When the Gulls Cried

A Story by Matt A.

This is about a boy from a fictional culture who must decide whether or not to take vengeance on the family who murdered his father.

We have an old proverb in my culture that says something like “fate is like a dog, it will follow behind man, but has a mean bite”. I always preferred Appius Claudius’s “man is the architect of his own fate”. I never believed in the archaic wisdom or superstitions of my backward culture, but as I look back at the events of that summer, perhaps I should have pondered our ancient saying a bit more.

My name is Faisal. I am from a once fertile farm that sits on the dusty outskirts of our village. Our farm has been passed down through many generations, supplying enough wheat and corn for our own use and for profit. Now the winds of fortune blow in a different direction and drought has seized our land in a death grip.

My father’s name is Luc. I remember him as a short, but sturdy, man with olive skin and black curly hair. People say I look just like him. I was usually found alongside my father, either fishing with him or working at the docks. From his smile and easy going nature to his remarkable work ethic, his deep love for us defined him. We are lost without him.

My father tended the farm for as long as possible and squeezed every last bit of sustenance from the depleted, baked earth. To continue to feed his family he turned to fishing. He bought a dilapidated fishing boat and became one of the best fishermen on this coast. Fishing hasn’t been as lucrative for us as farming once was for my forefathers, but it kept us fed.

I was 15 years old when my father was murdered. My mother’s screams still echo…

II.

I fell asleep that night with book of Kafka’s short stories resting on my chest, open where I left off with the worn spine pointing toward the ceiling. I was in the middle of “The Metamorphosis” when I dozed off.

“NO, NO, NO!”

I was startled awake by my mother’s shrieks emanating from the sitting room of our mud brick shack. The only reaction my body could muster was to lay there, staring at the corrugated steel and plywood ceiling, trying to figure out if this was just a dream. My heart attempted to burst from my chest. My mother’s shrieks quieted into sobs. I tossed the book aside and sat up onto the edge of my straw mattress, alarmed now at hearing my younger twin sisters crying as well. I also detected an adult voice whispering in quiet, reassuring tones, “Easy...here, stand up...hold my hand”.

Realizing this was not a dream, I stepped onto the dirt floor and rushed into the adjoining sitting room. The stuffy desert air extracted fine beads of sweat from my forehead. With her back to me and facing the open entryway, my mother was rising up from her knees with the assistance of two men I recognized as members of the village council. One elder guided each arm as they restored her to a standing position. My younger twin sisters, Zainab and Zoey, were both huddled in a corner of the room. They chanted a mantra of disbelief to themselves as they sobbed-“No papa, no...”

Although he was usually home sitting and reading to mother at this time of night, my father was nowhere in sight. I stood waiting to be informed of the bad news I already felt. I couldn’t breathe from the fear of what I was about to be told, standing still in dreaded expectation. I broke loose from my paralysis and shouted at anyone, “What’s happened!?”

The two elders ignored me for the moment. They escorted my mother over to the only chair in the bare sitting room and eased her down into it. Her sobbing ceased, but now she stared ahead with empty eyes in shock.

Manjit, the taller of the two elders, walked over to where I stood. He placed a hand on my shoulder and whispered, “Come with me Faisal.” Manjit led me back to my room and guided me down to a seated position on my mattress. I still felt a cotton fog of sleepy disorientation behind my eyes and in my mouth. Furious that no one responded to my demand of an explanation, my hands were shaking as they rested on my knees. Strangely though, I felt comfortable with the orange robed elder. Manjit has been a family friend for as long as I can remember. I’m glad he was the one who came to us that evening.

Manjit sat down next to me. He sighed while staring at his feet and took a minute to gather his words. He then began speaking in a hushed tone barely above a murmur. I hunched next to Manjit on the mattress, mimicking his downward gaze toward the floor as he talked.

“Your father was murdered a few hours ago after an argument at the docks.” A frigid sensation radiated into my extremities from my chest. My father was dead? This shouldn’t be a surprise after what I observed in the sitting room of our shack, but Manjit verbalizing this fact made it inescapable and final-like my father actually died at that moment.

I was able to speak despite the shock. “Who did this?” I asked.

Manjit clenched his jaw and sighed heavily before answering.

“Qutaybah.”

