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Author's note: The few words of the letter below are far better than any award. These few words are an award. They are the most precious award I will ever receive. Father, The Ceremony is the best piece I ever read. Nevertheless, I gave you the award for Daughter because it was the key that led me to you. I am so proud that you are my father, that I came to know you more, and know your heart for me as the baby of your dearest heart. I really like everything about The Ceremony. It was well said. I can see your heart so clearly. I also like so much the way you edited it. How could you put words before or after the paragraph when you already finished writing it? It is very excellent. I like everything you added. You're really talented dad. I wish that I could do that too in the future, editing and stuff, changing and adding to what is written. I wondered what was the exact meaning when you said: giving an honest opinion isn't always right. I really like those words. They are full of sense. The reader will surely like it. I have liked that ever since I read it. Dad, I love the way you started it, when God planned everything and decided you and I would be father and daughter, how he could see the great longing in our hearts. It is very perfect. I also read the Beloved. I was smiling as I was seeing it, while reading. . . Yey! Our story. Dad, I was so pleased to read that, your heart spoke effectively. There is nothing to improve, you're already perfect in writing. Good night. I will see you in my dreams. See you at 9 am. I love you forever. Mwaaaaaaahhh. Your Jenny The Ceremony Venus lay above the elongated moon shining down upon the darkened mountain. Her reflected light lit the eyes of the one who worked quietly to fashion the warrior who would ride before the red wind. The Creator thought as he worked, This one must be just so. His eyes will be blue to see far with the sky of heaven. The copper hair of his grandfather will blow in the wind from his head. Upon his brow I will place the look of his grandmother. Tall I will make him, and his legs strong to carry him far in his journey. In his lungs I will place the voice of song. He began to sing as he worked. The song coming from his lips was not in the language of the one whose heart he now held in his hands. At last when the warrior lay finished before him, he began to think. This one is just so. Only there is a small piece of his heart that did not fit lying there beside him. This heart of his heart will become the heart of another. I have seen her face far down along the ocean in a day not yet broken into dawn. I have heard her weeping. I have listened as her tears fell. She is the small one who walks in courage. She will be the one who will look always until she finally sees. She is the one I will give the heart of his heart. On this day I will tie their hearts together. When he awakens, he will know a part of him is missing. Many dark moons will pass over him as he goes through the days of his life. Many stars will shine upon his face, his happiness will be great, but in this part of him that only he can walk into, he will still know a part of him is missing. He will chase the eyes of the red wind till that day he will find the little one whose voice speaks so tenderly to his heart. "Nasaan kayo aking ama? Nasaan ang puso ninyo? Sa inyo ang puso ito." The Dream of the Red Wind The red wind was restless as she lay sleeping on the face of the prairie. Shadows of hearts broken whispered softly to her in her dreams. Aie-e-e-e! Her scream of silence rose from her breath. She tossed and turned and as her restlessness betrayed her, tendrils of her blew across the prairie, each one whispering, Today is the day her eyes will see. Today is the day of Sweet Morning Dew. Aie-e-e-e, ang kalawakan ay nanginginig sa takot. A white cloud stirred among the wisps of heaven blowing. Her womb undulated repeatedly across the sky. Darkness crept into her as she swelled to become the mother of rain. Mouth open, the prairie lay beneath her to receive the child of thunder. The thunder began to sing his song. . . fire in a spiderweb riding across once blue heaven. The storm in the dream of the red wind gathered as she slept. The storm of life lifted herself onto the tips of her toes and began to chase herself toward the prairie below. Ako ang ina ng ulan. Down in the willow thicket where the redbud blossoms sing, all along the little creek's ripples the minnows darted to and fro seeking shelter as the promise of the red wind began to make itself known. The mother of rain felt in her bones the chill of birth. Far below her she could see a solitary crow riding on the fringes of her sister, the red wind. A song rested in his heart. . . The persistent one, she thought. She readied herself for that moment, that second