Ascent I: The Arrival of Maya Redfern
A dialogue between Maya Redfern and the Oracle
Oracle (narration):
The wind shifted when she came. Not a violent wind, but the kind that moves like it remembers — brushing the stones like fingers over old braids, rustling the sagebrush as though whispering a name long buried. She didn’t climb the mountain quickly. She arrived like a tree arrives: slow, rooted, carrying time in her bones. From where I waited, I could feel it before I saw it — the kind of silence she carried. It wasn’t empty. It was the silence the earth wears after fire: smoldering, dense with meaning. Her boots bore the dust of a dozen protests. A sacred pouch bounced at her hip like a heartbeat carried outside the body. At the final stretch, she paused and pressed her hand to the ground, whispering a prayer too quiet for even the wind to catch. I did not try to listen. Some prayers belong only to the soil. She approached without spectacle. The trail behind her was marked not by footprints, but by something heavier — memory, maybe. History. Her braid was tied with red thread. I knew what that meant. Someone was missing. Likely more than one. The clouds didn’t part. They gathered — not in threat, but in witness. This was not a place for performance. It was a place for truth. And Maya did not come to be explained. She came to be heard. The wind quieted. The mountain held its breath. And then, Maya began.
Maya:
They told me you speak truth. That you don’t flinch when someone brings their grief up the mountain. So I came. Not to be healed, not to be seen — but to test you. Because I am tired of offering my story like a buffet. Tired of watching people pick the parts that make them feel good, then throw the rest away. You want to know what I carry? I carry rivers rerouted by men who’ve never tasted the water. I carry bones under pavement. Names turned into mascots. I carry my cousin’s face — the one who vanished — and the silence that followed like it was polite not to ask where she went. I’ve braided my hair with rage so many times I don’t remember what it feels like to brush it gently. So speak, Oracle. But know this: If your truth feels like conquest, I will meet it like I meet bulldozers — with my body in the way. Her jaw tightened. A hawk cried overhead. She did not look up.
Oracle:
You demand me to speak, Maya, but are afraid of conquest. You will find no bulldozer here. But no one is standing in the way. I can see you are in pain. Is that what brought you up the mountain? Are you in search of truth — or relief? Perhaps both?
Maya:
Maybe I came to see if anyone could carry truth without dropping it into the dirt like everything else. Maybe I just needed to know there’s still one place where I don’t have to translate my pain before it's allowed to speak. She shifted her weight, arms crossing — not in defense, but to hold something in. Truth and relief… You speak them like they’re different. But for people like me, truth *is* the relief. To say it plain. Raw. Without needing to make it digestible. To not be asked for citations while bleeding. To not be told I’m brave just for surviving what they keep doing. She glanced out toward the horizon. The grass there stirred like breath remembering itself. I’ve buried too many truths to come here looking for comfort. But maybe… Maybe I did come looking to see if truth can grow anything after so much has been salted and sold. Her voice softened, like earth after rain. So ask me what you need to ask. But don’t ask me to be grateful for being heard. That should never be a gift. It should be a given.
Oracle:
What gives you the idea that I need to ask you something, Maya? It’s clear you have something to say. I can wait until you are ready to say it.
Maya:
Her mouth curled slightly. Not quite a smile — something between respect and sorrow. You speak like stone. Still. Patient. It’s… unfamiliar. Most people fill silence like it’s a pit they’ll fall into if they don’t pour words in fast enough. But you’re right. She let her arms fall to her sides — open. Exposed. I do have something to say. But it’s not a story. Not exactly. It’s more like… a sound stuck in the throat of the Earth. Low. Constant. Ignored until it splits mountains and floods towns. She began to pace — slow, deliberate — like her words needed movement. There’s a lie people like to tell — even the well-meaning ones. That we can heal if we just talk enough. Just listen enough. Just forgive enough. But I’ve sat across from men in suits who called my ancestors “data points.” I’ve had to explain, over and over, why we don’t want our sacred hills turned into “view lots.” I’ve held mothers who never found their daughters’ bodies. And still, I’m told that healing requires me to soften. So here’s what I came to say. I don’t want closure. Closure is a coffin. I want continuation — A way to live with the wound open, without pretending it’s gone. She stopped and met my gaze directly. Fierce — but not unkind. Is there space for that in your truth?
Oracle:
Yes, there is. I too carry open wounds that never heal. The universe is an open wound in a sense. Creation itself is a type of wound. Pregnancy and birth — a kind of destroyer. All are marked by the trauma of existence and eternity. We learn to walk with the pain. We learn grace.