Qutaybah was the patriarch of a clan that my family has feuded with for many generations. He was a squat, bulldog faced man who terrorized the good people of our village. His family consists mainly of criminals, liars, cheats, and bullies. Manjit paused after saying Qutaybah’s name, as if forming those exact syllables caused a bitter taste in his mouth, and then continued his narrative.

“Your father was preparing his daily catch in the docks, as usual. Qutaybah has been complaining for the last few days about the prices your father has been charging for his fish at the markets. We all know your families have harbored disputes for hundreds of years, so I suspect this was just an excuse to lash out at your family.” Manjit’s speaking flowed now, as if delivering me word that my father was dead made the details easier to speak. “He confronted your father and the disagreement escalated. He stabbed your father then left him there, but witnesses reported what they observed to the chief elder. I went with two other elders to Qutaybah’s home and confronted him. He did not deny his crime and is now being held for judgment by the council.” When Manjit finished, he laid his calloused hand on my knee in a quiet gesture of sympathy for a moment, and then left me alone in my room.

I sat absorbing what Manjit told me, especially Qutaybah’s complaints about my father’s fish prices. My father worked alone unless I was there to help him, so it took him longer to make worthwhile catches. He had dilapidated gear, but at the same time had a reputation for always making the best catches. There was also increasing competition from outside our village by better equipped fishermen. But the economics don’t matter. That thug Qutaybah would have found another reason to quarrel with our family, just as his clan always has.

Although I usually helped with the fishing, on the day he was murdered my father allowed me to stay home and study because we made several good catches recently. I am studying literature in the hopes of being able to leave and join some distant relatives in the capital and become a writer. I want to be a writer more than anything-to be able to tell my family’s stories to the world would be a dream come true. Then, when I became an established writer, I would have sent for my sisters.

The problem lies in the cost of transportation to the capital, or anywhere for that matter. The price is enormous from a place this desolate and isolated. My father has worked and saved to help send me to a better place to live. Most men from my village won’t even receive a basic education and will spend their lives toiling in back breaking labor for just enough to get by. My homeland is a poor, miserable strip of desert that devours most people cursed to be born here. I want to break out of this hopeless existence and share our stories. Now my sisters and I may be doomed to remain here, scraping a pitiable life from this land, like the last scraps of meat off a bone.

III.

Sleep refused to come back that night. I laid on my mattress, staring at the ceiling and thinking about what Manjit told me. The only sounds were an occasional cluck from one of the chickens outside and my mother shifting in the ancient wooden chair. My sisters were probably laying down on the ground next to her, refusing to leave her side in this time of pain. I gave up hope of sleep and walked out into the living room as the first morning light peeked into the shack.

My mother sat in the same chair where the elders left her. She had leathery skin and calloused hands, but my mother always had an inner shining light despite the years of tiresome labor. This was due to her true love for my father and devotion to her family. But now, sitting in that chair, the inner light looked all but extinguished and only an outer shell remained under the white muslin dress and head scarf. As she detected my presence her eyes shifted in my direction.

“Good morning, my son,” she uttered in her silky voice, untouched by age.

“Good morning, mother,” I replied before kissing her on the forehead. I lowered myself and sat near her feet with my legs crossed. My sisters were asleep, one on each side of her, on worn homemade blankets and pillows. With me there we completed a ring of love and protection around my mother. We sat in silence for a long time, maybe an hour. My mother rocked in her chair slightly while I stared at the ground and made designs with my finger in the dirt floor, unsure what to do.

“You’ll have to try to take over the fishing,” she said. She spoke slowly and quietly, but confidently, almost businesslike. She was trying to be strong, knowing we couldn’t afford to remain in a helpless limbo because of the death of her husband and our father. “Your father had doubts about how much longer he could maintain the catches he was making. Better fishermen from the north are making it harder. He didn’t want to worry you, so he hadn’t mentioned it to you yet.” She beckoned me to come closer and continued. “This farm will not find life again. We’ll have to think of other means to survive.” During the last few words her eyes lowered toward Zoey, who was sleeping at her side.

The meaning of her words struck me after a delay. “No mother!” I hissed, attempting to keep my voice lowered and not disturb my sisters. “There must be some way we can survive.” Those words were all I could muster. I lowered my head in defeat, burying my forehead in the palm of my hand as if warding off a migraine.

