Dante's Heart
The Boy With White Hair
Lania Knight
Once, there was a man traveling with his village, moving with the change of
seasons from the hills to a place in the lower, flatter land beyond. The man
carried his mother’s head in a basket on his shoulders. She had been the last
oldest person, and her voice gave him knowledge and wisdom for his people.
Her words had become less than a whisper lately, and he had tried to tell the
people they should wait. But he could no more hold them back from their
journey than he could bind the leaves to the trees when the time had come to let
go.
One evening as the group was traveling, a great storm arose. The man lost his
footing and the head tumbled from the basket. He wept, seeing it fall down the
hillside, but the wind-blown rain and his tangled, black hair covered his tears, and
he continued on. In the cave where the group took shelter, he heard his mother
laughing. He looked among the women, but none of them was her. That night, a
dream came to him, of her head rolling down the hillside. She was laughing as
her hair twirled about her skull. He woke, shivering, to darkness and silence.
With no voice to guide him, he waited for morning.
Though the path was well-worn and the sun was strong, he and the villagers lost
their way. Many gullies had been formed in the storm, and all the trees seemed
to have been uprooted and planted into new holes. Nothing was familiar. The
man finally told his people that his mother’s head had tumbled from the basket.
Upon hearing this, they beat him in their fear and left him. Miraculously, he did
not die.
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Lania Knight
Once, there was a man traveling with his village, moving with the change of
seasons from the hills to a place in the lower, flatter land beyond. The man
carried his mother’s head in a basket on his shoulders. She had been the last
oldest person, and her voice gave him knowledge and wisdom for his people.
Her words had become less than a whisper lately, and he had tried to tell the
people they should wait. But he could no more hold them back from their
journey than he could bind the leaves to the trees when the time had come to let
go.
One evening as the group was traveling, a great storm arose. The man lost his
footing and the head tumbled from the basket. He wept, seeing it fall down the
hillside, but the wind-blown rain and his tangled, black hair covered his tears, and
he continued on. In the cave where the group took shelter, he heard his mother
laughing. He looked among the women, but none of them was her. That night, a
dream came to him, of her head rolling down the hillside. She was laughing as
her hair twirled about her skull. He woke, shivering, to darkness and silence.
With no voice to guide him, he waited for morning.
Though the path was well-worn and the sun was strong, he and the villagers lost
their way. Many gullies had been formed in the storm, and all the trees seemed
to have been uprooted and planted into new holes. Nothing was familiar. The
man finally told his people that his mother’s head had tumbled from the basket.
Upon hearing this, they beat him in their fear and left him. Miraculously, he did
not die.
Page 1 Page 2 Page 3
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