Davis Begay and I never anticipated we were changing the world on our last day of school in May of 1975. If truth be known the reality of what we did probably still lays unreal in the most forgotten way for both of us. I should leave it alone. Something tells me that when you dig up prolonged goodbyes, you discover them to be neither, and somehow you discover something else. The issue here is a missing piece of a puzzle for me. A lag of sorts, a nagging, a dark spot on my soul, like when you awake to find someone has died and you don’t know why. The thought occurs, that if curiosity killed the cat, then I better seek to become a lion, because when all is said and done here, Pandora’s Box is going to be exhumed and ripped to shreds.
That blessed Navajo boy, that part of my soul that will never leave me. My immortal brother. We planned it that day. There are those of you who will read this and know us, but you didn’t know this. You would not have dreamed our dark arts, the changing of our eyes, you would not have perceived. If you think deep, if you remember, a quaking reality will occur, a fermenting of fire, terrible hearts, knowing eyes, bearing witness of what two young boys knew inside. The last day of school. That day when the well ran dry, when life turned round in the sky and we ran, played hooky just the two of us, wandering the floor above the San Juan Valley. You frolicked in your childhood, you should have. We should have, rather we didn’t, and what we did, is now in motion, and it cannot be turned back.
Time is constant, it turns in a sphere, and as it takes and spins, it changes, and so as we found it we framed it to our twin souls. Like yesterday, like I could trace it, like a cover I would hide in memorial if I could. We ran as the day dawned, we entered the plains above the valley, laughing, eyes ablaze, we passed the edge of time.
Somewhere there above the valley. Above Kirtland, New Mexico we found the abandoned oil tanker. The lone piece of Americana languishing from an era of Eisenhower and Jack Benny. The rust and the revelation of steel elemental, grounded in sand, placed like a beacon summoning two young ghost home.
Now I can feel it, cool metal, alchemy in May, perhaps the smell of ancient oil, may be the aroma of time. We ran there, undetectable we were summoned there, before summer, and just as Gerald Ford pardoned Richard Nixon the previous September we found something deep beneath our feet that gave our childhood sins to forever.
We saw the ransom to the southwest of the tanker. It ran along the ground, although it should have flown. It had fallen through time, from the time of Enoch, untouched by giants and demons. A bird of the sea landing on the high plateau of the four corners. An omen, a gift to young prophets seeking the first vestibule of manhood, summoning the first rhyme. A temptation, to reveal the future, and seal the past from what we did not know.
Destiny dictates stories, death cannot be changed, silence stands still underneath the noon day light, and the trick of light made the fallen fowl appear human. A stone perhaps, a brilliant killing, without hesitation or planning. A fallen silence, dead, its eyes immortal and chiding. The blood that trickled like the Nile running to the North created a story that filled both of our eyes with shame. I decorated his face with crimson lines, he painted mine, and in unison we bowed in trepidation and tenderly kissed the kill. The feathers we grounded for the future, and to this day I believe they cry out summoning the spirit of Able to do away with time.
We sat in silence, watching the future, tasting our guilt and yet knowing we shared something deeper than our classmates’ only minutes away. We made prophecy and rhyme and cursed the day when our souls would no longer touch. We watched the afternoon turn empty, and laughed at a strange coldness that we began to understand. We were Sages in the beginning of an apocalyptic age that in our innocence we had brought energy and karma to. We settled a day on grounded feathers, and in this world nothing from that day will ever change. – דָּנִיֵּאל 03/01/2014
Davis and I met up for the first time in thirty-one years in August of 2007. Time had changed us only outwardly. We stayed away from the discussion of the sacrificial sea bird, and what we saw on that last day of May in 1975, until it was time to say goodbye. Only then as we hugged each other as brothers do, and the tears fell did we both admit to seeing the mist erupt from the ground over the grounded feathers, and make its way skyward.