in the vast and desolate lands of wyoming, at the foothills of the black hills, native american warriors attacked a caravan carrying wagons full of furs, leather, and exotic spices brought from the east. after all the men were killed, the chief of the tribe began cutting the throats of the women, lined up like pearls, one by one, as their screams accompanied the wind. this was the last feast, and the chief was taking his time, not rushing the job. when he had piled seven women on the ground, the screams ceased, but there was still one woman waiting at the end of the line.
she was dressed in a shimmering, silk garment adorned with golden embroidery, which looked like a bag full of treasures. draped over her shoulders was an expensive fur coat. her hair, styled into a flawless bun adorned with small jewels, screamed nobility. her face hid the fear she felt. the chief, clad in war attire adorned with beads and feathers, stood directly in front of her. in his hand, the knife gleamed, reflecting the last rays of the sun. the chief stepped toward her resolutely. the woman raised her head high, fearlessly locking eyes with his, and she spoke:
“come on, strike! what are you waiting for? kill me, savage! but know this: this knife cannot silence someone like me. i have lived! my life had meaning. but your life? shallow, primitive, and hollow. you are nothing but a killer. what else have you done? what have you taught your children? what have you built for yourself? even the very earth you stand on is deeper and wiser than you. you have not evolved. you are nothing. you are absolutely nothing. what will happen when you kill me? what will remain? nothing. because people like you have nothing, and they never will. you are ghosts trapped in the darkness of the past. you know how to kill, how to plunder, but you don’t know how to create, how to understand, how to grow. you are nothing but shadows, lost in the dark, destined to be forgotten. me? i am something you could never comprehend. i know life. not just surviving but truly living. i raised my children, cultivated my land, and nurtured love. people like you only know how to destroy. everything you touch with this knife disappears. you chose to remain primitive. you are a handful of people who can’t even stand on the edge of civilization… destined for nothingness. go ahead, finish it. because that’s all people like you know how to do: destroy. but remember, killing someone like me is not a victory for someone like you—it is just another reminder of your pathetic existence. people like me die, but we are never forgotten. and you? your name will fade so quickly that even you won’t remember it. and that’s why you are not even worthy of stepping on the same ground as me. a life like yours, aimlessly drifting, destroying a life like mine, one that was lived to the fullest… now, that would be irony.”
the chief didn’t understand a single word of what the woman said. but the way she behaved, facing death so boldly, deserved every bit of his attention. yet he was growing bored. this mormon woman, deeply devoted to her faith yet paradoxically draped in finery and contradictions, continued:
“and do you know what? i will gladly accept that irony. because in this world, i left a mark. but you? you are nothing. and you will remain nothing. i embarked on this journey for my faith! i walked the path the lord showed me, and i devoted my life to his service. i lived this life well, and now it’s time for the next one. but you—”
and the chief slit her throat.
