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The Broken Vase
By Bobby Neal Winters
The Medicine Man pulled his buffalo robe tight against his chest as the cold wind whipped past his nose, and he looked upon the colors painted on the western sky above the mountains. The grit in the wind stung his cheeks and tugged at the feathers in his headdress that marked him as chief priest of the One.
He turned his back on the sun whose rays fell upon the Holy Teepee where the Sacred Vase was kept and faced the door whose flaps were held aside by the boys who serves as his acolytes. Bowing and making the sign of the One, he then entered into the presence of the Vase. The main light within the teepee was the sunlight coming in past the tent flaps, but that was extinguished when the acolytes drew them shut, and the task of lighting the teepee fell to the smoky, flickering torches.
The Medicine Man knelt before the Vase with his head bowed and eyes closed for a long time, mainly in prayer but partially to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the torchlight within the tent. When he opened his eyes he could see all around him. To either side were his acolytes, the boys who helped him. When he’d been a young man with his full sight and swiftness of foot, the acolytes had been only symbolic of his office, but now as the lights of his eyes were dimming and the weight of the years was heavy upon his legs and feet, they were a great help to him.
Before him and to his right was a man on a litter who’d been carried in from a far village for healing. The man had been attacked by a wild beast. His body was covered by a buffalo robe, but the Medicine Man could see his face and the wounds the beast had made while mauling him.
Directly in front of the Medicine Man and to the side of the wounded man was the Vase.
To be sure, this was not the vase that most children would draw when asked to draw a picture of a vase in the dirt. It was called the Vase because that is how it had begun.
The story had been passed down the ages of how the One had come among the people of the tribe with the Vase. At that time, the Vase looked like an ordinary vase, with cuneiform pressed into the pottery and glyphs etched upon its surface. The One had preached among the people of the tribe, healed them, and taught them about the charis plant.
“On the day of the Gathering,” the One had said, “snap a small twig off the charis plant on your way to the Gathering place. One twig and one twig only for each member of the family no matter how large or small, young or old. Then, as you walk past the Vase, hold the twig over the vase and flick the twig as if you are trying to shake the dew from it—even if no dew is there. This is how we gather the water of life.”
These directions for the ceremony had been etched into the clay of the Vase by the One himself. The first time this was performed by the One it was during the dry of summer when there had been neither rain nor dew for three months. The twigs of the charis plant were all as dry as tender, but the people had done as the One asked, and after they had all filed past the Vase, it was full.
“This is the Water of Life,” the One had told them. “Use it for healing.”
Not long after that he had walked into the desert, promising to return one day, but countless moons had passed since then and many generations had passed, bet he had never returned.
In the meantime, the tribe had grown and the Vase left by the One was not big enough for all of the tribe to participate in the ceremony, so other vases had been carefully and lovingly attached to the original. Each time this was done the story was told again in a way the members of the tribe could understand. This was necessary because the tribe had traveled far, and much time had passed so indeed their language had changed.
The Medicine Man now turned to the Vase, reached in a dipper, and pulled out a measure of the Water of Life. He said a prayer as his acolytes pulled back the buffalo skin robe from the wounded man. He then bent over the man and dripped the Water of Life over the man’s wounds as he chanted. When he straightened back up and watched the wounds disappear from him like water from a hot baking rock.
The man stood, bowed obeisance to the Vase and the Medicine Man, and left.
The Medicine Man turned to the Vase and looked at it once again, examining it more closely this time. Every inch of it was covered with either the intricate cuneiform that comprised the alphabet of the tribe or glyphs depicting scenes from the tribe’s history. The various clay pots that constituted the parts of the vase had been fused with great care in a seamless way, yet there was one portion from which the parts had been broken.
At each stage of the Vases grown, great pains had been taken to fit each new part of the Vase in with the others in a symmetric and aesthetically pleasing fashion, yet there was one side of the Vase where the harmony of the Vase was broken and in more than an aesthetic sense. Not only had the symmetry of the construction be disturbed, but there was a jagged edge left where physical harm had been done.
The Medicine man examined the jagged edge. It was as sharp as a hide-scraper even though many men had been born, lived, and died since the Day of its breaking. Though the Vase carried on it many stories, it didn’t carry the story of how this had happened. It was a story no one cared to etch into something like stone or pottery, but it was passed from medicine man to medicine man from age to age in hopes that in being carried in the heart it would attain meaning.
As his dimming eyes passed over the Vase, the Medicine Man’s mind, as sharp as it ever had been, drifted back to the tale of the Day.
/***/
The Holy Teepee was full on the Day the Vase was broke, full of important men. Not only was the chief priest of the Vase there, but there were also lesser medicine men from different bands of the tribe, and each of those were accompanied by his war chief. They were there because they thought something important was going to happen, and they were right. They were simply wrong about what it was going to be.
When the One had left the Vase with the tribe, it had consisted of a single band, but the Water of Life had caused the tribe to prosper, so it had grown to include many bands. In fact, other bands which had been only distantly related to the tribe—if at all—had seen the power of the Vase and had joined them.
