Kokopelli the Wanderer

Kokopelli the Wanderer by Ayal Hurst

2005 Parkway Publishers, Inc. Boone, North Carolina

Copyright © 2005 by Ayal Hurst All Rights Reserved

Library of Congress Cataloging–in–Publication Data Hurst, Ayal. Kokopelli : the wanderer / by Ayal Hurst. p. cm. ISBN-13: 978-1-933251-20-2 1. Kokopelli (Pueblo deity) 2. Pueblo Indians--Folklore. 3. Pueblo mythology. I. Title. E99.P9H87 2005 398.2’089’974--dc22 2005023445

Illustrations by Ayal Hurst Cover design and typesetting by Beth Jacquot

This story is in memory of my father, Jerome Bornstein. Many thanks to: my husband, Hawk, whose clear and beautiful eyes often see what mine can not; my brother, Ray, a bright light who always guides my way home; my beautiful children, Allison and Matt, who bear my most precious and independent spark of creativity; my mother, Rita, who introduced me to all that was wondrous in human accomplishments; my brother, David, who inspires me with his own talents and compassion — and to all my dear friends who encourage, cultivate, and recognize in me, The Way of Harmony.

….From the stars and the sun and the moon should man learn. — Eagle chief (letakots–lesa) (late 19th century Pawnee)

Prologue The tale I am about to share is shrouded in mystery. It had its beginnings in the vast, ancient deserts of the arid Southwest, where the tumbleweeds blow fiercely across the land, and the mountain lions pace quietly in the shadowed canyons. The events of this story happened ages ago, when the world was young. Silent centuries have rumbled slowly past, and the earth has changed. The wild winds have swept unseen across the territory, relentlessly stirring the endless sand into new formations. Sinuous waterways and parched valleys have disappeared and reappeared as the tall plateaus tumbled down and grew high again. The people who once dwelled in this austere land, and the stories they told, have long been forgotten. Nevertheless, for eons uncounted, the desert remembered this tale, whispering its secrets in the still night air. Thus, it endured, passed down through the ages by the Old Ones, who listen deeply to the desert singing.

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Chapter 1 There was once a young woman named Kiawah who lived in an ancient village that is now buried in the mists of time. She belonged to a tribe who were an industrious and practical people, but not well known for their imagination. While others slept soundly through the dark hours of the night, she gazed into the heavens, wrapped in silent solitude. Sitting beneath the star-streaked sky, she pondered the hidden secrets of life until the golden rays of dawn touched the horizon. When others worked, she could usually be found lost in some reverie, deep within the wild, blazing heart of the desert. Watching her dubiously, the tribal members frowned and shook their heads, bewildered. This sort of behavior was not quite proper and seemed a most peculiar thing. Kiawah had always felt slightly different from the other members of her tribe, but this difference did not fully manifest until her eighth year had begun. One morning in early spring, feeling vexed with the monotonous task of tilling row upon row of corn in the apparently endless field surrounding the village, she impetuously put down her hoe and silently stole away.

Kokopelli the Wanderer Over the course of many years, the tribal members had irrigated and cultivated that cornfield, laboriously transforming the parched, desert land into fertile soil. Corn was their staple crop — it sustained them all. Leaving the plot untended while working was unheard of. It was simply not done, for the survival of the people depended upon the efforts of every person old enough to wield a tool. Little did she realize it, Kiawah not only left her hoe in the corn field that day — she also left behind her the uneventful, respectable life she had formerly known. Slipping off into the untamed wilderness she loved so well, Kiawah reveled in her freedom and the secret sights and sounds of the boundless desert. Here, far away from burdens and obligations, away from predictability, she felt truly alive. In the desert, anything seemed possible. The land which stretched in vast distances before her had never been subdued. As she wandered, slowly following an old deer trail, delighting in the crisp scents of juniper and sage, the path curved slightly to wind its way around a wizened old mesquite tree. A sudden flurry of movement caught her attention and Kiawah stopped, unsure what to do. An unexpected movement in the desert could mean many things, including death. This time, however, a small, yellow bird was fluttering haplessly upon the ground at the base of the tree. Seeing it in such an unusual place and in such an agitated way, she thought that perhaps it was hurt. If it were, she ought to take it home, though baby birds were fragile and frequently did not survive such ministrations from human hands. Abruptly, the deep stillness of the desert day erupted as the urgent whoosh of wildly beating wings resounded overhead. A larger bird, apparently the mother, was rapidly flying back and forth, helpless with hysteria. As Kiawah watched, she landed and frantically endeavored to lift the young one by wedging herself under its wings and heaving futilely. It was obvious to Kiawah that she was desperate to find some way to get her baby back into their nest high above the ground in the bent, gnarled tree. Her efforts failed. “Oh! Oh! What shall I do?” piped the panicked mother. “If you don’t get off the ground quick, a snake will come, I just know it!” she wailed at the terrified little bird.

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Ayal Hurst “I’m trying Mother!” the little bird squealed, “but I can’t do it. My wings don’t work yet!” “What made you go so near the edge of the nest anyway!?” screeched the distraught bird, utterly unhinged. “I’m sorry, Mother,” sighed the forlorn, little bird sadly. “I just wanted to see more of the World.” “The World?” the mother bird snapped back vehemently, her fear causing her to lose all restraint. She flittered around furiously. “The WORLD?? You’re too YOUNG to see the World. You belong in the NEST!” The little bird hung its head, thoroughly dejected. “Oh! Oh! What to do? What to do?”wailed the mama bird again, frenzied at the enormous plight of her child. It seemed that there was nothing that could be done. The baby bird could not yet fly, and the mother, despite her herculean struggles, could not lift it back into the nest. Its doom seemed fairly imminent. Startled that she could understand them, Kiawah had stood absolutely frozen, but now she slowly crept closer. She was possibly the only hope they had, but hearing the animals speak was so bizarre that she felt completely disoriented. Again she hesitated. This was unknown territory. Nevertheless, the safety of the baby bird was obviously the first priority, strange as all of this seemed, and setting aside her astonishment for the moment, she approached them carefully. “Um…excuse me. Can I, ah, be of some help?” she asked timidly. “What? You understand us?” screamed the mother bird. “Well, never mind. Yes! Yes! Of course you can help! Get my baby back in the nest! Right now! This instant! A snake will come, I just know it!” “Well, I’ll try,” said Kiawah timorously, although, standing on tiptoe and tipping her head back, she was barely able to see the nest. Gently cupping the baby in her hands, raising her arms and stretching them as far as they would go — she was very concerned that she might have to drop him in — with a bit of difficulty, she managed to position him tenderly back inside. 3

Kokopelli the Wanderer Immediately, the mother bird swooped down and hovered over the little bird protectively, fanning it with her wings and checking meticulously to make sure that nothing was broken. All the while she trilled a happy little song, humming to herself, “Ahhh….That’s better. I feel better now. MUCH better! Everything is all better! Hum hummmm deeeee doo.” The little girl moved back a few paces from the tree, her eyes alight with the magic of this day — she was thoroughly delighted with the wondrous, outlandish discovery that animals could speak. Talking animals was not a part of the accepted, orderly existence of her tribe. No one had ever mentioned that it might even be a remote possibility. How had everyone missed it? Now that it had happened, it seemed so natural. Exhilarated, she lost all track of time as she watched mother and baby bird reunited, safely entrenched in their tidy home of twigs and leaves and dandelion fluff. After the mama bird had fussed over her baby sufficiently, smoothing its soft, downy feathers, and her own wing tips, she noticed Kiawah again, standing quietly beneath the tree. “Oh. You’re still here? Yes, well, what is it?” Then, rethinking that a moment, as it sounded, perhaps, a bit uncharitable, she said, “Ah. Well then. Yes. Ahem. Naturally, we thank you. I’m sure I could have handled the situation, but nevertheless, you were also helpful. If we hadn’t gotten him back into the nest, my baby surely would have been lost…forever!” she chirped shrilly, a note of panic beginning to rise again at the mere thought of it. Immediately, she turned away to inflict a few more moments of studious fussing. Looking up some time later and, seeing Kiawah still there, her brow furrowed impatiently. “Is there something else?” she inquired testily. And then, “Oh. Ah…that is, I mean to say, how can we repay you?” Kiawah considered this seriously. “Well, I don’t need to be repaid,” she said slowly. “But I would like to know….this never happened to me before…could you tell me…um…do all the animals speak as you do?” “Well,” the little mama bird fluffed up her plumage. “Harumphh. No one speaks as well as we do, my dear. Not nearly as elegantly, of course. We are the singers, you must know that.” she preened proudly. “But, to

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Ayal Hurst answer your question, yes, yes, of course all the animals speak.” With that, she turned her back and disappeared from view. Having heard her suspicions confirmed, that animals did indeed speak, a miraculous, new world had opened before Kiawah’s eyes. There was so much more to life then she had thought! It was a spectacular revelation. Why had no one told her this before? If animals could speak, well, then, they must also have intelligence, and humans had to treat them very differently then they did…it meant (and this would change their world forever) that humans were no more important then the other creatures who lived in the desert! Her tribe had taught her that humans were above all other beings, special in the eyes of the Creator. Therefore, they had assumed that they could use other creatures any way they desired. This would no longer be true. Kiawah suddenly envisioned a benign world where people and animals worked side by side, in equal partnership, or, at the very least, in mutual respect. The ramifications were astounding. As she turned to leave, she looked back once to see the scruffy head of the baby bird peeping discreetly over the brambly rim of the nest, still precariously yearning to see the world. “Well,” Kiawah laughed silently to herself. “I hope he finds what he is seeking, but hopefully he won’t go too near the edge again until he is ready to fly.” Kiawah rushed home in a delirious state of euphoria, elated with her monumental discovery. She catapulted through the doorway of her sun baked home to share the amazing news. Her parents had been hard at work repairing the crumbling edges around the house when Kiawah dashed toward them, shouting excitedly. “Stop babbling Kiawah,” her mother said firmly, and slow down so that we can understand you! You are SUCH a hasty girl.” With some effort, Kiawah took a deep breath and began her tale. She told them of finding the baby bird and her consequent discovery that animals could indeed speak as well as people. Throughout her passionate narration, however, her mother and father stood rigid, exchanging quite concerned glances. When Kiawah concluded the account of her adventure, looking expectantly from one to the other, there was a period of awkward silence. 5

Kokopelli the Wanderer “That’s a very nice story, dear.” her mother finally said, stiffly patting her on the shoulder. “You DID finish the hoeing? You did NOT leave your hoe in the cornfield, did you?” “Where does the girl get these fancies?” her father thought, glancing suspiciously at Kiawah’s mother. Shaking his head with a sigh, he rolled his eyes wearily toward the sky. His wife caught his gaze and shrugged irritably. “Not from me,” her glance shot back at him. “Not from me. This kind of thing does not run in MY family!” Hands on hips, she returned his glare so sharply that, uncomfortable, he retreated, rotating his head back to scrutinize his daughter. “There’s work to be done, Kiawah,” her father said sternly. “It needs to be finished by nightfall. You never leave a task undone.” Thus, until twilight fell, a disconsolate Kiawah found herself back in the cornfield once more. Attempting to share this stunning perception with friends and other tribal members in the days to come — after receiving the same askance looks and raised eyebrows — Kiawah sadly but wisely learned to keep her adventures to herself. For a long time, she could not understand how their world could stay the same when such tidings had been revealed. For her, it had changed everything. Kiawah eventually accepted that this was something she would never be able to share with her parents or anyone else in the tribe, and her life became one of hidden secrets. From that day forth, whenever she could, she hastened to the desert to find solace, solitude, and any animals who would speak with her. Not only was she fascinated by what they told her, but speaking with them eased some of the loneliness that had deepened within her as she became more distanced from her tribe. Her wisdom grew with the passage of time, and she matured into a lovely young woman. The extraordinary path Kiawah walked could not be understood by others, and therefore she did not speak of it. Nevertheless, even though the tribe thought her a bit strange, they valued her enduring capacity for kindness and the light that shone clearly in her eyes.

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Chapter 2 Everything that lived was held sacred in her sight, for Kiawah understood that the Web of Life encompassed all, from the grandest mountain to the smallest seed. She took delight in the rumors the wind whispered to the trees, and she found wisdom in the fluid stories the rain brought upon silvery wings. She listened carefully when the bees recounted the new growth of the flowers after the spring storms had passed, and she listened patiently to the ponderous, slow tales the rocks shared in their deep voices. Her soul overflowed with wonder, and she danced alone to the music of the stars under the subtle smile of a shimmering moon. One day, in early summer, when the green of new buds had renewed the land, a stranger unexpectedly appeared in the village, a lithe, tall figure running easily across the desert sands. Kiawah looked up from grinding the hardy corn which sustained her people and saw him standing silently, smiling at her, a steadfast young warrior silhouetted against the sun. He had heard of her beauty and had traveled many weeks through the harsh and desolate wilderness to find her. His name was Antova, and he was a noble, kind man. Although he had won much

Kokopelli the Wanderer acclaim as a bold and resolute warrior, what he treasured above all was wisdom. Kiawah and Antova walked together, hand in hand, through both spring and summer beneath the desert dunes. She taught him the ways of the creatures who lived there, how to understand their lyrical songs and myriad voices. He, in turn, offered her his capable strength and courage. He gave her a gift she had longed for, for many years: he cherished the richness of her spirit, and he understood the path she had to walk. They were married in the season of Ripe Berries, an abundant and promising time. Seasons passed. Kiawah and Antova experienced both revelation and contentment in their union. Their knowledge of life deepened as they worked and played together, side by side, under the desert skies. Four winters blew across the land, and, with the coming of the fifth spring, the couple realized that they were going to have a child. It would arrive when the travels of the moon had reached the Longest Day. Delighted, Kiawah and Antova got ready for the birth. The young mother spoke softly to her unborn child, teaching it to listen deeply to the stories of life, as she did. With the baby snuggled safely inside her womb, she danced beneath the cool, white stars, her long, dark hair gliding gracefully upon the wind. Throughout the day, and during her dreams, her tender hands rested fondly upon her blossoming belly. Antova worked steadily to ensure their hut was in good repair. He built a sturdy cradle board for the infant, with fruit laden vines carved along its sides. Their loving home was ready, as were their hearts, to welcome this baby into their lives. On a cloudless day, when the warmth of summer lay smoothly upon the land, their son was born. He was a beautiful boy in every way. A gentle smile rested easily upon his lips, and solemn eyes seemed to carefully scrutinize everything he gazed upon. He was perfect in every way, except for one, perhaps two small things. On the very top of his head, to the great surprise of his parents, were two slender, feathery appendages that looked remarkably like little antennae. This was an unexpected thing, and quite a shock at first. After a few uncertain moments, however, gazing down at their little boy, it did not trouble Kiawah and Antova greatly. They loved their child without 8

Ayal Hurst conditions or reservations. That he was unmistakably special was absolutely clear to them. “Ah, little one. You are surely a mystery. But then, all of life is a Great Mystery,” Kiawah said, softly stroking his little antennae. “There is a purpose for everything. One day the purpose of these will be revealed.” It was the custom of the village for parents to present every newborn before the people one week after the birth. In that way each child could be accepted and welcomed into the tribe. When their son was seven days old, as tradition dictated, the proud parents brought him before the assembled people. The tribe had less imagination and forbearance then Kiawah and Antova, however, and a massive wave of unease rippled through the crowd once they saw the bizarre anomaly perched upon his small head. Being a superstitious folk, unsure of anything that differed from the norm, they became very fearful when they saw the little boy with his deep eyes and soft, feathery antennae. Nothing like this had ever been seen before. Perhaps it was an omen, an ominous sign that the child brought upheaval and sorrow in its wake. Rumors spread like wildfire, and panic stirred as the people discussed the meaning of this strange, little boy. Some muttered threats, hinting under their breath that if the child were not removed, they would do so themselves. Antova and Kiawah watched with growing alarm as the feelings of the villagers turned against their son. Something had to be done immediately to smother the raging flames of fear and unrest that would soon be out of control. Knowing that the couple would not, could not, willingly give up their child, a revered Elder of the tribe, esteemed for his good counsel, stepped forward and proposed a possible solution to the young man and young woman: “Take the little one out into the desert and leave him alone for one night. If he is found alive in the morning, it will be a sign that he has been accepted by the Holy Powers. He will be regarded as a blessing for the People, and he will be reinstated into the tribe. If, however, he is not there, alive and well in the morning, it will mean that the Creator has taken him back into the realm of the Gods. You will go find out at the first light of dawn.”

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Kokopelli the Wanderer Whatever happened, the Elder decided, this plan seemed plausible. It was an effective way to resolve the dilemma and deal with the child’s unsettling arrival before there were regrettable actions that could never be undone. At any rate, this was all that he could think of. The young man and woman were terribly distraught at the idea of leaving their new son alone at night in the desert with its untold dangers. Their hearts quailed and rebelled against it. Rage surged in their breasts at the very thought of it. For six days and nights Kiawah and Antova urgently petitioned the people to accept their child, but their heartfelt entreaties were useless and fell upon deaf ears. Meanwhile, the dark mutterings against their son grew in magnitude and began to spiral to a dangerously critical level. Eventually, the dire urging of the elder prevailed. With profound anguish, they capitulated, knowing that it was the only way their baby would be accepted by the tribe and survive under its protection in the harsh desert land. With grave misgivings, the dismayed pair agreed to the plan. “It will be so,” they said, with bowed heads and hardened eyes. The need to uphold the ancient laws ran deeply in the blood of all the tribal members. For generations their traditions had served the people, and the law stated that a child must be accepted by the village. It was not possible to flout the Law. Choosing an auspicious night, when favorable constellations flared brightly in the summer sky, Antova and Kiawah tenderly wrapped their little boy in the warm, blue shawl Kiawah had woven for him. Using red, gold, and turquoise dyes made from rare plants harvested under the new moon, Kiawah had painstakingly stitched sacred symbols and designs of good fortune into it — a petition to the Gods to watch over her child and keep him safe. Fiercely sheltered in their arms, and praying fervently with every step that the Spirits grant him protection, Antova and Kiawah slowly carried their infant son into the cold desert night. Finding the designated place all too soon, they climbed to the forlorn, craggy summit. Gently, they kissed his small brow and placed him carefully upon the hard, barren ground. The exhausted pair looked at their child with such desperate longing that it seemed the mesa itself must crumble under the terrible weight of their pain. It was time to go, but Kiawah hesitated, gazing 10

Ayal Hurst anxiously down upon her son with a haunted expression. His tiny arms reached out to her. Deep shadows of fear flickered across her face. She wanted more then anything else to take him in her arms and run somewhere safe with him, anywhere…but there was no place to fly away to, no one who would accept them. Knowing they must, they withdrew. Doing so was the most excruciating thing they had ever done. Tormented, they departed, leaving him alone on the high plateau to wait out the long and lonely night. Arriving back in the village, the apprehensive parents fretted away the wretched, sleepless night, pacing restlessly back and forth until the floor of their hut was shiny with the troubled passage of their feet. The unbearable night never seemed to end. Impatiently, they waited for the sun to rise and hurriedly climbed the high plateau at the first sign of dawn peaking above the horizon. Upon cresting the ridge, to their utter horror and dismay, they found no trace of their son. For an eternity they stood paralyzed, unable to breathe or think coherently, watching as the rays of the morning lit the peak of the mesa, illuminating the empty spot where their son had lain. Kiawah was unable to cope with this loss, and, as Antova clenched his fists and stared angrily at the vacant ground, she collapsed roughly upon the jagged stones. The young man, horrified, saw her fall, as if it were happening in slow motion. It thoroughly frightened him, and, shaken abruptly from his wrath, he rushed to her side, carefully cradling her against him. Softly he stroked her tortured face with his hand. They wept bitterly for a long, long time. His intense sorrow was no less than hers, and it pierced him to the heart, as deeply as an enemy arrow would have done. He had lost his son, and he became deathly afraid that he might lose his wife, as well. Finally, taking a ragged breath, he whispered hoarsely, “It is all right, Kiawah. It’s all right. Somehow…somehow, this must be all right! “ Antova desperately groped for any ray of hope to console his stricken wife. “It must be…it must be that the Creator has taken him back to the Sky Realm. Back to grace the heavens, being the special child that he is!” he continued hastily.

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Kokopelli the Wanderer “See, there are no signs that any harm came to him! There are no tracks of predators here!” he said, as he cast his eyes about, intently searching for traces of any large animal that might have taken his son. It was difficult for Kiawah to move, and when her husband finally managed to raise her to her feet, her muscles seemed loose and flaccid, her steps sluggish and unsteady. She could hardly see the trail, for a tide of unquenchable tears blinded her. Often she stumbled. If her husband had not been holding onto her as fiercely as he was, she would have fallen over the edge of the steep, sandstone abyss. She did not seem to care. That journey was a nightmare neither wanted to remember in the years to come. With bent shoulders and shattered hearts, they slowly returned home, empty handed, with no child to hold against their breast, no child to sing to in the evening twilight, and no child to dance with under the glimmering moon.

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Chapter 3 That same evening, while Kiawah and Antova paced restlessly to and fro watching for the sun, a tribe of ants happened to be passing the place where the infant was holding its solitary vigil. The ants knew at once that this large, bulky creature was a human child. They also knew that the huge individual who danced beneath the stars at night and listened with courtesy to all the creatures in the land was one of these humans. Stories had been whispered of her, honoring her throughout the desert realm, and the ant people honored her as well, although as a general rule, they intensely disliked humankind. Upon occasion, however, this particular human had listened with respect to the tales of their own colony, walking carefully amongst them, leaving bits of food for them when harvesting was sparse. In return for her kindness, and knowing that something was sorely amiss, the Queen of the Ants made an unprecedented decision. She decided to take this little human boy and protect him from the unknown perils of the desert night. When she touched her tiny antennae to his, the child reached his gigantic hands toward her, gurgling with delight. In a manner she could not explain, deep within her bony hide, the tender

Kokopelli the Wanderer heart of the Ant Queen stirred, and from that moment on, she became fiercely determined to keep him safe from harm. At her sharp command, thousands of ants positioned themselves beneath the child and carried him away, into the blackness of the desert night. As the dark hours rolled by, and the ants traveled closer and closer to their burrow, an amazing thing began to happen. The little boy became smaller and smaller, until finally, at the exact moment when their journey ended at the entrance to their home, the baby was no bigger than an ant! And you see why this had to be. Just as the fiery sun rose to scorch the rim of the desert canyons, the ants carried the baby deep into the earth where their snug community awaited them. The Ant Queen adopted the little boy, whom she named Kokopelli, as her son. Seeing that he had antennae on his head, as her people did, she recognized immediately that he was a special child. It was clear to her that she had been destined to find him. The ants dug out a private chamber for Kokopelli where they took good care of him, keeping him warm, dry, and well fed. The Queen stored away his blue shawl in her own chamber, knowing that one day he might need it. The ant colony spent a great deal of time searching the countryside to find nectar, seeds, nuts, grains, fruit, and berries to sustain Kokopelli. Eventually, they brought him other things that were good to eat — parts of caterpillars, grasshoppers, and other meaty morsels found along the hunting trails. Milk was not something they knew about and could not get even if they did. But, they did have an abundance of honeypot ants — a storehouse full of swollen, fat honeypot ants. Honeypot ants spent their entire lives hanging from the ceiling in certain chambers of the colony. A large nest designated for this purpose might be over six feet wide and contain over three hundred honeypot ants. They were fed continuously on honeydew, a sweet, sap-like liquid that the ants gathered from other bugs, known as aphids, until their abdomens were so distended they could not walk. There they stayed, as their service to the community, hanging from the ceilings, hind ends hanging down within reach, waiting for their fellow ants to come by to partake of the sweet nourishment they offered. When an ant wanted this sweet treat, it reached up and stroked or tapped the honeypot ants attached to the ceiling. The stroking alerted 14

Ayal Hurst the honeypot ant to release its storage of honeydew, and the visitor ant would then take a long drink of the sweet, tasty substance. In this way, Kokopelli also thrived, by sucking on the honeypots. He didn’t question this arrangement. It was just part of the way things were, part of life in the colony. Each ant served in its own, special way. In some chambers of the colony, various notable guests resided, and the honeydew producing aphids were among them. The aphids are soft bodied bugs who drink the sweet sap of particular plants. This enables them to produce a kind of half-digested sap, similar to the honeypot ants. When an ant stroked or “milked” the aphid with its antennae, the aphid produced the sap, which the ants then digested with relish. Ants take care of aphids the way human beings take care of cattle or sheep, protecting them and chasing away their enemies. Some ant communities journey far to find herds of aphids, and some even extend their nest areas to include plant roots with herds of root feeding aphids perched upon them. Others construct special shelters of earth for them, and some bring back whole plant stems with the aphids inside, keeping them safely stored away. In exchange for room and board, the aphids are milked for their sweet, juicy sap. At the end of summer, the ants collect the aphid eggs and look after them through the winter. When the eggs hatch the following spring, the ants transport them to plants that have plenty of sap, where they can mature and eat comfortably, thus insuring the continuing production of this delectable food source. All the ants loved honeydew, and they kept the aphids well fed, fat, and satisfied. Kokopelli was well fed also, and he began to grow. Months went by, and the infant became a toddler. When he first became mobile, he crawled on all fours, horizontally, as all ants do, and as all young children do. But at some point, he had an intolerable urge to stand up and walk on just two of his appendages. This was remarkably bizarre and unsettling to the rest of the ant community. Life was meant to be lived horizontally, as each ant knew. All were deeply concerned except the Queen, who calmly reassured the hive members that this was the normal mode of locomotion for those from the human colony.

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Kokopelli the Wanderer “Just accept it”, she told them pointedly. Since ants do not have a concept of what being different is, that was all they were able to do. And so they did. An ant colony is a very special place in which to grow up, and Kokopelli discovered many interesting things as he grew older. He learned that every ant had, from birth, its unique place and distinct job to fulfill in the community. There was an order to everything in their lives, and each ant knew exactly where she fit. Every ant in an ant colony is female, for the males die a few days after the time of mating, having served their purpose. There is only one Queen out of thousands, and she is the sole individual able to produce ant eggs to make more ants. This was her ordained purpose to fulfill. When it was time for her to lay her voluminous eggs, Kokopelli would not see her for many days. The Queen sealed herself inside her chamber, and an amazing process began. If Kokopelli had been there to witness this part of things, she knew he might be terribly distressed, as she changed dramatically. Her wing muscles, and the fat stored in her thorax — that part of the body bearing an ant’s three pairs of legs and the wings of a Queen — began to break down. She lost half of her body weight, utilizing this extra energy to make her eggs which would soon, in the weeks to come, hatch into tiny larvae. The Queen, fulfilling her ordained purpose well, laid so many eggs that there was often an excess amount. These extra eggs were eaten by the workers, and some were fed to the ever hungry, growing larvae. The Queen would continue to lay eggs throughout her long life, for a Queen lived much longer than any other ant. In this way, enough workers were constantly produced to gather food, clean, protect, and preserve the colony. Not only was she Kokopelli’s adopted mother, but she was the grand and Great Mother of the entire community. Therefore, it was an unquestioned truth that she was to be pampered, protected, and defended above all else, at all times. Her survival meant the survival of them all. The Queen was fed special foods that no other ant ate, which caused her to grow much larger than all the others and enabled her to have the energy needed to lay her eggs. When the weather turned especially cold, or the winter was unusually harsh, the ants of the colony would hurry to cluster around her in a huge ball to keep her warm and comfortable. 16

Ayal Hurst The first time Kokopelli rushed through the corridors with the other ants to keep the Queen warm during a cold winter night, when the alarm sounded, he found himself located near the center of the compact, massive ball, intolerably compressed. In the midst of hundreds upon hundreds of hard, stifling, black bodies, all straining against one another to push in toward the Queen, he started to feel suffocated. An unbearable sense of claustrophobia began to overtake him within a few moments, and he tried in vain to push against those ants nearest to him so that his oppressed lungs had room to breathe. No amount of heaving moved anyone. The black ball was immutably fixed in place, locked in. Kokopelli began to feel quite strange. Before he knew it, he found that his squished and battered body was sliding down, down, down the slick, segmented hides around him... and then all went blank. “What has happened? What has happened?” chirped the startled ants next to him, as he slumped in an ungainly mass to the floor. This had never happened in the ball before. “Get up, Kokopelli! Protect the Queen!” the ants chastised him, lifting an arm here or a leg there, but his body was limp. “Tell the Queen! Tell the Queen!” They shouted in a panic, hurriedly passing the message from antennae to antennae until the ant closest to the front managed to reach her and relay their confusion. When this unprecedented news reached the Queen, she responded quite anxiously. “Lift him up! Lift him up! Carry him out to his chamber!” she commanded hastily. “Hurry! Hurry!” This message was passed back through the ball until it reached the ants nearest Kokopelli. Urgently they lifted him up, carrying him above their heads, passing him down the line until the outermost fringes of the ball were finally reached. Some departed hastily to take him back to his chamber, as the Queen had authorized. The ants were extremely agitated. Once the ball had been formed, it never lost its shape until the danger to the Queen was over. As soon as Kokopelli had been shifted out of the area, they instantly flowed back into place, filling the spaces until the compact, precise ball was again functional.

