”

Claude organized his table for easy access, placing the basket of hard rolls to the left and his glass of water to the right at arm’s length. Within minutes the chef arrived with a steaming bowl.

“Mr. Adams, welcome to the Omnivore! I’m Chef Paradiso and I wanted to personally thank you for giving me the opportunity to attempt this most interesting challenge.”

“Well thank you sir for your gracious indulgence, I know my instructions might have seemed eccentric but they were absolutely necessary I assure you.”

“I understand completely though I must advise you that we had to make a small substitution. Since you couldn’t identify the grain in the recipe with certainty, I had to select an alternate based on your description. We chose barley, I hope that’s acceptable?”

Adams fanned the rising mist, drinking in its aroma. “Of course Chef, as long as the key ingredients are there. I’m sorry that I can’t comment on your presentation but I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

Paradiso nodded with a smile, “Please enjoy”, then returned to his kitchen.

Adams sat for several minutes, reluctant to begin his meal, lost in thoughts surrounding the circumstance that brought him to this place.

The death of his younger brother in faraway Singapore two years prior had necessitated a Pan-Pacific flight with a brief stopover in Hawaii. Apart from his recurrent bouts with grief, the journey was essentially uneventful until the ship encountered turbulence several hours out of Honolulu.

Claude remembered little detail after the pilot frantically announced their dilemma, nor could he recall the probable hours spent adrift in the open ocean. His first recollection was of awakening with a mouth full of sand and an insistent male voice beckoning him to consciousness.

Alan Scott was his name, a fellow survivor of the fallen aircraft. Though suffering from a deep gash to his leg, he immediately rushed out from his makeshift shelter to rescue the waterlogged Adams.

Regaining his bearings proved an overwhelming challenge given the abstract sensory assault of a tropical shoreline fused with the traumatic events that led to his situation. The breeze was warm and constant and the surf was repetitively persistent in its ebb and flow hiss, echoing along the sandy beach, the noise seemed deafening.

“Are you thirsty?” Scott asked. “We’ve got plenty of water; I found a steady spring beyond the ridge. Looks like we have an abundance of food too though not very appetizing, the place is infested with seagulls … and not a whole lot else.”

Claude gladly accepted water from the genial young man as well as a few shards of coconut meat.

Alan had managed quite a lot given his injury. He’d scavenged articles from the wreckage whenever they washed up on shore, building a hut roofed in metal sheets from the fuselage, bound together by lengths of shredded wiring harness. Unfortunately, none of the foodstuffs survived though he made use of several storage tins for stew pots and serving bowls.

Blind from birth, Claude was utterly dependent on the wounded man to guide him through survival on what might as well be another planet. His limping companion managed to string cords of vine to key locations like the latrine, the fire pit and the shelter, denoted by numbered knots for easy identification. Claude could “sound” his way to a certain degree but the persistent whisper of the breeze and whoosh of the surf made it difficult at best to orient himself effectively.

The days became weeks and the weeks, months, but still no sign of rescue. Alan’s leg would periodically break out with infection, forcing him to soak it in sea water for hours at a time until the redness and discomfort mercifully subsided. The pattern of pain, austerity and outright boredom weighed heavily on the pair, exasperated by the tedium of their daily fare at mealtime.

Scott’s limitations kept him from acquiring the numerous fish in the deeper waters beyond the shoreline and crab, though numerous, were far too small and evasive for him to bother with an attempt. This left the two with seriously limited options: coconuts, a wild seedy grain that Scott referred to as “sea oats” and the numerous white and gray scavengers populating the island.

Alan tried to diversify his offerings but the seagull meat tended to dry up when roasted on a spit or baked in a hot pan. He settled on a stew, the only palatable solution. Every morning Adams was greeted with sea oat porridge simmered in coconut milk and shavings while sunset brought a salty seagull stew with crispy oat tortillas, baked on a flat rock in the hearth.

Both men were grateful for their provision, mundane as it was, but they couldn’t help dreaming of pasta, steak, PIZZA! It was this longing that made Claude begin to question the veracity of his senses.

Early on in their captivity of circumstance, Claude thought for a moment that he detected the faint aroma of roasting beef in the shifting winds. It lasted only a moment but he was certain that he’d accurately identified the scent. Weeks had passed before the sensation recurred, but again, it was as fleeting as the fickle breeze. As time went on he occasionally started when the delightful bouquet returned to assault his nostrils.

Alan seemed oblivious to the phenomenon, citing wishful thinking on Adams’ part but Claude became obsessed by the occurrence. He trusted his generous companion implicitly, finding it inconceivable that he’d withhold red meat if available but he couldn’t deny his senses. Ultimately, he resigned himself that Alan must have been right; it was only wishful thinking, a ghost limb of the mind taunting him with unachievable temptation.