when she would become most heavy with child. Below her the crow still sang. Ako ang tunay na uwak. Close along the redbud thicket the creek willows began to whisper to the redbud trees, Who is this strange bird who comes to fly in our midst? Some of the younger willows say he is a crow. Who is this one who rides before the red wind as if she blows only for him? Can you see his heart? Who is this bird who talks to the mother of rain? Why has he came here to the land of our happiness to dance in the red wind? Who is this one whose tears live on his face? Ako ang ina ng ulan. . . she sings. I am the mother of rain. My sister comes, together we will sing the song of two hearts wandering the prairie. The thunder called and the lightning sang while to earth a warrior came. . . The fire cast shadows across the faces of The People as they began to gather into groups. Tonight the ceremony would take place. It was an important event in the lives of The People. Tonight The Real Crow would bestow her real name upon Daughter of His Heart. Daughter of His Heart's father had died when she was very young. The People were very good to her, making sure she always had food to eat, friends to play with and a place to sleep. Despite all this, in the mind of Daughter of His Heart, she always felt this cruel nothingness, this longing, this empty heart. . . "Aie-e-e-e!" She would scream in the night. It was always so. Her heart, though it was full, though it had the love of a mother, the love of sisters, the love of a brother. . . her heart cried every night, just as sure as the owl would hoot, so too, her heart cried through the night. Once, the oldest grandmother of the village had spoken to her as she cried. "Do not weep, little one. It will not always be so." She had pointed a bony finger stiff with age toward the north. "Look, little one, from the north he comes." Daughter of His Heart had not understood the grandmother's words. Of course, at that moment she had not even been called Daughter of His Heart. This would come later, much later. . . Her name had been a childhood name. Sweet Morning Dew, everyone had called her. Then there had came the day. . . the day she would always carry in her heart. She had been in the eastern meadow picking purple violets and sage for her mother. Oh, how she remembered that day. A sudden rain had began to fall, and she had sought shelter in the willow thicket growing along the far side of the meadow. As she had sat among the willows, she had watched as two streams became swollen from the rainfall. The one stream was very small, even swollen as it was. She had stared silently as a larger stream had converged with the smaller one, swelling it to three times its former size. She had shouted then, "Aie-e-e-e, even the stream has a father!" Her tears fell silently into the rain. The red wind moaned in her sleep. Aie-e-e-e! The thunder called her name and the lightening sang. Tamis ng Hamog sa Umaga, Tamis ng Hamog sa Umaga. At that moment the seven violets of the wandering meadow whispered, Is it him, Sweet Morning Dew? Is it him? The bundle of sage spoke from her hand, "Sweet Morning Dew, the gift of the red wind stands before you." It was at this moment she saw him. Not twenty feet from her, he sat on the back of a great, Appaloosa watching her. Oh, such a warrior she had never seen. He was one of The People, yet, he was not. His face carried the high cheekbones, the prominent brow. . .yet, his eyes were blue. His skin was red, yet, white. As she stared, he motioned his horse toward her. . She had spoken then, she had not been able to hold back the words. "Tell me. . . oh, warrior true. . . Your eyes carry the touch of heaven. Have you fallen from the sky? Tell me. . . oh, warrior true, are you my father?" The rider on the horse had pulled up close beside her before speaking. "Aie-e-e-e! I ride before the red wind my little one. Wherever she blows, I ride before her chasing the voice of my heart. In all my nights and days I hear the voice of that one walking on the back of the red wind. Sometimes she will sing me the way to the path of her heart and on other moments I will see her face to guide me. He spoke within himself, A face so like yours, little one. . . your face with my face hidden inside. At this moment he spoke to the girl he had so often seen in his dreams, the one who had pulled so tenderly at his heart with the longing embrace of a daughter's love. . . "Oh, my little one, I have always been your father, even on that day long ago when the breath of life first awakened me. My little one, your eyes can see I carry the bow and the tomahawk, on this day I shall also carry a lock of my sweet one's hair. . . This day, yesterday and every day, little one, I will be called your father. Aie-e-e-e!" In his heart of hearts her voice began to whisper, Father, I am the one whose voice