The blessing bowl and the fear XXVIII

Door San Daniel gepubliceerd in Verhalen en Poëzie


We finished our plates in silence while another expert was being consulted about a spinning wheel. I put down the money we owed and a tip for the waitress, waved at the girl behind the bar and we walked back to the Chrysler. "It bore a striking resemblance to our bowl," my sweetie said, as she started the heavy v8. "It was early Christian art, according to that expert," I said, "so it probably didn't really reflect how things had been, it was more of an impression." I thought of the demonic voice that had sounded from the tap and that had promised to tear my guts out. "

"Besides," I added, "there would have been no clay bowl in the household of Pontius Pilate." The man represented the supreme authority of the Roman empire in Israel. You would rather have expected a golden or silver bowl. " It might have been a coincidence, "my wife explained," but it looked a lot like the bowl that I chugged away. "

She turned the car into a spacious parking spot and a moment later we walked to Sobeys, which made Walmart look like a Micky mouse supermarket in size. Supermarkets in North America really deserve the name supermarkets. Everything was there that you could wish for, the land of milk and honey, I thought, the land where there were no shortages!

I was still pondering the bowl in my head, while my wife was busy weighing freshly flown in strawberries, I said, "That bowl certainly gave me a bad feeling and you couldn't take a photo of it and send it on." My wife gave me a piercing look and said, "That's why I threw it away. The bowl made me gloomy and frightened me. It is probably in pieces in the garbage dump by now. "

She closed the bag with the strawberries and stuck a price label on it that had just printed out. "Actually it's not there," I reported. "And you know that," my wife asked in surprise? I think I know, "I explained," it's a long story, but one of the men from the Roundup saw how old Rock was knocked down and how he had just given a package to little Bighorn. " Who may that be that Rock and that Bighorn, 'my love asked and she looked at me almost reproachfully as if I had withheld information and as a matter of fact I had  done just that.

"The man's real name is Old Rock," I began, "or I should say, was called Old Rock and he was the grandson of Little Bighorn." "Right," my wife said, "and who is that Bighorn?" "Let's go to the coffee corner," I suggested, "then we can catch up." The girl with the coffee pot came by and filled our mugs and I must have  looked confused. Where to start?



"So much has happened," I said, "let me start with the bowl that you threw away. It was indeed gone, but when I spoke to the neighbor, the day I sawed the tree in bits that had fallen over, he told me that he had chased away two Indians who were looking for bottles in the bins  " " Yes,' said my wife, who gave me full attention.

"They took the bowl," I explained. "The neighbor also told me about the previous occupants of our house, there were three of them. They all died in bad ways. " "A day later," my dear said, "the neighbor broke his neck and he too was dead." I nodded. "That's right," I agreed. "The last two went crazy," I said, "they thought they heard voices and died in unpleasant ways." "What do you think," my sweetheart asked urgently. "I don't exclude it, you know the  hearing of voices," I said honestly, "perhaps in their heads, but it's not unthinkable."

"I saw Old Rock lying under the truck. He was dead and his brother was speared on a tree trunk. He had run into the back of the lumber truck with his bike. It was not a pleasant sight and I went into the Thriftstore and there Les gave me a cup of tea because I was about to faint. He told me that the dead Indian under the wheel had just bought a bowl. I assume it was our bowl. " "I wish," my wife said emphatically, "that you would not call it our bowl."

The man in the roundup saw Old Rock coming out and he gave a package, I take it to have been the bowl, to a man in a car and that was little Bighorn. He had phoned him, "I added.

"Let me get this straight," my dear said, and suddenly she looked tired and serious. Three previous owners died. The neighbor who told you that, died as well. Two Indians who had to deal with the bowl died. Les has had a stroke and died, the bowl was in his shop for only a short while. That's 7 people and that bowl was called a blessing bowl! "



"Now I would like to know," she concluded, "who that Bighorn is." His name is actually Little Bighorn, I corrected her, "and he is the chief and shaman of the Assiniboine tribe, he is two in one and enjoys great respect among the local tribes." "And how do you know all this," she asked? "From the roundup men," I answered.

"We are sleeping poorly," my dear said, "and you have nightmares and my dreams stay with me, seven people died and I cannot help but feel that it is because of that damned dish, or at least it has to do with it. I am not interested in whether it is the Pilates bowl or an old possessed bowl, I am glad it is out of my house. "I don't want to hear anything more about it," she continued, "it gives me the shivers, come on we will finish the shopping list and  have a nice day."

But I knew that if I didn't find the bowl, my guts would be torn out, that had not been a promise, but a shouted threat from an unholy voice from a washroom tap, and I wasn't waiting for that to happen. No matter how it was intended, I took it very seriously, the image of the smeared out Indian came to my mind again, the owner of the voice meant business and I resolved that, no matter how, I had to get that bowl back.

San Daniel 2020

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10/02/2020 22:39

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