The Branch of Thorns

The call to motherhood could no longer be ignored. The child was coming. It would not be born, the midwives said, until the moon was a lemon smile over the Ukhahlamba mountains, and although the moon had not yet turned its face, the child was eager to be free. Thandiwe, one who is loved, cradled her swollen belly and sang a lullaby to the unborn. She had a long way to go before she would reach the safety of village.

She’d meant only to walk a short distance in search of firewood, but the calls of excited bee-eaters caught her attention. Filled with delicious thoughts of gift-giving, Thandiwe had followed the birds as they flew toward a distant grove. She found the hive half-hidden in a hollow trunk, and though the bees fought bravely, the basket she’d brought for kindling was soon overflowing with the sweet, waxy fruit of their labor. Five times had the frenzied warriors impaled themselves upon her flesh. She’d brushed them away. A small suffering for the sweet smile the honey would bring to her husband’s face.

But she’d gone much further than she should have. Two low hills and one long mile too far.

The first pain struck as she began the journey home. Now, another pain twisted and clawed its way upward. Clutching at the basket balanced on her head, Thandiwe leaned against a tree stump. Two quick breaths, one slow, just as the older women had taught her. Again she breathed the breaths, until the pain slowly released its hold. She righted the basket on her head, now grown heavy with its load of honeycomb. Then with feet anxious to be on their way, she set off along the path once more.

Tall reeds sighed in a hot breeze that nudged at the late afternoon stillness. Cicadas drew secret bows across hidden strings in shaded, leafy bushes and waist-high grass whispered at her passing. A weary sun reached for the tip of the mountain, the sky around it stained bloody by the dusty wind. The ground rose and Thandiwe lengthened her stride to climb the first low hill. Her shadow stretched long, thin, and bent like an old man’s stick upon the ground. Keeping pace. In the walking race.

Possessed of a voice as sweet and clear as a mountain spring, Thandiwe sang as she walked. Soothing lullabies became songs of love, praise for mother-earth, and exaltations to her ancestors. She’d crested the second low hill and the path had all but leveled out when the song died in her throat. She froze. Ahead, not twenty paces and squarely in her path, stood a beast.

Impisi. Hyena. The cleaner. The purifier. The one who makes things orderly and the one in whom evil spirits dwell. She trembled, half expecting it to take on human form as legend said it could. But impisi stood firm. In the light of the dying sun she could see its nostrils flare. With the breeze at her back and a cloying dampness on her thighs, Thandiwe knew what it wanted. Instinctively she wrapped her arms around her belly and took a step back. The beast took a step forward.

Do not run, my child. Her grandmother’s words seemed to echo through the reeds. Impisi does not kill bravely like the lion or the leopard. It is a coward that creeps in the night. Do not be fooled by its sloped back and feigned humility. It is possessed of a great treachery and cunning. Beware this beast, with its wicked heart and cursed soul, for it thrives on fear and weakness.

Small, alone, and reeking of imminent childbirth, Thandiwe knew she was the very weakness upon which impisi preyed. The beast stood still, its head easily reaching the height of her chest. It watched her closely, eyes fixed on her distended abdomen. For that is how it kills, tearing at the soft underbellies of frail or injured animals, wrenching at their innards as they run, fall, kick, and die. But impisi would rather steal the kills...