Damned!

Giovanna

A trail that cut through the tall grasses, muddied footsteps trampled the grass on either side. The sound of water tide rippling inwards on the other side of the abundant and rich swampland, a tall egret walking like a prophet, on top of the water the vision cut into pieces by the grasses. All this Giovanna saw as she stood at the water's edge, with the cool morning air, taking in the place where she had been born, raised a son, also a grandson, and while watching the incoming tide of the river.

The small boat that stood at the water's edge beckoned her, and every day she would climb onto the rocking edge, row outwards in the current and untangle the fishing net to be dropped at the side. The fish had been the main food for the Gandan people, and although the work was laborious and her knees had become stiff, Giovanna considered herself lucky to be able to sustain herself at her age. Her silvery hair tangled down at her sides, and gnarled hands gathered the ends to tie into a loose bun.

"Hoa, Imama!" The boat full of young men passed by.

Imama- meaning grandmother was the name of respect the young people had given to her.

"Upstream, follow the Egret bird, they are guarding a bundle of fish waiting for you!" was their instruction to Giovanna.

"Aw, Praise Hora, she looks down favorably on us today, yes?"

"Yes, praise Horah indeed!" the young men laughed out loud, nodding in agreement.

"Why do you laugh at your Imama?" she called.

"Imama, do not let the Father hear your blasphemy to the bird god. He might think you are a half-breed Catholic."

"Ptoeey!" Giovanna answered. "I pray to whoever is listening. The birds, bless Horah, have been out in abundance, showing us the way to the fish, thanks be to God."

They laughed to hear her include both religions in the same utterance. Then they waved and went on with their rowing direction downstream, making towards the inland streams that border the markets.

Giovanna rowed in the direction the men had pointed to, where Roshana (the river that travels to the moon) became wider as it turned and twisted, renamed Guadalupe river by the Spanish archbishop who had built the church in Medium Cruces. Miles to the north lay Big Basin Lake, and to the east was the capital city.

Giovanna sighed, thinking of how many things had changed during her lifetime. It was a shame the young people do not remember or know the traditions passed down. Indeed, they more often gathered at the Catholic church where, every year, feasts supplied by the capitol guaranteed a good trading relationship status with their fishmongers. This was the introduction the priest needed and he convinced quite a few villagers to take on the traditions of the church- confessions, the teaching of the catechism to the children, the lighting of candles during Saturday sacrament. Free community gatherings with prepared food. Who wouldn't attend with the ease of commercially prepared bread, lemonade, and cheese that did not need the preparation or skill of an outside grill.

The young ones were the most lacking. As they clamored to the lemonade boxes supplied every Sunday after church, their moms had no need to teach them how to grind the corn maize or gather the wild herbs. Instead, the collection of plastic wrappers piled up in the garbage and some free floated into the street. This was not the land she grew up in. Even their cognition patience seemed to wear thin, as the youth preferred to spend their time indoors on their phones over attending the monthly gatherings by the community fires to hear the stories of their ancestors. Her grandson, an adult working in the capitol, had even tried to persuade her to use new technology, but she declined. Giovanna refused to use this new appliance that took away so much of the people's time. This was not her way, she insisted; this was not the age she wanted to be of. Ein had smiled and told her that she was ageless, but she could not be persuaded.

Giovanna sighed. At least they still had the river, as most of the people worked the waters to catch fish, packed them in iced crates to be taken to the capitol or sold fresh at the markets. The river alone, bending through the seasons of vast rain, narrowing in the dry years, a tough employer, but always there. The river had kept them.

She cast her net over the side and was grateful to see the movement of the fish below. An easy catch today, which would be providential, for she had received word via the postal mail that her grandson was coming to visit this weekend.