by Archer Swift
***
Standing before me were two Mzees, both of vastly contrasting age and experience. Scott Adam was the oldest among us, and had served as a Mzee since those first two moons after our arrival. Turning sixty today, he had a full head of grey hair, a thatch of salt-and-pepper whiskers, and wore deep lines in his forehead—even so; he was as hale and hearty as a man twenty years his junior. The daily fight for survival, and the clean air, ensured that if you avoided Eden’s perils and them; it was possible to live long and healthy. Though not probable.
Scott had buried his wife and lost both his daughters to them during our ten years on Eden. He was acquainted with deep sorrow and grief, but somehow walked free of the bitterness that hollowed so many others out. I would have parted with my jacket and knife to spend a full day with this dear man, to glean from his sage, fatherly wisdom and imbibe the strength and courage that were distilled in him.
In contrast, Dylain Rogers was the youngest Mzee, appointed at our last Gathering. Racking up his twenty-ninth birthday today, he was the youngest since we arrived, and his appointment reflected a stark reality: there was an increasing shortage of older, wise heads in our collective midst. And there was something about this man I didn’t trust.
I had watched him over the years—which wasn’t difficult to do; he somehow made himself the focal point of our celebrations each year. He had the gift of the gab, and was conspicuously at the centre of every testimony reported by his clan. Maybe I was jealous. To be honest though, I don’t know why I would be. I loathed everything about him.
I sensed an arrogance in the man. A stinking pile of hubris. He was cocky and cruel. Nadalie was good friends with one of the girls in his clan, Astrid. And the stories she relayed were disturbing. Nadalie had only confided in Gellica, Judd and me because, after Astrid’s traumatised unveiling at last year’s Gathering, she was distressed about her friend. And there was no reason to believe Astrid would cook up tales merely to attract attention—she’d sworn Nadalie to secrecy. And the only thing that had kept me from alerting Victor was the vow Nadalie made us take.
Dylain’s duplicitous heart was dark, and he harboured an incorrigible need for attention. I couldn’t help but suspect that he was harbouring some self-serving agenda. When he was announced as a Mzee last year, I was so sure I had caught a grimace flicker on Victor’s face. I wanted to talk to him about it. His death meant that the opportunity passed me by; along with so much else I wished I had asked him.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Dylain’s question completely rattled me. So busy observing the two men in front of me, I had totally tuned out of Ruzzell’s allegations against me. Even though I knew what he was going to say, I should have listened.
“Yes … I accept the charges against me,” I said, hoping Ruzzell hadn’t added more than what I had anticipated him saying.
“Striking a woman is second only to murder itself,” Dylain reminded me as he rigorously gestured with his hands and a mean glower crawled onto his comely face. He was patently savouring my discomfort. “And carries a punishment of four—”
“Are you sure you don’t want to explain yourself?” asked Scott, taking a deep breath, his barrel-chest looked broader still. Even though his face radiated with displeasure, his warm, blue-grey eyes remained kind and gentle. His question notably unsettled Dylain who seemed ready to pass a swift judgment. I felt Ruzzell shift uneasily on his feet beside me.
I hated being the subject of Scott’s disappointment. It almost broke my will. However, if I told the truth now, I would call into question the integrity of every member of my clan. I couldn’t add more misery to them, especially Gellica. Yet looking into Scott’s wise, searching face, I wanted to tell him what really happened. I so wanted to assure him that I wasn’t capable of such a crime.
“No, Sir,” I stammered. “I mean; yes, Sir. I’m sure…”
“Scott, not Sir,” he said softly but clearly. “Ristan, you know we don’t use titles and honorifics here. Call me, Scott.” Again, Dylain looked uncomfortable, and Ruzzell’s shifting became more noticeable.
“Yes, Scott,” I shot quickly, not trusting myself to stay dishonest. I had never called him Sir before, and I knew it was so unnecessary, but my emotions and thoughts were a scrambled mess. “I-I-I accept the charges.”
“Are you guilty of striking a woman?” asked the discerning, older man.
“Sc-Scott,” I couldn’t breathe, “I accept the charges.”
“I heard you, Ristan. What I want to know from you, are you guilty of hitting Gellica?”
“Scott, I accept—”
“Ristan!” Scott’s admonishment cut through me. “Did you strike Gellica?”
I swallowed hard, terribly conflicted in my mind. “Y-y-yes,” I heard myself force out the word.
“At last!” Dylain jumped in quickly, clapping his hands together; his cold, cruel, green-brown eyes tearing strips off me. I thought Scott was going to say something, but Dylain just dominated what happened next.
Amid a flurry of Dylain’s hand gestures and his chop-chop decree, I was now the bearer of four dark points, and he reminded me that if I reached ten, I would be banished to the Forbidden Region forever. I was sure I saw a glint in his eyes, but maybe I imagined it.
He can’t be taking this much pleasure from this, can he?
He also reminded me of something I had forgotten. Anyone with four or more points could never be nominated for Huduma. I negotiated a sick, heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach, but didn’t know why. I would never qualify for leadership nomination anyway. Not everyone dreams of greatness, some dream of one more day. Some want to reach for the stars and thrive; I just wanted to reach tomorrow alive.
Then I saw it.
It was just a look, but it was like an icy knife through the heart.
And a wink that sent shivers down my spine.
