were secure with the moths, mongrels, and the old healer that night. The peyote music wavered and enclosed the tiny cabin. The lantern light shimmered and then fluttered with the sound of the drums. We were captivated by the music, and by the shadows of the healer. We had no need to move closer to the wigwam.
Much later we were startled by hearty shouts and the chanted names of totems, crane, raven, beaver, bear, and other birds and animals over the sound of the peyote music. The ceremony in a wigwam that night was not traditional, and not the same as the ancient native peyote practices in the desert. There were singers, peyote songs, the sound of rattles, drums, and eagle whistles, but no formal prayers, no peyote chief, no cedar man, sagebrush, and no sense of a supreme creator.
The peyote ceremony in the wigwam inspired natural visions, more individual than communal or churchy. The ceremony was dangerous, and the singers were brave visionaries. The singers were inspired by the liberation of personal and solitary visions. Later we learned that peyote created strange sensations of independence, a sense of visionary sovereignty, and the magical power of flight. The new burdens of time, masters, manners, cultures, and communal conditions were trivial in the peyote visions of magical flight. The creative stories were natural coveys, heartfelt, true scenes, and with an overwhelming native sense of liberty.
The shouts and chants roused the mongrels. Mona Lisa and Nosy circled the old healer in the cabin and waited for directions. Misaabe gestured with his lips toward the peyote wigwam and the mongrels rushed outside. We followed the mongrels into the night and recognized the voice of the chanter and trader. The mongrels nosed and bumped him back to the cabin.
Calypso neighed at the post.
Odysseus, once inside, handed each mongrel a piece of dried meat. He limped toward the lantern and sat on a rough chopping block. He raised his arms, waved his huge hands near the lantern, and reached for the shadows.
Odysseus suddenly turned to the old healer and sang “The Last Rose of Summer” by the poet Thomas Moore. We were moved by the great voice of the trader, and the mongrels turned their ears and howled with the singer. The voices of the trader and the mongrels resounded in the cabin. Shimmer nuzzled the ankle of the trader. Mona Lisa smiled and moved closer to the lantern, and she crossed her paws at the feet of the trader. Ghost Moth sat directly at the side of the trader. He raised his head in the shadows and bayed with the music.
The last rose of summer
Left blooming alone.
Odysseus told stories about the creation of the melody and then recounted the story of the great opera singer Luisa Tetrazzini who sang “The Last Rose of Summer” two years earlier on Christmas Eve on the streets of San Francisco, California. He remembered the night was bright and
clear.
The trader recounted the great San Francisco earthquake, on April 18, 1906, as a personal experience. He must have read the news reports in the Tomahawk that more than three thousand people died from the earthquake and fire. He created a sense of natural presence in stories, more memorable than newspaper accounts, but he never experienced the earthquake or the actual outside concert by Luisa Tetrazzini.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
