Marks of the Earth

"I have seen our future and I am saddened," said the tribal chief to his people seated before him. He wore a ritual headdress of pig skin and tern feathers. The flames of the village's fire pit illuminate his ample frame.

"I see a parting of the old ways," he continued. "Our young leave for the city and do not come back. Since the beginning, we have served and protected the land and respected it because it gives us food and shelter. But I see our ways eroding. The earth is beneath our toes, but we have no connection to it."

A few of the older villagers nodded their head in agreement. Some of the younger ones stared at each other with indifference.

"Son, rise and come to me."

A teenager stood up and walked up to the chief.

The chief clasped one hand on his son. "We must rekindle the force within us that makes us strong."

He bent down and gathered a handful of soil.

"Son, will you undertake this task?"

The boy nodded. The chief rubbed the soil in his hands, chanted in an old dialect, and rubbed his thumb in a circle movement on the boy's forehead, leaving a faint mark. When he was done, he turned back to his people.

"Who else will join my son on this journey?"

There was a moment of hesitance, and then an old woman rose up and approached the chief. She tripped and two other helped her up before lining up behind her. Slowly like a reverse domino effect, the rest of the village lined up and awaited their turn.