This was the first outward burst of emotion since I was shocked awake hours earlier. My mother meant that the girls would have to be married off to two of the richer men in the village in order to survive. They would become trophy wives and child bearers for men they didn’t know. We would also profit from the traditional “wedding basket” of money that the father of the bride receives from the husband on the day of the wedding. Instead of my father, it would be me receiving this money.

My sisters were only 12 at this time. Although identical twins, they could be identified by the colored ribbons they wore in their ebony hair. Zainab wore a turquoise ribbon and Zoey’s was maroon. The twins and their ribbons seemed to contrast against the squalor we lived in. Thin from slight malnutrition on already small frames, their skin seemed stretched over their bones. But their true beauty radiated as I watched them beginning to stir awake, two creations that this wasteland could not yet destroy.

I don’t believe in the practice of our village’s arranged marriages. I think our culture should snap out of its antiquated practices and allow men and women to make their own decisions in these matters. But I admit that my parent’s marriage is an exception in this regard. They were married when they were still children, little older than myself. Sometimes in the evenings after dinner mother would tell us about the first time she saw our father: she was already pledged to him, but she decided to go see him before the marriage without him knowing. She found him on one of the outer fields of the farm, riding one of the horses after a long day of work. Riding in front of him on the saddle was his younger sister, who was probably about eight years old at the time. They were both laughing as the desert air whipped through their hair. When he stopped the horse and dismounted, he tossed her playfully in the air, and then held her aloft as she continued to laugh. My mother knew then that she would be marrying a loving and kind man. My father would only blush while she told the story, his hand on top of hers across the table.

After hinting at my sisters’ possible marriages, my mother resumed staring ahead at nothing and added one last caveat. “There are worse places they could end up.” I knew what she alluded to. Many poor families were not able to marry off their daughters for relief, and the local brothels drew in their daughters instead. It may seem unspeakable to sell off your family in these ways so that you can buy bread, but the gnaw of hunger in your gut will make the taboo appear unavoidable. It wasn’t fair. I shut my eyes tighter to avoid these images. What did they ever do to anybody? My anger against both Qutaybah and this land rose like water boiling over in a pot.

IV.

My father’s body was returned to us that evening by Manjit and three other elders. It is our custom that the dead must be buried within three days, and we did just that. There was little fanfare. Only my family and the elders attended the small funeral ceremony at the edge of our farm under the dead tree my sisters and I liked to climb when we were younger.

My mother wept while holding my father’s red and white checked scarf against her cheek-probably because it smelled like him. I was able to stay strong until his plain wooden casket was lowered into the ground. Four of the elders were lowering it with ropes, one man at each corner of the rectangular hole. My sisters rushed toward it and grasped a hold of the casket with their cheeks resting on the top, as if giving one last hug. I gave them a few seconds for their last good bye, and then pulled them back while they still gripped the casket. They seemed to be trying to keep the casket from lowering into the ground, saving our father from the final step of death-his burial. My mother didn’t seem to notice this tug-of-war between myself and my father’s final resting place with my sisters torn between the two. She was lost in her own world of grief, still holding the scarf to her face. After finally wrenching my sisters away and pulling them back to where my mother stood, I couldn’t hold back the torrent of sorrow. I cried bitterly while hugging my oblivious mother and wailing sisters, who reached out toward the freshly dug pit with outstretched arms.

I sat with my mother again the next morning. I suffered through two sleepless nights since my father died, but I didn’t feel tired. I felt depleted, sucked dry of the ability to hope or dream. I felt crippled, like the foundation of our home was destroyed and the rest of us held up the remains, perilously close to toppling any minute. My mother eventually rose to prepare the day’s bread in the kitchen. Her back was to me as she kneaded the dough, but she faltered a few times, raising her white floured hand to her face to stifle a sob.

My sisters sat outside the shack on a bench, throwing bread crusts to the chickens. Zoey, who was sitting closest to the path that led to our home, glanced to the side as if she heard someone approaching. She turned on her welcoming smile and waved in her little girl way to whoever was walking up. Eventually I heard the steps crunching in the gravel, a pitter patter of a child running up to our shack. After the steps slowed to a walk, little Alek stuck his head in our doorway. Alek was the son of a weaver who wandered the town in mischief, but he was a good kid. I liked him.

