Inevitability

A great tribe of hunters lived on the Verdant Plain, a land filled with mystery, sprawling grasslands, and pristine rivers. Blessed by the God of the Plains, the land and water teemed with life. The brilliant sky above filled those who beheld it with wonder. The tribe had resided in the land since ancient times and moved in harmony with its seasonal undulations. Each day, a cool breeze would bring comfort to the tribe’s labors as they hunted, fished, and lived amongst each other. The hunters and scholars of the tribe were revered for their clarity of sight and wisdom of thought. They built upon the achievements of their ancestors and cultivated a great richness of life for their people. But, as time passed and the lives of the people became increasingly unburdened, a vague yet deep-seeded feeling of malcontent began to root itself within the hearts of the people.

The Chief was growing old and worried that the new generation had taken for granted much of the ancient wisdom that had allowed his tribe to flourish. The tribe’s success had of late caused idleness and discontent to spread. The younger generation was prone to gossip and became wasteful of resources. Some had even forsaken the ancient art of the hunt, preferring instead to spend their days lamenting over failed romances and imagined slights. This grieved the Chief, who, on his deathbed, beseeched his people.

“Do not let the old ways die. Reimagine them if you must, but do not forsake them.” His last words fell upon deaf ears.

A generation passed and the tribe descended into depravity. Comfort had led to aimlessness. Abundance had led to ungratefulness. Leisure had led to dissatisfaction. Few men took up the hunt, few women took to study. Meaninglessness beset the tribe. Those who tried to hunt found their arrows never hit their marks. Those who tried to read found no way to interpret meaning.

One day, in late afternoon, some members of the tribe laid their dissatisfaction at the foot of the Altar of the Sky, a simple collection of rocks etched with ancient symbols and worn by time which lay east of the village. Perhaps, they thought, the God of the Plains would deign to help his once-favorite tribe.

They stood before the altar and asked, “Has your favor become a dried up river in a desert? Why do our arrows miss their mark? Why do our words no longer carry weight? Is your favor so capricious?”

A voice, a whisper, yet strong enough to crumble mountains reverberated from the ancient stones themselves. “Are there no more hunters among the tribe of the plains?” The voice shook the people to their core. The sky above the altar grew dark and the wind began to blow. The tribesmen scrambled back to the village to warn the others. The sun was setting behind the village as they reached its outskirts and cried out to anyone who might hear, but the deep boom of thunder from the east drowned their cries. The people of the tribe left their tents to find out what was happening, for the rainy season was not due for many months.

They looked to the east and there, in the distance, was a great storm brewing from where the Altar of the Sky stood. A pillar of wind descended from the clouds and advanced upon the village. It stopped just outside and remained, the wind and dust whirling with fury. The people wailed.

“What have you done?” they asked. The men and women who had returned from the Altar stammered.

“They have missed the mark,” boomed a voice from within the cyclone. The people were as motionless as prey before a predator. In the distance, lighting flashed several times, revealing the silhouette of a figure who stood within the pillar of wind. The cyclonic figure towered over them. A black, shadowy mist emanated from the base of the cyclone. It billowed forth, engulfing the village and the people within. It choked and withered them, stripping the people of their identity and purpose. Terror and madness erupted from all corners of the village. All were blinded. No one could run.

“This tribe has forgotten itself. Therefore you will no longer be hunters. You will be grave robbers,” said the voice. The sun set for the last time on the village. By morning it was no more.

100 years passed. A young girl from a tiny tribe became lost on the plain and stumbled across some old, mossy rocks lying in a field. She scraped off the moss from one of the stones and discovered an ancient writing carved into its surface. “A voice in a dream told me to leave my small village and wander the plains. Are you what I was meant to find?” she asked.

“Listen closely,” said the stone. “I will teach you to make arrows that fly true.”