This year spSF sponsored a short story contest. The winning story was “Offering for the Dead”, by Kevin Wilkins.

An offering for the dead by Kevin Wilkins

The day that Amrike embarked on his Krolab had started swimmingly. His skin still wet and salty, he wore a large grin walking back from the beach. More than a dozen large fish wiggled their last breaths in his back sack. He breathed in the landscape. No wind agitated the palm trees and no clouds blocked the pale rising sun. Normally, a beautiful day would give him no rush to return home, but he was giddy to show off his bounty.

The Eagle Clanfort awaited him with its small stone houses suckling around the squat central tower. But as he passed through the outer wall, he felt a heaviness in the air. The children still darted around unconcerned, but the adults were subdued, their eyes quietly following him wherever he went.

“Amrike, Amrike!” the kids acclaimed as he flaunted his harvest.

“One day I’ll fish like you, Amrike,” little Kandel said, grabbing a large fish to admire.

“I see a great future warrior in you,” he told the boy, whose face beamed elated.

But Amrike’s own smile faded. He kept glancing at the adults, gasping for clues in the expressions of his fathers and mothers. He had a guess, and dreaded being right. 

“Amrike, come,” his father Monian finally said to him in a pained smile. “Clanmother wants to see you.”

Inside the central tower sitting in front of Clanmother he found his brothers Minuxi and Brul, equal to him in age and in fate. That could only mean one thing: Clanmother must have judged the moons to be in their auspicious phases. The old woman—wrapped in a cocoon of shawls, white hair, wood pendants, and copper jewels— gave him a look of pity mixed with pride. His heart sank, the time of Krolab had dawned.

The rest happened too fast to process. Tearful preparations, frantic prayers, reverent goodbyes. He punched in the tears as his fathers hugged him, and punched them further as his mothers held him to their chest. And when little Kandle asked confused why the big brother he idolized was leaving, Amrike knelt to bestow his lance and urged him once more to become a great warrior. But as he saw the uncomprehending tears in the child’s eyes, Amrike, who was a child no more and comprehended enough, felt his own salty tears wet come rushing onto his lips. By noon, the three young men and the Clansmother passed through the gate, the entire Eagle Clan gathered in salute, drums and chants accompanied them as they ventured into the scrub.

As they waded through the sun-bleached boulders and twisted trees, Amrike contemplated the old woman, her slow paces faltering on the rugged terrain. He owed his whole existence to that frail figure. She had chosen the men who joined the Clan and fathered him, she had delivered him, and she named him. She taught him all he knew; the nature of stars and moons, of how the fish came to be, and how the trees obtained their various fragrances. And she had spoken about the dead. 

Despite her prominence his whole life, Amrike did not understand her. At times, she dominated the Clanfort with her voice, others she was silent for days. Her mind often seemed to wander, forgetting words, trailing her speech, and often calling her children by the names of long deceased relatives. Yet her deep memory for nature, stories, and especially family lineages was astounding. She could recount each clan member’s birth moons, parents, siblings, clans, and ancestry dating back to when the first humans emerged from the sea. The complex intermingled family lineages were in her mind laid out with the clarity of women pattern. And even that day, she entertained her untraveled companions by pointing out the landmarks they passed. They learned of sacred trees, ancient battlefields, and maidens stolen by trickster demons.

When they finally arrived, Amrike was wholly unprepared for a different Clanfort. Its familiar layout—the central squat tower and clustered homes—only deepened the eeriness, as familiar shapes were inhabited by unfamiliar faces. While Clanmother was unbothered, Minuxi and Brul betrayed a similar unease. 

The whole Clan welcomed them at the entrance, vigilant and expectant, with the embrace of an known but unmet relative. Amrike sensed his skin peeling from the inside. He felt the collective gaze of the whole clan lick his body, and force himself not to stare back. The Beetle Clanmother came forth to welcome her traveling counterpart, the two wearing a similar cacophony of stoles and bone jewelry. When they finished talking and praying, the foreign Clanmother came forth to do her duty.