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Kokopelli the Wanderer “What was that about?” queried many nervously, as antennae after antennae buzzed and flittered furiously from ant to ant. “I don’t know. I just don’t know!” whispered others. “Dangerous! Quite dangerous! So strange. So strange.” “Well, never mind!” rejoined others. “Focus now. Focus on the Mother!” And the rest of that night found them all tightly knit within the ball, surrounding their cherished Queen. When Kokopelli awoke, alone and snug in his own chamber, he felt bewildered. The last thing he remembered was a blurry mass of ant bodies glazing fuzzily before his eyes. The morning chores had already begun, and there was no one nearby to ask what had happened. He felt very disoriented. Eventually, someone passed by his room, and he stopped them to see if he could glean some information about the previous night. “Well, as far as I understand it, Kokopelli,” the ant said, “your soft body went limp, like a dead caterpillar, and no one knew what to do. The Queen told us to put you here, so, here you are. It was strange indeed. The ball had to reform, and that never happened before.” Kokopelli’s face blanched when he heard this disastrous news. The Queen visited him soon after, to see how he fared, and he felt deeply ashamed that he had failed her. “Mother,” he murmured. “I am sorry. I failed you.” His face felt hot, and he gazed with mortification at the ground. Delicately touching his antennae to hers, and lifting his chin with her front leg, she gently said “No, my son, you did not. You sped to my rescue, as you were meant to do. I sincerely appreciate that you came to protect me. However, in the future, I think it is best that you not be part of the ball. You are different from the rest, Kokopelli, but your love is as true.” Hearing this, Kokopelli lifted his head higher, and met the tender gaze of the Queen. Seeing the strong love reflected there, he felt much better, and his shame evaporated, blowing away as a seed husk in the wind. At that moment he firmly determined that, even though there were some things he could not do as well as the other ants, he would devote

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Ayal Hurst himself to doing those things he could do, to the best of his ability, for he loved the Queen dearly. Although all of the ants were the Queen’s children, Kokopelli was so unique among them that he held a cherished place in her heart. The Queen understood what it was to be different, for she, herself, was somewhat different from all the other ants. Kokopelli was so different, however, that it continually amazed her. Each of her other children grew from the larvae stage, a young worm-like form, to the pupa stage, in a short amount of time. After about four weeks, when each larvae was fully grown, it spun a cocoon around itself and changed into a pupa. After another three weeks, the new ants emerged from the pupae stage as fully formed, adult ants. Kokopelli, being the son of human beings, grew in a strikingly different way. He matured very slowly, which confounded the nurse ants taking care of him, and as he matured, he simply got bigger. His entire form did not change the way all the other ants did. His body stayed soft on the outside, and hard on the inside, while all the other ants were soft on the inside and hard on the outside! Although the nurse ants did not understand his growing process, they took good care of him nonetheless. He needed to eat, and be licked clean, as the other ants did, and this the nurse ants knew how to do. They were, after all, professionals. As Kokopelli grew old enough to become inquisitive about his surroundings, he discovered that there were an inordinate number of chambers tucked away within the ant colony. Each had been carefully constructed for a specific purpose and were connected by long, winding, earthen tunnels. Because there was ceaseless and constant ant traffic, the soil along the roadways of the colony had become extremely packed and smooth. It made for easy traveling. Kokopelli spent much of his time racing down these passageways and corridors, exploring nooks and crannies, insistently poking his head into everyone’s business. His curiosity knew no bounds. Because of his unique status as the Queen’s adopted son, he could wander where he chose. Although this odd behavior was different, and considered quite eccentric, it was accepted. When the other ants saw him careening down the corridors at top speed, they simply got out of his way, although sometimes, especially if he ran into harvester ants carrying seeds, there resulted a certain amount of confusion. 19

Kokopelli the Wanderer When he felt like it, Kokopelli visited the aphid herd tenders. On those days he waddled back to his chamber with a stomach bulging to the brim and gurgling with sweetness, his skin stretched tight. There were times when he encountered other curious guests who lived in the ant colony during his wanderings. They were an interesting diversion from the norm — the white wood lice who cleaned up the ant nest by eating the leftover food and rubbish, and the flower fly larva, who were also scavengers. He learned that the ants even reared the young of certain other creatures. One of these was the large blue butterfly who laid its eggs on the savory, wild thyme in the desert. When the eggs of the blue butterflies hatched out into tiny caterpillars, they started to feed on the thyme, and that is where the ants would find them, lured by its fragrant scent wafting on the breeze. The workers carried the small caterpillars to the nest where they looked after them, and in return, the caterpillars produced drops of clear, sweet fluid, another treat which the ants licked up avidly. The caterpillars fed on the excess ant larvae, and this was tolerated. There were so many thousands of eggs laid that a few could be sacrificed in exchange for an appetizing dessert. Ants went to great lengths and had devised ingenious methods to discover and harvest sweet treats Other exotic guests lived in the colony, and Kokopelli occasionally encountered them during his adventures. Some of these guests groomed the adult ants in exchange for room and board, and others gave off certain scents which calmed their hosts or were used to trick the ants into feeding them. These intrepid creatures were usually the beetles, a very conniving group of bugs. It was all quite intriguing, although Kokopelli never enjoyed being groomed by a beetle, as his skin was not hard plated as were the exoskeletons of the ants, and he never once felt calmed or enticed by beetle smells. To him, it was quite dreadful when they released their appalling scent. It made him gag, and he would scurry madly from the chamber in which the beetles nested, as fast as he could go. As a toddler, Kokopelli intently watched as the vigorous life of the ant village bustled around him. He was never alone. It was always entertaining, and there were a myriad of interesting things to capture his attention. The ants were always engaged in some fascinating and useful activity. There was, of course, an enormous amount to do to keep 20

Ayal Hurst the colony with its numerous members functioning. Later, as he grew older and could assume certain responsibilities, he learned that, unlike the other ants in the village, he was not expected to perform only one duty. The Queen soon recognized that Kokopelli became bored and restless if he worked at the same job day in and day out. Therefore, his tasks were varied. This deviation from the norm was not completely unheard of, since army ants often helped the harvester ants break up the hardest seeds. Although he took time out to explore upon occasion, it was unquestioned that Kokopelli would also participate in the activities of the colony as much as he could. All who belonged to the community were necessary, and all were hard workers. The job of the nurse ants was to take care of the eggs and to move them to safety in case of danger. They were on duty night and day. Sometimes Kokopelli would venture into the nursery to help the nurse ants carefully move and care for the tiny eggs. Upon rare occasions, there could be a perilous drop in temperature when it became too cold, and the survival of the eggs became endangered. Then Kokopelli and the nurse ants hurried to transport the vast multitude of eggs to warmer locations. It was quite a time consuming job, and Kokopelli found himself scampering about in accelerated motion to keep up with his sister ants. As part of their duties, the nurse ants had to continuously lick the eggs and larvae to keep them free from mold and insect mites. They also had to meet the constant need of the young ones for sustenance. Ants can carry a special liquid food in their mouths, and in this way the nurse ants fed the larvae. The ant larvae in turn produced sweet substances which were quickly licked up by their caretakers. It was mutually beneficial by design. When Kokopelli worked in the nursery, he heartily joined in, savoring this special delicacy. “I suppose that is the only thing that keeps us going at such a rate,” Kokopelli mused tiredly to himself one afternoon, stopping to catch his breath. “Yes! Yes! That’s the way, Kokopelli,” his friend Sporin encouraged him as they were frantically moving about the nursery that day. “Very carefully now. Just put that one there and this one here. It’s too cold in that corner! Tch! Tch! That just won’t do. Can’t have the babies dying 21

Kokopelli the Wanderer of cold now, can we? Yes, Kokopelli. Get that funny shaped one. Don’t drop it! Tenderly now. Tenderly. Ah! Very good. Very good. Keep moving! Keep moving!” Kokopelli would respectfully hold an egg in his two strange appendages, holding it gingerly before him, until he found a warm, dry spot in which to lodge it. He learned to treat the unborn, egg babies with consideration and care. He learned to be gentle, to move with caution and dexterity, for his fingers and feet could easily crush the vulnerable new larvae in their softness. He also learned tenderness and awe as he watched the pupae miraculously emerge from their cocoons. Each newly hatched and fully grown ant touched her shining antennae to his before resolutely walking off to become new members of the ant colony. During the times when Kokopelli worked hard to help the builder ants with their repairs, he usually resembled a small, brown mud ball, his antennae distinctly askew, his entire body sweaty and caked with soil. The nurse ants spent long hours on those days getting him clean, trying to scrape the earth firmly lodged beneath his fingernails and toes. Tasting sweat was a new experience for them, one which they weren’t sure was entirely palatable. It distressed the Queen when she saw bruises appear on Kokopelli’s soft flesh after he had been involved in strenuous labor of some kind. No other ant had these marks and, although she knew it caused him pain, she did not understand how to help him. Eventually, through trial, error, and sometimes by pure chance, the ants discovered that the juices of certain plants that had been harvested seemed to alleviate the ache and discoloration on his skin. This was a relief to them all. The worker ants found his two hands very useful, despite his odd appearance and strange skin abrasions, for he was able to pack earth in a way that they could not, even with their strong jaws and mandibles. Kokopelli and the builder ants shored up passageways recently blocked from cave-ins, or repaired walls that had tumbled down when some large creature stepped indifferently upon the threshold of their domain. Sometimes these large creatures were human beings. “They are dreadful and dangerous”, the ants whispered to Kokopelli nervously. “They bumble about as if they are asleep!” 22

Ayal Hurst “Walking catastrophes”, if you ask me, another ant chimed in, “never noticing what they are stumbling on!” “These human beings must be blind”, a third ant spoke up, enraged. “How else could they be so oblivious?” “Perhaps they are simply not concerned about the many creatures who live beneath the earth,” sadly offered a fourth. “Perhaps they simply do not care.” “How can that be?” Kokopelli demanded angrily upon hearing this. “We are here. There are many of us. We live here. How can they not see us?” “We do not know,” answered the others, with grave concern. “This way of being is unknown to us. We only see what happens afterwards.” The ants warned him to be wary of these humans. They were heinous because they were so asleep, so ignorant and disconnected from the life around them. All creatures had to be very wary of them. Many homes and lives were irretrievably lost because of their indifference and their gigantic, thunderous feet. It was terribly disturbing news to Kokopelli, and he hoped fervently never, never to have the misfortune to encounter one of these appalling, abhorrent, monstrous beings as long as he lived. For some time after that, he dreaded to fall asleep, for each night his dreams were gruesome nightmares where the ground shook, and huge, mindless creatures appeared over the horizon, their savage countenances masked with stark brutality. Then colossal feet would descend slowly, blotting out all light and destroying everything in their path, crushing him and his loved ones into so much battered pulp. As the colony caved in, collapsing, these humans left behind the dead and dying without a further thought. In his dreams, he savagely shook his fist at them, screaming in anguish as they sluggishly and disdainfully lumbered away. The earth trembled and groaned beneath their massive weight, but he could do nothing. He could only watch helplessly as they trampled off with murder in their empty eyes to decimate the next, defenseless colony in their path. Kokopelli awoke at night from these ghastly dreams drenched in sweat and gasping for breath. Shivering uncontrollably, he would anxiously 23

Kokopelli the Wanderer grope his way along the dark corridors of the colony to the chamber of the Ant Queen, seeking solace, seeking in her a shield against the forces of darkness. She would touch her antennae to his and whisper, “What is wrong, my Kokopelli? Another nightmare?” “Yes,” he would shudder, but he was always unable to speak of it, not wanting to relive it in his mind. And besides that, no ant dreamt, and therefore none could understand what it was when he did attempt to explain it. Despite that, the Queen would wrap him in her strong, cool legs until his trembling stopped, and eventually his fear would ebb. Then he would sigh with profound relief, safely snuggling against her black hide, grateful to feel secure once more. “Rest easily, my Kokopelli”, she would say to him. “I do not know how you dream, or where they come from, but you are safe with me.” The Queen loved to gently stroke his silky hair, marveling at the feel of it, like corn tassels, she thought, and he would fall asleep, nestled against her plated hide.

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Chapter 4 The ants taught Kokopelli to speak by touching their antennae to his, and in this way thoughts traveled like lightning from one mind to another. The hunter and harvester ants could often be seen rapidly communicating, antennae intertwined, in their excitement to convey where a great resource of food had been found. Then they would scamper off together, following the scent trail back to the edible treasure, in a tremendous hurry to bring it home for the colony. Pictures would form in Kokopelli’s mind when he brushed his antennae against those of another ant, and this joining allowed him to deeply sense the feelings and powerful emotions which accompanied their thoughts. It was a very intimate and effective way to share, as everything that had been experienced and felt by one being was immediately transferred into the mind of another. Kokopelli did not know that there was any other way to communicate, or that he had a voice with which he could speak. The only sounds he heard were the sounds of the hustle and bustle of the colony — the sound of seeds and grain being sorted; the click clack of leg segments sliding through

Kokopelli the Wanderer dusky corridors, or the rasp and scuffle of large caterpillar bodies being dragged away, to be used later for food. He enjoyed long talks with the Queen Mother, when he could. She was almost always in her chamber tending to the job of laying eggs, and when there was time, she was grateful during his visits to hear the news of what went on in the colony. Stroking his hair with her forelegs, and touching her antennae to his, they spoke of many things. These were special times for both Kokopelli and the Queen, a change from the day to day routine of life in the colony, from the constant laying of eggs and sorting of grain. The bond between them deepened and strengthened as the years passed. As he grew, Kokopelli learned to give of himself for the continuing good of all, as the other ants did. He worked diligently, without complaining. His muscles became taut and hard, sharply defined, and significantly toned. He discovered that when he worked heartily with others, he was able to do much more than he initially thought he could. He found that he could carry something tremendously heavy, far beyond his own weight, especially if it meant that others would survive because of his efforts. Innumerable times he witnessed his fellow ants perform deeds that seemed impossible, carrying burdens that surpassed his wildest dreams. Kokopelli had soon perceived that everything had its place in the universe, and a special purpose to fulfill. This was simply the way things were in an ordered and peaceful existence, such as the ant colony tendered. It was not questioned. He learned to value cooperation beyond all else. A soldier ant named Artain had become a close friend. They had met when Kokopelli worked in the nursery. He had watched Artain hatch from her egg and confidently stride away to join the ranks of the army. Since that event, they had spent much time together, heads bowed in conversation, antennas linked. Artain enjoyed explaining war strategies and tactics to Kokopelli as he sat wide eyed, fascinated that his friend could know so much without having seen a battle. Although Artain had emerged from the pupae state as a full grown, adult ant, Kokopelli was still a very curious little boy. There was much he did not know.

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Ayal Hurst “How do you know all this, Artain?” he would ask time and time again, his forehead furrowed. “You’ve never been in a war, have you? What happens in a war, anyway? Why do wars come?” “I don’t know HOW I know it, Kokopelli. I just do,” sighed Artain patiently. “I’m an army ant, you see. I also know that there are ant colonies that wage war and destruction because they desire slaves. Terrible ants, unspeakable they are. In their lunacy and greed, they raid the nests of other ants and steal their young, making miserable, abused creatures of them. The poor younglings are forced to live their entire lives in bondage to these raiders, their masters. Such unfortunate ones grow up never knowing their true home or family. Never knowing kindness, or their rightful place in the world. It is a great loss. Terrible. Terrible.” Kokopelli was horror stricken to hear this. Life was benign and orderly, wasn’t it? He knew HIS rightful place in the world and where he belonged. He was Kokopelli, the son of the Queen. He had someone he loved, and someone who loved him. “Sometimes these slavers even try to kill the Queen! They try to kill us all!” his friend continued grimly, unaware of Kokopelli’s increasing distress. “Can you imagine such a thing?” Kokopelli shivered at the thought. “Can you imagine anything so barbaric?” “NO!” said Kokopelli vehemently, appropriately abashed. “How awful!” But he did not fully understand, nor could he truly fathom how something so dreadful could actually be possible. How could there ever come a time when the Queen would not be with them? She was their life. It just could never happen. And he did not really understand how Artain could know all that she did, as everything he learned had come from carefully watching, exploring, and painstakingly asking many, many questions. Kokopelli’s questions were a difficult and upsetting source of contention for the ant colony. No one had ever answered questions before, questions about why things were the way they were, or why something was done in such and such a way. Therefore, no one knew how to answer them. It was unheard of. Ants just know how things ARE. They are born knowing. They don’t speculate, for life goes on as it always has. But a little boy is filled to the brim with wonder and 27

Kokopelli the Wanderer amazement at all that he sees, and Kokopelli, though he lived deep under the earth, was no exception. Week after week, long lines of ants could be seen wearily trundling into the Queen’s chamber to report their distress, as the unceasing flow of questions continued unabated. They petitioned her anxiously, gnawing on their tattered antennae and wringing their legs in nervous spasms as they stood before her, nearly at wits’ end, entirely frazzled. “Queen Mother,” they wailed. “Our poor antennae are sore. They’ll soon be nubs if he doesn’t stop asking us these… questions! Such a thing never existed before! It’s unethical! Unthinkable! Can you not answer all his questions once and for all? We don’t know what to say! It goes against The Way of Things. We have no answers for him! We try, but we just know the “Way Things Are.” We tell him all this, but still he asks us again and again!” They shuddered at the thought of it. “I know.” the Queen Mother replied with a tired smile. “But he is a little boy, and that is also the way things are.” She did not inform them further that she, as the regal Queen Mother, often gave her son antyback rides and trotted around the throne room with him clutching tightly to her thorax as he whooped and hollered in silent glee. It would have utterly destroyed their exalted opinion of her, not to mention agitating their unvarying concept of the proper ordering of the universe. No, it definitely would not do to tell them that! She was the Queen, after all, and she had an image to uphold. Therefore, she smiled sweetly, a soft, secretive smile, listened intently and politely to their tales of woe, and then dismissed them, bidding them to do the best they could. “Maybe when you see him coming”, she suggested as they were leaving the chamber, “you could hide your antennae”. They looked at her askance, and she buried her face in some nearby nectar so that her mirth would not be discovered. “Now, where did that come from?” she wondered. Before Kokopelli came, she never would have conceived of such a thing, much less said it. Being Queen of the colony was a serious business. “Well, well!” she mused. Having a little boy for a son certainly did change things. However, her obligation as Queen was a constant duty, and some things did not change. It was time to get back to laying eggs.

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Chapter 5 Life continued much as it had for many seasons, one day following another. Nothing disturbed the benign and beloved world Kokopelli knew. On a fine summer morning in his eighth year, he had awoken as usual, ready to help the community as needed. Walking through the colony, however, he soon sensed that something was amiss. The usual hustle and bustle of many ants going about their business was completely absent. There was a foreboding stillness in the air. This was an unparalleled event, unheard of in Kokopelli’s experience. It bewildered and deeply confused him. Ants were never still. They were constantly on the go. Yet, on this day, the people were unmoving, intently focused, listening. Everyone seemed profoundly apprehensive. What they were waiting for, Kokopelli could not begin to comprehend. The colony seemed held in a state of urgent suspension. “What is happening? What is it? Something is not right! The air feels… different!” Kokopelli whispered fearfully to Artain, when he found her standing in a corridor near the entranceway to the colony. “Why are there no sounds from the World Above, Artain?”

Kokopelli the Wanderer “Quiet, my little friend. We must listen!” replied Artain seriously. For a few moments, side by side, Kokopelli and Artain strained to discern any vibration emanating from the World Above. Kokopelli had no visual images of what the World Above looked like, as Artain did, for he had never been above ground since he had been brought to the burrow as a tiny baby. The Queen had not allowed it. She warned him that in the World Above there were many dangers for ant people, and especially for tiny boys no bigger than the size of an ant. He knew, of course, that food came from there, and at times he could sense the movements of the creatures in the World Above. He could hear their voices as they called out in the night, and he could feel the rumblings in the earth as they went about their life far above the ceiling of his known world. But today, all was deeply still. “What is it?” he demanded again. Something terrible was about to happen. He just knew it. He could feel it hovering: a disturbed presence seemed to fill the air around him. It felt as if the life force was being sucked from his lungs, and without knowing why, he found that he had placed his hand upon his heart. “Go back inside, deeper into the passageways, Kokopelli!” Artain said to him, urgently touching her antennae to his and pushing him backwards toward the dim interior of the caverns. “But, Artain…why….?” Kokopelli began to protest with a distraught flourish of his antennae when suddenly a thunderous sound could be heard echoing down the tunnels. A moment later, an enraged horde of snarling, seething red ants exploded inside the colony walls, rapaciously swarming and stinging their way through the corridors of his peaceful home. They were smaller than the ants of his colony, but they were brutal, boiling and spewing furiously into his world…red slaver ants as far as the eye could see, thousands upon thousands of them, marching relentlessly with a savage intent to plunder, to kill, and enslave, smashing and ripping their way into the heart of the People’s domain. It was impossible! Unbelievable! A defilement! A perverse sacrilege of all the love and tranquility that had infused every agreeable day of Kokopelli’s young life. “We are under attack! It is WAR, Kokopelli! Go back!” Artain shouted. 30

Ayal Hurst “But, but…I want to help!” Kokopelli cried. “I am afraid, Artain! I am afraid for you! What can I do? What will happen to us?” “Do not worry, Kokopelli,” Artain told him, gently stroking his antennae to calm him, but firmly pushing him back. “You must leave the corridor. Quickly! We will take care of this! Go back now! It will be all right. We will keep you safe! It is our duty to fight. We know what to do. We were made for this!” She left him then, hastily moving with a determined countenance toward the front entrance of the colony. With the rest of the army she would somehow face this seemingly endless horde of bestiality, a massive and savage sea of red ants bent insanely on destruction. Kokopelli stood, stunned, as he watched the merciless swarm of invaders bludgeon their way into his home, leaving behind them a violent, ruthless path of sorrow. For a few precarious moments he was paralyzed. His heart was pounding with such panic he thought it might burst as he stared aghast at the horrific scene unfolding before him. It seemed too macabre, too sinister to be real. Then he heard sounds he had never heard before. The sounds of war. His benumbed mind reasserted itself, startled. The danger was here, undeniable, and remaining still had lost him critical moments, the difference perhaps, between survival and death. Sick at heart, he obeyed Artain. Frantically turning, he raced down the corridors, deep into the surroundings he loved, not knowing what awaited him. Would life ever be the same? What was happening behind him? Somewhat hysterically, Kokopelli wondered if he would die, slashed to pieces by deranged red ants, mandibles slavering, their eyes glinting, lusting for his blood as they overwhelmed him and bore him down in a murderous throng. Unlike the other ants, he had an active imagination, and at this moment, unfortunately for him, it was out of control, careening wildly and taking him places he did not want to go. But he could not help it. He wondered if he would become enslaved, or see Artain and the Queen Mother again. He could NOT imagine that his life might be, in a few vicious, raw moments, desperately lost, forever changed from the pleasant, day-to-day things he knew and loved so well. As he ran, urgently seeking refuge, fragmentary memories streamed painfully through his mind: the times in the nursery, bearing precious 31

Kokopelli the Wanderer eggs in his hands; the intimate talks with the Queen Mother as she told him stories, explaining what human beings were and describing to him what life was like above the ground. How he longed to see that world before he died! He pictured the hustle and bustle of the food gatherers, the sorting of the many seeds and nuts into piles, and the hunters returning triumphant, with plenty for all. How could that ever end? It was how life was, and always would be. It was the unfailing order of things — so he had thought, until today. Now, the dreadful madness, the venom he had seen lurking malignantly in thousands upon thousands of insane eyes could destroy it. In a world gone mad, with unwonted chaos and horror surrounding him, Kokopelli grasped with all his might at the one thing that was certain, unalterable, and ultimately confirming. He knew that his colony mates would give their lives to keep him, and the family that was his, safe. The thought that what they had was worth fighting for was comforting, although it was not reassuring. With these images tumbling desperately through his mind, Kokopelli scurried deeper and deeper into the colony. The depth of his panic made it difficult to breathe. His heartbeat was erratic, his chest heaved wretchedly, and his breath was erupting in short, painful gasps. A ragged stitch in his side had developed and tormented him from running so far, for so long. Worst of all, the terror he felt never left him — it was an ever present thing, haunting his footsteps as he ran. Collapsing at last, unable to go further, he sank down upon the ground and found that he had taken refuge in the nursery. Huddling against the dry, earthen wall for what seemed an eternity, he waited anxiously, letting the army ants do the job for which they had been born. Kokopelli was agonized. Was he a coward? Here he was, hiding away deep in the ant fortress — wasn’t there something he could do? Anything? The answer was always the same. He was not an army ant. He was only an eight year old boy. He had no claws, no mandibles, no sharp jaws with which to fight. And so… he waited. He waited until it seemed he could bear it no longer. When the ferocious sounds of battle abated, when the turmoil of smashing and rending could be heard no longer, and the horror of jaws ripping and tearing had finally diminished, Kokopelli tentatively crept 32

Ayal Hurst forward, moving through this corridor and that, trying to understand the ghastly scene before him. The passageways were littered with thousands of ant bodies, both red and black. Pieces of ants had been torn away and thrown everywhere, like discarded seed husks. The floor of the burrow was wet and sticky with fluids. It was a terrible sight, ruinous. The smells permeating the chambers reeked of death and decay. Revealed before him was an atrocious vision that would haunt his dreams for months and years to come. The red ants had penetrated deeply into the interior passageways in an attempt to get to the Queen and the nursery. Many lives… ants he had known from larvae to adult… had been sacrificed to insure the continuance of the colony. “Artain! Artain!!” he cried hoarsely, touching antennae to this ant and that as he hurried through the carnage. “Where are you?” Through corridor after corridor he raced, seeking her. “Oh, let Artain be all right!” his heart cried out. “Just let her be all right!” “I am here,” softly moaned a weary voice, as a tired, mutilated antennae finally reached out to touch his. “I am here, Kokopelli.” Slowly Artain crawled to his side, painfully disengaging herself from the gruesome body parts heaped obscenely around her. One antennae was badly torn and hung limp and useless, and there were open, seeping wounds in her middle plating that leaked as she crawled. But Artain, his friend, was alive. Tears came to Kokopelli’s eyes as he gently touched her one, undamaged antennae. “What is this salty liquid on your face, little brother?” inquired Artain faintly, stroking Kokopelli’s face with her front legs. “I do not know!”, sobbed Kokopelli. “I do not know! But you are hurt. You are t-t-torn”, he wailed frantically. “Be at peace”, said Artain. “All is well. I will live to fight another day and tell battle stories far into the night. It is well, little brother.” There were many stories to tell of that day, and Kokopelli learned of loyalty and of loss. Although he never saw an ant cry, he knew that their love for their community ran deep and full. The colony was safe, but great was the devastation. The builder ants set to work to restore the walls that had caved in during the battle. New eggs had to be laid immediately to replace the countless who had died in battle. The food 33

Kokopelli the Wanderer ants dashed off, hurrying to bring the Queen the special food that would allow her to lay the thousands of eggs the colony would need to survive. “Quick! Quick!! To work! To work! Preserve the People!” they all shouted, scurrying to touch their antennae to one another. “We must gather food! Food! Hurry! Hurry!” The corridors had to be cleansed, and the ants who had died returned to the earth. Passageways had to be mended. The Queen was busy for many days laying her eggs, and the nursery ants were busy tending to the new larvae. Kokopelli was busy as well, helping here and there, and at the end of that day, and for many grim days afterwards, he was very tired indeed. Eventually, Kokopelli’s world returned to its orderly pattern once more — but he never forgot what happened when one colony brought bitter warfare to another. He never forgot the hideous sights and sounds when others tried to take what was not theirs to take. Never could he forget the sight of Artain limping to his side, the reek of the passageways, or the body parts of friends and family strewn with disregard for life across his path. For a while, nightmares once again invaded his sleep as relentlessly as the red ants had invaded his home. Inevitably, time went on. Wounds healed, physically and emotionally. Kokopelli’s dreams returned to normal, becoming filled with the slow, sorting of grain and the other familiar, daily functions he experienced in the dimly lit, dusky passageways of his home. His friend Artain grew old and died, and Kokopelli continued to live as he always had, deep beneath the earth, in the stalwart, steadfast colony of the Ant Queen.

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Chapter 6 The search for food and water was a never ending quest in the ant colony. Worker ants scurried from plant to plant in the soft light of early morning, gathering the sweet dew deposited there, sucking it into their abdomens until they were swollen to the point of bursting. Then they would disappear back into the burrows to regurgitate and share what they had found with others. Harvester ants gathered seeds from the ground or took them from certain nutritious plants. They removed the outer casings and left them on a rubbish heap just outside the nest. They also bit off that part of the seed which could grow to form roots so that the seeds would not sprout and clog the passageways. The ants stored the seeds in flat chambers which were connected by many tunnels. These seed granaries were only about twelve inches below the surface of the ground and often covered an area of up to six feet. When the seeds became damp, the food ants could easily bring them up to the surface and dry them in the hot sun. Harvester ants had a daunting job to provide for so vast a population. They had many workers of varying sizes who were needed to make

Kokopelli the Wanderer sure the job got done, including soldier ants with powerful jaws who could break even the hardest seeds. The seeds were then chewed and mixed with saliva by the other workers to make them softer and more edible. When Kokopelli was hungry, he made a trip to the granaries which had been so laboriously stocked by the harvesters. He enjoyed sifting the different textures, sizes, and colors of the grains into piles, letting them drift slowly through his fingers. His life continued much as it always had, and the years went by. He watched the nurse ants lick the new eggs. He watched as the worker ants toiled ceaselessly to serve the community, bringing food, rebuilding walls that caved in, or creating new passageways and chambers to house the many ants who lived within the colony. As he grew older, he found himself constantly wondering what marvels the harvester ants saw when they trooped out each day looking for nourishment to feed the colony. He wondered why they worked so hard without taking time to explore simply for the pleasure and adventure of it, as he did, within the boundaries of the colony itself. “Sandu”, he said one day, approaching one of the food ants, having been earnestly pondering this difference between them, but coming no closer to understanding it. “Do you ever stop to explore when you are roaming the World Above?” “Explore? What is explore, Kokopelli?” A bewildered sensation traveled from her antennae to his. “If I were to do this thing called explore, would I be gathering food for the people?” “No”, answered Kokopelli. “I guess not.” “Well then”, said Sandu, “gathering food is what I do. If I did not do that, the people would be hungry, the Queen would not lay any more eggs, and we would cease to be. Is this not so?” “Yes” said Kokopelli. “I suppose so.” “But tell me,” continued Sandu, “just so I know not to do it, what is this thing called ‘explore’?”

