Corn Fields and Longhouses v2, but with a different narrative style. I think that's all the introduction I need to give.
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With soft steps the hunters walked towards their prey. No sound was heard from the forest, though the chattering of foreign tongues was loud in the village. It was a summer night, and though the mosquitoes would bite and the meat would rot, the joy of warmth sprang up in every heart. Every heart, that is, but the hunters’. Their breasts were not filled with joy, nor malice, but only coldness. Even the youngest ones, barely older than children, felt nothing. They knew what they were to do; they comprehended the full expanse of their actions. But no incredulity, no qualms or rebellion would spring up in their minds. Emotions and feelings were for homes, for wives and children, for safer souls.
One such soul believed himself safe. He had just left the village to find kindling-sticks, and suspected nothing. His steps were loud and unconscious; he was filled with joy. As he walked down the well-trodden path, almost whistling, his eyes landed on a brightly shining patch of the forest. It was off the path, and he knew he should continue on his way, but curiousity took him. He took two tentative steps forward, facing the light.
The light moved.
He stepped back instinctively. After a few seconds he understood just what had happened.
He was too late. From every direction of the forest painted and tattooed warriors stepped out, each brandishing an axe or sword of brilliant shine. He knew then his fate. These were those demons, the old bogeymen that his mother had threatened him with. These were the Haudenosaunee, the flesh-burners.
‘Gitche Manitou,’ he whispered. The fearsomely painted faces showed no emotion.
‘Please, I beg you, spare the children. Do not hurt them.’
‘We will do as we must,’ said one of the warriors in a monotone.
The doomed one nodded. He knew the children would not be spared. With an almost apathetic resignation he consigned himself to death. A brief cold slash across his throat and he was gone.
Far from the village, in the forests only the wolves and eagles know, a great and distant fire was seen.
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STONES IN A BURNING FOREST: A TALE OF THE HAUDENOSAUNEE
With soft steps the hunters walked towards their prey. No sound was heard from the forest, though the chattering of foreign tongues was loud in the village. It was a summer night, and though the mosquitoes would bite and the meat would rot, the joy of warmth sprang up in every heart. Every heart, that is, but the hunters’. Their breasts were not filled with joy, nor malice, but only coldness. Even the youngest ones, barely older than children, felt nothing. They knew what they were to do; they comprehended the full expanse of their actions. But no incredulity, no qualms or rebellion would spring up in their minds. Emotions and feelings were for homes, for wives and children, for safer souls.
One such soul believed himself safe. He had just left the village to find kindling-sticks, and suspected nothing. His steps were loud and unconscious; he was filled with joy. As he walked down the well-trodden path, almost whistling, his eyes landed on a brightly shining patch of the forest. It was off the path, and he knew he should continue on his way, but curiousity took him. He took two tentative steps forward, facing the light.
The light moved.
He stepped back instinctively. After a few seconds he understood just what had happened.
He was too late. From every direction of the forest painted and tattooed warriors stepped out, each brandishing an axe or sword of brilliant shine. He knew then his fate. These were those demons, the old bogeymen that his mother had threatened him with. These were the Haudenosaunee, the flesh-burners.
‘Gitche Manitou,’ he whispered. The fearsomely painted faces showed no emotion.
‘Please, I beg you, spare the children. Do not hurt them.’
‘We will do as we must,’ said one of the warriors in a monotone.
The doomed one nodded. He knew the children would not be spared. With an almost apathetic resignation he consigned himself to death. A brief cold slash across his throat and he was gone.
Far from the village, in the forests only the wolves and eagles know, a great and distant fire was seen.