The Heart Fountain

 
The Love of Chiefs

The chief is a great man.
Powerful, smart.

He loves children.
He fights for his people like each one is his child.
I am his nephew, but he treats me like a son.

Tonight I am fifteen.
We feast after a great hunt.

I think of another feast to come.
In a month, we gather with the people of the low country.
I will take Nanik as my first mate.

Tonight, I drink too much.
I go a short way into the forest to relieve myself.

When I finish, I start back.
And find myself surrounded by three shape shifters in the form of the great cats.

Strange for them to come so close to our village, even at night.

One of the Kalmil reaches out with her great paws.
She knocks me down, scratching my face.

I get up and they knock me down again.
The cuts are small, but soon there are many of them.

This is play, not killing.
But soon I will lose enough blood to die.

I give a warrior’s yell for help.

Someone might think that a chief would stay with his feast.
And let other warriors fight.

My uncle grabs his spear and is halfway to the forest before anyone else gets up.
He finds me quickly.

The cats stop playing when they see the chief.
He yells and jabs one cat with the spear.
It backs up.

Our chief is powerful.
His presence frightens the other two.
They also back away.

A dozen warriors join us.
The Kalmil bow their heads.
They turn and disappear into the forest.

The chief sends for a healer to take care of my cuts.
“They like to play with you, eh Jaina?” he asks.

“They like your fire,” he says.
The orange fire of the Kalmil dances around my hands.

 
Killing
I am twenty-three, and a curse falls upon the people.
Our chief is touched by the madness.

When the madness comes to our chief, it doesn’t come all at once.
First he becomes angry over little things that he used to laugh at.

He tells his warriors that they have no courage and no skill at hunting.
This is a great insult.

No normal chief speaks this way unless his warriors fail him greatly.

The healers cannot help him.
The fire dreamers pray for him, but it does nothing.

Finally, the chief strikes any children who get in his way.
They are not hurt, but our chiefs do not hit children for nothing.

My father is the chief’s oldest brother.
“Perhaps he is just troubled,” says my father before he goes to speak with him.
“In time, his mind may calm.”

My father finds a time after a meal.
The chief is well satisfied.

“How is the chief this night?” asks my father.

“The chief needs to find warriors with courage,” he answers.
“They fight and hunt like little girls.”

My father speaks with him a few minutes.
The chief is caught in the madness.

My father says goodbye and turns to walk away.
The chief pierces my father through the back with a spear, killing him.

“I need no weak brothers,” he yells.
“Do you hear me, little girls?”

The people run away from him.
The two councils meet and condemn him to death by combat.

His children and wives run away from him.
They go to other groups to hide.

All but his eldest wife.

The next night his eldest wife comes to me.
Her face is bruised.

“You must do it Jaina,” she says.
“Now, before he dishonors himself any more.”

I think of Elder mother’s words.
“Do not be kind out of fear of challenge.”
“That is weakness.”

“Never be kind out of weakness.”
“The world needs strength.”
“Be strong.”

“Find the strength to kill.”
“Then look for a way of kindness.”
“Find kindness that does not leave you weak, and give it glady.”

“Sometimes, you will not find a way of kindness.”
“Kill quickly and with no pleasure.”

“Celebrate that you have fed your people or protected them from danger.”
“Mourn the deaths of your enemies and your food quietly, in your own silence.”

The battle with my uncle is, as elder mother says, “great work.”
He has lost none of his strength or skill.

In the end, I am stronger and faster.
One of my long knives pierces his heart.

I do not kill him from anger.
Even though he killed my father.

My uncle was also a father to me.
The killing is something I must do.
So I find the strength to do it.

The orange fire of the Kalmil dances around my hands.
It is strong when I kill my uncle.
And when I kill in battle or the hunt.

I don’t know what this means.

 
The New Chief
We mourn the old chief the same as we mourn any chief.
Perhaps more because of his greatness.

I assemble my wives and children.

“You always act with honor.”
“Now you are the wives and children of a chief.”

“All look to you.”
“Stay true, just as you are.”

We tell stories of my uncle and other great chiefs.
We laugh and cry together deep into the night.

The next day, his eldest wife comes to me.
She bows before me.

“Chief,” she says.
“Know that he once hoped that you would be chief in his place.”
“He thought his death would come in battle, or of sickness or age.”

“His spirit is happy that you killed him, and returned his honor.”

She goes into the forest, and is never seen again.

His other wives and children return.
I take them as mine, according to our ways.
I treat each wife as if I had chosen her myself.

And I mourn my uncle in silence, long after others forget him.