Note for Note (Another Pentateuch) - Book 2: Growth

NOTE FOR NOTE

(ANOTHER PENTATEUCH)

BOOK 2: GROWTH

Marcus M. Cornelius

iUniverse, Inc.

New York Bloomington

Note for Note (Another Pentateuch) -

Book 2: Growth

Copyright © 2009 by Marcus M Cornelius

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-6600-6 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-6599-3 (eBook)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 8/19/2009

Contents

Before Noon, The Hour of the Snake, July 7th

After Noon, The Hour of the Horse, July 7th

The Water

The Cut

The Mask

The Braids

The Beads, The Robe, The Sash

The Going In

The Weaver Maiden and the Herder

Before Noon, The Hour of the Snake, July 7th

Part One - Ranweh the Musician

…. door ajar, a hint of lavender,

nothing too much ….

Hard on the heels of such a clear blue day the feted lover-stars give promise they are sure to be marked out most clearly gainst a jet black sky tonight, and fortune thus seems set to smile upon the final preparations that we now do make for this mid-summer evening’s song and pageantry. Well rested and at ease I am. Whatever dreams did visit me of them no trace remains, and she, I hope, enjoys the same expectant lightness as so kindly visits here. Still a full hour or two before she comes upon the sun passed through its highest point and labourers lie down in shade of spreading trees above the terraced fields to doze, a damp cloth loose around their necks and the moistening gurgle of the stream nearby so moist.

Last rehearsal, and not without misgivings. But them we will dismiss; success hangs on that and tonight will not broach otherwise, as it has not since the privilege has been mine. Ten cycles of the seasons and more the honour mine enjoyed since first the honour given upon my master’s parting and each summer since confirmed, though this the first time in Oh-Sun-No’s absence. There the misgiving, but not from such cause alone the full responsibility. Tradition passing on, and change unwelcome though it is cannot be helped, so dedicated we shall play and have her sing as if before his person in the flesh, as if she were the true life keeper of his heart, and count on good report on his return.

Larger in stature than in number in which we find such strength and with large cause for pride and celebration in this world at our disposal and what we have made of it through tending. Fine place for life this place has proved itself to be as long ago the first Diviners once confirmed and that the simple truth of it.

All then as now is well and we make ready as the bees their honey and the waters fill the river’s banks. No fault shall there be, not a note less nectared than a song birds piping, and our faithful audience as held in awe as by the silent turning of the constellations watching over them. This day the very best of what we do by nature gifted and what we are heirs to and bequeath in turn, the gift of place, and none finer to be found for us in our time, and a remembrance of the best that we receive and long for, father to son, season to season, fallow to harvest, first light to the going down, indebted to the past the future must be endowed as equally or we have fallen short or nature cruel in sometime squandering.

Yes, we fare well this day as may he too until safely into our midst once more our pledging to receive and praises and we his care and thus all as it has to be. Safely. For it is that, safe, undoubtedly safe. And not a soul on its guard despite disquiet of some faint misgiving.

After the greeting, what mention first, to set a tone? Quickly to identify a happy change: in bearing? dress? painting of her lips? an ornament she wears not worn before and crafted by whom and for what occasion if not this? Instead, a shared memory to compare the present with? Or the water wheels, call her attention to the water wheels, something soothing, in common and impersonal. Perhaps inquire about her readiness, but that could invite anxiety. The water wheels it will be.

They turn. They always turn and how well we know the seasons’ rhythms in the sound, so well we sometimes do not hear, though we never can ignore the intrusion of the cicadas which are a nuisance to the ear like a scolding woman. Through many generations turning. Water. A fine place.

The water wheels, for by that hour this heat will be much worse and the mere allusion to them a refreshment in itself or at the least a promise of relief and gratitude for the Lake of Reflections which they feed, in which sits the island that will be our stage, between the long-house of the women where she is now tended to in preparation, hair removed from every place except the head, and this the lodging of my forefathers and heirs. The wheels receiving water and us life, and a fine place as divined.

Such then the chosen theme for greeting. Where though to set myself? Out of sight, behind a screen; seated on a cushion (and which motif to pick) facing the entrance, eyes open or shut, playing the instrument to let her know I am prepared: and where to place the cushion - facing the door but a little out of the light to command her attention when she enters so her eyes must search me out, or closer to the entrance and at an angle to it so she must pass close by and I can catch her scents and catch her by mild surprise; or, from the other room call her in and ask her to seat herself and wait, taking the chance to listen to the rustling of her dresses about her silent footfall and then to make my entrance commanding; or step outside as soon as I can see her start to cross the blood-red Bridge of Pairing and greet her as she draws close enough to cause her there to stop and I shall give her greeting. It is not the same as in those days gone by, waiting with doubtless confidence for a woman who serves to gain my favour, and she has always seemed so clearly disinclined to show such efforts to impress as they once did their willingness to be won. Wheels turn and I advanced and graced by honours not bestowed on youth may now not here be offered nature’s excess only to decline on principle of dignity or powers denied.

Within there is the hint of coolness, the door and shutters set sufficiently ajar, and coming from the brightness of the mid-day summer sun she will have to pause for eyes to grow accustomed to the lack of light, and, turning her head towards me, wait on some guiding word from me or gesture meaningfully plain, before she moves to take her place where I shall indicate and she demure comply.

