A New Beginning for the Pool of Knowledge (from YA Novel)

I had to sign up for a community action requirement; otherwise, I wouldn’t graduate from high school. I could’ve chosen to serve breakfast at the homeless shelter, but didn’t want to get up early. I thought I’d rather be around younger kids. That’s why I volunteered at the library’s reading program, which is where I met Basuma.

She came every other Friday, a featured storyteller who looked as old as my grandmother and wore what she called her bottle jars, eyeglasses that were as thick as two of my notebooks. Her skin was the color of coffee, and her arms covered with freckles that reminded me of overripe bananas. Basuma came to the library every other Friday. She never read from a book, but made up her own stories.  

            My job was to make sure the kids stayed quiet. Some could be noisy; I mean jumping off the walls noisy. If it got really bad, I read a book to them in another part of the library. But strangely enough, whenever it was Basuma’s Friday, every kid dropped onto their elbows and listened to a tale about a girl named Liana and the Pool of Knowledge. To be honest, I couldn’t wait for her Fridays myself. 

Basuma sat in what we called our “storytelling” chair, a throne made of rattan straw located in the corner of the room between the mystery and young adult books. She showed up wearing long skirts and blouses with birds embroidered on the yoke, her head wrapped in gray braids. The older kids sat in chairs, or on the carpet surrounding her in a semi-circle. 

Once she was ready, Basuma leaned forward with a finger to her lips and made a sweep of the rug with her green eyes magnified to twice their size by her bottle jars. Everyone became quiet, or poked a neighbor to listen. She’d raise her hand and catch something inside her palm, making a fist and shaking it hard. Kids watched as she brought her hand up to her ear and suddenly opened it, five fingers extended like an explosion, which is when she began.  

“I’m going to tell you a story about a girl named Liana, nobody’s child and everybody’s child who was brought to the village of Oakside as an infant, no more than one week old, a place that was across the river from the city of giant buildings,” she said. 

“Long ago, the city people who lived across the river had almost totally forgotten about the villagers. City folk became involved in their business riding up and down elevators, parking cars, and sitting behind desks. They sold magazines and candy on the street, delivered hot meals, and cooked food to-go. On the weekend, they watched television and did their laundry. But this is not a story about them. Everyone knows about them…

“It’s about the people of Oakside who struggled through long days and longer nights. Mothers and fathers told their children that if they worked hard, they might grow up to have more comfort in life. For despite the village’s poverty, Oakside was located not far from the Pool of Knowledge, or the POK as it was known by locals.

“It was a place where clouds gathered and broke apart to reveal a blue sky and a forest of cedar trees, at least two thousand years old, or so I was told. The trees spoke to each other about years of plentiful rain and those of drought. Rainbow-colored fish laid eggs in crevices of gravel along the banks of the pool, and frogs sang songs on mossy rocks. You reached the pool by walking along a path that was edged on either side by ferns and wildflowers. Birds chirruped to each other, and the air smelled of lilacs. Otherwise, if you didn’t know where to find it, the POK it was any typical can’t-find-it-on-the-map place, surrounded by Oakside’s lopsided homes with tire porch swings.”

 Basuma cleaned her bottle jars with the edge of her blouse. “But the pool was more than a place where you cooled off on a hot day. It was the spot where a long time ago, a primeval fish had plowed its fins through a sticky silted bottom to drag itself onto land; a place where centuries of knowledge had gathered through a network of interlocking roots and rocks, where stories had collected about the pains and courage of creation; it was the exact spot where a school had been built and run by an ancient man named Armantrout. Not only was the POK a school, but twice a year, a deserving young person from Oakside, and not always a student, was invited to drink from the pool’s clear water.

“Whoever’s turn it was to visit the pool was led through wrought iron gates by Armantrout’s assistant, Creasemore. Then they walked along a winding to la guida. She was the spirit of the pool. As a youngster stood at the water’s edge, she emerged from the pool carrying a silver cup ringed with the story of creation. She dipped its rim into the pool, and offered it to the thirster for knowledge. It was said that the water changed anyone who drank, but not in any way you could tell by looking at them,” said Basuma, “more like something had been rearranged inside—a strength that comes from a hand that touches your heart.”