Akamana

By: Joshua Lin

My whole world consisted of a series of wooden huts built around the sturdiest, widest, most convoluted tree in the entire of the Amazonian forest. To me, the tree itself was the anchor point of my life, around which everything revolved. The wooden huts, known as Sampas to us, dwarfed in significance beneath the mighty branches of the tree that reached for the heavens and splayed out across the sky. It was said that you could spend your whole lifetime trying to memorise the patterns of the branches yet you would just be wasting your time. This was the place I’d grown up in, the place I’d grown to love.

But beautiful things never exist long. This was the principle of Akamana, or fleeting beauty, in our language. The fantastical plumages of birds only seen once in a blue moon, the vibrant blooms of summer, or the peaceful clouds of autumn, all only last for a fraction of eternity. And, like all other incandescent beings in our world, our tree, my universe, was bound to wilt away.

Spring, 5 years ago, the beginning of the end. My name is Shashika Malawaka. As a kunumĩ, or “uninitiated”, my duties were few, and my spare time plentiful. The pristine morning was filled with the soft murmurs of prayers and the sweet calls of the birds, as men and women alike prayed to our one god Allakah, whose very soul resided in the plants around us. Soon after, the villagers began trickling out to hunt or gather in groups, and left the kunumĩ behind.

This particular morning, a couple of friends and I decided to play a round of tag around the village. Scrambling through the tree roots in triumphant joy, I laughed at the sounds of my friends’ desperate attempts to keep up.
“Ey! Kalaka Potoro!” (Quieten down, you lot!), Kemina, one of the four chiefs, remonstrated. The four chiefs were the ones closest to Allakah, who had become one with nature by fasting for a month and pondering our existence in the deepest sanctuaries of the forest. Thus remonstrated, we scurried off, attempting to look shameful.

Distancing myself from the crowd, I sat by the shade of my favourite tree. It wasn’t tall, nor was it twisting, in fact from any angle observable it seemed like a perfectly average tree. But it’s uniformity, it’s apparent plainness, was what set it out from all the others. Idly rubbing some dirt into a ball, I watched as a spring bee landed upon a nearby flower, hastily collecting nectar for the queen. The bee paused for a second, as if trying to sense for imminent danger, then dove furiously into the centre of the flower, burying it’s body in the sweet scent of pollen. I wished that I could save this moment in my mind, a snapshot of nature, of life.

A scraping from my right hand side, and the bee escaped with a buzzing. Glancing over, I stared at the impenetrable bush that covered the clearing, and wondered what it was. The scraping got louder. Perhaps a wild pig had wandered into our village, there would be a feast tonight, and I would be hailed a hero for capturing it. Even louder. I knew that there wasn’t anything to be afeared of roaming the forests, yet I still couldn’t keep the sense of foreboding out of my heart. Louder. It wasn’t a scraping anymore, it was more of a repetitive sound, the swish of something sturdy through the bush. By now my heart, despite my self confidence, was beating hard enough for me to feel it.

Bursting out of the thicket ahead, came around thirty of the most odd creatures I had ever laid my eyes upon. I gave a strangled cry and backed away. They were like us in shape, yet their skin was fair, standing in stark contrast against the forest. In fact, half of their skin was covered by cloth, which befuddled me even further. Upon their backs lay monstrously bulky packs, and a few looked close to passing out, ignoring the whole encounter entirely with their hands on their knees.

The ladies of the village and the four chief’s had congregated to investigate the disturbance. In several of the invaders’ hands lay blades, curved at the tips, the remains of vines and branches falling scattering to the floor, the smell of sap heavy in the air.

A moment of silence. As if all sound had been drained from the world. A frozen, fleeting moment in time, emotions running high. Then, the sound returned with a bang, bringing me back to reality.

The chiefs roared in outrage and pointed their fingers at the intruders, declaring war in booming voices. The intruders, taken back by the sudden outburst, started milling about, half attempting to push their way back into the forest, the other half with their hands forward, nervous looks upon their faces. A group of hunters, probably called by the roars of our elders, burst out of the bush, poisoned spears held menacingly in the air. And I stood, a rock amongst the river, an observer of the chaos, rooted to the spot by an invisible force.

The two groups continued to accost each other, with increasing levels of aggression. Shouts were heard from all sides, yet no physical contact was made. Then amidst the confusion and panic, when it seemed that all hell should break loose, one of the invaders pulled something out of his bag, and with a flick, flames sputtered into life.

A heavy blanket of silence fell upon the scene. Every single villager had their eyes on the instrument. The invader, clearly stunned by the effect, who still had the fire in his hands, stared out with anxious eyes. Later in life, I would come to learn that he was merely sending up a flare requesting help from their headquarters. But it was well known, that when Allakah felt necessary, he would send down a messenger with the power of creating fire.

In one fluid movement, as if they had practiced for it their entire lives, the four chiefs sank into a bow, and with a rippling effect the rest of the villagers paid their respects, to the messengers that stood before us. A minute passed, another, the silence unbroken but for the ambient sounds of nature, and when deemed appropriate, we raised to our feet, and guided the invaders, no, messengers, with newfound respect, toward the heart of the village. There, they stayed in the great hall.

Screams awoke me from the magic of dreams. In the distance, I heard the eerie wails of women, cries that near broke my heart. Instantly awake, I followed my father into the night. And there was our tree, burning with such intensity, flames licking the bark off its sides. The harsh screeches of birds could be heard as their nests went up in flames. Smoke billowed off the branches in thick clouds, partially obscuring the sky. And yet the flames continued eating away at the tree, lighting up the whole clearing. Thinking back upon it, it was ironic that the most beautiful moment of the tree’s life was in it’s death. Terrible, yes, but beautiful. In the distance, I saw the invaders looking with shocked faces, one of them holding something that looked like a silver, shining bowl, and a claw that was spewing flames. Many had bowls of water as if trying to remedy the problem, but without a doubt the fire was beyond helping, aided by the crisp new shoots of spring. The men of the village swarmed the great hall, and their spears flew with deadly accuracy toward the invader’s hearts. My father pulled me away from the chaos through the trees. There were always other tribes that we could stay with for the time being. The last thing I saw was one of the tree’s branches falling in an explosion of fire,sending sparks spiralling into the sky, etching the image deeply in my mind. A memory imprinted for the rest of time.

The fleeting beauty that lasts an eternity.

Akamana.