From Raven's Lament
At Times We
Are Broken
Brook Grant stared at the ‘Dear John’ letter
Georgina left last month. Her empty closet and dresser answered any questions
he might have had about a possible reconciliation. To distract himself, he
flipped through the pages of his journal again, trying to retrace his footsteps
at Ninstints. The totems had intrigued him then, filled him with an ache for
what was lost. How could the vibrancy of the Haida and their artistry be
reduced to yellowed photographs consigned to musty books?
Reading
his entries brought the realization he’d lost that feeling of living on the
edge, like walking between worlds. Georgina’s departure left him feeling empty.
Adrift, with no compass to guide him.
She
was supposed to be his one true love. Soul mates. But somewhere, between the
illusion of commitment and his belief in the relationship, he let it all slip
away; including the romance. Just like the Haida at Sghaan Gway, where now only
enigmatic gods etched into cedar remained; she was gone.
His
diary peered back at him like the faces in the totems. Where had he gone wrong?
Seeking the answers, he’d begun searching his diaries only to come across the
memoirs of his trip to the Charlottes. Evocative memories, yet none bringing
him any solace. How could you let her go? How did you not see this coming?
Did you care?
He’d
written, ‘There are nights on the West Coast, particularly on the
mist-shrouded isles of the Queen Charlottes, when the fog rolls in so thick it
mutes the background thunder of the surf. Nights, when if you look closely
enough, wavering shapes emerge in the full moon’s shimmering light. A breath of
cold wind brushes against your face and you shiver, believing as the Haida do,
that you’ve been caressed by the spirits. Soon you begin to understand why they
say everything has a soul and that we are anchored to this realm and to our
physical bodies only by tenuous threads of waangaay, of spirit.
The
Haida call this place Xhaaydla Gwaayaay, the Islands on the Boundary between
worlds.
The
three Watchmen that crowned most poles squinted out from under top hats of
outlandish ferns, bearing coats of moss and lichens, staring with empty eyes
and mute tongues. Eternally watching.'
Calling,
but to what?
A
line from a familiar song played in his head: only time can mend a broken
heart. Then how do you fill a gaping hole in your soul?
Staring
with empty eyes and mute tongues, the totems towered in his memory. Silent
faces full of voices speaking to a quiet place inside him where he was
unbroken. The place he needed to return to.
Frank Talaber
twosoulmates@shaw.ca
http://about.me/ftalaber
http://www.bookswelove.net/authors/talaber-frank/
http://www.readwave.com/frank.talaber/stories/
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/8092362.Frank_Talaber
http://www.cyclamensandswords.com/frank_talaber_aug_2012.php
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Frank-Talaber/805296946204873
http://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B00UC42WKK
http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B00UC407R0
