Wind

Copyright 2011 Russell Stuart Irwin.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Cover art: Russell Stuart Irwin

Cover design: Kevin Williamson

ISBN: 978-1-4669-7162-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-7164-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-7163-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012922895

Trafford rev. 12/29/2014

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Contents

Acknowledgments

Prologue

PoyMa’s Tongue

I The Vineyard

A Taste

Eating The Sun

Rejoice!

Larue

II A Holy Devastation

Wind

Dilemmas

Showdown

Xerxes

III New Wine

Exile

Wounds

Healing

The Road

A Long Hindrance Home

Harvest

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

THANKS to Elizabeth for the fine wine of you, you and me … our journey; to Ryan and Dana, Ashley, Michael, and Jonathan for being so uniquely you and so wonderfully us; to the three bright lights for all you have added to the we in famiwe; to Will Brunk for ping pong and for praying (for thirty years), Bernadette Randle for insisting, Steve Heald for cussing, Kevin and Matt for advising and encouragement, Dan and Dana for listening, Kyle Sullivan for getting Payāma, Don and Sue for a table to sit at and write, and friends and immigrants (too many to name) for your authentic contributions to the road home.

And:

Blessed art Thou O Lord, Our God,

King of the Universe

Creator of the fruit of the vine.

Dedicated to Roan Cowan—for believing.

Prologue

A king has a vineyard. It is the Royal Vineyard right in the middle of the Royal Garden.

The visitor and his expected oration had not yet been formally introduced; nor had he made any opening remark. As lunch was being cleared, he just stood up and began telling the story, voice strong and arresting, though, a little on the high side for a famous speaker, Māya thought. After hearing of his coming, she had waited for it expectantly. Several people made mention that he would be traveling a great distance and visiting other villages along the way. "That’s all he does, travel and talk?" she had asked her mother. Such a thing was an appealing revelation to a girl moved from long days of sun-baked field labor to long days of tedious labor because of her extraordinary weaving skills.

The day had finally arrived, and the whole thing seemed such a hullabaloo, even after weeks of anticipatory chatter running through the village. Her own excitement was most surprising.

Everyone swiveled toward him on their benches. Strolling between the tables, his hands helped themselves to shoulders and the tops of the children’s heads.

Walking through the Royal Garden, he continued, its beauty and life please the King greatly. It constantly changes because the King enjoys surprises. Endless varieties of flowering marvels adorn every new day as myriads of garden scents welcome his presence. Springs are hidden by sculpted hills of moss-covered boulders, trees, shrubs and ivy. Their splashing sounds tease his anticipation until the passing of a great rock or entering of a nook through a veil of hanging vines exposes the falling waters like doors flung open and a bride revealed to song.

The storyteller paused long enough to let the last phrase or two sink in.

Māya enjoyed surprises also, more then anything else. They were the wonder of the day-to-day. And the bride reference, though just allusion, was a delightful surprise in the story. Swept away, she quite naturally pictured herself as the bride. It was her common fancy, but on this occasion, introduced with some choreographed trickery, like the waterfalls in the Royal Garden. Māya lived somewhat swept-away, not usually needing any help from a story teller. Effortlessly, her mind supplied the smells of a King’s garden and the floral wonders of the bridal procession.

Māya was blind. This was her gift. Scenes she imagined were far more colorful and majestic than anyone else pictured, unhindered by limitations imposed by visual experience. She dreamed wedded dreams with abandon, safe in her certainty such things would never grace her days. What enchanting power was there to break the spell of blindness, but in dreams? Otherwise, would any prince forgive unseeing eyes when choosing his princess? Her dream world was a neat resolve, and all too safe.

Not only is the vineyard at the center of the garden… The speaker was in no hurry, walking through the modest gathering, his story measured, a full range of engaging dynamics in play. He was drawing nearer. It is made of a single vine topping the rounded hill at the center of the garden. Passing, he hesitated. As in long flowing locks, its fruitful strands spread, covering the entire hill.

Retracing steps, he came and stood before Māya. She felt her hair lifted from her left shoulder and visualized it black and shiny in his hand. As if in the story, she too was paused… breath, thought, movement, all but her pounding heart frozen. Even Māya’s normally busy eyelids were incapable of blinking. He placed his hand on her head. A blessing . . . all was quiet. She felt his eyes upon hers. Unexpected and unfamiliar feelings of destiny produced tears in those wide but unseeing eyes. He moved on.

Ripe clusters of fat fruit in every color by which grapes have ever been known… His voice was far more distant than the few steps taken as he walked away. They bow the branches, hanging lower than leafy shadows and sparkling in the light of the sun, causing what we all would expect… desire!

