The Story Keeper

Jim Garnet looked visibly uncomfortable. For a man accustomed to living in the bush country with natives, wearing a suit and tie was clearly not his attire of choice. But when you write a book, the results can force you to do a lot of things that are out of your comfort zone.

In this case, it was sit for an interview with a reporter for an article in the Sunday paper. "They have a readership of one million people," his publisher had said. "We need them to write up your story!"

"So, Dr. Garnet, I understand that you have been with the Kumari people on a remote island in the South Pacific," Jill Stump said, beginning the interview. "How long were you with them?"

"I lived among the Kumari for about two and a half years."

"And what was your purpose for being there?"

"As a social anthropologist, my goal was to fully document the culture and society of this very isolated tribe before civilization could creep in and influence them."

"In your book about the Kumari you spend a lot of time examining their social structure. What did you find to be the most interesting or compelling aspect of their culture?"

"The Kumari people were very different from us in many ways," Jim stated authoritatively. "They were more egalitarian than I expected that they would be, although the men did have more authority than the women. Still, girls could refuse marriage if they chose and men were forced by the tribal elders to treat their wives with great respect. The most striking part of their culture, though, was the tribal story keeper."

"The story keeper?"

"Yes. There was one story keeper each village in the region I was in. The boy who would be the story keeper was selected at a very young age upon the death of the previous story keeper."

"What did the story keeper do?" Jill asked.

"Just what the name implies," replied Jim. "Have you ever heard a story so awful that you didn't want anyone else to know about it, but you had to tell someone? Or have you ever had a secret that was tormenting you so much that you had to tell someone?"

Jill nodded in understanding.

"Among the Kumari, there would be one person designated as the story keeper. This man never had to hunt or work in the traditional sense. He was held in high regard whether he was six years old or sixty. And anytime anyone wanted to, they could meet with him and tell them their story."

"So, they would get whatever was troubling them off their chest and give it to the story keeper?"

"That's right. He served a vital role in helping the village cope emotionally as individuals and as a group. I suppose the closest thing we have to one in our culture is a priest at confession."

"That must've made the story keeper a very powerful man in the village," noted Jill.

"It did," Jim agreed. "If the story keeper came up to someone and pointed his walking stick at them, the rest of the tribe would, without question, grab that person and punish them immediately."

Jim continued, "They understood that the story keeper had heard enough about that person from so many others that the tribe needed to purge him of his evil influence. In my time there, this happened only a couple of times and everyone knew from their own experience that the story keeper was correct in his decision."

"But what if the story keeper was mean or wanted vengeance?"

"The tribal elders watched over the story keeper very closely. He was not allowed to live with his family and sometimes did not even know who his family was. All of the story keepers needs were met, but he was never allowed to marry. As a result, he had nothing to gain or lose from any decision he made."

"But why would anyone ever talk to the story keeper? Wouldn't they be afraid of what he'd do with their stories? He could tell everyone in the village!"

"That's why they chose young children for the role," Jim replied. "It  was easier to cut their tongues out when they were little."

Jill gasped in horror. "You don't mean to say that . . ."

Jim nodded. "When the previous story keeper died, the tribal elders would select a new story keeper and then ensure that the boy would never be able to pass on to anyone else the stories that he heard."

"Did you ever see this happen?"

"Yes. Twice. Once in my village and once in a village about 15 miles away."

"Why didn't you stop it? Surely your professional detachment didn't extend that far?" Jill asked.

Jim squirmed slightly. He knew that he could brush the reporter off with the standard response of all anthropologists, but instead he paused.

Finally, Jim answered, "I suppose because I found myself visiting the story keeper several times myself."



(c) 2016, Kevin H. Grenier