Beneath the Darkening Sky Read Free

shout again. The grown-ups move without orders. Two of them grab an old man and drag him into the centre of the circle. Another soldier
appears holding a long, dirty rope. The man from my village has a short grey beard and is very thin. They push him, and he stumbles and falls into the dirt. I can see his mouth move, but the rebels
are making too much noise for me to hear him.
    They wrap the rope around the old man’s feet, then his wrists. They pull him up to his knees so they can tie the knot better. The villagers watch through the wall of rebels. I climb up a
little higher in the tree, careful not to make the branch shake. I watch too. I can’t remember the old man’s name, but he knows a lot of songs. He taught Akot one about being a strong
warrior. I know it because Akot sings it so much.
    The Captain holds a machete over his head. It shines in the light of our burning homes. The others are all so dirty they don’t shine much.
    Shouting, stomping and chanting. The old man is tied up like a fat goat and the Captain walks around him. More soldiers join the circle, like spectators at a cock fight. The Captain steps away
and points with his shining machete at one of the boys, an older one with scars on his cheek. The boy screams like he’s won something and runs forward, his own machete raised. What’s he
doing?
    The boy swings the machete down, onto the old man’s neck.
    The old man’s head is not joined to his body. Both are lying on the ground, blood pumping out of the neck just like a goat killed for a feast. The rebels cry out in celebration. The killer
boy grabs the head from the ground. The old man’s eyes are still open. Maybe he’s still alive. Maybe they can put the head back on.
    Blood drips from what used to be the old man and now looks like a tree trunk. The killer dances around, swinging the head by its thin hair and waving his dirty blade. The old man knew so many
songs. One grown-up calmly unties the rope from the body.
    The killer boy throws the head as hard as he can. It tumbles past the villagers and lands in a burning hut. The killer boy howls and shakes his fists like he’s just made a goal in
football. Grown-ups drag the old man’s body out of the ring and throw it to the side.
    Mouths gape. A flash of someone shooting his gun in the air. Feet stomp. But I can’t hear a thing. They are dragging another man into the ring.
    It’s Papa
.
    His face is all hate.
    When he laughs, Papa’s mouth gets really big and his bright teeth shine, even in the dark. Then his Adam’s apple bobs up and down and his laugh is deep like thunder and happy like a
rainbow.
    While the grown-ups tie a dirty rope around Papa’s wrists, some big boys run around, getting the young ones to jump and scream.
    The Captain stands outside the circle and whispers in one young boy’s ear.
    A boy younger than me. The Captain shows him how to hold a machete with both hands.
    Papa is pushed down on his knees and they tie his ankles together. Tight.
    ‘You’re all animals!’ Papa yells. I can hear him, louder than the rebels. ‘Animals that sniff through their own shit for food! You’re all dogs, eating your own
vomit!’
    ‘Animals,’ one of the rebels shouts back, ‘live in the dirt.’ He kicks Papa to the ground. ‘Now you’re an animal too!’
    The Captain pushes the boy into the circle. He runs forward.
    I want to hold Papa in my arms and protect him but I can’t.
    Don’t do it!
    The boy jumps and swings his machete down with both —
    Papa!
    I close my eyes. For the briefest moment I think, When I open my eyes I will see Papa alive and well. When I open my eyes everything will be okay.
    I look back up and see the boy’s face covered with blood. The boy stumbles back, dropping his machete and rubbing the blood out of his eyes. A fresh shout breaks out in the circle. I
can’t see Papa’s face. It’s real. I can’t believe Papa is gone. I can’t breathe.
    A grown-up goes to Papa and grabs his