The Hearing People

We once observed colour with our eyes. Greens and blues, palettes and hues; the great ancestors of monochrome, existing only in folklore.

We were once seeing people.

The breadth of our vision once extended beyond shadows and distance. The sticks we once threw for hounds contained colour, as did the pounded grass under the pursuing paws. As did the paws, themselves. The stimuli, now desaturated. The irons, the steels; our livelihood, our resource. The hammer, how it fell. How it falls even now. Shards of our history are traded in whispers. The anvil is hot to the touch. 

Now, we are hearing people.

The world lost its colour when the world lost its way. That’s what we’re told by those with more years behind their eyes. There’s a nameless Shaman, with glowing pale eyes and dark, timeworn skin, who lives in the forests near home and weaves tales of “time expired”. He’s considered unorthodox by many; referred to often as “The Mad One”. I’ve seen him recently, on my return from harvest. He was methodically moving his fingers through the air, rotating his wrists and elbows in an unchanging rhythm. His eyes were tightly closed, and his left ankle was rotating in a gradually evolving pattern. He didn’t notice me, or he convincingly ignored me. Beside where he perched, with the posture and grace of a mantis, was a gentle-flowing stream. He had connected rope between two trees, on either side of the stream, and dangled bottles, buckets, parchment and crockery from the suspended rope. Music, of some organic and non-formulaic description, omitted from the stream that day. I continued past, until his music was barely a footnote, then I waded through the stream. The stream creates boundary. It separates, it nourishes, it connects, it disconnects.

Today I must harvest once more. We are a hibernating people; a reality we accepted when the world struck back. We took Her for granted. You cannot feed your roots poison and expect the tree to grow. Poison saps life, the living, and the prospect of further life. This poison was without colour, odour or even form. This poison was in actions, repeated actions, that chipped away at the stone of Her character until the foundations were vulnerable. This poison could be sharp, fast, slow, strong, weak, conceited, encouraged, tangible or otherwise. The well is now dry. The antidote: harvest. Survive the cruel winters and thrive through the rest. Survive, so that we can repair Her. She is our deity, upon whom we wander. 

I swing a fabric sack on my back and make for the door. Upon the pippy oak plane, is a carving of Her; as is customary in the homes of The Hearing People. 

‘I hear you.’ I whisper, with my ear to the carving. I close my eyes and listen for the creaks beneath the skin of the wood. I take in a gulp of air, and hold it in my lungs, still. There’s a world of sound in everything. She is within even Herself.

“I cannot see your colour, so I shall hear your colour.” I whisper, with eyes still closed and breath drawn. I wait another moment, allowing the inner resonance of the carving to flow through me, revitalise me, and I step out into Her being.

I pace myself, knowing the journey ahead is arduous, and the harvest will require much effort and strength. I approach the stream, Her veins, and cross with ease. My ears bend to a sound Northward. My intrigue bends with them. I look to the open sky, and lift a hand to the sun, which casts dappled shadow through the canopy. I align my finger with the sun. Along my finger is inked detail of the Summer-sun trajectory. I understand the time I have, and the time I’m in, and allow my bending intrigue to bend further.

I follow the sound; a deep, resonating warm tone, to a clearing not far from where the stream divides. The nameless Shaman, oblivious to all he means to ignore, and robed in dark silk, is sitting on a rock, examining a contraption. His shack is built on the outskirts of the clearing, offering vantage to observe the wildlife. The shack is built in repeated hollow circles, from the ground up. The circular structures are largest at the base, and steadily decrease in scale with height. Each layer is clad with thick mud and bonded with river clay. The mystical sound is coming from the stream; he had added more bottles of varying form since my last encounter.

“What do you have, there?” I ask. My words startle him, and he drops the contraption onto Her grainy surface. Her skin cushions it and holds it safely, preserving it so that I can share in it.

“Wait!” The Shaman exclaims. He mutters and clicks in muted breath, lifts up the contraption and gently blows away a cloud of earthy dust. Sunlight leaks into the clearing. 

“There. There, now you see.” He beckons me with his withered hand. Golden, rusted rings knock between his fingers, jangling melodically. I approach, drawn in. It’s a shape I do not recognise, roughly the size of my palm.

“You can see?” He presses. As I approach, the Shaman’s eyes open wide in anticipation. I take the shape and examine it with touch.

“I don’t understand.” I rotate the shape in my palm. The Shaman turns around, muttering in apparent disappointment. I hold the form to my ear.

“What are you?…” I ask it, then return it to my ear for an answer. I listen for Her. Is She within this strange shape? There’s a silence within it; an absence of sound. A void.

“This is unnatural. She is not within this shape! What is it? Where did you find it?” I bellow at the Shaman’s cloaked back. Emotions flood through me and I’m caught off guard by my own outburst.

“Do not be angry at what you do not understand.” The Shaman turns and retrieves the shape. “Now, be on your way.” His tone has shifted, and I must leave. 

“I will leave. I know I must, but tell me, what is it?” I wait, rooted to Her.

For a long time, the Shaman waits. He stands in side profile, with the shape in his left hand, fingers wrapped around the unusual form. There’s a faint breeze through the trees, but otherwise there is only stillness. The Shaman releases a breeze of air from his own lungs, and holds out the shape once more.

“Your eyes. Only your eyes.” He whispers. I hear the weight of his words connect with the weight of my soul.

He steps forward, just once. 

“Today, you are not of The Hearing People, you are not of The Feeling People, you are of The Seeing People.” He gestures for me to take the shape. 

“Now… See.” The shape sits in my palm. Music from the Shaman’s bottles, moving with the will of Her veins, shape my mind into calmness. I wait for a long time, in a silk bath of sound, clasping an unfeeling, unknown form. I want nothing more than to understand it. 

Much time passes, and The Shaman retreats to his shack. I sigh, conflicted between peace and the missing piece, and I approach The Shaman’s shack. 

“I…” I clear my throat. “I don’t understand, but how I wish that wasn’t so. I am of The Hearing People, and your music, played along Her veins, has moved me. I will return after harvest, and I will hear your music again. I’m sorry that I do not see anything beyond the shape in my palm. I can’t imagine what else there is to see.”

There is no answer. I place the shape on the floor, pause for a moment longer, and return to the Harvest’s trail. 

* * *

Hours later, The Shaman opens his door. He picks up the prism, and holds it to the last of the sunlight.

“How I wish the rest could see you.”

Seven colours: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet, stream in beautiful lines from the prism, illuminating the clearing. The Shaman watches the colours fade, as the sun retires behind the towering canopy for the day. He looks out at the Harvest’s trail, knowing more of The Hearing People will come by morning. He whistles a blue melody, and adds a bottle to the rope above the stream.