A Fool's Knot Read Online Free PDF Page B

worse. And then he fainted.
    When he awoke with a start his mother bent low over him and offered comfort. He was glad to see her, to feel her hand on his arm when he closed his eyes, to spread cold, thick milk on the wound, which still gave him such pain, to lull him to sleep.
    Outside, the day had aged to late afternoon. Musyoka sat on a tree stump by his hut, whittling away at a stick with an old army knife. He had spoken to no one since the morning and had sat like this locked in thought, unable to acknowledge even the presence of another. When people had left his home that morning, giving thanks for the new manhood of their sons, they had talked and argued with one another. Some were ignorant and spoke of Mwangangi’s shame and of how his cries of pain meant that he would abuse the office of doctor, and should never succeed his father. Others, who were wiser, had seen what had happened, and spoke of their fear for Musyoka and their disbelief at what he had done. Had the knife he used not been old, dirty, rusty and blunt? Had he not deliberately sheathed the sharpened knife before treating his son? Did he not gnaw and tear at the foreskin, instead of slicing it with one long cut? And had he also not cut the boy’s legs? It was very confusing indeed and a matter upon which only God could now give judgment. This must be a test of Mwangangi’s right to succeed his father. The ancestors must have been offended, because the boy’s screams had been long and loud. Only they, the ancestors, could now decide what must be done. If the wound was infected and the boy’s body poisoned, then God had made his judgment and the boy would die. If it were to heal, and thus return the boy to strength and confirmed adulthood, then God would have made his judgment, and once again Musyoka would embrace Mwangangi as his son and heir.
    Only Musyoka knew the reality. The boy had let blood during the ceremony and had not immediately begged his father to clean the wound and cast out the spirits, which thereby had entered the body. Worse than that, he had tried to hide that special wound behind a white man’s hand holding white man’s medicine. Only Musyoka knew the reality. He had used a blunted, broken knife which the boy, himself, had last used to cut euphorbia from the hedgerows. The scratch had healed. It had been too late to say prayers, so the boy must die or soon the curse his body surely now protected would infect his whole family, clan and people, and that would be a dark day indeed for the people of Migwani. His knife tore another shaving off the stick. It fell onto a pile of others on the ground by his feet. It, along with the rest, would be gathered up later and burned on the fire. The stick in his hand would be oiled and cared for by his wife and become the trusted tool that she would use to grind maize to flour. The shavings, the discarded waste, helped to make the stick strong and true. This was the way of the world.
    Father John had heard the gossip. The town, the market and the church were full of stories and conflicting reports of Mwangangi’s pain. Some said he was paralysed and lay poisoned and dying in his father’s home. Others claimed he had died under the knife, that his screams had stopped before the job was done and that his life had passed along the paths to his forefathers.
    John believed all of the stories and yet none of them. He must see and know for himself. The path down the valley was rugged and steep. In places even walking was tricky and John’s motorcycle slithered and skidded on dust and stones alike. When he switched off the engine, the Musyoka household was quiet. Musyoka, seated with his knife and stick offered him neither greeting nor even recognition.
    The hours that followed were confused. Musyoka said nothing to Mwangangi or to John, and not much to anyone else. He was morose and withdrawn, even with other members of his family. Though she knew and trusted Father