Or I, recipient, could sit composed in meditation on the porch within the shadow of the eaves and listen to her voice as heard before brought closer to perfection by the splendour of the story of the stars banished amidst the multitude of nature’s sparkling majesty, make elegantly plain my readiness and let her see me rise with graceful dignity that will not fail to catch her eye as the heron on the rock now catches mine, quite motionless; indeed as there it stands with patience of that I shall borrow the disposition and be well met as master of the song. Well at my ease. A safe place. Always was, to my knowing, and will be to the going in though some misgiving I am party to.

Would that she could see it too, the heron, all patience still as stone, ready at any moment to strike like a snake but the shutters of her room now look to me fast shut though farther off than these poor old eyes can tell with surety. Giving her time to compose herself after the ritual robing, I will begin with a short address, setting the tone of this encounter.

I was sitting there outside within the shadow of the eaves, indulging, I do confess, the leisure of some time to spare before you were made ready and appeared to me the first to see you in your once in a lifetime guise. There the heron standing on the rock in the lake that just to look upon fends off the mounting heaviness of summer’s smothering noontide heat. As the patient heron I am dressed in grey and white, like him I made no sound till you approached and my voice took fright; like him waiting as if what once waited for already come to pass and needs must come to pass again. And the waterwheels could be heard turning and turning now as they always turn this season’s days, languid and moist and overflowing.

But even in the shadow of the eaves it is far too hot so I shall wait within and check now and again through the gap between the shutters. And there again the subject of the glory of this place could stir in her love’s yearning that she needs to shine with when she sings. Remind her, perhaps, of how Oh-sun-no the wise in his now distant camp under the stars this night will stare into the fire this night and dream with longing for the moment when he and his fellow travellers first catch sight of the thick thatched roof tops of these dwellings and the lush green ripening crop all orderly and spur their horses on to safety and the relieved embrace of those in whose name and for whose sake they ventured forth, the first to explore uncharted wastes or untold wealth, and who knows what wisdom guides them to or of what discovery he will return with news.

In just such a state of expectations soon to be fulfilled will stand the Weaver Maiden as the object of her love comes into open view on the farther shore of the River of Heaven in flood and fill the starry space with exultant song. Still young, she may not know the story well except for the melancholy words themselves and the learned melody. I shall make her think of that most ardently, quicken her pulse to a passion, let her dare to voice her song sublime and sing my praises too in the rendition as the silence between the stars will be broken into with our remembering through her voice in flight among them. Perhaps she needs reminding of the time before our advent and good husbandry.

And so I will recite, it was not always thus, what you see here and in this season ripe resplendent in its colourful and teeming bounty. Imagine then the virgin landscape that it was in the fallow vastness of still waiting nature untouched by the shaping hand of mans exhausting husbandry, for though the rocks and metals and all kinds of timber hewn by nature have their natural form, how we have graced what we have put our hands to and strive to grace still more, surrounded by that we love and those who love the keeping of the ways.

Of that you can see and hear the present evidence, in the rhythmic sounds that reach us from the Island of Submission in the Lake of Reflections where carpenters and artisans now build the stage from which your voice in the darkness of this summer’s night will call up to the stars we wait all year to see creep into each others view until the dawn absorbs them in its light for yet another thirteen moons. There was no lake, no island, no celebration of the heavens’ history, no thatch, no tapestry, no ornament or commentary, no peels of laughter, no shelter or harvest, no healed enmity, no assuring greetings on the now well beaten tracks, no parsed eulogy at the final parting of a lifelong friend, all a wildness inhospitable and abundance profligate hither and thither flung where the forces in its making finally were spent. How could we not be proud and make this reclaimed world of ours each generation finer still? Thus shall you sing, as if parted for eternity from this the object of our love except for one nights remembrance each cycle of the seasons, a song to make the stars take heed. And then your submission."

It rings true to my ears, still keen, this sentiment of what by nature must be joined cannot be held apart by any interposing force, but being yet of tender years she may not know that yearning for what is granted only briefly as the approaching image of the face of one we love appearing distilled in a dream, all smiles born of happy recognition, and they draw near so real we rise to greet them but with a joy cut short before we can even mouth their name or so much as breathe it when we wake to find them not here in this brief spoken world after all and for hours on end the pleasure of the visit and its evanescence linger like a satisfying flavour and time itself seems brief to hesitate upon the brink.

The strings of twisted silk I pluck will vibrate with the consummated years of all the love and skill my age contains till they near break with the laden power, a branch born down by the flesh of ripened fruit, and her blood will stir and her loins will ache till she herself becomes the Weaver Maiden and every particle of light that is her star will shed itself completely and the purpose of her love reveal so long awaited out of darkness called and known again as irresistible as birth or the cascading stream of the waters that sustain and turn the wheels as the world turns by its seasons unimpaired round and around.

Such pleasures have there been as this, as many as there are colours infinite of hue, as many as there are shapes to clouds not twice the same, pleasures that go deeper with the years plumbing a subtlety that youths quickness has no time for, less the heron that strikes like a snake than the darting wren, intent on the thrill of new discoveries more than the favour of a taste, the innuendo of a fleeting touch, the open palm laid gently on the cheek concealing like a cloud what’s borne between.

And from the well of feeling we have fathomed in the telling of the journey here, we shall impart this history to her in notes so apt she will have to know herself