by Steve Tanham
Ali’s powerful retelling…
The drum called, its stick an instant friend in my hand, unexpected tingle of familiarity up my right arm. I knew the figure crouched at my left, bright streams of Sun colour a solar-fall down the cloak of pure gold. I recognised the tall shadow of the Shaman, dark feathers shining unearthly green and blue, pelts still giving off the slight whiff of the animals which gifted them, sharp beak a stern reminder of mortality.
Stones – tall and weathered, humming and sparking with energy – surrounded us; the steep slope, shawled with grazing kine behind, a powerful shoulder for the people to gather strength from, or weep upon. The Circle fizzed and fuzzed with expectant silence. Sun, a radiant smile overhead, blessed the sacred site with its vernal benison, though the catch in the throat and the infinitesimal darkening and deepening of Sky’s evening palette suggested imminent transition. Darkness…
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