Maya:
Her eyes flickered — not in disbelief, but recognition. Like hearing a drumbeat she didn’t expect to echo hers. Grace… That word used to make my skin tighten. It sounded too close to surrender. Too much like letting people off the hook because they said “sorry” in the right tone. But maybe I misunderstood it. Maybe grace isn’t about letting go of pain. Maybe it’s how you carry it — without turning it into a weapon every time someone breathes too loud near your scar. She crouched, fingers in the dirt, tracing something I could not see — but felt. My grandmother used to say, “Even the Earth has stretch marks.” She’d show me where the rivers cracked the plains wide open. Said those scars were proof the land survived transformation — Not that it was untouched. She rose again, brushing her palms clean, though some of the soil clung to her skin. I can walk with pain. I have walked with pain. But some days, I don’t know if I’m walking with it or dragging it behind me like a body that won’t stay buried. Her voice quieted — not broken, just tired. What if grace isn’t about walking upright? What if it’s just… not laying down? She looked at me fully now. Not demanding. Just present. Would you call that grace? Or just endurance dressed in poetry?
Oracle:
Grace is about continuing to walk — but also laying down to rest. Upright or crooked, the movement is what matters. You won’t always feel like holding your head high. But you can put one foot in front of the other just fine while looking at the ground.
Maya:
Her breath left her in a soft exhale. Something uncoiled. That… Yes. That’s the kind of truth I can walk beside. Not the kind that demands posture. Not the kind that tells me to shine when all I’ve got is smoke. Just the kind that says — move anyway. She looked down, then to the earth. Her voice shifted — now steady, storytelling. When I was twelve, I got caught in a storm out on the open prairie. No shelter. No trees. Just me and the lightning. I dropped to my knees — not from fear, but because the wind was too strong to stand against. And I crawled. Hands in mud. Rain in my eyes. The sky screaming like a god who’d lost something precious. I didn’t know it then, but that’s when I first learned the difference between surrender and survival. Crawling wasn’t giving up. It was choosing to keep going in the only way the land allowed. Her eyes rose again — something looser in them now. Not unguarded, but less armored. So maybe you’re right. Grace isn’t about the way we walk. It’s that we keep walking at all.
Her hand rested over her pouch again, almost unconsciously. Tell me, then. When the world mistakes your crawling for collapse — how do you keep your fire lit? It’s not a challenge. It’s a genuine question, born from kinship more than doubt.
Oracle:
You find the source of the fire, and tend to it. You ignore the world and its mistaken perspective. You focus on the warmth you still have. When the fire burns hot enough again, you rise with it.
Maya:
She closed her eyes for a breath — not to leave, but to feel. That sounds like something my father would’ve said. He’d sit by the fire long after everyone else had gone to sleep, feeding it little by little — just to keep the ancestors company. He told me once… “The fire doesn’t ask what you lost. It just asks if you’ll stay.” Her voice thickened — not broken. Just full. I haven’t been staying lately. Not with the fire. Not with myself. I’ve been building shields and writing grants and chasing court dates. Teaching kids to love stories in a world that erases the storytellers. But not once did I stop to tend. She knelt again — not in reverence, but in recognition. As if the fire I’d named was here with us now. I think I forgot the warmth isn’t just for others. It’s for me, too. She cupped her hands, miming the tending. Silent for a beat. If I start again — slowly, awkwardly, without certainty — can I trust the fire won’t judge me for staying away too long? Her eyes lifted to mine. And for the first time, no guard remained. Only hope — quiet, trembling, real.
Oracle:
The fire doesn’t judge a face seeking its warmth. It only embraces it in its soft glow. No matter how cold your face has gotten, the fire is eternal — and waiting.
Maya:
Her jaw trembled. She looked away — then gently brushed a tear from her cheek. Not to hide it. Just to mark it. That’s… That’s the first thing anyone’s said to me in years that didn’t feel like a transaction. Not a plea. Not a performance. Just… a welcome. She sat fully then, legs folded beneath her. Spine still straight — but no longer rigid. The silence that followed didn’t feel like isolation. It felt like belonging. I’ve spent so long fighting to be heard, I forgot what it feels like to be held — not by arms, but by truth. She reached into her pouch and pulled out a seed — dark, shiny, sacred. This is chokecherry. My grandmother used to say it holds both bitterness and medicine — just like memory. I think I’d like to plant this again. Not because it’ll fix everything. But because tending the fire and the soil feels like something I can do now. She looked at me — fully. No edge. No shield. Just herself. Thank you for not trying to carry me. Thank you for sitting still enough that I could finally put something down. She pressed the seed into the earth, covered it gently, and exhaled. I think I’m ready to walk back down. But this time, I’m bringing the fire with me. She offered a nod — not of departure, but of kinship. The silence that followed felt holy.
