Shaman meets the hunter ( Tale 2)

Today shaman had a guest.


 A hunter would visit his shack.
– Greetings wise man – said hunter.
– Greetings hunter – replied shaman. – What makes you think I am a wise man?

Huntsman would shrug his arms:

– Look – he said, and pointed at what was below the cliff – Out there, there is a jungle. You are indeed wise man to stay away from it.
– What makes those cold rocks better than the place that is down below? – shaman kept asking.
– Jungle makes you filthy, shaman. – said hunter. – To survive in it, you need to become part of it. You need to step in, obey it’s rules even if your heart does not agree with them.
You see…. I have a big family, I have many women and many children. They all need me and my skills. They all need the food which I can deliver. They all depend on me. I don’t have the luxury of being myself anymore. I am part of a jungle now. I need to be a predator, and I need to be the cruelest one.
I set up booby traps, deceive, hide in the shadows, cover my face with mud. And eventually, at the end of the day I bath my hands in the blood of my prey. I cannot feel regret, I cannot feel compassion, I need to consume the others so the others do not consume myself. I dwell in the darkness, and my eyes hurt when they are approached by the light. I cannot escape the dirtiness of the jungle, as I live it every day.
In the end – I am becoming the jungle.
But up here, shaman… – hunter would make a pause, as he was dazed by the beauty of rising moon – Up here you can be liberated from all of the darkness below. Up here on top of the mountain you can remain pure, you can remain who you truly are. That’s why I think you are a wise man, shaman.
And a silence would occur.
Shaman would pick up his matte and took a long sip. For a moment he and the hunter would look at the stars. Both with the same affliction.
Than the shaman would say:
– Maybe you are right hunter. Maybe not. Once you are in the jungle you experience all it’s trouble, all it’s pain, but also you can taste it’s fruit. Once you are in the jungle, you are living among the others, you don’t feel cold in the night, you don’t feel alone. But on the other hand you have to sacrifice bit of yourself to fit into the tribe.
Once you are in the jungle you feel the thrill of the hunt, and the passion of your tribesman while joining them in a ritual dance. Up here, hunter, the only thing you can feel are – the cold embrace of the wind, and the enormous sense of the loss, missing all the things that you can see down below, but which you cannot experience. Once in the jungle you live the life, once above it, you are just observing it.
You remain pure, but for what cost?
-So what is the right way than? – hunter would ask.
– Maybe there is no right way. Or maybe both ways are right. Maybe we would find out if we would exchange our places…one day.
– A shaman would hunt capybaras, and a hunter would start telling a stories?
They both laughed at this idea.
And they they would go their ways.
One would pick up his spear and merged into jungle. The other other remained here on top of the hill, drinking his matte , listening to the wind which brought a new chant.

Shaman and his shack ( Tale 1)

Shaman built a shack.

But this happened later.
Before that, shaman would have a dream.In this dream he would see a mountain, and a light on a top of it.
Mountain was as high as heavens, it’s peek would soar up to the stars, shining a like lighthouse among the obscure seas of the night. Shaman would have know, that the light on the peek, holds the key to all the questions he would have gathered in his wearied heart.
However, it was only a dream.
When shaman woke up, he would discover that he sees the light no more.
That he is in a middle of the jungle. A jungle which was dark, dense and dangerous.
He would remind himself that he is in a strange land, among the people of a savage tribe. A tribe that would despise him. A tribe that would not want him.
There is no place here, for the ones like you, the people would say. You want to admire the beauty of the sky, while in a jungle you can barely see a sun ray, so thick are the tree leaves. You want to talk with the Spirit who dwells among the stars, while our only desire is the warmth of our women and our campfires. You want us to tell us stories, but all we need from you is to hunt down fat capybaras and catch big fish, like all the other man do. We do not need shamans here, a tribe would say.
Go away, and tell your stories somewhere else, maybe a wind would listen to you, they laughed.
And the shaman would go.
He would pick up his sack, and he would go. He would be casted away, forced to enter the deepest jungle. He would march away from his people into the abysses of the unknown. Away from the warm and safety of the campfires.
But he would not get lost. He would have known the way, as it was shown to him in his dream. He would find a mountain and he would climb on the top of it.
And once up there, he would discover that there was no light like he would have imagined. Just the cold rocks and a view.
Shaman would see a vast, green carpet, a labyrinth of a trees, full of dangers, full of rush. He would see the jungle from the above, he would see the place, which was his home no more.
And he would feel disappointed.
I was casted away, he would think, I walked through the deepest jungle and climbed the mountain high as the heavens but in the end I would find nothing but sorrow.
And shaman would sit and start crying. But after a while he would see a river flowing, down below and a light reflecting on it.
A light that wouldn’t come from the sun, as the sun was already hidden beneath the horizon.
Shaman would look carefully and than he would understand where the light had it source.
It would come from the top of this mountain, where was nothing but him alone.
Shaman would smile, because he would finally understand the meaning of his dream. He would, lay down his sack and he would say:
Once you are above your problems and your world, you can finally see where is your place in it.
And so shaman built his shack.
And he would start telling a stories.
And the wind would start to listen.