Tribes

Tribes

The sun rose early that morning. Blooming on the horizon, bathing the canopy and its mist in cool light. The creatures, usually awake and loud, rest still. No bird song, no morning chorus. The jungle itself seems to sleep. Then from the silence comes a noise. The footsteps and chatter of men.

They slip through the brush easily, nimble feet stepping quickly over the roots and leaf litter. Two men, thin but strong, bows held firmly at their sides. By observing their energetic movements you would think that they were fresh and newly awoken but these men were in fact returning, tired from the hunt. Fatigue reduced by years of hard labour and toil. In the left hand, each fellow held a small sack. Though, the weight of their prize does not diminish the pace of their strides.

Soon, the forest thins. The men slow. Before them stand two large totems, one on either side of a small gate, carved with the faces of animals. The granite like stone highlighted with rich, thick paint. A wild, wooden wall runs off around the edge of the settlement. Creepers grip at its posts, climbing up, reaching toward the sun. Stepping through the gateway reveals a village of stone and wood huts. Most built off the ground on stilts. Small ladders slung from the door holes. This place is quiet too, only the returning hunters are heard. Stalking past the huts, making their way to the epicentre. A wide stone circle juts from the ground, sitting a few feet above the packed soil. Both men halt at its edge. They bow slightly, averting their gaze from the ceremonial circle.

Above them, cross legged on the raised dais, sits an old man deep in thought. Long red feathers crown his head, like a Roman’s laurel wreath. Lips move but no words are committed to the air. Hands rise and fall in rhythmic fashion. Only after the hunters make their presence known does the man open his eyes. Their sly coughs breaking his trance suddenly.

A hand is proffered from on high.

+ + + + +

Soon, the day is risen. Our village echoes with the sound of work and the cackle of women’s laughter. Children play. Chasing one another or chasing animals. Always running somewhere. Men cut at a newly felled tree. Taking it in turns to strike at the timber with their short axes. The wives stand over stone bowls with long pestles. For them, the mornings consist of pounding grain into dust, then mixing the powder with eggs and water for baking. When the smell of freshly baked bread reaches the villagers, they know that the early day’s work is done. Every inhabitant descends on the food hut for a communal breakfast. With the noted exception of two members of their clan; the old man from the ceremonial area and his daughter, Malaika.

Their hut is the second largest in the village after the communal hall. It stands away from the rest. On tall stilts, behind the ceremonial circle. Within its walls are stored the entire history and faith of the people. It is like their church, their museum and their university all residing in one hut.

From the opening at its farthest end steps the man with the feather laurel. He is the village’s elder. The Shaman Chief. The Story Teller. The Teacher. The Doctor. Each dweller knows him in a different light. Today he’s The Shaman. Common chatter and noise dissipate when he emerges. Villagers leave their breakfast and make for the epicentre. No man or child speaks. In seconds, a crowd has gathered around the stone plinth. They bow as the chief climbs onto his ceremonial perch.

Held in each hand are the hunter’s leather sacks. The old man holds them up for all to see. The watching mass whisper amongst themselves. With great care the sacks are laid down on the stone. The shaman loosens the binding of the bag to his left. It’s upended. Nothing happens. The sack seems empty. Then, with a little flick of the wrist, the vessel releases its prize. Out drops a tarantula. Wider than a large man’s hand. All dark brown except for small, intermittent patches of black. The thing holds its legs tightly against its belly. Slowly, tenuously, it reaches out. Feeling the rock underfoot and the sun overhead. Shaman chief reaches over and lays his hand down near the beast. Palm upturned. His other hand gently shepherds the tarantula into his waiting grasp. Both hands rise up and present the arachnid to the watching crowd and then to the sun in the sky. A murmur of approval ripples through the revellers. With little more effort the spider is returned to the earth and given its freedom.

Now the bag to the right is hoisted up and opened. The shaman pulls the binding from its neck and relieves the sack of its contents. Villagers gasp. Their gaze falls on the creature with fear and hatred. Head rising from the plinth to peer into the face of the shaman chief is a black snake. Eyes a shocking yellow, body ringed with vibrant red bands. The beast is thick and swollen like a common garden slug but its demeanour is that of a predator. It calculates. It judges. Tongue flicking at its lips.