Midway in their fourth month, Claude thought he detected another departure from the norm, though this one was not nearly as pleasant. A considerably rancid odor had been captured on the wind, and he could tell by the uneven breaking of the waves that the source was just ahead in the roiling surf. Something dead had washed ashore!

Alan was preoccupied harvesting “oats” on the other side of the dunes, so Claude took it upon himself to investigate. He honed in on the distinctive sound as the lapping waves splashed against the carcass, its pungent reek giving confirmation that he was on target. Tapping his gnarled walking stick, Adams edged closer and closer until his feet became wet with the surf.

Suddenly from behind, he heard the voice of Alan, breathless from hobbling frantically across the dune. “Claude, Claude … don’t touch it! Walk back toward my voice, I’ll take care of this.”

“What … what is it!?” he responded.

“Oh Claude …” he paused, kicking himself for not spotting it first. “It’s another body … washed up from the crash. I’m sorry my friend, I’ve been trying to spare you from having to concern yourself.  I’ve been burning them on the other side of the island since the beginning.”

Adams was visibly shaken. He took his comrade’s arm as Alan escorted him back to the camp. Claude sat brooding, alone in his thoughts, as Scott labored to roll the former passenger onto a tarp with grunts and disgusted groans. He heard the sound of the plastic sheet grinding across the sand as well as Alan’s limping barefoot gait retreating down the beach until all was silent again.

The incident profoundly disturbed the sightless man, his thoughts racked by the unseen tragedy and amplified by the internal torment of his own helpless dependence. Adams began to wonder what else Alan may have withheld about their situation not to mention their most fortuitous survival.

 Even the familiar flavor of the evening meal inspired questions. Scott used to joke that if you closed your eyes, you’d swear it was chicken. Though Claude needn’t do the former, the latter result, he’d noted, was far from true. Surprisingly, the chunks of meat were unusually dense and devoid of the expected gameyness common with wild fowl. Alan attributed the texture and flavor to the abundance of diluted salt water in the stewing process but now Claude began to wonder.

“I think I’ve had enough of seagull for awhile, do you have any more of those tortillas? Some coconut would be nice if there’s any left.”

“Sure” Alan said. He handed him the rest of the crispy wafers in a bowl with the fruit on the side. “I could take another shot at trapping crab but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“This’ll do for now …thanks.”

Claude became increasingly morose as evening followed evening with his consumption of seagull dwindling ultimately to nothing. Adams loaded up on tortillas of sea oat with an abundance of coconut as the primary entrée. As a result, he was frequently stricken with fierce abdominal pains accompanied by bouts of vicious diarrhea.

Adams didn’t want to voice his suspicions over Alan’s claims as to the origin of his “stew” but by the same token, his mind wouldn’t allow him to indulge in the alternative. 

“Claude … you need to eat some protein! Please …have some stew, at least drink the broth. You’re wasting away at this rate and frankly, I’m getting seriously concerned for your health.”

Adams bowed his head between his knees, searching for a solution. His nutrient deprived brain began concocting images of his good natured friend merrily stringing passenger’s bodies from the rafters of some palm covered smokehouse, shearing off portions of flesh for the evening meal.

Claude shuddered.

The aging blind man shook his head to blot out the sensory assault. His survival was truly on the line, he could not deny that, but was it worth crossing a line to achieve it? Adams wrestled with the conflict, personal ethics versus survival. Was there really a choice?

The most frustrating aspect of his struggle, he realized, was his own inability to be certain that there was any conflict at all. Alan gave no indication that the stew was anything more than what he claimed. He had proven himself trustworthy from the very beginning, a true friend in every sense of the word yet … he had chosen to hide one pivotal truth. Why would he do that if not to shield his disabled friend from unnecessary strife?

Adams’ head was swimming. His companion had never lied about the bodies, merely refraining from announcing their existence. Was he lying now about their pragmatic disposition? And was Claude only being prudish, possibly even selfish, in his refusal to transform their tragic deaths into an opportunity to redeem his own life? He began to wonder that what may have plagued him most was nothing more than the maddeningly unavoidable ignorance borne of his congenital affliction.

If he knew, then he could decide, but what if in knowing, he chose abstinence? Would it be better to simply believe Alan’s assertions and live or have him prove his claims and risk alienating the best friend Claude would ever have?

The troubled Adams settled on a compromise, he would take Scott’s word but only after first hearing all the tedious details of the process by which the stew came into being. If Alan faltered in his delivery or became reluctant to give disclosure on what should be a simple conveyance of recipe, then Claude would reassess his decision.