has been calling your heart. I am the one who has made you journey before the red wind these many years. Father, I am the one who carries the heart you seek. Mine is the face you have seen in your campfires. . . the face you have spoken to in your dreams. I am the daughter your voice sings for. He listened then to her words. "Oh, my father, I have waited so long for you. Where have you been, father? Why have you journeyed for so long? You were not here on the thirteenth moon of my life, you were not here when. . . Oh, father of my heart. Ikaw ba talaga? "Minamahal kong anak na babae, tingnan ko nga ang mga mata mo. Oo, ako ang ama mo. My sweet one, we come from the north country, Spotted Moon and I. We ride before the red wind. My little one, this means we have no home. The wind is our mother, the stars are our sisters. . . No, I was not here for your thirteenth moon, but I promise you my eyes will see the sun set on your eighteenth moon. Oh, my precious. . . on the back of the red wind I have waited for you. It was the whisper of my heart calling your name when you heard the voice of the wind speaking with you. It was from the lips of my heart you have been called Tamis ng Hamog sa Umaga. Red Clover has heard the mouth of the red wind speaking my words. "Come, little one, I shall take you to your village, to your mother. . ." So saying, he leaned toward her, to take her hand in his. Reaching for him, she found herself in an instant astride the warrior's horse. Tightly, she clung to the waist of her father as the horse was urged into a lope. "Little one, how are you called?" He held his breath to hear her words, the same words his heart had whispered into the wind so many times. Tamis ng Hamog sa Umaga. "The People call me Sweet Morning Dew, father." "And so you are, little one." The eyes of The People were fast upon them as they made their way through the village. Winding between lodges, presently they came upon her mother's lodge. Here, they hurriedly dismounted from the back of Spotted Moon. Sweet Morning Dew gently touched the arm of her father, "Wait father, I will inform Red Clover you are here to speak with her." Swiftly, she entered the lodge, all the while shouting, "Aie-e-e-e! Mother, Mother! My father is here!" As silent as the sky stone he waited by the door of the lodge. Ah, yes, he was nervous. . . but he was The Real Crow. . .The Keeper of the Stories. His words were songs of the wind. . . tears of the stars. Today though, the most important words he had ever spoken must come forth from his heart. The mother of the first song must speak with his mouth. Ah, yes, he was nervous. . . Yes, he thought, for four days he and Spotted Moon had been in the vicinity of this village of The People. What had been the reason of his lingering? Well, if he had happened to ask Spotted Moon, he would have been informed that it was the good, sweet grass. "He he." The laugh came from deep in his lungs. A horse like Spotted Moon always had an honest opinion, he thought. Although, being honest didn't make an opinion right. The real reason he was here by the door of this lodge happened to be the voice of the nightingale.The first morning of his arrival he had heard her song. Oh, it had been so sweet, so haunting, her voice. He had swallowed the last of his parched corn for that morning when the nearby sounds of someone crying had touched his ears. Aie-e-e-e, he had thought. A young girl's tears must fall, but this girl's sobs were so heartbreaking the string of his heart was sending a chill along the side of his neck. Aie-e-e-e, his thoughts had sang. I must find her. On the the feet of the panther he had made his way toward the sounds of her tears. "Aie-e-e-e," his ears had cried, "even her tears make a melody." Silently he had moved through the foot broken dew, and had came in a moment to the edge of a creekside meadow. Here he had waited as his eyes had searched the tall grass before him. "Aie-e-e-e, Sweet Williams. . ." his heart had exclaimed as their fragrance had entered into his senses. Ah, yes. . .these little, pale blue and lavender wonders were the flowers of his heart, he had thought. Oh, so beautiful. . .he had said to himself as his eyes had sought the bringer of tears. Oh, yes, those were tears running down his cheeks, he had know this as well as he had known the thoughts of his heart. Of a sudden quite nearby, a redbird had sang of rain from the saw-briered tangle of a wild rose thicket. It was at this moment he had heard the voice of the nightingale as she sang. "I bring the morning violets to Red Clover. Violets silver with the dew of darkness. . . I take the sage of trembling leaves to sooth the lodge fire's spirit. I pound the skin of the sassafras root with my red stick of cedar. I am the sweet dew of the morning, I am the daughter of no father. . . I bring the morning violets to