Again, the old man lays his hand down near the creature. The snake watching his movements closely. All around, members of the crowd cry out in fear for their chief. He wears no signs of apprehension, other hand moving out to coax the beast into his embrace. Quickly, the snake recoils and strikes. Its head punching the shaman chief’s forearm. Curved teeth like fishing hooks penetrate his skin. Firing a payload of toxins and death into the old man’s sagging flesh.

The men of the village leap up onto the stage. Weapons are drawn. With foot, axe and club the snake is dashed into the stone. It tries to defend itself, mouth wide, neck pulled back ready to attack. But the strength and technology of the men make short work of its slaughter. Only a red stain on the plinth remains.

Malaika, shaman chief’s daughter, rushes onto the stage. She envelopes her father. Arms wrapping around him. A groan leaves her when she sees the wounds. Two lumps of meat have been torn from his wrist. Now it streams with red fluid. The man falters. His stoicism diminishing. Fear and shame cover his face.

+ + + + +

Shafts of orange light filter through the canopy. Bonfires, piled high as three men, spit flames callously into the heavens. Smoke creeps past the huts, along the alleys. Flowing to the walls that circle the place. Evening encroaches too. The sun hits the horizon, looming and deep red in tone. Initialising the insect’s urge to click and hum. Their chorus: incessant and robotic. Across the sky, the moon lingers. Pale and sullen. Just a white dot on an azure ocean. It’s large, dark crater the only distinguishing feature.

From above, the villagers look like rats or mice, coursing around each other, swarming, rushing. Seemingly mindless. They feed the bonfires with every flammable object. Running to the forest and their homes, grabbing wood and tinder and throwing it into the huge pyres. The placement of which make a rough circle around the stone heart of the settlement. The ceremonial plinth. Still caked with blood from man and snake. As the adults work, the children stand quietly at the stone edge. Watching, gripping at each other for assurance. They have never seen their parents work in so feverish a manner. They don’t behave like the people they know. They have lost their humanity somehow, lost it in their compulsion to burn and burn again.

Then the dancing and music starts. If you can call the din music. Percussive sounds of all volume and variance, meet in disharmony. Played at disparate rates. Beats not nearly matching. Their deep bass sounds vibrate through everything. Even the rib cages and hollow parts of the settlers rattle. Next comes a chorus of strange vocal harmonies. Women, with voices that undulate with astounding vibrato. Men chant. Shouting, repeating the words of their leaders. All of them unbound. Unashamed. Passionate with madness.

Once all in the village is burned, the crowd becomes a single force. It flows, running in columns from the stone centre to the chief’s hut and then back. The hunters among them hold up torches. Their bodies covered in the red mud of the local river banks. Others in the maul hold up icons and pendants. Statues of animals, necklaces with metal figures hanging from them. They parade past the chief’s home, brandishing their idols, chanting, shouting and then marching off again in a continuous cycle of people.

Some light flickers from inside the raised hut. A small paraffin lamp swings in the rafters. Below it, shaman chief and his daughter sit in silence. While all around them shakes with the rapturous event unfolding outside. She wipes away the moisture of tears and sweat from her cheeks, before offering her father a flask. The man fails to notice her.

The girl tries to speak but before a word is spoken her father holds up his hand. A simple gesture that asks for silence. Sudden rage comes across her.

“No! Don’t do this. It’s madness. You are delirious, you need to rest-,” the sentence is cut short by the man’s hand. This time it ends her speech with a firm slap.

“I am not so weak as to ignore your insolence. I will do what I was born to do, what I was taught to do. It is the only way.”

The chief’s voice wavers with every word. Strength ebbing away. His slap nowhere near as harsh as Malaika has come to know them. She stares at him. Her father’s face has swollen. She can see marks like bruises about his neck and arms. His closed eyes and blank face tell her to submit to his will.

“I will not be part of it,” says the girl in her exotic tongue. She rises and turns to exit the hut.