changing child & the cogs of war (revisited)

*I originally wrote this dystonian story in 2012 , and it seems especially appropriate to re-post it now. It was one of the most vivid & detailed dreams I have ever had. Was it a prophecy or a history? We now know who “Changing Child” is. They are embodied in 20 or more “Standing Rocks”, and 20 or more “Dakota Access Pipelines”; the indigenous who are demanding that Mother Earth & the Ancestors have their collective voices heard concerning current, unprecedented ecological warfare & irreversable damage being caused by corporate greed & reliance on fossil fuels & dirty extraction methods. They are speaking & screaming for Ecological Justice.  And I still do not think, like in this story, that the “Ministers” are listening to Changing Child’s screams.*

 Deep in the earth and far in the future (or the past?), a great chamber is filled with all the counselors of the world of men. If you seek faces in the crowd assembled there, they would not be that different from the men and women of today. You can pick out farmers, bankers, leaders, and doctors from among them all by their ostentatious dress and carriage. They sit in the balconies and stadiums and converse loudly amongst themselves, laughing, smoking, cursing, and patting one another on their backs. They have assembled for war.

 A woman dressed in a black gown with a long train, steps to the center of the stadium and ascends a podium. She raps with a mallet on the stand and calls the men and women to order. They file into seats with much noise and clearing of throats but finally settle down and sit quiet as she raises her voice and addresses the populace. Her eloquent words are lost in the rafters and in the tombs of history. But, her intent is clear: she is calling on her most trusted Ministers to go to war against their most dreaded foe. And who is this foe? As these things often go, we do not know anymore; like petty arguments drawn out by lovers. They cannot recall the original reason and by the end, it matters not a bit as long as they win. But, it is a foe that has threatened the whole of their way of life and united the entire counsel as one against it. Their leader, this woman, is calling for war and seeking her Ministers’ advise and blessings.

 Mounted on the wall behind her are seven great cogs representing the seven counsels of her ministers. The cogs, like wheels of machinery, are individually made for each counsel. The cogs are covered by cobwebs and dust; for it has been many generations since the last wars. The central, and largest cog is made of wood and each ring on its disc represents each year since the last war, like the annual growth rings on a great ancient oak tree. Keeping this cog in place are the roots of a giant, ancient tree, reaching deep into the cracked wall of the chambers. These great roots nourish a single live branch that grows from the face of the great wooden cog. A single leaf clings tenaciously and delicately to the end of this branch. Under the foot of the woman, its other leaves, long dead and dry, crinkle and crush on the floor. The winds from the woman’s dress stirs some of them up and some cling to the edge of her train.

 Each cog next to the central, wooden one, is smaller and smaller; and man-made with materials representative of each Ministry and counsel. Each has a unique locking mechanism kept as secret trusts by the each of the woman’s Ministers—Ministers of Industry, Agriculture, Health, Finance, Resources, and Education. After a time, the woman addresses each Minister individually:

 She calls on each Minister to join her in the war, “Is the Minister of Finance with us?” A finely-dressed man in black suit coat and top-hat steps from among the bankers and financiers present. “Yes we are. Our banks are strong and our coffers are full. We can finance this war as long as it lasts.” His jowls, covered by muttonchops jiggle as he speaks. He ascends the podium and pulls white, cotton gloves onto his chubby hands. From his pocket he takes out a gold key on a gold chain. He turns to the cogs on the wall and brushes the dust and webs from the smallest cog with his gloved hands. With a flourish he places the gold key into the gold cog and turns it laboriously. It takes many turns to open the lock. It creaks from years of disuse and tarnish. But at last, the lock is opened and the cog is free.

 He returns the key to his pocket and removes his soiled gloves as he regains his seat in the chambers. The woman calls the next Minister, the next keeper of the cogs, “Is the Minster of Industry with us?” A man carrying a red toolbox, wearing a white shirt, a hardhat, and khaki trousers approaches the podium and responds,”Yes we are. Our Industries are the best in the world. We can create bombs and guns and machines like no other! We can create anything this war needs as long as it needs it.” He unlatches the toolbox and opens it. Its hinges do not creak even though the toolbox is as old as the oldest wars. It is a well-oiled machine. Inside the toolbox, nestled on a fine cushion, is a single tool—a shiny, delicate steel ratchet which will unlock the steel cog of Industry and free the next wheel to go to war. He fits the ratchet to the bolt on the second cog, and turns the handle until the bolt is unscrewed. He places the bolt into the toolbox with the ratchet and descends the podium silently. The cog of Industry is now free to go to war.