Red Clover, violets silver with the dew of darkness. . ." The words of this song had still fluttered in his heart when abruptly, the singing had trailed off. . . Many emotions had talked with him as he listened to the young girl sing. Her voice had clutched at his heart, so unerringly, so swiftly, so hauntingly. . . that before the song had reached an end, her voice had held his heart in its hands. Aie-e-e-e. . . his heart had cried. This must truly be a daughter of The Great Spirit. She gently holds me in her hands as if she believes I am the blue egg of a robin. With a great carefulness guiding him, he had parted the grass before his eyes to reveal the meadow once more. And the Sweet Dew of the Morning had sang. . . "I color the sky on the buffalo hide with cedar berries blue. I cry my song to the wind of the willow. . . close by where the redbuds grow. I ask of the wind the name of my dream. . . and if in the naming there is sorrow or truth. Answers the wind. . . she has seen him, the one who will come from the north. . . I am the sweet dew of the morning. I am the daughter of my father true. . ." Aie-e-e-e! Aie-e-e-e! His heart had screamed. It is here I will reside, by the side of the creek where the wild wind speaks of wisdom and truth, where the fleet minnows will splash the redbud blossoms in the springtime, where the Sweet Dew of the Morning sings her song. . . Of a sudden the sound of a sharp, echoing snap of a willow limb had sprang into his ears. The willows. . . he had thought. How could I have failed to look into the willows? Sweet Morning Dew hummed softly The Song of the Violets as she sat among the willows. She giggled softly, "He he." Did he not think she could see him? What sort of warrior was this, one who rolled among the violets, hid his face in the tall grass and listened to her sing as if he thought she sang for him? "Aie-e-e-e," she whispered of a sudden. "The crow! In his hair he wears the feather of the crow. Aie-e-e-e! Grandmother, he is here." Then she thought, So. . . this much I know. He is not an ordinary warrior. It is not just any warrior who would wear the feather of the crow. . . and roll around in a meadow of violets. "He he." "Crow feather or not, I have seen his face. . . " she whispered. "He he," she giggled once more. "Did he think he was still invisible?" Though this was the first time she had seen his face, she had always known he was her father, that he was somewhere close beside her, somewhere too far for her to touch, until this moment. Ah. . . I will sing, she thought. This is the thing that has made him visible. . . my voice. I will sing. Only this time I truly sing for him. Of a sudden her heart jumped in her chest like a minnow's arch over a redbud blossom slung low over a pool of clear water. Ah. . . I will sing more of The Song of the Violets, this is the song he loved so well, she mused. Yes, something draws him near, if I listen closely I can hear his heart calling my name. "Sweet Dew of the Morning! Sweet Dew of the Morning! Sweet Dew of the Morning!" Why does he speak my name in this way? Who is this man who calls to my heart so sweetly? Am I not the child of my mother? Am I not Sweet Morning Dew? Does his heart beat swiftly. . . when he hears the violets sleeping, when he sees the tears I'm weeping, when the morning dew is broken beneath the wind and words I've spoken? Does the thunder I keep hearing save my soul from disappearing into the sweetgrass heaven in the meadow? Was it thunder. . . or was it hoofbeats bringing forth the one who comes the from the north? Oh, why does my heart beat this way, fast and fluttering. . . when I am silent and remembering, when into the wind my heart is flinging all the love and thoughts she's singing? Oh, why is it I am slightly muttering the thoughts my heart is faintly uttering? Does his heart beat swiftly. . . when into the sky I sing the song of my loneliness, and what love does the echo with it bring when I'm singing? Does my heart beat swiftly. . . when I look into his face and see the truth scattered upon his brow. . . when I see his eyes carrying the smile of blue shadow paint I have seen in the dreams of my heart. . . when he calls my name? Does my heart beat swiftly? When I give him my eyes does my heart jump like the brown speckles of a meadowlark in flight? The sounds of voices inside the lodge chased away the mother of the first song from the tip of the tongue of The Keeper of the Stories just when had gotten his first taste of her spirit. At that moment when he had first touched her with his mind, when her melody of words had begun to seep into his heart and to set before him the true pathway of words he must speak to Red Clover, she was gone into the wind. Aie-e-e-e. His heart had screamed. Red Clover comes, now it is the song of this heart I must sing. The song of The Real Crow must be