Fiction Friday. Here's one I did long after reading From Romance to Ritual by Jesse Weston. Yes, you'll recognize it as one of the sources recommended by T. S. Eliot as an aid to understanding his classic poem The Waste Land.
ARTIFACTS
By Jimmie von Tungeln
The fierce August heat poured from
the sky without mercy upon the solemn fields. Below, nothing moved or showed
any signs of life except the efforts of a small boy darting like an atom below
the cruel sun. He hopped along a turn-row from one stalk of cotton to the next.
The loose soil burned hot enough to scorch the soles of his feet, but at row’s
end, the cotton threw a small circle of shade, providing relief for the
traveler. He rested in each shadow for a moment before hopping to the next and,
with this strange rhythm, reached the trees along the edge of the bayou where
the dark forest promised relief. He reached into the pocket of his overalls to
make sure his prize was still there, that it hadn’t bounced out or found a hole
through which to escape. Feeling its cool,
polished
form, he smiled and entered the woods, safe from his ordeal by heat. The woods
enveloped him like a mother’s arms might wrap around a young child and the vast
fields of cotton again lay unmarked by human activity.
Inside, giant,
brooding trees shut out most of the sun’s light so that the boy felt the cool
damp soil against his bare feet. He eased to his right and found a familiar
trail, then struck for the bayou. The forest was quiet like the world on a
frost-covered morning and the boy shivered at its majesty. He moved with a
knowing assuredness among the vines and bushes. Before long, he spotted his
target. He approached without making a sound on the soggy leaves.
The old man
sat in his place, like a piece of the ancient vegetation itself. A rusted
five-gallon bucket provided a seat. He held a long bamboo fishing pole over the
water and a white flour sack on the ground held, the boy knew, both bait for
fishing and food for the old man. The man sensed, rather than saw, the boy and
he spoke without turning his head or removing a battered pipe from his mouth.
“Marse Robert,” he said.
“Hey,” the
boy replied. “They bitin’?” He found a spot to the old man’s right and sat.
“Mostly
slow, today,” the man said. “How you doin’?”
“I’m almost
six years old. My birthday’s day after tomorrow—August 21.”
“Well now
isn’t that something?” The old man eased the fishing pole forward until the
baited hook emerged. Then he swung the line toward him, grabbed it and inspected
the bait. A mangle of worms dangled in several directions and he found no sign
of molestation. He adjusted the cork—a relic that had long ago been retrieved
from the top of an empty snuff jar—then slid his hand along the line towards
the hook. Turning away from the boy, he spat on the bait and tossed it back
into the bayou. Late summer rains had flooded the banks and the dark, sluggish
water pulled the cork toward some unseen destination until the line went taut
and stopped it.
“I was born
in 1920,” the boy continued when he saw that the man was no longer occupied.
“You don’t say,” the man said,
pulling the pipe from his mouth and exhaling a puff of smoke which floated
across the bayou like spiritt seeking a companion. “You be grown before we know
it.”
“How old
are you?” the boy asked.
The old man
looked at his pipe. “The ‘chidren’ says I must be pushin’ on the door of 90 years
or so,” he said. “I don’t rightly know.”
The
enormity of the number stunned the boy and he drew is knees up and stared at the
meandering water. Then he remembered. He stood up in that single, fluid
movement that only the young can accomplish and thrust his hand into his
pocked. He retrieved his prize and thrust it toward the old man. “I fount an
indian ‘arrerhead,’” he said. He held a perfectly formed artifact of pure black
stone, contrasting against his small, white hand. The stone approached five
inches in length and still held the sharp edges and fine point that its maker
had first chipped into it.
It was too large to fit an arrow’s
shaft. It doubtless had formed the head of a small spear. The old man regarded
it, admiring its symmetry and the perfection of the creator’s art. “You shore
fount a beauty there. Wherebout’s did you get it.?”
“Up the bayou aways, on the edge of
the field the day after it rained. Hit was just a layin’ there. Poppa said
Indians used to live here before we did.”
“They did indeed,” the old man
said. He took the pipe from his mouth again and looked at the boy, bent toward
him slightly to increase the importance of the moment. “Would you like to know
something?”
“Sure,” the boy said, infected by
the old man’s solemnity.
“I remember
when there were Indians here, at least one family. I remember when that last
family left.”
“You
never…,” the boy started. The man’s look stopped him. “How could you remember Indians? Ain’t that been long time ago?”
“It has for
a fact,” the man said. “But I’m an old man and I wasn’t much older than you
when the last ones left.”
“Where were
they at?”
“Right down
on this very bayou. This land wasn’t all cleared then and they lived in a
lean-to right down near the edge of the water.”
“Did you
ever talk to them?”
“Never
did,” he said. “They kept to ‘theyselves’ and nobody ever went near them far as
I knows.”
“What
happened to them?”
“They just
disappeared one night. Somebody noticed they left and nobody ever knew a thing
about where they went.”
“Did they
leave anything?”
“Not that I
ever saw. When folks disappear like that, ain’t usually much left of them, ‘cept
something like that there thing you holdin’. Folks finds things like that ever
now and then.” He nodded at the artifact for emphasis. "Hit's a beauty alright."
They boy
stood without moving, absorbing this information and turning it around in his
mind. The man returned to his fishing and his pipe. After a time, the boy
closed his fist and returned the artifact to his pocket. “See you around,” he
said and started walking upstream.
“Yassuh,”
the old man said and moved to inspect his bait again.
The boy
found a trail and followed the water as it edged sullenly toward its
destination. From time to time, he felt in his pocket for his prize. It seemed
to grow larger, he thought, the farther he went upstream. He thought about what
the man had told him, and he thought about how the old man’s eyes had seemed to
sparkle as he talked, almost as if a mist settled on them. He seemed to see the
mist again and he felt as if he could see through it right into his own
existence until he could almost see the very essence of what made him himself.
He shuddered, “Indians,” he said to himself. Then he stopped and made a
decision.
The bayou
was about to make a bend and he knew the trail would end. This was the perfect
place. He searched among the trees until he found what he needed—the stump of a
large tree left when a storm had taken its top. He scooped up a double handful
of the soft mud at the water’s edge and carried it to the stump.
He formed
the mud into a small, smooth base. Then he went back to the water and washed
the mud from his hands and wiped them dry on the legs of his overalls. He walked
back to the stump, and looked at it, examined the small mud bed he had formed,
and evaluated the worthiness of his handiwork. Then he took the artifact from
his pocket and examined it as if he were seeing it for the first time. He held
it in both hands, aiming the point upstream and into the impenetrable forest
ahead. He slowly, and with as much respect as he could muster, laid the object
on the bed of mud, pointing into the unknown. Then he backed away and stood
still until he felt himself merging with the woods, the bayou, the artifact,
and even the old man still fishing downstream. Maybe even, he felt, with the
vanished ancients themselves. He felt himself becoming dizzy and then he felt a
shaft of light coming from beyond the trees. He turned towards it and started from
the forest.
He whistled
now as he walked.
