A Fool's Knot Read Online Free Page B

ago that was he could not remember, but he did recall the first arch to be built before his own homestead. He had felt such pride that day, because it had not been until then that he fully realised what it meant to be the doctor in Migwani. Every year since then, the arch had been built during the month of the long rains, but on every occasion Musyoka remembered that same pride which, if anything, grew as time passed. This year, though, was to be a special time for him. This year his own first-born son was to pass through the arch into manhood and thereby become his rightful heir. Once a man, Mwangangi son of Musyoka could then succeed him as doctor, when finally his own work was finished and he was called to join his ancestors. The son was growing old: it was time. New days start when old ones end.
    The dancing and singing stopped for a while and even the drunken reeling old men stood quietly to watch. Drums and horns, which had pulsed their rhythms during the dance, were silenced. The initiates began to assemble beneath the arch. As they stood motionless, young men moved along the crooked rows and hung garlands of flowers around their necks. Others threw chains of flowers over the arch. Their feet were caked with earth wet by libations poured in the honour of ancestors from every cup of beer. They took great care, though, not to pass under the arch themselves. That is not allowed, for that road is a way you take just once in your life.
    On a far ridge, just discernible across the low, shallow valley, the entire scene around Musyoka’s home was being mirrored. Over there were the girls, soon to be women, and these were the boys, soon to be men. Thus words were spoken and the process began. Girls and boys passed through their respective arches and there was no turning back. The girls walked as a group, followed closely by the women, all striding in time with the rhythmic chants they all sang. The boys ran. It was a race. The first to arrive would be leader of the age-set and, once upon a time, the head warrior and hunt leader of the group, the one who would lead the way to counter a threat to their people. But these days were long ago. Screaming, shouting and laughing, the boys ran up the steep hillside to Migwani with the mature and old panting on behind.
    The small wooden church in Migwani stood only a few yards away from the cluster of mud-walled shops that constituted the town. The newly built mission house to the side of the church was a fine place indeed, built of cement blocks and corrugated iron. Just beyond the compound, just beyond the euphorbia hedge which defined its boundaries, there grew a large straight tree of such an age that even the old men remembered it the same. It was to this tree that the boys and girls would come.
    Father John O’Hara knew when he bought the land that it bordered the holiest place in Migwani. Indeed that was one of the reasons why he decided to build his new church here, so that it might be a constant reminder of his teaching to those who walked near the tree. He disapproved of traditional ways, but did not criticise those who believed in them. His goal was to incorporate the fervour and devotion of those traditions into a new allegiance with his own church. This is why he had built on this site as an expression of coexistence, not domination.
    As the sun sank low in the west, the giant silhouette of Mount Kenya thrust through the heat haze into rain-cleansed air. Earlier that day he had heard the sound of horns and drums from the valley. By then he had grown quite used to what they meant and in fact looked forward to the day each year when the boys and girls of the area came running to the giant tree near the mission.
    First came the boys in a long, noisy winding snake, those forming the head deadly serious and competing, whilst in contrast the body ambled a little, accompanied by shouting and laughter. On hearing them, Father John left his chair and walked to the entrance to