prompt: bark, title: history lessens in "the next big thing" flash fiction

Amongst Frank’s peoples, and in every other sasquatch culture he had ever heard of, there was a tradition more ancient than written language, more holy than any red-wood stand, the sacrament they called The Bath of Ashes. It wasn’t exactly a part of any religion, rather was considered the firmament of civic identity. Whenever a yeti was found in possession of vastly more than they’d ever need in one lifetime, hoarding in the service of power or prestige, a gaping pit was dug. All the bark would be stripped from their very tallest tree and thrown to the bottom. The community would then come together to assault the hoarder and liberate one half of everything they owned, while also taking that individual into forced custody. They’d be forced to watch as their fellows made a carnival of throwing half of everything they owned onto the holy kindling, then lighting their contraband ablaze. It was vitally important this thievery from their shared community was not redistributed, no matter how valuable or useful or dear, it was more important to make their awful sin burn away before their very eyes. Anything the community needed would be replaced by Earth’s blessings or by their intellect eventually, the stuff didn’t matter, what mattered was a collective lesson: When one lives beyond reasonable means, everything can and will go wrong.

These small clusters of beings understood that they were limited by the settlements of humans, we were goddamned everywhere, that if yeti started living unrealistically, no amount of magic could protect them from being found by us little bald greed monsters and overwhelmed by the vastness of our numbers. Humans speak of quick population growth as “breeding like rabbits” but sasquatches say “fucking like people”. They knew an acceptance of avarice would doom them to extinction, so when one of them went down that path, they would need to watch their crimes be consumed by flame. And when those embers cooled? They were cast into their sins’ residue, to bathe in the ashes of selfishness, allowed to choose whether they desired to perish there or painfully crawl back home with the stink of shame hanging upon their fur for weeks.

It was, in Frank’s estimation, the only reason his kind had lasted for even as long as they did.

“In Ancient Rome,” I told him, “they had people paid to stand in the back of the chariots of the returning triumphant generals, to remind them that they were not gods, that their victory didn’t turn them into gods.” “Ah.” Frank raised a giant hairy eyebrow, “And how did that work out?” “Quite well,” I said, “for a while. Until the generals realized they could just murder them, then get back to believing that they were actually gods.” I paused. “Rome collapsed soon after that.” “I thought Rome fell because of poisoned plumbing, Mike.” “Oh,” I frowned, “that’s just what the men who believe themselves gods put into textbooks, so places like Los Angeles can exist.”