 Next, the woman asks, “Is the Minster of Resources with us?” A man in work clothes comes from among his counsel. He wears jeans and work boots; a hammer and chisel hang from his belt. He ascends the podium and addresses the woman, “Yes we are. The world has many resources in the ground and on the ground. They can last a very long time, as long as the war, to supply our needs.” He removes the hammer and chisel from his belt and approaches the third cog made of stone. He blows the dust from the cog and finds a small groove to place the chisel in. He hammers on the end of the chisel as blows resound in the chambers. Finally, a hidden stone shim comes loose from the cog and clatters to the ground. He picks it up, blows stone dust from its surface; then ties a leather thong around it and slips the thong over his neck for safe-keeping.

 “Is the Ministry of Health with us?” the woman continues the roll call to war. A woman, a doctor, separates from her colleagues in their white lab coats, and comes to the front of the assembly. She replies confidently, “Yes we are. Our people are strong and healthy. We have many medicines and many vaccines to prevent many diseases. We can cure every type of injury from this war.” She turns to the cogs and puts latex gloves on her hands. From her lab coat, she removes a syringe filled with a milky, gaseous liquid and a swab. She cleans the dust from the plastic cog with the swab to sterilize it and inserts her syringe into the cog’s mechanism. She pulls back the plunger on the syringe and then pushes it into the cog. A little dust cloud from the inner mechanism is blown by the liquified gas in the syringe, and the cog is unlocked, free to go to war. Then, she recaps the end of the syringe, removes her latex gloves, and returns to her colleagues.

 Their leader calls the Minister of Agriculture, “Is the Ministry of Agriculture with us?” she asks. A man clears his throat and comes to the podium. He wears high rubber boots and suspenders under a plaid sport coat. He appears nervous in front of so many, but answers simply, “Yes we are. We have many fields to cultivate and many domesticated animals to raise for many years. We can feed the war for as long as you need us.” His secret cog tool is made up of wood and animal bone, the ancient foundations of his livelihood. A very intricate maze pattern is cut into the iron cog of Agriculture; iron represents the plow of his ministry. But, the farmer seems confused by the pattern on the cog. He has forgotten so much of the natural way of doing things that it seems foreign to him. However, he inserts the bone and wooden tool and tries to follow the pattern anyway. But, the tool becomes jammed into a tight space on the cog, and will not go forward or backward; and he cannot remove it. He pulls hard and strains against the tool. Sweat drips down his balding pate and into his eyes. But the cog is stuck and he has forgotten the secret pattern. So, embarrassed, he breaks off the tool in the cog, hoping no one notices. The cog is now free to go to war. But the pattern and the old tool is destroyed. He hides the tool in his sport coat, clears his throat, and takes his seat.

 Finally, the woman asks, “Is the Ministry of Education with us?”  and a woman answers precisely, “Yes, we are with you. Our people are the best-educated and we can all read and learn. We have the best academic minds in the world. All our children can pass all the tests. We can rule the world and win this war with our minds.” Her cog is made of slate. She is dressed in a plain grey suit and skirt, with low, practical shoes. A pair of thick glasses hang from a fine chain on her neck. She ascends to the podium and places the glasses on her face. She looks closely at the slate cog. With her sleeve, she wipes the dust and grime from it and stares at it for a very long time. Her nose almost touches the cold slate, and she squints her eyes at it. Finally, an unseen mechanism moves behind the slate, and the cog is free. She steps back, removes her thick glasses, smiles, and takes her seat.

All the ministers and all the cogs have now declared for war. A great cheer goes up in the crowd and the counselors leap to their feet applauding all the Ministers and their fearless leader. But the woman holds up her hands for silence. There is one more cog—the largest cog of wood, the one locked by the great roots of the ancient tree.  Who will speak for that one? She knows she must ask the right questions even if she does not like the answers. Everyone hushes and regains their seats with a slight murmur. Will she really ask it?

 She takes a deep breath and very quietly asks that which must be asked, “Is there a representative from the Earth here?” Silence. No man comes forward from the Earth. No woman unlocks the great cog, held in place not by lock or by mechanism; but by the very roots of Earth itself. The crowd murmurs and each Minister looks from one to the other, confused. She asks again, louder, “Is there a representative from the Earth here?” Suddenly, the six Ministers jump to their feet in protest, and the chamber is full of uproar and clamor. The Ministers protest the question, knowing they cannot ask the Earth. There is no representative among the Ministers of men for the Earth! It is not done! They do not even speak the same language as the Earth!

