Schafa was an ordinary woman. She lived in the land of Gorn and the Gonians were hospitable people. One of the rules of their society was to welcome strangers to their homes. One day Shafa’s husband returned from hunting with two strange men who were clearly from a distant land. Shafa served drink and food to the guests and that night, she made a bed for them.
Now Shafa was very uneasy to have these men under her roof. She felt their evil intent but what could she do. They were her guests.
That night asleep was broken with troubled dreams. Some time later she awoke to the sound of screams and cries. Outside the house was a scene of chaos. People running, shouting and screaming. Houses were burning.
Shafa ran outside and seeing one of her friends running past grabbed her. Her friend motioned towards the Chief’s dwelling and made a sign of a hand across her throat. Dead. What treachery was this. But she knew it was the work of her uninvited guests.
Running toward the Chief’s dwelling she saw by moonlight the two men loading horses with sacred treasures belonging to her people. They were about to leave. In rage she ran towards them and grabbed the reins of one of the horses. At the same time she felt the cold blade of steel on her arm and she fell back bleeding onto the ground.
Gradually the slow process of rebuilding their shattered lives of the village began. A new Chief was elected, homes were repaired and the brave people began to put their lives back together as best they could. Shafa had her arm stitched up and it began to heal.
But Shafa was not the same. Every time she thought of the two men she felt a surge of rage. The injustice of it seemed to eat up from the inside. At the meetings that the Gornians held, Shafa would fly into a temper and curse the two men. Friends would plead with her to accept the past and move on but she seemed unable to. At one such meeting she held up her arm and tore out the stitches to her wounds so it bled afresh. Daily she announced to anyone who would listen that she would not let the wounds heal as a mark of the atrocity that the people had suffered. Her friends feared for her health.
The weeks passed and Shafa refused all treatment to her arm. The wound became infected and swelled up. The poison started to move through the body and she became weak. As she lay on a bed, she was visited by one of the elders. He sat and held her hand and said softly “Shafa, why are you allowing the strangers to do this to you? Your death is yet another victim claimed. What does that achieve?
With that he left her house. The following day, Shafa agreed to be treated.