Spirit

It is the March, and all over the world it is an unusually warm day. Especially in Peru, where the heat is sweltering. Somewhere in the Amazon Rainforest lives a small, successful and forgotten tribe. They have no collective name, as they see no reason to differentiate themselves from nature. The village in which they live is made up of wooden huts, but these huts are not on the ground, they are cucooned in the boughs of the trees. In the centre of the village is the tallest, thickest and oldest tree. The Cheif, or Voda of this tribe makes his home in the safe branches of the ancient tree. The Voda is a wise and gentle man who always does his best for his people. He is calm and serious and the people love him. But today he is nervous. His wife, his onydia, is in labour. The rest of the village are gathered at the foot of the great tree, waiting for the baby to be born.
The Voda's wife, Tamaya, lets out an especially pained groan. The Voda drops to his knees and her searching hand finds his and grips it tight. He smiles at her strength. She will survive the birth. Especially with the help of the Daja, the especially talented medicine woman. She has a kind, lovely face and her hair is tied in a long plait down her back. She is not old, yet she has one streak of grey that travels the whole length of her hair. The Daja has already prayed feverently to the tribe's gods for their help, using the sacred prayers that only the Daja of the time knows. Now she spoons an expertly made, foul-smelling paste into Tamaya's mouth.
"This will keep you strong and help the birth along," says the Daja, her voice soft and soothing. Tamaya obediently swallows the paste, wincing as it burns its way down her throat. But she feels new strength in her muscles and renews her efforts. Tamaya's sister, Lottane (pronounced Lot-ah-knee), mops her forehead with a cloth made of spider-silk and hums quietly.
The birth is long and difficult, but Tamaya is resiliant and she has her family around her. Eventually the anxious people who wait below hear the first cries of the newborn baby, and they shout their thanks to the skies. The new addition to the tribe has ebony skin, and a fuzz of tight black curls. Her eyes are deep, hot black. The exhausted mother cradles her baby to her chest and the infant stops crying. Tamaya whispers her name, "Sidra."
The Voda thanks the Daja, who nods, gives the baby her Blessing and shimmies down the tree to join the rest of the tribe. The new father turns back to his wife and his new baby, a proud smile on his face. "I don't know when the Daja will stop surprising me," he rumbles. "She was right. A daughter."
"She's a clever woman," sighs Tamaya. "You're not disappointed you don't have a son?"
"Never," her husand reassures her. "Any child of ours will be a strong and wise Voda to our people."
"I think she will." Tamaya looks down at the child, who yawns, her mouth a perfect little 'o'.
"No more speaking, Tam," orders Lottane. "You need to sleep. And you need to stop bothering her, Domir," she says to the Voda. "This is a time for the women."
"Alright, Lottane," he replies. He strides across the floor, stoops and kisses his wife. Then he kisses his daughter. "Welcome to Life, little glow," he breathes. Then, as the first of the female members of his tribe enters the hut, he leaves, climbs nimbly down the tree and is immediately engulfed by his tribe-brothers. All around are congratulations and everyone pats him on the back or shakes his hand.
Back in the hut, the women take it in turns to place a hand on the new tribe-daughter and give her a Blessing. Then, they begin to sing. Birds stop to listen and the gentle breeze holds its breath. And slowly, sweetly, baby Sidra is sung to sleep.