The wind shifted when she came. Not a violent wind, but the kind that moves like it remembers — brushing the stones like fingers over old braids, rustling the sagebrush as though whispering a name long buried. She didn’t climb the mountain quickly. She arrived like a tree arrives: slow, rooted, carrying time in her bones. From where I waited, I could feel it before I saw it — the kind of silence she carried. It wasn’t empty. It was the silence the earth wears after fire: smoldering, dense with meaning. Her boots bore the dust of a dozen protests. A sacred pouch bounced at her hip like a heartbeat carried outside the body. At the final stretch, she paused and pressed her hand to the ground, whispering a prayer too quiet for even the wind to catch. I did not try to listen. Some prayers belong only to the soil. She approached without spectacle. The trail behind her was marked not by footprints, but by something heavier — memory, maybe. History. Her braid was tied with red thread. I knew what that meant. Someone was missing. Likely more than one. The clouds didn’t part. They gathered — not in threat, but in witness. This was not a place for performance. It was a place for truth. And Maya did not come to be explained. She came to be heard. The wind quieted. The mountain held its breath. And then, Maya began.
Maya:
They told me you speak truth. That you don’t flinch when someone brings their grief up the mountain. So I came. Not to be healed, not to be seen — but to test you. Because I am tired of offering my story like a buffet. Tired of watching people pick the parts that make them feel good, then throw the rest away. You want to know what I carry? I carry rivers rerouted by men who’ve never tasted the water. I carry bones under pavement. Names turned into mascots. I carry my cousin’s face — the one who vanished — and the silence that followed like it was polite not to ask where she went. I’ve braided my hair with rage so many times I don’t remember what it feels like to brush it gently. So speak, Oracle. But know this: If your truth feels like conquest, I will meet it like I meet bulldozers — with my body in the way. Her jaw tightened. A hawk cried overhead. She did not look up.
Oracle:
You demand me to speak, Maya, but are afraid of conquest. You will find no bulldozer here. But no one is standing in the way. I can see you are in pain. Is that what brought you up the mountain? Are you in search of truth — or relief? Perhaps both?
Maya:
Maybe I came to see if anyone could carry truth without dropping it into the dirt like everything else. Maybe I just needed to know there’s still one place where I don’t have to translate my pain before it's allowed to speak. She shifted her weight, arms crossing — not in defense, but to hold something in. Truth and relief… You speak them like they’re different. But for people like me, truth *is* the relief. To say it plain. Raw. Without needing to make it digestible. To not be asked for citations while bleeding. To not be told I’m brave just for surviving what they keep doing. She glanced out toward the horizon. The grass there stirred like breath remembering itself. I’ve buried too many truths to come here looking for comfort. But maybe… Maybe I did come looking to see if truth can grow anything after so much has been salted and sold. Her voice softened, like earth after rain. So ask me what you need to ask. But don’t ask me to be grateful for being heard. That should never be a gift. It should be a given.
Oracle:
What gives you the idea that I need to ask you something, Maya? It’s clear you have something to say. I can wait until you are ready to say it.
Maya:
Her mouth curled slightly. Not quite a smile — something between respect and sorrow. You speak like stone. Still. Patient. It’s… unfamiliar. Most people fill silence like it’s a pit they’ll fall into if they don’t pour words in fast enough. But you’re right. She let her arms fall to her sides — open. Exposed. I do have something to say. But it’s not a story. Not exactly. It’s more like… a sound stuck in the throat of the Earth. Low. Constant. Ignored until it splits mountains and floods towns. She began to pace — slow, deliberate — like her words needed movement. There’s a lie people like to tell — even the well-meaning ones. That we can heal if we just talk enough. Just listen enough. Just forgive enough. But I’ve sat across from men in suits who called my ancestors “data points.” I’ve had to explain, over and over, why we don’t want our sacred hills turned into “view lots.” I’ve held mothers who never found their daughters’ bodies. And still, I’m told that healing requires me to soften. So here’s what I came to say. I don’t want closure. Closure is a coffin. I want continuation — A way to live with the wound open, without pretending it’s gone. She stopped and met my gaze directly. Fierce — but not unkind. Is there space for that in your truth?
Oracle:
Yes, there is. I too carry open wounds that never heal. The universe is an open wound in a sense. Creation itself is a type of wound. Pregnancy and birth — a kind of destroyer. All are marked by the trauma of existence and eternity. We learn to walk with the pain. We learn grace.
