Devour | on hold

Chapter 1 (The gathering)

PART ONE 

THE FLUTE GIRL

- Chapter One - 

T H E   G A T H E R I N G

It is one of the hottest summer days as I draw open the fabrics making my way out of the hut, letting my skin face its daily tanning session, or to be precise, sun burning session. I hate going out in the mornings, but I have to, or father would kill me for not attending the gathering.  

And although it is my father, the tribe leader, giving out the speech, it is, yet, killingly boring for me. I hate talks, but I love work. Talks had been leading us nowhere ever since I got to open my eyes and see the world around me.  

I don’t have a last look inside before leaving, but even if I might have forgotten anything, I won’t bother going back. Not when Orenda is there, I don’t have to listen to her endless lectures about discipline and how to be a perfect girl and a future mother. Eyote tribe, my tribe, believes that is the far limit of a female. And Orenda, my stepmother, is nothing but a traditional tribe woman. She knows nothing in life except food and raising children traditionally, executing all edgy ideas and unfamiliar behaviors, and because of such people, we haven't budged from our place since ages.  

I feel bad for leaving Jacy, my boy-twin inside with Orenda, but I have no other choice, going out is impossible for him. Jacy is disabled. And he is my greatest concern and biggest responsibility. But I always have to leave him home and go to do my job, which I am still looking for.  

Actually for a seventeen-year-old girl in the tribe, teaching is the suitable job, and this is what I do. I teach children from age five and up until fifteen. But I always feel guilty for teaching and raising them the way I was taught and raised, and plant seeds of thought and myths which I had spent years trying until I was finally able to take them out of my own head. But my declination for such a thing, or an honor, as they believe, could be an everlasting shame for my father; who deadly cares about his reputation. And as the eldest daughter of the leader, I have to do whatever my people anticipate me to do.  

I walk through the huts and hear husbands and wives arguing, children playing, old people complaining about almost everything, women singing as they wash clothes in a nearby lake, men painting each others’ faces with red and white, shaping stripes; readying themselves for the gathering, as well as teenagers dancing and singing altogether in a way I never had a chance to do. I always have more important things to do. Or that is what my father believes.  

And in a group of children ranging from five to ten years old, I glimpse Kaya, my young sister—half-sister. We aren’t quite close, but I always know I have a mission of protecting her.  

“Lenmana!” She screams when she sees me, and waves her hand. I wave back and return her the smile.  

We share most of the features, but our personalities are as different as black and white. Not that one is completely good and the other is completely bad, it is just that we don’t share anything at all, except for our features and family name.  

We have the same long silky black hair and wide bright brown eyes. And talking about our dark skin, that is something all Native Americans  or red Indians share.  

Kaya is kinda like Orenda, her mother, but I like her more. She is ready to learn and change, and this is something I respect in anyone.  

I start to sweat as the sun gets even hotter, and I curse the long fabrics I wrapped around my body this morning. But I instantly remind myself of my theory: covering our bodies is one of the things that differ us from animals.