For long unending moments she observed Amrike and his brother as a fisherman evaluates his catch. She then inspected them. First, it was Brul. She touched him, handled his limbs, and gazed in his eyes. Minuxi received even more attention, with questions about his knowledge and his prowess. But when Amrike’s turn came, the Clanmother froze, terror flickering in her eyes. She refused to even approach him, instead backtracking and the two Clanmothers spoke in hushed tones. After long deliberations, his Clanmother finally stepped forth and addressed the crowd.

“Minuxi, son of my ancestors, you have been accepted into the Beetle Clan. Go and meet your new wives and brothers.”

Minuxi’s stiff shoulders eased as he stepped into the exulting crowd, embraced by strangers who now called him kin. Amrike watched the women gaze at their new husband with a look he’d never known, and in that moment, he longed to feel it on his own skin. Minuxi had completed his Krolab and found a home. As the remaining three departed, Amrike realized that he was jealous.

The walk to the next clan felt lighter, almost effortless. His fear had washed away, and he could hardly recall why the journey had once seemed so heavy. Seeing Minuxi embraced had filled him with hope. Now he understood why the men said Krolab marked the end of one life and the beginning of another. The sorrow of leaving his old home was balanced by the promise of a new one.

The Fox Clanfort sat by the western cliffs, its stones bathed in the light of the setting sun. As the ritual repeated, Amrike studied his potential new family. The men he imagined as brothers, guessing which might outfish or outfight him. He smiled at the children peeking shyly from behind their parents’ legs. But it was the women he observed most, their dark skin shining in the sunset light, hair dancing in the breeze. A few returned his gaze, and he blushed, secretly emboldened.

Amrike puffed his chest, catching Brul doing the same, an unspoken rivalry flaring. Brul was strong, but Amrike was stronger, and he wondered if Clanmother had mentioned he was the fastest in the tribe. His heart pounded like a woodpecker as the Fox Clanmother approached, but he saw her expression shift to horror as she froze before retreating. Again, the two elders whispered. Then Brul was chosen, embraced by his new clan, and though Amrike’s eyes filled with tears, he could not look away.

Brul joined his new family while Amrike and his Clanmother spent the night in the Fox Clan’s guest house. Amrike’s anxiety had his stomach tied into a knot, hence he was grateful when Clanmother answered the doubts he couldn’t voice.

“The other Clanmothers have sensed in you a shadow I too have suspected for a long time. I know not what it is, but there is something unusual about you. We need to go visit the dead, for they will know what to do, and will test you.”

“I am ready. I am the fiercest and strongest in the Clan,” he said.

She shook her head.

“Becoming a brother and husband is not about towering over others, it is about serving them. Don’t ask yourself why you new Clan should revere you, ask yourself what you can offer them.”

She looked at him with kind eyes before saying: “Sleep deep, Amrike, for tomorrow you meet the dead.”

The dead, it seemed, demanded a generous offering for their counsel, so Amrike spent the morning hunting and fishing. Fueled by confusion and disappointment, his aim was unerring, and by midday his back pouch brimmed with hares, quails, and fish. Meanwhile, Clanmother gathered herbs, flowers, and wove leaves into sacred patterns for the dead. With their bountiful tribute packed, they made their way south, seeking answers.

The shores of the dead were not simply a boundary between land and sea, but rather a fractured tapestry where earth, air, water entwined. Jagged crags overlooked the sea, their uneven faces dotted by holes and burrows. Below them, the shore was splintered into a honeycomb of stone; caves, crevices, and sinkholes plunged out of the sunlight creating an underground labyrinth carved by time and tides. As they approached, the wind carried inland the crashing waves and the croaking seagulls, giving Amrike a sense of dread.

“I am too old to descend. Follow these rocky steps until you find the homes guardians of the dead. They will take the offerings and guide you to the dead,” Clamother said, grabbing his hands with motherly love. 

