I have always been captivated by morning. As dawn kisses the horizon with her lips of amber and rose, I will be there, enraptured, mesmerized by the soft black shadows the Sun casts during her quiet journey into the sky. Each dusk, she dies to let the Moon live; each daybreak, she emerges from the suffocating depths of night to shine upon the world. It is nearly time now, nearly time to watch as she awakens, bursts away from her prison of darkness, pokes her radiant head above the charcoal silhouette of the trees, and breathes. So I blink awake and prepare myself to meet the day.
On the other side of the bed, someone coughs, and I close my eyes again. If I pretend to sleep, still lost in a palace of dreams, perhaps my sister will bother our mother instead. But my luck amounts to nothing, and a small, cold hand presses into my shoulder. “Akia,” she whispers. Another cough, and I imagine her pale face staring woefully at mine. “Akia, I-”
She breaks off, hacking, and I resign myself to waking. “Masega, when will you remember to sleep with both your blankets? You know your lungs ache when you don’t,” I murmur, rubbing her back, and she sighs.
“I’m sorry I’m sick,” she mumbles.
“It’s not your fault,” I tell her, but still her cognac-brown gaze searches mine, anxious, looking for the slightest trace of reproach in my expression. She finds none and snuggles closer. “Will I still get to see her today?”
It’s the Sun she wants to see. While I am charmed by her allure, Masega is obsessed, insisting on this ritual each morning. Come on, Akia, she will say, let’s go, the Sun is almost up. I won’t refuse. Of course, Masega. And, always, a pause. Mama, we’re going outside.
Don’t be long, she’ll murmur, as if it matters. She won’t reprimand us, just as I won’t tell Masega no. We can stay out, dazzled at the Sun’s beauty, for as long as we want. But I make sure Masega stays safe. Mama knows this. She isn’t as hypnotized by morning as we are.
We go through this now, with Masega tugging at my arm. Mama gives her permission as always. As my sister trots through the doorway, I grab a small cover, knowing that the frost in the air will only make that cough worse. She stands barefoot on the peaty soil, toes already flecked with dirt, and whines as I drape the cover over her: “It’s not that cold!”
“Cold enough for you to be sniffling,” I point out as she inhales. Then I wrap my arms around her and sway, waiting for the sky to lighten. And it does, a pearly luster, turning the invisible wisps of cloud to cadmium shot through with brilliant streaks of tangerine and jujube, and the trees to a smudge of earthy green.
She smiles. “Won’t be cold for long,” she tells me, a smug, triumphant laze to her tone. I roll my eyes at her. What else can I do? She’s right, and she knows it. Stars know how someone like Mama made Masega and I. Mama is gentle and soft-spoken; I’m cunning and wild, longing for the wind in my hair and the mud on my feet, and Masega’s witty, courageous – bold, despite the disease that cripples her.
From shivering, however, she’s a bit chillier than she’ll let on. “Honestly, Akia,” she says when I tighten my grip. “I’m fine.”
I frown. You’re not fine. You also won’t stay out without me. “Well, I’m going back inside,” I say, twisting around. “I’ll make your tea for you, alright?”
Masega nods. “Right. Okay, yeah, I’ll–um, I’ll go in too.” She totters along in my footsteps with one longing glance back at the Sun. I know she’ll be bored for a small while with nothing to do other than rest, because most of the chores land on me. She’s sick, and Mama’s too frail to do the cooking and gathering. So I bustle around the kitchen as Masega slips out of the cover and burrows under Mama’s blankets, stuffing red clover into a teabag.
“Here,” I say, handing a mug to Masega. She blinks up at me and mouths thanks. Mama’s fallen back asleep. Recently, it’s all she’s been able to do. I put a hand to her forehead, careful not to apply too much pressure, then check the cupboard again and notice how low we are on some herbs. “You’d better rouse Mama,” I tell Masega, sighing, and open the cupboard door wider so she can see the few assorted leaves we have left. “It’s a gathering day.”
She sends me a quick half-smile and massages Mama’s shoulder. “Mama,” she croons, in a much sweeter singsong voice than I could ever have conjured. “Mama, get up, Akia’s going gathering.”
