Far from the only home she’d ever known, she caught her breath at the warm embrace of soft feathers as they gently carried her downward. She felt the beat of their wings as they flew beneath to break her fall. The geese nodded at one another and rose together from the water in a wave of goose music. As it grew closer, they could see that it was a woman, arms outstretched, long black hair billowing behind as she spiraled toward them. They saw there a small object, a mere dust mote in the beam. But in that emptiness there were many eyes gazing up at the sudden shaft of light. Hurtling downward, she saw only dark water below. * Adapted from oral tradition and Shenandoah and George, 1988. In fear, or maybe hope, she clutched a bundle tightly in her hand. She fell like a maple seed, pirouetting on an autumn breeze.* A column of light streamed from a hole in the Skyworld, marking her path where only darkness had been before. The storytellers begin by calling upon those who came before who passed the stories down to us, for we are only messengers. In winter, when the green earth lies resting beneath a blanket of snow, this is the time for storytelling.
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