Despite his nerves, he followed her advice, descending the steep switchbacks into a narrow valley between cliff and sea. At the bottom, a smoldering pyre still held the charred remains of a man, the air thick with the mingled scent of ash, flesh, salt, and brine. Across the clearing, a Clanfort was carved into the stone. Though his hands trembled, he pressed forward, hoping the dead would not see the fear in his heart.

As he approached, several figures came out to greet him. The guardians of the dead all wore animal masks carved in bone that concealed their faces. Despite their sacred meaning, Amrike could not help but feel squeamish rather than reverent to the ghastly figures.

“I bring offerings for the dead and seek their guidance,” he announced himself.

Their leader, an old short woman wearing the mask heron with a sharp beak and sharper horn, nodded her approval without talking. She guided him to a large sinkhole at the base of the cliffside.

“You will be tested. Your heart, your intentions, your words. If you are pure, the dead shall accept your offering and show you the path forward,” were her only words.

The masked guardians, in a silent and rehearsed motion, grabbed a long wooden ladder into the hole.

Amrike fought his terror. He could barely see the bottom of the hole. His feet were clawing at the ground and refusing to take one more step. But he wanted to be a husband, he wanted to be a man. The dead protect us, he told himself mustering his remaining courage, Clanmother would not send me to my harm. 

He looked up as he lowered himself into the chasm. The guardians leered from above, like teeth around the mouth of the opening. Against the pale blue sky stood a ring of sharp, inhuman contours, curved horns, hooked beaks, furred ears, snarling muzzles, all rendered in flat, depthless black.

Amrike stepped onto the slick, uneven cave floor and entered a dark tunnel. Above, cracks in the rock led to distant sunlight while, below, sinkholes promised further darkness. The sound of water sloshing and going back and forth echoed through the cavernous interior as the wind moaned and hissed through the crevices.

Amrike walked slowly, wondering where the dead were. Were they listening, watching? Tempted to turn back and ask the guardians more questions, he hesitated—would the dead see that as cowardice? Clans needed brave husbands, and he was brave. He had to be.

As he descended depper, could hear outside and below the waves crashing against and could feel the mist splash in between the cracks and enter the tunnels. In hidden grottos and pools, the water gently sloshed rhythmically. How many of those passages would be underwater as the tides shifted? He shivered. He was a good swimmer, but the image of water rising and trapping him in the confined underground tunnels crept into his brain.

As he was progressively losing the battle against his panic, the path opened up. A few crooked slits in the ceiling illuminated faintly a large circular chamber. A pungent smell, sweet but sickly like rotting fruit, hit him as he stepped inside. All around were rough hewn pillars of stone, which revealed to be indeed carved with the sacred patterns of the dead. In the center, a large rock stood covered in jewels, linen, baskets, and bones.

While looking around circumspectly, he gently took the food and offerings from his back pouch and placed them on the rock.

“Dead of the Clan, accept my offering.” He recited. “Dead of the People, guide my feet. Dead of my blood, strengthen my hands.”

He gazed at the offering laid out before him. The shadows were still, the silence broken only by waves, distant gull cries, and the occasional drip of water. As he circled the chamber, the smell thickened, and a wave of lightheadedness washed over him. Unsure if his gift had been accepted, he sat in silence. He recalled his Clanmother’s words about giving oneself to others, not merely seeking their approval. He weighed the need to be wanted against the longing to be desired. In that damp, dark chamber, Amrike reflected on himself more deeply than ever before. Slowly, the once-harsh smell grew almost pleasant.

He rose, but dizziness took him. He felt the hard and wet stone floor hit his hands and knees. His head clouded as the sounds of water wind grew fainter. He rolled onto his back. The scent grew softer and nervousness mellowed as the soft ground hugged him. The dark amorphous ceiling started taking shape. At first, he thought the stones were shifting, but then he saw: it was fish, massive fish with glinting scales, moving in slow, hypnotic circles above him. He lazily reached out his hands to grab them. Food, so much food. His clan would be proud. But no matter how he grasped, they slid through his fingers. His spear. Where was it? He turned, spotted it in the back of the cave, and crawled toward it. But when he reached for it, the spear twisted and hissed. The snake, for it was a snake now, struck and bit him. He cried out and fell hard.

