text: Wind swept across the bow of the boats and rocked them in the water as Laáfchan and the other fishermen pulled the nets over the edge. Fish flopped, desperate for air, against the boards of the floor. The bay provided them again, day after day by the will of Aachkíinooláak, ever looking over his people. The sun sat in midfall, his sisters visible against the darker half of the sky, watching for their time to take dominion over the land. He reached over the edge of the boat and pulled the last bit of net in. Water sunk into his shoes, wetting his feet. The sky rumbled above them as if often did this time of day, the storms had made their pilgrimage across the peninsula to collect their lightning in the bay of thunder. The air above the crackled with light. The men paddled toward the coast, the sky grew darker and darker. Laáfchan preferred the storm. His wife and he had been arguing near-constantly since the last twin moon about... everything. Just when he thought that things were getting better, she would use her tongue like a dagger to dig into his wounds. Peering into the sky, he knew he was no better. Each time she came to him silently, her attempt to move on, he could not help himself to make her miserable the way that he had felt. After he, or she, attacked the cycle continued, like the storms that blew over the peninsula. Things could go from calm to instantly raging, with a single sentence. Laáfchan and the crew stepped out of the boat and pulled it onto the shore Their feet dug into the sand and shallow waves licked up from the ocean and lapped at their heels. Once the boats were in place, they wrapped the jigging ropes around the posts on the beach. “Hey, Laáfchan, I heard you and Janlaaaiik this morning as you were leaving.” Worry washed over Laáfchan as he turned to look at his friend. Many unsavory things flew from their mouths this morning as the two of them argued. “Is everything okay”, his friend asked. “Uhm yes, I suppose”, Laáfchan brushed the sand from his knees. No matter how hard he patted his knees, the brown sand clung to his shorts. He lied. It was easier to lie about his feelings than dive into them with others. *I should be able to do that with my wife. Why can’t I? Opening up feels so hard, especially with someone I should...* “Yes, everything is fine.” He continued to lie. “Well, if you need anything, let me know”, the implication that he would need anything cut deeper than it should. Feelings festered underneath from earlier in the morning. The maggots of anger nibbled and ate at the healing wound from that morning and the scars of other arguments. He failed to recall who started which, why they started, or when. All the arguments piled on top of one another, and each of them felt as if she started them. Underneath that feeling; however, he knew that they were at least fifty-fifty and at worst mostly his fault. That realization only caused him to fume more, knowing that he was likely the problem. After the boats were placed upon the shore, he walked home. He parted ways with the crew of his boat and the lightning crackled in the sky as the wind picked up. The pine trees and palms blew in the distance, howling amongst the wind. He walked up to the stairway of his chickee and the steps up the stilted wooden home. The canvas on either side pulled down in preparation for the storm, bowed out slightly in the wind. The tanned animal hides, painted with depictions of the Gator, the number of swordfish he had caught personally, and the imagery of his family. The wood of the chickee, newly built just before their wedding, gave no sway. Other chickee sat on along the beach and further inland to the wood. Many other fishermen walked into their homes as well. Most of the other men’s homes’ canvas remained raised in the tropic sun. Each step of his foot, his heart throbbed, and memories of each of the arguments of the morning and the day before boiled to the surface. Swinging the canvas back and stomping into the chickee. He huffed and dropped won onto the bed. Before she could even ask him about his day, the festering anger fumed out, “This is the tenth time since the twin moons that I have come back from fishing the Bíifááishaachalíichóloólíida and there are not smoked fish resting above the fire outside.” He huffed, pulling salt brined shoes from his feet. The fire crackled outside the northside of their stilted chickee. The smoke billowed to the sky, the seen through the flaps in the canvas covering of their home. The woman standing mere feet away put her hand on the hip opposite of a small child, “I had traded the fish from yesterday for some clothes for Fachií.” She bounced the child on her hip lightly to stifle a crying fit that threatened to erupt. “Perhaps if you went with the hunting parties, we could have a claim to some skins without having to trade for them.” The wound opened up from the morning more and instead of changing the tone or walking away, he felt the need to lash out. A copperhead in his mouth coiled up and dripped venom from its fangs. “Perhaps if you mended the fields further inland”, he snapped back. She stamped her foot. This fight happened more often than she’d liked. It ended the same way every time - in yelling and eventual begrudging reconciliation. “I’m going to Chóldachalíioónok and hear his view on this.” She paused at the door and glanced back at him, “You can either come or wait to hear when I come back.” “Gators eat me if I’m going let you go without me and not tell my story also.” He yanked his shoes back onto his feet and stormed after her. He breathed out, wanting her to hear him, “Maybe he’ll dissolve this union.” A tear dropped down her cheek, “Yes, perhaps he will.” Others of the village watched on, some trained eyes on them all the way through the walkways. Laáfchan shouted back, “You would like that wouldn’t you!” “Chóldachalíikáaoónok!”, she snapped back the tanned skin around the