Mama stirs and yawns, looking at me through eyes bleared with sleep. They’re dark brown, darker than Masega’s, like the fur of an okapi. She sits halfway up, then stops. “Alright,” she says. She leans back onto her pillow. “I promise I’ll stay awake until you’re back.”
I hold back a snort. She’ll be dead to the world by the time I walk out the door. Instead of snapping back, I bend down to grab the weave basket and ladle some water into a cup. Masega stoppers it for me with a small round of cork. “Thank you.” I press my nose to her forehead. “I’ll find some fruit to eat while I’m out.”
Mama nods, the film of slumber creeping back onto her face. “Be safe out there, Akia.”
I smile at her. “Aren’t I always?” Her tired gaze betrays no flicker of humor at my reply. It’s one of her bad days. I soften. “I swear it, Mama.”
Masega walks with me until her feet begin to itch from the grasses, and turns back before the hut is too small to see. She swings the basket from one hand to the other, humming. I recognize the melody, a children’s song we learned when Mama was still able to afford schooling, about catching and counting fish. I have to remind myself not to belch out the words. Despite the fond nickname of chiriku that was bestowed upon me, I’m anything but musical.
“Masega,” I call when she’s a few paces behind me. “Wait. Wapenzi – Masega – wait!”
She does, turning expectantly, a question flashing in her expression. “Mm-hmm?” she asks. I can tell she’s still lost in the fish song and decide to talk to her later, even though my words could be of immediate use.
“Nevermind.” There’s a slight, awkward pause, and I add, “Tell Mama I’ll be safe, alright? She worries.”
Masega nods once and is off. I grin. She’ll forget. But Mama’s already asleep again, I’m sure of it. I’m not quite sure what caused Mama’s seemingly endless state of exhaustion, but I carry this burden on my shoulders alone. Masega’s still young enough for me to want to shield her from the not-so-perfect parts of our small world. I’ll tell her about Mama when she’s fourteen, when I know she can handle it – the age Mama and I agreed upon when she discovered that Mama’s fatigue wasn’t normal. Why’s she so sleepy? she’d inquired.
Well, she’s always running after you, I had said, poking her in the belly.
She’d giggled, then become solemn. I want to play, she’d muttered, frowning at the hand-sewn doll laying abandoned on the floor.
I’ll play, I’d volunteered, in hopes that the ensuing game would make her forget her concerns about Mama.
It did. Temporarily. And now, with Masega at a ripe ten years old, she’s curious. At sixteen, it’s all I can do to keep her interests in Mama’s condition at bay, shield her from it. She wants to know. Four more years, that’s not too long.
I should tell her sooner. The thought bubbles up in my head and in an instant I see Mama’s disappointed face. She needs to know. I can’t protect her forever.
I wish I could. I wish I could shield Masega from everything bad, but she needs to know the affliction that stole everything Mama could have been.
I banish this strange, furious Mama from my mind and continue on, keeping the basket quite still by my side. It’s too late for me to be gathering, and if I dawdle, I won’t be back till nighttime.
And Mama never lets us outside after dusk.
Unable to help myself, I begin to hum the fish song as well, and the scratchy grasses turn to a carpet of spongey leaves beneath my feet. I check several of the usual spots, and by the time the Sun is setting, I’ve amassed an inventory of plants that will appease us for a week or two, and even a papaya that I risked a climb for, too fat and ripe to resist even as dusk began to fall and the knobs in the bark disappeared before my eyes. Now I creep out of the woods and glance skyward. Darkness is swallowing up the horizon.
Hurry up, I tell myself. The fields of wild grain are coming to life around me. A chorus of beetles begins to click and I’m reminded how my feet are unprotected from anything that might pinch, or bite, or scratch. I quicken, knowing Masega will be worried about me, and when I see a pride of lions prowling along at the very edge of my vision, I break into a sprint. The hut isn’t far away. I bound along, beating down the grasses, and burst inside heaving great gasps of air.
