2023 Short Story & Essay Contest: Honorable Mention, High School Short Story Contest
Kipkurui stood at the edge of the starlit opening accompanied by his torch, staring at the bushes, trying to make his mind wander away from the squeals behind him. After they died down, he let himself turn around to see his father, Matsame, with blood on his hands, praying over the lamb’s body. After Matsame finished, he turned toward his son with a disappointed but forgiving look and said, “Soon, you’ll have to stop doing that. You’ll have to start doing this yourself, and then we get to cut your hair, and you’ll finally be a man of the tribe.”
Kipkurui looked at the dusty dirt. The pool of blood from the lamb had already started seeping into the ground, staining the drying surface. He timidly responded, “I know. But can’t we wait for just a little while more? There can only be so much harm in letting things be for a little while more.” He walked toward the cliff edge and started stroking the back of his head, running his hand over his hair. Then a smile came upon his face, and he said to his father, “Plus, I wanna enjoy my hair for a little while more before I have to cut it bald like you.”
The joke made Matsame let out a sweet chuckle. He walked up next to Kipkurui at the cliff edge and looked upon the fields stretching out into the horizon, tucked into the landscape like blankets on the sleeping world. The dim light of the stars revealed enough to see hints of vegetation, creeks, crinkles and turns but not enough to provide color to the open plain. Color that had once lied thick in its sheets under the former sunlight. A color that still rested plainly as day in the father’s mind, keeping him warm in the night’s cool dark. This warmth kept his hope burning dimly but still enough for him to ease up and reply, “Fine. We can wait a little longer. We can let things be for just a moment. But only for a moment because we will need you to grow up eventually. We don’t know when the night will end, and until then, we need to be strong for however long that may be. And we must tend to the sacrifices, or this will never cease. All I want is for you to be able to see the world in the form of the day like you did as a young boy. And the same for your children and many more to come.”
With his childlike glee, Kipkurui thanked his father and celebrated to himself as they then went down the hill.
You could see the glimmer of the many fires throughout the settlement from afar. It looked like an island of light in the dark sea, though to say it was an island would be a lie. The flames could always die out, leaving them to tread water before drowning in the dark. In actuality, it was more like a life raft on which they had drifted around aimlessly under the night sky, moving on whenever resources ran scarce or Shaman deemed it due. Kipkurui and Matsame were greeted and given remarks on the sacrifice as they passed through. The people were at different stages of their daily cycles scattered throughout the village. Many would sleep as others worked. There were women preparing ingredients for the stews over the fires. Girls sat at their hut entryways meticulously crafting jewelry and toys from what they could get their hands on. The boys played and ran along the huts except for when their mothers told them off, to which they would stop, only to start again when they were out of view. The men sat around the fires talking and arguing about their many opinions, which typically devolved into fights that only stopped when the old shaman walked by with his big walking cane. A walking cane they could all vividly remember breaking their skin when they were little. When they came upon the sheep pen, Kipkurui ran over and leaned over the fence. There he promptly greeted his favorite white lamb he called Tomi. His father came behind him and asked, “Which one do you think we should offer next?”
Kipkurui kept his attention toward petting Tomi and answered, “I don’t know. But not Tomi. Can we please keep him? He’s too valuable to sacrifice.”
Matsame didn’t reply and just looked at his son petting the lamb and thought to himself, “The meaning of it all is to strip ourselves of value to show our will for the sun to rise again. It went away for a reason, so we have to give it one to come back. If it’s hard for us to kill that lamb then we should go up the hill with it, and even more, it should be my son to kill it. But I can’t do that to him. He does deserve more time to be a boy. The night has taken so much from us but I won’t let it take that from him.” Matsame put his hand on Kipkurui’s shoulder and led him toward their hut.
