This is what they look like, these indigo children. We saw them on the river. But only near sunset and only when the eagle nesting above us let them be seen. Trapped in the river ripples. River wake. Feet invisible and their heads tilted back in laughter.Laughter is how they often talk.
They take all of them to Idaho, I hear, or maybe that’s what I want to believe. Upriver and drop them off and idle their cars back down the mountain because it’s quieter that way. Quieter to get them off their hands. No one wants anything to do with them anyway. Quieter to let nature take its toll, I suppose, because some say nature has a way of balancing itself out. But the river drowns them, almost. Not quite dead, but caught in the middle of two worlds, maybe. Yeah, maybe it’s something like that.
I wonder if these indigo children can only be found on the Lochsa.
I asked one of them what she meant when she talked to us about turnstiles and she asked, “Are you a religious man?” I asked her what she meant by that and she smiled. Maybe she knew that I knew all along.
These indigo children. They’re different, that’s for sure. I overheard them talk of a blind man who led children through the Colorado Rockies. Another indigo child, most likely. This blind man with his Aspens and wind - what does he know that we don’t?
Some say they’re a new human race, born with a supernatural awareness of this world, with a knowledge of their exact purpose. I wonder if that could be true, and then think maybe I am one, equipped with a purpose of my own. Surely I must have one.
Maybe not. I’ve never looked good in such a color.