Māya was momentarily unable to listen, distracted. There it was, the long-awaited moment come and gone. If ever an enchanting moment was capable of breaking the spell… . She sighed. It was just as she had always imagined—the eye to eye magical deliverance… tears, finally a couple of fluttery blinks and… Yes! . . . release from the spell! But, no, it had passed with no effect.

But the fruit is more than just desirable, the storyteller assured his listeners, its taste more than satisfying. It is lifegiving!

Māya’s chin had been high, indicating expectance. The posture was not realized until it lowered, suddenly signifying something deflated… defeated. That very moment the habitual dreaming stopped and the safe certainty left. This darkness was her reality, here to stay. She stared, blank and stunned, unprepared for the unwanted epiphany. This is my situation, she silently resolved. It’s not going to change. She was thirteen and the thought had never before occurred.

From the point at the peak of the hill in the center of the garden at which the vine comes out of the ground… the whole kingdom can be seen, its deep mysteries and glorious treasures revealed. The point is not only an exact place… There was a long pause. Māya looked up, dim, yet back with the story being told. . . . but a fixed and precise time from which all time flows. The outer walls of the kingdom can be seen from there.

He sounded very young for a priest. But Māya was not an expert on these things. There was no reference point in her community experience and he was the first missionary to come through the village during her thirteen years. She had heard of priests in other villages, but her impression was that they were always old. A priest with a young man’s voice made no sense to her. In fact, she was bugged by it and by the attraction she felt. Chatter had revealed he arrived on a spunky Criollo pony, which Māya associated with cowboys. In her world, cowboys were Criollo-bound transients with lots of stories. She heard a comment about him being dressed all in black. A man of God dressed in black, like some kind of religion outlaw… to her, he was a cowboy.

Father Bellingham, she was told to call him. She might not know priests so well, but she knew fathers. The village was full of them, run by them. And she knew voices. She could evaluate much with impressive accuracy just by hearing one. In no way was this voice the voice of anyone’s father. She sat puzzled by the title, and aware of the visitor’s restless Criollo, tied to a tree just a few feet away.

Interested in Greek and Latin, the youthful Bellingham had originally been dismayed by his assignment: circuit missionary—Chile, South America. It seemed a thoughtless dispatch, a meaningless and undeserved exile for the self-proclaimed scholar. But it had grown on him, or he had grown into it. This was helped by discovering possession of a remarkable gift with the Mapuche languages of the broad region of his service. An equally peculiar love for the people who spoke them supplied motivation for perfecting their use. In just a handful of years he had come to be more fluent than many of the villagers, holding audiences such as this one captive with the delicacies of their own tongue, even exacting the nuances of different dialects. It was like sport, hobby, profession and romantic devotion all rolled into one.

Some creativity was required. He learned early on there was no use in implementing the preaching techniques taught in seminary. Anything technical in nature was discovered to be impossible. But he had enjoyed some success with stories. Stories connected. This had become Bellingham’s way. Determined to preach the scriptures, he set out to turn every preachable section of text into parable form, occasionally finding a way to slip in some Latin or Greek. Sometime later, after the parable had time to mature, he would return for a longer stay to shine more light on the details. LETTER CARRIER was ornately stamped into the leather of his saddle bags for personal enjoyment of a self-designation he took seriously. But the official look did make its impression on others. Some wished to touch the beautifully crafted bags, but no one ever had. Nor had he invited anyone to do so. It was as if the leather carvings were sacred representations of the parable he crafted from the Scriptures with equal care, usually drawn from New Testament letters. Deliveries were made with recipient-sensitive modifications.

There is another vineyard outside the Kingdom walls, the cowboy missionary’s audience was informed. His voice turned suddenly stern and sobering, more like a father, Māya thought. "The vines in that vineyard are dead, he explained, though they carry on in some mysterious state of deadness… death diseased… under some spell introduced by a local sorcerer jealous specifically of the King’s vineyard."

Māya’s chin was again high. She had not expected the story to include spells and sorcerers. She felt tingly, as if the sorcerer in the story might be the very one responsible for her situation.

Just as mysterious as the ongoing deadness is their location outside the kingdom walls. Intended and prepared for the Royal Garden, they are rebel branches. He took off his black cowboy hat, turned it upside down and ran the index finger of his right hand around the rim, thoughtful, staring inside. He did this so naturally no one suspected there were notes in there. Finally, he looked up.