As they entered, they were warmly greeted with, “Kipkurui! Matsame! The offering went well, I’m sure?” “Of course, Baitawa, can’t you tell by the blood on me?” Matsame joked to his brother, and they laughed. After they settled down, Matsame went and kneeled by the bed in the corner. There lay a fragile old woman resting deadly still. Her eyes were open, and you could see her body shift as she breathed, but that was all there was. Matsame leaned in to kiss her forehead and said, “Maman, we were just up on the hilltop and gave a beautiful offering. I don’t think it will be long before we are heard.” The woman did not react to either the words or the feeling of his lips on her forehead. She lay there staring into the distance, with a gaze that held nothing, just as she had before he came and would after he was gone. Still, he stayed there by her side, holding her hand. This state of hers had started during the darkest hour of the night when she had simply laid down and never got up. The shaman had reassured them that it was no physical ailment, but rather it was a matter of the soul.
Matsame was half asleep when Baitawa asked him, “Will you come down to the river and fetch some water with me?” In a begrudged but soft voice, Matsame replied, “You can go get it yourself, brother.” Baitawa said, “I dare not go alone anymore, Matsame. You also need to wash the blood off of you.”
“Someone needs to watch Maman. I won’t leave her alone,” said Matsame.
“She won’t be alone. Kipkirui can watch her. He’s old enough, and it will only be for a moment,” said Baitawa. Matsame looked at Kipkiru, who gave him a reaffirming nod, and with that they took off toward the river.
***
Matsame washed off the dried blood at the river edge as Baitawa sat on the bank with a pot of water and a torch. If you were to lay down to rest in the bed of the cold dark river, looking up toward the surface, then all that would accompany you would be a low muffled roar and specks of glimmering light from stars that penetrated deep enough to reach you. Above the water, it wasn’t much different. The low muffled roar came from the torch and the bush insects and even though they were under the naked sky, it seemed as if over time it had gotten harder and harder for the light to penetrate through the deep dark that had laid itself above them. Because of that, everything seems dimmer than before. The atmosphere’s noise brought peace to Matsame’s mind, which was busy focusing on his self-grooming.
Baitawa’s mind, however, could not let go of an unnerving thought that he had to bring to the surface. “Have you ever seen the spirits in the dark that Shaman talks about?” Baitawa asked.
Matsame stayed silent for a while, thinking over his answer, and replied, “Sometimes I see a violent shake in the bush or I notice silent sneaking footsteps walking behind me but whenever I take a closer look or turn around there is nothing there and I simply give reason to the world playing tricks.”
They returned to silence, until after a while, Baitawa confessed, “I saw one here last time I fetched water.”
This piqued Matsame’s interest, who slowed his cleaning and began listening intently.
“After I had filled my pot with water, I looked up to see a figure. It was a beautiful nude woman dancing on the other river bank. I was shocked, I didn’t know what to think but it entranced me so I just stared at her. As she moved, I began to hear drums and chanting so clearly as if I was kneeling in the middle of their orchestra. Then finally, she looked at me and gave me such a warm smile that I couldn’t help but to smile back.” Baitawa became more uncomfortable and began to stammer. “But then in an instant, her skin sagged and her hair grayed and her warm smile widened further and further until her mouth formed a wicked gape. I fell backward. I wanted to run far away from there but I couldn’t move. I could hardly breathe. She walked on top of the water toward me. I tried to look away or close my eyes but I couldn’t break my stare from her. All I could do was cry.”
Tears started streaming down his cheeks as he continued telling his story. “She got faster and faster and I was so sure I was going to die, but she stopped right in front of me, staring at me with her evil eyes. Her skin fell off in chunks and she started to rot, all she became was dust being carried away by the wind back into the shadows. I stayed there still for however long, so sure that she was going to come back any moment until she didn’t.”
