The Sacred Mountain Name Quest
By Charles Shea LeMone
One day a father and his son took the long journey to the sacred mountains. They were on a name quest. Until then the boy had answered to the name Second Son. Their first night in the mountains was a cloudless one and the winds blew cold. As they sat near a fire under an umbrella of brilliant stars, the father spoke to his son.
“Tonight you will allow the spirits of the mountains to feed your dreams. From these dreams we will decide your name.”
“Suppose I have no dreams?” the boy asked in a faltering voice.
The father laughed, “Then, of course, we will call you No Name.”
The boy frowned and missed seeing the mischievous expression on his father’s face.
As the fire lost its luster and the two bedded down, the father said, “I am going to tell you a legend my father once told me.”
“Good,” the boy said as he snuggled under the warmth of his blanket.
“There was a man from a distant tribe who was unlike all the other men. When he was young, he could hunt and track with the best of the boys his age. But he never showed the emotions that were common to his people. He never got angry. He never shouted or cursed. And worst of all he never seemed to despair. This troubled the chief, and he decided to send the young man to another tribe to do their bidding for them. For many years, he lived among them, doing the work no one else wanted to do.”
“Was he sad?” the boy asked.
“No, he was not. For sadness was another emotion the boy, now a full-grown man, never embraced. And this soon began to trouble all of the people around him. So the chief told his son to take the man far away, saying, ‘I never want to see him again.’”
“Then what happened?”
“Along the journey, the son of the chief and the man stopped to rest one night. While they sat around a fire, much like the one that burned tonight, the chief’s son spoke to the man.
“‘The problem with you is, you have no sense of self. You let the woman and even the children taunt you like you are their plaything. And all you do is smile in return. This is not right.’”
“‘What’s wrong with that?’ the man asked.
“‘It is not right for a man to behave this way. Sometimes my own son comes to me and I tell him, ‘Go away. I do not have time for you now.’”
“‘I know,’ the man said. ‘I have seen you do this many times.’”
“‘But you never think of yourself this way and tell anyone to leave you be. And that is the problem.’
“‘No,’ the man said, calmly speaking across the fire that separated the two of them, ‘that is not the problem. You see, for me it is easy to imagine what it is that gives you comfort and joy, what makes you who you are and what makes other people who they are. But you cannot imagine the joy I get being me. Not even for a moment can you, or anyone else, allow yourselves to imagine that. And that is the problem.’
“The chief’s son’s eyes flashed anger and his lips drew tight but he kept his words to himself.”
There was a long silence as the boy pondered the meaning of the legend his father told him. Then he asked, “So what finally happened to the man?”
“I asked my father the same question long ago. He told me to use my imagination to find an end to that legend. And now I will tell you the same.”
The next morning, the son told his father all of the dreams he had experienced that night exactly as they had unfolded. When he was done, the father said, “Your name is Dreamer. You will help lead our people along the red road. For your dreams have great meanings and offer sage advice.”
During the journey back to their village, many times along the way, the boy silently questioned why the man believed to have had no emotions had not been accepted by his people and why he was forced to live and die in exile.
