The boy didn’t look his age, he was seven summers old but looked much younger than that. His frail body, from head to toe, was covered with goat and cow skins. The animal skins were warm enough against the winter wind that had been raging for some days. The cold had frozen every bit of happiness in the village. The boy, plump and warm, had left the rest of the cold and hunger-stricken-children glued to their mothers’ breasts, mothers who were trying to warm their own bodies with single pieces of charcoal. That day, like every other day, the boy had come to talk to the fish. The fish were always happy and ready to give joy to their visitor.
The boy staggered upstream, skipping upon the rocks making sure not to get his feet wet. He could see his village a distance away, downstream. Thirty or so huts clustered around the Chief’s kraal, all of which were surrounded by a wall of stone and mortar. That was the only home the boy had ever known.
Of course, he wasn’t allowed to wander off that far from the village, but he knew no one would notice. Not his mother; she was the only healer in the village, always administering herbs to the old and the sick for the entire day. Not his father, the Chief, he was rich and always fixing the villagers’ lives. They did not care about the boy, but the fishes did. The fishes would console and give the boy the love he deserved. With this in mind the boy’s resolve to reach the pond where the fishes waited for him was strengthened. He could see the pond a few paces away.
Then, the pond exploded right in front of his eyes.
A large body of water rose some feet into the air before splashing back to the pond. The boy stood still. His happy fishes were thrown out of the water. Some of the fishes were stuck in the trees. The boy could not fathom what had happened. He watched the pond suspiciously from a little distance away.
As the murky water settled, the boy could see a large fish, twice as large as he was, inside the water. Surely that was magic. Then it popped its head from the water and started coughing and gasping for air. The fish had a human head, a woman’s head. A chill ran through the boy’s spine. He had heard tales of children abducted by mermaids only to be returned to their families decades later. The boy didn’t want to live in a cave under the water, eating worms the mermaid would offer him.
The boy took one step back. The mermaid swam to the edge of the pond. The boy couldn’t run away, not yet anyways, he had to see the mermaid’s hind which was said to be that of a fish. The mermaid dragged itself out of the pond and crawled to the higher ground with its own two feet.
The boy screamed. The only mermaid he had ever seen happened to have a woman’s head and torso but a pair of legs too. It was scary and deserved a scream from the boy. Hearing the boy scream, the mermaid turned to the direction of the boy and screamed even louder. It grabbed a stone and threw it in the boy’s direction. The stone missed by far and fell in the middle of the pond.
“No!” The mermaid jumped into the pond, and started searching furiously where the stone had sunk, “look what you have made me do.”
The boy didn’t know what he had done. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to apologise. He took that moment to observe the mermaid standing waist deep in the water. It was young and pretty enough to conform to the legendary beauty of the mermaids. He thought she could have been a mermaid, but her hair was short, black, and rugged. Her face was pale, not the usual dark complexion the boy was accustomed to seeing in his village. The boy thought she was beautiful and wanted to marry her. Impala skins, which was what she wore, were rare and reserved only for the noble village elders. The usual necklaces, beads and wristbands didn’t interest the boy.
The mermaid walked out of the pond, turning back after every step, hoping to find the stone she had thrown earlier. Between the glances the boy noticed the woman’s belly poking out of her animal skins, she was pregnant.
“Where are the rest of the villagers?” the mermaid asked the boy, who only pointed downstream with his shaky finger. The mermaid looked closely at the boy for the first time, unsure what to make of him, “What is your name, boy?”
“Khumalo,” The boy stammered back. The mermaid’s face saddened at the name. She looked past the boy, all the way to her own past.
“Khumalo. I once knew someone named Khumalo.” She recalled with sorrow.
The mermaid took one last glance at the pond and eagerly made her way down to the village, caressing her huge stomach.
***
Years of experience had taught Rati that it was easy to slice open a bream in one hand motion. That way she would spare herself from the fins that could easily stick her fingers together. She hummed the song her mother had always sang to her. Singing always made chores seem easy. In no time she had sliced open four breams and cleaned out the intestines and was ready to leave to barter with the villagers.
“Singing your witch song again?”
The voice startled Rati but she quickly regained her composure after she noticed it was Khumalo who had sneaked behind her again. She gave him a sly smile and continued with her fish.
