Wacũ, returning from a distant stream, walked down a ferny path, a gourd strapped to her back. Shadows were getting longer and makenga arĩithi, twilight was approaching fast. To the West, the sun was being swallowed by the clouds, to be reborn the next day. To the East, the morose cries of hyraxes rose to the skies like dirges, mourning the death of the day. Ahead, at the edge of the forest where the villagers discarded the dead, the tree line was thick and foreboding.
Wacũ stepped off the main trail as she hurried home through the shortcut along the forest’s edge. Shadows gathered around her like ghostly sentinels. Skeletons lay scattered across the clearing, their pale bones gleaming under the faint twilight. An icy wind whispered through the trees, carrying with it the decaying stench of dead bodies and ancient rot. A chill ran down Wacũ’s spine like a cold worm.
She hastened her steps to run away from the evil miasma. But even in the encroaching darkness, she could discern something eerie following her. She could feel she wasn’t alone, something was watching her every movement, listening to her every thought. With each stride she took, the woods thickened and the path seemed to grow darker.
“Wacũ…”
A low, rasping voice that froze her blood whispered through the darkness. Wacũ stopped, legs quivering as the hairs on her neck stood on end. A skull lay ahead, half-buried in the damp ground, its empty eye sockets glinting with malice as it slowly turned to face her.
“Wacũ,” the skull rasped again, its voice creaking as if it had not spoken in a hundred years. She made as if to run away, but made an about turn midway. What if it was Wagui, her great grandfather who perished during the cassava famine, calling her? What if it was Nyagũthiĩ, her grandmother who died only some seasons ago, who was addressing her?
She watched, paralyzed, as more skulls turned towards her, bones shifting with slow, eerie motion.
“Twarĩirwo nĩ kanua,” one hissed, its brittle jaw moving up and down slowly. We were done in by our mouths.
“Onawe noko gagakũrĩa.”Another skeleton’s voice crackled from the shadows, hollow and accusatory. Even you will be done in by your mouth.
Wacũ opened her mouth to speak, but no sound escaped. It felt dry; her tongue stuck to her mouth. Now clutching her gourd as if it could shield her, she stumbled forward, her pace frantic as the bones watched her retreat. She then came to a gurgly stream and splashed her face with the cold water, as if to wipe away the great evil she had witnessed. To her dismay, the cold water did nothing to erase the feel of the silent, piercing stares.
Home was still far away. Ahead of her, Wacũ could see a flicker of light. It got bigger and bigger, until she realized what it was-a colony of blacksmiths. Their kilns glowed ominously, molten iron hissing as it poured from their furnaces. The smiths soot-blackened faces were ghostly in the faint light, muscles flexing as they worked, their red-hot iron casting a devilish glow across their sunken eyes.
Suddenly, a brawny man loomed over Wacũ, staring at her with his red jeweled eyes, until they prompted her to speak.
“I…..I met some skeletons.” She said, voice trailing off. The hulking smith, sinewy hand across his chest, gave her enough time to realize that she hadn’t said anything new.
“The…. the skeletons spoke to me.” She finally said, feeling a heavy load get of her chest. The blacksmith gasped. He then disappeared to the kilns and came back with fellow smiths, brawny men covered in soot from head to toe. The men hearing her strange tale, murmured in low, guttural tones, exchanging quick glances.
“And what did the skulls tell you?” One asked, voice harsh as iron grinding on iron, the heat of his breath mingling with the smoke around him.
“They said they ended up there because of their mouths…and that I would be too,” Wacũ whispered, the words tasting bitter.
The smiths murmured among themselves, speaking in their cryptic language that protected their art from other men. Finally, they nodded, instructing her to lead them to the speaking skulls.
“Wait. What if they do not speak?” The smiths asked her.
“Pierce me with your swords until I die.”
The journey to the grove of skeletons was brisk and silent, the moon casting a haunting glow over the woods. Fireflies dotted the night, flickering briefly like lost souls as the blacksmiths trudged beside her, the glint of their weapons shining in the moonlight.
They reached the clearing. The skeletons lay silent, unmoving. The blacksmith nudged Wacũ forward.
“Speak, as you spoke before…” Wacũ spoke to the bones, her voice barely a whisper.
But nothing stirred. She repeated her plea, her voice now trembling. The skulls lay there, empty, their deathly silence pressing upon her.
One blacksmith made a signal. It was passed to the next man then to the next. In a flash, they bound the woman’s arms and legs, tying her mouth shut as she struggled. They then drew their swords. The last thing she saw was the cold steel glinting under the moonlight before darkness consumed her.
Only when the grove was silent, when her lifeless body lay sprawled on the damp earth, did the skulls speak once more:
Twarĩirwo nĩ kanua…
Onawe noko gagakũrĩa..
(We were done in by our mouths.
You will also be done in by youth mouth)
One by one, the blacksmiths slipped back to their colony, their faces grim and shadowed. Not a single word of what they had seen or done ever left their lips again.
