Hereafter

Hereafter: Part II Graduation Day, Chapter 32

32

WE WERE ALL TOO EXCITED not to get going right after waking, wrapped our breakfast to eat on the way, grabbed what we’d packed for the four-day journey, and a few at a time slipped out of the cave, up the well, past the wall, and blended in with the nearest of the many ceremonial caravans heading away from the city.

It was Halloween meets Christmas meets New Year’s Eve for this most popular of all our Calidarian holidays. It was a time for nonstop revelry and celebration. Everyone had on some kind of costume and makeup or mask to hide their real identity. During the Purimhalla we all became one—one humanity with one purpose and no class or ideological distinctions. This was our way of acknowledging a higher power—represented by the natural world and embodied in the pure icy waters of the glacier-fed Belayahan River.

Every conceivable means of transportation was being employed, from simple bicycles to wagons and rickshaws being pulled by mules, dogs, donkeys, and even llamas with their colorful thick coats of hair. People were riding horses and even more exotic animals like camels and elephants—the animals beautifully decorated and costumed like the people. The wealthier pilgrims had motor homes and other vehicles pulling trailers with extra fuel and food. Mostly though, people were content to walk making it convenient to mingle.

Far from home and the cares of that reality, the pilgrims chose to sing and dance and tell stories rather than upset the festive mood by complaining about anything to do with their austere life lived under the iron boot of the Citadel.

This was also a time for communal living and sharing with others whatever you were blessed to have to bring with you. The pace was leisurely and at this stage in the celebration the journey was the destination. Whenever a group felt like pausing for a rest, or a snack, they did so and let others go by. A campfire, food and drink put out for all, in place of gossip or idol conversation, stories with a message were told, uplifting songs sung, music played on an assortment of instruments. After a restorative nap, that pod of pilgrims was back in the flow of humanity—and like salmon driven upstream to the place of their origin, we sought the waters of the Belayahan River, our symbolic womb of all life.

Four days and nights of travel and we’d arrived at the staging grounds to approach the river. During the Purimhalla a temporary tent metropolis grows up from the shores extending up and down the banks as far as the eye can see. Over the generations members of families would assume various roles—some patrol to keep the peace, others bring the necessities of life to sell; food, shelter, clothing, souvenirs, while some tend to the medical and spiritual needs of the throngs of assembled souls.

The area is more than crowded, millions crushing in all along the miles of river shore yet no one shoves, the mood is calm and accommodating. One by one, individuals carry their ceremonial vase out into the Belayahan River waters, dip, hold the vessel high and chant a prayer of thanks for resources already given before reciting a petition to continue the life-sustaining natural gifts during the coming year.

Over the centuries many structures were built up to help funnel the faithful to the river waters and back, both safely and in an organized manner. Sturdy wooden poles were sunk every six feet out from the bank and connected with thick rope that people held on to as the current could often be brisk. Ornately constructed ceremonial piers facilitated the dipping of the vase, while ancient floating pedestrian bridges allowed the faithful to walk out into the river and bend over the side to collect some water.  

The lines were long, but everyone waited their turn patiently, respectfully. Making their way back to the shore, next they carried the sacred water inland looking for the one plant that was calling out for a drink. Pouring the liquid life, more chants of gratitude connecting people to the great web of living things that sustain our world. I chose a struggling pomegranate seedling in a magical grove of greenery that could have been our Garden of Eden.