The Village in Southwest Logs

From: Alene Gaston <Agaston90122@gmail.com>

To: Garrett Tyler Hobbes <garretthobbes@nytimes.com>

June 18th, 2029,

Attachments

~ZXC-00005.mp4

~ZXC-00005 Log Notes.mp4

~Dig Site Plans for Operation MSQ-ENRG-SYNC-1009.jpeg

~Employee Records at KOTH Facility.pdf

---DOWNLOAD FAILURE. DOCUMENT CORRUPTED.

~Memo from Elizabeth Steely 10/17/2025.pdf

---DOWNLOAD FAILURE. DOCUMENT CORRUPTED.

START RECORDING ZXC-00005.mp4

Warm lights. Cool breeze. Night sky. Savoury smells flowing through the air. The laughter of little children. That's what ran through the woman's head. The festival was only a few days away and she couldn't wait. It was one of the few interesting things that happened in the village. It was also a very special time, dating back to the founding of the land. However, she was not sure how it came about or what it really meant. All she knew was in the morning, the town gave thanks to La'ana, goddess of protection. Then the village had a gathering, sharing their food together. When the sun sets, she, her best friend and her "mother" would play with the younger children in the streets, like every other woman old and able enough would be doing that night, and wait for the men to come home from their hunts. Last year it was fun and exciting; her son was dancing to the rhythm of the songs being sung, and he had the best dance. Everyone had said so. She was proud of him, her only child.

This year would be different. He was 10 this year, her son was. He was old enough to join the hunt this time. Every time she tried to picture him with some sort of weapon, his paint covered body, his crooked teeth and his lovely laugh would come back to her. She looked through the window and watched him play with the other boys in the street. She couldn't believe they were all the same age; they outrun him with the ball, taking turns to kick it high in the air. He did his best to catch up, occasionally getting the ball and making attempts on the makeshift bucket-goal. He was small, her son was. So frail and faint.

She went back into the kitchen area and went back to preparing dinner for the family. Her husband would be back from the market. He was out trading some of the harvests from the last month. It was better than last year, always a great sign. La'ana was really on their side. Her husband felt that it was because of their son. He was their good luck charm.

It was true, she mused to herself. Their lives were a bloody fight for survival before he was born. No food, no land, no means of taking care of themselves. Everyone they had asked for help from had shut their doors in their faces. They had to walk from one village to another, hoping for some sort of kindness.

I mean how else would you expect villagers to treat the people that committed that taboo. You know, the unspeakable one, the one that the meeting of elders doesn't even like mentioning. The one that gave each of them the marks on their feet, so everyone in the land knew.

What do you mean you don't know about the taboo? This is something everyone knows about. Everyone, except the village at the south-western border of the lands. So unless you're from there, you need to ask your neighbour or something. But I doubt they'll say anything. Its a sort of a taboo to mention the taboo. Strange, if you ask me.

The stew was almost done. The smell sifted around the cosy home, and it brought back to memory a time she made the stew. A friend of her husband came over after a day of working out on the fields. She served them some of the stew and her husband's friend fell in love with it. He praised its texture and taste and then asked how she learnt how to make it. She had gone quiet for a while and quickly said it was her mother. He didn't notice her strange behaviour or the fact that his friend looked down at the dirt floor. He was mesmerized by the stew, which was a reminder for the dark day, the reason for the time in exile.

*

She was maybe eight months pregnant by the time they approached the next village. She was dying of hunger, and the dry, mid-afternoon heat was not helping her condition. Her husband was weak as well. He didn't have the strength to carry her. He was crawling in the dry mud, while she waited under the shade of a tree. He stopped moving when he stumbled upon the market square, whilst the usual hustle and bustle around. Some people had stopped to help him, trying to ask him how to help him. He spoke weakly of his wife, that she was waiting for him. Some villagers ran back to her, and as they arrived, she was screaming, sitting in a patch of water. The baby was coming and nothing would stop him from doing so.