Adams was subtle in his approach, consistently forming his questions seeking information rather than leveling accusation, this kept Alan off of the defensive and free to respond openly without reservation.

Scott was a bit befuddled by Claude’s sudden curiosity of Spartan survival cooking methods, but he complied gladly if only to give comfort to his hesitant friend. He spoke of ratios, salt water to fresh, as well as ingredients like palm dates and seaweed. Oats were added to the mix in sequence then simmered for an hour, at least by Alan’s estimate.

Adams listened intently to each detail but gave most of his attention to the unwavering sincerity of Scott’s verbal demeanor. Satisfied that he’d detected no evasive guile or deception, Claude willingly and ravenously devoured the bowl.

In the weeks that followed, Adam’s health quickly rebounded though the same could not be said for his thoughtful partner. The incidents of infection had increased in frequency and severity, often forcing Alan to remain bedridden for most of the day.

Fortunately, providence delivered salvation in the form of a cargo ship, rerouted in an effort to avoid a deep sea tempest to the south. Due to a keenly observant crew and Captain, the campfire smoke was spotted and a shuttle dispatched, Claude and Alan were rescued!

Alan Scott had survived the voyage home but sadly passed away within a month due to complications with his injuries. Claude Adams was once again left alone, the sole surviving witness to what transpired those arduous months.

Claude treasured the memory of his fallen friend and never doubted that he always had Adams’ best interest at heart. He would never stoop to declaring him a liar even if time revealed that he had been less than truthful. Claude preferred to think only of Alan’s compassion, misguided or not, to spare him the agony of an ethical conflict in the midst of the greater good of survival.

He imagined that if Alan believed that withholding unpleasantness was the way to redeem his visually afflicted companion then so be it, he would bear the burden alone.

Adams rose above the tragedy, even thriving, but he couldn’t live another moment in doubt. If he had done the unthinkable, then he’d find a way to cope but if not, he’d thank God for his incredible mercy in sparing the two of them that terrible choice.

**********^**********

He took a deep breath as he held the spoon to his lips, wincing slightly at the bitter flavor of the salty broth. With a promise and a prayer, he took the morsel into his mouth, chewing slowly with reverence and hope. In an instant, the truth was known. He pushed the bowl away slowly, raising his sightless eyes heavenward as tears streamed down his cheeks. The broadest of smiles crept across his face as he fulfilled his promise, uttering words unheard by those who had ears.

His waiter approached as Claude wiped his eyes, reluctant to interrupt what was obviously a solemn moment. He glanced at the full bowl then back to the diner whose face reflected the epitome of fulfillment. The obvious contradiction baffled the young waiter but failed to faze him. He’d seen the motivations of Omnivore clientele vary widely over the years, often resulting in a mere taste of the forbidden.

Reading his charge, the waiter stoically asked, “So Mr. Adams … did you find your seagull to be … satisfactory?”

Claude leaned back almost giddy, “Oh yes young man … more than you could know!”

New Word to the Pa-Ayello

Frigid winds howled across a surface of deerskin pelts stretched taught over skeletons of wooden rods, providing shelter for the people huddled within. The eastward migration of the Pa-ayello had come to a standstill as monumental sheets of ice and snow blocked their passage.

Even the great orb that was their guide made its appearance only briefly each day, having graced the shivering nomads with precious little light and even scarcer warmth. The Pa-ayello, translated simply the people, were perishing.

As with virtually all masks death would wear as he afflicted mankind, it was the youngest and eldest that first succumbed to his icy clutches. Palinka returned from his somber task of burying both young and old in one of many such ceremonies performed in these times of sorrow.

A meeting had been called, an assembly of elders, to determine the fate of this driven band. Palinka was not yet numbered among the three called chiefs though he was by custom, the next in line. As such, he had a place but no voice, for his father Maiya spoke for his clan within this tribe of one people.

Ducking and weaving through the maze of angled wooden uprights, he made haste to this most important gathering. Palinka it was who orchestrated the intricate construction, to retain precious heat and light. The tipi of old and of times after these would stand alone, but necessity moved him to gather the bones and create a singular creature, wrapping skins around all to protect them as one. With privacy absent, its greatest drawback in times as these was the torment of having to bear the plaintive cries of a mother’s anguish, walking one side to the other. 

Approaching the meeting lodge, he encountered Metuay, recently ascended to the status of chief. His father before him was lost several months back when the Pa-ayello made the perilous crossing of the straits to the west.

“Let this be the day” he said with a troubled smile.

“Let it be” was Palinka’s response.

“Your father comes in moments Palinka; he grieves still with his sister and brother.”

The young heir nodded in understanding.