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Ayal Hurst “Well, I - um, well, it’s… I don’t know, Sandu. It’s something, ah, good, you know, like when I race around the passageways finding new things that I hadn’t known before.” stammered Kokopelli. “I just know to do it,” he finished lamely. “Hmmm” said Sandu. “Well, I do not know to do explore, Kokopelli. All I know to do is gather food. Even though you are our brother, there are certain things you know that we do not. The Queen Mother says this is so because you are a human boy. Perhaps one day you will tell me more about explore. But now, I must be off. The hunt awaits, and the people need food.” Sandu touched her antennae softly to Kokopelli in farewell, and quickly left to join her sister harvesters on their never ending search to feed the many thousands who lived deep beneath the earth, in the colony of the Ant Queen. Kokopelli sighed as he watched Sandu depart for the World Above. It was another conversation amongst many, lately, which left him feeling vaguely dissatisfied and uneasy. For a long while being different had not troubled him. He enjoyed special status, he had kind and caring friends, and all of his needs had been met in his early, growing years. When he was younger, living with the ants had been a constant adventure with much to learn, and miles of mysterious passageways to explore. He did not think, then, about his life with the ants. It was what it was, and he knew nothing else. However, as time went by, he felt disgruntled and quite perplexed after conversations such as these. Try as he might to explain what he thought, the ants could not understand him. Life seemed to be dissolving into a series of monotonous events. He began to wonder if this was all there was, or ever would be. Who he was had become a disturbing puzzle which had begun to constantly plague him. He examined it again and again, trying to think it through as the years went by. His differences from the other ants were now very evident to him and began to tangle in his mind, creating knots which he could not undo. The fibers of his peaceful existence began to shred and tear at the corners. He could not define who he was or place the pieces of the puzzle into an order that matched the harmony of How Things Were. Nothing seemed to make sense or satisfy him. “I used to think that I was an ant. I live as an ant,” he pondered fretfully, but somehow I am also something very different. I see this time and time

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Kokopelli the Wanderer again. They call me a human boy, whatever that is. And I heard that humans are terrible creatures! Just what AM I?” The tale of how the Queen Mother had found him on a worn, rocky cliff long years ago had been told to him many times. Kokopelli was, at first, enthralled upon hearing this story. When the Queen had recounted her joy at finding him, his eyes shone. She had told him of the deep sense of wonder she had experienced when her antennae touched his — the sense that destiny and magic were at play in the world, and inevitable forces were bringing them together. Later, however, he became somewhat unsettled by it. Exactly what troubled him, he could not say. Then he would ask her to tell the tale to him again, hoping to discover something more about himself, to find some clue that he had, perhaps, previously missed. The Queen had spent some of their private time together teaching Kokopelli things she felt were important for him to know. She had often told him of the human beings who lived in the World Above, that they were very large, as he had once been large, and that they walked vertically, as he did. Hearing the tales of humans made him worry even more that he was not intrinsically part of the harmony of things, as the rest of life seemed to be. This fear lurked in his heart, and vexed him. He desperately needed to find out what he was. But he kept his fear to himself, as no one could help him understand it. During the storytelling times, the Queen had also explained why ants were not larger then they were. Because there were so many ants in the world, they had purposefully chosen to be small when the Creator passed out sizes. Otherwise they would have taken up all of the available space and resources which the other creatures needed to survive. Kokopelli thought that this was quite noble of them. At those times, his chest swelled with the pride of being an ant. The Queen told him that the World Above was a dangerous place for little boys, and that was why he stayed inside the colony. She told him of the difference between night and day in the World Above, of the moon and stars, of rain and sun, but these were difficult concepts for him to understand. It was always the same underground in the ant colony, day or night, and he had never seen these things… moon or stars. Restlessness, a chafing sensation he had never before experienced, began to haunt him, stalking his footsteps as he strode unhappily through the passageways. Day by 38

Ayal Hurst day, the peace and contentment he had known for so long eroded away, and shadows began to close in upon him. On the day which marked the twelfth anniversary of his unprecedented arrival to the ant colony, Kokopelli hesitantly approached the Queen. Once again he had been mulling over the story of his first encounter with the ant people, turning it this way and that, yet still finding no relief from the unceasing hunger which gnawed at him. Something was very wrong, but wrongness did not exist in the ant community. He was in disorder, but disorder did not exist. It was driving him insane. “Mother,” he said restively, drawing near to her. “May we speak for a moment? “Of course, my son” she said, and she waved him forward into the chamber with her foreleg. They sat down, and Kokopelli looked at her searchingly. “Mother, you have told me often enough that I am a human boy, and I see now that this is so, although…I am not sure exactly what that is.” Kokopelli stopped. Forming these thoughts and speaking them to her as she sat watching him tenderly was quite difficult. Gathering his resolve, he continued. He had begun, and he knew he must finish it. His thoughts were agitated, coming in a rush, and he hurried to give voice to them before he faltered. “I do not know where I came from before my life here began! I think things no ant has ever thought before. I dream, and ants do not dream. No ant can answer my questions! I have antennae as you do, yet the rest of me is strangely different.” As if in proof, a salty tear trickled down his face. “I have been happy here, and this I hope you know. I am so deeply grateful for your love, for all the care that you and the People have shown me. But…my heart cries out to know more, to know who I am. I must learn what these things mean that come into my mind. I live with such unrest these days, Mother! My mind seems to disturb the pattern of things, and…” Kokopelli took a shaky breath. The Queen Mother was gazing at him with such anguished compassion and sorrow in her eyes. “I am unhappy with what has always been.” He gazed at her pleadingly, hoping for understanding and forgiveness. Then he looked 39

Kokopelli the Wanderer down, not wanting to see her pain. In a quiet, halting voice he said, “I must leave this place, Mother, though my heart is sorely bruised to do so, and when I think of it, I cannot breathe. My eyes seep these salty fluids with the grief of it. Yet, I know that I must go. Even this tells me so, for the eyes of true ants do not leak.” “I know, my son,” sighed the Queen. “No ant does that. I knew that this day would come. I think that it is time for you to climb into the World Above. I will miss you so, my little Kokopelli.” she whispered, touching him tenderly, “but go you must. I would not have you live here and be unhappy. Remember me,” she said, and her antennae flinched briefly with the grief of losing him. “Perhaps one day you will come back to me to tell me what you have learned, and what you have seen, my little boy, whom I so dearly love.” She caressed his forehead gently, remembering that day, long ago, high atop the mesa, remembering the human baby she had the People carry deep into the world far below, to become her son. “I will Mother. I promise!” he said, feeling wretched, his voice choking with woe. Kokopelli stroked her antennae and cried against the hard, bony plates of her body as he made the final decision to leave the only home he had ever known. Thus Kokopelli took the first step to begin his epic and frightening journey into the mysterious World Above. He was relieved, and finally resolved, but he was also terrified.

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Chapter 7 Now if a Queen is a true Queen, she will be very wise, and the Ant Mother was a true Queen. Before Kokopelli left on his formidable journey, she cautioned him, “My son, the World Above is sustained by something very fierce, called the Sun. It radiates a great light and a tremendous heat. Your skin is soft, not like ours. It has never felt the sun, and the sun can pierce and burn you. You must accustom yourself gradually to its power. If you go immediately into its embrace, you will shrivel up like the dead caterpillars you have seen us bring into the colony.” “How do I accommodate myself to the power of this Sun, mother?” Kokopelli asked her with concern, realizing how very little he knew of the outside world. Kokopelli had never even climbed the higher levels of the colony to the World Above, and he did not truly know what he would find. He had only heard stories, and imagined. “You must climb up the passageway very slowly, my son,” she said, “and stop along the way until the light and heat you feel at each level becomes not only bearable, but comfortable to you. We will provide you with food for this part of your journey, but once you have left the

Kokopelli the Wanderer entrance, we will no longer be able to help you, for you may change once again, as you did so many years ago.” In preparation for his exodus, the ants wrapped a variety of nutritional seeds, nuts, caterpillar parts, and fruits for him inside of a large leaf. On the day of his departure, he kissed his mother goodbye, then took a deep breath and a last, loving look at his home. He carried the blue shawl his human mother had woven for him many years ago. He did not know that she had woven it for him, or what it was. It had just been something that came with him when he arrived at the colony, and therefore he took it with him. Slowly, he turned and began the long climb into the World Above. He had a vague notion that it would be a lengthy ascension. The colony was at least fifteen feet below the surface of the world. There were many tunnels leading to the World Above, and Kokopelli had decided to climb one of the less frequently traveled paths. By taking this little used tunnel, one that had been almost forgotten (he had discovered it on one of his more adventurous explorations), he hoped that he would not encounter his friends coming and going as he would if he chose to leave by a more traveled route. Once he left, it might prove too difficult to continue if he saw others heading back, returning home. When he said goodbye, he needed it to be final. Otherwise, he did not think he would be able to do it. Kokopelli knew that many of his friends would be willing to accompany him on his journey to the World Above, as coming and going from the colony was something that was simply part of the way things were. That part of his adventure would not seem strange to them or make them feel remiss in their duties. However, his need to stop for long periods of time in order to adjust to the changes in heat and brightness along the way would be bewildering to them, and they would become alarmed when life deviated from what they knew. Stopping and waiting for long periods, doing nothing, would be incomprehensible to them. He also knew, somehow, that it was important for him to make this journey alone. It would be hard enough as it was, and if he had to try to explain it, and then say further goodbyes, well, it would just be more than he could bear.

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Ayal Hurst This journey was his to do, and he knew that he would be extremely, perhaps unbearably, lonely. He hoped he could endure that. Throughout his entire life, he had been surrounded by thousands of others in the colony. He had never been alone, except when he was left on the mesa, before the ants found him, and that time he could not remember. Loneliness was something he had to get used to, he surmised, although it was not a concept that he could even begin to comprehend. It took him many weeks to travel up the tunnel, for he had to stop frequently to acquaint himself, as the Ant Queen had cautioned, with each new level of heat and brightness. At first his skin was very tender, and his eyes watered incessantly as he squinted at the blinding light that found its way into the upper passageways. He advanced slowly, as his mother had advised him. To ease his loneliness, he made up little stories, or recounted the tales he knew, telling them to himself over and over again along the way. It was terribly foreign to him to have no one nearby, almost intolerable. It seemed that the life he knew and everyone with it had suddenly disappeared, sucked away, as if a great rent had somehow opened in the universe, leaving only emptiness behind. He felt utterly bereft, and often he wept. Somehow he stayed sane, surviving a depth of loneliness that few will ever know. Many days passed in this way. Little by little, his skin gradually attained a bit more color, and his eyes no longer watered at the sight of shafts of sunlight pouring into the tunnel. He had quite a repertoire of stories by this time, which were his only companions. All of them he had memorized by heart. When he was tired, he curled himself into a ball and slept until his body told him that he could move on, and when he was hungry, he ate carefully the food he had been given. When he was thirsty, he drank from the little rivulets of water that ran down the walls of the tunnel from the rains above. He did not know that the water came from rain, or what rain was, but he drank gratefully nonetheless. On the fortieth day, Kokopelli arrived at the entrance to the World Above. “Well, here I am at last,” he thought stoutly, attempting to feel pleased. Yet try as he might, he found that he could not make himself move forward. His body began to tremble violently, and for some reason he found it difficult to breathe. He had to sit down, wondering why he was panting so heavily, and put his head between his knees.

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Kokopelli the Wanderer “I do not know what awaits me out there,” he groaned, paralyzed with doubt and dismay. “I was left alone as a larvae, and I have not seen the World Above since then. Now I return to this world, but once again, I am like an egg who knows nothing. How will I survive? Why did I ever think that I could do such a mad thing?” It was impossible. Hopeless. He had been a fool to think that he could do this. Frenzied with fear, Kokopelli started to turn back, but something hot and fierce rose within him to counter his terror and kept him, momentarily, from doing so. His breath was coming short and fast, and he had to force himself to think calmly. Panic was close at hand. He looked back down the passageway, at the distance he had come, and then he faced the light filled entranceway that led him away from everything he knew. Then he gazed anxiously down the tunnel once more. “I need to go back!” something screamed within him. “Wait. Wait! If I turn back now,” another part of him thought hurriedly, “I will never know who I am. My questions will remain unanswered. I MUST go forward, to find these answers, even if my life in the outside world is brief, and I die. Well, I have seen death before.” He drew a deep breath, and willed his trembling body to become still, searching for any anchor that would quell the hysteria threatening to engulf him. “Many of my friends have died since I came to the colony. It is not so terrible. I am resourceful. I will find my way. I will like the World Above, and it will like me.” These encouraging thoughts fortified him a little and, nodding his head, he moved a small step closer to the entranceway, first one step, and then another. There was just a small portion of tunnel remaining, but his feet seemed to root themselves to the floor, and it was only by sheer determination that he made himself walk on. “I can do this,” he continued to reassure himself defiantly, gritting his teeth, as he sluggishly, by force of will alone, dragged his uncooperative feet closer to the opening to the World Above. “I WILL DO THIS!” he admonished himself sternly, glaring down at his unwilling feet, and he took one more, resistant step. Finally, there were no more steps to take. He had reached the end of the passage, and almost the end of his emotional reserve. All that was left to do was crawl over the lip of the sun baked hole, the gateway 44

Ayal Hurst to the World Above. Gritting his teeth once more, he used the last of his strength to heave himself over the edge. There he rested. Moments passed as he lay on his stomach, cheek pressed upon the ground, limbs askew, eyes closed. He felt emotionally exhausted. An intense heat pressing against his back soon caused him to stir uneasily. Taking a deep breath, he managed to stand up. He was still very small, only the size of an ant, and his legs were shaking violently, so much so that he had to quickly sit down again. For some time he forced himself to sit quietly, allowing the tension he felt to leave his constricted muscles, laboring to breathe slowly and evenly. Eventually, he was able to stand up again and, taking another deep breath, he looked around. A new world greeted his eyes.

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Chapter 8 If you can imagine never having seen the sun, or felt fresh breezes blow against your skin…if you can imagine never having seen any colors besides the grays and browns of the deep earth underground, or the faded, pale beige and yellows of the grains the food ants brought him to eat…you will perhaps understand how immensely shocked Kokopelli was. It was spring when he reached the world outside, and the desert was awash with deep reds, amber, bright blues, shining yellows, rich golds, lavender, and green. The rains had recently come to the desert, bringing a flowering of new plant life. Exotic scents reached his nostrils, scents that he could not place. The pungency of sage bushes dotted the desert dunes; the far away hint of juniper, the sweet, perfumed odors of the wildflowers, and the thick aroma of creosote bushes all merged together in a heady bouquet of smells. Kokopelli unconsciously rubbed his nose and looked around a moment, stunned. It was almost too much to absorb. An enervating blanket of hot air encased him, and it was difficult to breathe. Suddenly he looked up, for something felt very different, and not quite right. A dreadful vacuum filled the space above his head

Kokopelli the Wanderer as far as his eyes could see. It was surreal, too much to understand. He could not fathom it. It was too open, too huge, too empty. This place was alien to all that he had ever known. He had always had the reassuring weight of rock and earth above his head. The security of close walls and passageways on either side of him had always enclosed him, giving him substantial, safe boundaries which he could see and feel. Now there was nothing. Abruptly, vertigo assailed him, ruthlessly hammering him to the ground in a shock wave that nearly shattered him. Sprawled upon the hot ground, Kokopelli crawled with his last remaining shred of sanity to a large leaf nearby, his eyes frozen shut against the overwhelming and the unthinkable. Dimly, he was aware that his hands futiley clawed at his head, as if he could somehow hide from a world gone mad, a world that spun relentlessly and brutally out of control. Nothing could have prepared him for this experience. It was lunacy, an ordeal beyond enduring. Under the small protection of the leaf, curled in a fetal position, Kokopelli lay still, his tiny body tightly pressed against the earth. “I can’t do this!” he cried. “I will surely go mad. Perhaps I am mad already! How could I know it would be like this? An eternity of hopelessness passed. Mercifully, night finally descended upon the desert. Through his dread and dismay, Kokopelli sensed a dramatic change in the light. Taking a few shallow and tremulous breaths, he managed to open his eyes, slowly uncurling his contorted body. Furtively, he cast an anguished glance at the sky once more. The enormity around him was cloaked in obscurity. He sat up, though he still felt emotionally exhausted. Bringing his knees in close to his chest, he huddled under the leaf, helplessly alone in this distorted place. He felt very weak and very, very small. Although the night sky was still immense, with glowing lights woven throughout it, it was dark, the emptiness somewhat shrouded, and this he found he could deal with a bit more easily. There was a large, bright light hanging above him that did not seem to be so terrifying, and that was, perhaps, even a bit comforting in its strange way. He had never seen anything like it, but its glow was soothing and did not burn his skin. “Perhaps this is the sun,” he thought shakily, with mock bravado. “It is not so fierce.”

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Ayal Hurst All night Kokopelli remained hidden under the shelter of the leaf. The sights and sounds of the desert were other worldly and frightening. A coyote padded by on silent feet, sniffing the wind as he searched for food. Rodents shuffled past him as they came out to smell the cool, night sky. Snakes slithered past, their muscular bodies rippling over the desert sands in search of prey. Creatures whose very existence was an incapacitating shock paraded in front of his eyes, and the desert wind sang an eerie, whistling melody. He was a terrified, unwilling witness to the small, secret life of the desert, but, being so miniscule, this towering life loomed monstrous and completely deformed in his sight. You can imagine why Kokopelli spent that dire night consumed by utter fear and unremitting dread. Sitting under the leaf in mute trepidation, pressed back against its stem as far as he could go, his miniature body shook with violent spasms beyond his ability to control. Being as small as he was, and having seen so little of the world, everything was a horrifying aberration that seemed bent on his annihilation. As one gray, bewhiskered mouse drew near, closer and closer, Kokopelli turned to run in blind terror back to the sanity of the ant burrow, wondering if he would make it to the tunnel before he was snared and devoured. In his panic driven imagination, he saw himself entwined in the grisly tentacles sprouting from the long snout of this loathsome beast outlined against the night. Yet, once again something restrained him. He was not sure what stopped him — perhaps the smell of the air, or its touch against his skin. Perhaps it was the soft, winking spots of light above his head, which seemed comforting, even though they were so far away. Perhaps it was Destiny’s hand placed gently upon his shoulder. Whatever it was, he knew that if he turned back now, the World Above would be lost to him forever. And perhaps, his own soul would be lost as well, though why he thought this he did not know. Sleep did not come to Kokopelli that night. Time remorselessly inched itself toward dawn in crippled increments. He got through it moment by moment, not thinking, not looking ahead, and forcing himself not to consider what had been. He could not even think of what was around him. He just lay there and kept his eyes firmly closed, deciding that if he awoke in the morning, he would then deal with that. The next day he was sick and feeble, but he made himself look at the sky and the boundless spaces around him for very, very short periods of time. He 49

Kokopelli the Wanderer swiftly became overwhelmed and needed to curl himself beneath the familiar shelter of his leaf, where he spent most of the time alternately trembling, weeping, and raging. The leaf charitably gave the sense of having something solid above his head instead of that horrifying, never ending expanse of nothingness, which he refused to view again. The sky was an emptiness that seemed insatiable, a yawning, ravenous void waiting to gobble him up in an instant, and he was not ready or prepared to encounter that. Gradually, he began to overcome his fear and keep his eyes open for longer periods of time, but it was not until three days later that he ventured farther and left the protection of his makeshift roof. He was still the size of an ant, and the world seemed an immeasurable place. Diminutive flowers were towering behemoths, and, being as tiny as he was, he could only see the bottom of their stems. One drop of dew falling from the tip of a plant was a rushing waterfall as it plunged to the desert floor. Small pebbles reared over him, high as immense cliffs, and he had to thread his way carefully amongst them. Sometimes they blocked his way entirely, and then he had to scale them in order to continue, scrambling to the top and sliding down the opposite side. This was painstaking, weary, and often frightening work, for he could not see what unknown, fearsome thing might be waiting for him when he reached the ground.

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Chapter 9 Collecting and storing drinking water in a small, empty seed pod from the dew drops that fell each evening, Kokopelli began to travel across the desert. Very gradually, very, very slowly, as more fear left him, he began to grow. It was such a slow process that he did not notice it at first. The further he journeyed from the ant village, the larger he became. The Queen Mother had told him that this might happen, since the reverse was what had happened to him before, but it was nevertheless a bizarre experience as his perception of things began to change. When he had been walking for four days, he had become the size of a small mouse. After another four days, he was the size of an adult rabbit. Luckily, he was not seen by any of the desert predators, and perhaps this was part of the unknown magic within him, aiding him and shielding him from harm. Otherwise, with no survival skills to speak of, he quickly would have made someone a very nice meal. By the time the evening of the twelfth day had come, Kokopelli had reached the height of a full grown coyote. Now he could see the tops of the flowers, and the large boulders he had walked among were mere

Kokopelli the Wanderer pebbles scattered across the desert floor. Things that had appeared deformed and deranged to him began to seem more familiar and much, much smaller. Cacti and spindly desert shrubbery could be seen in their entirety as he looked down upon them from this extraordinary new vantage point. The land looked amazingly different to him now. He could see for vast distances, and, as many desert creatures stay close to the ground, he looked quite large against the flatness of the desert landscape. It was a completely new world. In every direction, wherever he cast his gaze, he saw something he had never seen, but the strangeness of it did not appear as threatening as it had before. The tightness in his chest released, bit by bit, and he began to breathe more easily. As his confidence grew, his sense of sight and sound swelled, expanding to embrace the ever changing scenery. His ability to smell sharpened, and his skin tingled and browned in the desert wind. The desire to explore began to reawaken within him. Each moment was undreamed of, filled with strange shapes, exotic scents, and dazzling colors. The never-ending drama of the wilderness unveiled itself before his startled eyes moment by incomparable moment. Ground squirrels barked angrily and dashed to safety under his feet as they eyed a circling hawk high in the sky. Animals of varying sizes and intricate designs scurried by using inventive modes of locomotion. Some slithered soundlessly over the sand, rippling their way across the desert floor. Others hopped madly away in great leaps and bounds, and some silently slunk past him on muted, furry paws. Wondrous creatures could be seen swooping vigorously in the air above his head, cawing in loud voices as they sang in harmony with the wind. Seeing so much diversity in body types was an astonishing discovery for Kokopelli. All the bodies he had seen underground had mostly been insect beings with hard, segmented bodies. It was a revelation of such magnitude that there were still times when he had to close his eyes for a few moments — his senses were simply too full to take in more colors and textures. The variety of divergent skins and forms continuously fascinated him. He never could have imagined, living in the ant colony, the visions he now saw parading before him. It was extraordinary to him that such phenomenal beings could exist. His small world kept expanding into one that was very large indeed. 52

Ayal Hurst A great magic occurs after the rains come to this parched and untamed land. Life erupts in full bloom. Flowers bloomed in mass profusion, their petals dancing in the slightest springtime breeze. For the first time, Kokopelli saw clouds — wispy, soft white, ephemeral things that drifted slowly across the desert sky. It was an explorer’s paradise. There was so much that he had not known while living beneath the earth. He was like a pupa changing from a larvae, or, as he started to see in the reproductive methods of the other animals around him, birthing live from the body of the animal itself! That seemed to be one of the most bizarre and amazing events he had witnessed so far. Seeing animals birth their young, not as eggs, but as petite, living replicas of themselves was incredible enough on its own to compensate for the weary, disturbing journey he had undertaken to reach the surface of the earth. At first, he could not even imagine that such a thing was possible. Didn’t all life come from eggs? But, as he saw, many animals gave birth to their young in this way, and, unlike the ants, it took much, much longer for them to develop into adulthood. They stayed young, he thought, for a very long time. “It is as if I, myself, am newly hatched from the egg,” he fancied. “Everything is new to me.” The next day, Kokopelli walked until the full moon rose. He lifted his face to smell the crisp, night air. He did not know it, but he had become his own size, the size of a twelve year old boy. The desert under the full moon is a wondrous and beautiful thing, casting undulating, dusky forms mysteriously across the land. The shadows of the saguaro cacti stretched as far as his eyes could see, one elongated shape merging into the next, as if dark fingers twined across the desert floor. Kokopelli had never seen shadows before. When he first went to touch them, he found that there was nothing there, only the hard, stony ground beneath his hand. They could not be held. This was an enigma he pondered for many days, until he realized that shadows came to exist only when a light shone behind an object. He understood that a shadow was some kind of dark extension that emerged from the life of a being, but what it truly was he did not know. He was constantly amazed that there was so much to this existence that he had never suspected, and so much that he did not understand. 53

Kokopelli the Wanderer The desert offered him a panoramic view of life that he could not have conceived of in his snug, little burrow beneath the earth. Image after startling image deeply engraved itself upon his mind, never to be forgotten. Not everything he experienced in this new found world, however, was born of ecstasy and wonder. The daytime heat was oppressive, as the glaring sun beat down upon the land, soaring to 120 degrees, and the nights in the desert were cool, often freezing, as temperatures dropped remarkably. Without the tremendous furnace of the sun blazing down, the desert ground lost heat swiftly, for there was not enough moisture in the air or enough clouds to trap the heat. Sometimes the desert air cooled so rapidly that it could not hold onto even the little bit of precious moisture that was in it. Other times, when cooled air touched a rock or cactus, some of the moisture changed from an invisible gas to a liquid and formed dew. Kokopelli and other thirsty animals would then hurry to be the first to lap it up, for finding such a treasure could spell life or death in the desert. At night, Kokopelli tried to wrap his small, blue shawl around him to keep warm, though it was too miniscule to cover him fully and did not alleviate the cold. Finding a large rock to sleep upon which sometimes held a bit of heat into the night was helpful, but many desert dwellers sought this heat as well, and often a rock would already be occupied by rattlesnakes and other assorted creatures. It had been immediately obvious that one did not provoke the ire of an irritable rattlesnake who was feeling territorial, so Kokopelli would move on, looking for another place to sleep. At times, the only recourse was to scoop out a shallow, nesting place in the sand and hope that scorpions would not use him for a bed. During the day, the rocks were too scalding for him to climb, as the heat on their surfaces shimmered to 150 degrees. Inside the ant burrow, underground, temperatures had remained fairly constant, at a comfortable 75 degrees or so. Kokopelli was not used to drastic changes in temperature, and although he had somewhat conditioned his skin to light and heat on his journey to the surface, the nights were cold and difficult, and the days were too hot.

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Ayal Hurst In the burgeoning rays of early dawn, the temperature often remained a bit cool from the changes brought by the night, and it was a more pleasant time to be a part of the harsh grandeur of the desert. Soon, however, the air would thicken with the arrival of the oppressive heat, and Kokopelli would find himself feeling too heavy and languorous to attempt much of anything. By noon, the sun would drain all color from the landscape, and there were times when heat mirages would dance around him in scorching waves. These shimmering oscillations quivered across the land, distorting shapes, strangely altering form and substance. Even massive stone rippled like water in the blistering heat as the mirages swept across the land. What caused these changes and disturbed reality was another perplexing thing he could not understand. Kokopelli had quickly seen, after emerging from the earth below, that although the World Above was an amazingly beautiful and fascinating realm, surviving in it was a terrible challenge. He knew that he must quickly adapt to the ways of this land, or he would not survive. The desert world was not for all creatures. This ancient wilderness of singing sand demanded much from all. It was a place for those who could run on burning ground and flit among the stark canyons; it was for those who could do without water for months at a time, for those who could endure. Each plant and animal had to develop its own way to survive the often unbearable heat and harsh conditions of the desert land. Many animals needed to be light-colored, as light colors soaked up less sunlight and heat than the darker ones. Other creatures sported fur and feathers to protect their skin from the hot sun. Kokopelli had neither, and there were times when surviving seemed too daunting a task for him, too overwhelming, too difficult, as he broiled in the daytime and froze during the night. It was then that he had profound regrets and sorely missed the warmth and comfort of his home. He was often hungry and had to work hard in order to find food to sustain him. It was difficult to identify and find the seeds and grains he had eaten in the ant colony, as everything looked so much smaller, so different now. Throughout his entire life, he had always been fed by others. Food had come to him easily and abundantly, without any effort on his part. Now he had to fend for himself, and it was not something he had been 55

Kokopelli the Wanderer prepared to do, or had even deeply thought about doing, when he left the security of his home. Despite the despair and physical distress Kokopelli experienced, the rewards of this new world were still great, and they atoned for much of his discomfort. The amazing sights and sounds he witnessed were marvelous and in their way, fortunate, for they often kept him distracted from feeling the profound loneliness that lurked hidden and contained in the deepest recesses of his heart. It was a loneliness so fierce at times that, had he let it surface, it would have incapacitated him. And so it remained buried, waiting for the time when it would have to emerge. As he wandered and learned from the life of the desert, looking for fruits and nuts, seeds and grains, Kokopelli observed that even plants had strategies to survive. The creosote bush was the most common bush found in the desert. This was due to the fact that this crafty shrub poisoned the roots of other plants which grew in their vicinity. In this way they were the only ones left to draw up the precious, underground water found in their area. All beings, he realized, had intelligence and a will to survive. The animals and plants had lived in the desert a very long time. Their knowledge was old and deep. All one had to do was gaze into their eyes, or touch their stems to sense the wisdom concealed there. In order to insure his own survival, Kokopelli knew that he must learn from them. Knowing this, Kokopelli began to feel an empathy for all beings, a deep bond of kinship, for they needed to eat, as he did, and sleep, as he did. They needed shelter from the burning sun and the frigid nights. They hunted for water, as he did, and were delightfully relieved to find it. They felt pain, as he did, and bled as he did, when injured, whether blood or sap. Often he caught creatures grinning humorously at something he had not seen, a fey light twinkling behind their eyes. He could not doubt that they were as aware as he was. He sensed their fears and their pleasure, similar to his own. The hustle and bustle of life Kokopelli now witnessed around him above the ground was made up of many different, disparate elements, each having its own methods to survive. This at first seemed terribly

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Ayal Hurst alien from the ant colony, where all members looked the same and worked together for a common cause. Yet, in a way that he began to understand as he observed little by little, the unfolding story of the desert, this was a more diversified and much larger community. It was the Community of Life in all its mysterious forms, living separately, yet working together in vastly intricate ways to insure the survival of all. He found that all was interconnected. The plants stored water and seeds and grew from the land. The rabbit ate the plants, and the coyote ate the rabbit. Everything depended upon something else to survive. It was an amazing Dance of Life, and he was part of it. Thus, Kokopelli honored this complex, dun colored desert land, and those who dwelled therein as he wandered. He knew the land belonged to them as well as to himself, and he did not see himself as either lesser or greater then any other. On a still night, he could hear the Song of the Desert softly singing in the starry darkness: “We share. We share. We are One Life, ye and I!”

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Chapter 10 Each day as Kokopelli roamed, he eagerly observed this volatile yet resilient world around him, and he gathered information vital to his own survival. He knew that his existence depended on his ability to utilize the knowledge of the astute creatures who had found ways to adapt to the relentless desert realm. As the scorching sun would, at last, sink below the horizon, he observed the collared lizards turn their sides to the evaporating heat, soaking up the last of the vanishing rays before they slept the night away — a critical survival tactic, for lizards are cold blooded and make none of their own body heat. He noted that the chuckwalla lizard had devised an intriguing strategy to outwit predators. It puffed itself up so much when frightened that it could wedge itself under a rock and not be pried loose. He watched many animals, trying his best to take in their tactics for survival in order to learn as much as he could, as quickly as he could. Kokopelli glimpsed many varieties of lizards scurrying hither and thither on clawed feet across the desert sands. They thrived well in this

Kokopelli the Wanderer land, while he struggled. Unlike his own skin, which, to his dismay, rapidly lost fluid and peeled away as the desert sun mercilessly burned and beat upon it, the scales on their reptilian bodies held moisture inside. As the plants and animals adapted to the extremes of the terrain and climate, so too, did Kokopelli. His first days in the desert remained starkly etched in his mind, however. It was not easy to forget the intensity of the panic he had felt, or the trauma he had experienced being so small and vulnerable. It was therefore a continuing marvel how diminutive the other animals and plants now seemed to him. There were, of course, large animals who lived in the desert, and among these the largest was the sinuous mountain lion, the feared, cunning puma, who silently emerged from the shadowed heights of the craggy canyons to hunt. One starry evening, behind the scant protection of a protruding rock, a breath away, Kokopelli witnessed a mature female make a magnificently precise and effective kill. After that, he was extremely wary of this predator and gave it a wide berth whenever he spotted unsettling cat tracks imprinted in the sand. When the noon sun was at its worst, many creatures slipped into the cooler sands of tunneled ways, dens, and nests below the surface. Jackrabbits would rest in shallow holes they dug in the shade of a mesquite tree; scorpions would hide under rocks, and pack rats would curl asleep deep inside an untidy mound of sticks, leaves, bark, and rocks. While animals could move out of the sun, shading under rocks or in burrows underground, the desert plants could not move away, and their secret to survival was the crucial storage of water. The vastness of the desert land stretched before him as an unending sea of sand. There was nowhere for Kokopelli to find lasting shelter, either above ground or below it. Life was so unpredictable that sometimes his continued existence entailed surviving bitter challenges that came upon him in unannounced and unexpected ways. When wandering one day in early summer, intently seeking food, Kokopelli became aware that the desert had become deathly still, and a strange haze seemed to infuse the sultry air. It felt, in some peculiar way, similar to the day the red ants had invaded his colony. Kokopelli 60

Ayal Hurst was not sure what was coming, but he knew something terrible was on its way. Could red ants invade the World Above as well? Would he be threatened by them, now, as large as he was? Were they also larger here? He did not know, but it felt much the same on this day as it had then. An old terror began to constrict his chest as painful memories surfaced from guarded depths to haunt him. He stood where he was, unsure. He needed more information in order to know what to do, but there was no one there to advise him. Soon the wind began to blow, swiftly blustering into gale force velocity. It was not red ants, Kokopelli hastily realized, but a massive dust storm furiously thundering down upon them, scouring a deadly and perilous swath of destruction across the desert realm. Rapidly, all sight was obscured. Many creatures frantically sought to find shelter beneath the ground or took refuge in whatever nooks and crannies could be found. Giant tumbleweeds armed with formidable brambles bore down with tremendous speed upon the unlucky, smashing and careening their wind-driven way across the besieged landscape. The air became a hot, abrasive barrage. With tremendous force, millions of tiny, piercing grains of sand were flung against Kokopelli’s unprotected skin, stinging him unmercifully and flaying him raw. In desperation, he cast about for shelter, groping for any possible cover. Immediately he wrapped his nose with the blue shawl so that he could breathe. His lungs felt as if they were on fire and burned with each agonized breath. As the corrosive sand scourged his exposed eyes, Kokopelli fervently hoped that he would not be blinded when the fury of the storm abated. That is, he thought grimly, if he survived at all. If he did not find shelter soon, whether he was blinded or not would be a moot point. In a short space of time, the furious sand would bury him completely Blundering along hopelessly for a few urgent moments, groping with outstretched arms, the wind suddenly bludgeoned him against a small rock outcropping obscured in the swirling murk. With immense relief, he felt his way down its length until he reached the bottom. Gratefully his hands found a slightly overhanging lip above a shallow depression in the stone. Desperately, he wedged himself into the small space as tightly as he had seen the chuckwalla lizards do. There he crouched, waiting out the vehemence of the storm. Because of the angle of the crevice he found himself in, the gale’s wrath swept mostly in front of 61

Kokopelli the Wanderer him rather then directly against him, and therefore he was not buried beneath a mound of smothering sand. His entire world narrowed into moments where all that mattered was his ability to take one shallow breath after another as the shrieking sand tried to wrest him from his refuge. When he thought he could endure it no longer, the howling wind dropped to a low moan, and, with one last, menacing gust, it danced across the desert — and died. Slowly removing the blue shawl from his face, glancing about carefully, Kokopelli stiffly emerged from his meager hiding place. He was bleeding profusely from the multitude of microscopic particles which had lashed his flesh into a gory mass of weeping abrasions, and his skin burned incessantly. Swiftly, he blew caked grit from his nose and spat it from his mouth so that his breathing passageways functioned, and he could inhale without gasping. His skin was tender to the touch for some time, but his eyes were intact. Although he carried scars to remind him of that day, he soon mended, and the desert returned to the more normal, day to day routine of surviving that was the desert way.