“I’m back,” I wheeze, setting down the basket and sinking onto my cot. Both Mama and Masega stare at me, openmouthed. My entrance startled them. “I think I know why you don’t allow us out at night, Mama.”
She smiles wryly at me and Masega blinks. “Why?”
“Bugs,” I mutter, shuddering.
Masega snorts. “Bugs don’t scare me, you know.”
“Nevermind that,” Mama intervenes, and pours some stew into a wooden bowl. I take it and poke a chunk of meat with the crude spoon I fashioned when Masega was still very little. It’s still boiling and I sip, letting it warm me. “It’s time to go to sleep.”
“Sleep,” Masega scoffs indignantly. I glance at her, perplexed. Is she still disgruntled at the way I coaxed her inside this morning?
It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, certain that she’ll have forgotten by the time dawn arrives. Masega isn’t one to hold grudges, least of all with me. And I’m right not to worry. As I shift around on my cot, I feel a small body press in next to me. Our winter arrangement. Tonight’s the first night that she’s snuck from her own spot to mine. I resist the urge to grin and let the movement disturb her. She’s already snoring gently in my arms.
I’ll make sure to wake her extra early in the morning, so Mama doesn’t fuss over my health as well as Masega’s. She wilts whenever the illness is brought up. These last few months, she’s seemed older than the banyan trees. We still don’t know if it’s contagious, Mama snapped the first time she saw Masega wrapped up in my blankets. I can’t have another child falling ill.
You won’t, I told her, tucking Masega’s too-warm body farther into the ragged blankets. Mama’s eyebrows had risen. I promise, Mama.
Masega’s warm breath stirs the hair by my ear. “Akia?”
“Hrrrrrm?” I yawn, blinking.
“Look,” Masega whispers.
At first, I’m not sure what she’s referring to, and my heart leaps as I assume that Mama’s gotten worse – then Masega points to the window. Outside, the Moon is sinking beneath the horizon line, and I crane my neck out to look east, expecting a honey-colored wave of light casting away the darkness of night.
There is none.
For a short second, I think the entire sky has become an endless abyss of nothing, but the stars are shining brightly as ever, shedding a pale glow on the grasses. I frown, wondering what would dare to delay the Sun’s arrival–and wondering what could succeed.
“Akia?” Masega exhales several long moments later. She clutches my nightgown in one fist, glancing from the ever-dark expanse back to me. “What’s happening?”
I can’t let her see my worry, so I reply in as light a tone as I can manage, “Nothing, wapenzi.” My mind goes blank and I grasp at the first idea that appears. “She’s just a little drowsy right now. Okay?”
Masega smiles and nods, reassured, and guilt stabs through my gut. She doesn’t question my word. She just continues to wait, fidgeting. I feel the chill, seeping up under my skin, but it’s dread that pierces into me rather than the nip of the icy breeze. Where has the Sun gone? The Moon has fallen. There is nothing but absence and stars adorning the ink-stained page above us.
“Masega, come back inside,” says a new voice. Mama. I turn, letting my face display some of the fear I feel over the disappearing Sun, knowing Masega cannot see. She stands behind me still with crossed arms, and by now her lip must be upturned in a pout. It’s rare that Mama ever gives a direct command, and rarer that one will contradict Masega’s wishes. “You’re going to catch your death out here,” Mama adds, more sharply. We share a quick glance. Neither of us mentions how she’s caught her death already.
Masega huffs, then coughs again, and Mama ushers her inside. The only good that'll do is keep her out of the wind. If we had real blankets, made of thick sheep’s wool and not the thin cottony material all-too-common this side of the savannah, she’d be safe and warm - we all would be, Mama and Masega and I.
“You, too, Akia,” Mama calls from the edge of the peat. “We don’t need you down with pneumonia.”
I sigh and shuffle back to the hut, feeling circulation return to my toes. Winter comes early here, and it comes like a whip cracking down on us. Last year it got Masega. I might be next.
Mama and Masega huddle together under the flimsy cover and I set a small pan of water boiling over a flame. She advises me to push more rocks on the embers, and I do so. If I lose control of the fire, the entire prairie might burn. But nothing happens, and I add the tea leaves, hoping it might soothe Masega’s lungs while I forage. She accepts the pan when it’s ready, unusually subdued. “Has the Sun woken up yet?” she asks. Her voice quavers.