the song to tell Red Clover I am the father of her daughter. Will it be enough? He wondered. Will the song of my heart find the path that leads to the heart of Red Clover? Will my words walk across the bridge of truth so unerringly that my heart will talk with the heart of Red Clover? Will she see the truth in my heart, that I am the true father of Sweet Dew of the Morning? "Aie-e-e-e!" As the deerskin covering of the lodge door began to open, the caw of The Real Crow began to work its way out of his heart, from deep within the midst of the heart he had carried with him since the day he had been born, the words began to gather into a tight bundle of love and truth. It was from this innermost container of his spirit the song began to pour forth at precisely the moment Red Clover and Sweet Dew of the Morning emerged from the lodge. Momentarily, he stuttered as the full beauty of Red Clover struck his eyes a glancing blow. Aie-e-e-e! Ikaw ay maganda, Red Clover. "Oh, sweet mother of my daughter, I give you this day, the heart of The Real Crow. Please carry this heart swiftly to your daughter, Sweet Dew of the Morning. Say for me please. . . oh, sweet mother of my daughter, these words of my heart. My Sweet Dew of the Morning, on this day I love you with my heart, tomorrow and all the days thereafter I will love you with my eyes. I will hold your life in my heart till The Girl Sitting Near the Red Star shines no longer. Oh, my Sweet Dew of the Morning, till the sun falls into the Sea of China, till the death of the blue sky, these are the days and the moments my heart will cherish you. Oh, sweet mother of my daughter, on this day I give you the lead rope of Spotted Moon, and the stone that carries the spirit of my heart. Spotted Moon will carry you far and the stone of the spirit of my heart will give you the truth of the thoughts of The Real Crow. Oh, sweet mother of my daughter, beg Spotted Moon to forgive me and do not allow the eyes of my enemies to touch the stone that carries the spirit of my heart. Oh, sweet mother of my daughter, I ask your leave to stretch out my hand toward the heart of your daughter. With this hand I inquire of the Sweet Dew of the Morning if it is the wish of her heart to be my daughter. Oh, my Sweet Dew of the Morning, I give you my tears, I give you my laughter, and I place into your hands the tender love of my heart. Oh, my Sweet Dew of the Morning, sing for me your song, tell this one who would be your father the wish of your heart. Take my hand in yours." The song at an end, The Real Crow fell silent. Tears still walked along his cheekbones as he placed the stone of the spirit of his heart into the palm of Red Clover and tied the lead rope of Spotted Moon to a cedar pole before her lodge door. The smile in the eyes of Red Clover told him she knew the heart that lived in his chest. He looked toward Sweet Dew of the Morning and offered her his hand. Would she step forward with her song, or would she remain silent? Would she hold his hand in hers, completing the exchange of hearts? The anguish of these thoughts wrapped its hands around his heart many times as he waited for the answers. Why did she wait so long? His heart beat swiftly in his chest and his eyes implored her to step forward and take his hand. Oh, my baby, I will never leave you, he thought. Why do you hesitate? Do you not know my love for you is like the spicebush? She sends up many trunks from her roots until the sky is a bundle of spicebush trunks. This is my heart. Many roots of love grow from my heart to bind our hearts together. My daughter, my heart is crying its longing tenderness that leaps from my heart to yours. Do you not see these tears of love gathering in my eyes? Must I cry my tears to the sky? Only tell me, my daughter, when it is I should begin to cry my tears into the wind? Thirty one moons my daughter, this is the counting of the moments of anguish in my heart since my song has ended. How many moons must I wait? Will you stand there silently until The Real Crow falls dead at your feet, until the love of his heart is a hand full of dust in the red wind? If there is a song in your heart for me, step forward and sing. Please do not make me wait till a blue star falls from the heavens. It is your voice I must hear in the next beat of my heart. Yours is the heart my song is sang for. Will you sing, or will you remain silent? These were the thoughts in his eyes as he looked at Sweet Dew of the Morning, speaking with his eyes the anguish the passing of time instilled in his heart. What is the meaning of her silence? Has she forgotten I stand here waiting? No, she has not forgotten. . . for her eyes rest upon my face. Has her promise died in her heart? What is the reason she does not sing? Why does she not step forward and hold my hand in hers? Does she not know this is a part of the