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| The Shaman's Daughter |
Great drums beat in the jungle. Taut skins and hollowed logs echo with strange
rhythm, as they’re struck with bare hands and short clubs, their ends wrapped
in thick cloth.
Some
beat a slow, steady rhythm every hour. These beats the animals do not fear,
because they have found out that they mean them no harm. They also mean that
there will be no hunt for today. They mean that they should not watch for any
hidden snares, or fear the sudden appearance of stone-tipped arrows, aimed
toward their hearts, their wings, their stomachs.
Sometimes,
the drums beat a faster rhythm. This makes the animals feel uneasy, because it
means that the great hunters with skins black as old tree bark have spotted
fair game. They have learned that the short, rapping sounds mean big game; they
mean antelopes, which run as fast as their long legs would take them. They mean
zebras, which shake their manes and huddle together, pushing the weakest to the
edges of the herd. They mean hogs, who grind their great tusks against tree
bark and stone, sharpening them to a fine edge, their minds filled with
murderous thoughts.
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