dislodge it from the tree. But cut open, the body of the conk is
banded in glowing shades of gold and bronze, with the texture of
spongy wood, all constructed of tiny threads and air-filled pores.
Our ancestors discovered a remarkable property of this being,
although some say it spoke its own use to us through its burnt
exterior and golden heart. Shkitagen is a tinder fungus, a
firekeeper, and a good friend to the People of the Fire. Once an
ember meets shkitagen it will not go out but smolders slowly in the
fungal matrix, holding its heat. Even the smallest spark, so fleeting
and easily lost, will be held and nurtured if it lands on a cube of
shkitagen. And yet, as forests are felled and fire suppression
jeopardizes species that depend upon burned ground, it is getting
harder and harder to find.
“Okay—what are the other kinds of fire?” my father asks as he
adds a stick to the fire at his feet.
Taiotoreke knows. “Sacred Fire, like for ceremonies.”
“Of course,” my dad says. “The fires we use to carry prayers, for
healing, for sweat lodges. That fire represents our life, the spiritual
teachings that we’ve had from the very beginning. The Sacred Fire
is the symbol of life and spirit, so we have special firekeepers to
care for them.
“You might not get to be around those other fires very often,” he
says, “but there’s fire you must tend to every day. The hardest one
to take care of is the one right here,” he says, tapping his finger
against his chest. “Your own fire, your spirit. We all carry a piece of
that sacred fire within us. We have to honor it and care for it. You
are the firekeeper.”
“Now remember that you’re responsible for all those kinds of