Phil Penne Creations

#14 - The Native American

 

 

      ...In the life before this one, you were a warrior of the Wolf Clan. The White Eyes who once shared your food and were healed by your medicine now spread over Turtle Island to the water’s edge on every side, taking not just all that they needed, but all that they wanted. The Principal People who were not killed by the White Eyes were rounded up like cattle and marched for many horizons, until the old ones, and the women, and the children fell, never to rise again. You fought with other brave warriors trying to stop the forced exodus from the land that was your home, to no avail.

        Now you are a very old man. The verdant forests that were your home many winters past have long since been cut down to make room for highways, and for the tall places of the white man that steal the sun. The sturdy lodge in which you once lived has now become a decrepit trailer with a leaking roof. Flickering images on a small black and white television with a bent coat hanger antenna have now replaced the view you once had of meadows filled with pastels of wildflowers. The numbers of deer, and bear, and fox, and the wolf, and even the birds of the sky have all been decimated by the white man’s lust for sport and ever-increasing greed for land.

        You have become tired and are no longer able to be of service to your people; it is time to sleep. Reaching under your bed, you pull out a weathered leather bag from which you produce the simple red cedar flute that was given to you by your father...

 

You are old; your eyes are dim, and your body frail. After so many years of service to others, it feels strange to no longer be of any use.

But don't lie down yet. It seems the Creator has other plans...