” I told you not to startle me when I am doing chores, my mother doesn’t like it.” Rati said, pointing to her mother who was standing in the river staring intently at the waters.
Rati had lived on the riverbank with her mother for as long as she remembered. It had always been the two of them, well, three of them, counting Khumalo who had visited every single day. Since she was a baby Khumalo had come all the way from the village to play with her, none of the children wanted to play with her. She and her mother had never been welcome to stay in the village. Her mother had built a shack from mud and branches and had raised her daughter in it by fishing in the river every day. She was the only fisherwoman known in all the lands.
“I will tell you again, it’s not a witch song. It’s a hymn a trope-bearer uses to prepare the way. I told you what a trope is right?”
“You already told me, Rati,” Khumalo said with resignation,” it is the magical boulder that carried your mother to this land.”
Rati sighed. Despite her mother’s warning Rati had told Khumalo about the trope, a magical rock that needed incantations to open channels to travel to distant lands. Rati’s mother had travelled from those distant lands years ago. She had lost the rock on the first day she had arrived. If her mother was not mistaken the rock lay somewhere in the river. For sixteen years her mother had woken up every morning in search of the rock in the chilly water.
Her mother had told her it was a secret between mother and daughter; but Rati was of age now and would need a husband soon. Khumalo, being a Chief’s son and a close family friend, was a prospect she didn’t want to miss so why keep a secret from someone who would marry her?
“Khumalo, can you accompany me to the village? Rati asked. “I have to trade this basket of fish with the blacksmith”
She knew he would say yes. She had planned it all to happen that way. In preparation for her walk in the village with Khumalo, she had waxed the goat skins she wore. She had to make sure every other girl in the village knew the Rati was laying claim to the Chief’s son.
Khumalo, unable to say no to the prettiest face he knew, grabbed Rati’s basket and led the way, awkwardly glancing at her as she followed in his heels, a smile of triumph on her face.
*
It was just a pond, but they had already started calling her the lady of the lake, a mockery to what she did every day. Except when she was sleeping, she was always in the water looking for the trope. The fish just came to her but what she needed was the trope. She had been searching for it for sixteen years, every single day of them.
On that day she was standing in the water, searching for her way out. She stood up to stretch her back and noticed her daughter cleaning the breams she had caught earlier that morning. Her daughter was as beautiful as a mermaid, none of the girls in the village could compare to her.
On the night of her daughter’s birth, the lady of the lake had seen the beauty of what she had given to the world. A girl with no father, a creature who would suffer the wrath of the world. She gave the little child her own name, Rati. The lady of the lake was sure that her own daughter would suffer the way she had suffered. She was not happy about it, but it was the curse of being raised by a single mother.
Rati, the mother, noticed her daughter cleaning the fish, oblivious to the Chief’s son sneaking up behind her. The daughter was startled for a moment but relaxed a bit when she saw who it was. Then the two started to talk. She was too far to hear anything but from the way her daughter blushed, she knew everything there was.
“It’s a good thing that she fell in love with the Chief’s son. If she gets to marry him, she will live comfortably for the rest of her life,” She said under her breath.
As if on cue the two love birds started to walk towards the village. The boy carrying the basket with the fish whilst the girl followed behind him with a grin on her face. The boy looked happy. Khumalo, that was the boy’s name. The Lady of the lake felt ashamed of herself for not remembering the boy’s name.
On her first day on this strange land, she had met Khumalo, a seven-year-old boy then. He had startled her, and she had lost the trope, she didn’t blame him though. The boy had led her to the village. The villagers did not accept her into their home, she was pregnant but without a husband. They, however, allowed her to build her own shelter near the river. The boy had been fascinated by her belly. He had visited almost every day in her pregnancy months. Upon the arrival of Rati, the daughter, the boy had started visiting every day to play with the child. Sixteen years later they were about to get married. Rati the mother wasn’t disappointed. All she wanted was her daughter not tell Khumalo about the trope.
As Rati and Khumalo disappeared towards the village, Rati the mother then decided to take a break from her search. It was way past midday after all, and she had other duties to attend to.
Everything would had been easier if he were there.
She hadn’t thought about him in years, Sifelani, the father of her daughter. The last time she saw Sifelani, he lay in a pool of his own blood slowly dying from a stab wound. Rati the mother had only glanced once and continued singing the song of the trope bearer. The trope had opened the channels, she had escaped with her yet-to-be-born child. That was the day she had lost her husband and her peace.