His scream echoed, bouncing endlessly through the cavern. But the echo spoke. A voice. Not his own. “Amrike,” his Clanmother said, “vain Amrike.” He slowly stood up. His head throbbed and the smell of rotting flesh choked him. Barely perceptible in the darkness, were Minuxi and Brul, their new Clans dancing around them. Men women and children turning around in circles, their hands outstretched in gentle caresses. His brothers stared at him, mocking. Dozens of Minuxis danced around Brul and dozens more of Bruls danced around Minuxi. “Brother, we love you,” they said. But he knew what they meant. Where are the hands to caress you, Amrike? He crawled, then ran towards them, but they were distant now, too distant to catch. He hated them.

Amrike sat and cried. Not even the hugs of his mothers consoled him. He begged them to tell him what he lacked. And the men too were there, praising him, but they would also not answer his questions. And he found himself to be a kid, walking on the beach. His fathers were teaching him to spot fish, to throw lances, and to climb rocks. And he realized that he loved fathers not for how hunted, climbed, or fought but for how much they loved him. And cried for he now knew what lacked. He cried because he wanted to love his new Clan as much as his parents had loved him. And not for Amrike would he be a good father and husband, but for those he was to be a father and husband too. 

But such a future would never be, for he now was drowning. Water surrounded him, and despite his kicking he kept being dragged down. The sunlight fled further and further away and all around him darkness grew, the air vanishing from his lungs.

In the depth, a voice, like lightning across the darkness.

“This way,” it said. 

A hand stretched to grab him. 

Amrike let himself be pulled, and finally his lips felt air. Laying on dry land, a golden eyed woman crouched above him was the last thing he saw before his mind clouded and sleep took him. 

Consciousness arose slowly. He felt the wet rock with his hands, then opened his eyes. Jumbled questions rattled his hurting head as he took stock of where he was. He was still in the tunnels, a faint orange sunlight percolated from the side signifying that sunset was imminent. A female figure was crouching not far from him, quietly gazing. He stood open-mouthed and confused before picking the simplest of the questions.

“What happened?”

“You were in the chamber of the dead for too long. You cannot do that.”

“I saw … things,” he strained his brain to remember what happened. He sought the words to explain what he saw, but was not sure if he could explain it to himself. 

“Who are you?” he said instead. Her features came more into focus. She could not have been much older than him. Long tightly braided hair framed her vulpine face.

“I am Maha,” she answered.

“You saved me?” Amrike said, not realizing why he framed it as a question.

“Yes,” she said, breaking into a smirk as she got closer to him “you seemed to need it.”

“Why are you here? Are you also seeking the dead?”

Maha looked at him thoughtfully. “I was sent here to find someone who I have yet to find.” 

“I think… I think the dead talked to me,” he said, almost ignoring her answer.

“The dead are always talking to us,” she answered.

“I think … well, they have shown me who I need to be,” he said. But as his mind grew sharper, he looked once more at the dimming light. “We should leave; the sun is setting.”

“I cannot leave yet. I still seek my answers.”

Amrike gave her an understanding nod, and then painfully stood up, searching for the way towards the exit.

“Please don’t leave. I am afraid. Will you stay with me?” She said, intuiting his intentions.

Amrike hesitated. If he didn’t leave now he’d have to wait till the morning. Neither the prospect of staying in those caves overnight nor the idea of leaving his Clansmother waiting enthralled him.

“I need you, Amrike,” she said.

He looked at her. She did not look scared. He tried convincing her they should leave, but she would not budge. Need you here with me, she kept repeating. Please stay. Could he leave her in the cold dark caves? 

And so he stayed. They found a softer spot in the rock. And as the crevice sunlight was replaced by moonlight, Maha moved her body next to his. His head still hurting, he lay silent and motionless, feeling her chest gently rising and lowering at every breath.

