Blessed be the Piecemakers

Every night at midnight, the purple clouds came out to dance with the blushing sky. Francesca had been an observer to this kind of intoxicating mastery, that of nature’s artistry for three long weeks.

Travelling through her own personal underworld, by way of long days and endless nights wandering by foot through the canyonlands of the Rio Grande, a descent where she had bore witness to the unbelievable.

She expelled air from her lungs and fixed her red-golden hair into a tight bun. Tired, she rubbed at her eyes and thought about what she would have given for a long night’s sleep in a warm, soft and cosy bed. She clutched harder at her blanket jacket. The phrase, bone-tired was a mere understatement.

The milky-white Datura flowers reflected back their poisonous purity under the moon’s rays. Hawk moths, shuffled about her foliage. The full moon illuminated, casting its glow over the chalky desert bed below. Holy as that ethereal night may be, out in the wild, arid desert where the energies danced ecstatic and the veil between the worlds thin, welcoming the realm of the unknown. It seemed as if sky and earth were blending into one another and a sacred union was about to begin.

The screech of an owl pierced and hit intrusive into the centre of her chest like that of an arrow shot. There she was, with this dropping sensation in her heart, over and over, leaving her unsteady and severely nauseated.

She remembered again, why she was there and looked up at the stars. She could sense her soul, stirring. Magic, palpable in the air. Thunder rumbled beyond the horizon. The atmosphere of that night was one of reverence to an ancient tale, a story that so wanted to be told and was going speak through every ounce of Francesca’s being.

Venus, the brightest planet in the night sky, pulsated in her evening star phase. Francesca thought her watchful over this strange scene unfolding and knew this night was going to be a magical rite of passage.

She embraced the stars as they blinked the wisdom of a thousand ancestral eyes, beaming down their blessings to her, in the abyss below. Francesca knew she was deeply sensitive, vulnerable and acutely aware of her soft flesh acting as a barrier to the harsh and permeating elements of the red desert. The majesty of the valley, resplendent. It was tangible, pulsing through every fibre of her being as she stood there, basking in its glow.

She bordered on fear and awe, simultaneously.

“Francesca...”

She thought to have heard her name calling on the wind.

There was no doubt that she was on the brink of breakdown, holding back a tidal wave of emotion. “Damn,” she spoke aloud as her eyes leaked, dripping down her cheeks, with building pressure and crescendo rising inside her body. Francesca's heart raced with anticipation. In her mind, she convinced herself she would never be able to relay anything of what had happened to her in the desert, especially not to anyone she'd left behind in the town of Brownsville. Who would believe her?

The weight of the night settled around her.

“Perseverance,” she whispered to herself, “come on, girl - you can do it,” she reassured, holding the image of herself strong and warrior-like in her mind.

Despite the persistent resistance wrecking at her body, she had fully surrendered to the journey, knowing that there was no turning back now. Her time of redemption was close. This year, 1915 was nearly over and despite such news of devasting war breaking out on the world stage, she appeared to have entered into an alien world, experiencing the timelessness of space in the desert.

Summoned to that very spot beside a small tributary canyon on the Pecos River. There, she'd found the ancient rock art that for years her dreams had been guiding her towards - the white shaman mural.

Her eyes focused on the white shaman himself, painted into the centre of the creation. She imagined the hunter-gatherers who had once painted it. The figure beckoned her as if calling out to her soul. She felt a sudden urge to walk towards it, to be embraced by the shaman's outstretched arms.

Francesca hesitant stepped forward, and then another, and then another. The painted shaman seemed to glow with an inner light, brightening the darkness around her. She was so close that she could have reached out and touched the surface of the rock.

Suddenly, a loud thunderclap echoed through the valley and Francesca was thrown backwards by a blast. She struggled to regain her footing as a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness. It was a woman, veiled in drapes of raw, coarse material.

"Who are you?" Francesca asked, her voice trembling with fear.

“I’m a guardian at this threshold,” she replied, “but first we must take off your mask,” a wild dog barked out in the distance, with noise as a jarring laugh.

“You have chosen to walk the path of truth,” she continued.

Francesca gulped.

The woman broke her attention.

“Oh my, look! What a treat she is here now and she wants to see you,” the veiled woman brightly exclaimed, “look up, say hello!”

“Where? Who?”

“Grandmother Spider, look, there she is,” the woman pointed up towards the rock crevices.

Francesca’s mouth fell open at the sight of what appeared to be the shadow of a great giant spider retracting back into the cave-like hole.

“She’s shy,” the veiled woman chuckled, shaking the rattle she held in her hand, “but very wise, remember, it might be so that you have forgotten her but she hasn’t forgotten you.”

Francesca closed her eyes and took a deep breath. For a moment, she felt a fresh surge of energy coursing through her veins. It was at that moment that she experienced a subtle shift in the air, a whispering of something otherworldly as if the desert itself had fully awakened.

“Forget what you think you know,” the woman gestured, “follow me, the tea ceremony is about to begin. They're waiting for you.”

“Who is waiting?”

She asked but the woman ignored her.

Francesca was intrigued but also wary. Who were "they," and what was this tea ceremony? But the woman simply turned and walked away and something in Francesca urged her to follow and so, with a sense of trepidation, she descended the rocky path that led down to the valley opening.

The wind picked up and whirled around her. She could hear the crackle of a campfire, and as they walked deeper into the opening, Francesca started to see things that defied explanation - trees that glowed, flowers that pulsed with energy, and animals that seemed to speak.

“You do love to tell a good story, don’t you,” the veiled woman quizzed and pressed again, “don’t you?”

“I do,” Francesca agreed.

“She loves to tell a good story,” the woman mimicked out again to her surroundings, which at once all seemed to reply back in chattering waves of laughter. Francesca blushed.

The woman dropped her veil.

Francesca gasped.

It was shocking to see her own face looking back at her. It was her doppelgänger. Terror ripped right through her skin and she felt every cell in her body on fire.

“What pray do you know about 'story,' uh?” She spoke in a seemingly menacing tone, her eyes flashed with a sharp and playful intent. Francesca couldn’t look at her, she was dizzy with fright. She held her stomach and crashed down to a seated position on the ground.

When she did look back up, the woman was veiled again, leaning over the campfire, boiling hot water and humming a simple mantra.

“The spring is blocked.”

Francesca heard a faint voice that spoke.

“The spring is blocked,” sounded from one direction.

“The spring is blocked,” from another.

“The spring is blocked,” the arena echoed back, louder and louder, “the spring is blocked, the spring is blocked.”

“Quiet!”

The veiled woman loudly insisted, holding up her hand for the commotion to cease.

She turned to Francesca with a cup in her hand.

“In the future, humans have blocked the ancient spring of our ancestors with their waste and spoiled the water with their poison and we need everyone to help unblock it,” she spoke as she stirred the cup with her own finger, “drink.”

Francesca aspirated on the liquid, spluttering and asked, “what was that?”

The unusual residue lingered in her mouth.

The woman clapped her hands, “let the tea ceremony begin.”

Francesca opened her eyes, and there it was - the truth that had been seeking her.