Not far from Shiloh, still in desert sands and rock, the military command leaders secretly gathered to conference about battle strategy to end the war.
Yew Rue flattened himself against a dark rock wall. Shiloh’s darkness always crept in like a thief.
Yew Rue was anxious about seeing the legendary Somer Krest, the Wise Old Man. Most believed and hoped Krest had the knowledge and power to end Lamia’s reign of terror in Shiloh, the Golden City. Yew Rue watched a small band of shadows approaching the Cave of Four. This was a sacred gathering place.
In Shiloh, Yew was always cautious and observant. He delayed entering the single entrance chamber. Ambush could be waiting. Treachery seemed second nature in this grieving climate.
The small crag room was crowded by even the few people present. Zingara was there, Somer Krest’s splendid daughter. In the desert, Yew Rue had fortuitously learned Zingara was Krest’s kin. He always thought Zingara was more than Krest’s daughter, the way she clung on him, doted, and cooed. She was a seductive 17-year-old. He ached with yearning for her affections.
Under an overhang, Yew recognized the muscular stature of Somer dressed in desert SCARAB uniform and insignia. It was reported he was the only living person having conversed with the legendary 500-year-old Phoenix fire bird. Some claimed this is where Somer’s wisdom originated. Others assumed his wisdom was just the natural consequence of living a hard life for too long.
Drifting to past times, Yew Rue reminisced his first meeting with the wise old man, Somer Krest. It had been a memorable occasion.
The wise old man, at that time, dressed in archaic unrefined apparel, carried a long carved-wood walking stick. Even the air about him uttered, “Shaman”. Yew Rue had stared at the bird symbols on the stick. At the wooden pole’s apex, there was carved the transcendent Phoenix fire bird.
“You like my bird symbols, eh?” said the wise one.
“Birds have always fascinated me; especially when I was younger,” said Yew Rue.
“I sense that,” said The Wise Old Man, “Here’s a special gift for you.”
Reaching into a shoulder bag, the old man withdrew a shining red feather.
“It’s from the Phoenix. It’s a flight feather. Very rare.”
“Rare indeed. I thought the Phoenix just a mythological creature. Thank you.”
“No. For you and me, he’s very real and necessary for our progress. Study the flights of the Phoenix. You’ll learn many secrets.”
“Sir, I’m plagued by a question. May I ask it?”
“I suppose there’s no harm in asking. Proceed.”
“Do I have a purpose in life? Like a mission or quest?” asked Yew Rue.
The Wise Old Man remembered when he had asked that same question of the Phoenix years before. It made him scrutinize this young man a little closer.
“The answer’s yes. But what it is may not be the same tomorrow as it is today.”
“What is it today then?”
“Close your eyes and tell me what you see.”
“It’s dark.”
“Then look into the darkness.”
“It’s still too dark.”
“Then light a fire in your mind.”
“I see I’m in a cave. There are primitive paintings on the wall. It’s the story of the power-seeking crippled Shaman and his near fatal hunt of the mighty bison. The cave art is homage to the beast.”
“Very good. Who does the horned wild bull represent?” asked the Wise Old Man.
“My dead father. His tragic legacy is kept alive by the wounded shaman’s painting. The shaman now represents me. The cave represents the womb or a safe haven, a place of rejuvenation. The beast was worshipped as a god by the shaman. I don’t know what that means.”
“Did you ever worship your father?”
“Yes, as a child and young boy, I thought he knew everything and could do anything. He wanted me to think he was wise, but he was really an impostor and a fake. He taught me many lies.”
“Sounds like you need to purge the old bird. He’s still a hindrance for you. I doubt you’ll know your mission until you get rid of that poison and quit living in the cave.”
“How do I do that?”
“Use your creativity. Think like a true shaman. Make an effigy and destroy it.”
Yew Rue picked up a dry, bleached stick and a small, round stone.
“This wood is my Father,” he said breaking the stick into splinters, “his poison is no longer in my veins.”
He threw the stick down and ground it into the sand with his heel as if extinguishing a fire.
“This stone is from my Mother’s cave. I toss it far from me. I no longer require her suffocating guard.”
He spit on the stone and cast it.
“How do you feel now?” asked Yew Rue.
“I thought I’d feel relief but instead I feel sorrow. Why?”
“Murdering one’s parents usually does that to people.”
That had been their first interview. Many more followed. The Wise Old Man delighted in Yew Rue’s natural gifts in spite of his secret perception about Yew Rue’s cravings.