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 prizes 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 gate, each carved with the forms 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 with small ladders slung from the door holes. This place is quiet, only the returning hunters are heard. Stalking past the huts, making their way to the centre of the village.

Here, a wide stone circle juts from the ground, sitting a few feet above the packed soil. Both men halt at it’s 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 breakfasts and make for the centre. 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 before him. The shaman loosens the binding of the bag to his left. It’s upended yet 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. The 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 it’s contents. Villagers gasp. Their gaze falls on the creature. Faces become animated with fear and hatred. With a 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. Yet, 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 plinth. 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. Soon, only a red stain remains on the plinth.

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 his blood. 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. Their smoke creeps past the huts, along the alleys. Flowing out to the walls that circle the place.

Evening encroaches now. The sun hits the horizon, looming and deep red in tone. Initialising every 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 dark crater the only distinguishing feature.

From above, the villagers look like rats or mice, coursing around each other, swarming, rushing. Seemingly mindless. Acting only on instinct. They feed the fires 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 stained with blood from man and snake. As the adults work, the children stand quietly at the stone edge. Watching and gripping at each other for assurance. They have never seen their parents work in so feverish a manner. They don’t behave like their parents. 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. Deep bass vibrates through everything. Even the rib cages and hollow parts of the villagers rattle. Next comes a chorus of strange vocal harmonies. Women, with voices that undulate with astounding vibrato. Men chant too. Shouting, repeating the words of their leaders. All of them unbound. Unashamed. Passionate with madness.

Once all in the village is burned, the crowd become a single force. Flowing. 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 reddish mud of the local river banks. Others in the maul hold up icons and pendants, statues of animals and 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.

Light flickers from inside the raised hut. A small paraffin lamp swings in the rafters. Below it, the 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.

+ + + + +

“When the gods are watching,

When the eye of the sun and eye of the moon peer down.

You must act.

They must see our actions.

To judge our resolve.”

The room rings with his words. Soon, the old man rises. He slips on his feather wreath. Clads himself in the wooden armour of his fathers. From a glass bottle hidden from view, he takes a long swig of some brown liquid. Then, from a box of darkest mahogany, he pulls a long thin knife, made of bone. The handle carved in the shape of a beast. The man daubs his face in red clay and is ready. With a great deal of trouble he descends from the hut.

The crowd greet him with cheers. Their chorus increasing in volume and pitch. Frenzy would be an adequate word to describe the sight. Pandemonium another. Though amongst the savage movement and fire there is an area of stillness. A thing that the chief recognises instantly.

Standing, removed from the rest of the villagers, are a group of women. They surround a young girl. He sees them combing her hair. Painting her skin with patterns and motifs. Dowsing her with the scented water that the village’s women like to make. The girl remains calm amongst them. Barely moving or showing any emotion. Doll like in her countenance. Then her head turns slightly. Her eyes meet with the chief’s.

The crowd parts for him. Slowly, in anguish, he walks to her. Regarding the jewellery and other embellishments. Gazing at her perfect, clean flesh. Then he is upon the group. Offering his hand to the girl. Beckoning her, daring her to follow him into the madness. She gives him her hand and is pulled away from the women. The little girl glances up at the man, his face calm.

Now she is part of the maul. Her and the shaman chief. Propelled through the alleys and paths. Around the village’s central circle. Through the stone gates and out into the wild.

The column of revellers twists and worms its way into the dense foliage. Illuminated by the hunter’s fire. Their chanting and chiming brings music to the jungle. It wanders amongst the trees too.

+ + + + +

Soon enough they reach their goal. The crowd splitting into two long lines. Encircling a large, gnarled tree. The thing, morose and mouldy, hangs over them. Their light refuses to penetrate it’s canopy. At the tree’s base, nestling between two huge roots is a table of sorts. Made of stone. Rectangular in shape and pitched at an angle. It’s head raised up slightly. Bored into the thick slate are inch wide holes.

The chief and his young partner step out of the mess of men and women and move to the stone table. All around them the villagers contort and stamp their feet to the feverish beat. The drumming and banging making the air itself feel viscous. Like ripples through water, the sound surges around them. Shaking them to their cores.

The wide circle of settlers contracts around the table. Arms are flung up with hands shaking. Then the circle relaxes, with heads all bowed. Arms point at the ground. All the bodies work together. United in dance.

The girl is helped onto the table. Still showing no emotion. No reaction to the madness of her people. She lies there on the cold slab. Hands held at her sides. Staring up into the heavens. The Shaman chief places his hands on the youngster’s belly. He starts to repeat something, some incantation. Shouting it out into the night. A handful of red petals are thrown over her. Then, from within his armour, he pulls the thin bone knife. Its colour rendered a moody orange by the firelight. The girl closes her eyes and the enchantment continues, with the shaman’s voice reaching up an octave. He lifts the knife up for all the world to witness. Again, the crowd contracts, all the bodies rushing in with hands shaking. Then they bow and retreat.