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Chapter 11 The dignified saguaro cacti, the great, ancient cacti of the arid lands, whose flowers and fruit served so many, were stately, venerable giants. They were the true grandmothers and grandfathers of the desert, so imposing that legends had grown up around them. It was said that, after the world was newly formed, it was Coyote, the Trickster, who went around scattering seeds on the hillsides all across the land. Wherever he dropped his seeds, the mighty saguaro cactus grew. Sly Coyote was always up to something. Some believed that he was the Creator of the Universe, cloaked in canine form, who again and again delighted himself by playing jokes on other creatures. Therefore, no one questioned Coyote when he went about his business, doing whatever he wanted to do. Getting involved with Coyote could often prove to have disastrous consequences. All the animals watched from a safe distance as Coyote merrily scattered thousands of seeds on hillsides throughout the desert. No one knew what would happen, but soon thereafter the saguaros burst upon the scene in full glory. That is one tale of how the enormous saguaros came to be, and perhaps it is true. No one knows, for there are many mysteries in this

Kokopelli the Wanderer thirsty land, and only the desert itself remembers. Whatever the story of their origin, Kokopelli could acutely feel the ascendancy of the giant saguaros as they stood steadfast — enduring guardians gazing silently across the dry horizons. At night the sound of flapping of wings could be heard high above his head as long nosed bats came to the saguaros to drink the nectar hidden deep within their creamy white flowers. The next morning, the white winged doves would arrive. Kokopelli watched as birds, bats and moths all came to feed on the energy rich, liquid nectar of the saguaro flowers, so invaluable to the desert dwellers, for they consisted mostly of precious, life giving water. The slow growth and great capacity of the Saguaro to store water allowed it to flower every year, regardless of rainfall. Kokopelli had learned to carefully prod the treasured flowers from between the large thorns of the saguaro with a long, pointed stick as he watched how other animals in the desert took sustenance from them. Each saguaro flower stayed open for one day only, but that was enough, if he gathered quite a few and utilized them sparingly, to assuage his thirst as he ambled along his way. He was prudent enough not to travel when the heat was most oppressive. As the flower sippers flew away, their thirst quenched from the bounty of the saguaro, they took thousands of pollen grains with them that had collected against their bodies as they drank. When they buried their noses deep within the next flower, it became fertilized, allowing the precious saguaro fruit to begin to form. Thus did the desert dwellers repay the giant cacti for sustaining them so well. The pollinated saguaro flowers formed into fruit, fruits full of seeds that would descend to the ground, scatter in the wind, and take root in the sandy soil, assuring the continuance of the majestic saguaro as a species. Their fruits would benefit not only the cacti themselves, but also many hungry desert dwellers, including Kokopelli, in the weeks to come. Through serving others, the saguaro insured its own survival. “As it was in the ant village, “ murmured Kokopelli in a rare moment of understanding.

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Ayal Hurst The mighty Saguaro often began life in the shelter of a “nurse” tree or shrub, which would provide a more moist habitat in which to germinate. An unhurried, steady giant, it chose to grow very deliberately — possibly an inch a year. On either side of its trunk, green, uplifted arms sprouted, reaching reverently toward the sky, arms which grew only after the saguaro had gained its wisdom around the ripe, old age of seventy five. “It has appendages sort of like mine,” Kokopelli thought, bending his arms at the elbows and standing rigidly straight to mimic the massive cacti. Whereas he had been born with his arms intact, he had yet to hold the stately wisdom of the saguaros, for he was, after all, only a twelve year old boy. Although Kokopelli was much taller than he had been, the saguaros towered high above his head, growing as tall as 50 feet and weighing as much as several tons. Supported by a tap root about 3 feet long, as well as numerous stout roots that delved no deeper than a foot, the roots of the saguaro needed to wrap sturdily around hidden, underground rocks. This strategy provided the giant cacti adequate anchorage from the fierce winds that raced across the desert lands. Kokopelli noticed, when he gazed up at the silent saguaros, that they were filled with a multitude of cavities of varying sizes. After studying these holes for a few days, he came to understand that it was the woodpeckers who had hollowed them. The woodpeckers stayed in the holes at night, warmer than he was, he thought, safe within little saguaro nests. Owls, hawks, fly catchers, and spiders, all of these creatures lived in the cactus holes pecked out by the woodpeckers. Inside the prickly skin of the saguaro, tons of water was stored as juicy sap. This watery sap held in some of the day’s heat, and the animals who chose to live in the saguaro holes were kept warmer in them than they would have been in the cold night air outside. The harris hawk was the largest bird to live within the saguaro, and occasionally Kokopelli’s heart would pound in wild admiration when he saw the darkened silhouette of hawk shapes starkly outlined against the evening sky. On the peak of a mighty saguaro, the birds would perch, lofty and fierce, as still as a stone carving, one bird perfectly balanced upon another in flawless, totem pole fashion.

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Kokopelli the Wanderer Winged ones of all sorts fascinated Kokopelli, for their soaring life, a life of unburdened flight, was so different from his earthbound one. Certainly it was vastly different from the everyday toil of the ant people. He wondered how it would feel to float free upon the wind. In his imagination, during the hot, daylight hours, he swept across the skies with them, high in the clear blue air, dancing among clouds. In his dreams at night he roamed with them in silent ecstasy, coming to rest at dawn upon the crown of a great, green saguaro. Water was the means of survival in the desert, and this precious fluid was kept inside the skin of the other, smaller cacti of the desert as well: the senita, cardon, organ pipe, fishhook, barrel-cacti, beaver-tail, and the jumping cholla, a strange cactus whose joints would break off at the slightest touch. Kokopelli eventually learned how to harvest the valuable storehouse of water found in the many different cactuses of the desert. At times, this skill saved his life when drought was upon the land, and days passed without other liquid to drink. During these desolate, dry periods, when finding water was his only priority, his lips would crack and his skin hung upon his body in wrinkled folds, gaunt and parched from lack of moisture. Miraculously, when things seemed to be at their worst, and his suffering was becoming unbearable, a cactus would suddenly appear before him, where a moment ago, he was sure there had been none. With hands unsteady, desiccated from serious dehydration, Kokopelli would gratefully fall to his knees, carefully digging his way beneath its skin with a sharp stick in order to release the hot juices found within. Often as not, he ended up with the thin, spiny thorns of the plant embedded in his own skin, and these became very painful, indeed, festering before he could pull them out. After that, hunting was arduous for many days while his hands swelled and filled with pus in order to push the tormenting slivers to the surface. Nevertheless, he accepted it, for he needed the sustenance of the water more then anything else, and it was a price he had to pay to survive. Little by little, as Kokopelli beheld the many ingenious methods the desert dwellers had developed to endure in a harsh climate, he noticed that his body adapted and changed as well. His feet, although they had been hardened as he raced through the earthen corridors of the ant colony, now hardened even more as he walked upon the rough desert 66

Ayal Hurst sands. His skin browned to a rich copper glow, and his hands became calloused and coarse to better protect him from the ravages of cactus spines. Basically, Kokopelli remained unhurt as he wandered, although he was not immune to certain mishaps, such as his encounters with cactus thorns. Occasionally, despite his hardened feet, he would step upon a well camouflaged thorn or sharp bone poking out of the sand, and often he skinned his knees and legs climbing grainy rocks at twilight to find a resting place. Once he tumbled to the ground from a precarious perch atop a granite boulder, and his back was quite stiff for a few days after. Nevertheless, the desert seemed to look after him, and all in all he remained well. He, in turn, valued the moments of beauty and passion, life and death, that were revealed to him in the ever-shifting vista surrounding him. Although he was as determined as ever to find others of his own kind and finally solve the riddle of his existence, Kokopelli did not torment himself with such thoughts. When it happened, it would happen. In the meantime, he lived in the present moment, taking delight in whatever secrets the desert chose to whisper in the hot, dry air.

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Chapter 12 Kokopelli had become dangerously emaciated as the hot weeks of summer went by, and his strength had begun to ebb. His skin was stretched and thin, his face sallow. He needed to be able to supplement his diet with more food then he had been finding, or he would be too weak to continue. After observing how certain other omnivores found sustenance, he had learned to look for indications which alerted him that edible tubers and plants lurked in hiding places below the sand. Where these plants lay nestled, there was usually a small supply of water as well. When he gleefully spotted the almost imperceptible indentation that notified him that such nourishment was nearby, he would take a sharp, pointed stick and dig furiously to uncover this nutritive treasure. Even though this was a palatable source of food, finding desert tubers was laborious work, and they were often few and far between. Kokopelli realized that he needed to find ways to sustain himself with more than tubers, flowers and seeds. He had eaten meat before, in the form of juicy caterpillars and other morsels the hunting ants brought to him, but he had been a sorter, never a gatherer or a hunter. He now had to do both. One sizzling day in late summer, Kokopelli made the vital

Kokopelli the Wanderer decision to become a predator as he observed the canny desert hunters thriving on the nutritive bounty they dispatched with such ease. It was not as simple as it looked. For days he tried to to sneak upon his intended prey and grab it with outstretched hands, but he was awkward. When he made the final dash for it, he only succeeded in falling so violently that, upon impact with the ground, he lost his breath in a great whoosh of air. This not only winded him, but scared all of the animals in the vicinity away. Other times he tried to run an animal down to catch it, but most were simply too fast for him, and he soon gave up the chase. Weary and hungry after a frustrating series of constant failures, Kokopelli angrily threw a rock in the direction of a taunting squirrel who had easily evaded his clumsy maneuvers. To his amazement, the creature tumbled from its perch, slain, at his feet. From that point on, he minutely examined a multitude of rocks and made a small cache of likely looking ones he could heft easily and use in the hunt. After many unsuccessful attempts, often going to sleep at night exhausted and hungry, he eventually became quick of eye and fleet of hand. His aim with a rock became quite masterful as he skillfully hunted lizards and rabbits, wood rats, and squirrels. Then he would sit cross-legged in the sand and hastily eat what he had killed before another predator appeared on the horizon. Kokopelli hunted only because he must, only when he knew that his body needed to be nourished by something other than the grains, nuts, tubers, and seeds which he found along the way. He took only what he needed, never wasting the smallest mouthful. That was the ultimate and unsullied Law of the Desert. It was permitted to hunt to sustain oneself, but no one was allowed to hunt for sport, in anger, or simply for the relish of a kill. Life was too precious and precarious, too hard fraught, as all knew, to treat it carelessly, with malicious disregard or shallow contempt. And you see why this must be so. The desert did not allow those who disregarded The Law to last long. Whenever Kokopelli hunted, he left some offering of thanks, an honoring for the life he had taken in order to nourish his own — a piece of his hair, special seeds, or a unique rock he had found. Each time he made a silent promise to the the animal that its sacrifice would serve him and not be forgotten. Why he did this he did not know, but it came

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Ayal Hurst unbidden to him to do so, and his heart always felt much lighter and better for it. Although he had achieved a certain modicum of success with rock throwing, he nevertheless continued to observe the predators of the desert in order to perfect his own hunting ability. Early one evening, he watched and learned as a young bobcat stealthily pursued a lizard, stalking it patiently for so long that the sun had changed position in the sky, and night was descending upon the land. At the perfect moment, in one fluid motion, the patient cat pounced, grabbing the unfortunate lizard in triumph by the tail. In a startling instant, the tail snapped off and the little reptile dashed to safety beneath the shelter of the nearest rock. Kokopelli’s mouth dropped open with awe. That a creature could apparently loose a major part of its body and still live was astounding to him. He wondered suddenly if he could lose a body part and still survive. He hoped that he would not have to find out. Kokopelli turned from the amazing sight of the tailless lizard to look back at the unhappy hunter. The outwitted bobcat sat on its haunches, frozen, experiencing its own disbelief. He looked at the severed tail in its paws, then at the place where the lizard had scampered off to, then back to the tail hanging limply in his paws. He was utterly confounded. The young predator had invested quite a lot of energy in that hunt. He was keenly disappointed, and very hungry. Pragmatically, for one wastes nothing in the desert, he ate the little he had captured, furtively slinking away to search out a more satisfying — and properly hinged — meal. The somewhat diminished lizard would live to see another day. Then again, perhaps it would live for only another moment. One never knew what might happen in the desert. Kokopelli learned patience from the hunters who waited a long time for their prey, striking only when the moment was absolutely right in order not to waste precious energy in the perilous heat of the desert. He learned to make his movements precise and efficient, as they did, in order to survive. And, he learned not to be angry when he did not succeed. Like the young bobcat, he accepted it as part of the way things were, and silently slipped away to seek another prospect. He learned, as well, from those creatures who were the prey of others —how to be cautious and exquisitely aware of all that transpired. He 71

Kokopelli the Wanderer came to understand the tracks and movements of the desert dwellers, discerning at a glance where they had come from, where they were going, who they belonged to, and what they were about. As he observed all that was around him, he developed the ability to sense even minute changes on the wind. The slightest movement of an animal, the twitch of an eye, nose, or whisker, often warned him of an impending danger or nearby threat. He was constantly alert, honing his senses to a razor sharp perception of the world around him. Thus he continued to survive.

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Chapter 13 At night the desert became a particularly dangerous place. It was then the predators came out to hunt for food and water. Wolf spiders, tarantulas, giant centipedes, scorpions, gila monsters, many of these came out at night, all hunting for food, with poison as their weapon. To survive meant finding food and water in the form of prey, and hunt they did, armed with pointed teeth to rip and tear, curving claws to slash and pierce, and muscles that rippled in the moonlight. Kokopelli watched as a great horned owl, without making a sound, swooped down upon a heedless gopher, snatching it expertly for its evening meal. He watched, staggered, as a kangaroo rat, who was more observant than the luckless gopher, turned in midair, leaping to escape a pursuing king snake. It landed fifteen feet away. Night snakes came out when the cool of evening came, their pupils dilating to let in what little light there was, and the hunt was on. Even in nearly total darkness, a rattlesnake can tell when a possible meal comes within striking distance. The deep pits on its face are a clever design that allow the snake to zero in on the body heat coming from its hoped

Kokopelli the Wanderer for prey. Twelve varieties of rattlesnake lived in the desert, and twenty different species of tarantula. During the early days of his sojourn in the desert, when twilight passed into evening, the long nights were formidable times to endure. Kokopelli still felt very much alone, and although his eyes had adjusted well as he transformed into a nocturnal hunter, enabling him to see shapes looming in the shadows, still, it was his ears that served him most faithfully to alert him to possible danger. He was constantly wary of being stalked by the large predators of the land, and this kept his nerves raw and on edge while he hunted for food beneath the moon. Learning to walk carefully was also a critical skill needed for survival, and Kokopelli became adept at moving silently and deliberately through the landscape. One night, when the moon had turned her face away from the earth, and the darkness of the land seemed to feel especially unsettling, Kokopelli thought he heard the soft, padding sound of an approaching cat. It was coming from somewhere behind him, but he could not pinpoint exactly how far behind him it was. Although he had been hunting as a predator only moments before, suddenly he had become prey, and the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise as he sensed something large approaching. It was too dark to see, though Kokopelli craned his neck and strained his muscles in the direction of the eerily muted, thumping sound. Fear of the unknown is a powerful force, and in the profound depths of midnight, that fear was very present and apparently, very close at hand. Not being able to see what it was, but still hearing it come closer and closer caused a sense of panic to slowly overtake his mind, and he began to stumble forward, rapidly trotting across the landscape, seeking shelter. Still the soft, thumping sound came on, and still Kokopelli could see nothing each time he quickly glanced over his shoulder. Thoroughly frightened, he started desperately running for his life. Yet, no matter how fast he ran, the sound came on, padding relentlessly behind him. Thump, thump, thump. “If I choose to be a hunter,” he thought grimly, with a flitting, slightly macabre sense of irony, panting with the exertion of his run, “I suppose it is only fair that I also become the hunted.” Nevertheless, he did not 74

Ayal Hurst like feeling this helpless, trapped in a situation where the odds for his survival seemed utterly stacked against him. Furiously calculating, casting his thoughts this way and that, he wondered frantically what he could do to change his chances. He had seen in the daylight that the land for miles around was flat with no where to climb and no place to seek shelter. Running seemed the only possible thing he could do, though it seemed no option whatsoever. Rivulets of sweat, both from fear and from the tremendous effort he was expending to escape the nameless death stalking him poured down his face, dimming his sight. Blinded by darkness, entirely caught up in his animal instincts, Kokopelli eventually ceased to think at all, and, struggling to survive, simply ran, consumed with panic. After covering what felt like miles at this brutal, killing pace, and finding no place to hide, Kokopelli finally accepted that he was done in. He had gone as far as he could go. He stopped running, for he had no further reserves of strength left to call upon. His legs cramped as he bent over, dizzily gasping for breath. A few tortured moments passed. Remaining there, alone in the immensity of the desert, he shivered as the sweat dried on his body in the cold night air. He wondered anxiously why he had not been caught already. Barely able to stand, he was easy prey now. Why was it dallying with him, ruthlessly trailing him in this way if it did not mean to eat him? What was it waiting for? The fact that he had run for so long expecting to be devoured, tormented every moment by an unseen terror at his heels had pushed him almost to the limit of reason. In a last effort to protect himself, Kokopelli fumbled for a nearby rock he had just bruised his feet upon and turned in a fighter’s crouch to face his attacker. At that moment, a huge tumbleweed rumbled past him, its thorny, intertwined branches brushing his skin as it swept by, propelled by the night wind. Kokopelli watched it disappear in disbelief. All the horror and dread of this terrible, dark night had been for nothing. Slowly, he straightened and feeling very foolish, smiled cryptically, gazing about. It had all been false, an illusion, and it had caught him so easily, he thought, disturbed, as if he had been a small fly lost in a spider’s web. At that moment, Kokopelli’s life changed.

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Kokopelli the Wanderer “I cannot allow fear to chase me like this, ever again, running like a frightened rabbit before the grinning jaws of coyote,” he vowed silently to the stars overhead. He raised his head in grim determination, daring the dark sky to bear witness to his vow. “Never again will I waste my life force in such blind panic!” Then, having regained some sense of himself, he succumbed to the rigors of the night and allowed his tired body to sag slowly to the ground. Without fear he slept through the deep hours of the night until the promise of dawn crept reassuringly upon the land. Kokopelli had learned that there were perils in the desert, but the greatest peril of all, he discovered that night, was his own fear. Strange as it seemed, a giant tumbleweed had taught him that. From that moment on, Kokopelli found life in the desert lands much less frightening, for he was true to his vow and turned to face the unknown before his fears overwhelmed him. When he did, as is usually the case, he found that they blew away, like dandelion puffs upon the wind.

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Chapter 14 It was too hot for many desert dwellers to hunt for food during the day. They rested in the shade wherever it could be found, keeping alive by staying in their burrows or finding refuge in the shadow of an overhanging rock until the coolness of evening made movement possible. Soon after his adventures in the desert began, Kokopelli had decided to sleep during the hottest part of the day as well, under whatever shelter he could find. Sometimes he was able to use the blue shawl to create a small awning of shade for himself when he balanced it between two appropriately placed boulders and secured it there with smaller rocks. Night became his time of wandering. On certain nights, when he became tired of walking and hunting, or felt forlorn, he would sit and look up at the infinite tapestry of stars soaring through vast distances far above him. He was not able to communicate his thoughts with others, as he had once done so effortlessly in the ant colony, and such times eased the loneliness he often felt. Despite his loneliness, he found the magnitude of the universe surrounding him intoxicating. Now, its beauty soothed and embraced

Kokopelli the Wanderer him, and he found his place within it peaceful. He easily lost himself within the millions of glowing lights suspended in the boundless expanse of an evening sky. At times, shooting stars would drop from the heavens, arching across the firmament, streaming trails of blazing light. This unearthly spectacle was so stirring for Kokopelli that sometimes he could not contain himself, and he would leap to his feet, whirling and twisting high into the dark immensity of the night. Twirling and stomping, he danced until his breath was short and the exuberance of his wonder had been released. Then he would sit quietly once more and ponder where the stars landed, what they could be made of, and what became of them. He wondered if they ever rose again to become part of the glimmering dance of the night. While he sat thus, eloquently silent, tired but happy, alone in the desert dusk, his body and mind eventually became motionless and still. His breath began to cycle in deep, slow waves, a soft whisper in the evening air. During these moments, everything seemed to become crystal clear for Kokopelli. He realized there was a time and a season for everything. He understood that the patterns of life wove together with seamless perfection, just as the ants had performed their duties and worked together with unerring harmony. Everything touched and affected everything else, and he recognized with startling clarity that all was interconnected. Each part needed one another; each flowed into the next, and together the parts became an exhilarating Song of Life that functioned perfectly in a grand, mysterious way. And he was a part of it all. It was astounding! “We all come from the same Source,” he thought, awestruck, as the stars swayed and bowed to an evocative, unknown music deep in the womb of space. “We are really all One: we are just different notes of the same song.” Kokopelli often remained motionless and still for hours upon hours under the desert stars. Much later, when he felt the chill of deep night press upon his skin, he would take a measured breath and slowly become aware of his surroundings once more. Each time, to his continued amazement, he would find that other animals had gathered quietly around him, sitting still, as he was, eyes turned toward the stars. These moments were so magical for Kokopelli that when it first 78

Ayal Hurst occurred, he thought that he had fallen asleep and had strayed into a dream. It seemed so unreal, so unlike the day to day concerns of the desert where most of life was taken up with surviving, with the critical search for food, and the desperate need to find usable shelter from the sun’s ferocious heat. Yet, it was quite real… undeniably real. He neither imagined nor dreamed it. There were snakes and rodents, rabbits and coyotes, owls and squirrels, vultures and doves, all breathing peacefully, sitting or lying side by side in a remarkable circle. There was no fighting for survival, no turmoil, no scrambling to be either predator or prey. It was a reverent and consecrated moment for them all — a time of Peace. When this happened, Kokopelli felt as if he and the other desert dwellers had somehow been transported to a sanctified, sacred place beyond the reaches of time. It was a communion as deep, perhaps even deeper, in an inscrutable way, than he had ever experienced when one antennae touched another. As the evening stars dimmed in the sky, before the lilting hues of dawn began to rise, one by one, the animals slowly and quietly dispersed, going their separate ways in the cool, desert night. Left alone once more, Kokopelli often retained a profound feeling of contentment and companionship that stayed with him long after he and his visitors had taken divergent, desert trails. “We all recognize this still place,” he thought.” and it connects us, as if…”he struggled to put form to the images cascading through his mind …”as if we are sharing the same breath. We are cradled and secure within it… as a larvae is safe within its cocoon. That’s it! That’s how it feels! When this happens… everything changes between us.” These complex thoughts were a bit perplexing to Kokopelli, and he did not think them very often. They came in a flash of insight, and quickly faded away, as an early morning dream fades away, or thistle fluff drifts away upon the wind. They were very comforting, nonetheless, and they brought him solace in the solitude of his wanderings. Now and again, one of the creatures who had sat with him under the stars came to him after he had fallen asleep. Stealthily curling itself within the crook of his arm, safely tucked away, it too, would fall into fearless slumber. Through the cold, desert night, they shared their 79

Kokopelli the Wanderer bodily warmth with one another until the heat of the morning roused them to begin a new day. Upon awakening, realizing that someone was nestled against him, Kokopelli would look down, carefully disengage himself, and smile softly to see who had kept him company during the chilly night. Eventually, this became such a natural part of his life that he did not think too much about it. He did not know that others of his kind would have found this very unusual, indeed.

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Chapter 15 One evening, a glint of light caught Kokopelli’s eye as he hunted for food in the silvery hues of a spring moon. He had bent down to pick up a seed left lying on the desert floor, and there, in the hidden hollows of a small rock, he chanced upon Grandmother Spider weaving her web. Usually desert spiders dig deep shafts in the earth where it is cooler, and they can survive the desperate desert heat of the daylight hours. It was a workable system, for, when a creature scurried past the tunnel opening, disturbing the sand, the spider would dash out to snare it for a meal. This web had been spun to capture the beams of moonlight, however, for Grandmother Spider was proud of her weaving and wanted all to see how well she wove. The web was a beautiful and complicated pattern, composed of many silken threads that spiraled with geometric precision toward a circular center. This evening, with drops of dew hanging in translucent pearls upon its strands, it was a flawless, spectacular sight. Although the web appeared quite fragile, swaying slightly when caressed by the desert breeze, it was deceivingly strong, strong enough to capture and hold any thrashing insect that became trapped upon the sticky threads. An

Kokopelli the Wanderer array of shifting colors, subtle as the rainbow, teased Kokopelli with elusive shimmers — lavenders and pinks, teal and gold glimmered up at him when the moonlight struck the strands at just the right angle. The beauty of it took his breath away. Squatting in front of the rock, he forgot all else as he watched the little spider weave. He could not believe the depth of concentration she applied to spin her intricate designs. Completely mesmerized, Kokopelli recognized that here was an expert at work, constructing a masterpiece far beyond his understanding. Wandering in the desert, Kokopelli had learned that certain choices could mean the difference between life or death at any moment. He had witnessed this critical lesson time and time again. Each day the desert dwellers made either advantageous choices which allowed them to continue their life cycle, or they made choices which caused them to become the source of sustenance for another. Often the choice had to be made in a fleeting instant, as events moved rapidly, and there was no time for delayed action. His choice, day after day, was to make decisions which allowed him to continue living. Another factor facilitated his survival as well, though he did not know it. The deep harmony he experienced when he listened to the Song of Life, as he thought of it, worked in Kokopelli’s behalf. It had become an inherent part of him, protecting him, and giving him an intuitive connection to the world he lived within. When trouble appeared on the horizon, or came slithering by his feet, the harmony that sang quietly just beneath the threshold of his mind, the harmony he had found sitting under the desert stars at night, came to him. He reached for it unthinkingly, and it never failed him, allowing him to live safely, step softly, and move securely through the desert lands. Even though he wandered with no apparent destination, Kokopelli had a sense that all was happening as it was meant to be. The deep pulse of life reverberated all around him, vibrating in the desert breezes and dancing beneath his feet. It assuredly created the beating of his heart, and the next breath he was to take. It healed his body when he was bruised, torn, or weary. It presented him with the next choice he was to make, guiding him where to go so that he seemed to arrive at precisely

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Ayal Hurst the right place at the right moment to witness something marvelous — or escape something perilous. On this day, coming upon Grandmother Spider’s web, an unprecedented thought tenaciously took shape in his mind. A new choice presented itself in a most unexpected manner. “If I could weave a web,” he realized suddenly, “I would not have to hunt constantly. As it is now, I am only able to carry a small amount of seeds and grains at a time, using leaves that soon disintegrate. Wielding a web would be so much easier than handling a leaf! The edges of the leaf must be kept furled just so, and still much trickles away. If I bent the web, and closed it, somehow,” he considered, with rising excitement, “it would hold all of my grains, and I would not have to gather them so often! My web would hold my food, as Grandmother Spider’s web holds her flies.” It was a remarkable concept, inspired by this skillful, miniscule being, and if it were attainable, it could prove to be invaluable in the days to come. However, he did not know how to weave a web. How could he communicate with her? She did not have antennae. “I must think about this,” Kokopelli thought to himself. “I will stay in Grandmother Spider’s territory for a while. I am adept at waiting. The predators taught me that. Perhaps, if I am patient, a way will open so I might speak with her.” Wrestling with this dilemma over the next few days, he addressed the situation again and again, peering at it first one way, and then another. Three days passed. No solution came to him. On the fourth night, he was once again sitting quietly under the stars when a startling idea popped into his mind, and he began to wonder… he sat up straighter in surprise. Perhaps, when he visited Grandmother Spider next, if he went to the place of stillness and thought what he wanted to say to her… perhaps she would hear him! Sharing the still place with the other animals had certainly allowed a deep, unspoken communication to occur between them. It was true that they had not exchanged specific concepts, he thought, drumming his fingers rhythmically upon the sand as his mind started to work feverishly — but they had been profoundly connected nevertheless. As if… he struggled, trying to grasp the slippery picture that was trying to form in his mind… as if they were all linked in a great, glowing web. Just like Grandmother Spider’s web! Was it feasible 83

Kokopelli the Wanderer to think that thoughts could travel along the strands of the web, the same way Grandmother Spider scuttled along it? The more he thought about it, the more excited he became. He decided to give it a try. The next evening, Kokopelli tentatively approached Grandmother Spider, who was weaving zealously in the center of her web, absolutely unconcerned with anything else. He squatted in front of her and concentrated intently on being very still within. “Grandmother?” he began, taking a deep breath. Quietly he sent his desires in her direction, fervently hoping the Song of Life would connect them. If it did, then perhaps they might understand one another. He found himself imagining that his thoughts were sliding toward her on strands of light within a vastly glowing web. When they reached her at the heart of the structure, he pretended that she had antennae which were touching his, so that she might understand his need. “Grandmother?” his mind projected to her, “I wonder if you might help me?” Stopping a moment, but hearing nothing in return, he sighed, but decided to persevere. “Grandmother, what must I do to learn to weave as well as you? If I could weave so beautifully, I would have a strong web to carry my food, all my seeds and tubers and grains. Unlike you, I travel far and must take my food with me as I go. Will you teach me to weave a web?” He sat in front of the rock and waited, looking at her hopefully. She was weaving away, as intensely as ever. For a moment nothing happened. Then, Grandmother Spider abruptly stopped her weaving and gazed at him approvingly. “Son of the desert,” she said, raising a surprised foreleg. “I see that you have learned something quite important this day. Now we may speak to one another. That was an excellent idea you had. About time, too! Hmmm…” She eyed him speculatively. “This is a strange request. No one has asked it of me before. Could be interesting.” She thought some more, looking at Kokopelli’s earnest face. “Bring me ten fat, juicy flies, and I will teach you to weave a web.” It took Kokopelli three days to catch the flies, waiting silently by piles of animal droppings to snatch them as they landed. Each time he caught one, the rest, of course, flew away, buzzing angrily. But eventually his 84

