Red Paint
I am a girl (for we never move beyond our mothers memory of us) adrift at sea, in a sea of heat. Fire burns through the underbrush. The sap in the pine trees snaps and sizzles. The outer bark singes, but the inner pulp is safe. Fire brings life to the seeds trapped in pinecones. It drives snakes, lizards, rabbits, mice and deer before it. Turtles delve deep into their burrows. Insects take to the air, the heat lifting and swirling them higher than their paper thin wings would normally carry them. They rise with the ashes. Ha, like the phoenix. “Phoenix and stink bugs,” I should make that the name of a story, this story. Fires make ghosts. Smoke swirls upward carrying the spirits of the animals the flames have consumed. Fire is the only way to heaven. A slow death only leads to bugs and mushrooms. When the earth consumes your flesh then to the earth your spirit remains.
“Then, that would imply that what ever we eat, its spirit lives in us,” The boy said, his eyes upturned to the wrinkled face of his grandfather.
“Yes, exactly!” He ran his raisin-like hands through the thick black hair of his grandson, who giggled at the touch. “Now,” the old man dipped his finger in the green paint he had freshly mixed in the clay pot his wife had made for him sixty years ago. He held the finger out, towards the boy.
“If you ate the corn that grows taller than you?”
“I would have the spirit of the corn.”
“Yes.” The old man extended his finger and drew the stalk and husk of an ear of corn. He then dipped another finger into a different clay pot, made by his wife forty years ago, and drew out yellow paint. He added the golden of the kernels.
The boy watched him draw the meticulous design on his forearm. The old man then dipped his hand into a pot of water, mixing the colors and washing them from his fingers. He pulled a cloth from his lap, drying his skin.
“And what would happen if you had the spirit of the corn rattling around inside of you?”
“I would take strength from my father the sun, and grow tall. The wind could not move me and my mother the rain would keep me safe.”
The old man dipped his finger into a pot of white paint. This pot had been molded by the hands of his wife twenty years ago. “But the deer eats the corn. The sun and the rain cannot stop him.”
“Then I would eat the deer.”
“And?”
“Swallow his spirit from antler to hoof.”
The old man smiled and drew the thin figure of a deer on the boy’s other arm. He laughed when the boy flexed and the image rippled with the muscles under the skin.
“The deer is strong and, as you said, has antlers and hooves; what is to keep his spirit from breaking free?”
“I will cover myself in his skin. His muscles will make me strong enough to keep him inside.”
The old man put his hand son the boy’s shoulders. “Now you must listen to the spirit of the deer. If he tells you to run, you must run and he will give you speed and pick out the paths that are sure. You can only hear him if you are quiet.”
“Is that why you sit in here all day? Do you listen to the deer?”
The old man looked past the boys shoulder, his eyes losing focus.
“I have eaten many things. I cannot remember them all. But I have not been able to keep all the spirits at my side.” His voice dropped to a mumble. “Sometimes the spirits fight within me. Only she could keep the spirits together. Only she...”
“Grandfather?”
He looked back down at the boy. The paint was drying on his arms.
“Yes, it is important to listen.”
The grandfather cleaned his hands again and turned to another pot. The drawings on the outside were fresher. This pot had been made by his wife one year ago. The old man pulled back his finger and it came out black.
“The deer cannot always protect you from the bear.”
“Then I will eat the bear.”
“He is not so easily killed as the deer. His spirit fights to remain in his own body.”
“I will hunt with my brother and we will share the spirit of the bear.”
The old man drew the figure of a bear on the right side of the boy’s chest.
“Yes, the spirit of the bear is enough to fill many men.”
Then the old man stopped and looked at the boy. The silence opened their ears to the drums beating outside. The boy looked at the door for a moment, but returned his gaze to his grandfather.
“What eats the bear?” the boy asked.
“The hardest spirit to kill.”
The boy still looked puzzled. The old man cleaned his hands and let them rest in his lap.
“What is the hardest spirit to kill?” he asked the boy.
“My enemy.” The boy smiled when he answered, showing more teeth than was necessary.
The old man reached behind him and picked up another clay pot. It was larger than the others, and had been made by his wife ten days ago. This time his finger came out red.
“And if you ate your enemy?”
“I would gain wisdom from his brains, the ability to see my enemies even in shadow from his eyes and courage from his heart.”
The old man traced a triangle on the boy’s forehead, a line across his eyes and a circle over his heart, all in red.
“Now you are ready. Go join your brother at the dance.”