large chickee near the center of the village. In the large center room, a man with short, dark brown hair stood with others looking over maps of Chiíkoak and the river systems from the western bay across the peninsula. He pointed at a point on the eastern coast. Opening his mouth to speak, everyone turned to face her, interrupting the flow. Her face reddened as she turned to leave the chickee. Chóldachalíikáaoónok stepped out of the chickee, pulling the canvas back. The other men and women in there walked down the steps. A smile came over his face, “I could hear you at least half of the way here. Were that I could marry the Vesgarians to some other peoples may that they would fight themselves in circles.” He paused when no one laughed, “So this is serious then? Come inside.” Laáfchan followed the chief into the chickee. If the chief married the Vesgarians off to another culture, and they behaved as he has behaved in marriage, the married nations would in-fight and war within months. The three of them came into the same table with the map on it. “Chóldachalíioónok, my wife has not performed her duties to home and family.” The accusation cut through the short silence and Chóldachalíioónok’s eyes dimmed for a moment. “Many long days have I traveled into the bay, fished, and returned to find no cooked food, nothing gathered, dwindling firewood.” He lied about the problem. Laáfchan knew Janlaaaiik tried her best and supported him in the worst of times; however, the aggressions against one another over little things piled up. The desire to get even, often, outweighed the desire to make things right. The shame of this piled on to his anger and resentment and continuing to attack felt easier and easier. “I have other things I have to do. The child cannot go completely unclothed in the sun. I cannot gather firewood when he has not cut any.” She continued for a moment. Laáfchan scoffed at her. The reasons she listed, he obviously felt were unimportant or at the very least invalid. He breathed out, “Perhaps it is time to dissolve our marriage”, and Chóldachalíioónok listened. He lifted his hand. Standing up he moved out of the room. “I will return shortly.” He left the chickee. The Janlaaaiik and Laáfchan sat across the table from one another. The only sound in the room was their child. The goos and the gah’s of the toddler only brightened faces for moments before making eye contact with one another and becoming re-engulfed in the argument. Several more minutes passed and Chóldachalíioónok returned. He brought with an orange in his hand. He placed one orange, injured and rife with flies, on the table. He feinted a smile toward the husband and wife. Laáfchan huffed. “This is not a time for children’s tales of love.” “Shush, let Chóldachalíioónok speak!” Chóldachalíioónok eyed the orange, shooing flies away before turning to the two partners. “That’s exactly what it’s time for. Though I will not tell the story verbatim. Instead, I will come to you with a tale of warning of what happens when you attack the flesh, the union.” He pointed at the orange as flies circled it. "First, I’ll remind you of the tale”, he leaned forward in his chair over the table. “Aachkíinooláak saw that there were two, husband and wife, that had separated. The two wandered off to separate sides of what we now know as Deer Lake. He, in unison, went to both husband and wife with the first oranges in his creation.” “He came to them in human form, with an orange in hand, he said to them, ‘See the orange, I have made it for you. Rubbing his thumb over the exterior he said, ‘See the flesh. It is as bright as the sun. Granting you bright days eternal’. The two glanced at one another but seemed overall uninterested in the story. “We’ve heard the...”, Laáfchan attempted to interrupt. “He broke the flesh with his fingers. ‘See, the flesh is tough but flexible. It is strong and resilient. It is not rigid and impossible to work with’. He peeled away the flesh entirely and revealed the fruit beneath. After all of the skin was removed, he handed a piece to them. ‘See the fruit. The skin, the flesh, protects the fruit. That flesh is your union. The fruit is yourself, your vulnerabilities, your fears, your insecurities, individually but bound together.” Chóldachalíioónok reached back and grabbed two ripened pieces of oranges. He placed the fruit in front of the Laáfchan and Janlaaaiik. “He said, ‘Taste it. It is sweet like the love between you two. Take this and remember your love. Nothing is as strong as the love you grow and share. Toughen the skin of your union through change. Make it flexible through communication. Ripen yourselves within and grow soft with one another.’” The two of them ate the piece of orange that was offered to them. The ripeness of the fruit made it sweet with the citrus kick. “We have heard this story before. I understand why you’re telling it, but don’t understand how it applies here. We want to dissolve our union.” “Do you?” “We said that didn’t we?” “You want to dissolve your union over lack of smoked fish? And you yours over him not hunting instead of fishing?” Chóldachalíioónok chuckled. “Do you think that others have not had these fights before? Or that this is reason to separate and part ways?” Pointing to the fruit with a hole in the middle. “This orange fell from its tree, but the illustration is still good. You attacked your union here before me. You did it in the path here. I heard it at least once, but don’t know how many times you’ve done it. The union you have is the flesh of the orange.” The flesh of the damaged orange was mostly intact; however, the flies dug into the fruit inside through the hole and spoiled it from the inside. “You can see that the flesh, mostly, is whole. It was damaged, while not from within, from a point. Allowing all manner of bugs, dirt, and filth inside. This is the same as what happens if you attack your union too often. You tear a