I want to say yes. I want the Sun to have yawned and stretched her fingertips into the sky. But the window is dark, and the hut lit only by the tongues of flame licking at the stones. I sigh and toss some grain and fresh ground cinnamon into a new pan. “No, not yet, Masega.”
She must have decided that the Sun died for good, because she then asks, “Is the Moon coming back, then?”
“Not that I can see.” I squint out the square hole and try to make out even the faintest beginnings of a sunrise, but there is none to be seen. There is no milky pale sheen to the trees, no shimmering pink, no fiery orange-red. It’s as if a raven has encircled the savannah in his wings; the Sun is his captive and the stars are his treasures.
“Akia,” Mama says. She stands and brushes herself off, and motions for me to take her place. She is frail, and her complexion has paled to resemble the egg of a cape batis bird.
I glance at her as I pour some oatmeal into three small bowls. They're wooden and carved, with patterns that remind me of the fabled, far-distant sea. “Yes?”
She tries to seem brave as she grabs the herb basket, but I can see past the front. Masega, hopefully, cannot. And I can't let this strange vanishing Sun shatter Masega’s image of Mama: courageous, fearless, strong – even though Mama's body language says anything but. I shake my head at her. “No, Mama, that’s my job.”
“Akia,” she repeats, more warning in her tone. “I try not to be harsh with you, but I still make the decisions. I will forage today. You must stay home with Masega.” Her gaze implores me to say, yes, of course, Mama; I’m sorry for undermining your word. I hold my ground, and she senses my defiance. “I am not an elder. I can walk and gather. You can’t do everything for us.” She sends a fleeting glance out the window, and upon seeing the raven-wing sky, seems to harden her resolve. “This is one thing I can’t compromise on.”
“But–” I begin to protest, but my voice dies in my throat. I bow my head and give in. Arguments will only distress Masega, and what good can that bring? “Yes, Mama.”
Mama nods once, satisfied, and Masega drifts closer to my side. It’s foreign to both of us, Mama walking out that door. Her feet can scarcely carry her to the Market anymore. I’ve taken over that duty as well, aware that she’d suffer blistering pain from sores if she tried. Masega isn’t sure why her feet are like that, and she has even less of an idea why the apothecary’s medicine won’t work on them. The alone time, however, gives her an opportunity to guess.
“Maybe she walked in something,” Masega suggests, for what must be the fiftieth time. “Something hot. Like fresh ashes.” She thinks for a moment, then adds, “She did say there was that awful fire when she was younger. That’s why she’s so careful when we heat the tea.”
I shrug, making sure to act like I have as much of a clue as she does. “A fire would have left scars, not sores. And her skin–a fire’d have turned it red.”
Masega twiddles her thumbs, then gives up. “I wish she’d just tell us.”
“Me too, Masega.” But I already know.
We revert back to a companionable silence, scanning the trees for both Mama’s torch and the Sun. Neither of them are visible. I’m about to ask Masega if she’s tired, and wants to nap while I prepare the final cut of meat into lunch, when she gasps, leaps up out of her chair, and points. “I don’t believe it!” Her amazement is plain. “Akia – the Moon’s back!”
“What?” I stand, knocking over Masega’s cover, and crowd up next to her. She’s right – somehow, the Moon has struggled back up to replace the Sun we miss. It’s larger than it was just hours ago, an alabaster saucer as big around as an abiu. For half a second, I’m in awe. How strong must the Moon be to assert his place in the sky in what should be the light of day? Masega feels it too; she’s rigid, eyes almost as wide as the Moon itself.
Then she turns to me.
“Akia,” she whispers, and I’m startled at the note of terror in her quiet words. “If the Moon is back…”
The thought had escaped me in the wild rush to see the Moon, a question I’d longed to know the answer to as we stood outside the hut. Not even Mama could answer. How could she? Nothing like this – as far as Masega and I were informed – had ever happened before at all.
If the Moon is back…where did the Sun go?