The dirty floor of their hut showed his father's footprints perfectly .

Step, step, step to the door.

More steps to where the cooking fire had burned down to ashes.

Then, over to where Wanja lay wrapped in blankets, her breath made a scratchy sound like dry leaves.

Those feet had walked all night long until the prints were deep enough for water to pool in them.

"Come back, witch! Give me back my daughter!" His father's voice had gone hoarse from shouting at the forest.

Otieno's stomach felt like he'd swallowed rocks. Each time his father shouted, the rocks got heavier.

No witch had made his sister sick. He had done this.

As he walked into the forest, Twigs snapped like tiny bones under his feet.

He jumped at every sound - a bird flapping overhead, a monkey chattering in the trees.

Three weeks ago, he'd walked these same paths as he owned them, throwing rocks at birds with his friends and laughing when they flew away scared.

Now, the trees seemed different. Their branches reached down like arms trying to grab him.

Then he saw it - the huge fig tree.

Its roots pushed up from the ground like giant fingers reaching out of the earth.

The branches spread so far that they made the ground dark even midday.

His eyes found what he was looking for - his name carved into the bark.

The cuts still looked fresh and angry, like scratches on someone's skin.

His legs turned to water, and he dropped to his knees in the dirt.

The small leather bag of medicine his grandmother had made shook in his hands like a scared animal.

"Please," he whispered, and his voice came out tiny, like when he used to call for his mother after a bad dream.

The forest went quiet. Not even a leaf moved. Then:

"Why have you come here, child?"

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