The Unyielding Weave
The Myths of Roscoe Kelly | Chapter III - The Widening Chasm | Story 2
Curator’s Note:
The 1830s brought continuing tribulations to the Native peoples of the southeastern United States. This period was defined by the grim specter of the Indian Removal Act of 1830. Motivated by settler desire for land and political hunger for westward expansion, the United States adopted formal native relocation policies. The broader Seminole Tribe was now confronted with the same existential threat that had already nearly erased the Ghost Orchid Tribe. In this time, the Wyrdling’s unique form, a spirit bearing the name and likeness of an American soldier but whose mystic energy was born of the Natives’ sacred connection to nature, took on heightened significance and immense challenge. We begin to realize that the Wyrdling emerges not just where the material meets the spiritual, or where civilization meets the wild, but also where that which was meets that which must be. (Ponder, 2011; Red Hawk, 1905). While Roscoe’s heart yearned to change where this river would run, he knew deeply that he could not alter the course of the water. As magical as his power was, he could only make small interventions to plant seeds in the fields of history and hope those seeds would one day grow into sustaining change. This myth, reconstructed from fragmented oral traditions of the Seminole (Whitefeather, 2010) and subtle hints in early territorial reports (Florida Gazette, 1837), explores Roscoe’s agency within the limits of his transcendental nature.
The air in the hammock was thick with a sorrow that choked the chorus of the Everglades. It was a grief beyond tears, a despair born of inevitability. A distant drumbeat of approaching armies carrying the ominous notes of forced treaties, marching to the rhythm of pronouncements of old white men – the Indian Removal Act, a monstrous shadow, now fell upon the entire Seminole Nation. Chief Standing Cypress, an elder whose eyes held the weary wisdom of generations, sat by a dying fire, his breath a soft lament that echoed the fading hope of his people.
Roscoe Kelly coalesced from the humid air, his form flickering with the strain of the time’s pervasive discord. The sheer weight of such widespread human injustice compressed his energies like an unseen hand. Nearby, Lani, in the unblinking form of an alligator, rested her immense head near the water’s edge. The Swamp Dog circled and bedded down at Roscoe’s feet, its luminous eyes radiating immense sorrow.
“Music Spirit,” the Chief rasped, his voice raw, “your kin come for our lands, for our very breath. The white man’s paper says we must leave, that we must abandon the bones of our ancestors and the rivers that sing their names. As a spirit of this place and theirs, can you not stop the flood? Can you not turn their hearts?”
Roscoe’s form wavered with the effort of holding his essence. “Chief Standing Cypress,” his voice sighed, a soft melody woven from wind and sorrow, “I am born of this land, its spirit, its harmony. I am also the echo of Roscoe Kelly, the soldier who sought alliance. I see the heart of the great experiment they call America. I see its soaring ideals and its grievous flaws. My power comes from the composing of the song, not its dismantling. At my strongest I cannot change the flow of the river. Now, though, with all the discord in the air, I am even weaker. The Muse barely yields enough magic for me to sit here with you.”
The Chief stared at the shifting form, the shattering of his heart crying out in every syllable of his question, “Then the wheel turns for our destruction?”
Lani, the alligator, shifted, her ancient scales catching the dim light, a deep rumble caused a ripple across the water, the flashing glare at Roscoe brief but unmistakable. Roscoe met the Chief’s gaze, his sorrowful eyes deep with understanding. “The wheel weaves as the wheel wills, Chief. Sometimes it brings bloom, sometimes it brings storm.” He raised his battered guitar, his eyes drifted gently in Lani’s direction, “I cannot stop their armies, Standing Cypress. I cannot unmake their laws. But I can remember. I can guide those who defy. I can comfort those who fall. The spirit of your people, their songs, their stories, their connection to this land – I will weave it into the very fiber of the earth. Even if your bodies are forced to a distant shore, a part of your soul will remain anchored here, within the heart of the Everglades, within me, within the song. I will be the living memory, the enduring echo, until the wheel comes around again.”
A profound peace began to settle over Chief Standing Cypress, slowly replacing the despair. This was not the victory he had craved but perhaps it represented a deeper promise. “Then we are not forgotten,” he said, a single tear tracing a path down his weathered cheek. “Our spirit will remain.”
Roscoe nodded, his form steadying with a newfound, painful purpose. “The roots of a people, like the roots of the cypress, run deeper than the plow, they grow stronger than any decree. I promise you, Chief, I will hold your memory until the day your songs of joy rise again from this sacred earth.”
As the sun began its weary descent, the Chief looked to the western sky painted in hues of orange and purple, Roscoe and his companions dissolved back into the mist.
References
Florida Gazette. Reports from the Interior: Indian Troubles Persist. Vol. X, No. 42, June 1837.
Ponder, Dr. Emily R. Betrayal and Resilience: The Seminole Nation and the Indian Removal Act. Old World History Press, 2011.
Red Hawk, Elder. Oral testimony to Dr. Josiah Albright, 1905. Tribal Archives, Okeechobee, FL.
Whitefeather, Professor Liana. Seminole Spirituality: Land, Ancestors, and the Earthly Realm. Native American Cultural Studies Quarterly, Vol. 15, No. 1, 2010.
**This is a RoscoeKelly.com narrative blending myth, history & fictional sources. Learn more about our creative process here on the about tab or at RoscoeKelly.com.