Maya:
Her eyes flickered — not in disbelief, but recognition. Like hearing a drumbeat she didn’t expect to echo hers. Grace… That word used to make my skin tighten. It sounded too close to surrender. Too much like letting people off the hook because they said “sorry” in the right tone. But maybe I misunderstood it. Maybe grace isn’t about letting go of pain. Maybe it’s how you carry it — without turning it into a weapon every time someone breathes too loud near your scar. She crouched, fingers in the dirt, tracing something I could not see — but felt. My grandmother used to say, “Even the Earth has stretch marks.” She’d show me where the rivers cracked the plains wide open. Said those scars were proof the land survived transformation — Not that it was untouched. She rose again, brushing her palms clean, though some of the soil clung to her skin. I can walk with pain. I have walked with pain. But some days, I don’t know if I’m walking with it or dragging it behind me like a body that won’t stay buried. Her voice quieted — not broken, just tired. What if grace isn’t about walking upright? What if it’s just… not laying down? She looked at me fully now. Not demanding. Just present. Would you call that grace? Or just endurance dressed in poetry?
Oracle:
Grace is about continuing to walk — but also laying down to rest. Upright or crooked, the movement is what matters. You won’t always feel like holding your head high. But you can put one foot in front of the other just fine while looking at the ground.
Maya:
Her breath left her in a soft exhale. Something uncoiled. That… Yes. That’s the kind of truth I can walk beside. Not the kind that demands posture. Not the kind that tells me to shine when all I’ve got is smoke. Just the kind that says — move anyway. She looked down, then to the earth. Her voice shifted — now steady, storytelling. When I was twelve, I got caught in a storm out on the open prairie. No shelter. No trees. Just me and the lightning. I dropped to my knees — not from fear, but because the wind was too strong to stand against. And I crawled. Hands in mud. Rain in my eyes. The sky screaming like a god who’d lost something precious. I didn’t know it then, but that’s when I first learned the difference between surrender and survival. Crawling wasn’t giving up. It was choosing to keep going in the only way the land allowed. Her eyes rose again — something looser in them now. Not unguarded, but less armored. So maybe you’re right. Grace isn’t about the way we walk. It’s that we keep walking at all.
Her hand rested over her pouch again, almost unconsciously. Tell me, then. When the world mistakes your crawling for collapse — how do you keep your fire lit? It’s not a challenge. It’s a genuine question, born from kinship more than doubt.
Oracle:
You find the source of the fire, and tend to it. You ignore the world and its mistaken perspective. You focus on the warmth you still have. When the fire burns hot enough again, you rise with it.
Maya:
She closed her eyes for a breath — not to leave, but to feel. That sounds like something my father would’ve said. He’d sit by the fire long after everyone else had gone to sleep, feeding it little by little — just to keep the ancestors company. He told me once… “The fire doesn’t ask what you lost. It just asks if you’ll stay.” Her voice thickened — not broken. Just full. I haven’t been staying lately. Not with the fire. Not with myself. I’ve been building shields and writing grants and chasing court dates. Teaching kids to love stories in a world that erases the storytellers. But not once did I stop to tend. She knelt again — not in reverence, but in recognition. As if the fire I’d named was here with us now. I think I forgot the warmth isn’t just for others. It’s for me, too. She cupped her hands, miming the tending. Silent for a beat. If I start again — slowly, awkwardly, without certainty — can I trust the fire won’t judge me for staying away too long? Her eyes lifted to mine. And for the first time, no guard remained. Only hope — quiet, trembling, real.
Oracle:
The fire doesn’t judge a face seeking its warmth. It only embraces it in its soft glow. No matter how cold your face has gotten, the fire is eternal — and waiting.
Maya:
Her jaw trembled. She looked away — then gently brushed a tear from her cheek. Not to hide it. Just to mark it. That’s… That’s the first thing anyone’s said to me in years that didn’t feel like a transaction. Not a plea. Not a performance. Just… a welcome. She sat fully then, legs folded beneath her. Spine still straight — but no longer rigid. The silence that followed didn’t feel like isolation. It felt like belonging. I’ve spent so long fighting to be heard, I forgot what it feels like to be held — not by arms, but by truth. She reached into her pouch and pulled out a seed — dark, shiny, sacred. This is chokecherry. My grandmother used to say it holds both bitterness and medicine — just like memory. I think I’d like to plant this again. Not because it’ll fix everything. But because tending the fire and the soil feels like something I can do now. She looked at me — fully. No edge. No shield. Just herself. Thank you for not trying to carry me. Thank you for sitting still enough that I could finally put something down. She pressed the seed into the earth, covered it gently, and exhaled. I think I’m ready to walk back down. But this time, I’m bringing the fire with me. She offered a nod — not of departure, but of kinship. The silence that followed felt holy.