Ayal Hurst quota was filled, and he returned with them to Grandmother Spider’s lair. “Here they are!” he smiled wearily, opening a grubby hand. “Ahhh. So you have returned,” trilled the Grandmother in a knotty, spidery voice. “Tasty morsels you bring me. Very well. Let us begin.” For the next months, Kokopelli became a studious disciple of the spider, learning the many loops and twists that formed the patterns of her web. She was not always a patient teacher, and he was not always a grateful student. The nights were cold, and becoming irritable in the desert easily happens now and then. However, for the most part, they got along well together, each showing the other appreciation and mutual respect — she, recognizing in Kokopelli a hungry desire to learn, an active mind that lent itself well to the discipline needed; he recognizing a master artist at work, and a dedicated teacher. In the evenings, while they wove, she told him many of the ancient stories which had been passed down faithfully through time, from one generation of spider to the next. These were fascinating stories, and it brought back to him the warm days with the Ant Queen when she regaled him with tales of the World Above. Thinking of her, a great sadness overwhelmed him, and he missed her deeply. It seemed a long time ago that he had lived beneath the earth and had friends to speak with. He had not communed directly with anyone until the day he spoke with Grandmother Spider — and actually, since those happy days in the chamber of the Ant Queen, now that he thought of it, no one had told him stories until these evenings with Grandmother Spider. It was a strange thing to think about, and normally he tried NOT to think back on those days too much, for it hurt too deeply. There were times when thinking of the Ant Queen and her love for him brought him warmth and solace, but there were other times, when he was tired and lonely, that it only brought him pain. The old arachnid was a good storyteller, however, and listening to her helped ease the ache he felt when thoughts of the Queen and the colony disturbed his heart. Grandmother Spider informed Kokopelli that a spider’s eight legs represented the Four Winds of Change and the Four Directions of Life. Therefore, every spider knew about the infinite possibilities of creation. That was why each web was such an amazing, complicated act of creativity. She told him how it was First Spider who dreamed the 85

Kokopelli the Wanderer physical world into being. The most marvelous tale the Grandmother told, however, recounted in great detail how First Spider decided to make the arduous journey to the edge of the Universe, the far away place where lightening lived. She did this in order to bring fire back to earth for the people had, until then, lived without light or warmth. First Spider had to carry the prized sliver of lightning a very long way in a special, magical pouch she had woven specifically for her burdened and wearisome journey home. Otherwise the intense fire the lightning breathed would have eaten through the strands of her web and consumed her. Grandmother Spider informed Kokopelli that it was First Spider who spun the fate of all who lived into the strands of one Great Web. Without First Spider and her weaving, there could be no destiny, no purpose. She captivated him with the tale of how one human woman had thoughtlessly challenged First Spider to a weaving contest eons past, haughtily proclaiming she wove better then anyone in all Creation. The contest had lasted for many, many years. When the proud woman finally lost, exhausted and near death, she was changed into a spider herself so that she could weave forever. It was even said that when the earth was first created, it became unsteady, and it was First Spider who sewed land and sky together. These were enticing tales, and both Grandmother Spider and Kokopelli were entertained, enjoying their nights together. Kokopelli memorized the stories by heart, adding them to his own collection. As the days went by, he practiced interlacing the strands Grandmother Spider wove for him, beginning with simple patterns at first, then gradually moving on to more complex weavings. When he first began to weave, he inexorably became entangled in and frustrated by the long, sticky, gray threads. They seemed to have a will of their own, determined not to do what he wanted them to, but instead delighted in sticking to his face, stomach, legs, and hands, transforming him into a gooey boggle. When he attempted to disentangle himself, Kokopelli ended up more tightly bound then ever, trapped within a gummy cocoon, somewhat resembling an unfortunate insect ensnared in a web. Often it became difficult to move, and then he would look at Grandmother Spider imploringly. She, in turn, had never had so much fun as when she saw Kokopelli thrashing around, wrapped in threads from head to toe. His 86

Ayal Hurst fingertips constantly had wads of gray stuff adhered to each end, and whatever he touched stuck to him — all sorts of pebbles, seeds, grass, and twigs hung from his body in an assorted muddle, and the spider thought it was quite hilarious to see him walking about mimicking a woodrat’s nest. Not only was Kokopelli physically uncomfortable, but many times the weaving he had begun would tear, as his sticky fingers pulled it apart accidentally, and he became extremely impatient. There were times he felt defeated and silently nursed the thought that he ought to give up — simply accept that this was a task beyond his ability. It seemed too difficult to master. Grandmother Spider watched him with a hidden smile, and said nothing when he heaved another massive sigh. She trusted that he would eventually find a solution if she allowed him to figure it out for himself. One day, while attempting to brush some of the stuck desert particles off his body with sandy hands, he discovered that the grainy soil seemed to neutralize the stickiness. With some hard scrubbing, he was able to rub himself into a somewhat less encumbered state. After that, he coated his fingers and body with sand before he began to weave, and this seemed to alleviate the problem. In this manner he progressed more easily. In the days that followed, Kokopelli’s efforts were rewarded, and he soon had a variety of intricate, tightly woven designs spread around him. All that was left was to weave them together in such a way that his web could be pulled together at the top. Trying many different approaches, and with some excellent advise from Grandmother Spider, he managed to create a design that worked well enough. When his apprenticeship was finished, and the last, fat fly had disappeared, Kokopelli had a large, tightly woven bag in which he could carry his seeds and nuts, fruits, tubers, and grains. After he had tightly woven the last strand and tied the final knot, Grandmother Spider tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “My son.” she said. “You have done well. Our time together is over. I enjoyed it, and the flies were delicious. But now it is time for you to be on your way. Perhaps if you see others of my kind along your travels,

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Kokopelli the Wanderer you will speak to them, now that you know how, and tell them to send word to me of how you fare.” “I will, Grandmother,” Kokopelli said.” And thank you.” He wished her well, and for a lengthy moment they gazed at one another fondly, in silent gratitude. Then, Kokopelli departed, proudly slinging his new bag across his shoulder. His first weaving lasted quite a while, but eventually the strands became old and began to fray. When that happened, Kokopelli learned to gather plant fibers, which was more efficient than finding another spider to weave strands for him. He experimented to see what kind of fibers might best be suited for this task and spent many days looking at various plants. The agave, a cactus-like plant — though it had stiff, erect leaves tipped with particularly sharp needles — proved to be especially useful. Kokopelli rapidly acquired respect for the drought-tolerant agave and its razor teeth which could badly injure the legs of creatures that brushed against them, and he treaded lightly amongst them. Very carefully he peeled strands from their leaves and stems in such a way that the essence of the plant was not harmed. Within a few days, after painstakingly gathering the necessary material, sometimes combining fibers from different plants, he had woven a new web from the strongest and most flexible strands he had found. When it was finished, his fibrous bag was sturdy and tight. He was greatly relieved to have discovered the use of plants for weaving, as he had not looked forward to another round with the long, sticky threads of a spider’s web. Kokopelli’s weaving ability expanded to further heights one day when he found himself gazing intently at a bird’s nest swaying slightly in the higher branches of a mesquite tree. He knew that nests were, of course, useful to the bird people, as a place to sleep and raise their young, but he had never thought of their marvelous, woven structures as being useful for himself. Once again his fertile mind wrestled with a new concept. Although he usually traveled at night, still, there were times when he chose to wander under the sun as well. One had to be prepared. He thought, perhaps, that if he had a nest, and if he turned it upside down, his head might be sheltered from the broiling heat which beat upon him incessantly in the daytime hours. During those times, having no fur, feathers, or scales to protect him, his face and body constantly suffered. Not wanting to disturb anyone’s home, however, and abandoned nests 88

Ayal Hurst being beyond his reach, he studied the design of one durable structure as best he could from his vantage point upon the ground. After some trial and error, he constructed a fine hat of leaves, dried grasses, and twigs to shade him from the worst of the sun’s rays. During the following days, Kokopelli was a jaunty figure, with his nest-like hat perched upon his head and his filled bag of seeds slung airily across his shoulder. He found some feathers and porcupine quills one evening, and these he wound into his most recent accessory with a flourish, endowing it with a sprightly and festive air. He thought, perhaps, that there was probably a more practical use for them, but he liked the look of it nonetheless.

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Chapter 16 As Kokopelli continued to meander across the desert, he traveled in whatever direction appealed to him. He did mark that when the sun rose in a certain place, it set in the opposite place, though he did not have words for east or west. He allowed himself to wander where he chose, as he had no distinct destination. Although he had a vague notion that there must be others like him, he did not know exactly what he was searching for. As he journeyed, the landscape constantly transformed, metamorphosing from undulating desert dunes, below which the full moon threw deep, purple shadows, to sparse, pungent mesquite forests, where the trees were heat struck and wizened, to areas where the sand stretched flat like an unending ribbon and small shrubs occasionally poked up amongst the brown, dry grass. There were regions he traversed that were flat, empty wastelands mottled here and there with sagebrush, to boulder strewn canyons interspersed with dark, ragged crevices. Occasionally he chanced upon antelope herds grazing in the lavender shades of twilight, their magnificent horns casting strange, shadowed

Kokopelli the Wanderer shapes beneath a crescent moon. He enjoyed these sleek, tawny colored beings, admiring their supple, dancing displays and muscular control, their soft eyes, huge and bright. Their bodies were well developed, thickset in the shoulder, and this allowed them to speed away from an approaching threat with fantastic leaps and twirls. He thought them very beautiful indeed, with their curving necks banded in black and white. “How are the fawns today, Mothers?” he would call out to the herd in his newly acquired silent speech as he paused to watch the jubilant frolicking of the newly hatched ones. “They are fine, Kokopelli,” the brown eyed does would sing out proudly over the bleating of the little ones. “See how swiftly they gain strength! Mine leapt over the paloverde bush this eve!” “They are wonderful, certainly!” answered Kokopelli. “May you find good grazing and good water!” “And you, Kokopelli. May your trails be cool and bountiful!” responded the does. At times, coyotes passed him slyly in the desert night, faces grinning at some joke he could not fathom, and he wished them good hunting. Kokopelli, himself, smiled at the generous magnitude of jackalope ears found on the wily rabbits who sat on their haunches and listened intently to a cacophony of sounds he could not hear. He came upon small herds of mule deer nervously glancing around for would-be predators while they hungrily feasted on mouthfuls of yucca leaves whenever they could find them. It was a sweet time in the desert land for Kokopelli, and he was no longer quite so lonely. Upon observing the mule deer apparently delighting in the spindly foliage of the yucca plant, Kokopelli attempted to eat some, for he continually sampled plants he noted other animals munching in order to augment his own dietary possibilities. However, he did not find the tough plant tasty or digestible, as the mule deer did. “Aargh!” he muttered spitting the pale, green wad distastefully upon the ground after chewing laborious for some moments. “How do these shy ones eat this? Perhaps their teeth are stronger than mine! It is so bitter, and it is only string!” 92

Ayal Hurst He did not know that many desert tribes used the yucca root to wash their hair, and that they cooked the root to eat. He had never cooked food, and he did not know that hair was something to be either combed, or washed. Hair was simply another part of his body that grew and occasionally vexed him when it got in his way as he hunted. Although he could not eat it, yucca was still a very helpful friend to Kokopelli. He used it in his weaving. Yucca was a versatile friend to many desert dwellers, such as the small lizards who could be seen hunting for insects and spiders among its branches or resting in the fallen plant litter at its base. A myriad of yucca moths laid their eggs within its shelter, and of course, the mule deer ate it. It served many well, and its flowers which bloomed in the spring were beautiful. As a fellow seed gatherer, Kokopelli enjoyed watching little kangaroo rats with large rear legs and small front ones stuff their swollen cheek pouches full of seeds. They looked quite funny as they hopped merrily away to store them in their burrows. Kangaroo rats had few sweat glands, so they did not lose moisture as they made their numerous, scuttling forays back and forth, collecting voluminous amounts of seeds. In contrast, Kokopelli’s body sweated profusely. If he had to journey back and forth to store his food that often, he would not have been able to replenish the moisture in his body fast enough to survive. Interestingly, he never saw the kangaroo rats drink, though he watched them for quite a while. He did not know that they got all the water they needed from breaking apart the sugars in the dry seeds. Storing so many seeds was a time consuming task, but the little kangaroo rats would be ready when the hard times returned to the desert. “Hmmmm…I can now carry more in my bag than they can in their cheeks!” he mused, strutting among them at twilight, his sack proudly roosting on his back. “Fat cheeks are useful, but I much prefer this method of carrying food.” One summer evening, as sunset blazed across the land and streaks of tangerine brightened the sky, Kokopelli chanced upon a small herd of grunting peccaries pawing furiously for unseen morsels in the soil. Since peccaries are usually unfriendly and can be quite fierce if they choose to be, he kept a respectful distance, watching as they rolled and bathed in the disturbed dust to rid themselves of skin pests. After they 93

Kokopelli the Wanderer were thus covered, Kokopelli noticed that there were not as many insects plaguing them as there had been previously. Thinking that this was a good idea, he also covered himself in dust as a protection against the biting insects that perpetually beleaguered him. Unrelenting swarms of insects invariably buzzed around his eyes, nose, and head, irritating him considerably and finding his blood a tasty meal in the evening twilight. Instead of appearing a rich, coppery brown, Kokopelli now marched through the desert looking somewhat chalky. He never saw his reflection, however, so he was never startled by his appearance. He had nothing to compare it to, at any rate. His existence was totally unfettered by self-consciousness, self esteem, or vanity. He did not know what a rare quality this was in the world of the two-leggeds.

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Chapter 17 Weeks went by. Fall came to the desert. Fruits ripened on plants of all kinds, signaling that the growing year was ending. Seed eating animals were gathering food for winter, and some mammals prepared to hibernate. Bats began to fly southward to escape winter’s forbidding grip. Larger animals, such as deer, peccaries, and the predatory, hunting mammals — all creatures without burrows — would have a more difficult time when winter arrived to hold the land hostage within its icy grasp once more. Migrating birds were in an eating frenzy, desperate to store up enough fuel for the long journey they must make to warmer climates. From late summer on, another migration would fill the wide skies over the desert, as winter birds came to spend the cold months in the region. Elongated gopher snakes undulated in rhythmic waves across the sand, searching for places to hibernate deep within impregnable rock crevices. The creamy white saguaro flowers were all gone, their nectar with them, but ripe cactus fruits had now appeared. Wood rats raced to eat the prickly pear cactus, using the sharp thorns as ladders to reach this rich source of nourishment. Kokopelli discovered that prickly pear cactus

Kokopelli the Wanderer was quite delicious, once he leaned how to remove the tiny, hairy spines protecting it. Occasionally he found a wild date tree, if he chanced upon a desert spring, and its sweet, soft fruits were a delectable treat. Life had changed before Kokopelli’s eyes as summer gave way to fall, and it was changing once again as fall gave way to winter. He was not sure what these new changes meant, for he had never experienced the cyclical dance of the seasons. He had no elder from his tribe to tell him of the changing seasons, or what the winter would bring. Although he knew what it meant to be chilled, he did not know the depths of cold that winter would generate with its frigid breath. He had never experienced the perils of a winter season above ground. To survive the changes he sensed were coming, he had to be extraordinarily vigilant. Therefore he continued to study those who were his teachers — the creatures of the desert. The animals hurriedly ate the fruits of the desert plants, and the seeds fell to the ground or passed through their bodies unharmed, to be left on the sand in their droppings. As the animal scat dissolved, becoming one with the soil, each seed had the potential to sprout, to insure a future generation. Out of 2,000 seeds from a saguaro fruit, perhaps only one would find its way to grow into a new saguaro. There was much that did not survive in the desert. “Yes, the desert is a wondrous, but dangerous, difficult place,” Kokopelli thought. “Beautiful… but harsh. And now it is changing once more before my eyes. I do not know what is coming. Many creatures are going beneath the ground and not returning. Perhaps another dust storm is coming, but I do not have a place to live underground.” He watched as tremendous amounts of seeds were eaten, stored, or simply withered away. Animals seemed to be in a frenzy to collect more food then ever before. It was clear from observing the actions of the other desert dwellers that it was crucial for him, as well, to spend as much time as he could gathering food as the days grew colder and the desert harvest waned. The urge to survive is strong in every animal, and Kokopelli was no exception. He took whatever precautions he could. Mostly, that involved a wide-ranging, consummate amount of seed, fruit, and berry picking. His sturdy, fibrous bag grew full.

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Ayal Hurst Soon the dry, barren time had returned. The gila monsters retired underground to live off their body fat for the next nine months. The hard times had arrived once again to the desert. The eight foot tall, spindly ocotillo and other desert plants shed their leaves. Fruits fell, and the wildflowers died. The rampant colors that Kokopelli had enjoyed so greatly metamorphosed into muted tans and somber, sandy browns. The saguaro began to live off its stored water, and their cactus stems folded together, in fan formations, to do so. Under a tough and gnarled mesquite tree, a lone coyote howled its hunger in the distance. As the food in Kokopelli’s bag dwindled, life became more difficult. The desert had offered its gifts freely for a time, but the coming of winter would present many challenges Kokopelli had never faced before. He had emerged fortuitously from the ant colony in early spring, after the winter rains had fallen. Soon it would be a full year in which he had lived above ground. Before the winter rains came once more to sustain and brighten the desert, times were difficult for all. Kokopelli began to grow very thin as the grim season progressed. There was not enough fat on his body to preserve or protect him. He had no clothes or fur to keep him warm. For the first time since he came to the desert, Kokopelli found that he could not take delight in the sights around him. He was too cold to notice simple pleasures. All of his energy had to be focused on finding food. Finding a way to stay warm did not seem to be an option. He knew nothing of fire, and he had no shelter. He could only hope to endure. He knew that his life was hanging in a precarious balance. If he became too weak, he would not be able to hunt for food. Then he would soon perish from exposure. The ravages and severity of the weather would be his greatest challenge, if he did not die of starvation. One cold desert evening, when a heavy frost laced the hardened ground, Kokopelli managed to crawl to a meager shelter of barren rock, a stone outcropping that stood isolated in an otherwise flat and empty landscape. He was exhausted and had finally succumbed to the extreme weariness he felt. It had been a stormy, blustery day, one among many lately, as chilling winds blew in from the northwest. He had not found much to eat for

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Kokopelli the Wanderer the past three nights, although he had searched diligently for several hours. The overhang offered him minimal protection from the wind, but it did nothing to alleviate the impact of the arctic temperature, and for a long while he was too cold to sleep. He simply sat under the rock, clutching thin arms around his shivering body. Making things more distressing, the strands of his hair hung rigid and stiff, encrusted with white particles of burning ice that stung his back cruelly when the wind whipped it against his skin. His teeth chattered fiercely against his lips, and his swollen toes had turned a disconcerting shade of blue. They were rapidly losing any sense of feeling. The skin beneath his haggard eyes was pallid and pinched, mottled with an ill-looking, purple hue. Kokopelli stared vacantly into the frigid nothingness that surrounded him for an indefinite period as the dark of night enfolded him. The cold seemed to find its way into his bones with an ache that was difficult to bear. Most of the other animals were either hibernating or were too busy to do anything but work diligently to ensure their own survival. Kokopelli felt very much alone. His endurance had been painfully extinguished, like the spark of a firefly caught in a robin’s beak. He was aware that his life force was depleted, and he did not think he would wake in the morning. “Pperhhhhapppps….” he thought foggily, his thoughts beginning to blur and turn vaporous as the implacable cold crept deeper into his bones, “it is my time to sink into the desert sands and become food for others. That is no bad thing. I have done my best to survive. And I have seen many marvels I never knew existed while living below the earth.” For a moment his eyes focused and he gazed at the world around him. “I do not regret my time here.” Eventually, to his relief, his weary eyes closed. Along with his toes, his entire body began to lose all feeling, and he sank into a strange and delirious dream. He saw himself asleep upon the icy ground. Something stirred him, some movement in the dreaming landscape, however, and his dream self sat up, suddenly aware of a dim shadow in the distance, gradually drawing closer and closer. It seemed to Kokopelli that it moved purposefully in his direction, as if intent to visit him in this frozen wasteland where he lay asleep under the poor shelter of the 98

Ayal Hurst chilled ledge of stone. Unexplainably, Kokopelli had the sense that it had come from a far away place, a land that forever evoked the warmth of spring and the abundant, green fertility of growing things. That seemed a lovely existence, indeed. As it drew nearer, gliding effortlessly across the desolate, fallow earth, he recognized a shape that was familiar to him. Unmistakably, it’s configuration was an antelope, but an antelope unlike any that he had ever seen. It was not small, as the sparse antelope of the desert tended to be, and it palpably transmitted a formidable and overwhelming sense of power. Indeed, it was so regal, so huge and magnificent that it utterly dwarfed the surrounding landscape. The shadow it cast, framed in the cold moonlight, was of mammoth proportions and surged outward across the desert floor, engulfing everything it touched. The great antelope flowed toward Kokopelli in a fluid wave of grace and sovereignty. Its pronged, gleaming antlers made a strange, ringing sound, as if hundreds of invisible birds perched there rejoicing, heralding an event of great tidings. So imposing were the horns of this prodigious being, they seemed to touch the sky, balancing the stars upon their burnished tips. In shock, Kokopelli realized that rays of light were streaming from its body, rays which had, in a mere moment, starkly illuminated the entire region. It was a light so lustrous that he could not see clearly. Shielding his eyes with a trembling hand from the blinding glow, he gazed upward in bewilderment and wonder. A reverent hush had settled upon the desert. Standing majestic and still, far above Kokopelli’s frigid form, the proud head of the antelope gazed down at him from an immense height. Its superbly arched neck was emblazoned with the darkest hues of midnight and the purest shades of glistening snow. Evident in its eyes was deep concern. “Kokopelli!” the Lord of the Antelopes thundered in a voice that roared unhindered through the arctic night, sweeping all before it as a cleansing, desert wind. “You are growing weak! You must last until the sun brings a new day, and then you must eat. Tomorrow, one of my people will come to you and give you its life. It has agreed to do so, for your sake. There will be a helper. One who will come to aid you. From this day forward you 99

Kokopelli the Wanderer must honor the helper and her people. Never hunt or harm them! As she will come to serve you, so must you, in turn, protect her kind. Take the flesh of the one who has chosen to die and lay it in the desert sun to dry. When it is hard, place it in your bag. If you eat of it carefully, you will survive the winter months. You must also take its skin, and scrape it with a sharp rock until it is clean. Then you must pull the skin for many hours until it is soft. Wrap yourself in it when you are cold. You have grown, and the small blanket given to you by your mother is not enough. You may take its antlers to dig for roots to eat, and you may use its tendons for string to strengthen your bag. One bone will you take with you. The day will come when you will know what to do with it. You must waste nothing, for a life has been given to you! From this day forth, the antelope is your kindred. Offer prayers of gratitude to my people! If one is hurt and you are able to help, you must do so. They are sacred to you from this time forth. Walk in Beauty with them.” “How must I do that?” asked Kokopelli in a small, awed voice. “You must learn to sing the songs of the Antelope People, my son, and teach others to honor them.” “What others?” asked Kokopelli. but the vision was gone, and he awoke to a cold, pale dawn.

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Chapter 18 When the sky began to lighten with the assurance of a new dawn, it did not bring joy to Kokopelli. Whatever this day promised, he knew it would be frigid and life threatening. Red-eyed vultures watched him eagerly from the stripped branches of a nearby tree, ready to scour the desert clean of any decay. They had hopped closer during the night, but Kokopelli’s restless movements as he futilely attempted to find warmth had kept them at bay, sorely disappointed. He was dimly surprised to have awakened. Somehow he had survived the night, but it would be another biting and bleak day, bereft of hope. His body was desperately numb and nearly frozen. He was dangerously chilled, and there was no way to gather warmth. As the cold continued, he knew that his life force would quickly wane and soon ebb completely. Slowly, his benumbed mind returned to full consciousness, and his extraordinary dream returned to him. With great awkwardness, he sat up. It was difficult to move. He was clumsy and cumbersome from the cold. None of his body parts seemed able to function. With the return of consciousness came the return of pain. The sand crunched beneath

Kokopelli the Wanderer his shifting weight as icy crystals which had fallen heavily during the night were broken, impaling themselves in his skin. Many places on his body were raw and bled freely. Through dull eyes, Kokopelli looked hopefully at the frosty ground, haunted by the memory of his vision… but saw no hoof prints. Nothing indicated that anyone had visited him during the night. There was nothing around but miles and miles of desolate, barren land. “Ah. Well, then. It was just a dream. A wonderful dream, but just a dream,” he sighed unhappily. He wished that he could recapture it, preferring the strange, luminous realm he had visited in his tormented sleep to the cheerless terrain in which he awoke. Kokopelli gazed around him in distress at a world that was dismally empty of life. Disheartened and sick, he bent a listless head between his knees. “There is no point to getting up. Indeed, it hurts to move.” Kokopelli murmured to himself. As he sat thus, weakened by hunger and despair, the hair on the back of his neck suddenly began to rise. An uneasy premonition of alarm jolted through his apathy, much as a sharp thorn pierces soft flesh. He returned to a state of full alert as the hunter within him awoke. Something was watching him. With a sense of deep foreboding, he slowly raised his head and met the unblinking, golden stare of a large, female puma, a stone’s throw away. “Ahhh,” mused Kokopelli. “So this is how my death will come. I had imagined that I would die of cold. Well, so be it. I am glad that my body, shrunken and starved as it is, will serve another.” Despite these brave words, Kokopelli’s body began to shake at his inevitable and impending doom. This reaction was instinctive - he could not help it. He hoped that the kill would be brief, though he knew that even in its brevity, it would be violent. He had seen it before. The lion would leap upon him, her sleek body flying through the air as she closed the distance between them in a swift gathering of taut muscle. She would rip through the thin skin of his throat with razor sharp claws and gleaming teeth. His blood would flow upon the icy ground, drenching the hard edged frost a dark crimson. And then it would be over.

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Ayal Hurst Kokopelli met the puma’s riveted gaze. His resigned eyes locked with her shrewdly calculating ones, and he opened himself to what would be. Every rigid line of muscle radiated her unwavering intent. With his body close to death, perhaps it would be a comfort to cease to struggle against the cold and the bitter hunger that consumed him day and night. Raising her splendid body off the sand, the lion was ready for the assault. Kokopelli’s body constricted, and he drew one final, shuddering breath. His eyes involuntarily closed, and he waited. It would only take a moment for her to cover the distance between them in one elegant, supple bound. That moment passed. Nothing happened. No rapacious claws had torn him apart. Kokopelli hesitantly opened his eyes. Impossibly, he saw the deadly predator casually stalking away, vanishing with studied dispassion behind a small rise of dunes. Kokopelli was stunned. He had prepared himself for death. His mind was blank and unfocused, his body remote, disoriented. It took him a long while to return to a fully embodied state and understand what he was seeing. The puma had reappeared, laboriously dragging the blood stained carcass of an antelope behind her. She dropped it indifferently a few paces away, in the exact spot where she had sat gazing at him a few moments before, panting slightly from her exertion. For a gripping moment, once again their eyes met as she looked up from her kill. Then, to his utter shock, she began to move away, loping across the sand in that lissome, awe inducing stride which only large cats can master. Slinking off on silent feet as soundlessly as she had arrived, she mutely disappeared into the desert dawn. Kokopelli sat stupefied, looking at the animal lying before him. Instinctively he gazed around, searching for other predators who would be drawn to the smell of blood. None appeared. Hastily Kokopelli crawled over to the body of the antelope. It looked peaceful in its death. Heat still steamed from its carcass in the chill, desert air. He placed a shivering hand upon it. “So. it was NOT a dream!” Kokopelli whispered in the hushed stillness. “I am to live!” Seeking the distant horizon, seeing before him in his imagination once again the imperious Lord of the Antelopes, he thought quietly, “I give you my thanks.” Grinning from ear to 103

Kokopelli the Wanderer ear, practical once more, though still shaking with cold, he faced the momentous job before him. “How am I to take the greathearted gift of this meat?” he wondered uneasily, unsure of what to do next. “My teeth are not sharp enough to strip all of this flesh from its bones. It would rot before I could finish, and I am too weak to do so, at any rate.” As he sat pondering this dilemma, he noticed that next to the carcass was a sharply edged, long rock that came to a very hard, fine point. It was easy to hold and fit into his hand perfectly with a balanced, even weight. “Aha! Another gift,” thought he, smiling happily. “Very well. I can manage this, and I will honor, all my days, the mountain lion and her people, and the people of the antelope, as I was instructed to do. I am grateful for my life, and for the life of this one that was given to me.” After popping some of the raw flesh into his mouth to gain immediate sustenance, Kokopelli spent the rest of that glacial day cutting meat from the antelope. His gratitude warmed him, and hope flowed through his aching muscles. Invigorated, he cut the hide away and saved the tendons to use. He slit the stomach and drank the vegetable juices found there. Then he laid the meat out in the sun, and it dried to a tough jerky that he was able to store away for the difficult weeks to come. He braided the tendons into a twisted cord that supported the heavy weight now straining the strength of his sack. It took him another day of hard labor to scrape the skin of any remaining flesh, and he pulled it for many hours until it became supple and soft. Then, with the sharp stone, he cut three pieces from the hide and wrapped his frozen feet in two of them. The third he made into a sort of cap, binding them all securely with the sinew he had taken from the antelope’s body. The rest of the hide he used as a cape to keep himself warm through the coldest days. He did not know what to do with the bones, other than to smash them and eat the marrow found within them, which was life-giving and nourishing. One long bone from the antelope’s thigh he kept, as he had been instructed. After using all that he knew how to use of the antelope’s body, he sat beside it and sang silently over the remains for long moments, offering thanks.

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Ayal Hurst When he sensed that the spirit of the antelope had accepted his song, warmer and less hungry than he had been for many weeks, he hefted the now laden bag over his shoulder, and departed. He lived. It took him a few days to track the antelope people and travel to their grazing land. As he traveled, he ate of the dried meat, making it palatable with his saliva as he chewed. It nurtured his body, bringing him renewed vitality. For the rest of that bitter winter, he roamed among the antelope herd, learning their songs until spring arrived once more. They sang of swiftness and unrivaled speed; of mighty leaps into the blue, desert sky. They sang of freedom and of brotherhood, for each herd member is answerable for the well-being of the next. They sang of the birth of new fawns in the cool dawn of the morning, and the love of the mother for her soft-eyed child. They sang of their cleverness and their keen eyes, of the need to be wary, to bound away in an instant to insure the survival of their kind. And in the coolness of the desert twilight, they sang of sharing. At night Kokopelli slept amongst them and was kept warm, wedged pleasantly against musky bodies scented with the smell of dried grass. It would not be true to say that Kokopelli was totally comfortable during the cold months, but he did survive better than he originally hoped. Wrapping himself in his antelope cloak, he endured the harsh, frigid winter that remorselessly enveloped the desert lands and challenged all to persist. “I do not know of these ‘others’ to whom I am to sing your songs,” said Kokopelli humbly, bowing to the antelope people one day before he departed in the early spring. “But, when the time is right, I will sing of you, of your grace and kindness, to all who will listen, under the shining moon.”

