The Lion Tamer

THIS STORY WAS FIRST PUBLISHED BY BRITTLE PAPER.

***

Screams erupted from the hut. Kathurima's drunken blows landed on Kendi's head. She had fallen asleep, waiting for her husband to bring supper home. Now, she shielded her head from his fists. Yet again.

When Kendi married Kathurima, she knew he was a good man. He was a competent farmer, caring for animals and crops alike. He was the last remaining bachelor in his age set. She, Kendi, had only just seen her first blood when Kathurima was chosen for her.

The wedding night went as expected. In a few months, Kendi would welcome their first child. Kathurima, it seemed, had done his duty as a man. He returned to the farm and the livestock–and then he found the brew.

Kendi did her duties as a good wife. She kept the hut clean, she mended the thatch roof, she cooked whatever Kathurima brought home. She could not understand her husband's anger. Why would he not see her belly growing? Surely, no other women suffered her fate?

"You are young, Kendi," said Nkatha, her mother. "Even your father was like that." Her smile was faint. "He is resting with his ancestors now, and I can rest, too."

"Be strong, Kendi," said Ntinyari, her grandmother. "This is what makes us true women."

But one day, Kathurima's blow landed in Kendi's belly.

As she lay on the floor, curled up, shielding her unborn child, she had enough.

When Kathurima's rage died away and the drunken sleep took him completely, Kendi made up her mind. If her people would not help her, only one person would.

The next day, after Kathurima went to the farm, Kendi fearfully traced the path that only the weak and desperate followed. It led through the shrubs to a ramshackle hut.

She stood at a distance, trembling with terror, scanning the hut for movement.

"And where did you come from, young girl?"

Kendi nearly screamed. It was M'Aritho, the witchman, appearing from nowhere, standing beside her.

"Don't worry, young one," he soothed. "Tell me what brings you to see my old bones today."

The two walked slowly toward the hut.

"It is my husband," began Kendi, suddenly ashamed.

"What has he done, child?"

The words failed her. Why would she tell an old man about her husband, when the womenfolk had already told her to bear the bruises?

M'Aritho waited patiently as they walked.

"He is a good man," said Kendi. "Everybody says he is the best farmer we have. He knows the sowing and the harvesting. He knows the breeding and the calving and the lambing. There is always meat for us to eat."

They had reached the weather-beaten hut. M'Aritho entered first, as was the custom. He sat on his three-legged stool and motioned for Kendi to enter, as was the custom.

Kendi winced as she bent through the door, and groaned as she sat down across the witchman. That was not the custom.

"If he is such a good man," said M'Aritho soothingly, "Why does he kick you like a donkey?"

And Kendi wept. Months of sorrow trickled down her cheeks.

M'Aritho had seen many like her in his time, but none so young. He waited for the poor child to cry all her pain away. And then he spoke.

"I have what you need. Otherwise, my name would not be M'Aritho."

Kendi straightened up. The old man, the Great Seer, would shortly produce a charm or an amulet for her, or a potion for her husband's food. But nothing happened. M'Aritho only watched her.

He shook his head. "She is but a child," M'Aritho said to himself. "She might not survive."

"I am a child, my father, but I am with child also," said Kendi. "If you cannot help me, neither of us will survive."

That, too, was not the custom. M'Aritho expected a desperate plea, a bargain. But he only saw courage, and a stubbornness worthy of admiration.

"I need one thing to complete the potion."

Kendi nodded.

"One hair from a lion's mane."

***

Kendi stood in the bush in the dead of night. Her heart pounded so loudly that she thought the whole village would her it.

In her hand was a chunk of meat wrapped in hide. She had hidden it away after Kathurima brought it home for supper. After all, he was too drunk to notice that the meal was less meat and more potatoes.

Kendi had waited until Kathurima was asleep. She sneaked out of the hut and into the darkness.

Every few days, there was a lion in the forest that surrounded the village. He belonged in the eastern plains, but he ventured into the forest to scout his territory. He would roar and roar, claiming his share of the land. He never harmed the villagers, though the villagers kept their respectful distance.

On this night, Kendi took her chances. She needed only one hair, after all.

She would throw the meat at the lion, then approach it while it ate, yank on its mane, and run for dear life. Then M'Aritho would give her the medicine to save her marriage and her unborn child.

In the light of a fading moon, Kendi waited and prayed to all her ancestors for courage.

Courage failed when the lion appeared.

He was a majestic creature, fearsome and powerful. To him, Kendi was just like the meat wrapped in hide. Kendi froze in awe and terror–until the lion roared.

Kendi dropped the meat to the ground and ran, too scared to scream. By the time she got to the hut, she decided M'Aritho was not complete in his head. How could he send a mere girl like her to play with a lion?

What she did not know is that the lion smelled the meat on the ground. He teased the hide open with his enormous paws and teeth, chewed and crunched the bones, and returned to his roars.

In the hut, Kendi watched her sleeping husband, sprawled on the ground, covered in vomit. The stench was stronger now that she had breathed the crisp, clean night air in the forest. She imagined going back to M'Aritho empty-handed, battered and bruised again, crying in her cowardice.

Why not end it? she wondered. Kathurima was right there, helplessly asleep. A big stone to his head would do it, or a knife to his belly. She could pack her few belongings and travel west, two or three villages away. She could say she was widowed and orphaned. She could find a new...