Spirits In The Sky

From time immemorial Gah-mi-squa-wa-ko-kag Saga-eegan was the rendezvous of the Indian. So much had transpired by the shores of this lake in ages gone by that it was also the favorite haunting place of the spirits. They chose the shady places and thronged the dark enchanted recesses of the majestic forest. They floated in the air, through the branches of the stately pines and whispered the song of the lover or moaned a dirge. When the storm raged the spirit of the deep ventured out and became, almost visible as the wind whipped the waves into a white mist. Sometimes the red man became its victim and was dragged into the mysterious depths.

Then the moon sent her intermittent enchanting rays from behind dark flitting clouds, laying a silvery aisle across the placid waters where the spirit of good danced with joy over having destroyed those of the storm and driven them back into the lake or the overhanging forest. The coming of the white man ended the days of the spirits. The timber man’s axe gave no peace to the wood nymph. The fire shooting iron steed conquered the most diabolical spirit. On land and lake the piercing lights and sputtering motors gave these ethereal beings not a chance. As the spirits vanished so the natives lost their hold on the savage life.

Where they had their pow-wows and war dances there is now a city, a part descendants of Indians. As old as the spirits or the Indians is the chimney swift, that skimming savage of the sky. He has not been subdued. The coming of the city changed his habits not a bit. In fact, these birds have adapted the city to their savage life; their customs, their traditions are all the same as of old. During their yearly summer pilgrimage to the land of the long twilight and early dawn they may be seen at the close of the day, holding their pow-wows, darting and skimming as they gather, keeping up a constant chip-chip chir-r-r-r that seems to fill the universe.

When thousands have gathered, the command to execute the ancient traditional grand whirl is given. This ends up like a cyclone-like funnel that leads into the "sacred" chimney where the swifts fall and disappear by the scores and dozens, each in turn disappearing in the chimney, each growing smaller with the evening. As darkness descends they come by threes or fours, by twos or alone; at first heard by a faint "peep" the pilot's signal from the distance, then their louder chirp tells that they are here. The silence that follows the ritual tells that the last stragglers have joined the thousands and thousands of others in their nightly rendezvous. Who knows but that, like the old Indian who refuses to give up the ancient traditions, these savage stragglers haunt some secluded and secret nook where they are still in communion with the spirits that in the past sanctified the shores of Gahumi-squa-wa-ko-kag Saga-eegan.

By: davidbunch

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