Muti Nation by Monique Snyman

down Howlen’s temple while a vein furiously throbs in his forehead. His knuckles are white from clutching the file in one hand, setting my own nerves on edge. I’ve seen him angry before but I’ve never seen him angry because of something as insignificant as an overlooked note. An ecological anomaly might’ve been a gross oversight on my part but unless such an abnormality would directly influence the outcome of a case I could easily overlook it. Therefore, I conclude he must have stumbled on something that wasn’t noticeable in the first place, making it inconsequential.
    As we venture closer to where Valentine Sikelo’s body was found, the scenery—as I remember it—changes considerably. Where healthy blades of yellow-tinged grass once grew tall, wilted patches of brownish-grey grass were there instead. Where nature once played a song of chirruping crickets, a void now replaces all the sounds. Even the air tastes sour the nearer we get. The irregularities are hair-raising to say the least.
    “You failed to mention the whole area seems to have its life force sucked out of it,” Howlen breaks the silence in an I-told-you-so manner, derogatory to my frayed patience.
    “Maybe the grass died from natural causes? The heatwave has been unbearable, and—”
    I stop talking when he crouches down in front of me and point to a dead crown plover in front of its nest. It looks to have had everything sucked out of it before it died; blood, organs, anything remotely life sustaining. There is no decomposition but it looks like it’s been dead a while, which doesn’t make sense whatsoever.
    “Oh,” I whisper.
    He picks up one of the bone white eggs in the nest, carefully cracks it open and holds it up to show me the inside.
    I crouch by his side, studying the purplish fossilized goo within, until, “What the hell is that?” I stand and take a step back, as though whatever’s happening is contagious.
    “That used to be a crown plover chick.”
    “What happened to it?”
    “I have no idea. Whatever it was affected everything to its core in a three-hundred metre radius,” he says, standing. “I’ve already collected samples, but I’d like to know why this didn’t make it into your report.”
    “Probably because this wasn’t how the area looked when I was here on Friday,” I say.
    “So, you’re saying this whole area died in three days’ time?”
    “It seems like it.” I turn in a full circle, trying to get a better perspective on the perimeter. The vacuum of life, not only visible in the fauna and flora, is apparent in the air and soil too. This whole place feels evil. Such superstitious nonsense shouldn’t even enter my mind, and yet I cannot describe it as being anything other than evil . “Did you find something else worthwhile?”
    Howlen grunts an affirmative and sets off towards where Valentine’s body was found.
    Even the sky has a greyish tint to it as if the sun cannot penetrate the layer of morbidity in the veld. As an investigator, it’s imperative to be objective in every regard, especially when throwing around words like “evil,” “ritualistic murder” or “muti,” but tiptoeing around the obvious when something wicked lurks beyond the veil of normality is just plain stupid.
    Howlen stops in the clearing, points towards the exact spot that Valentine Sikelo last occupied.
    I stifle a surprised gasp.
    The crimson life force which seeped out of the victim’s body post-mortem hadn’t been absorbed into the earth. In fact, the blood hadn’t coagulated at all. Aside from the thin jellying top layer, the blood is as runny as though it had spilled a minute ago.
    “There must be a scientific explanation for this,” I say.
    “I’m not aware of scientific explanations for anything I’ve seen at this site,” Howlen says, worry entering his voice. “This is your jurisdiction.”
    Yes, this is my jurisdiction, but I’m at a loss for relative plausibility. “I don’t know how to start