Alek looked at me with his crooked smile and said, “Faisal, the chief elder wants you to come see him.” I stood and looked at my mother in the kitchen. She was still standing at the table, but she was leaning forward slightly, both hands planted on top of the table and her head hanging down. She looked like the flimsy tree branches in our yard, bent by heavy winds, straining under an immense burden.

“Let’s go Faisal, wanna race?” said Alek. I raced him just to hear him giggle the whole way.

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The tribal council meeting place was situated in a clearing on the outskirts of town, in which an old well marked the approximate center of the landscape. Most town meetings and other major events took place around the well. There are legends about why this well holds a significant place in our local tradition, but I think they’re all stories meant to captivate us at bedtime. I don’t think anyone really knows why.

Although only mid-morning, the day was already blistering. I raced Alek down a worn path through the dying forest that leads to the well as the sun blasted us intermittently between the trees. As I entered the clearing I slowed to a walk. Alek continued running through the clearing and shouted, “I won Faisal!” He was probably on his way to a rendezvous with more mischief in the town. It was a small village-he must know by now that my father was murdered by Qutaybah. But his innocence shielded him from the fact that he led me to the place where my life was about to take a strange turn.

I was drenched with sweat and suddenly felt overwhelmed and unprepared to deal with what I saw before me. The elders were gathered on the old benches around the well and were already looking in my direction as I entered the clearing. Off to the right and away from the benches, against the edge of the clearing, was Qutaybah. He was sitting crossed legged in a small makeshift cell constructed of tree trunks and branches. Qutaybah simply sat and stared straight ahead with his hands on his knees, as if contemplating his fate. He must have been wearing the same ash colored tunic and trousers he wore the night he murdered my father-his right hand and the right sleeve halfway up to his elbow were still splashed with blood. I walked toward the elders, trying not to look at Qutaybah, but unsuccessful.

The chief elder was a decrepit man who looked like he could collapse into a pile of ashes any minute. But he still managed to retain some type of authoritative aura about him. I rendered the appropriate greeting to the chief elder, which consists simply of words from our language similar to “good morning” while slightly nodding the head. The chief elder then formally nodded in response. This is required in our culture when you address an adult or elder in public. The chief elder beckoned me to sit on an old, burnt stump facing the benches. He was sitting in the middle and the other elders were evenly spaced on both sides, their orange council robes laying slack from the absence of a breeze. The chief elder began his dialog, speaking as slow as one would expect of a man of his advanced age.

“My son,” began the chief, “on behalf of the council, I wish to extend to you our most humble condolences on your father’s departing. We have prayed for his safe arrival in the new world.”

I’m not a believer in the “new world” of our local religion, or any other religion. I think it’s all pure superstition. What kind of “supreme being” allows good people to live in misery their entire lives, or forces us to sell our daughters to put food in our stomachs? Regardless, I thanked the chief elder for his sympathies.

As if reciting from a script, the chief elder continued. “We have summoned you to discuss the retribution ritual. As you know, Qutaybah must be judged by you within seven days of his crime. We would like to allow you time to mourn, but we must conclude this matter quickly to please the gods.”

Like a stinging slap in the face, I awoke and realized my purpose at this meeting at the well. Our law code states that if a member of the village is murdered, the eldest surviving male of the victim’s family is offered the opportunity to execute the criminal, by means of the “retribution ritual”. However, the eldest male is not required to participate or harm the criminal. If he chooses not to, the murderer is released with no further consequences.

My mother knew this was the reason for the summons, as evidenced by her reaction in the kitchen when Alek arrived at our shack and relayed the chief elder’s summons. Because of the rarity of murder in our village, it never occurred to me why I was sent for. My mother knew before I did that the trauma our family experienced didn’t end with my father’s death.

The town has only conducted one retribution ritual in my lifetime, and I witnessed it. I was playing with the son of another fisherman in the woods near the well five or six years ago. It must have been late autumn by then-the day was cool and overcast. The boy, Korin, asked if I wanted to watch someone die. I wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about, but just like any other dumb kid I said yes and we scurried off to the well.

A small crowd was assembled around the well that day, murmuring amongst themselves. The only observers allowed at retribution rituals are the village elders, the murdered person’s family, and other notable people, like the district governor. The crowd was mostly men, but a few women from the murdered man’s family were present. We hid behind a few boulders with an unobstructed view of the ritual area. Next to the well, a stake was temporarily dug into the ground and a man was tied to it, arms wrapped behind him and a stained burlap bag over his head. The chief elder stood next to the man, holding a curved dagger that glinted in the sun.