He doesn't know why he was remembering that day. He had no reason to. Well, being at the marketplace may have helped to jog the memory, but he was very far away from the place already. Why didn't it come up while he was selling the harvest? He shook his head as he shifted his satchel across his shoulder. Those days of suffering were behind them. The decade in their new home felt like an eternity; like they had lived their whole lives there. The people of this village were nothing but friendly even though they knew about the taboo. I mean, they had to, right? They saw the marks, they understood the thing they had done, right?

He stopped suddenly in the street, in part to allow a herd of cattle pass by him. The herder, a great example of the collective kindness of village, greeted the man as he passed by and told the man to greet his wife and son. He didn't reply, still in deep thought. Could it be possible? Could some of them really not know? Was that why they were nice? Would they change if they understood? What if they knew and wanted to punish them in their own special way? How would it affect his son?

His son. The thoughts halted to give way to those two words. The boy was going to join them in the hunt this year. He kicked the dust on the road. His son was 10, he was. Meaning that he would have to join the other men in the hunt. His conversation from a few months before came to mind. The boy was too small, too weak. This was bad.

The man continued on hurriedly, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He had to do something. Failure was not an option for his son. He has seen the result of such too many time times to count. What made the situation direr was that it would not only affect him and his wife but the poor boy as well.

He had always thought he was their lucky charm. Now he was worried that the boy would be their downfall.

*

The village square was crowded that afternoon, more full than it had ever been. Every man, woman and child were in attendance. After all, it was an event that happened once in probably a hundred years.

Two people were foolish enough to commit the taboo.

The woman was crying, pleading

The couple was shaking in their shackles, fear in their hearts, tears streaming down their faces. A man with a black skirt was holding a thick iron rod. He looked at the couple with disgust swimming in his dark eyes. The odd looking end of the rod was glowing bright and hot.

I think you and I both know what's going to happen next.

*

It was quiet. Well, the crickets in the mud and the gist of the villagers in other houses and the sounds of animals aren't exactly quiet. But the atmosphere during dinner was anything but lively. The boy was confused as to why it was silent. It hadn't been this way since his grandfather died. He knew the old man wasn't exactly his grandfather, but it was still sad.

So did someone die? He wasn't allowed to ask his parents questions like that while eating. So he kept trying to figure it out on his own.

If someone had died, his mother wouldn't have that look she has when the crop looks bad, or when he hurts himself. His friends gave the look a name: "worry", as it would translate to English. It was a strange word, he thought.

And his father wouldn't have eaten. His father takes his time to pay respects to the dead. He would eat more food. Nor would he take some of the fruit preserves. That was for parties. He always hoped to try some when he was old enough.

So then what was going on? He could hear bits and pieces of their conversation before dinner after he had finished playing. He was able to pick up things about the festival. But he couldn't understand why they worried.

He knew he was on the hunt this year. After all, he was 10, he was. He knew how to hunt. He could shoot a bird out of the sky with his sling. He sets traps for rabbits, chickens, little animals. As for the big ones, well, he could figure it out. I mean, with all the tools he had, he could do it, right?

The older kids, though they weren't supposed to, told him a bit of thing he needed to watch for. Come to think of it, those kids didn't like the younger kids. They were too proud to help any of them.

Then why help him? The boy could never figure that out. They were always so nice to him. He was even shocked when the older boys would teach him hunting tricks, or the girls would let him taste their food(which was, and he hates admitting it, sometimes better than his mother's cooking).

Why did anyone like him? Even the chief himself shows a liking towards him. His father is friends with the leader of the village, and they get gifts all the time. He would have expected the villagers to be jealous, but they were happy that even though they weren't from that village, his family is always being promoted.

Well, some of the kids his age don't like him. And that made sense to him. They made it hard for him to play games. Which is why he has to try twice as hard. He knew he was small. He knew that he could have been knocked over if the winds were strong enough.

Maybe the community's love of his family is based on the sole fact that he was small. Maybe they pity him. That makes more sense, he thought. He couldn't see any other reason.

His parents seemed confused about it too. Well, his mother, at least. His father was either hiding something or pretending to know. At least, that's what the boy thought.

If only he knew.