Pride
An excerpt of the beginning of "Pride," the story of a young boy trying to cope with the death of his older brother... and the unlikely ally who helps him through it. Originally written for Professor Jahn-Clough's Writing Children's Stories class.
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Reth lingered behind Yaro and Cousin Efe, his brown feet kicking up dirt, and kept a wary eye peeled for prey as they trekked through the thinning rainforest.
“Keep up, Buzzard Bait,” Efe called. Her voice sang with laughter but her nicknames were rotten.
Yaro’s lips pursed. “Leave him be, Efe. There’s no sense joking with him.” They watched Reth, their clay eyes swimming with something between concern and frustration. Reth tugged at his seashell necklace, made uncomfortable by their stares, and distanced himself so that he could no longer hear their whispers.
It was his first hunt out on the game trails that bordered the Kalahari Desert. Father warned him to stick with Yaro and his cousin, but each vicious whisper seemed to slow his feet—he hung a healthy ten yards behind them, but even with that kind of distance Reth still caught snatches of conversation.
They talked of Tafari, Reth’s older brother by two years, who had been stolen in the night by a lion whose pelt shimmered like stars. Tafari was everyone’s favorite—a man, at sixteen, with a clear head and calloused yet tender hands; archer’s hands. An expert tracker and a better shot, he filled their bellies with game and their hearts with tales of a thrilling hunt.
Reth blinked back tears. He was Tafari’s age now—a man. And men didn’t cry. His brother was gone, as much a ghost as the lion that had taken him.
A rustle in the shrubs demanded his attention. Reth stopped and notched his bow. Far ahead, Cousin Efe and the older hunters were laughing, probably scaring off every beast that came within twenty yards of them.
Reth heard his father’s voice pleading in his head and hesitated. A promise had been made. He swore (almost grudgingly) that he wouldn’t leave Yaro, Efe, or the others, for the Kalahari’s sand always shifted; footprints sunk deep into the earth, devoured along with fossils, stones, and insect shells. It was easy—almost expected—that one would get lost on his first hunt.
But Reth was stubborn. How popular he’d be if he made a kill by himself! The idea enticed him too much to ignore. Besides, I know the desert, he reasoned. I won’t get lost.
He dipped into the acacias, careful not to step on anything that might betray his position. There, low in the vegetation, a steenbok meticulously nipped the heads off blades of grass. Though small, the antelope would feed Reth’s band of nomads for at least a day and a night.
Better yet, he thought. They’ll start to talk. And it won’t be about Tafari this time. The steenbok grazed and Reth crept closer.
“Shoot for the eyes,” Tafari once told him. “It’ll be dead before it feels any pain.”
Reth caught a glimpse of its obsidian eye and made that his target. He pulled back on his bowstring, the words of his late brother echoing in his heart. The steenbok ducked into the grass, emerging a second later with a mouth full of crisp greens. Reth’s bowstring grew taut. Aim for the eye, he reminded himself. Death before--
“Hey, Dog Meat!” Efe’s voice blasted across the Kalahari.
“No!” hissed Reth. The steenbok froze, ears and horns as straight as a line of soldiers. “No no no.” Reth’s arrow sprang from his hand and whirled harmlessly past the antelope. He hastily notched another arrow, but his prey was already zigzagging out of the brush and into the desert. He made the split second decision to follow, bounding out of the forest and into the dunes as his cousin’s cackling calls faded behind him.
A wave of sand tossed across the Kalahari Desert, patterns weaving like sidewinders across the red dunes. Reth stood at the crest of a hill, shielding his eyes from the violent spray of sand and grit. He leaned on his bow, coffee skin splitting under a boiling sun.
Wisps of sand funneled around his legs and the sky darkened. A sandstorm approached.
The steenbok was gone now. Reth made a valiant effort of tracking the animal, but it lost him somewhere in the dunes, leaving him to contend with the approaching sandstorm.
An ocean of sand rolled as far as he could see, broken only by a distant range of hamada. The rocky highlands flickered in the heat—a distant promise of shelter—and for a moment Reth wondered if the sun was playing another one of its cruel games. Mirages, especially during a sandstorm, would drive a young man to his death.
If he was Tafari, things would be different. The desert posed just one more challenge to conquer. But he wasn’t his brother, and hard as he try Reth couldn’t decide which direction was north and which was south, let alone from which way he had come.