“Take your place and be seated, we await Maiya before any speaks” Metuay gestured to the arena of sons, the traditional gallery of the ascending.

Palinka crossed his legs then dropped to the floor into position in one swift motion. No sooner had greetings been made when Maiya appeared at the doorway, crestfallen but still determined. All bowed, averting eyes until the honored chief took his place among the other two notables.

El-ayon, the third of the three declared, “Let this be the day!”

“Let it be!!” returned the room in one voice.

As propriety dictated for this ancient community, it would be El-ayon first that should speak, being both chief and priest.

“We assemble in mourning for those lost of the people and are united by desire to hear word from the Mouth of the Most High. Let him speak to each heart so that all are in accord.”

“Let him speak” they all answered. “Let him speak!”

 “The people have walked many generations at the urging of the Mouth. All know that he does not change though seasons pass before and behind us. All have agreed that the ancestors heard wisely when the mouth sent them eastward in a quest for His hope. If it is believed that He does not change, then why would the word of this day differ from the last? Our father’s fathers set out in obedience to follow His hope, should we dishonor their hearing? Let us continue east as He rises in the morning and have faith that He’ll keep us in the hazards ahead.”

All bowed their heads to honor his words as another rose to speak. It was Maiya that stood, as was expected, an effort to plead for change. The hearts of all men were difficult to veil living in a community of such close proximity. His views were well known and shared by many and though Maiya was not priest, he too heard the voice of the one on high as any man faithful could hear.  

“El-ayon speaks wisely in all that he says. He tells truth when he talks of the Mouth as unchanging, for we depend on Him to rise and settle each day. But consider that he does not remain unmoving nor does he speak the same to the people as he grants us seasons and times. In the spring he says growth, and the summer warmth…is there not a time for every season and a new word for each time and day? In the moon before he said life to my nephew but today he has declared death. The white mountains stand before us to block our path east, is he not speaking to us that hope is not the word for today?”

The men began to murmur among themselves. Maiya respectfully allowed the elders to ponder the words before continuing. An aged brother of Metuay’s clan petitioned Maiya to clarify “Hope has driven the Pa-ayello for generations, tell us Maiya, has He given a new word that we may receive it with gladness?”

The sturdy chieftain bowed in reverence as he prepared his next sayings for release. He held out his hands, inviting the rest to join him as he revealed what the mouth spoke to him and to others.

“Again it is truth that hope has sustained us as we walked through the years planting nations. The mouth beckoned each morning that we arose, warming us through the day then settling behind with the promise of his return on the next. We left the green lands because of His calling and pursued Him to this point in the frozen waste. Now it is that we spend our days when we don’t see his face until midday. The morning light is hidden by the imposing whiteness, how are we to consider that so great a one as he…calls us from behind it?”

Many nodded in agreement.

“I propose that He speaks when he makes his presence known, face to face in His power at midday. I believe he now calls us to go south in his strength, for it is his power that beckons us this day!”

The Pa-ayello council were both stunned and intrigued as were onlookers gathered beyond the small room. El-ayon bowed as did the rest then invited Metuay to speak his say.

The man of gentle might and warm disposition rose to voice his understanding.  He had watched the proceedings with a discerning eye and a mind unmatched in wisdom. Having no sure answer to the question posed, he did know one thing with surety.

“Many here know my heart on the matter and I see truth in both of my fellows’ wise words. I and those of like mind would that the Ancient grant us a land to dwell for the rest of our days, for though the journey brings strength, of what is it if the destination is never granted? This land offers only death for so great a company, and the white mountains threaten far more than invite. The only thing to be known for certain is that we cannot stay here and only His strength can conquer our great weakness.”

A unanimous cry in agreement rang out then other elders spoke their peace. Each present sighed when receiving the words of wise chiefs three and more. Having said by men what was heard from above and conveying to these down below, the council dismissed those gathered to determine the destiny of the Pa-ayello.

Palinka sat beyond the communal lodge, feverishly kneading a small slab of blubber, making it pliable and soft in the frosty air of mid-morning. Once performed, he rubbed the block of flesh along the soles and seams of his waxen mukluks. The winds had died and the clouds receded as the ice came alive with light reflected. Many days it had been since sky wore any color but gray. This day Palinka was startled by the glare as it grew bolder with each unfolding moment. The Mouth of the Ancient bellowed before him as it rose to beckon the people to His strength.

Maiya was wise as was his son below him for the son now heard the words spoken to his father from above. Palinka smiled. Soon he would be called to return to council but knew already the decision they would make.

Generations had been driven to traverse the land east toward the hope of another tomorrow, but today a new word will give solace to the heart, and freedom from ever wandering.

“You have long pursued me in your hope; now receive me in my strength”