Stone Altar Against The Sea

Laud the gods, And let our crooked smokes climb to their nostrils From our blest altars. Shakespeare's Cymbeline Some demon must have willed it, a beast our prayers and sacrifices cannot reach. In the unexpected fall of night, even in day's fullness, we warriors all, blinded and unready, gripped rope or rail, sail or rough plank, but still our sturdy ship crashed on hidden rocks. The bottom was rent, collapsed like kindling in a blaze. We the twelve upright turned to help the twelve prostrate ones. Broken bones, deep gashes, severed limbs, but not a sound of pain or grief. We saw their souls enter the stream of the gods' own river high above us. Even demon darkness could not occlude that vision. We plunged from our beloved ship into the black tar water, and trudged heavily to the rocky beach, surf pounding far beyond us. Oh, the doom that surf proclaimed! We stood in a crooked line, staring out at those immense waves which were now our jailers. I no longer gave commands. We all knew what had to be done. We worked slowly, steadily. This had to be done right the first time, or the waves would drown our chances, then our lives. We spoke little, our prayers were best intoned in the soul's cavern. But our prophet, Hanrun, sang THE LAY OF MERCER in his high, sweet voice. We salvaged weapons, food and clothing. My young cousin rescued the six BOOKS OF THE LAWS. We all cheered and applauded him, but I worried, Has the judgment of the gods fallen on us? Is the dark prophecy of my youth being fulfilled, even pulling my eleven brave companions into its bleak unfolding? In my vision, on my first hunt, I saw a star blaze with black fire, and turn the sky into ashes, and then we choked on the stench of black air. But everyone survived. Everyone. And our joy is a new kind of strength we summon at every spring festival. So perhaps even this catastrophe the gods needed to right some huge flaw in space, and having done so, they may be willing to do us good in return. We perform our final task in an expectant silence. We heave red-splotched gray rocks, moss-covered granite, panels of slate, dull shining mica sheets. We bring all these heavy offerings to Hanrun, who tells us how to pile them to make a vast altar along the beach. A fire glows, a fire grows, a fire blazes. We stand around the altar, pounding our shields with swords and spears. We recite prayers sacred to our tribe, and move around the altar, following the sun's path across the sky. Our prophet stands nearest the hot blaze. His eyes are shut and his lips mouth a silent appeal... By dawn the altar fire smolders, and the darkness is pierced by sunshafts. We gather our belongings, and begin our trek inland, to find a new home....