Matsame was speechless for a moment, processing his brother’s account but seeing Baitawa’s debilitating nervousness and shaking made him try to console him, “She…she didn’t get to you because she couldn’t. We’re safe now.” Matsame barely believed himself and neither did Baitawa who replied, “How do you know that? She was probably playing with her food. The cruel thought of showing me what was to come must have been what brought her that grin. She could come back anytime and there’s nothing I can do about it. And after she’s done with me, she’ll wear my skin and come for you. What a sick joke.”
As Matsame tried to find a helpful thought, he remembered what Shaman had said about this and brought it up to Baitawa: “No, that’s not true. She won’t come for you. Shaman said they can only force you into what you truly want to do. The darkest thoughts, sealed away by reason. And you don’t have any deadly thoughts?”
Baitawa, who seemed to have calmed down, replied with, “No.”
“So, you’re safe then. She can’t touch you. That must be why she didn’t take you. Not to torture you with the nightmare of what she was going to do but because she couldn’t do anything to you.”
“You’re right,” said Baitawa, who already seemed in a much brighter mood. “I’m safe,” he muttered to himself as he stood up filled with strength and easily grabbed the pot of water and rested it on his head. Matsame, who had finished washing off all the blood, also stood up and they walked back toward the village.
***
They felt a sense of weightlessness as they walked toward the village. A sweet relief. Every step felt lighter than the other until they came to the huts and did not see anyone. Baitawa quickly put down his pot and they desperately ran through the village looking until they saw a crowd gathered around their hut. They quickly ran over, and when they were noticed, the crowd silenced and stared at them. Many of them were crying with painful ugly faces. As the two of them stood there still with only a slight awareness of the situation, Shaman walked over to them with tears rolling down his face and put his arms around them. “Oh, you poor boys,” he let out. “Don’t go in there.”
As if Matsame had heard the opposite, he escaped the old man’s embrace and ran into the hut, quickly followed by Baitawa and the sorrowed gazes of the crowd. Blood had poured out from the entryway and was seeping into the ground. The inside was red and in the center of it all lay Maman sprawled out on the floor with a bloodied knife in her hand. She had been cut all over. Her chest, stomach, arms and neck. There were bits of her lying all around. Baitawa went in and kneeled next to her. Matsame stayed standing at the entryway. He was looking at her, and this time, she was looking at him right back. It was as if they had traded places. Lying there dead, her gaze held the intent of purpose and life that she had possessed once before, while his gaze was now empty, robbed of the essence it had held moments before.
“Kipkurui,” he let out. “Kipkurui! Where’s Kipkurui?”
“Pappa!” yelled out a small voice. Matsame ran out of the hut and saw Kipkurui crying. Quickly he grabbed him and hugged him tightly. “Kipkurui, are you OK?”
“Yes, Papa,” said Kipkurui through small sobs. There they stayed for a while, holding each other tightly, not daring to let go. Eventually, their grip loosened and Matsame held his son in front of him. Looking into his eyes which were filled with life and feeling, he asked, “What happened, son?”
Kipkurui took a moment to muster himself up and replied, “I was with Maman, watching her as you told me to but then I heard Tomi scream, and he wouldn’t stop, so I had to check. I got to him and calmed him down, but by the time I got back, I found Mama, and… she was… she was–”
Before Kipkurui got his last word out, Matsame stood up and slowly walked over to the pen where Tomi was. He stared at him with his ill-gotten glare. There Tomi was, calmly chewing cud, blissfully unaware of anything outside the four walls of his little world. Matsame kept staring. His mother had been traded for a lamb. That’s the worth his mother had been deemed to be. An ordinary foul animal who had unfairly survived too long because his son liked his fur. Those were the kinds of trades that happen in the night. The night must end.
Matsame climbed over the fence and tied a rope around Tomi’s neck, tightening it harshly which made him squeal. Matsame then marched him through the pen gate and lit a torch by a fire.
Kipkurui ran up to him and fearfully said, “What are you doing?”
Looking straight ahead without a glance at his son, Matsame sternly replied, “I’ve been putting this off for too long for your sake but it is time. Don’t try and stop me because you won’t.”
