A young brave rested on one knee at the edge of a wide, powerful stream on the northern plains of America’s glorious past. This was his land, the land of his forefathers, yet he still twitched with anticipation, all senses firing … the plains were alive, dangerous, life there was as fragile as the shell of a robin’s egg.

He wasn’t the only living thing seeking the crystal-clear life force of these pristine waters. Across the stream on the thick forested side two fawns, their rumps dappled with white spots crept tentatively forward. With their forelegs in the shallows, they lapped at the water, twitching their ears with the same alertness as the brave. It was early spring and their mom stood like a sentinel in the shaded cover of the first stand of a crowded row of pines. The snow in the foothills had melted but dozens of nearby peaks were still capped with angelic white snow and the stream ran strong and slushy cold.

A palomino pony had his muzzle in the stream about eight paces from where the brave drank frigid handfuls of the mountain runoff. The horse had a jet-black head and white and light brown patches across the rest of his sinewy body like cloud formations across a stormy sky. The pony was all horse except for a simple horse-hair blanket and a smooth leather lead line wrapped around his neck. Together the brave and the pony had an intuitive connection the way a white boy has with a loyal dog. As the brave rose to his feet and backed away from the stream the pony did likewise. The stream was maybe a quarter-mile wide at this bend and all forms of wildlife worked the landscape in a springtime ballet performed for the gods for a thousand years.

Among the moss-covered forest canopy on the opposite bank, berries and wildflowers and clover laid down in a blanket for as far as the eye could see and if one were to study the scene intently he could detect an Indian maiden moving effortlessly among the shades of green. She is as much a part of the ecosystem as is the southern wind that tenderly brushes up against the green things that grow. She wears the smooth hide of the buffalo and her braided hair reaches her waist. She is gathering herbs and edible seeds from the forest floor and she is altogether unnoticed save for the patrolling deep brown eyes of the young brave. As she goes about her task, under the power of ancient telepathy, their eyes touch in the briefest of spiritual encounters and it is a Garden of Eden moment – man seeing woman, woman feeling man for the very first time. Instinctively, in a reaction controlled by a force beyond her control, she moves back and disappears into the landscape like an apparition. The brave is on his pony and away like a shadow.

♦

The Indian maiden wears a stone around her neck. She doesn’t remember a time when it wasn’t there. Her mother found it around the same time she found she was with child. The purple stone has powers, she thought and she took it as a sign … Mother Earth knows all things, it was placed in this exact spot and discovered at this exact moment for a reason.

She held the stone close until the baby was born, rubbing the rough stone in her rough hands as she fell asleep each night. Before the maiden could walk her mother crafted a harness made of leather and tied it around the child’s neck. Over the years – fifteen when the next snow falls – the stone became smooth as it pressed against the maiden’s chocolate skin day after day.

Most days the stone went unnoticed like a silent passenger on a distant ship. Like all young girls, the maiden’s days were filled with mundane often strenuous tasks. Unattached females are expected to be laborers in servitude to the tribe and family and so she dressed game and carried water, she stretched animal hides and crafted things out of what nature provided, things that would ultimately provide shelter and warmth and everyday utility. It was an existence that didn’t leave much time for dreaming or reflection, still, there was contentment because the maiden walked in step with the universe and she was fascinated by the land and the divine way it yielded what was needed.

And while the natural world was infinite, expansive beyond imagining, life for a teenaged Indian girl was a closed circle. Rarely did she encounter any human beyond this tight sphere and it wasn’t often that she was left alone with the chance to let her mind wander and her soul wonder. This was not always a place for dreaming, but the maiden did dream.

♦

Unlike the maiden, the young brave’s time was his own. While young girls spent most waking hours in service to the tribe, a young boy’s only obligation was to engage in activities that would release the man, the warrior, within. He hunted, fished, sparred with like-minded rivals, tended to his ponies and became a student of the natural universe.

