Superstitious

Crossing the desert, Joseph scoffs at the shaman's superstitious ideas. (c) 2007

They walked on a bit longer, Joseph quizzing the shaman about his feelings on the value and reliability of true dreams. The people of this region, he thought, were quaint old birds�"wise in the ways of the desert, surely, but full chock-a-block with superstition. Presently, the little shaman pointed a brown and shaking hand at the tiny structure up ahead by the tendril of the river: a place to pause and rest, he said. It was the same color as the sand that surrounded them both, and in this wind rapidly falling back into the sand it had been made of. What a way to build a house!
    These people! thought Joseph, shaking his head in patient mockery. A man this frail and in need of constant refreshing should never have gotten into the tour guiding business. Since their walk began in the early afternoon, this fellow had had to stop at least six times already for water, and here he was, wanting to stop again. Maybe it’s better just to get back to my own country, he mused, but for her… .
    But wasn’t she what this whole thing was about? She was the one, he was sure, and even hidebound stodges like her parents couldn’t change his mind this time. They had never even done…anything…together yet, but he knew it would be good when the time came, and so sweet and�"there was some special quality in her smile, Joseph marveled inwardly. That sexy-but-innocent smile almost made him want to go down on his knees and thank his maker for saving the kid for him alone. Well, they weren’t engaged yet, but that was entirely due to her folks’ pressure. She was willing, that was clear enough, and Joseph was sure it was a match made in heaven. Yes, plenty of heaven on its way…. He had to catch his breath for a second. Well, it was just as well they were going to stop now; he could sit and wait till it was safe again to walk. 
    The old coot was going through the motions again. Joseph could almost do them himself by now: he’d seen the routine enough times already today. The battered wooden dipper being released from the belt on which it was hanging. The scooped-out gourds pulled out of the grimy backpack. The ritual washing of the hands in that rather morbid looking trickle; the kneeling down and kowtowing to the west. Lot of rot, thought Joseph, but what harm could it do?
    “Say, old father,” remarked Joseph rather languidly. “Do you really think that drinking your water in the direction of the setting sun will show you anything of your future?” The younger man gave a stifled grunt of laughter. “What good has that tradition ever actually done you, anyway?”
    The aged fool looked askance at him, eyes narrowed a bit as he sipped from his gourd, and then filled Joseph’s bowl for him. “Who can say, my son?” he said guardedly. “But this is the only way I drink: to the God that gives us all. Maybe he will show me something wonderful. Here, youngster, drink up now before the sun goes down. Perhaps you will learn something yourself.”
    “I’m full up,” muttered Joseph, rather disgusted at last, although he took the bowl from the outstretched, trembling hand. He watched as the water disappeared down the shaman’s throat, though much of it ran down the white beard onto his feet. It wasn’t entirely healthy to live a life only in one’s imagination, he was thinking bitterly. A man has to have his feet on the ground, be sure of the real world, to make it anymore. Do unto others before they do unto you, he liked to say. That was why he was out looking for a new place for himself and his sweetheart. Find some cover, before doing anything as potentially risky as eloping with the daughter of the local chieftain.
    The shaman was watching this arrogant young man all this while as the true dreams coursed through his mind again, confirming what he had seen before and adding a few new details. He was scarcely aware that the sun was nearly about to wink out over the horizon, and that they would have to stop now at any rate, for the night.

The foolish boy had no idea of the colonists who would be coming after him, the shaman mused. The shaman could see that this very stretch of desert would one day be blasted into a shallow, glassy crater by some unseen foe. The lad was blissfully oblivious of the strife his settling here would cause�"had no inkling of the strife he and his wife could cause…for the shaman knew that they would be married, oh yes, and how married! And yet, how many would claim this boy a cuckold!

The old man closed his eyes and let the images wash over him: scenes of blessing, scenes of conflict, moments of brightness; some flying creatures he had never seen before. What did it all mean, and why had God chosen to involve him?

“We must stay here tonight,” the shaman finally said aloud to the young man, who seemed impatient to get moving again. “No use traveling once the sun’s down, you know.”

“Come now,” needled Joseph. “Has the holy water washed your mind a little clearer, father? Can you see anything of the future?”

“I can see much,” began the shaman, suddenly feeling that it was time to let the visions out into the night air. But then he paused. He could see so much, it was true, many troubling and frightening things resulting from what this man would do, and possibly his line.

And the young man? All he could see was a miserable little hovel, himself as an able and sane carpenter in the guiding hands of a mumbling old fool. Yes, possibly he was an old fool, but a fool who knew something of the pain that was coming, a fool who could see all the magic and mystery. He could see those three foreigners coming with him in a year’s time, riding such weird beasts, and carrying such strange boxes, and tipping him well, though they kept claiming to be following a star he himself would not be able to make out. A fool who had, marginally, enough sense to backpedal before he got himself into a load of trouble.

“Yes, young man. I can see many things that need to be done before we can sleep tonight. I’ll gather some wood, if you like; you may relax here. You look to be tired.”

Joseph shook his head again. He felt a bit dizzy for a moment there, that was true, as he sipped the undoubtedly polluted water from the vessel the old man had given him. He could have sworn for a moment�"but no, that was ridiculous, crosses like that aren’t used here; they’re used up where the Romans are in charge. And the face of that man he’d glimpsed suffering on it�"he was a stranger. Joseph spat onto the dusty ground. That crazy old guide was getting to him, now.

“All I can say,” muttered Joseph to himself as he lowered himself unsteadily to the earth, “is, God save me and Mary from this pious nonsense. That’s the last thing we need!”

 ~~~~

Note: this story, both the narration and the visual storyline, came more or less directly from a dream this morning, May 4, 2007, and the story’s first draft was written in about an hour’s time from 5:30 AM to 6:37 AM the same day.