Kipkurui stood still as Matsame walked toward the hill. He thought this would be the last he would see of Tomi but as he watched and saw how Tomi fought and pulled against the rope, it lit something in him. He went forward and started running. He gained speed and desperately tackled his father. Matsame fell a few steps forward but was still standing. Now he was looking at his son. He swapped the torch into his other hand with the rope and walked toward him.
With rage in his voice, he yelled at him, “Did you not hear me?” He grabbed his small forearm, squeezed tightly, and yanked. “Now you’re killing him yourself!”
Kipkurui desperately tried to pull and peel off his father’s grip as he dragged him and Tomi toward the hill. With each step, he envisioned in greater detail what was to come.
***
They arrived at the moonlit opening, invading it with the light of the torch and sounds of struggle. Matsame trekked into the center, dragging his son and the lamb next to the previous decomposing offering.
Kipkurui watched it, seeing Tomi lying there instead of the other poor lamb. He couldn’t bear the thought. Matsame pulled his arm and threw him forward, letting him go. As he stumbled, Matsame tripped the struggling lamb down sideways on the ground, putting his foot on its shoulder and tightly pulling the rope, extending its neck. Then Matsame pulled his son closer and put a knife in his hand.
There they were, waiting for the next moment. “Cut his throat,” Matsame ordered, but Kipkurui was frozen. “Cut his throat!”
Kipkurui, distressed, looked at his father’s eyes, then Tomi’s, and lastly, at the knife. Kipkurui grieved over the imminent parting of his friend and shakingly leaned down. He held his knife close to Tomi’s throat, readily working up the strength in him. Then Kipurui took a deep breath and lunged forward, slicing his father’s hand. Matsame retreated backward in pain, letting go of the rope and the torch. Tomi spurted toward the bush, and Matsame instinctively ran after him but could not catch him before he was gone. Matsame standing at the bush turned around and saw his son trembling in fear, pointing the knife at him.
Matsame marched toward him and effortlessly snatched the knife from his hands. He gripped the back of Kipkurui’s hair and squeezed tightly, pulling him back so that he looked down at his face. Kipkurui was twitching and bursting with tears from pain, frantically trying to claw off the grip. “You! You selfish brat!” Matsame yelled in his face while hot tears streamed down both their cheeks. “You’ve refused to grow up!” The torch lying on the ground burnt out and they were left with the dim lighting of the moon. “You had it your way. I let you dream and you repay me like this!” A faint drum could be heard from the bushes around them. “You love a lamb more than your father!” Commotions of animals started in the bushes. “You have caused too much damage!” The drums got louder and the animal sounds became rallies of screams. “You killed your mother when she pushed you into this world!” The noises escalated and so did Matsame. “You killed Maman!” The drums and the screams were so loud that Matsame had to scream at the top of his lungs “You don’t want the night to end!” He slammed the knife into his son’s chest, again and again.
Quicker and quicker, matching the drums’ increasing tempo. Blood flung with each exit of the knife. Kipkurui gasped with each pound. His ribs cracked under the force, falling into the cavity. Matsame didn’t stop.
***
After his final splattering blow, Matsame looked into the eyes of his son. They were empty, devoid of all that had been there. It was dead silent. He let go of Kipkurui’s body, watching as it fell to the ground. The sticky blood covered him. He couldn’t see the red. He couldn’t see any color. He observed the pile of dark that was his son’s colorless body. Absently watching, he noticed a glimmer of gold. The dusty dirt ground gilded in front of him. Then the puddle of blood was dimly red. He looked up from the ground toward the cliff. There was blue, purple and orange looming over the edge. He hurried over and looked toward the horizon. Rising divine. Glory laid itself on every creation. There he stood eternal, bathing in the stream of light that shone through him. The tears were dried off his cheeks, and the blood was washed from his hands, rinsing him of the sins he burdened.
