To Feed the Desert Spirits

[Pakoosha]

33rd day of Spring, 511AV A plateau rose from the ground in the middle of one of the widest canyon valleys in the Redstone Cliffs. It stood alone there like a red totem, rounded and growing skinnier and skinnier all the way to it's flat top. Dry prickly brush surrounded it's base in pockets of varying density, whereas the rest of the valley was sparsely dotted with beautifully flowering Acacia trees. The valley was not colorful even with the flowers on the trees, but this one pillar seemed to draw the eye for it's lack of anything. There was only an ominous personality there, something only a peculiar painter would try to capture. It was imposing but dead as a giant burial mound. Such was the sort of place that attracted strange people like Pakoosha. The Chaktawe man strode afoot and alone, bearing little besides a satchel and the shawl of coyote pelts on his shoulders. The feathers sewn to his traditional clothes twitched back and forth In the trapped inconsistent wind. Across his eyes and the bridge of his nose was painted a thick black band that made the white of his eyes distinct around the complimenting black of his pupils, pupils that disappeared into a stripe of darkness when he squinted against the wind. Like any true Chaktawe, and most especially any Kalanue, he was barefoot and jogging at a natural pace. There was no time for leisurely strolls in Eyktol. Even here in the Redstone Cliffs, where once the water flowed so freely so long ago, there was precious little left to sustain a man. Pakoosha trotted up to the base of the redstone pillar where the brush was mostly cleared. Here there were crude images chiseled or drawn, of random things like goats and birds and men, in the black beetle paste iconic of the Kalanue tribe. Only some of them were Pakoosha's doing, making him wonder how many before him had found this same place oddly enticing. How many, in the hundreds of years, had simply passed right by without a second glance? Pakoosha had a story about not seeing a treasure in front of your face, but this was no time to tell it. Maybe he'd find someone to entertain later tonight. With little more ado, the spiritist began to climb. The base of the stone pillar was a bit like a stack of tanned leather hides; It seemed as though a great giant had chiseled it with an unskilled hand, leaving uneven gashes as he scooped off layer and layer of redstone. To climb it one simply had to hop up & weave their way along the easiest path to the top. It was an unfortunately long climb, but Pakoosha eventually stood at the flat plateau with the sun above his head. He stood there at the edge for a moment, closing his eyes and splaying his freckled fingers wide to feel the unimpeded wind that skimmed along the top of the canyon. Would this be how it felt to be on a boat? There was work to be done, unfortunately. Turning from the edge, he stepped back into roughly the center of the disc of redstone. Taking the satchel from around his arm, he sat down cross legged and began to gently root through what was packed inside. Pakoosha first drew out a bundle wrapped in strips of tanned leather and began to carefully unwrap it. Inside sat a nest of small bird eggs, which Pakoosha inspected to make sure they were intact and then nodded satisfactorily. After setting it down on it's wrapping of leather, he again rooted about the satchel and took out the next item. This time it was a little ceramic jug filled with a small bit of honey made from the Acacia flower, which was then set beside the eggs. The third item was a hunk of soft cheese made from a bowbacked goat's milk. Pakoosha arranged the three items in a very precise triangle, and then sat down a ceramic bowl in the very center of the triangle. After that, the man sat very still in what could only be meditation. From here it became a ritual, one that required concentration and stillness of the mind. A mistake would ruin everything and make the whole trip pointless.

[Pakoosha]