A boy of about 15 named Nori entered the clearing and walked through the crowd. As he entered the congregation I lost sight of him, but I could follow his path as the people parted to let him through. Nori halted next to the chef elder. The crowd quieted and the wind died-all became silent and still. After a slight hesitation, Nori accepted the dagger and immediately began stabbing the man in the chest. My mouth fell open and my head started to spin. I could hear a sick squishing sound with every plunge of the dagger. The sound made my stomach heave. The man was silent but wriggled with every plunge of the knife. After about the tenth thrust the murderer stopped moving, but Nori continued stabbing. The thrusts become more forceful and emotional and began falling all over the man’s body-his shoulders, neck, belly, head, and arms. Nori’s rage seemed to grow with each stab. His teeth were bared and his face was contorted with anger. I could hear an angry grunt with each impact.

What struck me while watching this gruesome spectacle was the sharp contrast from what I remember of Nori. When my father and I would walk to the docks, I used to see Nori and his father on the beach fishing. He was always cheerful and smiling. The boy I watched stabbing the murderer was forever changed.

After about thirty stabs from the dagger, Nori dropped it, turned on one heel, and fled crying the way he entered, pushing people out of the way. I couldn’t take my eyes off the dead body though. His head drooped, chin touching his chest. Brick colored blossoms of blood spotted the murderer’s shirt and the sack covering his head. The entire scene of carnage seemed to last forever, but we couldn’t have been hiding behind the boulders for more than two minutes. Suddenly, a meaty hand grabbed my shirt and spun me around. It was Arnolf the butcher. “What are you kids doing here? Only adults allowed at the ritual!” roared Arnolf. But before he could lay another heavy, calloused hand on me, Korin and I fled into the trees.

We sprinted into the woods like we were the next to be murdered. If my dad caught us there, he would be furious. But I was also running to escape the execution site, as if distance would erase what I witnessed.

While escaping through the woods, I rounded a corner around some hedges and ran full speed into something. From the shock of impact, I expected a wall, but it was a boy. When he turned in surprise to face me, I realized it was Nori. Nori was covered in blood up to his elbows and crying, holding his hands out to me like he wanted me to wash the blood and the guilt and the pain away. His eyes were always empty after that day.

VI.

I wasn’t in a hurry to get back home after speaking with the chief elder. I returned home by the same route, only this time much slower, staring at the ground and watching the rocks my feet kicked with each step. I didn’t feel like I could face my mother or sisters having just been saddled with an obligation clearly not suited for a teenage boy.

That evening before dark I walked dry expanse of the farm, inspecting the dead earth for signs of hope from this barren inheritance. My sisters followed me like they used to follow my father, feeling comfort from being with me. I stopped every so often to inspect a struggling plant or feel the soil, but it all felt dead and sterile. I could even smell it in the air, a cloying odor of finality. Life in that farm was gone for good, like my father.

The following days were spent in the same fashion, walking our large farm lands in the hopes of finding something I missed, something that would give me a sign that life could still develop here. I also visited my father’s boat on the dock. I stood looking across the sparkling blue-green water terminating at the horizon. There were many fishermen out, filling the void my father left.

The boat was in a poor condition. I could sell it, but not for enough to change our family’s prospects. The wood was rotting and worm ridden and the equipment was either obsolete or not worth the trouble to sell. The boat had the same stench as the farm.

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One evening, I sat hunched against the corner of our shack, occasionally pulling a browned weed from the ground and slipping it into my mouth to chew on. Two days remained until the ritual. As the week progressed I felt more and more confined by the jagged backdrop of distant mountains that encircled this desert province. Every once in a while a brown leaf tumbled by me, pushed in a random course by the slight evening breeze. If a leaf got stuck on some scrub grass, I would push it along with a stick.

There was nothing else to do but watch the magenta twilight and enjoy my sisters’ company. They were restless and quiet, like they felt my turmoil. Do I kill this man to avenge our family? Do I send this man’s family down the same dead-end path that we are on? Can I really kill someone? Can I take a knife and run it through a defenseless person, despite what he’s done to us? I was mad at everyone…how could a decision like this be left to a kid? Why don’t these so called “men” of the village make a decision about what to do with murderers like Qutaybah? My anger was at everyone and no one.