On this day the brave was in search of the raw materials to produce arrowheads, hard stone like flint or obsidian that could be chipped and sharpened into the projectiles that enabled their way of life. The brave would not have known the name of such rocks but he could recognize them by sight and knew where to look. When he found the right rock formation he would use a hammerstone to break it into usable pieces that he would then take back to be crafted into arrowheads.

With the hammerstone overhead, he brought it crashing down one last time and dislodged a stone chunk about one-foot wide. As he examined it he saw a sparkle and upon closer inspection saw a violet reflection. He used an antler horn to poke at the rock surrounding the purple glow and after some concentrated effort, he held a crystalized purple rock the size of a pony’s hoof. The brave knew that these shiny stones had supernatural powers and he had seen tribal medicine men perform cleansing and purification ceremonies on rocks of brilliant colors.

The brave showed the stone to his father who told him he had found a great treasure, a treasure, not of earthly value, but one of spiritual enlightenment. He told his son that Mother Earth desired for him to have the stone and that when he touches it he will be touching the soul of every other person who has ever had a similar stone. Together they polished the stone, finding that it was actually comprised of many smaller ones, and in their own ceremony, they asked the Spirit to use the energy of the violet crystal to give them wisdom and peace. The brave then placed the stone in a leather pouch that was tied around his waist.

♦

Some of the tribe’s other young braves had begun to talk of a young maiden who had been seen along the cliffs high above the canyon. She was said to be beautiful and she moved and blended in with the rugged terrain as if she were a natural part of the landscape. The river that provided such a lush and abundant setting in the valley had carved its way through these mountains over millions of years creating canyon peaks that rose suddenly. High above the canyon floor, the rocky crests could be treacherous but some Indians were known to make the journey in search of sacred growing things such as the Bell Flower and the Mountain Sorrel and the Paint Brush Bush that are said to have healing powers.

At any rate, the bragging young warriors vowed to give chase if they saw the mystical maiden again. The young brave couldn’t help but think of the Indian maiden he had seen months ago at the clearing near the river’s edge. In his very brief glance, he recalled that she did move as if she was the daughter of the wind … He wondered if the maiden was now the one moving about in the high country.

In the first weeks after the winter thaw the rising peaks that loom over the running river offer – for a period measured in days not weeks – blooms that few humans ever see. The winter snow and ice create an impenetrable natural barricade but when the sun melts the frozen coating ancient seeds, somehow living within the cracks and crevices use this nutrient-rich ice water to stage a brilliant boom, a profusion of mustard yellow and stop-sign red that lasts only as long as it takes the spring sun to rise in the east. The sun’s rays hit the shallow-rooted flowers where they quickly wither and recoil into their mountains crags to wait for next year.

The Indian maiden knows all of this and for the last year or two, her people have sent her to these cliffs to gather flowers that will be used in organic remedies and sacred ceremonies. Her family believes her innate connection to the earth and her understanding of the elements and the natural universe call her to the mountains. To realize their maximum benefit, certain flowers must be obtained at the apex of their bloom.

The maiden loved to be alone on the land and she had no fear, this was her destiny. She carried everything she needed on her back. She spent the night in the foothills so that she could be on the mountain and pick her flowers at exactly midday, giving her time to be back on the flatland of her people before nightfall.

As she weaved her way up the mountain she felt a strange vibration coming from the stone around her neck. She took it as a sign that she was where she was supposed to be and, wrapping her fingers around the smooth purple sphere, she believed the pulses being transmitted through the stones were messages from her gods and angels.

The crystal also told her she was being watched.

She heard the sound of ponies coming from where she started her ascent and so she knew she was not alone. The young maiden picked the last of her flowers and she had tucked them away in a buckskin pouch. She made a meal out of berries and wild mountain honey and as she stood, three braves sprang from a clearing. The Indian maiden was startled, but not surprised. She had both her possessions and wits about her and she took off running.

The cliff tops that emerged from the river valley were still partially covered in snow. Where the snow was melted, in the spots where the ancient flowers bloomed, the ground was a combination of loose rock and dirt and in some places, there was scrub brush and gnarled, leafless trees that stood out like old skeletons. The maiden knew the terrain well and, having the speed of a deer and the sure-footedness of a mountain goat, she had soon outpaced the braves by maybe seventy yards.