He was lost at sea.
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Reth lingered behind Yaro and Cousin Efe, his brown feet kicking up dirt, and kept a wary eye peeled for prey as they trekked through the thinning rainforest.
“Keep up, Buzzard Bait,” Efe called. Her voice sang with laughter but her nicknames were rotten.
Yaro’s lips pursed. “Leave him be, Efe. There’s no sense joking with him.” They watched Reth, their clay eyes swimming with something between concern and frustration. Reth tugged at his seashell necklace, made uncomfortable by their stares, and distanced himself so that he could no longer hear their whispers.
It was his first hunt out on the game trails that bordered the Kalahari Desert. Father warned him to stick with Yaro and his cousin, but each vicious whisper seemed to slow his feet—he hung a healthy ten yards behind them, but even with that kind of distance Reth still caught snatches of conversation.
They talked of Tafari, Reth’s older brother by two years, who had been stolen in the night by a lion whose pelt shimmered like stars. Tafari was everyone’s favorite—a man, at sixteen, with a clear head and calloused yet tender hands; archer’s hands. An expert tracker and a better shot, he filled their bellies with game and their hearts with tales of a thrilling hunt.
Reth blinked back tears. He was Tafari’s age now—a man. And men didn’t cry. His brother was gone, as much a ghost as the lion that had taken him.
A rustle in the shrubs demanded his attention. Reth stopped and notched his bow. Far ahead, Cousin Efe and the older hunters were laughing, probably scaring off every beast that came within twenty yards of them.
Reth heard his father’s voice pleading in his head and hesitated. A promise had been made. He swore (almost grudgingly) that he wouldn’t leave Yaro, Efe, or the others, for the Kalahari’s sand always shifted; footprints sunk deep into the earth, devoured along with fossils, stones, and insect shells. It was easy—almost expected—that one would get lost on his first hunt.
But Reth was stubborn. How popular he’d be if he made a kill by himself! The idea enticed him too much to ignore. Besides, I know the desert, he reasoned. I won’t get lost.
He dipped into the acacias, careful not to step on anything that might betray his position. There, low in the vegetation, a steenbok meticulously nipped the heads off blades of grass. Though small, the antelope would feed Reth’s band of nomads for at least a day and a night.
Better yet, he thought. They’ll start to talk. And it won’t be about Tafari this time. The steenbok grazed and Reth crept closer.
“Shoot for the eyes,” Tafari once told him. “It’ll be dead before it feels any pain.”
Reth caught a glimpse of its obsidian eye and made that his target. He pulled back on his bowstring, the words of his late brother echoing in his heart. The steenbok ducked into the grass, emerging a second later with a mouth full of crisp greens. Reth’s bowstring grew taut. Aim for the eye, he reminded himself. Death before--
“Hey, Dog Meat!” Efe’s voice blasted across the Kalahari.
“No!” hissed Reth. The steenbok froze, ears and horns as straight as a line of soldiers. “No no no.” Reth’s arrow sprang from his hand and whirled harmlessly past the antelope. He hastily notched another arrow, but his prey was already zigzagging out of the brush and into the desert. He made the split second decision to follow, bounding out of the forest and into the dunes as his cousin’s cackling calls faded behind him.
A wave of sand tossed across the Kalahari Desert, patterns weaving like sidewinders across the red dunes. Reth stood at the crest of a hill, shielding his eyes from the violent spray of sand and grit. He leaned on his bow, coffee skin splitting under a boiling sun.
Wisps of sand funneled around his legs and the sky darkened. A sandstorm approached.
The steenbok was gone now. Reth made a valiant effort of tracking the animal, but it lost him somewhere in the dunes, leaving him to contend with the approaching sandstorm.
An ocean of sand rolled as far as he could see, broken only by a distant range of hamada. The rocky highlands flickered in the heat—a distant promise of shelter—and for a moment Reth wondered if the sun was playing another one of its cruel games. Mirages, especially during a sandstorm, would drive a young man to his death.
If he was Tafari, things would be different. The desert posed just one more challenge to conquer. But he wasn’t his brother, and hard as he try Reth couldn’t decide which direction was north and which was south, let alone from which way he had come.
He was lost at sea.