As I sat wrestling with these questions, I detected someone approaching out of my peripheral vision in a determined step. My sisters were sitting across from me, comparing seashells they gathered from the beach. Both of them glanced up when they heard the approaching footsteps. Their eyes widened upon recognizing the uninvited visitor. It was Vikar, Qutaybah’s oldest son.

Vikar was from the same mold as his father, a thug who was afraid of hard work. Vikar picked on the smaller boys, stole from hard working people, and otherwise made people’s lives miserable. He was 17, two years older than me, but about my size. He wore the same clothes as his father, a plain grey work tunic and a pair of homemade moccasins. He approached with his usual cocky step, just like his father as well. Every community must have characters like Vikar and his family-people who think they own you and are entitled to torment good people by stealing their livestock, money, or pride. His presence surprised me but I knew what Vikar was doing here. If I decided not to spare his father, the retribution ritual would send his family into a downward spiral along with mine.

“Faisal, we need to talk,” Vikar declared in his usual demanding tone.

I simply stood in place as Vikar continued to boldly approach. His sense of entitlement despite the fact that his father just killed mine was maddening. Heat washed over my face with anger. He stopped about an arm’s length short of my spot.

He looked in my eyes for a moment, and then continued to speak brusquely without waiting for an invitation to continue. “Have you decided your action at the ritual?”

I still didn’t answer. My heartbeat increased and my breathing quickened while I clenched my fists. Vikar continued his monologue but I noticed a slightly shaky quality to his words-he was scared. “You know as well as I do this is an antiquated ritual. Killing my father won’t bring yours back. It probably won’t even make you feel better-I know how close you two were.”

He may have been scared, but he still lacked any tact that would be needed to entice me to have mercy on his father. Instead, his presumption of understanding my feelings or having some kind of insight into our relationship caused my self control to snap like a taut steel cable. I lashed out with my right hand and struck him directly in the nose. It felt good. My sisters gasped behind me. Vikar’s eyes were wide with shock as he bent forward, holding his gushing nose. Nobody stood up to him before that.

Vikar’s bully posture evaporated. He whined in a nasally voice, “Fine! You feel good bringing us down with you? Think about Tyra then!”

Tyra was Vikar’s sister, but she was not the same. Sometimes I think she was adopted, or even stolen. Tyra is my age and the most beautiful girl I have ever seen. Her black hair fell in a shimmering wave above her large brown almond eyes. Tyra’s smile sent my heart in flutters whenever it graced me. Tyra was thoughtful and kind to everyone, no matter who they were. I never understood how Tyra could be born into such a despicable family, yet follow a different path. I often hinted to my mother that she would be a desirable wife, but because of our history with their family, that marriage would probably never materialize. Despite her obvious differences, she was cherished by her own family as well as everyone whose path she crossed. It wasn’t fair that Vikar use her to manipulate me now. Yes, Qutaybah’s death would destine Tyra for a life of misery with an old, rich widow or a brothel madam, but my sisters already had one foot in that grave.

“Get off my property and don’t come back.”

VII.

After Vikar stormed away, I fled to the beach, where my happiest memories reside. I rolled my linen trousers up into small cuffs and walked along the shore, toes sinking into cool, wet sand. The tide occasionally washed over the tops of my feet. We came here as a family in better days when my father’s fishing was at its best. My mother would make us small meals of spiced meat and fruits and we relaxed all day, running and laughing and celebrating each other’s company.

I passed a stump in the sand where my father would set his tackle box while teaching me how to fish. Nothing else mattered when I had my father to myself. I slowed while examining the dune we would sit on while eating our meals. My father would always have to help me open the jars of fruit that my mother canned, with his same slight smile. Zoey would lie back after eating, propping her feet up on my leg. I would always tell her to stop and leave me alone, but I didn’t really want her to. What would become of these memories? Will they remain as fresh and bright and concrete, or fade and eventually die?

