seemed beyond his. For the first time he understood his son’s envy. A brief moment of dark resentment curled from down in his belly and knew that if he did not fight this feeling with every ounce of his soul, he would slowly become more and more like his son, dessicated and filled with envy which would gradually become hate.
“You were called by the Ancestors, Mekutei. You did well.”
Relieved, Mekutei spoke with excitement. “I saw the tall one with the red feathers. He was the one who told me.”
A great shout went up from all of the gathered villagers, all save one, whose heart had been bruised even more deeply. They sat Mekutei on a chair carved from a large root. They feasted on the foods that had been blessed, they drank the mulled banberry juice and would have reveled all night if the Chief had allowed it. He held up his hand and the chanting stopped.
“There is much to do. Sleep now. Tomorrow we will work.” He turned and went with ceremony into his own hut.
The next day dawned clear with the sun rising orange over the purple hills. It would be hot they knew and the tribal leaders began to organize them into groups. Without complaint they began to do the heavy work that would save them. They picked all the maize that was even close to being ready, then ran the water buffalo through the field, destroying what was left. They wrapped all the dried meat into the huge banana fronds and tied the bundles with vines. They dug up the field of yams. They filled all the bladders with water from the river and tied them onto the small carts. They dismantled the huts packing the straw and wood into bundles and carried them across the stream and into the dense forest.
They left three huts in places and they burned those. They killed one of the small animals and poured its blood throughout the encampment. They broke a few of the pottery vessels and scattered the pieces about.
By the end of the second day the Chief gathered them at the center of their now destroyed village. He held out his arms.
“All of this we can rebuild. Not one of our women or children or men shall be sacrificed to the evil of the slavers. You have done well. Now, let us disappear.”
They sang quietly and mournfully as they walked into the thickness of the surrounding green, removing the trail behind them with branches and water. They walked upstream a day’s journey and waited in the damp darkness of the jungle. The women nursed the babies with care lest their cry alert the enemy to their presence. They waited somberly warding off their fear by telling stories in whispered voices. After a day the Chief sent Mekutei’s father to the edge of the village to see what he could of the intruders. “Because you are brave,” he said.
Mekutei’s father felt proud that he had been chosen. The Chief knew that there were other ways to serve the people. Mekutei’s father crossed the stream and walked with panther like steps to the edge of the village and shimmied up the tallest tree from where he could command a full view of the clearing and most of the roads into the area.
He held his breath as he saw in the distance, the men smashing the already broken pottery in their shuddering rage that their long journey into the interior had produced no hostages. They yelled curses and shot their rifles into the air to express their hatred. Mekutei’s father felt the bile rise in his throat as he recognized men without heart, men caught up in the very soul of cruelty. He watched them for a moment then felt his fear rise up again. He knew that if they were as well trained as he was, they would feel him even if they did not see him. He allowed his breath to soften and he joined his heart with the tree and he disappeared into it.
Only when he heard their dissonant voices recede into the jungle did he reappear and climb down noiselessly, dropping to the ground in a crouch ready for quick movement. As he ran stealthily back to report to his Chief, he felt a momentary gratitude for the skill of his father, the Nganga, even for the ability of his own son. A brief window of salvation opened for his soul, but as he approached the group he saw his father sitting next to the Chith Mekutei at his side and the window closed. He had for too long held the resentment that had carved a deep wormhole in his heart.
The people wanted to return to their village that day but the Chief ordered them to remain one more day to be sure that they were safe from the marauders. One more day he said, and they could begin the business of restoring the village. But even at that point, Mekutei’s father was beyond restoring and PapuTlonga knew it. PapuTlonga knew then that the boy would have to be protected. His father had slipped too far into the place of dark hatred.
Africa
Shakan sat motionless in the field surrounded by the whispering grass.
The land stretched open and empty until it touched the edge of the sky. Her breath came short and uneven. No one knew that she too had seen the ‘tall man with the red feathers’ but to reveal her vision would have brought her husband even more shame. She told no one but the moment had changed her. Now she spent long hours alone in the silent meadow watching the sky and the clouds, listening to the cry of the monkeys and the tukan. There was a world hidden within her world and she wanted more than anything to reach into it once again.
She now sat, day after day, watching the sky change color slowly at dawn and dusk. She felt the heat of the sun, watching the few birds circle overhead. She could feel the earth calling for rain, seeing where the grasses were turning brown. Her thoughts kept pushing their way into her mind even though she tried to remain as open as the field before her.
Her husband felt her distance and it made him irritable. He needed her as an anchor when his own feelings swelled and overcame him. But she needed to be quiet and alone. So she sat. Her work for the day had been done. Mekutei seemed to understand and he was at home with the younger children.
She heard a low rumble and watched as a bolt of light cut across the horizon. She gathered her cloak about her and began a slow trot across the savannah. She knew that the evening meal would need some attention so she hurried. When she was young her Mother had told her stories about the time when the women were the chieftains. Then later, there was a time when they were equal to the men. Now they were subservient. The knowledge that her own gift needed to be secret, burned in her throat.
The rain came down hard and soaked her before she reached the hut. She changed her dress quickly and set about the preparations for the evening meal.
Her hair was wet and Mekutei tried to help her dry it quickly but there was no time. Once his father came home he did not dare to help his mother. The slightest attention to her needs brought his father’s wrath.
They all lived in readiness for his sharp anger. Shakan had begun to fear for her son. So young. So gifted. So endangered. Where is the wisdom and justice in all this she wondered. The rain had brought some respite since it was always an occasion for simple tribal jubilation. The rain was a sign of blessing and all tensions seemed to ease with the downpour. Shakan breathed in the sweet smell of the savanna as it drank deeply of the water from the heavens.
Her comfort was short lived. The next morning, her husband awakened them before the sun and shouted for them to gather all their belongings and tie them in bundles for they were to be off. ”Away from this dreaded village,” he said. “I can no longer live in such a place of shame. My son has revealed my lack and now all the village knows that the gift has not landed on my head and never will. My disgrace is now complete.”
He goaded them on as they moaned with heartbreak and horror at the prospect of leaving their home. Shakan feared even more for her son, realizing that once they were out of the watchful eye of the Chief and PapuTlonga, her husband might become even more abusive. She waited until her husband set off to untie their goat for the journey.
“Quickly, run to your grandfather’s house. Tell him. Go.”
Mekutei ran faster than he ever had before, knowing his life depended on it. He roused his grandfather from sleep and in breathless, chopped sentences told of his father’s plans.
PapuTlonga was immediately awake. “Remain here,” he ordered. “I will adopt you. You will be my son.” And he walked as quickly as he could to his holding pen and slung a rope around one of his flock. The animal, chosen for the ceremony