 But, there is one here who does speak for the Earth, even if the humans do not see them. A small child has sneaked into the chambers. It hides behind the chairs. It is the watcher, the guardian, the keeper of the Earth. It is Changing Child. Its hair is tangled with brush, seeds, and birds’ nests. It walks with a staff and a limp, having been trodden on for many years by the humans it watches over. It is covered in greenery, animal hides, and dirt. From one moment to the next, it changes. One cannot ever be sure what the child is wearing; a loincloth? An apron? A kilt or a dress? Shrubbery? Or if it is a boy or a girl. Its face is doe-like and feminine, but deeply lined in places with the worry of the Earth. Its chest is flat and thin. It could be a boy or a girl, maybe seven years old; maybe seventy years old. It is as ephemeral and undefined as mist. And it is ageless and ancient, as old as the world. Changing Child changes.

 Now, Changing Child comes forward from hiding and approaches the woman and the counsel. But not one of them sees it. It speaks but not one of them hears, or listens, or understands the words. It screams at the top of its voice for them to listen! But, they have quit speaking Earth-language long ago. It is like the child is not even there anymore. Changing Child runs up to the woman and begs her for peace. It grabs her skirt and cries for peace but she cannot feel or see or hear the child either. She is too far removed from her own Mother, the Earth; she barely resembles Her anymore. She never receives an answer to her question, “Who will speak for the Earth?” and so, she continues the plans for war.

 She calls one of her footmen to bring her the war-maker, the instrument of government. A slimy, thin man in a shabby coat, carries a locked case to podium. His smile is too bright and too wide and he is too anxious. He lays the case at her feet, obsequiously bowing away. She picks it up and places it on the stand in front of her. Another footman gives her a key and she opens the case. Inside, pillowed on silk and velvet, is the handle of government, made for moving the cogs of war. It is made of all the materials of the seven cogs: a foundation of wood, covered by the metals and plastics; engraved with gold; held together by stone and slate. It fits on a peg in the central, wooden cog, the greatest cog of all. The whole chamber is hushed and silent as she fits the peg into the socket, and turns it. It creaks and groans and strains; the roots of the tree holding it fast. It shudders, and the chamber is certain that the old, wooden cog will surely break under the pressure. But, slowly, it begins to turn; and the six others turn with it. The cogs of war are turning! The ancient roots shear off and pull out of the wall, the great wheel turns, and the single, last leaf clinging to the single, last branch, falls from the tree and is crushed under foot with the others. At last all the cogs turn smoothly together and war is made again!

 Changing Child runs from the chamber, screaming in terror. The counselors and ministers and the woman hear this scream at last; but they do not know its source. Changing Child has seen war seven and seventy-times-seven times! The roots of the great tree of peace have been broken again and it is like the child’s own back has broken with it, again! Changing Child flees to the last wild places on Earth while men and sons-of-men fight their wars again. There, in the secret place, Changing Child lives while the wars poison the Earth.

 Many years and many wars come and go. Many leaders come and go among man. Much is lost. Resources cannot keep up with Industry; Finance cannot finance Agriculture; Education cannot heal Health. All is destroyed. The Resources run out. There are no more to find. Dust blows across the mines and the waters are poisoned. The fish and animals die. Nothing will grow. Agriculture cannot happen. There are no more seeds to grow or animals to raise. The people starve. Industry ends. Veterans come back from the wars with minds and bodies which cannot no longer be healed by Health; injured by weapons they could never have imagined a cure for. The children run and loot in the streets. There are no more tests and no more Education. And Finance collapses from it all. Government disappears.

 Meanwhile, Changing Child shakes seeds and seedlings from its tangled hair, and nurtures them in the secret place. It takes baby wild animals from the wombs of their poisoned mothers and eggs from the poisoned birds. These it keeps in secret, frozen caves, safe from the wars of man. Even a man and a woman seed Changing Child keeps and nourishes in the back of the caves. It will raise these as it has done seven and seventy-times-seven times before. They will be raised as brothers again—the man and woman with the wild animals and fish and birds. They will live again with one another. They will be as one again. And again. And again. For seven generations Changing Child will keep them; until they populate the Earth again. Then, maybe, maybe, just maybe this time, the wars will not happen and the cogs will not be moved and they will have peace. For seven generations. Again. And, Changing Child will change again.

(C)henry francis redhouse, 2012. Artwork is property of its respective owners.