They live inside and outside the tree, which give much to them despite heavy use. Cooking they do on open fire away from the branches, but everything else is within the trunk, and hanging steady or loose from the branches. A tree house then, with many rooms not together but scattered all over the top.
The tree not far from the river, so I watch them from the river. There is an old hut on the other side of the banks. The old woman in it long dead, but nobody ever come to check on her it seem, because now her dress holding only bones that rattle when breezes blow. Maybe the Tracker keep to his own and have no care for an old woman who die alone. The older children draw water as they need it. The younger children play nearby, though Mossi don’t like when they go too far. The smoky girl one appear before me one noon, but I grab my cloak and make like a washerwoman. She make like one too, shaping her cloud into a hand scrubbing up and down until she get bored and poof into the air, only to form again several paces away. Meanwhile I watch and work up my rage at men who can be villainous to all but virtuous to some. Watching them be kind to children should make me think of them as better men, but it make them worse, for no other wickedness more wicked than choosing with who you dole out kindness. Seeing them wrap their children in loving don’t make me want to spare them. It make me want to watch them suffer. The old man who live with them write pretty oriki, but the Tracker slap him every time he hear it. One quartermoon, all of them go to the river lands, but I couldn’t follow in such open country without somebody seeing me, so I don’t know what they go do. But they come back even more loving, joking about the strange, smelly priest who was so excited to cut Papa’s keke skin off, and I think of the family I have and lose, and I hate them even more.
This evening they leave the children in the care of the old man and sneak away. I see them coming to the river, moonlight making the water shimmer silver. They throw off clothes before they even get to the river, and I not going watch them fuck. But the trees too sparse and the rocks too little and I won’t get to the shed without them seeing me. The wind (not wind) blow a ball around me, which become a bubble and I sink underwater. I see them only once, two white legs fluttering past me, two dark hands grabbing his ass.
One day, the old man leave with as much ceremony as I assume he did come. The quartermoon don’t even blink before the Leopard arrive without the bowman. I have no quarrel with the Leopard, but I surprised to see him back as friend. The Leopard entice him to leave. Entice him so good that not even a loud argument with Mossi couldn’t stop him. I don’t know the Tracker, yet I know the Tracker, so I know he didn’t need much convincing. I would have his head, but like I done say, I don’t have no quarrel with the Leopard. A fight against one would be a fight against two, and that cat not on my list. First I think to follow them, then I think to stay—after all, how long can one man be away from his family? And like I done say, I don’t have no quarrel with the Leopard. So I stay in the shack, long enough that the smoke girl get too close. Tracker and the cat gone a quartermoon, then half, then full moon. I wait and I nurse my hate, for I am an old woman, wait is all that is left to do.
But waiting lead to thinking, and my own mind ask me if I want to kill the Tracker or destroy him, for those was two different things. If I want to find the Tracker, I only need to find who commission the Leopard. If I want to destroy the Tracker, all I need to do is head to his house. The thought seize me, and I glut full on the conceit of it, but hold my place in the shed. I not going after people I don’t have no malice toward, not even the consort who believe him, and his whole brood of little Sangomin.
Is the loud crash that wake me up. A door kicked down, a roof cave in, I don’t know what rush me to the window. The tree jerk and shake and from inside come yelling, growling, and screaming. Things smash, things crack, a boy’s yell smash in half. The tall albino Sangomin, the handsome one, yes he and Mossi grab swords and jump from the shack up highest branch and kick down the back door at the trunk. Squeal, screech, yelp, bark, cry, and the tree shaking. And bursting through the window, the wing of giant bat. Mossi, grabbing two of the children, run outside, put them on a horse, yell, and slap the horse for them to gallop. Is then I see the boy, who I don’t see since he born but know is him, even though that don’t make no sense. He coming to the river, coming to me. From in the house Mossi bellow, curse, and chop and whoever in there squeal like a pig. Then there he fly, Mossi, flung from the house, landing, rolling, stopping in the dirt. He only have one sword now, one sword to hold as the whoever come out.
He taller than three men standing on shoulders, hand for feet, foot for hands, both with iron claws like daggers. Black fur, horse ears, tusks sticking out of his mouth, and the wings all gray skin, no feathers. Blood dripping from the ass he keep touching. Even in a crouch he taller than a tree. The boy is by the river, giggling like he hearing a silly uncle. The beast shriek, but Mossi not scared. He stand his ground and raise his sword. I never know the magistrate so fast. He dash between the beast’s legs and slash his back, slip back around and cut his thigh, then stab him in the crotch. He laugh, I know the beast laugh, and swat Mossi away. Mossi still leave a sword in the beast’s hand, which he pull out. Mossi on the ground and he can’t even get up, but he try anyway. The beast, he grab Mossi and take his claw and slash his throat. Then he eat him.