Celia's Song by Lee Maracle

accord in Jacob’s hand. This is not good for Jacob, who has no idea what cedar is doing and no context for believing what he is seeing and feeling. Jacob fights cedar, tries to hold it still in his hand, but cedar refuses to be still. He feels panic rise in his chest.
    Celia stops watching Momma and turns to Jacob and the cedar frond. She hears the panic in Jacob’s mind. She listens as cedar whispers calming words: “Your song sits at the edge of the mountain. It awaits your voice.” Celia sees Jacob is driving the words away from his consciousness, he is struggling to focus on the women’s conversation. Celia’s mind urges Jacob to be calm. “Listen, cedar wants to tell you something, listen to cedar.” Jacob ignores her. Celia decides to let him figure it out for himself; she leans back in her chair and resumes watching Momma.
    â€œSmoked fish?” Jacob blurts out, finding some piece of talk to jump in and get nosy about. Fear still has hold of him; the words come out high-pitched and strained. Celia recognizes the fear; it is the same fear she felt so long ago, behind the woodshed. When she first saw those tall ships.
    The old bones grow determined when they recognize that Jacob is like his aunt; they need a young man to help restore balance to the village, mediate the rage of the young bones, and remove the threat of the serpent. They sing harder and rattle with greater will. They pray Jacob will hear them.
    â€œOh, Jacob, you make me tired already,” Rena starts in on him as she jumps up and pours another coffee for herself and the rest of the women. “Any minute now I’m going to run out and have me a smoke.”
    Jacob winces, but Rena was rough around the edges.
    â€œAh hell, we’ll smoke some fish this year so you don’t have to ask us what we cannot explain.” She takes a long pull on the hot coffee.
    â€œAh, Rena, leave him be.” Every head jerks to stare at Celia. She’s never been one to say “shit” even when her mouth is full of it.
    Rena looks at her intently for a second, a small smile playing on her lips. She lets go a deep breath and laughs out loud. She is proud of Celia. The others chuckle, nervous and confused at the sound of command in Celia’s voice and Rena’s response. It unnerves them that she is still in the room, listening.
    I am licking my paws, enjoying the easy banter of the women as they head for the place they need to be to figure this out. It is easy: the women need to find a way to reconcile the new life with the old story. But, at the same time, it is so complicated. Remembering is a matter of context and the context has changed. I look up. Speaking of change, the weather is about to shift. I look for a dry spot with a vantage point. The wheelbarrow will do. Off I scurry to get under it.
    CLOUDS DARK, PUFFY, AND grey sometimes hang on to their rain. They are up in the sky hanging heavy. The grandfathers beyond the moon realize the clouds are not going to let go their earth tears without a push, a shove, and a boom. They rear up and their hollering rolls out, breaking the clouds. Their bellowing rattles the cloud’s stillness, making them crash about. Their blue fire breath streaks the earth below with its bent light .
    The women gasp, and then halloo the grandfathers. The women shut off the electric lights as they always do in a storm. Momma drops her craftwork in a drawer, opens another and pulls out candles and matches. Each woman grabs a candle and a match and sets them ablaze. The flickers of candlelight sway to the breath of the people in the room, transform the faces into orange-burntbrown haunted cheekbones, almond eyes, and teeth — handsome shadowy works of art.
    â€œHow did it happen … the smells … the loss of them?” Jacob asks.
    â€œWe ran out of wood,” Momma says flatly.
    The candlelight dances on Momma’s cheekbones, making them shine smooth reddish