From this same spot I could see the sunken boat where I saw Tyra for the first time. We were about seven and diving for shells around the boat, a favorite past time for children that are just learning how to swim. While we bobbed in the water Tyra told me I swim like an old fat man, and then I kissed her on the cheek. The mast of the sunken ship jutted out of the water, marking a final resting place. What would become of her? Could I plunge a dagger into her father knowing Tyra will be damned to a loveless life of servitude? What will become of me? Not accepting the ritual dagger would mark me as avoiding a rite of manhood, detested by the proven men of the village. But all I want to do is escape this superstitious culture and write and take care of my family. I hated Qutaybah and the rest of his family for this. Shouldn’t they be forced to feel this hopelessness and slow decay into misery? I looked down at my feet, the ocean water bubbling and swirling around my ankles. Tears fell from my face and joined the sea.

Overhead, two seagulls were circling each other over my head, one grey and the other white with a black stripe down its back. They seemed to be disagreeing and emitting a strange cry. I think they were trying to tell me what to do. Life or Death? Retribution or Clemency? Neither was convincing me.

VIII.

The day of the ritual was unseasonably cool and overcast, as if warning me to stay inside. My mother laid out a rust colored button up shirt and khaki pants-clothes I only wore for special occasions. My mother didn’t say a word and never asked what I intended to do. She kissed me on both cheeks, already accepting whatever decision I make. Although the family of the offended was allowed to observe the ritual, my mother will not want to witness the violence. My sisters hugged me, one on each side of me, thin arms wrapped around my waist. These will be the last days that we are able to take any joy in each other. As I drifted from the shack, I looked back at my mother and sisters. They were posted outside the doorway watching me leave, side by side, but obscured in the shadows of our mud shack.

I ambled though the woods with no purpose, hoping the decision would be made before I arrived at the well for my task. No other answers occurred to me in the previous days since my escape to the beach, only the same questions interfering with sleep. I was angry that my backward culture placed this burden on me, a fifteen year old boy that just lost his father. Now the future of two families is going to be determined by me. The forest seemed to be pushing me along the path despite my resistance. It was quieter than I ever remember and the path seemed shorter in reaching the well.

When I emerged from the woods and was in sight of the well, it was a perfect copy of the scene I witnessed here years earlier. The spectators were waiting in a half circle around the well. The elders stood near the stake with their flowing orange robes and authoritative bearing. Then there was the stake itself. I caught a glimpse of Qutaybah’s face for a fraction of a second as the stained burlap sack was placed on his head. He was looking at me, bound to his possible place of death, with no discernible emotions.

I continued my walk to the chief elder, who was posted next to Qutaybah and holding the curved dagger. The sea of adults parted as I walked through them and their heads followed my journey to the stake. The chief elder was staring off into the distance, a sentinel of my manhood. I stopped immediately in front of the dagger. Not a sound came from the people behind me. I was more scared than I can ever remember being before. I tried to control my ragged breathing, but it was useless. My entire body was shaking noticeably from the breeze and from the eyes waiting for me to judge Qutaybah. The dagger enticed me with its razor sharp gaze. I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the blade. I looked older, but sadder, as if it was showing me my future self. Qutaybah, although hooded and sightless, had his head turned perfectly toward me, inquiring as to my decision.

Overhead, the two seagulls cried.

© 2012 Matt A.

Author's Note

I am aiming for you to feel torn between what the boy will decide to do.

My Review

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Anthony Hart-Jones

It's a long one, but well-worth reading. You evidently have a good grasp of the craft of writing and your pacing was spot on too. There were quite a few moments of good emotional connection with the protagonist too, despite how alien his situation was to me.

That said, I suppose I can try to offer some tips on where I think the story could be strengthened. First of all, I have to admit that the imagery felt a little flat in places. There was a depth and vibrancy missing, almost like your muse faltered and you were just drifting along until you caught the next wave of inspiration.
Secondly, I think the 'tribal culture' aspect was far too dry and lacking in verisimilitude; the protagonist felt like an American transposed into another culture, thinking more like the author than a person raised in that culture.
The last concern for me would be the rather workman-like descriptions. You seem to be good with metaphor and simile, but the basic descriptions of the world felt a little flat and grey.

If you take anything from this, remember that I liked it. I was really quite impressed and felt compelled to keep reading, even though I rarely read stories like this. It's long, but didn't feel too long. While it lost a certain vibrancy at times, it never felt slow. My criticisms are just things I found when I specifically went looking for problems, not issues that ruined my enjoyment.

I think you know how to write, so maybe it's time to take some risks and let your imagination loose a little more. You can afford to be a little more evocative, to add a little more colour, if that makes any sense.