Destroy Tribe - Corey Miller

During dinner, Padre told his Hija of their tribe’s belief: Everything a person destroys during their lifetime will be waiting for them in the afterlife. Her hands squeezed the bamboo bowl filled with cucumbers and tomatoes. In the middle of the night, she climbed out of her hammock and crept across the black sand floor to the garden behind their hut. Her hands ripped up the vines that bared fruit. She could taste the waste in the afterlife.

Mañana, Madre questioned, “What happened to the garden? El maíz, los frijoles, el pimiento, el ñame, everything—destroyed.”

Hija, an uncrafted liar, spilled her guts. “It’s what Papá said. He told me I wouldn’t have them in heaven if I didn’t destroy them.”

Madre contradicted her esposo, said not to believe everything someone tells you. Hija nodded but reserved doubt like salt rationed for celebrations.

At escuela, Hija learned of cute animals: capuchins, macaws, and sloths. Precioso beings she wished to companion. She wondered if extinct animals still existed in the heavens of their killers.

At their family’s finka, Hija and Papá gathered bananas and cocoa and coconuts. The machete she wielded slashed branches to the ground. Sap dripped from the broken limbs. She retained mental notes of what awaited her later.

On the journey home, a snake slithered on the path towards the village. Padre spoke, “Once there was a snake that entered our village and killed an hombre in his sleep. This is why we must kill each one we find.” Hija obeyed. She chopped down the middle, its black scales ceased movement. A mouse the snake had for lunch also split in half.

“Two for the price of one!” Padre boasted. “Throw the blade away, it’s cursed from snake blood and cannot be used again. I’ll buy you a new one, mi amor.” Her body felt like a lemon being squeezed on an open cut. Snakes and mice were now waiting in her jungle afterlife. The machete had become an extension of her arm, now a phantom limb.

“Vamos,” Padre said.

For dinner, they plated pineapple and papaya with fried grouper Padre caught, stripping the pin bones with metal forks.

“What are plates made of? Where does metal grow?” Hija asked.

Madre glared at her esposo.

“What I told you the other day,” Papá spoke, “was only a myth. Meant to scare us into consideration.”

“What if it’s true though?”

At this question, Padre shoveled another forkful of rice into his mouth. Does eating equal destroying? Hija wondered.

At escuelo, the government enforced books taught Inglés as the secondary language instead of their native Kuna tongue. Hija loved speaking Kuna over Español. Español over Inglés. However, their language was fading like the jungle.

Cada mañana y cada noches before the sun peek-a-booed, Hija entered the rainforest and destroyed what she wished to preserve. Gorgeous palms, strong spiderweb, naiwar that wove sturdy baskets, hibiscus flowers plucked for crimson tea. All it took was one stab and Hija would have it for eternity.

She boiled water until it all disappeared. Sacrificed metals in rivers until they pit rusted into oblivion. Broke glass bottles into a million shards that ants could use as daggers.

A mosquito landed on her forearm, on reflex she slapped it dead. She bought mosquito bed netting from the town shop and ripped it to shreds.

The heads of the community met to discuss the sanctity of the tribe’s culture. They argued about the younger girls not wanting to wear molas or learn the Kuna language over Inglés. How the older generations who spoke Kuna were dying out faster than younger people attempting to learn.

One of the main topics the village officials met to discuss was the migrant path. Travelers from Colombia making the dangerous trek through the Darién Gap up to the United States. Many didn’t survive. They stole from the villager’s finkas until the community built designated huts and marked the path to support the migrants’ journey. As trade-off for the help, the migrants left the fruit hanging.

On the beach, Hija walked barefoot, stepping over plastic washed ashore: Coca-Cola bottles, Havaianas flip-flops, purple Takis Fuego chip bags. She bought these items and cut them to ribbons. Once finished, she pulled apart the scissors like a wishbone.

Hija felt suffocated in the pueblo, needing to explore further and expand her future garden. She walked the migrant path towards Colombia. After an hour of walking the Caribbean cliffside, un hombre approached with a gun directed at her corazón. Her new machete was dropped as he demanded. Her clothes removed as he desired.

When he finished his passion and rebuttoned back turned, she seized the moment to reclaim the machete. She swung—downwards with all her might. Like cutting a banana tree, she thought.

El hombre gurgled and squirmed. Hija threw his gun off the cliff, into the clashing sea.

She ran back home, crying and leaping into her Papá’s arms, always there for refuge. When asked what was wrong—what happened—Hija kept lips sealed as if her mouth was the treasure chest she worked so hard to fill.

That noche, instead of eating dinner, Hija hammered rusty nails into planks, constructing a fence to keep out anything unwanted. The heavy hammer was as old as Padre, he received it when he was a hijo from his Papá. On the final nail, the head of the hammer broke off into her foreverness, leaving a sharp handle.

Hija stood above her parents as they slept. They were growing fragile, losing their memory like beaches eroding into the ocean. What if she could preserve this version of them that knew the language before it fell extinct? There were still words she didn’t know. There were many things she didn’t know yet. They could come and protect her. They could build a new casa that would continuously be expanded upon into the biggest mansion. Into a world with less danger. Into an eternity paused from pain.

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Corey Miller’s writing has appeared in Booth, Pithead Chapel, Atticus Review, Hobart, X-R-A-Y, and elsewhere. He has been awarded the 2023 Literary Cleveland Breakthrough Residency. He reads for TriQuarterly and Longleaf Review. When Corey isn’t brewing beer for a living in Cleveland, he enjoys taking the dogs for adventures. Follow him on Twitter @IronBrewer or at www.CoreyMillerWrites.com