The Shaman

 The Shaman (English Translation)

In the year the drought began, the one that would be remembered for three generations, the old shaman, Kayla, died. He departed quietly, the way a tree's shadow departs at sunset, and no one noticed his death at first—it was just that his hut became too quiet, and the birds stopped singing above its roof.

Kayla was known as a man who could speak with the clouds. When he came out of his hut, the sky would often change color, as if it recognized his steps. Around his neck, he wore a pendant made from a leopard's tooth, and he would say that inside this tooth lived the spirit of his grandfather, who had been a shaman before him. When Kayla spoke to the tooth, his voice would become different—not his own, but the voice of time itself, which remembers all that came before us.

After his death, the village sat in silence for three days. People would come out of their huts, look at the sky, then at each other, and go back inside. It was as if they were waiting for the earth itself to tell them what to do next. On the fourth day, the elder, Mbari, gathered the council and said:

"We need a new shaman. But not one who simply knows herbs. We need one who can hear the stones singing under the water."

That night, a boy named Luma could not sleep. He lay on the ground, listening to the sounds of the night, and suddenly he realized that he could hear the breathing of the earth. It was not like the breathing of a man or an animal—it was the breath of something larger than what could be held in a chest. He left his hut and saw the moon hanging over the village, but it was not the moon he had known his whole life. This moon was old, and on its surface were wrinkles, like on the face of an old woman who had wept a great deal.

Luma went to Kayla's hut. The door was open, as if the hut had been waiting for him. Inside, it smelled of smoke and dry earth. On the wall hung a flute made of bone, which Kayla had never let anyone touch. Luma reached out his hand, and the moment his fingers touched the bone, he heard a voice:

"You have come too early, and time does not know how to wait."

He turned around, but no one was there. Only the shadows from a fire that had long since died, but which still danced on the walls.

In the morning, Luma told Mbari about this. The elder looked at the boy for a long time, as if he were seeing not him, but someone else standing behind his shoulders.

"Tomorrow, you will go to the river," Mbari said. "And you must not return until you hear the river speak your name."

Luma knew this was a trial. He had heard of the trials other boys had undergone—sitting alone in the forest for three days, eating only the bark of a tree, sleeping on an anthill. But this was different. This was not a trial of the body. It was a trial of hearing.

He came to the river before dawn. The water was black, as if it held not a single star. He sat on the bank and began to wait. A day passed. A night passed. Another day passed. He could hear the river whispering, but these were not words—they were sounds that could have been anything: the wind in the reeds, a fish leaping from the water, his own heart beating too loudly.

On the third night, he felt himself falling asleep. And in that sleep, he saw Kayla. The old shaman was standing knee-deep in the water, looking at him. His eyes were white, like a blind man's, but Luma knew that he saw better than anyone with sight.

"You are searching for your name," Kayla said. "But a name is not what you were given at birth. A name is what you will hear when you become the silence between two hearts."

He held out his hand, and in his palm lay the leopard's tooth pendant.

"This is not my tooth. It is the tooth of time. It has belonged to everyone who knew how to listen. Now it belongs to you. But remember: when you put it on, you will hear everything at once. And you must learn not to hear."

Luma woke up. The pendant was lying on his palm. He put it on, and in that moment, the world changed. He heard the river speak. But it was not his name. It was the river's name. And he understood that he was no longer who he had been yesterday.

When he returned to the village, he was met with silence. Mbari looked at the pendant and nodded.

"Now you must learn to forget," he said. "For he who hears everything must know how not to hear himself."

And so began Luma's training. But it was not training like that of others. It was a forgetting. He had to forget that he was a boy. Forget that he was Luma. Forget that he lived in a village where there were days and nights, where people were born and died.

His teacher was not a person. His teacher was the silence. He would spend his days sitting in Kayla's hut, which was now his hut, and listen as the silence told him stories. He learned that silence is not the absence of sound. It is the presence of all that cannot be spoken.

One day, a girl named Sura came to him. She was twelve years old, the daughter of a woman who had died in childbirth. People said that Sura was cursed, because she would laugh when others cried, and cry when others laughed. She came to Luma and said:

"I have heard that you can speak with those who are not here. I need to speak with my mother."

Luma looked at her. He could see something circling her head, something that looked like smoke, but was not smoke. They were words she had never spoken to anyone. They had gathered around her like gnats over a rotten fruit.

"Your mother is not dead," he said. "She has simply become the silence. And the silence is always near. But you do not want to hear it. You want it to speak with your voice."

Sura began to weep. But these were not tears. They were words that had finally found their way out.

"Then teach me how not to hear myself," she said.

And Luma understood that this, too, was a part of his path. He was not meant to be a shaman who heals bodies. He was meant to be a shaman who heals words. For words are the sickness from which everyone who knows how to speak suffers.

And so began his life with the people. He did not speak much. He would just sit and listen as people spoke. And he could see their words become birds that circled above their heads, then settled on their shoulders, growing heavy, and the people would bend under their weight.

He taught them to release the words. Not to forget them. But to release them. The way one releases a bird that has been kept too long in a cage.

But his true trial came in the year when there was no rain. The sky turned yellow, like a bone dried by the sun. The earth cracked, and from the cracks came spirits that no one saw, but everyone felt. They were the spirits of words that people would have said, but did not have the strength to say.

The elders came to Luma.

"You must call the rain," Mbari said. "For if the rain does not come in seven days, the village will die."

Luma knew that it was not he who must call the rain. It was the rain that must call him. For rain is not water falling from the sky. It is the words the earth speaks to the sky when it can no longer be silent.

