Youth

 

Stepping into the water cave is as stepping into an ocean of calmness and peace. All is silent except for the noise of water, flowing in whispers, taking you to a small pond full of bright colored fish. There you find me.  Lying down, with my arm under the water, trying to catch the fish as they swim by.

The oil lamps would be the next feature to catch your attention. With their inconspicuous smell, softened by the mist, some are fading, announcing they will soon stifle into the night. Consequently my favorite spot, right to the sitting rock, next to the pond, sometimes, when the coil is calm, one can witness a rapturous procession of fires glimmering in the dewy walls.  Bedazzled, I predicted upon which lamp would be the first to give in under a small inverted waterfall of smoke.

In the center, I see a small but steady fire embracing a huge log with the smallest of flames. There I see my brother and grandfather placing stones over the fire. Shirtless and barefoot, I stand facing the fire, waiting for the commencement of our ceremony.

I was north. I would always take north corner for myself. This means I enter the tent last. It also means, I would be a rock carrier. When everybody was already inside on their own corner, I would introduce the bright rocks. There is no other light than that of the luminous rocks.  I close the entrance behind me and sit like a young Siddhartha. There, gazing into the redness, hear the sound of water scalding instantly against the rocks. Then closing my eyes I wait for the wave of heat to clash upon my face.

I lower my head to the point I rest it against the moistened ground; there is a lot cooler and breathable. I envision the most exiting and romantic landscape where laid in a silent bower, a shepherd rests his head against a tree. With leafs landing upon his head exhaling sleepy clouds of sleepy smoke, he glances at the mountains with their topaz hue, under the dreamiest of lights.  This shepherd is my grandfather’s opiate voice dozing me as I press my face against the cool ground.

We traveled. And each time, we would end up in different places. Racing our horses home under a heavy rain, sitting on top of Churea Peak, walking slowly against the wind on some grassy field. My grandfather’s paced words gave me just enough time to find him on his elaborated landscapes. Together we walked under my imagination’s fancy, over a sea of feral azaleas.

He was the keeper of truths. Life’s deepest and most important truths came to me from this man. He taught me about love and the hearts of men. He taught me how to be a light beater and a keeper of the good. How noble was his selfless love towards nature.

Heat rises, as we approach the end of the ceremony. The room darkens under a fiery embrace. The last scoops of water are thrown against the rocks. There you find me, closing my eyes as hard as I can, waiting for all the rest to leave the tent. Outside, is not as dark. The moon, the stars, and all those oil lamps, keep the cave somewhat lightened. The air is so fresh and breathable. I walk outside the cave and feel the cool breeze of the few minutes before dawn.