As Rati the mother came out of her reverie, she heaved herself out of the water. Just then, she slipped and hit her face on a turtle’s back. She broke a tooth. She glared at the turtle; she hadn’t seen one in ages. She picked it up and closely examined it. The turtle was heavier than expected. It was just a rock. A hiss of disappointment escaped her mouth. She threw the stone near the fireplace, intending to make it a base stone for her cooking pots.
She didn’t notice the fire she had lighted thereafter melt the dirt around the new stone neither did she notice the familiar design of the trope appearing on the stone. She didn’t notice the trope she had hauled in the pond years earlier glowing beside the fire.
*
Khumalo walked slowly, his bare feet crushing dead Autumn leaves on the ground. Years had passed since he had visited Rati in his goat and cow hides. He now wore a cheetah hide; he wasn’t a nobody anymore in village. In his hand he held a long spear. The spear that the royal and the elite only held.
The well-trodden path was familiar to his feet, he could walk all the way with his eyes closed. It was almost evening as he made his way to the lone hut. A flock of birds flew away as he came closer to the hut. No smoke came from the vents or the entrance, Khumalo thought the house was empty.
For a while he thought of going home and coming back the following day, but he decided against it. Whatever was on his mind he had to talk to Rati that day. He was ready to profess his love to her.
He sat outside the hut and waited for her. Between the croaking frogs, the chirping crickets, and a distant laughter of hyenas, Khumalo heard a song. Someone was singing inside Rati’s hut. Without thinking much Khumalo barged into the hut.
From the dimming fire Khumalo could see a woman kneeling in front of a glowing stone. Strange sounds were coming out of her mouth. It took a moment to realise it was Rati’s mother. Sensing the presence of another person the woman turned around to see him glaring at her. She screamed and stood stork still, shocked.
“Khumalo!” She ejaculated, “you scared me.”
Khumalo kept his eyes on the glowing stone. He noticed it changing colour to black. It definitely was the trope.
“I didn’t know you were coming. I was going to speak to you at your ascension tonight. Congratulations Chief Khumalo!”
“Sifelani, Chief Sifelani. That is the name I am taking upon my ascension to the chieftain tonight.” Khumalo spoke softly, surprised at his own ability to keep his composure.
“Rati is not here my son, I will tell her you stopped by.” The mother said picking up the trope and neatly wrapping it in cowhide. She could see Khumalo eyeing it.
“That’s the trope, isn’t it?” The boy started,” You don’t have to lie, Rati had told me all about it. You want to travel to other worlds, taking Rati with you, and leaving me all alone?”
Rati’s mother was taken back by the gentle boy’s sudden outburst. She mumbled something about the trope not working well and leaving Rati behind. Before she could think of a good reply the boy struck her on the forehead with a log from the fire. She didn’t even scream; she just fell dead on the floor. Without giving it much thought, Khumalo grabbed the trope and dug a small hole in the fireplace. He hid the trope inside the hole and covered it with some ash. No one would ever think of looking there.
The realization that he had murdered a woman in her own hut suddenly dawned upon him. Not sure what to do next, the boy who was soon-to-be chief continued staring at the woman on the floor. The dim hut exponentiating the gloominess of the situation. He wasn’t sure what was happening, he stood there looking sheepishly until he heard a voice singing and footsteps approaching the hut.
“Mother?”
*
Chief Sifelani led the procession, his wife followed a few strides behind him,, then came the rest of the villagers. The villagers had been told that on arriving the river bank they had to stop whilst the Chief and his wife continued to make their way to the old hut.
“Chief Sifelani,” the woman called,” can we take a moment to rest?”
“I am sorry my love I keep forgetting your condition.” the Chief said, helping the woman to sit on the ground.
The woman giggled. She knew her husband loved her but hated it when she called him Chief Sifelani, he was always Khumalo to her. The husband caressed her stomach. She was heavily pregnant with their first child.
“We should continue walking,” the woman continued,” I haven’t seen my mother’s place in a long time.”
It was almost a year since Rati had left her home. The night she left; she had come back home from fetching firewood from the forest to find the Chief standing upon her mother’s body. Rati had almost lost her sanity then, begging her dead mother to come back to life.
