The Screaming Trees

Samson, one of the casual workers, lifted his axe and struck an old and withered tree. As the blade struck the bark he heard the tree make a loud noise. He jumped back in surprise and confusion and looked at his workmates who were all gawping at him in open-mouthed astonishment.

“It shouted!” exclaimed Samson, pointing at the tree. “Iwe! Bwezelamo, say that again!”

The tree remained silent. “Pepani bwezelamo”, asked Samson again, more politely, but the tree only rustled in the breeze. The worker scratched his head and approached the tree again, axe up and ready to place a second blow.

The blade hit the bark with a thud and suddenly there was bedlam. They all heard the ear-splitting scream of pain that caused a flock of guinea fowl to squawk loudly and rise panic-stricken into the air. It seemed to the men, who instantly dropped their tools in terror and ran off in different directions, the trees were all yelling at them to get away. They had stumbled into some serious trouble.

“Maloza!” called Samson as they scrambled to a safe distance to look back at the place.

They could make out words now and would swear that the trees were calling out “Leave us in peace, leave this place. Please don’t hurt us.”

“I’m not going back there”, said one of the workers still shaking. “You must not make me go back there.” The trees were quiet now but still looked to be swaying far more than the gentle breeze would account for.

They all looked to Samson who was studying the axe that had miraculously stayed in his hand as he ran. “Maloza”, he said again. “This place must have some strong magic. We must talk to the foreman and see what should be done.”

Leaving all the tools where they lay, apart from the axe that now held a mystery of its own, they slowly made their way back to the caravan that the foreman was using as an office to oversee the work.

Curtis Nkomo was a hardened site manager from the Copperbelt and he angrily drew on his roll-up while the group of ignorant village casuals started spouting their nonsensical story through the open doorway. It was too hot today for trouble with lazy workers. He let them talk, words spilling over each other until they had exhausted their excitement and settled down, waiting expectantly for him to make a pronouncement.

Though his years of experience and urban upbringing had given him an edge of scepticism bordering on the cynical, he had spent enough time with unsophisticated rural workers to know that they firmly believed what they were telling him. These guys were not the normal shirkers he had to deal with either. They had completed their assigned jobs well on schedule so far. He looked at the axe that Samson still held like some sort of artefact and waved him into the makeshift office.

Samson stepped up to the trestle desk and proffered the axe, which Curtis took and examined forensically. “This looks just like a normal blade to me. No magic here.”

Samson said nothing, talked out.

Curtis looked through the dirty window to the haze shrouded horizon. He was not smiling when he looked up at the group’s de-facto leader. “Kodi mungathe kundionesa? Can you show me the way?” He asked.

“I cannot go back there”, protested one of the men from outside.

“I did not ask you to. You can stay.” Standing up and giving the axe back to Samson he commanded, “You must show me.” Samson flinched but nodded acquiescence and a much diminished party of casual workers retraced their steps following a little behind Samson and Curtis, gesturing and whispering animatedly.

When they arrived back near the trees, there was little to distinguish it from other groups of trees nearby, apart from the pangas and hoes scattered about on the ground where the men had left them. On closer examination though, there were the indications of an old shelter, a simple structure of crocodile bark posts and a few straightened poles to form the base for a roof. The shelter was almost completely shrouded in creepers and Curtis only noticed it because he was looking for something exactly like it.

“Ah”, he breathed. “I think, maybe, you have found a traditional burial site.”

“Obvious!” exclaimed Samson in relief and confirmation. It was as though scales had fallen from his eyes.

“Give me the axe, please Samson”, asked the foreman.

Samson vigorously shook his head in warning as he relinquished the tool and watched Curtis stride confidently towards the trees.

The trees started to rustle again, the smaller branches actually appearing to move of their own accord. “Maybe, it’s the wind”, the foreman told himself and raised the blade to strike at the trunk of the largest bough. Before he could wallop the tree he heard a voice crying from somewhere in the air around him. “Ndisiye! Go away, leave us be!” The voice was unclear but he understood the meaning completely. Quaking with fear Curtis dropped the axe to his side and retreated quickly back to Samson and his friends.

“We must leave this place alone”, he said. “Just gather the tools and come away.”

The place stands there now, a neglected shrine marking the burial site of a woman known as Vamwali. Its story begins a long time ago.

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