Never in his life Amrike had passed such a terrifying night. Noises abounded: wings flapped, figures stirred at the edge of sight, and both animal and human sounds echoed. Amrike wondered if the dead still watched or spoke to him, his thoughts circling home, loss, the fear and desire of joining a new clan, and haunting visions. He imagined returning to the surface, meeting every Clan on the land, but facing an endless line of Clansmothers watching him in horror and jolting at his touch. And every time he believed he found inner peace, his thoughts were shaken by a sound in the darkness.

“I cannot sleep”, he finally said out, to no one in particular.

“Neither can I,” Maha answered, and so he held her closer.

One hundred times did Amrike think of leaving, of crawling towards the entrance, climbing the ladder, and escaping those caves forever. Whether the dead had accepted his offering or not, the urge to flee overwhelmed him. Whether he died alone or in his clan’s arms, he could not stay there longer. But the warm, gentle body next to him gave him pause. If he was terrified, how could he leave her alone? Stay, Amrike, she had pleaded. To leave would force her to abandon her task or face the darkness alone. He wondered who she was and what brought her here, but before he could ask, sleep finally claimed him.

When Amrike woke, she was no longer by his side. Instead, she stood at the tunnel’s entrance, gazing at him. And they weren’t alone. A dozen women watched him, their eyes fixed. Startled, he scrambled to his feet. In the morning light, Maha appeared changed: more self-assured, older, her hair lighter, and her eyes deeper with knowing.

“Who … who are you?” he asked.

“These are my sisters,” Maha answered, her voice calm. 

He felt their unblinking gaze licking his skin. Amrike assessed his location. It seemed like one of the large openings in the main tunnel. In the back, behind Maha, he believed led to the exit. He suddenly felt the need to reach it.

“Good morning, young one,” a voice said from his side. 

Amrike turned to see an older woman, unmistakably adorned with the clothing and bone jewels of a Clanmother. Amrike froze as she stepped towards him and reached to grab his hand. She examined his limb with her bony fingers, and ran her nails across his chest. A hand on his chin, she peered directly into his eyes. Amrike felt his gut contort and his skin start itching. He took a few steps back, locked into her gaze.

In his terror, a thought struck him. “You … can touch me?” he asked the woman.

She nodded, seemingly understanding his question.

“The dead are content with you, Amrike.”

Questions swirled. The dead had accepted his offering? How did she know his name? Had Maha told her? Had he even told her Maha? Suddenly, his body tingled with repulsion at the two dozen eyes stalking him. 

Panicked, he jolted forward and started pacing towards Maha. But he didn’t stop. He precipitated himself out of the clearing, darting down the path, ignoring his hurting feet. He looked back: none of the women followed him. He hurled himself and stumbled as fast as his sight and feet allowed, his heart in a panic.

Just as he was about to collapse, he reached the great sinkhole that marked the exit, the morning sky gloriously above.

The ladder, his coveted way up, was gone. He screamed for the guardians, panic besting him. The image of the women haunted him; their deep eyes, their unflinching  stares. As he regained his breath, his fear started to fade, and he wondered if he had overreacted. They hadn’t harmed him while he slept, nor had they threatened him. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling of the Clansmother fingers exploring his flesh, nor did he have any idea who they were and why they were in the caves of the dead.

Finally, the horned and beaked silhouette of a guardian peered from above.

“The ladder,” he shouted. “Drop the ladder.”

The figures did not move.

“Have you passed the test?” she asked.

Surprised, Amrike paused before answering.“Yes, the dead have accepted my offering. They are content. Please, the ladder.”

“Good.” The guardian kept looking down, unmoving against the pale sky.

“Lower the ladder.” Amrike replied. The nervousness, previously abated, had started to come back. ”The dead are content with me and my offering was accepted.”

“Indeed, the dead have accepted your offering. But you need not come back up to join a Clan, for you already have. You see, even the dead need a husband,” the figure said, before retreating.