ceremony, that she must accept me as her father or forever turn her back to me? All of The People see this moment of my jubilation, in what moment will they begin to walk away from the long heart of this warrior? How long will I be able to stand before their eyes before a feeling of shame will step into my heart? The longer I stand here without the hand of Sweet Dew of the Morning in mine the deeper the shame burns into my heart. The People wait. . . I wait. Will the red wind once more caress the back of The Real Crow as he rides away from the shame in his heart? Will I try again to catch her words? I do not know. . . the answers lie in the thoughts of Sweet Dew of the Morning. "Aie-e-e-e!" The heart of Sweet Dew of the Morning awakened of a sudden. Had she been dreaming? What must her father feel at this moment? How long had she been standing here? The People edged closer, watching her for the moment her lips would tell them the words of her heart, waiting for that simple gesture of her hand. Would her hand reach for the hand of The Real Crow? As The Real Crow watched her, Sweet Dew of the Morning slowly began to move toward him. Tears came once more to his face as the love in his heart began to flow forth from his eyes. Her black eyes staring into his blue ones, she gently touched his left hand with hers. Tenderly, she enclosed his hand within the two of hers. "Oh, my father, I take this hand of yours in mine this moment to speak with my heart whose words I now say. Oh, the most dearest one in my heart, from this day I accept you as the father of my life, as the father of my heart. . . I give you this heart of your daughter and she will dwell in your life forever, as long as I breathe. I am your Sweet Dew of the Morning. The People will call me your daughter forever. Father, if I am dreaming I wish I would not awaken, but live here in this place of fantasy where dreams are truth. My father, my heart is crying because she took so long to speak. She was only trying to understand that her father truly stands before her once more. Father, I love you, words are not sufficient to explain the feeling in my heart. Your love is a breath I need to inhale every second and never breathe out again. I need you in my heart forever, my father. Listen now my father to the song your Sweet Dew of the Morning will sing for you. She is the song of your daughter's heart, the song I will sing for the dearest one in my heart. The Song of Sweet Morning Dew Oh, my most precious one, my silence doesn’t mean I stopped loving you. How could I, if my heart beats swiftly and tenderly each passing day and sleepless night? Could a daughter not love her father? She has wished all her life, the same as the sun rises everyday and never forgets to shine. Would the wind stop blowing, or the time stop running? This heart carries a forever feeling I’m always keeping. In the vicinity of death I tried to survive. You are my anchor, the reason why I’m a survivor of this vicious life that is so confusing. Oh precious, please tell me now. . . how could I not love you? You are the only remedy of this melancholy life. Afore my eyes were opened they called me the daughter with no father. There was no home for this heart to linger in until I found you. Stars served as my eyes. They watched every lonely night as the sun set from the sky. I was a heart wishing, always hoping to feel the father’s touch, the gift of heaven. Oh, please tell me now, how could I not love my greatest gift, the source of my new hope, the cause of this breathing, the only reason why I continue this taking? The seed has been planted, evil has been defeated. Right now in my own eyes I’m seeing clearly the father who is so dear. I thank the most high, the wind, the sun and the sky, forever I will rest and sigh, as this heart beats away the lie. Now I have a father to be called, promising the whole wide earth. I will love you forever, till everything would pass, my heart will linger into your soul. Listen patiently to these words I speak. I can’t imagine you’re my gift, the arduous and impossible wish I never thought I would attain. My heart once was silent not believing you have come. Oh, please trust me father, I love you. God knows my love is true. Listen to the whisper of my heart. She will tell you I really love thee. This song of my heart means forever, the melody binds our hearts together as a father and daughter who solemnly love each other. TheRealCrow felt the tears on his face as he listened to his daughter sing the song of her heart. He still held her hand in his. In his heart a burden had been removed while his daughter sang. in progress The Song of Sweet Morning Dew: copyright Jennifer Pineda Tria The Ceremony: copyright James Earl Jackson Holloway
© Copyright 2007 TheRealCrow (UN: therealcrow at Writing.Com).
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