At the beginning of the world, Kingfisher rows his black glass boat; sets off to find the riches and money for his bride. After a rough landing, Fox takes pieces of this boat of stone and drops them by the mountain. Those stones, shining and mighty, spend the rest of Creation waiting patiently for the Human Beings to emerge, through a shaking earth, under rough weather.
From miles distant, the chunk chunk chunk of hammerstones travels downwind from the quarries in the high cliffs. Up there, men with tough hands chip glass walls into blank blades. This will be a treasure for the people along the rivers below. Among these flat hand-shaped discs, two long and heavy matching points take shape. Fine and rare, they are set aside.
Later on, fasting as he travels, a man on a sacred pilgrimage carries the twin prizes, held safe in a wrapping of reeds. He sets a smooth pace, traveling north for ceremony. For three days and two nights, he runs footpaths across mountains, to a broad valley and oak grassland, homeland of the Human Beings.
Along bright rushing water, Headman inspects the runner’s wares. His status secured by his wisdom and skill, he holds the two blades side by side. First left, then right, he sees them with humble eyes. They are beautiful. With brief words and strands of white shells, the blades become family. Blessed in careful-made medicine, they become sacred all over again.
Ducking low and turning once through a round doorway, the People gather inside a house of split sugar pine boards. Under Creator’s close eye, medicine sets the world new again. The gospel sends words over the rhythm of a tapping staff. In song, the Women and the Men jump out and glide. The dance moves smooth along a curved line, floating fine feathers and soft ringing shells. A bright crackle of cedar fire on a stone hearth makes tall shadows. Cast on the wall behind, the Ancestors watch and wait. “Make good on your promise and the world will be new again.” For ten days and ten nights, Headman dances out front. His wealth held up on display, his prize blades glint in bright cedar flames. In hands thrust out at ancient foes, the blades sing and dance along.
From father to son, hand to hand, the stories of these precious blades pass along the long curve of generations. These remembered words carry time and change, a life of precious objects from the beginning of the world. Then impossible events tear the fabric of the land and set wrong the timeline. Another people arrive from far-off, strange places. First hard times, then war, then a long walk to a dark and unknown destination. Fathers, sons, mothers, and daughters take along only what they can carry.
Lonely and broken, a tired and injured man nearly loses hope. This strange place rains and makes him hungry. He carries two cold black blades, wrapped safe in reeds. His hope feels near spent, but his heart tells him better. Even this cold world, under the eyes of Creator, can be made whole again. The People gather and shelter around new cedar fires. Time to dance again.
I duck low and turn once through a round doorway. Curving along and around a hearth of river stones, the People half-surround a roaring fire. A forest perfume of cedar waters the eyes. Gentle blue smoke sifts among the blanketed seats, rising back toward the low angled plank roof. Tiny yellow pins of spark roll and straighten as heat catches, drawing them up and out through the opening above.
The sun drops low and lays bright slices of sunset through the boards as it sets.
Behind a paisley curtain, the men and boys share a small room under dim incandescence. Among the youngest, toddlers are tended by big brothers and cousins. Wraps of ringtail and bright abalone are secured with strips of leather. Great drapes of sinew-strung dentalium and beads weigh heavy around our necks; these are ancient strands of shell money. Tall feather headdresses of eagle, flicker, hawk, and velvet are tied tight above our foreheads. The Dancemaker looks us over as our faces are striped with charcoal. Before we slip into ceremony, a dance staff of yew taps a careful heartbeat, and we sing together in low voices.
Alongside us, in a room to the right, the women are singing, too. Their doeskin skirts are heavy with pine nuts, beads, and shells, sewn in with family hands and treasured for generations. Tight, finely woven caps of spruce root and hazel flash the old patterns; House Ladder, Quail Tail, and Morningstar. Feather-tied wands are set lightly in their hands, ready for the rhythm of the old songs.
The men line up with the tallest in the center, and we are ready to join the spirits. Dancemaker guides us out this side door, and I see rows of lighted faces. Around and down onto the warm wooden floor, we pass the fire with outstretched hands and align ourselves. Front facing with otter fur quivers, we flash our woodpecker scarlet and flicker feathers and listen for the women. The rising rhythmic shush of gentle shells swinging on skirts signals their arrival. Gliding along the far side of the dancehouse, they circle around and down across that warm floor to join us.
A tap tap tap, and the songs begin. The gospel joins with spark and firelight as our ancient language rises up and out and far into the sky above to join the midwinter stars. I am moving my foot in chorus, rising and falling with the words. Dancemaker calls me, and it’s time to dance out front. Ch’ee-naa-svt-naa-see-ya.
I step forward toward the soft golden fire, the heat drawing me towards it. Eyes raised to meet a quick updraft of crackling sparks, I hold up my hands. There in the firelight are two obsidian blades. Fine hewn and ancient, treasures from our ancestors. I dance left, then right; three times. Thrust out at ancient foes, the blades sing and dance along.
