Word had quickly spread through my Village of some important event; the people were running from hut to hut, meeting in the Plaza. Even from my high lookout, I could tell that they were excited.
I left my cave and climbed to the Sentinel’s camp on top, but he was not there—probably hunting, I thought. From my vantage point, I saw my son of twenty seasons, Heron, climbing the hill without regard of being spotted. He must be coming to tell me of the event, but he should be more careful. Heron arrived, just as the Sentinel emerged from the trees on the ridge, carrying a gourd that was sloshing water. Neither of them seemed concerned about the other’s presence; it was confusing to me.
“Father,” Heron said excitedly, “the old Chief of Chiefs has died. Grandfather says you are free!”
The sense of what Heron said did not immediately set in. The Sentinel arrived. I turned to him. “Is it true that the Chief in Chi’cotha has died?” I asked him.
“Yes,” the Sentinel replied flatly. “The Council has named White Eagle from Nurk as the new Chief.”They could have named Father, but for my mistake twenty seasons earlier. The Sentinel seemed to be making preparations to leave, but it was not time for a new Sentinel – not till the next moon. What did this mean?
Ink and paper are sometimes passionate lovers, oftentimes brother and sister, and occasionally mortal enemies.
~~Terri Guillemets, Anthologist
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