Where Cruces Meet Kachinas
The saga took shape in my mind as the first light of dawn stirred my thoughts. Starting a new masterpiece at this stage of life might seem unconventional, but the allure of crafting an introduction resonates with me on a profound level. What do you think of this first glimpse into a newly illuminated mind?
In the hushed crucible of the Sangre de Cristo, where wind carved stories into ancient pines and sunlight gilded adobe walls, lived Don Miguel, a man etched by time and the austere practices of the Penitente Brotherhood. His faith, woven with the threads of Spanish ancestry, found solace in the rasp of penitential chants and the sting of self-flagellation. Yet, lately, dreams of disquieting beauty haunted his nights. Visions of swirling sands, whispers carried on the desert wind, and shadows dancing amidst sun-drenched fields gnawed at him, leaving a residue of unease on his weathered face.
His daughter, Isabelita, born of her mother’s strong Catholic faith and the ancient wisdom of the Hopi, possessed eyes the color of storm clouds and a gaze that seemed to pierce the veil between worlds. Unmarried not from lack of suitors, but a devotion rooted deeper than romance, she had chosen her father, a choice whispered about in the village like wind through cottonwoods. Now, she navigated his anxieties, the echoes of unseen worlds dancing on her tongue as she delved into his dreams.
A drought, she might murmur, its roots tangled in forgotten sins, or a forgotten spring found again, gurgling beneath the scars of misunderstanding. A storm brewing on the horizon, she might warn, or a flicker of unexpected joy, a hummingbird’s kiss in the cold desert air. But these dreams, spun from darker threads, stirred a serpent of fear in the sun-baked village. Some scoffed, dismissing them as the fancies of an old man burdened by penitential rigor. Others, eyes wide with generations-old superstitions, saw omens in every shifting dune, shadows in every flickering candle flame.
Caught between her father’s austere faith and her mother’s whispered prayers, Isabelita stood, a bridge between these worlds. Her heart, a tapestry woven with threads of both traditions, ached for understanding. Could these unsettling visions be divine omens, whispers from ancestral spirits, or warnings born from the harsh beauty of the land itself? Could she, with her dual heritage and unyielding faith, decipher these dreams and bridge the chasm of fear that threatened to unravel the tapestry of their lives?
Rusty's Armory 
January 12, 2024 at 3:14 pm
Absolutely love this! You haven’t lost a bit of your touch and, if Ms. Muse gives you any grief about it, let me know. I’ll pull her granny panties clean over her head!
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January 12, 2024 at 5:31 pm
Now that would be something I wouldn’t miss seeing!
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January 13, 2024 at 2:51 am
Rantshack here, This is exceptional, well done Rust, I’m now a subscriber.
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January 14, 2024 at 4:50 pm
Hmmm, who are you and where have you been hiding? See, your novel has been there all along, you just need to let it flow now. No stopping, you have started and now ya got to finish it Sir!!!!
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January 18, 2024 at 12:22 pm
…. who knows? Maybe Mz Muze has found a more potent weapon than the goad.
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