On this day, the august group of medicine men and war chiefs had gathered for a debate, which concerned the making of the Water of Life. As the tribe had grown, questions had arisen about the ceremony.
Some questioned whether only twigs of the charis plant could be used. They said surely the power of the One could work through any plant.
Others—though they believed the charis plant to be necessary for the ceremony—didn’t believe it had to be flicked over the Vase. They thought it could be held in one’s hand while they sat by the side of the Vase.
Yet others believed neither the flicking nor the plant was necessary. Surely the power of the One was so great it could be manifested without such superstitious ceremonies.
These were the academic positions that were held by the various medicine men. The war chiefs with them didn’t care about such esoteric matters. They cared much more about the power wielded by the Chief Priest and other high ranking members of the cult of the Vase.
On the day the Vase was broken they were standing in a circle around it debating. The debate was a civilized activity full of ceremony. Whoever’s turn it was to speak held the speaker’s staff. When the speaker had had his say, he would then pass it on in turn. Each speaker had a turn to speak and each of the others had a turn to respond until all was said.
The medicine man, named Matalu, who held the position that the charis plant was necessary but it need not be flicked into the Vase had finished his turn speaking and was passing the staff to the Chief Priest when it happened.
Later it was said by Chief Priest that Matalu had refused to let go of the talking staff and caused the accident, and by Matalu that the Chief Priest had grabbed too eagerly for the staff. Whichever the truth was, it happened that the talking staff stuck the Vase and broke some large pieces from it.
Confusion followed which was not helped when the war chiefs became involved and began fighting with each other and the various medicine men. When all was done, the broken pieces of the Vase were taken from the sacred teepee and carried back to the various camps.
/***/
The Medicine Man looked at the jagged Vase before him. It was ancient, wearing the patina of thousands of seasons.
The main piece had been left in the sacred teepee and was repaired as well as possible. However, each of the factions claimed they had rescued the first piece left by the One. They maintained the claim regardless of how small a piece they had or how many times it had been re-broken. For indeed, there were other debated held about the smaller pieces and often the pieces were broken in the ensuing battles, sometimes on purpose. Many of the pieces were shards too small to even hold water like a spoon, but that didn’t keep the holders from proclaiming they were the original piece.
The Medicine Man stood over the Vase, with tears now running down his face dripping into the Water of Life. How many years would it be before the return of the One? What would he make of the broken Vase?
By Bobby Neal Winters
The Medicine Man pulled his buffalo robe tight against his chest as the cold wind whipped past his nose, and he looked upon the colors painted on the western sky above the mountains. The grit in the wind stung his cheeks and tugged at the feathers in his headdress that marked him as chief priest of the One.
He turned his back on the sun whose rays fell upon the Holy Teepee where the Sacred Vase was kept and faced the door whose flaps were held aside by the boys who serves as his acolytes. Bowing and making the sign of the One, he then entered into the presence of the Vase. The main light within the teepee was the sunlight coming in past the tent flaps, but that was extinguished when the acolytes drew them shut, and the task of lighting the teepee fell to the smoky, flickering torches.
The Medicine Man knelt before the Vase with his head bowed and eyes closed for a long time, mainly in prayer but partially to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness of the torchlight within the tent. When he opened his eyes he could see all around him. To either side were his acolytes, the boys who helped him. When he’d been a young man with his full sight and swiftness of foot, the acolytes had been only symbolic of his office, but now as the lights of his eyes were dimming and the weight of the years was heavy upon his legs and feet, they were a great help to him.
Before him and to his right was a man on a litter who’d been carried in from a far village for healing. The man had been attacked by a wild beast. His body was covered by a buffalo robe, but the Medicine Man could see his face and the wounds the beast had made while mauling him.
Directly in front of the Medicine Man and to the side of the wounded man was the Vase.
To be sure, this was not the vase that most children would draw when asked to draw a picture of a vase in the dirt. It was called the Vase because that is how it had begun.
The story had been passed down the ages of how the One had come among the people of the tribe with the Vase. At that time, the Vase looked like an ordinary vase, with cuneiform pressed into the pottery and glyphs etched upon its surface. The One had preached among the people of the tribe, healed them, and taught them about the charis plant.
“On the day of the Gathering,” the One had said, “snap a small twig off the charis plant on your way to the Gathering place. One twig and one twig only for each member of the family no matter how large or small, young or old. Then, as you walk past the Vase, hold the twig over the vase and flick the twig as if you are trying to shake the dew from it—even if no dew is there. This is how we gather the water of life.”
These directions for the ceremony had been etched into the clay of the Vase by the One himself. The first time this was performed by the One it was during the dry of summer when there had been neither rain nor dew for three months. The twigs of the charis plant were all as dry as tender, but the people had done as the One asked, and after they had all filed past the Vase, it was full.
“This is the Water of Life,” the One had told them. “Use it for healing.”
