Wind

“A king has a vineyard. It is the Royal Vineyard right in the middle of the Royal Garden.”

The visitor and his expected oration had not yet been formally introduced; nor had he made any opening remark. As lunch was being cleared, he just stood up and began telling the story, voice strong and arresting, though,a little on the high side for a famous speaker, Māya thought. She had heard of his coming. She had waited for it. Several people made mention that he would be traveling a great distance and visiting other villages along the way. “That’s all he does, travel and talk?” she had asked her mother. Such a thing was an appealing revelation to a girl moved from long days of sun-baked field labor to long days of tedious labor because of her extraordinary weaving skills.

The whole thing seemed such a hullabaloo, all the preparations for the lunch, weeks of chatter running through the whole village . . . her own unexplainable excitement. Everyone swiveled toward him on their benches. Walking between the tables, his hands helped themselves to shoulders and the tops of the children’s heads.

“Walking through the Royal Garden,” he continued, “its beauty and life please the King greatly. It constantly changes because the King enjoys surprises. Endless varieties of flowering marvels adorn every new day as myriads of garden scents welcome his presence. Springs are hidden by sculpted hills of moss-covered boulders, trees, shrubs and ivy. Their splashing sounds tease his anticipation until the passing of a great rock or entering of a nook through a veil of hanging vines exposes the falling waters like doors flung open and a bride revealed to song.”

The storyteller paused long enough to let the last phrase or two sink in.

Māya enjoyed surprises also, more then anything else. They were the wonder of the day-to-day. And the bride reference,though just allusion, was a delightful surprise in the story. Swept away, she quite naturally pictured herself as the bride. It was her common fancy, but on this occasion, introduced with some choreographed trickery, like the waterfalls in the “Royal Garden.” Māya lived somewhat swept-away, not usually needing any help from a story teller. Effortlessly, her mind supplied the smells of a King’s garden and the floral wonders of the bridal procession.

Māya was blind. This was her gift. Scenes she imagined were far more colorful and majestic than anyone else pictured, unhindered by limitations imposed by visual experience. She dreamed wedded dreams with abandon, safe in her certainty such things would never grace her days. What enchanting power was there to break the spell of blindness, but in dreams? Otherwise, would any prince forgive unseeing eyes when choosing his princess?

“Not only is the vineyard at the center of the garden . . . .” The speaker continued, in no hurry, walking through the modest gathering, his story measured, a full range of engaging dynamics in play. He was drawing nearer. “It is made of a single vine topping the rounded hill at the center of the garden.” Passing, he hesitated. “As in long flowing locks, its fruitful strands spread, covering the entire hill.” Retracing steps, he came and stood before Māya. She felt her hair lifted from her left shoulder and visualized it black and shiny in his hand. As if in the story, she too was paused . . . breath, thought, movement, all but her pounding heart frozen. Even Māya’s normally busy eyelids were incapable of blinking. He placed his hand on her head. A blessing . . . all was quiet. She felt his eyes upon hers. Unexpected and unfamiliar feelings of destiny produced tears in those wide but unseeing eyes. He moved on.

“Ripe clusters of fat fruit in every color by which grapes are known . . . .”

To Maya’s ears his voice was far more distant than the few steps taken as he walked away.

“They bow the branches, hanging lower than leafy shadows and sparkling in the light of the sun, causing what we all would expect . . . desire!”