The sun sank a few ticks from it's zenith while the desert man sat alone. His tan skin felt hardened and tight, like clay baked in an earthen oven. The sweating of his face caused small bits of the black dye across his eyes to begin to run down the corners of his cheeks, as though he were crying black tears. An insect perched on the Chaktawe's nose and crawled around, then flew off. Pakoosha did not swat at it or turn his head. He was a part of the redstone now. Even though he sat impassively, his eyes were not closed. He looked straight ahead and observed what moved. A lonesome crow rose and took flight, a shrinking black speck that disappeared into the cloudless sky. Somewhere far away down from the next cliff, a little sandy twister began to spin wistfully by itself. Another twister formed nearby and they danced together for a short while before they both spun out of existence. Or had they ever existed? The world would not care. He was nothing, the walls of these cliffs were illusions, and water was in the air. The sun wore a mask and the moon had it's face turned away in conspiracy. The black freckles on his fingertips tingled refreshingly, as though he'd dipped them in water. What was it that flowed nearby? Was his body tricking itself? He suddenly felt dizzy and sick. Now was the time to begin. Pakoosha retrieved his belt knife and cut off a strip of the goatcheese, as near as he could cut it. Placing it as a base in the bowl, he then crushed three tiny bird eggs together and smeared the mess onto the cheese. Last came a drizzle of honey, but it did nothing to make the meal more appetizing. After setting the honey aside, he held his palm out over the bowl and cut himself deep enough to bleed. Blood dripped from his clenched fist and mixed with the honey and egg, seeped into the cheese. Everything was together. His sickness and dizziness started to grow, but he fought it back. There was no way for him to know how other Spiritists did this ritual, but for him it was deeply unpleasant. It had been learned slowly with many failures, all resulting in useless gobs of vomit, but eventually he learned. He had never learned anything so well. Failure used to be a frightening thing, but now it was just another obstacle. An obstacle to destiny. Pakoosha picked up the bowl and scooped everything into his mouth with his fingers. He swallowed the gooey mess without chewing, focusing on the distinct coppery taste of his own blood. He could feel it happening inside his body. His blood was given power, or maybe it just sapped power from somewhere inside him. There was no way he could explain it to someone, it was somehow too simple and mystic at the same time. Spirit, his own spirit, was what did the real work. He was just a vessel for the process. The world seemed to spin and day turned into night then back into day though the sun moved not an inch. The sickness grew unbearable and he retched. Leaning forward, he gagged again and again. Minutes drew by, but they felt like days. Eventually, mercifully, he regurgitated a blob of white-ish gel that gave off a haunting glow. It bore no resemblance to the concoction he had consumed, but this was the prize of his labor. Simple weariness replaced dizzying sickness, a weariness of the spirit rather than the body. He wanted to lay down and sleep, but there was still work to do. The Soulmist, the softly glowing gel, sat in the ceramic bowl and stared back at him. It would grow stale in days just like any food, but Pakoosha always prepared himself when he got the tingle of ghostly activity. Sometimes it wasn't even a tingle, more like just a whiff of some old smell. He expected that soon even the spots on his fingertips would start to predict the movement of spirits nearby. He covered the ceramic bowl with the same leather strips he had wrapped the eggs in, and then carefully set the bundle into his satchel. His body wanted nothing but to lay down here and sleep, but he knew that he couldn't. His tribe would move on tomorrow and they would never know where to look for him. Would they look for him?

[Pakoosha]

It was probably best to not wait and see, whatever the answer. He held up his cut hand in front of his face and watched droplets of blood roll down his wrist. Where was the power there? How was it hidden? How could it be unlocked further? There were so many questions, and yet it was nothing but liquid. There was nothing more frustrating than looking at a puzzle and seeing nothing but a white blank. No hints, no one to simply give him the answer, and not even a way to be sure when he was right or wrong. These questions of his really did frustrate him. In his own terms, he was wandering a desert trying to find the true oasis among the mirages. Meeting another of his calling seemed quite unlikely; he met precious little strangers as it was. Pakoosha yearned for someone that could at least pretend to understand these sorts of things. Someone that he could speak to and gain another view, but those of his tribe found it uncomfortable to try and work out something so much different from what they knew. Slowly, he stood up and began to pack his belongings. The shawl on his shoulders felt heavy and the warmth of the ground beneath him seeped through the leathery pads of his feet. Was the sun always so bright? He made his way to the makeshift steps down the side of his redstone tower. Did the whole pillar just shift a little bit? Of course not. The climb down from the perch was more perilous than the climb up, in much the same way it's trickier to run down a flight of stairs than up. Pakoosha took his time in the descent, but the desire to get back to his home quickly grew. As he clung to one rocky side, he happened to look up and catch the sight of a single vulture circling listlessly. It seemed so large and plainly ugly, perhaps the only bird Pakoosha thought of as such. "Do you know something I don't?" The spiritist asked to the sky, and then took another step down. It promptly crumbled away. Pakoosha felt his head smack the upraised edge of one rocky 'step' and then he was falling off the side. Surprise was all that he could feel. There was only one thing that his mind articulated while he plummeted, "Did I just fall to my death?" and his question was quickly answered. His right side hit the ground first and something cracked audibly, louder than the gasp of the air being smashed out of him. A groan escaped his mouth as he rolled over onto his back and gritted his teeth. Even his most basic knowledge of medicine told him that falling from the sides of cliffs was very bad for your health. While he waited for his head to stop ringing, he saw the vulture still circling in the sky. Did it look hopeful? Well, he couldn't blame it. Had he displeased Brother Crow somehow for this misfortune to befall him? Or had it simply just been a bad place to step? Trying to discern chance from divine trickery... even more hopeless than his other puzzle. Pakoosha reached a hand tentatively to touch at the back of his head and was very pleased to see that there was no blood. A headache would be a small price to pay for this. Next he felt at his left side and delicately poked himself. There was pain, but not as much as he thought there should be. It felt like he had been punched a few times, but nothing felt broken. But really, what did a broken rib feel like? He was clueless. But then, what had cracked so loudly if not his bones? It dawned on him that his satchel was slung on his arm and had cushioned his landing. Happiness welled inside him, and then it was immediately stamped out. Opening his bag wide, he reached one hand inside and brought out one half of a broken ceramic bowl. It was covered in greyish lightly glowing goop, the whole bottom of the bag was now. The broken half of the bowl stared at him in his hand, as shattered as the whole purpose for being out here. Did he cry now over the complete waste? No. He laughed. As he chuckled, he stood and hurled the dish up at the hopeful vulture. Pain shot up from his tender side that made him gasp and then laugh all the harder. What else was there to do?