Casting (Flash Fiction)

Love Has Many Forms

Her husband wants to have the privilege of casting the first stone, but I insist that it should be me, for it is my clan’s honor that has been sullied, and my family name that has been dishonored by her adultery. The elders of the tribe agree, pleased with my decision, for it shows them that I am a great and honorable man, fit to be the head of my clan.

My sister is aghast upon hearing this. “Have you gone mad? That you ask for this privilege? Have you no shame?” I shush her quiet, with a stiff motion of my hand. She will not understand, even if I had the patience to explain to her. It is lucky for me, I suppose, that my wife is dead.

But my sister does not give up so easily. She comes back to me again, even though I have forbidden her to talk to me. “Is there not something that we can do? Something you can do? How can you give up so easily?”

“No,” I say, “their minds are made up. I have tried as much as I can.”

“But he, that ugly man,” she says, “that man is just hungry for her land, and even more ravenous for a nubile body, someone younger and prettier to replace your daughter.” She pauses as her voice chokes, then continues. “She would not have done this…you know that she is not capable of this. These are lies.”

Yes, I know. I know the reasons why, even better than she does. Among the men of my tribe, greed comes coated with a veneer of honor, and deceit is cloaked with the mantle of virtue. And when the greedy men act out their venality, it is their women who get consumed.

Yes, I know better than my sister what the husband is capable of, what truly lies in his heart. It is ugly.

I know, but what is to be done will be done, and there is nothing I can do to stop it. Her husband’s clan is simply too powerful. So what they have willed, and what they have decided, will happen. There is no other way.

I practice in my courtyard for the whole afternoon. It is important that I get it right, that my aim is perfect. It is critical that I have the right kind of stone, of the right heft and shape and weight, so I can grip it properly, throw it accurately, and have it hit precisely, for a woman who is buried to her shoulders presents a very small target.

It is difficult at first, especially with the womenfolk looking at me with incredulity. Have I gone mad? Am I really going to be the one to cast the first stone? Am I so happy to do this, that I am actually rehearsing for it? But I ignore them. They do not know what I know. They do not understand the concept of honor, and what it means to me. They will not understand what I am willing to do, and why I am doing it, even if I explain it to them.

They bring her to the village square in the late afternoon. She is clad head to foot in a loose-fitting cloak, and her hair is fully covered by a scarf. She is swaying as she walks, from the opium they have given her to calm her down, so that she walks pliantly to the altar of her sacrifice. Two women, from her husband’s clan, push her into the hole that has already been dug.

They are not gentle.

The men from her husband’s clan then fill in the soil around her, until only her shoulders project above the ground. When one of the men comes too close to her, he is scolded by the man of religion, as this is not proper. It is important, says the man, that propriety and modesty is maintained, otherwise it will displease God.

Once they are done, they cover her face with a shroud, and tie it at the back, so that her head is a shapeless lump under a white covering. I cannot even see the shape of her nose. But what I have seen is sufficient, and I position myself where I need to be.

Where I stand is very important, for I have to make sure that I hit her at that exact point, right at the back of her head, where the skull ends, and the neck begins. The flesh is soft there, and the spinal cord is unprotected by bone. I have practiced for many hours to ensure that I hit that spot exactly. I have even brought three stones with me, of the right weight and heft, just in case I miss the first time.

I see her squealing with delight as I play peek-a-boo with her. I see her eyes lighting up with pride as I praise her grades at school. I see the compassion on her face, as she places cold compresses on my forehead, to bring my fever down, as I lie, whimpering and shivering, in my bed.

I stand prepared now, ready to cast the first stone. My hand is shaking, but I will it to be still, for I must not only cast the first stone, I have to make sure that it kills her, immediately, so that she suffers no more, so that her pain is stilled.

Forgive me, my child, but this is all I can do for you now.