Her intention was to hide, perhaps using a blind escarpment that jutted out from one of the many plateaus. As she neared a point that looked out over the valley below, she lost her footing, sliding forward on a patch of loose gravel. As she did an arm-like stray branch from an old skeleton tree snagged on her necklace and ripped it from her neck.

A wave of gravel and rock tumbled over the edge in a cloud of dust. Seconds later the three braves, out of breath and out of their element, came to the same spot and noticed what amounted to a human skid mark. They tentatively inched up to the cliff’s edge and looked down. There was no sign of the maiden.

♦

The boys that gave chase told incoherent stories about the maiden. They were spooked. One said she had vanished into thin air, another said she tripped and fell to her death, the third said she flew away. If the maiden had the power to disappear, they thought, what might she do to the Indians who caused her demise?

Upon hearing the stories the young brave decided to go into the mountains and look for himself. Maybe he had seen her before, maybe he was mesmerized by the girl who had outrun and out-thought three young warriors. He felt a sort of tug.

The spot where the maiden was last seen was explained in great detail, so the brave found it with ease. Being a skilled rider, he rode his pony most of the way and, not wanting to be left stranded on foot, he dismounted and walked the pony as he neared the cliff’s edge.

It was a spectacular scene. The bright blue sky held a handful of clouds that appeared as wisps of smoke. Sharp-shinned hawks called to each other as they circled and banked like flying centurions surveying their domain. The warmth of the sun was countered by a northern wind that picked up a chill as it brushed over the few remaining patches of snow. The earth, he thought, received its spirit in this place.

He cautiously moved toward the brink, carefully studying the ground below and the mountain’s scarred surface, when he noticed something dangling from a contorted old branch of a withered old tree. It was as if the tree branch had reached out and grabbed the object and now held it in its hand unsure what to do with it.

The branch was holding a thin, smooth piece of leather that was wrapped around something shiny. Before he could reach for it the brave felt an odd vibration. He reached for the pouch at his hip and removed the purple stone that he always carried. It felt warm, like a living thing and possessed an energy that created a sense of movement. The purple crystal was telling him something.

Grasping the leather piece and unwrapping it from the tree branch he saw that it held a violet stone and this realization caused him to take an involuntary step back as if a wave of electricity had entered his body. This stone was smooth and brilliant, free of the rough edges of the stone he had found. The color of the stones was much the same however and the brave felt uneasy when he remembered what his father had said, that him finding the purple stone was no accident, and if that were true, he thought, was it also his destiny to discover this stone?

He held the stones, one each hand, comparing, wondering … uncertain. Unable to reconcile the meaning of it all he returned the crystals to his leather pouch and as the rocks touched each other the young Indian maiden appeared.

“I’ve come for my stone,” she said.
“Come from where? … I thought … Did you slip and fall and … die?”
“I jumped.”
“Jumped?”
“It was a leap of faith. This life is not as it appears.”
“Didn’t I see you at the river’s edge? You were gathering wild things … we are … we are, the same.”
“Indeed we are the same but not in the way you are thinking.”

The maiden continued, “We both appear as natives on this land, but we have been many things before, in our lives before, and we shall be many things in the future. That you are enlightened enough to have found the stone means you have been chosen, you shall be an oracle through which Mother Earth will speak and through which the energy of the universe will be transmitted.

“The spirit has talked to me through the purple stone, given me intuition, put me in synchronous step with the natural world … so when I jump … she catches me … and tells me that I am called to a different space and time.”

The young brave was transfixed. The maiden extended her hand to take back her stone. The brave fished it out of his pouch and as he placed it in her hand said, “I like this place, I don’t think I want to be ‘chosen’.”

“The path forward isn’t something you get to pick, it is chosen for you. Like the purple stone, life’s answers are found when least expected … never stop looking.”

At that, the maiden and the stone she wore vanished, the sky a reflection of a thousand amethysts.

Photo credit: newelly54 on Visual hunt / CC BY-NC-ND