Post by bluescityleon on Aug 30, 2012 16:47:14 GMT -6
In days gone by, lost colonists, runaway slaves, deserting soldiers
and pirates, traders, unwed mothers and wives, sojourned here.
African, Spanish, European, American Indians, Christians,
Jews and more, left their biological and cultural markers. Outlaws,
bounty hunters, Yankee and Rebel armies tested their resolve here.
In June 2012 narrow streams of sunlight flared between the
cypress and pine, skipping like fiery stones, through the marsh of the
back water along the Lumber River, as it had from the beginning. The
dim light of the afternoon powdered those who worked
among the tall trees gathering sticks and placing them within a wide
circle of rocks. There the sticks were stacked log cabin style with twigs
and dried pine cones put in the center. The assembly at campground
fourteen had come here deliberately to conjure forgotten tales and
share new ones, taking a peek into a seldom seen culture, hoping this
spirit of sharing and storytelling would change their lives and the
world for the better.
Late into the night, they would honor their appointment with the
natural sounds and wild life, all part of this night in the swamp, around
the campfire, dreaming of how it used to be, and what it all meant, as
the wind wisped through the tall trees.
The wind had an intervocalic ebb and flow, never sleeping only
hesitating, like an invisible ocean splashing, sometimes pounding in
the tree tops.
When the last glimmer of sunlight vanished and the soundtrack of
the swamp became unexpectedly front-row and present,
indistinguishable figures seated on logs around the fire circle faded
from view and into the dark.
Into the darkness Crying Wolf spoke to those gathered and to the
silence. He spoke with authority, into the black pitch night.
“Prepare yourselves to see what is not present and hear that
which makes no sound. You will remain silent until I speak again, then
I will ask my new friend from Chicago, Sammy Flue to light the fire if
it becomes necessary. No one spoke after that.
Adam squeezed Angelina’s hand and like it was yesterday he
heard her inner-child voice saying, “This is not North Carolina, Adam.”
“Yes it is.” Adam’s voice flashed like a Saturday night special, in his
mind.
There began a low whimper in the dark. Others joined in. Then
the whimpering became opposed by an infectious laugh until it
seemed the six people seated in the circle were all laughing.
“I’m not laughing, am I? “ Adam asked himself. Far off, voices
began to laugh. More and louder until it sounded like hundreds. The
laughter ebbed and flowed like the wind until in floated away, and with
it, all sound was gone. Not a cricket or a frog could be heard, only the
blood rushing through his head. Undiagnosed Tinnitus, he knew what
it was.
“Am I hearing sounds that are not there, as Crying Wolf had
promised?”
He began to think of Sammy Flue. Adam prayed a short prayer,
“Lord, help Sammy.” He wondered what Sammy was hearing and
thinking.
"Sammy do you have a flashlight?” Crying Wolf asked
“Yes sir,” said Sammy.
“Shine it on your face."
Sammy complied and all eyes locked on him, his face pale and
he appeared wrinkled and tired. The campers sat, not talking, listening
as the wind wisped again then died.
Two-hundred feet away a Lumbee Indian called River Lilly, sat
hidden, breathing rhythmically, preparing to beat an Indian Drum and
let out a war cry. Her companion prepared to shoot a flaming arrow
into the fire circle.
“It is important for everyone to close your eyes and remain
seated,” said Crying Wolf.
Out of the dark, from above an arrow flew, flaming.
The drum sounded three beats, River Lilly screamed. The fire ring
exploded in flames.
Two others had joined the circle and were dressed in native costume.
and pirates, traders, unwed mothers and wives, sojourned here.
African, Spanish, European, American Indians, Christians,
Jews and more, left their biological and cultural markers. Outlaws,
bounty hunters, Yankee and Rebel armies tested their resolve here.
In June 2012 narrow streams of sunlight flared between the
cypress and pine, skipping like fiery stones, through the marsh of the
back water along the Lumber River, as it had from the beginning. The
dim light of the afternoon powdered those who worked
among the tall trees gathering sticks and placing them within a wide
circle of rocks. There the sticks were stacked log cabin style with twigs
and dried pine cones put in the center. The assembly at campground
fourteen had come here deliberately to conjure forgotten tales and
share new ones, taking a peek into a seldom seen culture, hoping this
spirit of sharing and storytelling would change their lives and the
world for the better.
Late into the night, they would honor their appointment with the
natural sounds and wild life, all part of this night in the swamp, around
the campfire, dreaming of how it used to be, and what it all meant, as
the wind wisped through the tall trees.
The wind had an intervocalic ebb and flow, never sleeping only
hesitating, like an invisible ocean splashing, sometimes pounding in
the tree tops.
When the last glimmer of sunlight vanished and the soundtrack of
the swamp became unexpectedly front-row and present,
indistinguishable figures seated on logs around the fire circle faded
from view and into the dark.
Into the darkness Crying Wolf spoke to those gathered and to the
silence. He spoke with authority, into the black pitch night.
“Prepare yourselves to see what is not present and hear that
which makes no sound. You will remain silent until I speak again, then
I will ask my new friend from Chicago, Sammy Flue to light the fire if
it becomes necessary. No one spoke after that.
Adam squeezed Angelina’s hand and like it was yesterday he
heard her inner-child voice saying, “This is not North Carolina, Adam.”
“Yes it is.” Adam’s voice flashed like a Saturday night special, in his
mind.
There began a low whimper in the dark. Others joined in. Then
the whimpering became opposed by an infectious laugh until it
seemed the six people seated in the circle were all laughing.
“I’m not laughing, am I? “ Adam asked himself. Far off, voices
began to laugh. More and louder until it sounded like hundreds. The
laughter ebbed and flowed like the wind until in floated away, and with
it, all sound was gone. Not a cricket or a frog could be heard, only the
blood rushing through his head. Undiagnosed Tinnitus, he knew what
it was.
“Am I hearing sounds that are not there, as Crying Wolf had
promised?”
He began to think of Sammy Flue. Adam prayed a short prayer,
“Lord, help Sammy.” He wondered what Sammy was hearing and
thinking.
"Sammy do you have a flashlight?” Crying Wolf asked
“Yes sir,” said Sammy.
“Shine it on your face."
Sammy complied and all eyes locked on him, his face pale and
he appeared wrinkled and tired. The campers sat, not talking, listening
as the wind wisped again then died.
Two-hundred feet away a Lumbee Indian called River Lilly, sat
hidden, breathing rhythmically, preparing to beat an Indian Drum and
let out a war cry. Her companion prepared to shoot a flaming arrow
into the fire circle.
“It is important for everyone to close your eyes and remain
seated,” said Crying Wolf.
Out of the dark, from above an arrow flew, flaming.
The drum sounded three beats, River Lilly screamed. The fire ring
exploded in flames.
Two others had joined the circle and were dressed in native costume.
