~ The Beginning! ~

L.J.Libiran ©2010

The original Kokopelli is a heavy hitter in the Southwest. Many have taken a guess at his origin. One thing we know is that he will always be respected for his place in the Hopi and Anasazi cultures. Kokopelli has been called a hunter, warrior, musician, trickster, fertility god, trader and even part insect. What if one of his descendants still walks among us? This is my interpretation of what could be.

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One particular descendant of Kokopelli took what he learned from his forefathers and left to find out how he could fit into this modern world. He noticed things were no longer the way they had been described to him when he had sat on Kokopelli's knee. He walked long days and nights, crossing mountains and valleys. He came upon a river thinking to cool himself but found the water was bitter-tasting, and there was trash floating by on its surface. He passed barren places where forests once stood. He walked through cities where the tops of tall structures became lost in hazy brown clouds. Suffocating crowds of people all seemed to be in a hurry as they rushed past him, seeing only where they needed to go.

The grief he was feeling about what had changed deepened as he came to a wooded area. He looked up to see plastic bags twisted around branches like flags in the wind. Depressed, he lay down under an old, large tree, trying to shut off his mind. He had to calm himself. Maybe sleep was all he needed, but sleep would not come. For days he battled for quiet in his own mind. His tears drenched the earth beneath him. He was so distracted with what was in his head, that he noticed nothing around him. Night came and went, rain misted his face and, still, he did not move.

How long he had lain in his depression no one will ever know, but come out of it he finally did. He heard something. There was something near his ear. It was a new sound he was sure he had not heard before. Or had he? He strained to listen as he concentrated on the sound. It was a melody with its tones raising and lowering. He could no longer lay still. He had to see what was causing his heart to lighten.

He tried to turn his head, but found his hair and the growth around the tree had become interwoven. Each time he moved, the sound would increase its tempo. Then, when he would lie still, it went back to its normal beat. He had worked some of the growth loose from his hair and was able to turn his head just enough to see brilliantly-colored blossoms. He found what was creating the melody which had drawn him out of his gloom. Insects were enchanting him with rhythms and melodies he had long forgotten.

He sat so very still, and listened to the sounds that touched his heart. He realized that his mind was no longer filled with thoughts that tortured him. The only thing that mattered was the music that these tiny, brave insects were creating as they flew from flower to flower. He didn't want the sound to end. Yet, all things do end and as dusk approached, the bees, ladybugs and other insects left to find shelter for the night. The beautiful music left with them. Now if it was you or me, we would have gotten up to find shelter for ourselves. That was not the way of this descendant of Kokopelli. He remained quiet and wondered what would happen next.

The Universe was reminding him of things he had heard, and taken for granted ages ago. The song of a river nearby was greeted by the croaking of frogs and crickets. This melody blended with the beating of bats' wings as they flew through the night. Other sounds melded into a symphony of rhythms, crescendos and quiet moments. As dawn approached, there was a pause in the music. He pulled slowly free of the flowers and ferns. A dragonfly landed on his finger.

He held her up to the morning light, and whispered, "Thank-you!"

Then gently, he placed her on a plant by his side. It took him a while to get to a standing position. If you can believe it, his hair was longer and even more tangled than before. His back, hunched and curved, could not be straightened. His thin legs ached, but that did not matter. There was so much to do now. There was hope in his heart.

This descendant of Kokopelli began again. He experimented and learned from any instrument he could find. Each tune that crept into his head was a marvel. Traveling brought excitement about new things that would help him repeat the melody that had awakened him. Music was the only thing that could keep his mind from getting cluttered with the pains of the Earth. Each day that passed he learned more, and tried to bring these sounds to those around him.

"There were too many people," he mused.

How could he give each person the chance at finding the peace he had been granted?

Over time he became overwhelmed and exhausted. He returned to the same old tree and leaned against its rough brown bark.

"Help me," he whispered into the darkening night.

Folding in his long thin legs, he sat down and leaned back against the strength of the tree. He closed his dry, tired eyes and let his head relax where it would. Sleep claimed him even before his head found its resting place.

While he slept, the Universe opened up its heart and breathed into him. It blanketed him with a warm breeze as a beam of light from the Northern Star reached out and touched him. The star's ray brightened over his heart for just a moment, and then blended back into the night.

