The Beloved and the Bride Awaken the Dawn

(part 5)
Not until this cleansing was accomplished did he come across
people.

Oh, but this was not remarkable to him.
A city called to catalogue such secret knowledge
as the art of war and conquest, such a place
would, no doubt, keep its people safely walled,
no doubt.

Only he saw no walls.
Instead, he saw hints of farms--
fences and pasturing animals,
mounds of hay seasoning
in the autumn sun--
He lifted his eyes and scanned the periphery,
where he expected to see the rise of a wall:
tall stone,
the shield of a city,
rising even above the tops of the trees.
Somewhere would be
a thing to make him pause,
breathless at its immensity,
deep defense,
substantial
even on first sight.
But what did he see?
A small farmhouse,
and a person,
most vulnerable of all:
a small boy,
(was he playing marbles in the dirt?)
while nearby his nurse hung fresh linens
out to dry.
(With not even a fence around the yard.)
The child sang nursery rhymes to himself as he played,
a sing-song script familiar to the man at first,
but turning odd,
which would remind him that
after all,
he was in an alien place.

"Rub a dub dub,
Three men in a tub--" sang the child.
Then strangeness:
"--a psychic, a claustrophobic--" the child looked up to glimpse the man,
never finishing his song,
nor his marble throw...

"Are you content, sir, or are you grasping?" the boy asked,
asked with the voice of a man grown,
asked with a voice of the director who would interview
for a role in the troupe
of the "Washtub-Community Players."

Content?
Abstractly, the man considered
he might indeed be a fitting choice
for a role;
but before he could answer,
the washer-woman called the child.

"Go on back to the house now,"
She said as she came from behind the flapping linens,
turning full to face the man.
He noted that even her head was wrapped in white linen,
like twin peaks crowning the brow of a medieval dame;
and her apron glowed,
a white sail on a windswept lawn full of sunlight.
But,
her nose was large and her skin
unremarkable.
She was a plain but clean, starched woman.

"Beg pardon, madame,
could I trouble you to tell me
where the wall 'round yonder city might be found?"

"Wall?" she asked,
suddenly more alert to her surroundings.
"Are we being in need of the wall?
And if ye knows there be a wall, how can ye not know Who keeps it?"

"Forgive me, I'm just a traveller.
I seek a wall for a landmark,
something that I might follow to the city's gates."
She looked at him,
her eyes now fully gone
inquisitive.

"It is said only enemies see the wall first off.
(And us what is under its protection, naturally.)
So here is the way of it--
the wall is a wall when we are in need of it.
If ye be friend, ye'll never see it.
So...be glad the wall is a blind spot
and the way, an opening to ye;
for no gate is available
if the wall be up."

Such talk struck him
as superstitious rambling.
He shook his head,
simple country folk...

But still, she helped.
Pointing, she advised:
"Ye'd want to follow that trail.
So it'll take ye along the river
until it meets the oxbow lake,
go down the oxbow
to where it drys to but a meander scar,
that scar goes along
on the land where the river once coursed.
Follow the scar.
And that's as good a way as any
to reach the city.
On a high hill is the house of the woman
ye be wanting to see."


If he'd had the patience to listen to her fully,
he'd have been surprised
by the measure of her discernment--
but before she spoke her last,
he'd already launched out
intently to follow the trail along the river.
When it took a sharp turn
he saw a lake
just a bit removed.
First clear and deep,
it soon fell marshy
until at last only a dry bed led his steps.
He walked that meander,
and (as was his way)
where a trail was easily followed,
he let his thoughts wander,
handling curiously the nature of things.

For instance:
How water moved over a day,
and then how it moved
over a million days.
But knowing that his long-sought answers
loomed with imminence,
this knowing broke
the long reverie in the place
where the water thoughts
and moon thoughts resided.
Now, he shook his head
and made some sensible self-talk.
Where is that warrior-to-be?
Am I not he?
When did I forget
the reason I'm here?
(seduced by bright pretties
like sun on ripples
and sweet freshness.)
Oh, it is good.
It is all necessary.
I do not dispute these things.
But me--
I am on a mission
of urgency.
Urgent men
write little poetry.

So, no more did he ruminate
on the past of the dry bed
or its future;
and he renewed his search for signs of a city.

So with near-magical timing,
straightaway
he saw a path that crossed the meander bed,
a path wide enough for a horse cart;
a path wide enough for a chariot.
So he followed that path up and out of a dry-gulch,
where he found the beginnings of
civilization.