Songs of the Ancestors

Let's weave a tale that feels alive with the spirits of the past, set in a time when the earth and sky spoke to those who listened.


The air was thick with the scent of sage and cedar, carried on a breeze that whispered through the towering pines of the Great Basin. The sun hung low, painting the horizon in hues of amber and violet, as if the sky itself were a woven blanket stitched by the hands of the ancestors. In the heart of the Paiute lands, where the desert met the mountains, a young woman named Tsa’na knelt by a spring, her fingers trailing in the cool, shimmering water. The ripples caught the last light of day, reflecting stories no one had spoken aloud in generations.

Tsa’na was no ordinary woman. Her eyes, dark as obsidian, held a spark that the elders said was touched by the Old Ones—the spirits who walked the world when the stars were young. Her grandmother, Numa, had been a seer, a keeper of the sacred songs, and she’d taught Tsa’na to listen to the land. “The earth remembers,” Numa would say, her voice like the rustle of leaves. “When you’re lost, it’ll sing you home.” But Numa had crossed to the spirit world two winters ago, leaving Tsa’na with only fragments of the old ways and a restlessness she couldn’t name.

Tonight, the village was quiet, the fires low. The people had gathered earlier to share stories of the coming harvest, but Tsa’na felt a pull, something tugging at her heart like a fish on a line. She’d seen it in her dreams for weeks—a shadow moving across the cliffs, a voice calling her name in a language she didn’t know but somehow understood.

The elders dismissed it as youthful fancy, but Tsa’na knew better. The land was speaking, and she was meant to answer. She rose from the spring, her buckskin dress brushing against the sagebrush, and followed the path toward the cliffs. The rocks loomed ahead, their jagged faces etched with stories older than the tribe itself—petroglyphs of deer, stars, and spiraling suns, carved by hands long turned to dust. Tsa’na’s heart thudded as she climbed, her moccasins gripping the stone.

The wind grew stronger, carrying a faint hum, like the drone of a distant drum. She reached a narrow ledge where the cliff opened into a shallow cave, its entrance hidden by a curtain of desert willow. Inside, the air was cool and still, heavy with the scent of ancient earth.

Tsa’na’s breath caught as she saw it: a circle of stones at the cave’s center, each one smooth and black, gleaming like the night sky. In the middle stood a single feather, white as bone, quivering though no breeze stirred. She approached, her footsteps silent, and knelt before the circle.

The hum grew louder, vibrating in her chest, and the feather began to spin, slow at first, then faster, until it was a blur of light. The cave walls shimmered, and the petroglyphs came alive, their lines dancing like flames.

Tsa’na’s vision blurred, and she felt herself falling—not down, but through, as if the earth had opened to swallow her whole. When her eyes cleared, she stood in a place that was both strange and familiar. The sky above was a deep indigo, studded with stars that pulsed like heartbeats.

The ground beneath her feet was soft, covered in a moss that glowed faintly green. Ahead, a figure waited, cloaked in a robe of woven reeds, their face hidden in shadow. “Who are you?” Tsa’na called, her voice steady despite the tremble in her hands. The figure turned, and their eyes—bright as the moon—met hers. “I am Numaga,” they said, their voice like water over stones. “Keeper of the Paths, weaver of the threads that bind the living to the gone-before. You, Tsa’na, have been called.” Tsa’na’s breath hitched.

Numaga was a name from the old stories, a spirit who guided the lost and guarded the sacred places. “Why me?” she asked. “I’m no seer. I don’t know the songs like my grandmother did.” Numaga stepped closer, and the air around them shimmered with the scent of blooming yucca. “The songs are in you,” they said. “But they are fading.

The people forget the old ways, and the land grows silent. A shadow stirs in the deep places, a hunger that would unravel the world. You must walk the Path of Stars to awaken the ancestors’ voices and restore the balance.” Tsa’na felt the weight of those words settle into her bones. She wanted to protest, to say she wasn’t ready, but the glowing moss beneath her feet pulsed, urging her forward. Numaga gestured, and the stars above rearranged, forming a glittering trail that stretched into the distance, winding through a landscape of impossible beauty.