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Chapter 19 For many days, while all the creatures anxiously awaited the arrival of the early rains of spring, the desert played a coquettish game, bringing heavily laden, hopeful clouds to hover over the horizon, only to have them disperse and blow away upon the wind once again. “Patience, my children,” the land seemed to say. “Be strong a while longer, and endure.” When the billowing thunderheads began to truly amass in unrestrained fervor over the desert skies, the earth and her multitudes rejoiced. All were waiting with bated breath for the promised outpouring of regenerative fluid to impregnate the land. An auspicious looking cloud cover eventually stretched across the sky, growing taller and darker as each day passed. With unmitigated power it grew more massive and more potent as it advanced until it was a black density looming above the horizon. Finally, with the wind howling in proclamation, the clouds erupted in a turbulent sheet of raging water, and the rains fell, drenching the country in a gray curtain which veiled the land. Erratic bolts of coiled lightning split the skies and crashed upon the earth,

Kokopelli the Wanderer incinerating unlucky saguaros. Thunder rattled the heavens, shaking the foundations of the world. Animals both large and small cowered in an ecstasy at once joyful and dismayed, feeling extraordinarily insignificant when compared to this display of magnificent, life-giving force. Each drop of rain struck with tremendous might, pummeling the ground and all that grew upon it. Sturdy plants bent in supplication beneath the storm, roots holding tenaciously to the soil. The branches of barren shrubs quivered and jumped, trembling under the fierce barrage. Spatterings of mud balls arose from the thirsty sand to cling to fur, stems, and feet. Awed and overwhelmed, Kokopelli stood with mouth agape to consume as much of the precious liquid as he could. It soaked his flesh, strafing his forehead, and stinging his eyelids. It ran in dirty, delicious rivulets down his face, washing away the dusty coating he had worn for so long, a coating that had cracked his skin and ground its gritty way into his teeth. He relished the ferocity of the streaming water, and to honor it, he danced in wild and grateful celebration, abandoning himself in delight as the thunder roared and muddy puddles began to froth and foam upon the ground. For a short while, there would be water aplenty for all. After the desert storms had spent their power, delivering nourishment to all the dwellers in the land, everything was in a great flurry to insure its survival before the next great drought set in again. With the abundance of life came its partner, an abundance of death. Garter snakes feasted on the spadefoot tadpoles maturing in the pools, as well as on other newly hatched beings. Lizards dashed off with stolen eggs cradled in their jaws, and deer munched on tender green shoots of grass. Beings Kokopelli had never seen before sprouted from nowhere before his eyes. Among these were the rubbery spadefoot toads who stirred from their underground holes one fine day in early spring. Hopping madly near his feet in a great, bulbous throng, they mulled about happily, croaking full throated, toadish songs. The excited toads had been lured from their underground home by the sound of the rain. For only one month each year they lived above ground, digging their way out of their burrows after hearing the rain pounding and drumming upon the earth. There was much to accomplish 108

Ayal Hurst once they popped above ground, and it had to be done in a very short period of time. They must feed, grow fat, find mates, and lay their eggs before they went back to sleep for the next 11 months. Kokopelli knew this because he had spoken to them. He spoke to many of the desert dwellers now, and he had become wise indeed, learning their ways. He heard many astounding tales, for he asked many questions. His curiosity was piqued by the merry trail of toads, and he stopped to speak with them. “Hello there! May we speak a moment? Good. I would like to know where you come from?” he hailed a large male one day. “Underground! Underground!” It piped up at him as he squatted upon the desert sand. “Underground? But how long do you stay there? Why haven’t I seen you before?” he asked in bewilderment. “We sleep! We sleep!” a high pitched chorus joyfully answered him as other ebullient toads joined in. “We must hurry! Hurry! So little time! So much to do!” And off they hopped in one rejoicing, very determined, jiggling mass. “A strange way to live,” thought Kokopelli. “Not living underground, for that I know. But to sleep most of your life away! How strange!” Yet, in many ways he was like the spadefoot toads, for it seemed to him now that he had been asleep in many ways, before he, too, had emerged from the bowels of the earth. He had already seen that many desert animals needed to hibernate during the harshest parts of the year, when resources were scarce. Hibernation was a good way to escape the most difficult time in the desert, and most animals did so to escape the cold, but it was definitely something Kokopelli was not able to do. The toads, as water beings, needed to hibernate because most of the year there was not enough of that element for them to live within. Therefore, they slept, awaiting the time when it was propitious to emerge. That month, the desert was filled with the sounds of the male spadefoot toads calling to the females, for they had to seize the fruitful moment or lose their chance to reproduce for another year. In the small 109

Kokopelli the Wanderer pools of water left by the desert rain, before they evaporated all too quickly in the relentless sun, the toads would mate. There the tadpoles would hatch and hope to evade the waiting reptiles. The algae in the pools also came to life after the winter rains, and the fairy shrimp eggs that had been laying dormant exuberantly hatched in the pools as well. They matured quickly in order to lay more eggs, which would hatch when the next rains fell. Overnight, after the rains had come, each species raced to insure its own survival. Colorful wildflowers bloomed in the desert, bringing the scents and delightful magic that only water can work in a parched land. Tender shoots of delicate green began to appear. Purple owl clover, poppies, lupines, marigold, brittlebush, all painted the desert in bright colors of gold, purple, reds, blues, and yellows. For a year or longer, wildflower seeds had sat in the blistering soil, their tough seed coverings allowing them to survive both the tremendous heat of the day and the cold desert nights. Only a heavy downpour, such as the desert exulted in now, could bring the seeds to life. Once the seeds of the wildflowers opened, their roots grew as fast as they could to soak up the precious water. Stems, leaves, and gorgeous blooms soon followed in the ecstasy of being alive. The plants knew that they must make new seeds before the soil dried out completely and they died once more in the magnificent cycle of life and death that shaped the desert way. If they failed, their kind would not return in the seasons to come. Unlike their hardy seeds, the wildflowers, once sprouted, could not abide the heat or cold for very long. A few weeks of life, and they would be gone. Their beauty was short lived, but Kokopelli treasured it with every delightful breath. Even though the desert storm drenched the land with rain, not all of the wildflowers were able to bloom. Some waited for long periods of time to burst into full and brilliant life, requiring an exact combination of varying elements in order to thrive. Each had its own, enigmatic path. Certain discriminating flowers had been known to wait as long as fifty years to sprout, holding back until they sensed that all was ready, and their habitat was prepared to offer them the sustenance precisely needed. Then they were willing to emerge.

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Ayal Hurst With the coming of the wildflowers, the desert hummingbirds began to appear in greater profusion to nest, as there was now an abundance of nectar to drink and plenty of insects to feed their young. This created an abundance of eggs for Kokopelli, when he could clamber to reach a low hanging nest. He took only one egg from whatever nest he found, so that the winged ones would continue. In the heat of summer, many different kinds of birds came to the desert to mate and raise their young. They filled the desert with song and left when winter began to encroach once more upon the land. A region renown for its austerity was in full rapture as the miracle of new life burst forth wherever Kokopelli turned his gaze. The rains brought fresh life to the desert two times during the year, and those could be dangerous times for all desert dwellers. The water, though long awaited, fell with such ferocity that flash floods could churn though the dry desert ravines, sweeping all before it to oblivion. Fortunately for Kokopelli, for he knew nothing of floods, this was a year when that did not happen. Kokopelli delighted in this amazing race for life that was erupting merrily all around him. His own life was, in many ways, racing to catch up with itself as well. Fiercely desiring to take in all that he had missed while nesting securely below the earth in the colony of the ants, he was hungry to learn new tales, to absorb knowledge, to partake in new adventures and possibilities. His voracious curiosity and passion for life was insatiable. Now there were many new beings to talk to him. Being alive was a wonderful thing.

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Chapter 20 News spread quickly in the desert, and the other creatures chattered clamorously amongst themselves about the strange two-legged who would spend so much time either speaking to them or sitting under the stars at night instead of hunting and gathering, as was proper. Many desert dwellers loved to gossip and were quite nosey, even if they refused to admit it. This was particularly true of the querulous crows and the spotted skunks. Both the crows and the skunks were known as the best scandal-mongers and talebearers in the animal kingdom, and both were always delighted to spread the word far and wide regarding Kokopelli’s latest escapade. Indeed, they took it upon themselves to do so. How he learned to weave from Grandmother Spider was a delectable tale passed along by one fractious old crow who had watched the entire thing progress. It soon became a popular favorite among the desert dwellers and was soon well known across the land. “Here comes the scrawny two-legged with that nest on his head! Caw-haw! Caw-haw haw haw haw haw!” Crows would uproariously

Kokopelli the Wanderer announce to anyone who chanced to be nearby, pointing their glossy wings in his direction and flapping madly about. He, in turn, nodded to them with the utmost courtesy. That was all one could do with Crows. They were not known for their polite behavior, and it was not unknown for them to spread unpleasant rumors about others when they felt insulted. Crows always thought they were being insulted, even when they hadn’t been. They were very cantankerous. A scruffy, adolescent crow had been following Kokopelli for weeks, avidly hoping for a new tale to recite in order to become respected among the ranks of storytellers. He had watched expectantly as the boy bent down to carefully examine a wounded rattlesnake that had been savagely torn by beak and claws in a grim battle with a red-tail hawk. Although the snake was deadly in its way, it was no match for a large, rapidly descending bird of prey whose strikes were flawless. Kokopelli felt great compassion for the reptile as it lay crippled upon the sand, struggling to maneuver its bloody body to the safety of a tangled paloverde bush. He admired its courage to survive and spontaneously decided to offer his help. The snake regarded him with lidless eyes, too far gone to care and too weak to protest. For many days Kokopelli patiently nursed the venomous reptile, bringing it choice tidbits to eat, usually small rodents and birds that were easily digested. He doused it with the sap of the succulent aloe vera plant (whose wonderful healing properties he had discovered one day when seeking water from beneath its skin), and bound its wounds with a soft weaving he had made from the fluff of thistle down. He did what he could to repair its tortured flesh and give it the strength it needed to mend. The rodent and bird population were not terribly happy about the menu Kokopelli had selected for the snake, but the rattlesnake people took special care after that to notice where Kokopelli was and to keep from striking, if he startled them accidentally. This was indeed a rare and juicy tale, and in the telling, the adolescent crow managed to insinuate, in typical crow fashion, that Kokopelli’s behavior in the matter was quite questionable. “And he fed it birds! Birds! Can you imagine? Apprehensible, wouldn’t you say? Disgusting! Simply disgusting! Hmmph!” For a while after that, Kokopelli found himself the target for an inordinate amount of 114

Ayal Hurst bird droppings. The good news was it seemed to keep the insects at bay. One clear, spring morning, when the sky was aglow with a radiance that dimmed the horizon, tinged with rich splashes of sepia, vermillion, and bronze, Kokopelli watched as the roadrunners came to bask in the sunrise. They raised their feathers high to receive the comforting heat of the sun’s rays, especially exposing the patches of black skin on their backs in order to warm their small bodies, for they were chilled from the cold desert night. Kokopelli lifted his arms, joining the roadrunners in their morning ritual, reaching for the morning rays to warm him as he also honored the sun. He thanked it for its warmth, and offered his respect, knowing it to be a potent force, a force so virulent in the desert land that it could kill as well as nurture life. Soon the road runners were cheered and ready for the new day, satiated with the gift of the sun’s penetrating warmth. Eagerly they raced across the desert sands, cooing raucously as they hunted whiptails for breakfast. Kokopelli saw that they seemed to know where they were going and were off to explore interesting places in a region he had not yet traversed. As he observed them, appreciating their animation and resolve, he suddenly realized that he did not know exactly where he was going, and it occurred to him that he had simply been wandering. Although he had been enjoying it exceedingly, as all had been so new to him and thoroughly remarkable, he decided that perhaps it was time to choose one direction and follow it. The path the roadrunners were taking seemed as good as any. “All the desert animals have a burrow or a home of some kind that they return to, a companion, or a herd in which to roam. I had that in the ant community, and I would like to have that again,” he thought wistfully to himself, shaking his head as he pondered his forgotten purpose. “I emerged to find others like me. It is time to discover who they are, and where they might nest. I will follow these birds,” he concluded, as he and the roadrunners raced with the sun. “They seem to know where they are heading. I will take them as my companions for a while. Let us see where they will guide me.”

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Kokopelli the Wanderer That day Kokopelli began to follow the trail of the roadrunners, looking for friendship and the possibility of new adventures. Perhaps, he thought, he might even find the road that would take him home. For five days Kokopelli and the roadrunners journeyed southward, eating lizards and other small animals that crossed their path. To make it more interesting, Kokopelli decided that he would play a game with them, seeing if he could draw near before they noticed him and streaked away, squawking in rebuke. He had conversed with many animals, but many simply weren’t interested. The roadrunners were of the latter sort. They were simply too hasty and twittery to remain in one place long enough to have a conversation. Sometimes, when the birds ate, he would use the cover of small shrubs and bushes to shield his approach in order to observe them, and then he found that he could study them in more detail, if he remained very still and stayed out of sight. In order to rouse with them at first light, Kokopelli carefully noted where they went to sleep each night, and he secured a resting place nearby. The sound of rustling feathers mixed with cooing noises would awaken him each dawn, when the roadrunners would perform their morning ritual. Kokopelli joined them, though he stood some distance apart. Then they continued on their way. The birds were entertaining companions, always rapidly on the move, always galvanized into action, always bubbling with excitement when they discovered something tasty in the sand. At times it was a challenge for Kokopelli not to lose their trail in the immensity of the desert lands. He raced after them with the loping, distance eating gait of the seasoned hunter, his breathing regulated and slow. They were fleet of foot and intriguing, but their moment to moment changes in decision, going this way and that, eventually began to discourage him. Following them was not, perhaps, a good idea. Thus far, their course had not led him to anything remarkably different from the lands he had already traveled through. There were no burrows in sight where two-leggeds such as himself dwelled. He surmised that other creatures who were, in some way, similar to himself would indeed be smart enough to have a permanent burrow, as the ant people and other desert dwellers did. He watched with a sigh as different creatures slipped cozily away with others of their kind to sleep the night away in snug, underground nests. 116

Ayal Hurst “There must be others like me,” he ruminated fretfully one evening. “Can I be the only one of my kind? No. No! It is not possible! The Queen Mother said that there were others like me. But then again,” he thought, “ perhaps there WERE others like me, but something happened to them, and they are no more.” This possibility was somewhat disconcerting. Kokopelli did not know if he would ever discover the answer to the mystery of the two-leggeds, and it began to plague his mind more and more as the days passed. Where were they? He could find no sign or track of them. Meanwhile, life went on, and he and the roadrunners continued their trek across the desert sands, making their way through an area of high dunes and stunted mesquite trees, dining on kangaroo rats, lizards, and caterpillars when they could find them. One evening, as the sun was sinking in a sky of fire and crimson, one of the adult roadrunners, whom Kokopelli had named Fleetfoot, was diligently pecking away at a juicy grasshopper when it was caught off guard by the soundless approach of a gopher snake. The large snake had moved with the speed of lightning, blending in with the muted colors of the desert sand as it slithered silently toward his prey. Soon Fleetfoot was not recognizable as the swift bird Kokopelli had followed for days across the desert floor. Taking its time to devour the bird in proper snake fashion, gulping the body down its swollen throat bit by bit, the reptile lay on the cooling sand, its belly gorged, quite vulnerable and incapacitated while it digested its meal. An immense bulge soon appeared in its stomach. It would be unable to move for quite some time, and it would not need to eat again for many days. At the demise of Fleetfoot, the small flock of roadrunners screeched in unmitigated fright and fled in absolute terror, scattering posthaste in various directions. Kokopelli assumed they would find one another again, in some other part of the desert, when life had settled down once more. Thus, the period of following the roadrunners came to an abrupt end for Kokopelli. He had admired the finesse of the gopher snake as it stalked its prey and was not unduly troubled by the death of Fleetfoot, for he knew that life and death were a part of the natural cycle. Kokopelli had witnessed the same scenario, with different players, over and over. 117

It was simply the way things were. In this way he agreed with the unfailing, inflexible views of the ant people. Certain things just were the way they were, and resisting it did no good at all. Kokopelli knew, from walking the Way of Harmony, that life continued, in one form or another.

Chapter 21 The features of the desert are sculpted over millions of years by the never ceasing wind, by infinite grains of sand, and by the power of water. The scouring action of the incessant desert wind detaches grains from the rocks to form sand, and then blasts that newly formed sand back against the solid rock, sculpting it into a new configuration. It is an infinitely continuous pattern. The rocks in the desert are affected by the elements and the long and short cycles of life, as are all other beings. They expand when they are heated by the sun, and contract when they cool, as if they are breathing with the changes in temperature that come both with the day and the night. The upper surface of the rock, directly exposed to the sun, becomes much hotter than the underside, and the outside of the rock is, inevitably, hotter than the inside. In time, this deep rock breathing, this expansion and contraction, cracks the rock, and particles begin to break away from its mass. It changes shape. The rock, over time, begins to assume a new form, molded by the elements. Thus the desert landscape is transformed, with the wind as its artist, and the surface of the land is shaped and renewed.

Kokopelli the Wanderer Months had passed. Kokopelli found himself walking through an area where the rock people had been breathing and breaking, changing and forming for a long, long time. It was an area of high desert mesas, mammoth plateaus, and towering buttes. This region of colossal, flat land consisted of long stretches of enormous hills. The size and conformations of the plateaus astounded him. Each was made up of many hued, horizontal layers of sedimentary rock. One massive, flat layer of stone rested upon another, striking in appearance, vivid in contrast, and quite beautiful. The layers become flattened as softer surface rock loosened and was then swept away by the strong desert wind. It was an eerie feeling to walk amidst a landscape of plateaus, Kokopelli found, for they are imposing and unyielding, eternally indifferent to the small life forms living beneath and around them. It seemed to him that these grandiose structures beckoned to one another, as if cords of ageless, unspoken communication existed between them and connected them across huge and empty distances. Despite their size and remote beauty, they are inhospitable, isolated islands in a sea of sand, their smooth peaks starkly silent against the heavens. The plateaus stand aloof, in lofty seclusion, and the barren land around them is still. In this region, there were also smaller, individual hills with weathered, flattened tops, the mesas, and upon occasion Kokopelli climbed some of them to gain a new perspective, although it often took a full day to reach the summit. His hands would tear and bleed, miserably scraped raw as he scrambled over the rough, grainy surfaces. Yet, he valued those moments when his vision could rise above the desert landscape and soar like a bird, times when he could gaze across a vast and expansive horizon, high above the desert floor. He walked among gargantuan buttes, mesas that had been worn away over millions of years until they were reduced to phenomenal, flat topped, individual pillars. These ponderous columns of stratified rock rooted powerfully into the landscape wherever he looked. They stood rigid and remarkable, each unique, each astonishing, each hewn into complex, windswept designs. Kokopelli had never been in a country that was so empty, so stunted of growth, yet so full of inconceivably intricate compositions and patterns. 120

Ayal Hurst Extraordinary to behold, the buttes were carved into shapes that were phantasmagoric, molded by the elements into impossible spirals and twirls, twists and whorls. Sometimes he saw huge boulders precariously propped at odd angles on the edge of a high pillar, ready to topple with the softest of breaths or the touch of a finger, yet insubstantially held in place, as if by an invisible hand. He was traveling through an enormous rock garden, sculpted by some obscure giant who had patiently chiseled away for eons, and whose creative imagination was far beyond his own. Ancient, dried up, winding river channels occasionally crossed some of the plateaus Kokopelli traversed. At the foot of a steep cliff forming the edge of certain plateaus, he found that the ground would slope gently down, extending into a plain. The slope was made from the material eroding from the plateau above, worn away by wind and water and sand. As he journeyed, Kokopelli chanced upon places where there were deep, steep-sided canyons, narrow river valleys, that had been cut away by the action of the rivers for untold centuries. These were the arroyos, where the slope of the old river bed became shallower. It was a place where a living river had once emerged from the highlands and met the plain. He discovered areas where these once fast flowing rivers, now dry and forsaken, had deposited an untold number of pebbles, both large and small. The stones he found were mostly round, having been tumbled and rolled against one another for millenniums. Some of them were shiny to behold, highly polished, and this, he surmised, was due to the constant movement of wind-blown sand rubbing against them. Like Kokopelli, they had made a prolific journey, although the length of their wandering was measured in millions of years rather then seasons. Many of the stones had been drastically transformed through their adventures, undergoing chemical reactions over time. They were no longer what they were when they began…changing, as all things do. An abundant number of them had streaks and striations running across their surfaces resulting from different combinations of iron, manganese oxides, and clay. There were beautiful, eye appealing colors, ranging from bright oranges, to reds and yellows, when iron predominated, to 121

Kokopelli the Wanderer majestic streaks of black when manganese was present. Kokopelli did not know about chemical reactions, but he knew that the stones were very old, and very pleasing to behold. They felt smooth and warm in his palm, and he sensed that they kept many secrets of times gone by.

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Chapter 22 Kokopelli had survived his first year in the desert. During the next year, he knew to store up on seeds, fruits, nuts, and grains in the late summer and autumn. He survived the harsh winter until the rains fell once again, bringing the blush of spring to the land. Life continued on. Each day Kokopelli gained exceptional experiences as he wandered, experiences that, had he known it, shaped him into someone who was beyond the comprehension of most human beings. His exploits were molding him into a powerfully compelling young man. Occasionally he would stop by an ant burrow, and ask if they would send word that he was well to his mother, the Ant Queen, which they did, relaying it from colony to colony, over immeasurable distances. Upon other occasions, he would stop by a web to ask the spider people to inform his teacher, Grandmother Spider, that he continued to use what she taught him in many beneficial ways. At this, the spider people gazed uncertainly at the flopping, woven nest atop his head and shook their small heads in a dubious and slightly embarrassed way.

Kokopelli the Wanderer Nevertheless, they did send word to the Grandmother, who approved of Kokopelli’s versatility. Kokopelli had been traversing through a bleak, plateau burdened land for many weeks. The land seemed monotonous and inhospitable. It did not call to him. He was tired of the sense of oppression and desolation it brought. As he trudged over the crest of a final escarpment and stood gazing outward, his heart began to pulse erratically and then, for a moment, refused to beat at all. He stood blasted where he was, as if lightning struck. The implausible scene which materialized before him could not possibly be real. It was only because he was so dry, and so desperately thirsty, he told himself, that his mind conjured up such an extraordinary thing. Hunting had been sparse, and there had been no cacti for many days from which to draw sustenance. His mind was playing tricks on him. As one usually does with all such visions, he vigorously rubbed his eyes, expecting it to waver, blur, and then disappear. After blinking quite a few times, the impossible fantasy was still there. He had seen mirages before in the desert, images that enchanted the mind and seemed undeniably true, but dissolved into waves of shimmering heat as he approached, leaving him gazing disappointedly at desert sand. Kokopelli was convinced that he was seeing a mirage, and this time he was determined not to be fooled or disappointed again. The vast expanse of liquid matter which lay before him did not dissolve as he drew nearer, however. Taking halting, tentative steps, he inched his way closer. Not for an instant did he allow his attention to waver, for he was profoundly convinced that, being a mirage, it would evaporate at any moment. How else could such a thing be explained? Nevertheless, the nearer he came, the more he reluctantly became persuaded of its reality. As delicious smells and sounds continued to penetrate his senses, he had to accept that what he was seeing was solid. It was inconceivably real. It was beyond inconceivable…. The enormity of it…it was staggering! As a thirsting desert traveler dashes toward a desperately coveted oasis, he began to hasten toward it, stumbling, his eyes filled with wonder. The difference between Kokopelli and other desert wanderers 124

Ayal Hurst was, of course, that they knew such possibilities existed. Until now, Kokopelli had no idea that such an oasis could be part of the world in which he lived. The presence of the river was so breathtaking that it bordered on the supernatural for Kokopelli. He had no reference point for it. It stirred in him such rapture that, even though it tumbled lush and wild before him, it was difficult to accept its existence. Once again, Kokopelli experienced a drastic shift in his understanding of the known Universe as this implausible “illusion” became an actuality. The confines of what he had thought reality to be flowed over, escaping its boundaries to show him a potential that stretched his mind to the utmost. It was quite a task to integrate it. There had been other enlightening, life changing moments for him since he had hatched from the earth, experiences he now treasured, for they had dramatically expanded his awareness. Sights, sounds, and smells he had never conceived of had been revealed. He had come to love the desert sunrises and sunsets, their vivacious colors sweeping majestically across the broad horizon. In silent regard he had basked in the light of the full moon leaning over the desert sands. It had been his first comfort in a strange land, a gleaming orb of silver, warding the night. He had played amongst the lurking shadows and angled flows of darkened forms the twilight sent skulking across the desert floor, finding their winding way into deep crevices of stone. He had witnessed the birth of newly opened flowers who revealed their glory to all, proclaiming, “Yes! Now you see what I was meant to be!” These were the sights and experiences of the desert that he had come to cherish. But the sight of the river — it taxed his imagination. So much precious water, all in one place! It was unheard of. How could it exist? Water was something that came in minute drops of rain or dew, to be hoarded, utilized as quickly as possible before it evaporated, disappearing before your eyes as you gazed upon it. But this…this was…Unthinkable! Elated, he stood upon the brink of an embankment crowned with soft, green grass, gazing down at the abundantly flowing water. Kokopelli was both enthralled and utterly bewildered by the river. It was so different from all that he had ever witnessed in the harsh, desert 125

Kokopelli the Wanderer wilderness that he came to the only conclusion he could — it was an anomaly. The world he understood was made of parched land, dusty sand, rugged rocks, and searing winds. This was certainly not the world he knew. “This must be all the water in the world!” he whispered to himself. It seemed an infinite, inexhaustible supply. Perhaps, he thought raptly, all the water everywhere had been gathered at the behest of Spirit to cavort gaily in this one, extraordinary place. Perhaps there would be no other sight such as this seen ever again. “It must be the only one of its kind,” he reasoned, “for I have traveled far and never seen another. Such grandeur can come but once. There cannot be more water then this! This must be all there is. I am honored indeed to have been led to this place!” Life in the desert was not always gleeful, but the river frolicked and leaped in constant abandon. It seethed over everything in its path, roaring in wild exultation. Kokopelli drew nearer, completely beguiled. Cold, white froth splashed against his sunburned face, soothing him, and his lungs opened wide to breathe in the rich, moist air. The pleasant breeze that seemed an invariable part of this environment wafted gently toward him. He found it intoxicating. “I cannot truly understand this,” he thought, “but it is wonderful!” The river invigorated him, as it seemed to invigorate all that was near. Large aspen and cottonwood trees grew in profusion along the embankment, drawing up as much of the watery, life giving sustenance as they desired, an enviable, but rare situation in an otherwise sparse and austere land. Kokopelli sat in the golden shade of a quaking aspen tree, astounded at its girth. It was nothing like the stunted desert bushes that he knew, and he basked in the remarkable feeling of being cool in the daytime. It was exhilarating not to have to hurry to find shelter from the sun’s merciless heat. Kokopelli relaxed in ease, relieved, letting the burdens of survival, for once, fade into the background of his mind. “If I did nothing else but live here and suck in this delicious air for the rest of my life,” he thought gratefully, breathing deeply, “it would be enough!”

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Ayal Hurst The Place of Singing Water, Kokopelli named it, and the peace which emanated from it effortlessly calmed him, leaving him feeling placid and tranquil. The rich, pungent scent of green, growing things was strong in his nostrils. His heart felt renewed, reclaimed somehow, and it seemed to settle in his chest with a profound sense of rightness that he could not easily explain. As Kokopelli sat upon the river bank, gazing hypnotically at the water buoyantly coursing along its way, his attention was eventually drawn to a shallow area of pooled water where a flock of small, gray birds were gathered. They were making quite a commotion. A long line of them was eagerly strutting through a good sized puddle, preening their feathers and bouncing up and down in the small water hole. Their antics amazed him, for they seemed totally unconcerned that their raucous behavior might jeopardize them, enticing a predator. In fact, quite the contrary, they were delighting in being as exuberant and clamorous as possible. Bemused, he continued to watch, and it soon became evident that the birds were attempting to dunk one another in a free for all display of supremacy. Every few moments, a sly competitor would stealthily hop into the air, descending in a wet, feathery mass to land heartily upon the head of an intended victim. Singing lustily, especially when the surprise assault scored and a head was successfully submerged, they flaunted and swaggered in evident satisfaction, flopping about the pool, each one getting dunked, each one vociferously claiming to be the victor, the ultimate puddle master. “My turn! My turn!” they twittered, swatting and shoving one another with soggy wings. “Move over! Oooff! Let me up! Off my head, you fat, feather brain! How many worms have YOU been eating lately? Too many, I’d warrant. GET OFF!” Intrigued by their hilarious squawks and feigned indignation, Kokopelli found that his lips had begun to twitch. They twitched and jerked, contorting spasmodically until he was no longer able to contain them. To his immense surprise, a noise erupted from his throat, and he found himself laughing uproariously. As one, the little birds ceased their shenanigans, a multitude of tiny eyes staring with obvious

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Kokopelli the Wanderer consternation in his direction, and then, sensing no danger, they resumed their boisterous head sitting contest once more. The foreign sound of his laughter was astonishing to Kokopelli. Once he began, he found it impossible to stop. It flowed out of him all at once, gathering momentum. Like the river, it roared in wild abandon. He laughed so hard that he could not breathe, and his belly began to flutter and shake until it pained him. Life in the desert was a serious thing. Although many interesting and marvelous things happened, there was not a great deal that could be taken so lightly. He had never known laughter. In fact, never had a loud, extended sound emitted from his throat except for an occasional “whuf!” when he fell or stumbled along his way. “This must be a good thing, this strange bark spewing from me,” Kokopelli gasped, bewildered, “although it hurts in a most peculiar way. It sounds like…like an angry ground squirrel!” At this thought, he laughed harder than ever, doubled over, grasping his middle and guffawing in full force. Not only that, but his eyes had begun to seep the salty fluid, though he was not feeling at all sad. Eventually his laughter diminished, dwindling into small, choked coughs and wheezes that, even after they had abated, left him feeling quite weak. Slightly dazed, he lay limply on his back looking at the sky, feeling relieved with the return of his breath. After a few moments, his mood changed, and he began to somberly wonder about the laughter, pondering what it was, and where it came from. His gaze lingered on the little birds for a moment, but not for long as he did not want to start barking again, and he returned to watching the river. Since his arrival at the ant colony, no such sound had ever escaped his lips. “Perhaps this odd bark comes from the same place where the salty fluid lives in me,” he reflected, “before it streams from my eyes. I suppose it happens because I am a human boy.” And this was quite true. After a while Kokopelli slept, lulled by the lilting music of the river. It was so easy to simply relax here, letting fear and struggle subside. It was easy to allow the softness of the cool turf beneath his body cradle him and send him into gentle dreams.