Not long after that he had walked into the desert, promising to return one day, but countless moons had passed since then and many generations had passed, bet he had never returned.
In the meantime, the tribe had grown and the Vase left by the One was not big enough for all of the tribe to participate in the ceremony, so other vases had been carefully and lovingly attached to the original. Each time this was done the story was told again in a way the members of the tribe could understand. This was necessary because the tribe had traveled far, and much time had passed so indeed their language had changed.
The Medicine Man now turned to the Vase, reached in a dipper, and pulled out a measure of the Water of Life. He said a prayer as his acolytes pulled back the buffalo skin robe from the wounded man. He then bent over the man and dripped the Water of Life over the man’s wounds as he chanted. When he straightened back up and watched the wounds disappear from him like water from a hot baking rock.
The man stood, bowed obeisance to the Vase and the Medicine Man, and left.
The Medicine Man turned to the Vase and looked at it once again, examining it more closely this time. Every inch of it was covered with either the intricate cuneiform that comprised the alphabet of the tribe or glyphs depicting scenes from the tribe’s history. The various clay pots that constituted the parts of the vase had been fused with great care in a seamless way, yet there was one portion from which the parts had been broken.
At each stage of the Vases grown, great pains had been taken to fit each new part of the Vase in with the others in a symmetric and aesthetically pleasing fashion, yet there was one side of the Vase where the harmony of the Vase was broken and in more than an aesthetic sense. Not only had the symmetry of the construction be disturbed, but there was a jagged edge left where physical harm had been done.
The Medicine man examined the jagged edge. It was as sharp as a hide-scraper even though many men had been born, lived, and died since the Day of its breaking. Though the Vase carried on it many stories, it didn’t carry the story of how this had happened. It was a story no one cared to etch into something like stone or pottery, but it was passed from medicine man to medicine man from age to age in hopes that in being carried in the heart it would attain meaning.
As his dimming eyes passed over the Vase, the Medicine Man’s mind, as sharp as it ever had been, drifted back to the tale of the Day.
/***/
The Holy Teepee was full on the Day the Vase was broke, full of important men. Not only was the chief priest of the Vase there, but there were also lesser medicine men from different bands of the tribe, and each of those were accompanied by his war chief. They were there because they thought something important was going to happen, and they were right. They were simply wrong about what it was going to be.
When the One had left the Vase with the tribe, it had consisted of a single band, but the Water of Life had caused the tribe to prosper, so it had grown to include many bands. In fact, other bands which had been only distantly related to the tribe—if at all—had seen the power of the Vase and had joined them.
On this day, the august group of medicine men and war chiefs had gathered for a debate, which concerned the making of the Water of Life. As the tribe had grown, questions had arisen about the ceremony.
Some questioned whether only twigs of the charis plant could be used. They said surely the power of the One could work through any plant.
Others—though they believed the charis plant to be necessary for the ceremony—didn’t believe it had to be flicked over the Vase. They thought it could be held in one’s hand while they sat by the side of the Vase.
Yet others believed neither the flicking nor the plant was necessary. Surely the power of the One was so great it could be manifested without such superstitious ceremonies.
These were the academic positions that were held by the various medicine men. The war chiefs with them didn’t care about such esoteric matters. They cared much more about the power wielded by the Chief Priest and other high ranking members of the cult of the Vase.
On the day the Vase was broken they were standing in a circle around it debating. The debate was a civilized activity full of ceremony. Whoever’s turn it was to speak held the speaker’s staff. When the speaker had had his say, he would then pass it on in turn. Each speaker had a turn to speak and each of the others had a turn to respond until all was said.
The medicine man, named Matalu, who held the position that the charis plant was necessary but it need not be flicked into the Vase had finished his turn speaking and was passing the staff to the Chief Priest when it happened.
Later it was said by Chief Priest that Matalu had refused to let go of the talking staff and caused the accident, and by Matalu that the Chief Priest had grabbed too eagerly for the staff. Whichever the truth was, it happened that the talking staff stuck the Vase and broke some large pieces from it.
Confusion followed which was not helped when the war chiefs became involved and began fighting with each other and the various medicine men. When all was done, the broken pieces of the Vase were taken from the sacred teepee and carried back to the various camps.
/***/
The Medicine Man looked at the jagged Vase before him. It was ancient, wearing the patina of thousands of seasons.
The main piece had been left in the sacred teepee and was repaired as well as possible. However, each of the factions claimed they had rescued the first piece left by the One. They maintained the claim regardless of how small a piece they had or how many times it had been re-broken. For indeed, there were other debated held about the smaller pieces and often the pieces were broken in the ensuing battles, sometimes on purpose. Many of the pieces were shards too small to even hold water like a spoon, but that didn’t keep the holders from proclaiming they were the original piece.
The Medicine Man stood over the Vase, with tears now running down his face dripping into the Water of Life. How many years would it be before the return of the One? What would he make of the broken Vase?