Towering mesas rose like sentinels, their surfaces carved with faces that seemed to watch her. Rivers of light flowed where water should have been, their currents singing in languages older than stone. And in the distance, a dark shape loomed—a writhing mass of shadow that seemed to swallow the stars themselves. Numaga handed Tsa’na the white feather, now warm to the touch.

“This is your guide,” they said. “It will lead you to the Heart of the World, where the ancestors’ songs are kept. But beware—the shadow hunts those who walk the Path. It will tempt you, trick you, pull you into its hunger. Trust the feather, and trust the land.” Tsa’na clutched the feather, its softness grounding her. “What is the shadow?” she asked.

Numaga’s eyes darkened. “It is greed, fear, forgetfulness—the things that tear the threads of the world apart. It has no name, but it knows yours. Move swiftly, Tsa’na.” With that, Numaga dissolved into a swirl of reeds and starlight, leaving Tsa’na alone on the glowing path.

She took a deep breath, the air sharp with the tang of sage, and began to walk. The Path of Stars stretched before her, winding through canyons where the rocks whispered secrets and plains where grasses swayed like dancers in a ceremony.

The feather glowed faintly in her hand, tugging her forward like a lodestone. Hours passed—or perhaps years, for time felt different here.

The stars sang to her, their voices weaving melodies that stirred memories she didn’t know she had: her grandmother’s laughter, the rhythm of the harvest dances, the feel of her mother’s hand braiding her hair.

But the shadow grew closer, its presence a cold prickle on her skin. She saw it first as a flicker in the corner of her eye—a formless thing that slithered across the ground, whispering doubts. “You are nothing,” it hissed.

“The songs are lost. Turn back.” Tsa’na gripped the feather tighter, its warmth pushing the cold away. She sang one of Numa’s songs, a simple chant for courage, and the shadow recoiled, though it didn’t vanish.

The path led her to a grove of cottonwood trees, their leaves silver in the starlight. At its center stood a pool, its surface smooth as glass, reflecting not the sky but a scene of her village—her people gathered, their faces etched with worry, their fires dim. “They need you,” the feather seemed to whisper, though it made no sound.

Tsa’na knelt by the pool and saw a vision: the shadow seeping into her world, draining the color from the land, silencing the springs. Her people were forgetting, turning away from the old ways, and the shadow fed on their disconnection. Tsa’na stood, her resolve hardening.

She followed the path deeper, through a forest where the trees glowed with bioluminescent vines, their light pulsing in time with her heartbeat. The shadow grew bolder, taking shapes now—her grandmother’s face, twisted with disappointment; her own reflection, weak and small. Each step was a battle, each song she sang a shield.

The feather led her to a mountain, its peak piercing the sky like a spear. At its summit was a stone arch, carved with spirals that pulsed with energy. This was the Heart of the World.

Tsa’na climbed, her breath ragged, the shadow’s whispers now a roar. As she reached the arch, the feather blazed with light, and the songs of the ancestors poured forth—thousands of voices, rising and falling like a river. She stepped through the arch, and the world exploded into color.

She saw them then, the ancestors, their forms woven from starlight and sage smoke, their eyes warm with pride. They sang of creation, of the first sunrise, of the threads that bound the people to the land. Tsa’na joined her voice to theirs, her song hesitant at first, then strong, weaving her own thread into the tapestry.

The shadow screamed, its form unraveling as the songs filled the air. The Heart of the World pulsed, sending waves of light across the Path of Stars, back to her village, where the fires flared bright and the people lifted their heads, remembering. When Tsa’na opened her eyes, she was back in the cave, the black stones still, the feather gone.

But the songs were alive in her, burning bright. She stepped out into the dawn, the cliffs glowing with the first rays of sunlight, and she knew what she had to do. She would teach the songs, share the stories, and keep the threads strong. And the land sang back, soft as a whisper, “Welcome home.”

TO BE CONTINUED...... 

Written by Little White Feather
Cherokee Nation / Wolf Clan