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Ayal Hurst Awakening hours later, his tired muscles felt revived, and a contented smile settled upon his face. He lay there for quite a while, not thinking about anything. He was savoring the sensation of being idle, simply allowing thoughts to drift lazily through his mind, and therefore he felt slightly annoyed when something began to disturb his reverie. It was an elusive noise drifting toward him, weaving its way through the damp air that bothered him. It was not the sound of water, or of wind. Abruptly he sat up. It was such an unusual, irregular sound that he became instantly alert. The truth was, he had never heard such a sound before. Perhaps it was a strange animal that only lived along the riverbanks, hiding in the bushes, seeing him as easy prey. There had to be predators here with so much abundant life in the vicinity. He had been too lax, lulled into carelessness. With caution, he scanned the surrounding area, intently seeking the source of his unease. Kokopelli had become a master tracker during his sojourn in the desert, but the river was a completely new environment for him. He was not used to tracking near an immense, roaring body of water which erratically distorted the direction sound came from. Thoroughly intrigued, and once again focused on safety and the need to survive, he crept silently around the embankment, determined to discover the source of this peculiar call. Usually Kokopelli could pinpoint the location of something within moments, for his hearing had become extremely acute as he wandered. It was a necessary ability he’d had to develop if he wanted to live. Hindered by the current circumstances however, he had to explore a large area of the territory surrounding the river, meticulously searching before he discovered what this sound was. During all that time, the eerie warble continued, leading him on. There were many tall stalks of reeds growing along the river bank, and, to his surprise, it was the wind blowing across one of these long reeds that he had heard. This particular reed had, he saw, as he drew closer, a series of holes pecked along it’s length. As the wind blew across the reed, a haunting melody floated above the rush of the water. Kokopelli became quite still and found that he was holding his breath. It was uncanny, but he could not deny that the reed was singing! On this very day he found that he could make a sound. So, too, was this plant finding its voice! What did it mean? The reed sang a plaintive 129

Kokopelli the Wanderer song that somehow invisibly stole into the deepest crannies of his soul. Tears trickled down his cheeks, but he was unaware of them. How long he listened, he did not know. At some point, as if drawn by a transparent thread, Kokopelli carefully crept down to the bottom of the embankment. While he had watched the river froth and roar from the safety of the shore, he had found the sheer power of it electrifying. As he drew closer, however, it was terrifying. The river was magnificent. Yet, it seemed to Kokopelli that it was ultimately heedless, oblivious of others in its whirling, madcap race of life. Moving with great respect, and a certain degree of rising tension, he treaded warily, grabbing handholds and bushes where he could, wading knee deep toward the tangle of reeds floating in the shallow water. No part of his body had ever been so deeply immersed in water before. It was absolutely clear to Kokopelli that the power of this water dwarfed any power he had ever seen. “A person would get swept away and lost in this,” he muttered uneasily as he watched debris being rapidly carried down the river. He did not know what drowning was, for he had never seen a body of water so large that one could be fully absorbed by it. But he knew that it demanded his complete attention. “The water is so unconcerned with me that it would never notice if I fell and lived within it. I would become but another broken branch tossed and twisted upon it,” he mused. This was not a comfortable thought, and the tension he was already feeling in his body measurably heightened. The water was very cold, and this also made it more difficult for his muscles to function. If he slipped, he knew the river would grasp him in its fluid arms and not let go. It would hurl him restlessly hither and thither toward some unknown destination. Perhaps it would even send him to his death, beating him cruelly, relentlessly, against a jagged rock as it swirled him along in its capricious and inescapable embrace. With this sobering image, he clutched his way from one tree limb to another, lowering himself slowly, with great caution, to where the bushes lay. In the shallows he found that, if he walked gingerly, he could make his way to the growth of cane seeded at the river’s edge. There the water did not rush by so ferociously, though it furtively tugged

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Ayal Hurst at him nonetheless, attempting to thrust him into its wildly whirling, turbulent dance. Kokopelli barely managed to keep his balance as he sloshed deliberately against the inexorable pull of the water. Bottom silt and soil became disturbed as he made his way toward the reed. The water got murkier and murkier under the passage of his feet. Pliant brown mud squished luxuriously between his toes, an unusual sensation. Although a part of him remained alert, to insure his continued safety, the closer he came to the sound, the more he seemed to meander through the shallows in a vague and misty dream, as if he were beguiled. Though he did not recall when, he evidently reached his objective, for at some point, he found himself standing, unmoving, staring steadily at the magic reed. For a moment, Kokopelli remained transfixed, eyes closed, as the reed once again cast forth its haunting melody. Beyond understanding, it had not only lured him to this place but captivated his soul, as well — and he was willingly spellbound. Suddenly, the breeze stopped, and the song of the reed stopped as well. The abrupt cessation of sound startled and bereaved Kokopelli. The magic ended. He opened his eyes reluctantly, as if he had been awakened from a trance. Gasping for air, he sucked in his breath with a loud gulping noise.

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Chapter 23 Knowing that simply taking such magic without permission was unthinkable, Kokopelli wondered how he might acquire the song of the reed without offending the River Spirit. Everything had a life force of its own, this he knew, and some Spirits had to be approached carefully and deliberately. The saguaros had a spirit, as did the wind. All that he touched had its own essential life force and intelligence. When he chose to pluck a cactus fruit, he always asked permission. In this way the thorns did not pierce him, and the saguaro willingly released the fruit into his hands. When he hunted, he always asked that the animal who was willing to give its life be the one who came to him, so that he might live. And so it was. He remembered speaking with Grandmother Spider and the other desert dwellers. Perhaps he could contact the Spirit of the Water in the same way, although communing with such an immense force might be an entirely different situation. As a humble supplicant, therefore, with proper deference, he sent forth a fervent call, hoping to touch the formidable source of Power which, though invisible to his eyes, he sensed was nearby. Never had he desired anything so much. Amazed at

Kokopelli the Wanderer his own audacity, he passionately asked for this gift. He needed to carry the song with him wherever he went, to explore the mysterious hold it had upon his heart, to be continually delighted with the eloquent sweetness of its voice. With reverence and homage, Kokopelli silently honored the River, praising its beauty and strength, asking permission of the Spirit that guarded the water if he might take this reed for his own. It was a very bold thing to do, small as he was in comparison to the magnificence of the mighty elemental being before him. Yet, he could not ignore the sense of absolute rightness he felt in doing so. He was convinced, beyond any doubt, that this maker of song was meant for him. He had come to this exact place, at this exact moment in time to hear this summons. It was a call to something yet unknown to him. It was something, he knew, that would inevitably mold his life from that moment forth. Thus, a hopeful Kokopelli offered a profoundly yearning heart to the River Spirit, to do with him as it would. Although it was clear to him that the reed was what he sought, he had no idea what else to expect. For a few desperate and disappointing moments, all that Kokopelli could hear was his own breathing and the rapid pounding of his heart. Not so much as an eddy stirred upon the surface of the water. There was a glassy, hypnotic quality to the air, a remote stillness that droned around him — a stillness that all at once shattered into a towering spume of thundering froth as a colossal fish hurtled from the invisible, dark abyss of the water. It was twelve feet long and wider than his own body, surely the King of all fish, a Promethean Lord awakened from the deep! Pulsing light swirled along its length, as if thousands of gemstones were faceted to its skin, rippling from brilliant silver to gleaming gold, sparkling sapphire to burnished bronze. It was utterly resplendant…and perilous. In an extraordinary movement, too sudden and too blurred for Kokopelli to follow, it maneuvered its muscular body to hover eye to eye before him. It was so close, so intimidating, that Kokopelli instinctively stepped backwards in alarm. A heartbeat later, a cold wall of water, higher then his head, struck him from an imperceptible flick of its heavy tail, saturating him from head to toe. He staggered clumsily. Aghast, feet slipping in the murky mud, he reached for something to grasp, but there was nothing, and his balance was lost. He fell, landing roughly 134

Ayal Hurst in the river, the water rising to his waist. It was a warning. He took an involuntary breath, swallowed his fright, and, despite the tenacious pull of the current, managed to stand up. Very quietly, holding quite still, he stood, waiting as water streamed from his skin. The Great Fish stared at Kokopelli intensely. Within those enormous eyes there dwelled a dangerous beauty. Purling like mist upon the sea, a vortex of sunlight inhabited their depths….a maelstrom of seething energy gazed at Kokopelli, dazzling him. Time stood still. There was no breath, no wind, no sound. Exposed and vulnerable, his heart was the only thing in motion, beating thunderously against his chest as the Great Fish stared at him relentlessly, seeking the dark, hidden places within him. His soul was ensnared. All of his secrets were revealed, both the light and the shadow. He no longer knew where he was, or how long the King of Fish wrought his magic, testing his fortitude and deliberating his worth. An eternity passed, and Kokopelli was judged free of guile. With a slight nod of its head and a brief glimpse of flaming scales, the majestic being slowly descended in a timeless and unbearably beautiful arc, a shimmering streak of hallowed light returning from whence it came. The water parted to receive it. A cavernous whirlpool, the depths of which were unfathomable, awaited it. The reed fell into Kokopelli’s outstretched hand. In what could have been simply minutes, or perhaps days later, Kokopelli found himself sitting under the aspen tree upon the embankment overlooking the river. How he got there he could not remember. Held tightly in his hand was the reed. He took an uncertain breath and exhaled slowly. It was true, then, and not a fantasy. For hours he sat holding the reed, examining it carefully with tender hands, turning it this way and that. He did not know if it would survive, taken away from its home near the water. But, it had been given to him for its song. Therefore, he hoped that it would survive, and that he would discover its mystery. Thinking back, it seemed that the wind had helped bring the voice he so longed to hear again to life. Kokopelli held the reed up in the air, and waited, optimistic that this would activate the hidden melody. Nothing happened. He waved it around a bit, creating a small draft, but still nothing happened. He became disconsolate. 135

Kokopelli the Wanderer Perhaps the reed was his to have, but not the song. Doubts assailed him. Should he not have asked for the reed, or should he have offered a different prayer? Was his heart not reverent, not true enough to warrant such a gift? Days passed, and still the reed remained silent. Despite his confusion, the riverbank was a welcoming place to stay. It was not difficult to survive there. There was plenty to eat. There were few dangers, and Kokopelli chose to sojourn there a while. Each day he tried to evoke the song from the reed, but it’s voice had been stilled. One evening, noticing that a small piece of fluff had gathered on the top of the reed’s hollow opening, for cane is a hollow, jointed grass, he softly blew into the end hoping to clear it of debris. Lo and behold! A sound emanated gently from the reed, wafting gloriously into the cool night air. This was the key then, his own breath, as the wind was the breath of the earth. In the weeks that followed, Kokopelli learned to play the flute, for that is what it was. He learned to move his fingers across the different holes to make the sounds differ in pitch and melody. He began to allow the sounds to weave in and out, taking him where they would. Sometimes he heard the sighing of the rain, or the softness of clouds drifting in a summer sky. Sometimes he heard the desert sounds, the sounds of survival, the hunger and thirst of the creatures there. Often he heard the song of the river, and sometimes he heard the rhythm of his own heart. It merged in fluid song with the heartbeats of all those who had sat with him in harmony and silence, under a tender moon. He was so enthralled by the power of the reed that at times days went by before he realized that he had not taken time to eat or sustain his body. Then he would climb down to the river and catch a fish in his woven bag. After he was satiated, his schooling with the reed began again. In some way, the flute seemed to play him. He learned to get out of the way of what he thought the song should be, for often it seemed that a song was already present, waiting to be birthed, before he played it. At those times, he simply surrendered to its whispered messages, listening deeply, letting the story flow through him. He sat on the riverbank in an altered state, his breath gentle upon the end of the reed, an ecstatic smile upon his face. As his fingers moved swiftly upon the reed, the song weavings, his breath, and the harmony of his heart all became One. 136

Ayal Hurst Kokopelli crafted a special woven bag for the flute, padding it with leaves and thistle down to protect it from harm. He strapped it onto his back, next to his bag of seeds and his antelope skin. In this way he continued on his journey, filling the world, and his soul, with the magic of music wherever he went. Sometimes it was infused with joyful laughter, and sometimes it was infused with the healing power of tears.

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Chapter 24 Climbing onto a wind-scoured mesa at sunset some months later, Kokopelli gained an unobstructed view of the horizon for miles in every direction. The colors of the sunset stretched to fill the sky, from the far heights of heaven down to the rim of the desert floor — bright hues of sun streaked salmon, ripe orange, lemon, ruby red, and bright pinks, with wisps of turquoise sky tucked in between. From his view high atop the mesa, as Kokopelli gazed outward, he saw what appeared to be a thin line of tenuous gray rising above the horizon, to the east. He did not know what this was, but, as it was something different, something he had never seen before, he took it as a guide, and the next morning he set out in that direction. The funnel of wispy fog turned out to be further away than it had first seemed. After many days of travel, climbing more mesas then he cared to, to be sure the gray, vaporous guide was still in front of him, Kokopelli at last emerged onto a slope leading down to one of the desert plains. To his great astonishment, spread below him, he gazed in disbelief upon his first human settlement. It was a small village nestled not far from the base of the plateau.

Kokopelli the Wanderer Arrested in mid-stride, Kokopelli had halted abruptly, and the sudden cessation of motion jarred his knees. Shock kept him immured for some time. Standing there, with the breeze blowing in his direction, he became aware of peculiar smells and sounds wafting up from the village below. They were utterly strange, and he could not place them. The smells certainly did not make him want to go any closer. The animals in the desert had many smells, of course, and they had many voices. The whirl of an owl’s wings made an unearthly, sibilant sound that raised the flesh on Kokopelli’s arms as it whooshed down from the sky to pounce upon unwary prey. The barking of a fox yowling under the waning moon was well known to him. The shrill twittering of birds as they discussed building their nests was familiar. But… these sounds were very different, and they were too copious to clearly separate into any discernible pattern. He had never seen so many animals gathered in one space. And the smells — they were quite putrid, unlike the clean, desert breezes, the musky scent of animal fur, or the pungent fragrance of wildflowers in bloom. He was unsure what to do. He did not know precisely what it was that he was actually seeing, hearing, or smelling. There was nothing stored in his memory that he could compare it to. As he studied it, the hustle and bustle reminded him in some ways of the ant village, although it was outside, on top, instead of inside and down under. A variety of forms were going in and out of what looked like uniform rock caves, all located in approximately the same area and all the same size, which was very unusual. Most of the beings in this colony seemed to be upright, two-leggeds who walked as he did. Each had a long appendage growing from either side of their neck that seemed similar to his own arms. Other forms, resembling various desert birds, scuttled around making loud, squawking noises, and there were some furred beings that padded across the hard packed trails between the caves who strikingly reminded him of coyotes. “If coyote or his cousins live here, that may not be so good,” thought Kokopelli wryly. He knew this wily creature well. Occasionally, the sounds the two-leggeds made were not so different from the hootings and calls of the animals in the desert, he discerned 140

Ayal Hurst after a while, but the smells continued to assault his nostrils and offended him. He had NEVER smelled anything like this before. There were so many layers of them, and they wove into such an unbearable stench that he could not clearly tell one from another. He had never smelled fire before, or the scent of human bodies other than his own. Never had he smelled the pungent odor of latrines, of hides drying in the sun, or the charred redolence of cooked food. The only food he had ever eaten was raw. He had never smelled the bubbling dyes which had been extracted from plants to create vibrant colors for clothing slowly simmering in huge pots. He had never even seen clothing, other than his blue shawl, woven hat, and antelope skin. “What strangely mottled, hanging skin these beings have”, he thought, as he looked upon the fringes and tassels of their different colored cloth. “Is it fur, or feathers? Both, or neither?” He shook his head in consternation. It was incomprehensible. For two days Kokopelli (who had learned during his long sojourn through the desert never to lose energy hurrying) quietly observed the activity of the village. From behind a large boulder stoutly entrenched on the slope leading down to the plain, he heard the lyrical laughter of the children as they played boisterous games of tag, racing one another up and down the village streets. It caused him to smile, reminding him of a small Kokopelli racing through the corridors of the ant colony. The rhythm of their laughter resonated smoothly in his ears, like songs. It called to him, as the lilting melodies he played on his flute called to him, cadences that captured the flight of a mirthful breeze or the dance of starlight in an autumn sky. He felt lighter, suddenly, hearing their laughter. Something within him that had been closed, some part of him that had been unknowingly oppressed by the constant need to adjust and survive, opened and reached longingly toward them. He wanted very much to play his flute and romp amongst them as he had once seen fox cubs do, carefree, scuffling near their den under the watchful eye of a loving mother. “Well,” he finally decided. “I suppose that it is time to meet these beings. Although they make this disgusting and gagging stench, they sometimes make delightful sounds, as well. Those sounds the small ones make stir my heart. They are not unlike the ones I make when my 141

Kokopelli the Wanderer belly shakes. The smells are unpleasant, but I have coped with difficult scents before. I remember when the beetles released their scents in the ant colony— phew! Perhaps,” he thought hopefully, “these beings will know the Harmony of all things, and they will be worthwhile to meet. Perhaps this is what I have been searching for, for so long.” He considered this, nodding his head in confirmation of his thoughts, doing his best to convince himself that the scene he saw before him was indeed an inviting one. Besides, he had long ago made a vow to face the unknown without fear. “Yes. I will explore further. At any rate, I have learned all I can from behind this rock, and experiencing new things is nothing strange to me.” Taking his flute from behind his back and slipping it from its padded carrying web, Kokopelli began to play. He closed his eyes for a moment, and then he played the music of children laughing. “This, at least,” he thought, “we share.” As he made his way down the slope, coming closer and closer to the village, a number of people who were harvesting corn in the cultivated fields outside the perimeter of the settlement noticed movement. They gazed up to see a lone, naked figure, with a nest upon his head, carrying a large sack and making unusual sounds on a reed, striding purposefully toward them. It was quite a shock. One old woman pointed a long, bony finger, and shouted “Look! Look there!” “What can it be? What IS it?” trilled another in a high, strangled voice, eying this naked stranger with sincere anxiety. Others simply stared, entirely bewildered. Because of the direction of the sun, Kokopelli loomed enormous, a black silhouette against the sky, a great hump seemingly perched upon his back. It was an eerie vision. One man, who had stood paralyzed, suddenly bellowed, at no one in particular, “Get the village Elders!” and at the same time another cried, “Someone find the Shaman!” People scattered in all directions — some to find the Elders, some to find the Shaman. Mothers hurried to scurry their children to safety inside the adobe huts situated in clusters throughout the village, while others shaded their eyes against the glare of the sun, craning their necks to better see who, or what, was walking down the slope toward their settlement. 142

Ayal Hurst By the time Kokopelli reached the bottom of the hill, there was a delegation of village Elders, including the Shaman, standing with arms folded across their chests, waiting to greet him. A throng of people stood behind them, milling about restlessly, hoping to catch a glimpse of this odd creature. What this event portended, and what might transpire, no one knew. Despite the ominous discomfort all felt at this unknown occurrence, it was, at least, far more interesting than hoeing corn. And that sound he made from the reed. Quite remarkable! Enticing, actually. The children were so excited that they fidgeted with agitation, hopping from one foot to another, impatiently awaiting the outcome of this unexpected entertainment. Squirming closer, they darted recklessly under the legs of the adults in front of them, only to be firmly sent to the back of the crowd with stern admonitions. When he reached the Elders, Kokopelli stopped playing and gazed into their faces. Their visages bore a multitude of expressions — amusement, censure, appreciation, concern, mystification, fear, anxiety, and disbelief. Kokopelli drew a deep breath. Going bravely toward one who appeared to bear the least oppressive countenance, he touched his antennae to the man’s forehead, to offer his friendship and his name, asking in silence for the friendship of this other. Nothing happened. Only deep quiet did he hear. In fact, the man jumped back, spluttering in absolute amazement, nearly treading on a small child who stood watching in fascination behind him. Due to the length of his hair, no one had, until then, noticed Kokopelli’s unusual protuberances. At that moment, a brisk wind arose which blew his hair away from his head, and there they were, standing out for all to see. At this, gasps of shock and astonishment erupted from the crowd, and dark mutterings began to be heard rising from the two-legged swarm milling nervously around him. “He is a bad spirit!” muttered one, his fear surging toward Kokopelli like a storm. “Perhaps he is a God,” whispered another. “Perhaps he comes to steal away our children!” shouted a third. “How dare he walk naked into our village?” demanded a fourth in palpable outrage.

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Kokopelli the Wanderer At that, one of the most venerable and esteemed Elders raised his hand, and a hushed stillness descended rapidly upon the people. Everyone turned eagerly to hear what he would say. Facing Kokopelli stoutly, he said: “Stranger in our midst, your appearance is unprecedented, and your arrival brings dissension and fear to the people. Tell us immediately why you have come, and who you are!” Kokopelli smiled tentatively at the sound of his words. Obviously they were directed at him, but he could not understand them. They at least did not sound too hostile. He began again to try to communicate by placing his antennae against the head of the elder, but this man also stepped back in fear and consternation. Angry murmurs began to rise again, their violent note frightening Kokopelli as they pounded and pulsed against his skin. Faces snarled at him in revulsion. “It’s not safe here!” he thought urgently to himself, quickly making a decision to leave. He gathered his courage tightly around him, his only shield in a bitter wind. “They move toward me like a swarm of angry bees! If they decide to attack, there are too many of them. The ants were right,” he thought disgustedly. “Two-leggeds are unaware and monstrous creatures!” Visions of his old, childhood memories returned to him, flashing before his eyes in all their horror. “I was foolish to come into their midst!” He swiftly turned to go, hoping that he would be able to escape intact. He moved a step backwards, keeping his eyes warily upon the crowd. Ever so gently, but firmly, he felt a restraining pressure upon his arm. “Wait,” said a kindly voice. Kokopelli halted uneasily at the sound. Turning to the others who still muttered darkly amongst themselves, the voice said again, with unmistakable authority: “Wait, all of you! Calm yourselves! I will find a way to speak with this young man.” It was an irrefutable command, not to be disobeyed, for it was the Shaman who laid this charge upon them. Although many still pulsed with violence, his will overcame them all, for he was the undisputed power of the tribe. His presence was too strong, too potent with mystery for any to defy him. The mutterings of the people slowly ebbed, and he looked sharply at them from narrowed eyes, eyes that were depthless and inscrutable…eyes that saw many things that others could not. 144

Ayal Hurst “There are many ways to speak, ways that most of you do not know. Do not let your hearts be ruled by fear and immediately think the worst about what you do not understand. Let us pass.” And, wooden staff in one hand, he began to walk forward, beckoning to Kokopelli with the other. Kokopelli hesitated a moment, weighing the wisdom of moving further into the midst of these people. He was not a coward, but the desert had taught him prudence and caution above all things. Great courage, agility, and strength had been honed within him through his many years of wandering. He was lean and muscular. Although he did not know it, he was a striking figure with his long, tangled hair and penetrating eyes. In some ways, Kokopelli reminded the people of the Shaman, now that they looked at him more closely. He radiated an aura of such controlled power and confidence, despite being surrounded by so much that was strange and possibly threatening to him, that the people could not help but notice it. They were impressed, despite their fear. Kokopelli felt the mood begin to shift, a subtle current of change upon the air. He was always alert to obscure movements or sudden alterations in energy happening nearby. He had to be, to continue to live. He had braved the desert, and he had survived, learning from the wisdom of the creatures there. He had learned from the plants, and the wind, from Grandmother Spider, the sun, the sand, and the rain. He had spoken to the River Spirit and been answered. Kokopelli had developed abilities other human beings never mastered. The silence and solitude he endured had deeply attuned him to life’s mysteries. He had touched those mysteries irrefutably and become part of them. The remarkable was simply a part of who he was. His was a wild dignity, and that deeply frightened the people…yet, it intrigued them as well. The thought of violence did not enter Kokopelli’s mind, but it had entered the minds of these others. His appearance was so impressive, however, that none wanted to engage him in physical combat. They opened a way before him to let him pass. “Come,” the Shaman said again, exerting a firm pull on Kokopelli’s arm. “I think that together you and I will find a way to unravel the mystery of who you are.” 145

Kokopelli the Wanderer Kokopelli was still very much on alert as he and the Shaman walked past the now subdued assemblage of two-leggeds. He followed this imperative being, someone he instinctively felt he could trust, into the narrow, dark opening of one of the rock caves, into the unknown, once more.

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Chapter 25 “These are not bad people,” chuckled the Shaman, although he knew that Kokopelli did not yet understand him. But, conversation was always a good thing. It soothed the spirit, if spoken with kindness, and it served to connect one heart to another. “They are simply startled by what they do not know,” he continued, “and they tend to be superstitious regarding what is strange to them. But come. We will eat and refresh ourselves, and then we will see what we can discover between us.” Kokopelli paused a moment as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the cave. He then entered the square hut, staring around inquisitively at the walls which were hung and laden with many things he did not know. Nor could he begin to guess their purpose. Having walls around him and a roof over his head was reassuring, however, as it reminded him a great deal of the chambers in the ant colony. The Shaman brought Kokopelli some fruit and nuts on a scooped out rock, which Kokopelli later learned was a bowl, and they drank cold, sweet water from some strangely empty piece of wood, which was very smooth and light, taller and rounder than the rock from which he ate.

Kokopelli the Wanderer Kokopelli watched how the Shaman ate, and how he drank from the gourd, and then did the same. He was used to scooping up water with his hands, or bending down to drink, sucking up the precious liquid with his mouth, as the antelope did. The drinking wood seemed a marvelous thing. After they had eaten and were refreshed, the Shaman smiled at Kokopelli and set about making a small fire, casting into it pungent smelling leaves. Kokopelli watched with interest as the shaman busied himself with sticks, but he was not prepared for the fire as it burst into flame, looking with apprehension for the exit. It had been a long and tiring day, and he did not want to face more that was alarming and possibly threatening. Kokopelli quickly studied the face of the Shaman, seeing no danger there, and the two-legged reassured him in comforting tones and gestures that all was well. He extended his hand slowly toward the fire, for the color and shifting of light within it was appealing, but he pulled back immediately as the heat scorched the tips of his fingers. “This has the power of the sun in it,” he thought in awe, and he looked upon the two-legged with renewed respect. However, he did not enjoy the ordeal of breathing in the gray air it released as it ate the wood the Shaman offered it. This was the trail that had led him here, he realized, as he focused his vision upon the smoke. It wove lazy, hypnotic patterns, sinuously finding its way into his eyes, causing them to redden and tear. It tickled his nostrils and finally became a raspy aggravation deep within his throat, making him cough in wretched, racking spasms. He felt suffocated. The Shaman looked at him in surprise and concern. The two-legged then made a hand motion, and as the smoke became less dense, Kokopelli’s body began to heave less and less, until finally he was able to breathe a bit more easily. Slowly the unwanted, sickening sensation he felt subsided, somewhat. He had only felt that way once before, when he had eaten an old piece of meat he found moldering in the desert sun, and he had hoped never to have to feel that way again. It had taken him many days to recover, and his life had hung dubiously in the balance while hot fluids poured forth from his body. He had not expected to have to cope with such distress and difficulty within this two-legged’s cave, for he had followed him willingly, trusting him. He glared at the man with deep suspicion, and the Shaman placed his hand 148

Ayal Hurst upon Kokopelli’s arm once more in friendly reassurance. His eyes were kind and sympathetic, and Kokopelli decided that he had meant no harm, though he still gazed at the fire with deep distrust. The Shaman seemed able to endure the small amount of gray air still left in the cave, Kokopelli saw, apparently with little discomfort. He set his lips in a tight line and pushed himself to master it as well. With some difficulty, he lubricated his lips and controlled the convulsions the smoke inflicted upon him. As the remnants of gray vapor curled and drifted about, and the fire spit and crackled, its warmth eventually began to lull him with the sweet fragrance of the herbs upon the air. He relaxed a bit, and when he had steadied his breathing, he became immediately aware that the Shaman was entering the place of Harmony which he knew so well. He had hoped that these beings would know the Harmony of things, but after his initial greeting by these two-leggeds, he had decided that indeed, they did not know of it at all. He relaxed a bit more then, sighing in pleasure as he closed his eyes, doing his best not to cough again. Soon the slight irritation of the smoke ceased to bother him entirely. He found that he was feeling quite comfortable. Slowly, as if from far way, but quickly becoming clearer, he became conscious that he was hearing the Shaman’s voice. This time, however, he could understand the sounds. He opened his eyes and found that he and the two-legged were in a very different place from the decorated cave and its dark opening. It seemed as if they were high in the sky, floating on subtle currents of air and cloud. Kokopelli let out an involuntary gasp of surprise as he looked around. Had a mirage enveloped him? Perhaps he was dreaming. “Do not be alarmed,” he heard the Shaman’s voice say in his mind, much as he used to hear his ant family speak to him. “We are in a safe place, a place where the Spirits of the Air live. They help us to hear one another, for like the wind, they bring communication and news to all beings. How are you called?” asked the Shaman, peering amiably at Kokopelli. “I am named Kokopelli,” said the boy, curiously looking down, but seeing only an infinity of sky beneath him. Although it was a bit unnerving, he was not frightened. He touched the cloud he seemed 149

Kokopelli the Wanderer to be sitting upon in wonder. It was totally insubstantial. His hand went through it, as it would through mist or fog, which can never be contained. Thankfully, it seemed able to support his weight, despite its incorporeal nature. He was definitely intrigued. This was an unusual adventure. “Perhaps there is no such thing as weight here,” he thought, “for I feel as light as a hummingbird. Perhaps I also appear as mist in this place, and if someone touched me, their hand would go through ME, like a mirage in the desert.” “And where do you come from?” pursued the Shaman, smiling at Kokopelli’s thoughts, which were clear to him. “I do not know where I originally came from,” answered Kokopelli. “I am seeking that place, and I have been wandering in the desert for many changes of the seasons. Before I came up to the World Above, I did not even know that the world changed color and coldness in that way. I did not know the sun, or the moon. I lived with the ant people and the Queen Mother. I lived with them for a long, long time, and I was happy there, although somehow I was much smaller than I am now.” He stopped at this recollection, for it was a part of his adventure that was still puzzling to him. “A time came when the happiness I knew was lost. It blew away” he gestured with his fingers, opening his hand, “like sand upon the wind.” Kokopelli paused again, remembering the difficult and perilous journey to the World Above, and the grief he felt upon leaving his home, the terrible and painful loneliness that he had experienced for many months. He sighed, reliving, for a moment, those initial and frightening days. “Then I knew I had to find out what I really was and…where…where I came from.” He finished somewhat haltingly. “Ah,” said the Shaman. “I see that this is a tale of wonder.” “Yes, I suppose so,” said Kokopelli, “although I do not know what tales you consider wonderful. I know the ones the ants told me when they returned from the harvest, or the ones I have heard in the desert as I wandered. I know the tales of the plants and animals who live there, tales of hunting and resting, of eating and being eaten, and surviving. I know the tales of the stars when I sit beneath them in Harmony, much as we are doing now, and the stories the wind whispers to the trees. But 150

Ayal Hurst I have never before seen creatures such as yourself and those who live in this colony.” He looked at the Shaman. “How are you called?” “Well,” answered the Shaman, returning Kokopelli’s gaze thoughtfully. “We are called human beings, and our particular colony, as you would say, is known as the People of the Dry Valley. We have been here a very long time. Like you, we each have names, although none of us have antennae such as you do on your head. My own name, that I wear in this life, is Liatlor. “Years ago,” he said slowly, contemplating Kokopelli and the story he told so simply, “the Wind told me a tale of a child born to the People of Peace who live not too far from here. The tale went that a young woman gave birth to a baby boy who had antennae on his head, such as you do. The tribe was fearful and disturbed, as this had never been seen before. Therefore, an Elder of that tribe told the woman and her mate that they must place the baby high atop a mesa and leave him there for one night. They were to go early the next morning, at dawn, to see if he were still there, alive and well. If he were, it meant the Great Spirit found him to be of good heart, and he would be accepted by the tribe. But if he were not there,” the Shaman went on, looking compellingly at Kokopelli, “it meant the Great Spirit had taken this special child back to live with the Spirit People again.” Kokopelli’s eyes had become very wide, and his heart had begun to hammer violently in his chest upon hearing the Shaman recount this tale. Bowing his head for a few moments, he sat in silence, wrapped in solitude as tumultuous emotions warred within. When he looked up, his face was wet with tears. His voice shook when he finally asked the Shaman the one question he had kept secret all of his life. He had never ventured to speak of it, not to any ant, not to Grandmother Spider, not even to the Queen Mother. Deeply tucked away in his heart, hidden so well that it seemed almost buried, it was a question he had tried to forget. It was the one place where he did not feel the Great Harmony singing in his soul. Now it rose, unbidden, from within the depths of him, imperatively knocking on the doorway of his soul. It had to be asked, and answered.

