by Leigh Clements and Roberta Robertson
“Son, the history books, they ain’t nearly scratched the
surface of what’s happened in these parts,” the old Yough River Man said. He
puffed on his pipe and remained quiet. We sat on his front porch. He built his
home near the top of Backbone Mountain in Preston County, West Virginia for the
view, the fresh air, and the privacy, he told me. “I’ve walked all over
Backbone. The thirty-or-so clear-water streams that flow off the mountain, they
empty into Silver Lake down there in the valley. All of ‘em together make up the
headwaters of the Yough.”
A crow perched on the rooftop squawked like crazy. “That
bird agrees,” he said, as he drew on his pipe. The wind rustled the leaves in
the surrounding trees.
After a long pause, a very long pause, I felt compelled to
get to the point of my investigation. “I read about the long history of these
mountains,” I told him. “When I started to write this article, I knew the
Appalachians were the Earth’s oldest mountains. And I had read about the Great
Forest which covered them.” He nodded and kept puffing on his pipe, the smoke
rising in a slow ethereal upward drift.
I pushed on. “I’ve studied the mountain culture that grew up
in this area over the last 300 or 400 years. But going farther back, by some
accounts, the first humans who walked this land did so in 12,000 BC. That means
people roamed these mountains about 14,000 years ago. Recently, though, I’ve
run into some storytellers who’ve given me a whole different picture of this
place.”
“Yeah, what might that be?” He asked.
“Well, I know this will sound far-fetched. Bear with
me here, if you would, these stories are out there, if you know what I mean,” I
said. He nodded and drew another long inhale. I hesitated, gathering my
thoughts, and then started in slowly.
“A few of these folks talked about an old legend passed down
through the Native peoples and their ancestors. Stories that go way back, far
beyond recorded history, in another age, they said, to a time when the
legendary continent of Atlantis existed, if you can believe that.”
I paused and watched the old man’s face. Maybe a hint of a
smile; I wasn’t sure. If he never played poker, I thought, he missed his
calling. I went on. “They spoke of a hidden kingdom built right here
in this area ages ago during the time of Atlantis. It was a spiritual kingdom,
they said, protected by some invisible force-field of energy; couldn’t pass
through it unless you had the proper mindset; built by some mysterious sage to
educate a new generation of spiritually oriented people. You think there’s any
truth to this legend?” I asked him.
He smiled and tapped the burnt tobacco out of his pipe and
filled it again. He took his time. He didn’t seem a bit concerned about time at
all. No twitching, no extraneous movements, no cares creased his face. The
fresh tobacco smelled rich and good and I inhaled and held my breath, hoping to
capture the flavor and savor its texture for as long as I could.
“Well, son, now there’s a topic for you,” he said, coming
out of his pipe-tapping reverie. “Some say the place you speak of is still
here, only hidden from view. They say we’re living in the legend — living in
it, mind you. It’s all around us, we just don’t see it. We crowd it out of our
awareness with our routines, our daily habits, our troubled thoughts, and our
constant worries.”
“So there’s some truth to it?”
“Legends exist everywhere. You’ll find legends in all lands,
in all tribes and cultures. The whole earth is a legend. Think about that. I can find a seed of truth in every legend,” he answered. “But if you’re
lookin' for more on that particular legend, I’m not the one you want to talk to
about it. Course, I got my thoughts on it. But you’d do better if you went to
Friendsville, Md., and looked up a lady by the name of Walkingfeather. That’s
her medicine name. Look her up. She’s got some stories to tell. She calls her
stories, the Legends of Arina.”
Again, a crow cawed from the rooftop. The old man smiled.
Walkingfeather
After some serious investigation, I found the lady known as
Walkingfeather. We talked on the phone and agreed to meet at the café on Water
Street in Friendsville overlooking the Youghiogheny River.
Walkingfeather:
“How did you hear about me and this legend,” she asked. “I
was writing an article on the history of the Appalachian people and their
legends and some people started talking about this legend. One storyteller told me to look old Joe Cornwell up on Backbone and he
suggested I talk to you.” She nodded and looked out the window and watched the
river flow by. She turned back and looked at me carefully. “I know Joe. He’s a
good man. He must have seen something in you he liked or he would never have
given you my name.” She paused.
“I’ll tell you about my experience with these legends, but
understand I’m just a storyteller, the legends of Arina belong to all people
and every day someone in Arina realizes they’re living in the Legend.”
Note from the authors: We live in a unique time of awakening,
a time of remembrance. We are all part of a great legend that stretches back
through the ages and beyond. Know thyself, immortal traveler. Know the legendary
character you are who has walked through the one great cosmic legend throughout
time and eternity. Use your creative imagination. Open the doorway to the
memories of lifetimes in the past and future. Write your stories Now.
Copyright. All rights reserved.
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