Chapter 1: The son who was meant to die

Amahle's decision to make her younger son the sacrifice caused the entire house to be restless during the night.

The wind fingered the door frames and window frames on every side, looking for any way inside, as if it were alive, and it howled like the ancestors were having an argument with one another. 

The extremely low full moon waxed so large that it appeared filled with an ominous light and could be seen through the thin curtains of the home.

 Amahle stood on the cold, damp cement floor without any slippers on and covered herself with a red cloth she had sewn together before she had children, which softened the skin on her hands but caused her heart to become harder.

Amahle had lit thirteen candles placed in a circle around her that were filled with herbal powder ground and mixed with oil. The smell of iron and smoke filled the air around Amahle. She had previously engraved symbols into the floor, and they pulsed as if they were alive, breathing.

Amahle had waited many years for this specific night.

Sipho was seven. Young enough to not fully understand the weight of power but old enough to be capable of carrying it. The day he was born, during a solar eclipse, he screamed. A sign to the elders; they had murmured their understanding in the way they always did. Amahle had been there; she always was.

Some children are blessings.

Others, doors.

Thando, Amahle's firstborn, never gave her fear. He was a strong, compliant boy with bright eyes and a softness that seemed to come to him through a lifetime of effort. He instinctively protected Sipho, whether it was a physical threat or the silence of his mother. Amahle viewed her firstborn son with a simple love; much as one loves the sun shining in the sky. Predictable, simple to understand.

Sipho…

Sipho felt like a rental.

That night, Amahle moved with intent through the house, whispering her chants quietly to herself until she arrived at Sipho's room, took him out of bed, stirred him slightly but he did not wake up; the herbs seemed to have done their job well. Amahle carried Sipho to the kitchen, placed him in the center of the circle, tied his small wrists with a piece of cloth soaked in oil and ash.

Amahle did not tremble.

The knife was on the countertop, waiting.

The chant was sung, beginning softly, rhythmically, in an ancient way-words that had passed through generations and were learned quietly, at considerable cost.

Amahle shut her eyes, getting lost in the beat and the need. Then, footsteps cut through the sound.

“Ma?” 

It was Thando, his voice soft, sleepy, and confused. Amahle opened her eyes. Thando stood in the doorway, his hair was a mess from sleep, wearing a school jersey way too big for him. He frowned, looking around the room, taking in the symbols all over the floor. His eyes stopped on Sipho, tied up on the ground.

Amahle had no idea how much time had passed. “Don't move” , she whispered, stopping the beat.

But Thando took another step. “Ma, what are you doing?” he whispered.

Amahle stepped toward Thando. The circle went wild, the candle flames twisting. The air felt thick, and she could hear her own thoughts buzzing in her head. Rituals needed everything to be exact, quiet, and followed carefully, so an interruption like this felt like a backstab.

Thando stepped through the doorway, onto the floor inside the circle. Energy burst around him. “Thando!” Amahle cried, reaching for him, her voice full of panic. Too late. The circle closed, and the wind rushed in, blowing out some candles and making the others burn higher, twisting in different directions. Thando gasped, clutching his chest like something was grabbing him from inside. “Ma!” Sipho yelled, watching his brother fall.

Thando convulsed once, then lay still.

The candles went out simultaneously.

There was silence in the room.

Amahle got down on her knees.

“Not in grief.”

In horror.

The wrong son was lying dead.

By dawn, the neighbors had filled the house with their presence and questions. Amahle had wrapped Sipho in blankets and was soothing him as if she had pulled him from a nightmare instead of placing him in one. Her face was creased in all the right places. Her tears had a keen response to them.

"They said it was a sudden illness."

"It was fate," they said.

No one noticed the marks on the floor under the cleaning water. No one smelled the ash hidden in the yard. No one asked why Amahle did not touch Thando's body at the funeral.

That night, as Sipho slept beside her and protected her from the environment that seemed to conspire against her, Amahle looked fixedly at the ceiling of the room, her chest aching from the truth that she could not escape. 

The ritual had not failed.

It had simply been chosen.

And in the silence, something ancient had opened its eyes.