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Kokopelli the Wanderer “I must know, Liatlor….tell me. Did…did the mother want to see her baby again? Was she glad to leave him? Was she afraid of him, because he was different?” Kokopelli was terribly anxious, for this was his moment of truth. “The Wind told me,” said the Shaman softly, “that she and her mate loved this baby more than anything in all the world, and they did not want to leave it. But they knew that the tribe had to accept it, or it would not survive. They prayed all that long night, and went as soon as the sun brought the dawn the next morning, desperate to find their baby safe and well. But the child was gone.” “The ants came and took me to their colony,” whispered Kokopelli, his voice a hushed murmur in the still air. “I had always thought…..” he began, but his voice became full of something he could not name, and he could not continue. “You thought,” said the Shaman gently, “that they had not loved you.” In a very small voice, Kokopelli whispered, “Yes.” “And now that you know the Truth,” said the benevolent voice in Kokopelli’s mind, “what will you do?” “I will go and find them,”Kokopelli replied quickly. “But… since I was not there when they came to find me, perhaps they”… here his voice shook once more. “Perhaps the colony will still not accept me”. “Perhaps,” said the Shaman. “But it is true that the only way you will find out is to go there, and to tell them your story. Whether the tribe accepts you or not, you have survived, and you do not need them anymore in the same way a small child would need its tribe. However, I do not think that your parents will allow anything to take you away from them again. The wind told me,” he went on, his voice soft with compassion, “that your mother never stopped grieving for you, although she submitted, with bitter pain and sorrow, to what seemed to be the will of the Creator. Her heart has never fully healed, and she lost much of herself when she lost you. She has missed you deeply. It will be good for her to become whole once again, which she will, when you return.”

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Ayal Hurst “And good for you, as well, my young Kokopelli,” the Shaman thought to himself. “For though you have been content and learned the Way of Harmony, still this place within you must heal.” “You may stay with me, if you wish,” the Shaman’s voice interrupted Kokopelli’s musings, “and begin your journey home when you are ready. It may be helpful for you to stay here for a while, before meeting your own tribe, ah, colony, so that you may learn the ways of human beings. When you decide to leave, one day, in the early morning light, I will tell you how to go, and the wind will blow against your back, guiding you in the right direction.” Kokopelli wholeheartedly agreed that it would certainly be a good thing to return to his birth colony not wholly ignorant of the ways of these human beings. He was not sure that he was ready to face his colony of origin, yet, at any rate. “I will abide with you for awhile,” he said, “and learn the ways of the two-leggeds.” “Well. Now that that is settled, it is time that we return to the world below,” smiled the Shaman, and with no further ado, Kokopelli found himself once again sitting upon the dried, woven mat of plant fibers in the small, hardened rock dwelling of Liatlor, the Shaman. The fire was now only coals, the smoke had dissipated, and evening was drawing close upon the land. They had been speaking in the realm of the Air Spirits for quite a long time, longer than Kokopelli had thought. “It is a strange thing that I entered the World Above to learn about myself once before,” thought Kokopelli.” Now I have done so again, though in a very remarkable way. What I have discovered this time is quite different.” And thus began Kokopelli’s apprenticeship with the Shaman, learning the baffling and enigmatic ways of human beings.

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Chapter 26 Kokopelli spent many months with the Shaman and his tribe. Although he desired very much to meet his parents and was somewhat anxious to do so, he appreciated the value of knowledge. He knew quite well that all occurred at the right moment and in the proper season. He also knew the necessity, at times, for patience. During his stay with the People of the Dry Valley, Kokopelli learned of planting and irrigation. He learned the use of corn and squash, gourds and beans. He learned how to make fire and bake the starchy core of the agave plant in rock-lined pits to form a nutritious, energy-rich food. Most importantly, to relate to these two-leggeds, he learned to speak words with his lips, haltingly and painfully at first. Simple items were presented to him, and a sound was made to show him that such a sound was the name of the object. He then would repeat the sound, although it was not easy to make his voice come out from within him. It had been silent for many, many years. This way of talking and sharing thoughts out loud was more than strange for him. It was not nearly as intimate or as delightfully clear as sharing with his antennae had been, and not nearly as effective. It made him wince as it echoed within his head.

Kokopelli the Wanderer Nevertheless, he was a quick learner and progressed rapidly. His throat was sore from a lifetime of disuse as he endeavored to communicate in this awkward and noisy way. The Shaman made him a tea of herbs to lessen the pain there, and Kokopelli was grateful. Some words he actually came to like the sound of, and he would roll them around on his tongue for the pleasure of it. In order to learn the ways of human beings, Kokopelli had to venture into a multitude of unknown realms and undergo much that was unusual. Most of it seemed unreal to him. Some of these experiences were pleasant, and others were much more difficult. Drinking hot liquid and eating cooked food was quite bizarre, and at first his stomach rebelled against it. Little by little, as the days went by, he began to be able to digest food that was not raw. It was never his favorite method of eating, however, and he continued to eat his food fresh and uncooked whenever he could. “I would have looked very foolish going to my mother’s colony unable to use my voice to communicate with them, or eat their food,” he thought. “I may have even frightened them. Once again. “ He smiled grimly. “I am glad that the Shaman invited me to learn more before I ventured there.” He learned to wear clothing, though it irritated his skin dreadfully at first, and he felt very trapped within it. “How do you move quickly in these cloying things?” he asked the Shaman one day. “How do you jump out of the way of the one who slithers with poisoned fangs and shakes his tail at you, if you startle him from his dreams?” He had not yet learned the word for rattlesnake. The Shaman laughed, and told Kokopelli that from the time they were babes, they knew no other way. There were numerous clans and societies within the two-legged colony, and each held an ancient and traditional place in the complex web of tribal functioning. Kokopelli supposed the different societies were similar to the job each ant had been ordained to do from birth in the ant colony, as that was all he had to compare it to. There was the Warrior Society, and the Women’s Society, the Corn Society, the Peacemakers, the Sun Clan. the Turtle Clan, the Burning Sands Clan, the Frog Clan, The Sweeping Cloud Clan, and countless more. During ceremonies and festivities, the people festooned themselves in all their 156

Ayal Hurst finery, and Kokopelli put on his hat with the feathers and porcupine quills sticking out at disjointed angles. Everyone knew the ancient, undisputed traditions of the tribe, and thus they knew how to conduct themselves properly, having been instructed and exposed to their customs since childhood. There had never been anyone who behaved inappropriately when a ritual was occurring, until Kokopelli arrived. Kokopelli, who was used to having the freedom to roam at will, at first thought the same held true for this two-legged colony. His love of learning caused him to curiously poke his head into every nook and cranny of the village. He unexpectedly appeared at a secret meeting of the Warrior Society and was firmly rebuked, escorted out by the warriors, a large one at each elbow. Since he was not initiated, he could not attend their ceremonies. On another occasion, a huge commotion occurred when, during a coming of age ceremony for a young girl, he inquisitively and suddenly popped into their midst, the only man there. It was quite forbidden. He was roughly pushed backwards out the door by a swarm of matronly women, their shrill voices admonishing him to leave immediately and never return. It was scandalous! For days afterwards the matriarchs of the village scowled darkly at Kokopelli, shaking outraged, gnarled fingers in his perplexed face. He was very confused about where he belonged, where he could go, what was possible for him, and what was not. The children, however, always welcomed him in their midst. He soon became their favorite companion, and they spent numerous hours laughing and exploring the outskirts of the village together. He taught them to weave, using simple patterns at first, as Grandmother Spider had taught him, until soon all the young ones sported little nests on their heads, as he did. Often Kokopelli played his flute, and when he did, all the villagers would cease what they were doing, whether planting in the fields, making spears, or grinding corn, to listen eagerly. One day soon after his escapade with the Women’s Society, he brought his concerns and bewilderment to the Shaman. “In the ant colony, I could go wherever I chose, except to the Queen’s chamber when she was laying eggs. Is that why the women shooed me away and were so angry? Were they laying eggs?” he asked innocently. 157

Kokopelli the Wanderer “Hmmmm….” replied the Shaman, repressing a smile with some difficulty. “No, Kokopelli. They were not laying eggs, but something along those lines, in a manner of speaking. Ahhhh…I think you do not yet have enough of a grasp of the language for me to clarify this well. Perhaps we need to travel to the realm of the Air Spirits once more in order for me to explain this to you more fully. “ And so they did. During that journey with the Shaman, Kokopelli learned about the differences between men and women, which quite amazed and astonished him. He had not understood why there were males in the colony, since there were none in an ant village, or why young women gazed at him ardently and giggled behind their hands. It bewildered him when they lowered their eyes while speaking to him, coyly looking up from beneath their long, dark lashes in admiration. He did not realize that he was quite a handsome young man. They often smiled in such a way that he became startled, and his body would become flushed, as if the heat from a fire roared within him. It was all very perplexing, although he found that he liked it, for some strange reason. It was a deep magic that filled him with electricity, making the hair on his arms stand up. Since the ant colony and the human colony were similar in a multitude of ways, he had made certain assumptions that he now had to reconstruct in his mind. Two-leggeds did not lay eggs. Kokopelli learned that day, in the realm of the Air Spirits, how babies were made and what the purpose of marriage was. He learned about kinship, and how families lived together. It was quite confusing to keep track of the different relationships these two-leggeds had with one another — there were so many of them. Uncles and aunts and cousins, brothers and sisters, husbands and wives, grandmothers and grandfathers, adopted brothers and blood brothers or sisters. Then there were many taboos regarding who could be married to whom, all depending upon what clan one was born into. It boggled his mind. He pondered this information for many days, endeavoring to sort it out, as he had sorted grain as a young child. There were other taboos, as well. There were assorted Spirits to learn about and what they required of the people. Certain things were forbidden, and Kokopelli had to undergo many cleansing ceremonies to purify himself as he mistakenly said or did things that caused great 158

Ayal Hurst consternation amongst the people. A multitude of actions or words were considered sacrilegious, and he felt as if he were walking in a cactus patch, trying to avoid them all. If an action occurred that might anger the Spirits and bring chaos to the people, then one had to humbly offer retribution. Whenever Kokopelli accidentally insulted an important Spirit Being, the people would raise their hands frantically in the air and flutter to and fro, looking anxiously about. Then he would be hustled into the purification lodge, or have to gather gifts to appease whatever deity he had offended Kokopelli understood about Spirit Beings, and he did his best to be careful, but all this worry seemed somewhat ridiculous in his eyes. Even if mistakes happened, they were innocent mistakes, and he knew that he moved serenely within the Way of Harmony, where the Great Wholeness lived. There all creatures grew in strength and wisdom, and learning through trial and error was simply an integral part of the process. That seemed much more agreeable to him than the fears that ruled these people, and their taboos. However, their beliefs were what they were, and he lived as a guest among them, as a beetle in an ant colony. Therefore, he respected their ways and underwent long purification ceremonies patiently and politely, when it was asked of him. There were many other things he had to learn, things too numerous to mention. His mind swam with the complexity of it all. However, he knew that what others could master, he could as well. When he began to feel overwhelmed, Kokopelli would think, “Well, they all had to learn this at some point, even though they began doing it much younger than I am now.” Then he would sigh and diligently return to the task at hand, however disagreeable it seemed to him. As time went by, he did manage to learn what it took to live as a human being in a human colony. He learned through trial and error, and great determination. At times he sorely missed the freedom of his days spent wandering unencumbered in the desert. When the need to be released from the burden of all these human chores and complexities was simply too strong to resist, he would slip away quietly at night and steal into the surrounding desert, leaving his clothes under the familiarity of a creosote 159

Kokopelli the Wanderer bush. Feeling blissfully relieved, he would sit under the stars, watching the majesty of the desert unfold around him in all its exhilaration and wild, abundant life. When dawn began to fill the sky, Kokopelli would gather his clothes and return to the manifold obligations of the twolegged world. “In the ant colony,” he told the Shaman one day, “everyone had their place, but it was not like this! It was so much simpler!” And the Shaman laughed once more as he gazed with fondness and compassion at this courageous young man named Kokopelli, recognizing all that he did not know and had yet to learn about living in the human world. In the evenings, Kokopelli sat around the fire with the villagers who had come to thoroughly accept him and enjoyed the innocence of his company. Sometimes he played his flute for them, and sometimes he heard the legends and stories the people knew so well, stories that were part of their history. There were stories of how the world was made, where they had came from, and how corn was given to the people. He heard stories recounting the exploits of the sons of the sun, when they went in search of their father, who had married the moon, and how the world was made safe from terrible monsters that had once freely roamed the earth, menacing all the creatures with their huge, hairy arms and thick wooden clubs. “I once thought those terrible monsters were you,” thought Kokopelli to himself, smiling benevolently at the people. He heard many, many stories during those evenings when the tribe gathered around the fire, some that made him laugh and others that were more painful, stories that left him thoughtful and disheartened. He heard how Buzzard created the mountains with his wings, and how Gopher burrowed a path to lead the people out of the underworld and up into the fierce light of day, much as he himself had emerged from the ant colony. He heard the songs the people sang to honor the Earth, their Mother. He also heard of other “tribes” as these colonies were called, that were similar to the red ant people, tribes that wrecked terrible havoc and devastation upon the land, polluting water holes, killing plants and animals without cause, and enslaving men, women, and children. He wondered, at those times, how his own ant village and the Queen Mother fared. He gratefully felt the warmth of the love he bore 160

Ayal Hurst for his first home and his people. This love remained with him always, an undiminished and abiding glow deeply tucked away and vibrantly alive within the chambers of his heart. He hoped that they were secure, as well, within their chambers, deep beneath the surface of the earth. Kokopelli learned that there were a vast multitude of tribes scattered across the world, and all were distinctly different from one another. Each tribe had its own history, its own legends, and its own story regarding how the world came to be. Each group of people had their own taboos, their own ways of speaking and dressing, of wearing their hair (his had been washed, combed, and trimmed, with no small amount of pain, as it had been tangled for years). Each tribe, he learned, had its own divisions of clans, its own ways of believing, its own rules regarding what was sacred, and what was profane. Each group of people thought that their way was the true way, and the stories of other tribes were considered only myths. “It will take a lifetime to sort all this out! Maybe more! How can these two-leggeds think that they alone have the right way?!” Kokopelli protested to Liatlor one day, feeling very irritated at the tribe’s unbending need to cling to their traditions. “It is often the way of the two-leggeds, my friend,” Liatlor answered him, shaking his head with a certain degree of resignation. “They tend to fear what they do not know, and so they limit what they DO know, only being willing to accept what is familiar to them. You had a direct experience of that, as we know, at a very young age. There are some, such as yourself, who are able to step outside the boundaries and limitations imposed by their tribe. But it does not happen often.” He sighed patiently. “Those of us who know more do what we can. But it is a slow process.” Despite his exasperation, Kokopelli continued to learn, and much of what he learned he did value. He learned to make knives and arrow points from stone, bows to shoot the finely crafted arrows, and a farthrowing hunting weapon called an atlatl. He learned to plant and to hoe, and to harvest crops. He learned to make forms from the wet, red clay of the river banks and to make paints of varying colors from certain rocks called ocher. He learned to draw figures and to make enchanting images on the canyon walls. In this manner the history of the tribe 161

Kokopelli the Wanderer was set forth for all to see. A miraculous way indeed to tell a story! As the months passed, Kokopelli dutifully learned the names of the many different clans. And always, he captivated the people with the mesmerizing sound of his beautiful flute.

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Chapter 27 At last a morning came when Kokopelli’s heart told him that it was time to leave. He spoke of this quietly to Liatlor, and the Shaman agreed that the wheel of life had indeed turned. It was time for Kokopelli to be on his way. They spent some time alone together, sharing thoughts in the way that they alone could, and then they wished each other well, clasping hands firmly in departure, their eyes shining, for they had become great friends. The news traveled quickly that Kokopelli was leaving, and the People of the Dry Valley gathered round to bid him farewell. It was a bittersweet moment for them all. He had come to love these people, and they returned that love. He was gifted with many beautiful things to take to his village and to his parents so that he would not arrive empty handed and without honor. There were newly dyed woolen blankets, and woven bags, colorful sashes, and gourds with wood burned designs cleverly emblazoned upon them. Most special of all, and highly prized, was a comb made from mother of pearl. Although initially it appeared a glossy silver, it shimmered with the glory of a rainbow when it was turned to catch the light. Then its true nature was

Kokopelli the Wanderer revealed, and it gleamed richly with secret, hidden hues of emerald, lavender, pink, and turquoise. The likes of it Kokopelli had never seen. Its evanescent color did remind him, perhaps, of one thing, as he gazed in wonder upon it — that unforgettable moment when a magnificent silver fish, scales glistening with refracted light, had leaped from the river to test his fortitude and grant him the Gift of Song. As he was fondly remembering that event, somewhat lost in thought, he heard the voices of the people eagerly telling him that a trader from far away had given the comb to a young woman, many years ago, in exchange for her exceptional weavings. The comb was made from a hard animal shell that grew in a large body of water, so it was said, which the trader had called an ocean — water, he had told them, of such magnitude that you could not see across it. Not only did it crash and thunder, ebbing and flowing back in forth in a colossal show of might, but it was also entirely filled with salt! Salt was so precious an item, so rare a commodity that to think of something that gigantic filled with it was inconceivable! Kokopelli’s mind was on fire with the image of such a thing. Could it really be true? And, the people went on to inform him enthusiastically, warming to the dramatic contents of their narrative, giant animals lived in the water, animals that were as big as mountains. Interesting as all this was however, the people truly thought it was a fantasy. They were sure that the trader was simply spinning tall tales for their amusement, and they tended not to believe these preposterous stories, for they lived in a world of sand and dry rock. To believe him stretched their imaginations further then they could go. Kokopelli, also, had difficulty wrapping his mind around such images. He had not thought that there could be any water larger or more powerful than the river. This person, this trader, he mused, made long journeys, venturing where others did not go, and therefore it was possible that he had seen many miraculous things. Kokopelli had been forced to accept many miraculous things himself that he had thought were impossible. Perhaps such a thing as this ocean actually existed. A trader walked many miles to bring wondrous, unheard of things to the people in exchange for the familiar items they crafted and used as a daily part of their lives. These strange items were, in all likelihood, equally as familiar to those who

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Ayal Hurst crafted them as woven blankets were to this tribe. They had to come from somewhere. Somewhere different. Kokopelli was profoundly inspired by these stories. The world expanded before him in new possibilities once again. The path such a trader followed intrigued him deeply, and he saw parallels within it that matched his own life in certain ways. Did he not wander also? Did he not bring new knowledge to others, and was he not, in turn, gifted with things he had not known? He was fascinated and pondered this striking comparison for days afterwards. An agreeable possibility began to take shape in his mind. Perhaps there was a way to be a human being and still wander, not burdened by the complexity and hidebound traditions of tribal life. “Perhaps being a trader is what I am meant to be, my place in the Harmony.” he thought, cautiously. “It is certainly a good way to see the world. I, too, have wandered and walked many miles, and I have things to offer others that they may not have.” As he considered this, his excitement began to grow. “It would be rewarding to know what my place is, after all this time. I know grains, and nuts, and seeds, which people always need. There is so much that I do not know and have not yet seen, things such as this ‘ocean’, things that I long, with all my heart, to see!” With these exciting possibilities tumbling about in his mind, Kokopelli departed one fine morning in spring, with the wind at his back, blowing him in the right direction, as the Shaman had said it would. He was anxious not only to meet his parents, but also to see what would happen with the villagers when he arrived. After a five day walk, he came upon the outskirts of the small settlement where he was born, where fear and prejudice had removed him from his parents arms to survive the night alone on a high plateau. As he entered the territory of the People of Peace, Kokopelli’s heart was pounding so loudly that he thought it would drone out the sound of the song that he was playing on his flute, a hopeful song that spoke of new beginnings. He walked toward the village center, a baked, flat area where important events in the life of the tribe occurred.

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Kokopelli the Wanderer “This time, entering a village will be quite different,” he smiled resolutely, remembering his arrival at the village of the People of the Dry Valley. Kokopelli did not look too unlike any other two-legged he encountered now, although there was still about him an elusive, concentrated aura of power. The items he had been given as gifts were in a large sack on his back, and he entered the village compound with his head held high. His eyes looked quickly about, scanning the people he saw joyfully coming to greet him (as a trader, he grinned in amusement), to see if he felt a connection, a stirring, a pull in his heart, perhaps, toward anyone there. “I have come with gifts for some in this village,” he announced in a clear, ringing voice as his song came to an end, and he repacked his flute. “I have seeds of many different kinds to trade, grains that you may not know are good to eat, and beautiful handmade items given to me from the People of the Dry Valley, five days walk from here. But first, are there any among you who recognize this?” And he pulled forth from his sack the faded blue shawl that his mother had woven for him those vanished years ago. He held it up so the people could see, and a desolate looking woman slowly came forth from the rim of the crowd with an amazed and anguished expression upon her face, her eyes wide in wonder. “Where did you get this?” she asked in a stricken whisper, her voice barely audible, shaken with sorrow. Hesitantly, she reached forward to touch the soft, frayed fringes on the edge of the tattered shawl she had woven so long ago — a shawl she had desperately labored over with apprehension and with love, hoping it would protect her only child, her banished little boy. It seemed to Kokopelli that she had desperately needed to hear his reply for countless years, and she gazed up at him urgently. Shadow and loss had stalked her for longer then she could remember and still lay coiled in the wounded black depths of her eyes. It was painfully evident that she was terribly afraid of what might be revealed. At that moment, seeing her haunted face, with grief etched in stark lines upon her ashen skin, Kokopelli’s heart nearly broke in two. Was this the

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Ayal Hurst woman he had heard about who had once danced so gracefully beneath the waxing moon? A tall man of noble but sad countenance came forward then, to stand at her side. His arms encircled her shoulders in a protective stance, pulling her close, as if he would shield her from further misery. He looked at the young man before him, a stern warning in his eyes, a gaze which told Kokopelli that he needed to tread very carefully. It was clear that this man would not suffer further harm to come to his wife. Yet, the same pain and hope were in this man’s eyes, the same pain and hope Kokopelli saw mirrored in the burning eyes of the woman this warrior protected so fiercely. Kokopelli took a deep breath. “It was made for me by my mother. I was left on a high plateau in the desert to survive the night because of these!” And he swept his hair back from his forehead to reveal two alert, feathery antennae. The man and woman gasped. Had the man not been holding her, the woman would have collapsed upon the hot, desert floor. At that, the crowd exploded in an uproar: “Kiawah’s child!” they clamored. “He has returned!” “But how? Spirit took him!” “He’s been gone all these years!” “Where has he been?” “How is it possible?” The pandemonium began to subside only when the Shaman and the Elders of the village were called forth. Kiawah and her husband had been gazing at Kokopelli in a daze. Overwhelmed by the intensity of their feelings, they stood paralyzed. Hope, longing, confusion, bewilderment, shock… one emotion chased the next across their faces. Slowly, they walked forward and reached out to him, tears flowing down their sunken cheeks, as the parched desert sky opens and flows with rain. “It is you,” the woman whispered tenderly. “I know it is you, my son. My son…returned to me, after all this time. My heart knows you!” And her eyes softened, losing the hardened, bleak look that they had worn ever since that hideous morning when she had lost her child high 167

Kokopelli the Wanderer atop a barren, lonely plateau. Her tears ceased to flow, and, as her grief gave way to other possibilities, the sun seemed to burst forth from behind a cloud and shine within her. The luminous path she used to walk, delighting in the sacredness of life, caring for all beings, great and small…in that instant, much that she had lost and forgotten returned to her. Antova gazed ardently at Kokopelli, and then at his wife. He smiled deeply at them both and laughed joyfully, for his heart was full and words failed him. They went to their son, and Kokopelli drew them securely and powerfully into his hungry embrace. The three of them stood intertwined thus, heads bowed, completely oblivious to the turmoil boiling around them, oblivious to all else, until an Elder cleared his throat and called for the people to hear his words. “What we thought taken away so many years ago has been returned!” he proclaimed in a stentorian voice that carried even to the perplexed people at the edges of the crowd who were not quite sure what was happening. “Kiawah’s and Antova’s child has returned to them.” He paused a moment. “Are there any here who say no to this child returning to us?” At this, Kokopelli glanced up and scanned the faces of the people of the village, the people who had once feared him as a tiny child and rejected him. The tribal members peered intently at Kokopelli. They saw his strength and his goodness. They saw the deep happiness of Kiawah shining forth from her eyes, and they saw Antova’s stern pride in their strong son. None could turn him away. “Come then. Let us hear this tale. I am sure it is quite astounding,” the Elder said gently. It was he who had proposed the idea, long ago, to leave the child alone in the desert to survive the perilous night. Now he looked with a grateful heart upon this unhoped for reunion. He felt vastly relieved as he witnessed Kokopelli embracing these two. He knew that they had lived in pain for too long, mourning the son who was lost forever. The Elder had not been sure that his decision years ago had been a good one, for it had brought endless despair to Kiawah and Antova. Now he was redeemed. The people of the village hastened to the council lodge with alacrity, bursting through the doors as a cresting wave breaks upon the shore. Kokopelli was still wrapped in the arms of his father and mother, and 168

Ayal Hurst they held onto him tightly, as if they would never let him go. Deep into the night he told his tale, and the people sat spellbound with awe and delight. His parents perched happily on either side of him, their faces glowing with gratitude, radiant with peace. Often they touched him to reassure themselves that he was real, and not a dream that would vanish with the sunrise, and he had so long ago. Kiawah, like a desert wildflower, seemed to blossom before Kokopelli’s eyes. She did not appear to be the same woman who had looked up at him bleakly with suffering and sorrow engraved upon her soul. Kokopelli wove his extraordinary tale well, painting colorful and vivid pictures with his newfound words, enchanting all. He spoke of the ants carrying him away to live with them far beneath the earth, and of his happy life there. He told them how he had wandered through the desert, learning from the creatures in the wilderness, until he came to his first human village. He spoke of communing with the Shaman from the People of the Dry Valley high above in the World of the the Air Spirits, and how he had mastered, with some difficulty, the ways of human beings. And finally, he spoke of how he came to this village, to find his parents. He gazed at them both with great tenderness. He now knew, without a doubt, that he had always been loved and cherished by this woman and this man, his mother and father. He had never been abandoned, or truly alone. At that moment, the Way of Harmony quietly eased into the wounded place deep within his heart, and he was made whole. He gave his mother the beautiful comb made of abalone shell, for he wanted to gift her with that which was most precious and unique, and he watched in delight as his father took it in his hands and stood behind his wife, gently pulling it through her thick, raven hair. To his father, he gave a magnificently carved knife. He had made it painstakingly from a bone he had carried for many seasons, the one bone saved from the antelope who had given her life to him. To the Elder of the village who had asked his parents to leave him on the plateau, as an offering of forgiveness, Kokopelli gave a warm, rabbit skin blanket woven throughout with intricate patterns of scarlet and blue. Kokopelli remained in the village of his parents for three years. He walked with his mother, Kiawah, and together they listened to the slow tales the rocks shared in their deep, grainy voices, and they listened to 169

Kokopelli the Wanderer the stories the wind whispered in the trees. They danced under moonlit skies, listening to the singing of the stars. He spent many hours each day with his father, learning the things a father has to teach a son: what it means to be a good man, a loving father, and a respectful husband. Antova taught Kokopelli to honor both the creative, abiding wisdom of women and the resolute, selfless courage of men. His father taught him how important it is to protect those who are smaller and weaker than oneself and how to offer one’s strength, without resentment or complaint, for the good of all. Much of this Kokopelli already knew from walking the Way of Harmony. Some he knew from living in the ant village, and some he had learned from Liatlor, the Shaman. Still, it is important that a father offer these things to his son. From all of these experiences, Kokopelli learned how to love and be loved, as part of a family. The people of the village came to appreciate Kokopelli for his wisdom and his richness of heart, and many of them would come to sit with him under the stars when he communed with the Great Harmony at night. Many small creatures of the desert came to sit with them, as well. At times, various people in the village would awaken in the morning to find a small rabbit, or snake, or wood rat curled within their arms. The entire village regarded him with awe, and The Legend of Kokopelli began to grow. He taught the children the ways of the desert and her creatures, and they learned to walk carefully, to speak to other beings as he did, from their hearts, one soul touching another, as he had first learned to do with Grandmother Spider, many moons ago. As the seasons passed, Kokopelli once again felt lured to wander, hearing the undeniable, clear call of the sea. Promising his parents that he would soon return, he hoisted his sack upon his back and became a trader, walking from village to village, offering the many seeds, nuts, and grains he gathered along the way. Wherever he went, his story traveled before him, and the legend of Kokopelli continued to grow, recounted around the glow of evening campfires from coast to coast. Kokopelli learned much that he had not known during his travels as a trader. He came to recognize that, although the many tribes of people appeared so diverse, all were truly One when they sat in silent Harmony under the moonlit sky. There were no differences between them when they sat together spellbound, listening to the stories he played on 170

Ayal Hurst his magic flute — stories of laughter and loyalty, of rivers running in ecstasy, and wildflowers waiting to bloom beneath a desert rain. His flute played stories of sadness and freedom, of being lost and being found, of the Unity of All Beings. He saw extraordinary wonders and had marvelous adventures, so many that they cannot all be recounted here. Kokopelli did indeed become a great trader and a great teacher of the Way of Harmony to those who wanted to understand it, and he did visit the sea. He stayed with his parents frequently, and returned home to the village of the People of Peace whenever he could. Sometimes he went to see Liatlor, and they would venture out upon the wind to confer with the wise Spirits of the Air together. Nor did he forget the Ant Queen, patiently laying her eggs and waiting for him in her burrow far beneath the surface of the earth. He visited her often until her death, regaling her with wonderful tales of the wide, wide world while she smiled and softly stroked his silky hair. How he once again became small, in order to visit her in the ant colony, no one knows. It is his secret.

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Epilogue To this day, if you look in the right places, ancient, hidden places, you will find pictures drawn upon the rocks — drawings of Kokopelli merrily playing his flute, with his sack upon his back, his antennae fluttering bravely in the desert breeze.