Annurin's Belated Christmas Present

Anatoli watched as the Bocha camp broke up and began to disperse. The wanderlust always driving the family members on around the world, also always brought them to the rites. The coming of age ceremonies, marriages, and wakes were all performed at the gathering. It was a time to re-unite with your family, those who were estranged. But Anatoli’s brother never returned to the gathering, his brother was no longer Bocha.

Tradition and legacy had been the centre of the tribe, a back bone, a support with which the head of the family held court. One day, not to far off, Anatoli would be that leader, his father was ill and struggled to attend many of the ceremonies during the past three days. Anatoli spoke on his behalf, but only as the voice of one who commands, and he hungered for the chance to rule and control the tribe.

He waited late into the night, then retired to his wagon. Pouring a glass of ouska, he let the rough heat of the drink scold his innards, readying his nerves for the guilt he would feel after this night was through. Out in the moonlit night the distant tones of gypsy singing carried over the winds, but now only his father and he remained on the muddied fields.

Unsheathing his knife the heir apparent stalked across to the canopy marquee and stepped under the access flap, then lowered himself down beside his father’s resting form. Holding the old man’s weightless hand, with tears forming on his face he said his good-byes. The love and desperate respect Anatoli held for this withered man; the memories of the strong healthy leader of his youth and the pressure to prove himself to be better than his brother Annurin all mixed together inside the moment it took to sink his blade into the invalid’s chest.

A gurgling cry escaped the old man’s lips, as the tribal leader spasmed and clawed at his bedding, Anatoli simply held him down and waited. The thrashing, weak as it was, soon stopped and then only one of the Bocha remained in the ceremonial grounds.