Ancestor-of-Vulture Speaks
We began here, in our way, by feeding our young.

“We vultures know this story. It is one that is told to us the moment we are placed, so small, in the center of an expanding egg. We evolve within this egg and know our true roots in this myth. When you have need of us, call—if you find yourself from another world at any given time, we will help. Sew yourself with clarity in the world in which you were born, and exploring becomes an experience of reality.”
– an Emissary of the Vulture People

Long ago, before vultures had ancestors who lived upon this Earth, a desert valley rolled between two mountains, its floor a vast belly of sand pocked by rocks and brush.
Sand formed aprons for each mountain, and those peaks chose dull tones, blending with the land, the dark brush, and the stones which could only be seen by the sharpness of their shadows.
Above, the sky was the only sea. Its quiet blue paled to white at the horizon. Its sunlight glanced off granite slabs on the largest mountain’s side, stuck amid the sandstone like memory intruding where you think there should be none.
Place yourself on this stone, staying cool in the breath of dawn, and from here watch this story unfold.

Faster than a falcon’s dive, black clouds roiled and blotted the sky. The desert lay in darkness. Thunderheads crashed and crackled with lightning. A massive wave, larger than most mountains ever reach, fell upon the Earth, pounding soil, ripping chasms, while above the clouds fought within themselves, deluging Earth with rain.

We come from the sky, beyond
where the Earth ceases to be,

says Ancestor-of-Vultures, pointing with the finger at the apex of his wing.

And all who came are the people
of a place that has no words in this world.
We came when the world cracked open.
The wave of the sky met the wave of the wind,
and the people of water roared up from Earth
into Cloud. The cloud shook with a violence
that we could not hold onto, and so we fell,
having come, people of the sky beyond this sky,
to see the world below, and we fell.

From a world beyond this world, through a doorway timed with the crest of the storm, winged creatures moved: black and long-legged, with faces pale as smoke, noses like beaks and cheeks as soft as rabbit skin. Their wings stretched from fingertip to ankle, opening in great fans.
They seeded the sky, stepping from one world onto the craft of the thunderhead below. The clouds roared and groaned. Thunder shook the worlds and hurled the people down.
The dark-winged people, eyes closed, faces smooth, fell unto the Earth, which gave them their names. The water had now ceased to be, and the stones below were dry as old bone. Each winged-one plunged, a drift of black breaking onto stone.

Ancestor-of-Vulture speaks:

When our skulls cracked against this Earth,
a memory appeared within us that had never been before.
A memory of places we had been, people we had seen,
beings we had eaten and forgotten in our quest to know.
And so, we are here in this world, humbled from feather
to beak and back out again, our talons retracted,
our beaks used only for harvest, not kill.

When you come to us, you come with a sense of pride.
Your people think prideful thoughts of the power that we bring.
And yet you know not what we bring. We bring something beyond
this Earth, and when you know it, one tear will form in each eye,
and each eye will drop its tear at once so it may drift down your cheeks
and land at your chest, where it becomes a part of your healing.
Let each chest be healed with this story.

He extends his long beak and stares down it.

Let each story-maker
and teacher know what it is to be a fellow being, so that you
may feel the course of our gift inside you, the fall from the mighty.

The black storm had risen as a wall in the sky. Through a gap between worlds, the curious stepped, those who needed to know. They rode the thunderclouds and saw the world below.
But the violence of the thunder—

—Beyond the violence, there was purpose.
Beyond that purpose, there was hope—

—struck black-winged bodies to the ground, where memory grew.

We had forgotten how far we had flown.
Flown so far from our people, the birds.
Flown so far from the rest of our tribes.
Flown again, so far, that our only place of interest,
beyond the wave of flight, was a new world.
We came with purpose, yes. But we did not know
our purpose. Instead, our purpose knew us,
and claimed us. And here we lie within the bosom
of this Earth, here we are sewn in her very core.
Here we remain, deep in memory of this place,
and the other, and all places we have been.

From a place that is and always will be, ancestors of vulture came through. From a door that forms in darker folds, a purpose called them through. From a world-place filled with probing minds, young ancient ones stepped through.

When you long for worlds that may never have been, remember: Ancestor-of-Vulture weaves memory above and drops its net on those who have forgotten.

Find a fingerhold in the net we have woven,
and from there, follow the threads.

Harmony Marie Harrison with Ancestor-of-Vulture
Copyright December 2008