In the early morning, just as the sun began to rise, he awoke to find a strange wooden flute, glistening with dew, on the grass by his side. Carefully, he lifted the instrument, admiring its rich golden color and wild, twisting grain. He raised it to his lips and, placing his fingers over the holes, blew gently. The tone that came from the flute was serene and haunting, but other sounds came from it as well. Whispers, like the wind moving through the leaves of a poplar tree. The next note he played reminded him of the buzz of a bee's wings. Each note he played was another sound of nature's own music. For days he played, straining to control the tones and the thousands of songs that nature sang all over the world. And finally, when he had mastered them all, he arose from his place at the base of the great tree. He felt the power of the Earth fill his heart, and with great hope, set out to find his purpose in this life.

He came to a beautiful stream filled with colorful fish, turtles and frogs swimming in water that was so clear, you could see the bottom even at its deepest levels. Following its gently curving path, he happily played his flute, drank cool refreshing water from the banks and slept to its gentle trickling song. Perhaps the Earth had given him a beautiful home after all.

After many days following the stream, he began to notice fewer animals in the water, and along the banks. The water was cloudy and smelled oddly, and plants were few. The fish, the turtles and frogs were moving very slowly and gasping for air. Some were not moving at all. They were dead.

The descendant of the great Kokopelli was suddenly afraid, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up in fear.

"What is wrong?...What is happening!" he wondered.

Walking further along, he noticed a huge pipe at the edge of the bank. It was larger than the size of a deer and had water flowing from it into the stream. Upon coming closer, he saw that the water coming from the pipe was rusty in color, and its odor began to burn his eyes and his nostrils and choke his throat. It was then that he noticed that the pipe led back to a great city of humans. A city covered in one of the brown clouds that he had seen in his travels. They were creating the poison water that was killing the stream. He felt the great sadness that his heart once knew. Sitting by the dying stream, he sought comfort in the music of his flute and among the sounds of nature that mixed with its sad notes. All he could think about was stopping the poison water from flowing from the huge pipe.

"Great Kokopelli, help me find a way," he thought.

Suddenly, large, old Juniper trees that grew along the pipe leading back to the city began to sway in time to his music. Underground, their roots began to grow and pierce the cement of the pipe. More and more roots began to grow inside the pipe, solidly plugging it and blocking the flow of the killing waters. As the roots touched the poison, they immediately began to die but the mighty Juniper also has another name; they are also called "Sand-cedars"! Some believe that as the Juniper grows, its roots, trunks and branches gather sand into itself to help protect it from bugs and high winds.

As the roots in the pipe died, the sand hardened into stone. The flow of the poison water was stopped all the way back to the city. Soon, the people of the city would have to find a safer way to get rid of the poison without sending it to clean rivers, streams and seas or keeping it inside of the city where it would hurt them as they had done to the animals and plants of this stream.

The Junipers themselves did not die. They would remain as guardians of the stream, forever stopping the flow of the pipes coming from the city. As the descendant of Kokopelli sat on the bank of the dying stream, once again his tears fell. They flowed along the ground in amounts so great, it was as if rain had fallen and created its own tiny rivers, making its way to the waters of the stream.

Where his tears touched the water, it began to clear.

It was then that he noticed that the pipe had stopped feeding its deadly poison into the stream. Somehow he knew that, after awhile, the waters would be healthy once again and the animals and plants would recover.

"Thank you, Kokopelli" he said. "I know why I am here."

The magic of his flute, the power of the Earth and the strength in his heart would begin to heal the planet. His music would be his voice. The voice of



He can still be a bit of a trickster. He enjoys the rush of extreme sports and the beauty that surrounds him. But nighttime is when he is in his element. That is when he finds an open window near a sleeping baby and plays the magical flute. The haunting music fills the night, flowing through to find the sleeping child inside; calling it to become a new voice of the Earth.

Now Radi-Koke has help from the children that have heard his flute. They are the great ones. They are the ones that have the gift. They are the ones that share with us and touch our hearts. Their songs and stories can move us to tears, give us chills and make us sway in time with a beat. They remind us to respect this Earth and learn from the history that is ours. Their music crosses all borders and the Universe itself smiles. Radi-Koke will always walk among us. Look carefully around you. He is the street-musician and the child-prodigy. He is the racing mustang on the windy prairie, the diving falcon in the sky. Sometimes he is in disguise, sometimes in the open with his hair swaying in the wind. When you take the time to listen, actually pause in your day's rush and really listen, then indeed, you will see him...

Radi-Koke© and his story is a work of fiction; they are the product of the author's imagination. Any similarities of Radi-Koke© characters to someone you know is purely coincidental.