Otieno's toes pressed in the cold mud at the edge of Karura Forest.
His fingers shook as he held the small bag Mama had sewn - inside, the healing seeds and beads clicked together.
The village healer had pressed them into his hands at sunrise. "For protection," she'd whispered.
Giant trees rose up like walls ahead of him. Their branches tangled together high above, turning morning into darkness.
The wind pushed against him, making the leaves whisper. His heart beat so hard it hurt.
Every night at the cooking fire, Grandmother told stories about this place.
About the woman who guarded these trees, who punished anyone who hurt them. Otieno used to roll his eyes. "Just stories to scare babies," he'd said.
But that was before.
Before their best goat wamnyota stopped giving milk.
Before the maize plants turned black and fell over, even though it rained every day. Before his little sister Wanja started coughing so hard she couldn't speak.
At the water well yesterday, he heard the women talking. "Poor boy," they said when they thought he couldn't hear.
"The forest guardian saw what he did." They walked away fast when he looked at them.
His stomach hurt thinking about that day three weeks ago. He and his friends had run wild through these trees, shouting like they owned the place.
They'd grabbed all the fruit they could reach. They'd cut their names into trees that were older than their grandparents. He remembered how they'd laughed.
Then everything changed. He saw her standing between two trees - darker than any shadow he'd ever seen.
Her white hair moved like cobwebs in the wind. His friends screamed and ran. He ran too, but those green eyes burned into him like fire. They followed him all the way home.
That same night, Wanja started coughing blood.
Now he stood at the forest's edge, the bag of offerings heavy in his sweaty hands.
His foot moved forward one small step.
The whole forest went quiet. Not even a bird made a sound.
He felt thousands of eyes watching him from the darkness between the trees.