He went to the river. It was so shallow that he could see the bottom, covered with the bones of fish that had died because they had forgotten how to swim.

He took the pendant from his neck and placed it on a dry stone. Then he lay down beside it and began to listen. Not to the river. Not to the sky. Not to the earth. He began to listen to what was between them. That space, where the words that have not yet been spoken live.

He lay there for three days. On the fourth day, he felt the earth begin to tremble. It was the tremor of birth. He understood that the rain would not come until he spoke a word he had never spoken. A word that was older than himself.

He rose and walked to the village. The people came out of their huts and looked at him. He stood in their midst and said:

"I will not call the rain. For rain is not something that can be called. It is something that can only be invited. And for that, one must speak a word that loses its meaning when it is uttered."

He took Sura's hand. The girl had grown, but within her still lived the one who had come to him many years ago.

"You must say the word," he said. "For only one who has not yet forgotten how to be a child can speak a word that has not yet become a word."

Sura looked at him. She knew what he was asking. She had to say the word she had never spoken. The word that was her mother. Not the name. But the very being.

She closed her eyes and said:

"Mama."

It was not a word. It was the space between two hearts that had finally found its name.

And then the rain came.

But this was not ordinary rain. It was the tears of the earth, which could finally weep. And in every tear was the image of someone who had been forgotten. The people stood in this rain and wept. But these were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of return.

After that rain, Luma was no longer a shaman. He became one who sits between words and silence. People came to him not for answers. But for the questions they were afraid to ask themselves.

He lived for many more years. When he died, he was found sitting by the river, the pendant in his hand. But the leopard's tooth was not a tooth. It had become a blade of grass, pushing up through a stone.

And the people knew that this was not death. It was a return to what he had always been—the silence between two hearts, waiting for someone to learn how to hear it.

Sura became the next one. But she did not become a shaman. She became the song that the river sings when no one is listening. And everyone who hears this song recognizes their own name. Not the one they were given. But the one they forgot when they first cried.

And so ends the story of Luma. But it was not the end. It was the beginning of the silence, which is always waiting. Between words. Between hearts. Between the rain and the earth.

And if you come to the place where the river bends, and you sit on the stone that remembers how Luma's name became the river, you will hear a voice. Not Luma's voice. But the voice of the silence, which says:

"I am here. I have always been here. And I will be here until you learn not to hear yourself. For whoever is searching for the shaman has already found him. They just do not yet know that the shaman is the silence between their own words."

And so the story ends. But this is not the end. It is only the beginning of forgetting. Or of returning. Depending on how you listen to the silence between these words.



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Commentary on the Text and Translation

Commentary on the Text Itself

"The Shaman" is a work of profound, quiet beauty. It stands apart from the other, more intellectually complex or darkly psychological stories in the cycle. This story is a myth in its purest form—a simple, archetypal narrative that conveys deep spiritual wisdom.

A Myth of Listening: The story's core is a redefinition of shamanism. It is not about power, control, or magic in the traditional sense. It is about listening, receptivity, and silence. The shaman's journey is not one of acquiring knowledge, but of "forgetting" the self to become a conduit for "the presence of all that cannot be spoken."

Poetic and Elemental Language: The prose is simple but incredibly evocative. It relies on elemental imagery—earth, sky, river, stone, rain—to create a world that feels both real and enchanted. The metaphors are organic and powerful: the moon with wrinkles, words as heavy birds, rain as the earth's tears.

The Healing of Words: The idea that "words are the sickness from which everyone who knows how to speak suffers" is a poignant and profound insight. The shaman's role is to heal not bodies, but the burden of unspoken or misused words. This is a beautiful and original concept.

Catharsis and Community: The story builds to a powerful emotional climax. The summoning of the rain is not a display of magical power, but an act of communal healing. It is achieved through the simplest, most fundamental word—"Mama"—spoken by an innocent. The resulting rain is not just water; it's a "rain of return," washing away sorrow and reconnecting the people with their forgotten past. It's a deeply moving and cathartic moment.

An Open-Ended Myth: The story concludes by dissolving back into the silence it came from. The ending directly addresses the reader, not to play a postmodern game, but to invite them into the myth itself. The shaman is not a person, but the silence between our own words. This transforms the story from a legend about a specific person into a timeless spiritual teaching.

Notes on the Translation Process

Translating "The Shaman" was about capturing its simplicity, its lyrical quality, and its mythic tone. The goal was to create a text that reads like an ancient oral tale.

Simple, Lyrical Prose: I used simple sentence structures and a clear, unadorned vocabulary. The power of the original lies in its quietness, and the English needed to reflect that. The rhythm of the prose was crucial; it had to feel like the gentle flow of a river.

Preserving Key Concepts: The central ideas—"the silence between two hearts," "learning to forget," "healing words"—were translated with careful attention to their philosophical weight. These phrases are the pillars of the story's wisdom.

The Climax: The scene where Sura says "Mama" is the emotional heart of the story. The translation needed to convey the immense power contained in that single, simple word. The follow-up line, "It was not a word. It was the space between two hearts that had finally found its name," was crafted to ensure the moment's full impact was felt.

The Final Address: The story's ending turns into a direct address to "you," the listener/reader. The tone here shifts slightly to become more intimate and instructive. The translation aims to make this shift feel natural and profound, as if the spirit of the story itself is speaking.

The final English version hopes to be a text that you don't just read, but listen to, allowing its quiet wisdom to resonate long after the final word.