hole, even a small one, and let in that which can damage you from the inside.” Chóldachalíioónok sighed. “Once the damage to the flesh is done one can tell themselves, ‘It’s just one kiss from someone else’. One can tell themselves, ‘It’s not a problem to complain to another woman, or man, about my partner\`. As soon as the first fly enters in, it lays eggs and eats the love, deteriorating it from the inside. The feeling in the room changed. The married couple stared at the flies swarming around the orange. The inside blackened with flies and rot. The two of them glanced at one another. “I...”, Laáfchan spoke up. “No, not here”, Chóldachalíioónok interrupted him. He waved his hand, “Go home. Speak privately. Nurture your flesh to protect your love and fears. Toughen yourselves, fortify your union.” He shooed them out of the chickee and followed them out. The child, struggled against its mother’s arms, close to throwing a tantrum in hunger. “Thank you, Chóldachalíioónok”, Laáfchan turned around to him. “I have seen what happens when the skin is wounded. I would like to see it as seldom as I can”, he closed the flap of the tanned skin wall on the chickee. Laáfchan turned away and walked slightly behind his Janlaaaiik. This time, the two of them walked in silence as the bay turned a deep orange and the moons hung in the sky. Chóldachalíioónok’s wife left several days ago. How long ago, precisely, Laáfchan failed to remember. Since then, the chief looked out for others more often and attempted to be more cheery. His wife, presumably, traveled south to another tribe in the confederacy where her family left. He did not know and asking felt wrong. He left his prying thoughts as thoughts and continued down the path after Janlaaaiik. The two of them returned home. Silence washed over their home for the first time in weeks. No yelling or crying emanated from the walls. Laáfchan prepared his tools for the next day. He placed his boots against the post near the door flap. His hands worked the alt off of his shoes with his hands as best he could. Placing his shirt by the window he opens the flap so that wind could hit it. She fed the child, laid it down, and then the two of them sat on their bed together. They faced one another but said nothing for several minutes. The silence worried him, as it had never been a good sign before. The last time the two of them had been silent, they ignored one another for two days before the first words erupted into a fight. Janlaaaiik reached out and touched her Laáfchan’s hand. She peered into his eyes. “I am afraid. I am afraid that you do not want me anymore. That I do not do enough for you. I need to know that you love me and that we can work on this together.” A tear streamed down her face. She moved her hand to wipe it, but Laáfchan did instead. He wished that he had spoken first. Her grace showed itself again and he had to reflect for a second. Every time the two of them had an argument, she was the first to try and find common ground or resolution. He took a breath. He realized that her words were not an attack on him. That she used her words sincerely instead of passive-aggressively. Shook his head. “I do love you. I do not feel that you’re not enough for me. I feel afraid that I am not enough for you. However long the day, I feel like I cannot provide enough. It makes me feel weak and unable to support you”, a small tear welled in his eye, he held back the rest as best he could. “I believe we can work on this.” He bared his insecurities to her. Communication, as the chief said, is the only way to strengthen the marriage. He felt like all of his nerves were bare and his skin rolled back, ready for the slightest pinprick to ignite his body and mind. Her lips curled into a soft smile. “Perhaps the first solution is that we stop talking in ‘I’s and ‘you’ s. “ He nodded to her first suggestion. “Sometimes it feels like we attack one another than working together. We should speak in ‘we’ s.” Her eyes peered into his as he mulled over her statement. “I agree”, he stated. She opened her mouth, but he continued, “We agree. We should not talk in opposition to one another.” She smiled at him. “I also think that I should spend more time out. I can fish in the mornings and hunt in the evenings, rest in the midday when the sun is hottest.” “Yes, that is a fantastic idea!” He looked down into her lap. “I should see if my mother or yours can watch over the baby while I go tend to the fields with the other women.” She paused, “I just wanted more time with him before I went back to work.” Laáfchan shook his head, “No, I was wrong for being so hard on you. You need to take your time with the child as you can. I was in the wrong before.” He patted her hand with his free hand, rubbing his thumb against hers. “You were right though. The child can walk. There is no reason for me to stay home with him when others can watch him. I need to carry my weight not only for us but for our child”, she retorted. He nodded, “Okay. If that is how you feel, we will honor it together.” The two of them embraced one another as the sun fell below the coast. The sister moons bore half faces above the shimmering water. The wind blew through the canvas flaps, bringing the scent of salt off the bay. Hours later and the sun rose through the trees to the west. A beam of light shone through the window cut into the chickee wall. Falling on the couple, illuminating them in a new day, Janlaaaiik rested with her head upon Laáfchan’s chest. Calm remained until he stirred. He dressed, pulling his boots over his feet and out the door to the bay. The two of them pulled the canvas up, rolling it with their hands at either side. Their chickee now looked like many others along the path. Open so that the wind from the beach may cool their days and nights. Their home stood open, more open, for everyone to hear. Janlaaaiik, true to her words, followed behind dressed for the gathering.