Yaguarete

A young Native American boy feels like he disappoints his father, the tribe leader, so he tries to be loyal. However, a jaguar attacks the village, and he has to choose between loyalty and life.

          I leaped from branch to branch and swung from vine to vine. My heart was racing as fast as a rain-swollen river. I narrowly avoided a harpy eagle swooping through the air.  Suddenly, the insects stopped buzzing, the toucans froze, and the jungle fell silent.  For a moment, I thought I was safe. As if in response, I heard leaves rustling and a roar filled the air.  I had nowhere to run, no way out. The jaguar burst through the brush and pounced toward me.

          I gasped as I awoke, sweating. I was in my bed, my mother was across the room weaving a basket, and my younger sister was playing with her doll.  My father, the chief of our village, strode toward me.

          “Wasatch, you are awake,” he announced, his deep voice full of pride.

          “Yes, father. I had my dream with the yaguareté (jaguar) again.  I believe it is a sign from Tupn,” I replied.

          “A sign of what?” he bellowed.

          I fell silent. What could Tupn be telling me?

          “Exactly! Why would the Great Spirit give you a sign? You are not deserving! You are only a child!” Father criticized.

          “Ozark! Do not scold our son for being who he is!” screeched my mother.

          My younger sister, Kirana, overwhelmed by the din, ran out of the hut.

          “He is not…” my father's voice trailed off as he froze under my mother’s glare.

          “Don’t tell me what he is not, but what he is,” my mother finished in a vexed voice as she left to squish berries Kirana and the other Guarani girls had gathered.

I became nervous being alone in the hut with my father, so I lowered my gaze and scampered to the most ancient and karai (sacred) tree in Panama to train to hunt. The tree gives the boys of my tribe knowledge, while the training gives us dexterity and skill.

It is ten days until my thirteenth birthday when I will be allowed to hunt with the Abá (men).  There will be a ceremony in my honor and I will be presented the bow of manhood. Then I will shoot deer with as much pride as Father.

          The thought seized my joy. My father still does not believe I am worthy to go hunting with the Abá. He has not seen my aim and accuracy in the training. Prey will be easy to catch with me. At the ceremony, when I shoot a flaming arrow through the Karai deer antlers and into the water, he will see. He will see.

          Ten days into these thoughts, I woke up, and my father noticed me, saying in a calm voice that masked his excitement, “I have something I must show you.” He walked slowly toward the mat Mother had woven two years before. He picked up a long parcel and gradually unwrapped the smooth, soft ocelot pelt. Beneath it lay a beautiful, glistening bow.

          “The Abá and I have made this for the ceremony. We have decided to let you become accustomed to the bow of manhood, but do not shoot a single arrow or show a single soul,” he continued. “Now go fetch some water,” he ordered.

          It did not bother me that this was a child’s job. All that mattered was that I had the bow of manhood in my grasp, obvious proof my father respected me.

          While I started to daydream, I felt a trickle of water splash upon my nose. Then, I looked up into the dark, cloudy sky and noticed it had begun to rain. I sprinted toward the stream, before deciding to sit under a Tagua tree to make arrows, for the Tagua’s nuts are like ivory and hold strong as an arrowhead. My equipment must be durable and tough enough to bring down anything I please.

          As I enjoyed sharpening and attaching my arrowhead, I heard a shriek from the village. What could go wrong on such a wonderful day? Nevertheless, I thought it best to see what had occurred, so I ran back to the village as fast as lightning to find a horrific surprise.

          A yaguareté had snuck into the village and slashed my father’s arm. I came running at it, bracing myself, but flinched as it jerked its head at me and flashed its sharp, glistening teeth. I was fearful, but aware of what would come next. The yaguareté would see me as its prey and hunt me down like a fox does a cavy.

          I suddenly sprinted toward the trees of the jungle and held back my fear. I climbed their limbs. I leaped from branch to branch and swung from vine to vine. My heart was racing as fast as a rain-swollen river. I narrowly avoided a harpy eagle swooping through the air.  Suddenly, the insects stopped buzzing, the toucans froze, and the jungle fell silent.  For a moment, I thought I was safe. As if in response, I heard leaves rustling and a roar filled the air.  I had nowhere to run, no way out. The jaguar burst through the brush and pounced toward me.

          I had to be brave. I had to believe that I was the predator, not the yaguareté, but how? What could I do to become the predator? There was only one thing I could do, but it meant risking the betrayal of my father’s trust, throwing away what I had worked so hard to earn. No, it would save him.

          As fast as I could, I unattached the bow from my sloth skin strap, pulled the newly made arrows from my pouch, and aimed at the yaguareté’s heart. I drew the string back as far as I could and let go. The yaguareté flew into the air, so the arrow hit its stomach instead. It's blood trickled out rust-red as it plummeted to the ground. I immediately shot another arrow, this time hitting my target exactly.

          I then threw the yaguareté onto my shoulders and marched gleefully home. There I found my mother in tears, the other women comforting her. I sent my friend, Appalachian, surprised at my survival, to tell her the good news.

          After that, I visited my father with the Shaman rubbing herbs on his arm.

          “Please, Pá i Shume, Great Medicine God, help my arm to heal, and Tupn, Great Spirit, protect my son, Wasatch, from the malicious yaguareté.”

          I entered the room right at that moment and told Father, “You do not have to pray for me, for I have won, but, I am sorry.”

          He furrowed his eyebrows curiously, “Why do you apologize? You saved our village.”

          I replied, “I have betrayed you. You warned me not to use the bow, but I have.”

          Father reassured me, “You mustn’t worry about the past, but the present. For example, your leg has a gash on it. The gash will become a scar, forever being a reminder of your pain, but also of your trophy, the yaguareté.”

          That night, my ceremony went on for 6 hours as we celebrated and devoured the yaguareté. The story of my courage was told around the campfire, and will be for many years to come.

 

Author's Note

This is a story I wrote back in 5th grade for a Young Authors contest.

Reviews

[JadeForever]

I LOVE the title..i was immediatly hooked..also with the picture you put for the story..that just caught my attention..i like the ending..its faint but bold at the same time..its sweet :) the whole thing was great..."you musnt worry about the past but about the present.." TRUE THAT! great line to use in your story..I also love the names like Dream Hunter said..i completely agree that it would take me forever to create such brilliant names. !

[Dream Hunter]

cool! this is an interesting short story. you're so creative about making up new names and such. good job!