The Chief had calmed her. He had told Rati how he had come to visit them and discovered Rati’s mother laying on the floor with blood coming out of her cracked skull. In between the sobs and the mourning, Rati had asked about the trope her mother had found. The Chief didn’t know anything, and they had searched everywhere together but to no avail.
” I will postpone my ascension tonight,” the boy had proclaimed,” I will find whoever did this to your mother and punish them. Tonight, come with me to the village, I will marry you and take care of you for the rest of your life.”
Rati had left to become Chief Sifelani’s wife. They had laid her mother to rest the following day. Chief Sifelani had searched for the murderer for several months but didn’t find him. A year later the husband and the wife were going to Rati’s mother’s hut for her final memorial rites. The dilapidated hut was still as gloomy as ever.
Rati walked inside the hut, repeating her mother’s name over and over again, praying to the ancestors to accept her mother’s spirit. She did not know any of her mother’s ancestors, so her prayers were short. The Chief stood at the entrance with a resigned look on his face, his mind wandering to distant lands he didn’t know much about.
“When I was born,” Rati said when she was done with the prayers,” my mother buried my umbilical cord in the centre of the fireplace. That way I was tethered to this place and I will always come back home whatever happens.”
Like a manic, the woman started to dig the fireplace with her fingers. The husband was slow to stop her. Instead of finding her umbilical cord her fingers hit the hard-cold trope.
“Khumalo,” Rati started,” this is my mother’s Trope.”
Chief Sifelani nodded slowly, not sure how it would end this time. He formulated a half-baked lie, but it died on his lips with some confusion.
“Do you know what it means?” She asked with awe on her face.
Yes, he knew what it meant. The world had been opened to her, and she would leave him. Even if he followed her, he wouldn’t be a chief but a nobody. If he stayed, she would take their child and leave him. She would leave him, she the only love he had known. He didn’t want to live without her, he knew he couldn’t live without her.
“I can’t let you do that,” Chief Sifelani said to the wife who had already started chanting the song of the trope-bearer,” Rati, I can’t let you go to those distant lands.”
Rati’s face fell, perplexed by her husband’s adamant answer. She stopped chanting in order to explain to her husband that what they had found was worth more than anything in the world. She turned in the direction of her husband to find him walking towards her with a blade in hand.
She froze. This was something she hadn’t expected. She threw the trope in Chief Sifelani’s direction with all her mighty. The trope hit home, and a moan of pain escaped his mouth. The blade fell first, then the man followed. She grabbed the blade and stabbed the man she loved. He screamed then groaned in pain. She didn’t stop stabbing.
The screams alerted the people they had left at the bank and Rati heard the sound of their feet as they ran towards the hut. She looked at her husband lying in a pool of his own blood. She sat on the floor and started chanting the song of the trope bearer. She could feel the trope getting warm, she could see it start glowing.
The footsteps reached the hut entrance. The trope was glowing but not working. Rati knew that her punishment for killing the Chief would be death. She couldn’t let them take her alive, it was better if she died by her own hand. She stood up, the trope in hand, dashed out of the hut and ran past the confused multitude. She jumped into the river; drowning was a better way to die.
*
Rati could feel herself swallowing lots of water. She went deeper into the water. No, drowning wasn’t a good option. Rati changed her mind and decided to get out of the water. Rati pushed her head out of the water and swam to the edge of the river. She crawled to a higher ground where the water couldn’t reach her. A scream pierced her ear. Startled, she turned and screamed back even louder. Thinking that it was one of the villagers trying to capture her. Rati hurled the thing nearest to her, realising a little late that it was the trope she had thrown. A little splash told her it had fallen somewhere in the water.
“No!” Rati screamed at the boy who seemed to be the one who screamed first. She quickly started searching the side she had heard the splash, “Look what you have made me do.”
The boy looked to be six or seven and Rati had never seen him before. She started walking towards the boy who looked nervous standing on the riverbank. The rest of the villagers were not in sight.
“Where are the rest of the villagers?” she asked the boy, who pointed down the river,” what is your name, boy?”
“Khumalo.” The boy stammered a reply.
“Khumalo. I once knew someone named Khumalo.” Rati said with a death-pale face, she recalled Khumalo the boy she had loved, the boy she had made a husband, and the husband she had killed.
The end.
