myth for wild yam

The fireweed were a rowdy bunch of travelers. They would circle the mountain, looking for places that had been upturned and burned. There the fireweed put on a circus with acrobatics and fantastic bodily feats to sanctify and heal the space. When they left the fields and open forests grew anew.

Coming through the moon’s pool, Sweetie was wet and cold. So the garment the fireweed gave her was warm, strong as linen, soft as silk, and a beautiful magenta like the flowers themselves. She could not understand how the way back had disappeared from view. “Wherever there is water.” The fireweed explained, “you will find your way to the moon.”

So she felt so much gratitude for the kindness of the fireweed that she embraced them, and when she touched them with her prosthetic hands their muscles eased. In the ashen hands were the remnants of the wild yam root Pearl used to make for the family, and whose burnt skins she would eat herself.

Despite the flower’s resilience they told Sweetie stories about the fires they covered, the terrible people who walked in the flames who seemed to be weeping as they destroyed the mountain. There was so much fire that the fireweed was becoming tired and sore. So Sweetie traveled with the flowers for several weeks, healing their wounds, while they shared their food, and drink with her. They gave her warmth and shelter throughout the summer - for she had spent the previous winter on the moon. The summer was particularly hot, with thick burns and tremendous flame. Some said they saw figures in the flames, walking. But when they went to cover the ground there was no sign of them. All the while the moon would stand at the top of the mountain in the evenings.

And on the mountains they had seen smoke rise. It was clear someone was in the mountains, though their fires were small. Some fireweed, said they saw faces peak from behind trees. But the fireweed told her she could not stay with them. They hibernated through winter, and she had no roots to sleep in.

She dug through her memory and tried to remember what it was about the star that had been so insistent that she follow it - who was it that broke into her conviction that made her descend into the sacred pool towards it? The women of the moon had no time for second chances. They were responsible for too much to deal with the grievances of a community taken over by grass men whose dead seemed stuck in the town, unable to leave, unable to return to the earth. She worried she might have missed her chance to present them with the jimsonweed and ask for their help. But she could see no other option.

Winter soon approached again, and the flowers took her to the river that she would follow up the mountain. They gave her food and supplies enough to last her, and if she ever wanted fire, she was to sing a song and it would appear, no matter how much snow there was, she would be warm. A fox would shepherd her up as well.

In return for their generosity, she gave the fireweed her hands which were laced with the root of wild yam. So as she made her way up the mountain with a pack on her back and her long hair wound up in tight braids, the wild yam and the fireweed enlaced together at the foot of the forest, settling in for the cold winter ahead.