Short story 1 – The Tree
On a plain covered with dead grass and wilted flowers, a great tree stood. Its branches withered, its bark blackened. It made for an ominous sight. So too thought the ipu’akapáva, after being forced to make their home elsewhere following a defeat by a rival tribe. They had taken up residency near it. At first, all had seemed fine; the plains were not as lush and rich as the ones that were theirs by right, but they provided enough as they licked their wounds and prepared to take back what was theirs by right. Even then, the tree had stood alone, a big acacia tree looming over the plain. Yet about 6 moons ago, the tree had transformed into the unnatural giant it was today. The tribe knew this must be a sign; their gods were angry at them for losing their battle and abandoning their birthright, and to punish them, they used the tree to suck the life out of the very ground they lived on. In the middle of the tree, a big hole was found.
Now, a child lay cradled in this hole like a baby would lay in a womb. A beautiful crown of flowers adorned his head. Around the tree, six people were gathered. They were dressed in bright colors, their faces were painted, and bells were sewn into their clothes. This way, they would distract the gods from the act they would soon be forced to commit. The child was calm now; the fight had left him some time ago. When he would fly up to meet his gods, he would do so without disgracing himself. There was no escaping his fate anyway. He knew he was not the first. Two of his friends had already disappeared, killed by wilderbeast, they had told him. Until yesterday, he had believed them and grieved for his friends. He had been taken to the elder; they had sat him down and given him some draught. They had washed him, clothed him in ceremonial garb, and given him a feast. He had known something was wrong even then, but for some reason, he could not get a hold on his mind. When they had taken him to the tree, however, his fear had finally grown strong enough. He struggled, screamed, kicked, and bit. No matter what, he could not go to the tree. Did they not know it was cursed? After they had tied his hands and put the flowers on his head, his fear had turned to full-blown terror. He was not here for some ritual; he was to be a sacrifice. He knew then his friends had faced the same fate. Before they managed to get him into the tree, he had broken a nose, bit a chunk out of an arm, and screamed until his voice was no more than a rasped whisper. The six men surrounding the tree had been chanting, beating ceremonial drums, moving in weird patterns, and holding objects up for the gods to see. Finally, the elder had stepped forward, ceremonial dagger in hand; he walked to the tree. The child’s heart was starting to beat so hard it felt like it would burst out of his chest. He did not want to show fear; he would give these people no more of him. Yet he could not help himself; his breathing became heavy, coming out in sharp rasps; he started squirming, and soft cries for help escaped his mouth. The drums kept on beating, the chanting continued. The elder stood in front of him now; he spoke some words in an old forgotten language and brought his knife to the child’s wrists. The drums kept on beating, the chanting continued. He cut the binds holding the child’s arms together and grabbed hold of the child’s right arm, lifting it up high. The drums kept on beating, the chanting continued. The child was beyond fear now; he had wet himself, tears were streaming down his face, and even though his voice was all but gone, he found the power to scream some more. The elder laid the knife against the child’s wrist, holding it firm as iron, leaving no chance for the child to escape. The drums kept on beating, the chanting continued. With one motion, the elder slit the child’s wrist, his lifeblood flowing out of him in a steady stream. He laid the child’s arms down along the tree so the child’s blood would flow from his arm along the tree to the ground, giving life back where the tree was taking it. The drums stopped, the chanting fell silent. The child’s fear left him along with his life; darkness was coming for him from all sides.
He heard a voice then, soft at first. “Is it not your will to live, boy?” it said softly. “Do you not wish to punish these people who have hurt you so, who have taken your friends and cut your life short?” it continued, getting louder with every word. He felt his heart beating faster again; he was growing angry. “These people see a rotten tree and a dry plain and see it as a sign; they sacrifice those that have no part in this, tell me, child, is that just?” the voice said, matching the boy’s anger. The child’s anger had turned to a primal crescendo. “I want them all to burn,” he growled. The six onlookers looked at the boy in shock, sure he should have been long dead. “They are corrupt,” the voice said. “I want them to burn,” the child responded. “You have been wronged,” the voice said. “I want them to burn,” the child responded. The onlookers’ shock turned to fear. “Tell me what you want, child, tell me and I shall give you the power to make it real!” the voice shouted. “I want them to burn!” the child screamed. And as the onlookers began running from the tree, the child’s blood began to burn, painting the tree, the plain, and all those that made their home there in the flames of his anger.