Now, some of you, being expert farmers, maybe even vineyard keepers, might want to get smart with me and demand an explanation for how a branch detaches from the vine, runs off, self-tosses up over a great wall and plants itself elsewhere. After running fingers through his long hat-matted hair, he put the handsome hat back on his head. I am telling you right frank, I am not that smart in the area of great mysteries, nor have I been privy to the planning meetings of the King’s gardeners so as to get any inside scoop. Without realizing it, he had left the formal tone of his practiced presentation. "But I don’t think there is any detaching, per se. Best guess on my part… it would appear a rebel will is at work in these branches, a want in each for being their own royal vines—the death-disease I mentioned. So, when they spring up, they do so outside the kingdom. At any rate, it is a sad sight beyond the walls, all those death-diseased vines with no fruit on them, but trying to cover up the fact with shriveled brown leaves and look as royally fancy as possible to each other… awkward too, you can imagine."

Māya was feeling distressed. Eager for the identity of the sorcerer and some answers about his craft and punishment, she had been intently focussed on the details. Yet, she felt the story had turned on her. Disturbingly, the sorcerer seemed to have escaped from view and responsibility. She keenly sensed the same agitation in the village members immediately around her and was thinking it might be best for the cowboy, Bellingham, to get on his Criollo and go. This far along though, there was nothing to do but continue hoping the evil sorcerer issue would soon be dealt with in the story.

Wondrously, the oblivious offender proceeded, "though they are dead in their diseased state, the King loves the displaced branches and made a way for them to be grafted back into the Royal Vine. Whenever one of the branches has had it with the whole pretending aliveness business, it simply looks up beyond the walls to the hilltop in the Royal Garden and takes heart in the King’s Vine."

Father Bellingham’s horse was starting to cause untimely distractions. Walking over to the tree and releasing it, he handed the reins to Māya. Would you please hold on to him for just a few minutes? he asked. After walking back to the center of the seated gathering, he stood for a silent moment, arms folded.

Another great mystery… somehow, by the special favor of the King and the taking-heart I mentioned, a branch that was not there before just appears, connected right to the Vine. If you were to ever visit the Royal Vineyard and look closely, you would notice something different from what you are accustomed to in your vineyards… evidence of grafting rather than sprouting where the branches are connected to the Vine. They all get there that way. It’s the only way.

The preacher looked over at Māya. The reins had fallen to the ground, but the horse remained at her side. Her hands had found the leather artistry on a saddlebag.

The King has a name for these precious branches. He calls them ‘Poiēma’ . . . his personal creative master-works, intended all along for the fruitful work of the Royal Vine at the center of the Royal Garden.

There, he had slipped it in, a bit of Greek, albeit just one word in the story. He usually liked to work in two or three for the sake of staying sharp. Māya heard the inversion of her own name in the word and saw the name Poyāma in her mind. She dearly enjoyed its connection to the vines in the story, its association with the King’s favor, the Royal Garden and good fruit. But the sound of it is what would stay with her long after the story was forgotten.

Bellingham walked over and took hold of his horse’s reins, which Māya was mortified to realize she was no longer holding. A consoling pat of a shoulder assured all was well.

What does it mean? she asked, her softly spoken Mapuche arresting Bellingham’s attention.

All eyes were suddenly on Māya.

Poyāma… all names have a meaning. What does it mean?

Poiēma, Bellingham corrected, delighted someone cared to ask. God-made, he answered. After a lengthy pause, he looked around at the others, whose eyes were again fixed on him, and added, God-made for generous goodness of everlasting value.

He turned and continued walking his horse around the outside of the gathering.

The King has revealed one other mystery about this ‘grafting’ of Vine and branches. It is a profound mystery, maybe the greatest mystery of all. Yet, you may have already guessed it.

No one actually had any guesses at all.

Arriving at the spot where he had originally dismounted, the young priest stopped.

"This grafting… in his kingdom it is regarded as marriage. This is the story of the Royal Union! He paused and one last time looked around, making sure to meet each set of eyes with his own. The King has planned a grand wedding feast, the Royal Celebration…"

Turning, he put a foot in a stirrup and was quickly seated in the saddle. It is not far off. I hope to see you all there. A fancy revolution—the kind for which Criollos are known—ended with a lunge forward that brought front legs high off the ground, and he was gone.

Take heart in the King’s favor! was yelled over shoulder.

No one had expected such an odd ending, or the invitation. Five minutes passed. As some stood to leave, Māya remained seated, pondering a lot of new unsafe ideas and feelings. Something about the King’s favor had gotten through. She pointed her face toward the blue sky above. Poyāma will be the name of my first child. Hearing her own name called, she rose and made her way back to interrupted weaving as others returned to the fields, many feeling somewhat cheated by the brief event and its abrupt conclusion.