The little boy stood and touched his forehead to that of his grandfather. “Thank you for your words.” He then sprinted out of the door, to the beating drums.
The old man sighed and wiped his hands. He turned to the last clay pot he had used. He carefully set the pot on his lap and stared at the red swirling against the carefully crafted sides.
The drums sounded quickly now and their beats came clearly though the open doorway.
The old man reached in and removed the one pound muscle from the liquid.
“Your spirit will always be with me.”
Then he bit into her heart.
“Then, that would imply that what ever we eat, its spirit lives in us,” The boy said, his eyes upturned to the wrinkled face of his grandfather.
“Yes, exactly!” He ran his raisin-like hands through the thick black hair of his grandson, who giggled at the touch. “Now,” the old man dipped his finger in the green paint he had freshly mixed in the clay pot his wife had made for him sixty years ago. He held the finger out, towards the boy.
“If you ate the corn that grows taller than you?”
“I would have the spirit of the corn.”
“Yes.” The old man extended his finger and drew the stalk and husk of an ear of corn. He then dipped another finger into a different clay pot, made by his wife forty years ago, and drew out yellow paint. He added the golden of the kernels.
The boy watched him draw the meticulous design on his forearm. The old man then dipped his hand into a pot of water, mixing the colors and washing them from his fingers. He pulled a cloth from his lap, drying his skin.
“And what would happen if you had the spirit of the corn rattling around inside of you?”
“I would take strength from my father the sun, and grow tall. The wind could not move me and my mother the rain would keep me safe.”
The old man dipped his finger into a pot of white paint. This pot had been molded by the hands of his wife twenty years ago. “But the deer eats the corn. The sun and the rain cannot stop him.”
“Then I would eat the deer.”
“And?”
“Swallow his spirit from antler to hoof.”
The old man smiled and drew the thin figure of a deer on the boy’s other arm. He laughed when the boy flexed and the image rippled with the muscles under the skin.
“The deer is strong and, as you said, has antlers and hooves; what is to keep his spirit from breaking free?”
“I will cover myself in his skin. His muscles will make me strong enough to keep him inside.”
The old man put his hand son the boy’s shoulders. “Now you must listen to the spirit of the deer. If he tells you to run, you must run and he will give you speed and pick out the paths that are sure. You can only hear him if you are quiet.”
“Is that why you sit in here all day? Do you listen to the deer?”
The old man looked past the boys shoulder, his eyes losing focus.
“I have eaten many things. I cannot remember them all. But I have not been able to keep all the spirits at my side.” His voice dropped to a mumble. “Sometimes the spirits fight within me. Only she could keep the spirits together. Only she...”
“Grandfather?”
He looked back down at the boy. The paint was drying on his arms.
“Yes, it is important to listen.”
The grandfather cleaned his hands again and turned to another pot. The drawings on the outside were fresher. This pot had been made by his wife one year ago. The old man pulled back his finger and it came out black.
“The deer cannot always protect you from the bear.”
“Then I will eat the bear.”
“He is not so easily killed as the deer. His spirit fights to remain in his own body.”
“I will hunt with my brother and we will share the spirit of the bear.”
The old man drew the figure of a bear on the right side of the boy’s chest.
“Yes, the spirit of the bear is enough to fill many men.”
Then the old man stopped and looked at the boy. The silence opened their ears to the drums beating outside. The boy looked at the door for a moment, but returned his gaze to his grandfather.
“What eats the bear?” the boy asked.
“The hardest spirit to kill.”
The boy still looked puzzled. The old man cleaned his hands and let them rest in his lap.
“What is the hardest spirit to kill?” he asked the boy.
“My enemy.” The boy smiled when he answered, showing more teeth than was necessary.
The old man reached behind him and picked up another clay pot. It was larger than the others, and had been made by his wife ten days ago. This time his finger came out red.
“And if you ate your enemy?”
“I would gain wisdom from his brains, the ability to see my enemies even in shadow from his eyes and courage from his heart.”
The old man traced a triangle on the boy’s forehead, a line across his eyes and a circle over his heart, all in red.
“Now you are ready. Go join your brother at the dance.”
The little boy stood and touched his forehead to that of his grandfather. “Thank you for your words.” He then sprinted out of the door, to the beating drums.
The old man sighed and wiped his hands. He turned to the last clay pot he had used. He carefully set the pot on his lap and stared at the red swirling against the carefully crafted sides.
The drums sounded quickly now and their beats came clearly though the open doorway.
The old man reached in and removed the one pound muscle from the liquid.
“Your spirit will always be with me.”
Then he bit into her heart.
