The Undoing

The Swallowing of a Land

The Undoing

“When white man first came to America, the native men fished and hunted all day while the women stayed home, cooked, and did most of the work. There was no debt and no taxes. We thought we could improve a system like that?”

                The light of the sun broke the horizon, spreading its warm fiery tendrils of light across the trees and lifting the blanket of cool mist that had settled on the ground. The light’s glow cast the shadow of a large hut, sprawling across the grass. The teepee stood in the center of a clearing of dense woodland, a small tower by which small wisps of smoke daintily curled and twisted, rising fleetingly into the morning blue. The air was alive with the sound of the woods, as small squirrels chattered amongst themselves, the whistling of small robins, and the rustle of autumn leaves as they spiraled to the ground in a dance of golden acrobatics.

                Inside the painted animal skin hut, six men red skin men sat cross legged around a fire burning fiercely. A weathered man sat at the head of the circle. A map work of wrinkles etched into his face by the masterful hands of time alluded to a great wisdom, and the trials and stories of times now long gone. He lifted a great headpiece, covered with various plant life and feathers, and wore it as the most majestic of crowns. Across his lap lay a length of carved wood; gnarled, worn, battered and beaten. A weathered staff for a weathered man. Apart from his ornate hood, his only clothing was a large leather loin cloth. His posture was erect, and he bore his chest to the world, belying a testament of scars to battles fought and won.

                The old man’s neck bulged, sustaining a low, powerful note. The sound resonated through the teepee, as the other men joined in, one by one. The fire flickered.

                Lifting a clay bowl, the old man, chief of his tribe, cast a handful of herbs and brush onto the fire. His voice rose. The chant changed and warped with fire, dynamic, changing. He then thrust the contents of his bowl into the fire all at once. The fire burst and cracked like a whip. The smoke, now thick and deep, towered out into the world beyond the focus of these men.

                The chanting then stopped.

Reaching into the smoke screen before him, the chief began to push. Pull. Twist and contort. His hands danced in an intricate weave of palms and fingers. Shapes and objects began to materialize. The land and a face of darkness. Pain and suffering took ethereal places, hovering before the men’s’ eyes. The face swept the land, leaving the forests felled, soils o’er turned, a path of death and destruction. The man felt the fear, the harrowing pain, and suffering as he stared into the face of manifest destiny.

Author's Note

A short /short/ story I wrote some time ago.

Reviews

[The Old Ashes]

So glad you posted this. I sat down with a group of friends not long ago actually and read this outloud, the first version. Still an inspiring write, with or without your improvements too it. I'll return to this one. :)
100/100
lil sis