The old man takes the bone dagger into his right hand and with the left he draws a circle on the girl’s stomach. He makes a motion with the weapon, a stabbing movement down toward her belly button. More words are spoken loudly into the darkness. He makes the movement again but this time his arm falls without any real malice. The old man slumps over. All strength lost, muscles failing him. His head lands on the girl’s waist. She jumps in surprise, not sure of his meaning. But it is quickly evident to her that the chief is not being perverse or wanton. She sees his empty eyes, his lack of inner light. The man is dead.

Muscles fail, legs give way under the weight of the upper body. The new corpse tumbles over.

All around, revellers scream in shock. Their movements continuing momentarily. Some break away from the crowd and attend to their chief. Others, lacking purpose, become still. They just watch as havoc surrounds them.

One hunter leaps from the melee. He steps over to the shaman’s body. Peering over the shoulders of the care givers, gaining a sight of his master’s pallid face. With that he roars in pain and disgust. The torch he holds is thrown to the floor. And his spear is readied.

With two fast leaps the hunter is at the young girl’s side. She sees him coming, eyes growing wide. The man looms over her. Spear held up high above his head, then with all his might it’s thrust down. Down into her soft, flat stomach. The tip tears through the flesh and muscles. He pulls it out. From the hole bulges a piece of the girl’s intestine and a large spit of blood. The wailing doesn’t start until he penetrates her the second time. Hands move down to protect her belly. The crazed hunter stabs them too, metal spear head plunging with ease through her palms and gut. Whether in shock or simply stupefied by it all, she suddenly feels the thing inside her and lets out a hellish scream. The sound of fear and fright. Piercing to the ear and disturbing to the heart. The spear is ripped out of her again. The pressure from her stomach muscles forces her organs out of the tear in her skin, onto the table. Blood washes across the surface. It courses through the holes and feeds the ground below.

Some of the villagers run to stop the hunter. They pull at his arms. Grip him by the throat and tug him away. But he is strong. With fervour he forces them off him and makes for the girl again. His face and arms speckled with crimson dots. Both hands hold his spear, raising it over his head and slamming the thing into the pit of her belly. This time, his maniacal power causes the spear to pass through her. Grazing her spine and hitting the stone surface underneath. The weapon shatters. Or at least the shaft of it does. Breaking apart in his fists. More hunters leap from the crowd. They swaddle the crazed man with their arms and pull him away. He tries to fight them off. Crying out with rage.

Now a woman steps over to the young girl. She takes her hand and instantly starts to cry. The girl coughs. Little red spots appear around her face. Her screams reducing themselves to groans. Groans leading to laboured wheezing. She looks over to the woman. Face growing paler by the second.

“Are we saved mother?” the girl mumbles. The old woman leans over to kiss her forehead. Then she whispers something into the girl’s ear.

After this, the girl loses her fight with the darkness. It descends on her, making her eyelids heavy. Making her feel calm, serene. Taking away the fear. The angst. Her eyes roll over. One final cough punctuates her life. Leaving the mother to moan and cry, lit only by firelight.

+ + + + +

No more song, no more dance. No fervent chanting or banging of drums. The villagers walk along in near silence. Making their way back to the village with two fewer members. The hunters, formally so brave and strong, hang their heads in sorrow. Mothers and grandmothers pray silently to their gods, thanking them for not harming their own families.

From the highest point in the canopy comes the sound of rain patting on leaves. At first it’s subtle, quiet. But the rain soon comes in heavy. The villagers are already in a state of shocked despondency. They have seen a lot this day. With the rain arrives a discovery, a new form of shock, bringing with it an emotion close to terror. When they realise that their ritual, their rite, has failed. The shaman had not completed the ceremony. The hunter had not performed any of it, except the bloodletting.

They all look up, into the sky, to see this rain. It was not unknown for storms to gather quickly in their little valley but not this quickly. And none of them had rain like this. It’s brown. Like the reddish type of brown you get from rusting iron. Gritty too, with the odour of decay.

People start to groan. Some yell out to the gods. Pleading with them for salvation. Tired women cry. Panicked men shake with fear.

From the village, Malaika hears them. She had not joined the fanatics. But she sees the rain and its foul colour. She knows that something is wrong. Fear drives her back to the chief’s hut. The paraffin lamp is taken, along with her father’s hidden alcohol.

Then, into the night she runs. Out of the village. Out through the gates, before any of the revellers can see her. Out and away from the madness. Toward anywhere but there.

+ + + + +