CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The clack of stone hitting against rock mixed with the hubbub of the jungle.
Jahnu grasped the stone in one hand and with the other, he knapped at the edges of the small obsidian rock, striking, striking, striking until a fine edge appeared on the rough, black surface.
He ran his finger down the edge, testing its sharpness.
He sat in a primal squat, away from the bustle of the village, his thoughts a torturous jumble inside him. Clack, clack, clack. The work soothed him. He moved on to the other side of the rock until the two planes were similar in length and width, their edges sharp enough to cut through flesh.
All Hundi arrows were fashioned by hand. The time-intensive labor it took to make just one arrow gave the warrior caution before he let them fly foolishly. Once the head of the arrow was shaped to precision, he used the string from the palm’s leafy membrane to fasten it to the bamboo stick.
He wasn’t usually the one who made the arrows. The children were taught at a young age to shape and sharpen the heads. It was a good job for small and busy hands, but Jahnu thought it appropriate after his reading that morning.
He always reached for scripture when his thoughts and feelings consumed him, and he’d almost laughed out loud while sitting in his hut, reading the small, green Bible Robert had given him when he was only ten years old.
“God certainly has a sense of humor,” Robert always said. Now, Jahnu knew it, too. How was it that the scriptures could always put words to the feelings inside him?
Your arrows have sunk deep into me, and Your hand has pressed down on me…yes. He certainly felt that. The thirty-eighth Psalm could’ve been written by his own hand.
My loins are filled with burning…yes. He blamed Sidney for that.
I am benumbed and badly crushed; I groan because of the agitation of my heart. Again, the fault lies with the woman he’d held in his arms last night.
Lord, all my desire is before You…My heart throbs, my strength faileth me.
His heart indeed throbbed. It ached inside him, squeezing and thrumming until he felt he might go mad at the sensation.
He’d almost kissed her last night. Nothing too tempting, but when she’d leaned her head against his chest and sighed, content, he’d felt something wash over him.
Warmth had filled his chest, excitement pricked in his belly.
Peace settled over him for the first time in many years.
His arms so used to emptiness and aching had been full of her soft tenderness.
Her creamy skin white as the fruit of a coconut, soft against his roughness.
Her long hair had tickled his nose and he’d wanted to nuzzle into her, fill his head with her sweet scent, and press a kiss on her neck.
But he didn’t. He couldn’t. She was an impossibility, he tried to keep telling himself.
But he kept going back to her, his head an unworthy opponent to the strength of his heart.
She must return to Makia. It was the only solution. But he still hadn’t made arrangements and he fell prey to the Psalmist words once more.
My wounds grow foul and fester because of my folly.
The bush that lined the small grassy opening which was offering him a private shelter, trembled with movement and produced an intruder. Stahgan parted from the thickness, a small spark of relief on his young face.
“I have been searching for you, Chief,” he said in the Hundi tongue.
“So quickly are you removed from your marriage bed, Stahgan? I hadn’t expected to see you for many days. Everything ok?” Jahnu continued his knapping, striking the stone against a new piece of rock.
“I needed to speak to you. My mind is heavy with thoughts.”
Jahnu wanted to tell him he knew the feeling, but the young man looked pained, so he put his tools down and motioned for him to sit.
Stahgan was no more than twenty seasons, his spry arms and legs corded with lean muscle.
The planes of his face sharp with youth and the fuzzy hair around his jaw, jet black, void of any gray.
His eyes were bright and his large forehead smooth.
He had an eagerness about him. A bouncing energy, though Jahnu could tell it was tamped down by the heaviness of his thoughts.
He was still a boy, in many ways growing into a man’s body.
Jahnu was silent, allowing the quiet to give Stahgan room to process his thoughts out loud.
“I am a man now,” he began slowly, “I know the warmth of a woman’s body and my woman fills me till I am bursting.” Jahnu gave him a pained look. He didn’t want details. Didn’t think he could handle them in his weakened state, but he said nothing, allowing the young man to continue.
“But I am also feeling…restless,” he said, confessing.
“I thought once I was a married man I would not feel the need to conquer, to fight. I would be at peace, and I am,” he said, flashing his eyes to Jahnu.
“Part of me feels peace, the other part of me feels…fear, doubt. A heavy burden on my shoulders. Am I strong enough for her? Can I protect her? I am a warrior, but now I am also a husband. There are two parts of me at war with one another and I do not know what to do.”
Jahnu was pensive knowing too well the battle the young man described. Had he not felt the same way when he married Alupa?
“A warrior’s heart is a deep well, Stahgan, capable of immense love and passion.
But that passion exists because of the drive to protect.
The urge you feel to protect Talula is not born first from your love for her.
It is born first from your nature as a man to run towards the fight.
This is in a man, whether he is married or not.
But uniting with someone makes it come alive.
” The young man bowed his head, redness tipping his ears. Jahnu smiled at his embarrassment.
The drive to stand between a man’s family and danger, and so prove he has what it takes is a question every man must face. A question Jahnu had not been able to answer. He hadn’t protected Alupa from sickness. He hadn’t protected Talmu from the fire. He’d failed them and now lived with the sorrow.
“You will always be a warrior, even if you are not always a husband,” Jahnu said, thoughtfully, thinking of his dead wife.
He was still a warrior and longed for that part of him to awaken again.
He thought also of Sidney. She had awakened him and he loved her, he knew.
But he hadn’t been ready to admit it because she could never be his.
It was better that way. Up until now all the people he’d loved had been taken from him.
She didn’t belong here anyway, even though her presence in his tribe had a calming effect.
She would return to her people, to America and her life, and he would still be here, fighting, surviving.
“Enjoy your wife,” Jahnu said. “There will always be the chance to fight, to protect, and when it comes, you will be ready.”
“Just do not leave me behind, because I have more to lose than the other men. Still use me, Jahnu.” Stahgan didn’t usually use his chief’s first name, but the earnestness in his voice pierced Jahnu’s heart.
“You are a good man, Stahgan. Talula is a lucky woman. Go back to your marriage bed and rest easy, while you can.”
The young man obeyed and Jahnu picked up his tools once more.
He begrudged Stahgan. He understood his struggle but the young man didn’t know enough yet, and easily got ahead of himself.
He envied him and his innocent naivete, knowing that with time, Stahgan would learn to squeeze every drop of life from the moments he had.
Because in the jungle, you’re never promised tomorrow.