Poyāma’s Tongue

Creole—a sauce, a dish… tomatoes, peppers, seasonings, rice—for some, this word is loaded with delicious implications of tastes and scents resulting from applied orders of scientific facts commonly called recipes—ingredients blended and cooked.

Where language is concerned, this savory blending of ingredient facts may serve an understanding of a spoken Creole. In both cases the tongue is messenger, its report pregnant with unique consequences of cultural interactions and the movements of peoples and nations within intimacies of the family abode. But spoken Creole presents evidences of such movements far more complex and revealing than even the most dynamic recipes.

Take, for example, speech within a winegrowing village in a valley in central Chile, under Spanish political rule but local French dominion, in the early to mid nineteenth century. There, the imperial languages of Spanish, French and English converged and infused affect, but the indigenous Mapuche and the Hindi dialect of indentured laborers transplanted from East India (by way of British Guiana) ruled the character of the community tongue. However prominent or subtle, blended epochs were present in the strategic negotiations between French merchants and Spanish governing officials, and no less in the vineyard conversation and chatter within homes of the locals, where Creole reigned.

Beyond the Chilean mountains and coastline that cradled the village, English made its ascent to the status of universal language, nearly unhindered by national boundaries. But the native language of an adopted son is more resistant. Such was the case with Poyāma. The tip of his tongue was trained under the influence of his father’s Hindi to maintain contact with the ridge joining hard and soft palates in the roof of his mouth. The result in English was an elimination of the th sound: the—de, another—anoter, brother/broter, nothing/noting, think/tink, etc… The strong tonal delivery of Mapuche—primarily his mother’s influence—left its lasting mark in ending consonants opposing connection: fast—fass, it’s—i’s, exist—exis, act—ac, can’t—can’ and so on.

Of course, we know that language is not merely tonal with various intermittent constrictions, but grammatical and directional as well. Some products of mixture expressed in a common tongue may be cooked-up with proper words but served in arrangements which are incoherent or humorous to the hearer. Others may present as oddly identical meanings, like, your face is knowing and you look familiar, or, time for a smoke and jus now we knock a blow. And somehow, if even by humor, confusion in the exchange concerning what is meant reveals meaning in the higher sense: origin, history, journey… things that matter personally and interpersonally. Word is not merely a vehicle for conveyance of a specifically defined meaning, but is inseparable from the existence, experience and expression of all that is meaningful. Whether speaking of it intentionally or not, Poyāma’s journey was ever on his tongue.

I

The Vineyard

A TASTE

G loria…

Everyone stared, waiting, knowing that Gloria was never in a hurry. Tasteful sensibilities were not to be rushed or ordered like cattle across the land and into a corral, swiftly processed for consumption. Light was soft. Lanterns—one on the wall near both doors at opposite ends of the room—were low. Their illumination spread like a caramel coating over polished knotty pine, gently reflecting the dance of a dozen flickering flames in candelabra above the tasting table at center. Wine bottles and glasses on the table also sparkled with their reflections. Like a resonating note suspended in the silence between symphonic passages, the spoken name held a composed moment expectant of its owner’s voice. It was a wine tasting event, requiring words as much as wine.

Paradoxical… , she announced, plump and plain, yet exotic and luxuriant… Pausing, Gloria was as the cluster of grapes in her hands, which she drew upward and pressed around her plump nose and against full rosy cheeks. Basic and magnificent, she continued, one and many, meager and plentiful, simple and complex… round… Fingers delicately traveled bulging contours as if the descriptive words were being read from brail on the skin of the fruit. Abundantly classic… deep and enduring. A few short sniffs, a deep breath and the cluster was returned to the table’s centerpiece. After a playful gesture, she folded her hands and added for cliché, Quite difficult to describe in a few words or phrases really.

The wine, Gloria dear… we are all familiar with the grapes, answered Claudia LaRue, wife of Richard LaRue, Gloria’s brother, who was rolling his eyes. The two lifelong friends smiled at one another, indulging the humor testing Richard’s patience.

Gloria… he said again, nodding toward a glass in front of her.

Others standing around the table, eighteen in all, were anxious for the sensual report from the one they considered queen of taste, master of aromatic detection and vocabulary. Never eager to take a turn, modesty was her skill and stealth. Embellishment was as foreign as veneer to soil. Expertise was worn with a generosity of inclusion leaving all in her presence elevated as artists, noble peers with that rare power of communal dignity universally coveted. The anticipated appraisal would, as always, be simple and brief, understood and easily owned, not imposing, but