Excerpt - ZamaShort #2 'Summer' by Nerine Dorman
EXCERPT
SUMMER
NERINE DORMAN
Mika never told me there was to be a hanging today. By the time I reach the town square after my errands are run, the condemned are already lined up on the gallows – all eight of them like scruffy starlings in a row. My husband never misses a good hanging, and he’s there, right in front by Geron, the coffin-maker, who’s resting one booted foot on the last of eight roughly planed mudwood boxes. No white-spear or hamakin pine for these dead. Plain old mudwood – easy to work and soft as butter that unravels to splinters after the first wet winter. But for now, it will serve, to cart their corpses off to the Potters’ Field, which is better than merely loading them on a wagon like so much meat.
Half of Phantom Acres has turned up for the spectacle – after all, it’s not every day that there’s a public execution, let alone one with multiple condemned. Betrina Soonay and her sisters are lurking under the awning by the general store, in the only reliable shade from our binary suns, which are now blazing on high, and it’s a toss-up if I want to endure the women’s chitter-chatter or go stand by my husband beneath the patchy boughs of one of the square’s wirru trees. Mika will no doubt be dissecting the lurid crimes that have brought these folks to their current fate.
In the end, I opt for the latter, and make sure that I angle my parasol just so to offer me a measure of respite from where the sunlight dapples through the foliage. As it is, the air is baking and hazed with dust. I hope this is over quickly so we can go home. Who knows what mischief the children are up to with only Aia looking after them. They really have the nuhiyah wrapped around their fingers. Another reminder why I’d sooner listen to Mika drone on about justice. Betrina and her coven of harpies will be horrified to know I’ve entrusted my children to “one of those natives”. As if that’s the worst thing that can happen to them.
‘Ah, there you are, my dear.’ Mika presses a sweaty kiss to my forehead.
I bare my teeth in an approximate of a smile at Geron, who beams back at me through a mess of wrinkles.
‘How are you faring, missus?’
‘I am well, thank you. A sorry business here today?’ I incline my head at the coffins.
‘Only sorry for those bastards up there.’ He pats his overall breast pocket meaningfully so that I can hear the clink of currency.
Of course. The magistrate pays him well.
I look to my husband. ‘Is this going to take much longer? We have been away all morning and I’m worried that the children might be catching mischief.’
‘Hopefully not much longer now.’ Mika glances at his comm unit, which he then tucks back into his jacket. ‘Apparently, the bleeding-heart counsellor was able to negotiate a stay of execution.’
‘That outworlder doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.’ Geron spits a gobbet of saliva on the ground then catches himself. ‘Sorry, missus.’
It’s not as if I’ve never seen men spit before, so I merely raise a brow. I’m a farmer’s wife. I see far worse nearly every day, but I’m not about to point that out to Geron.
‘How much longer?’ I ask Mika, while trying to keep my annoyance from my words. I want to go home. Our truck should be done at the charging station by now, and we still need to collect our groceries from the depot. The last thing I want is to work on my basal cell carcinoma standing in the glare. Not to mention watching some dregs of humanity get their necks snapped as if this were the best entertainment since the last media dispatch from Earth.
My husband shrugs, and Geron starts droning on about one of the incidents that led to the arrest. The man has a particular monotone, the way he slurs his words together, making him at once incredibly annoying and challenging to listen to when he’s in full swing.
Oh, for the love of fuck. We’re going to be here till sunset, at this rate. I’m not worried about Aia and the kids, but I’ve got to get back so that I can get the afternoon’s harvest of ika fruit in before a flock of hekiyahs descend upon it.
I take out my comm unit so I can message Aia – perhaps they can get started if we’re running late. They see my message and return it with an affirmative. Betrina would have an absolute fit if she knew that I’d given one “of those filthy native creatures” their own comm unit. Fortunately, Mika also doesn’t put much stock in what the authorities say about sharing tech with the Hooghai. He agrees they would have stolen it already if it had any use for them. And, besides, Aia is clanless. We raised them from a foundling when the militia cleared out a nest but overlooked a pod at the boundary of our farm and Mansoor Kitha’s. Aia imprinted on me and Mika. We are their triad, and they have fallen into the traditional bond-role of their species.
But I don’t expect Betrina and anyone else to understand that; it’s none of their business, anyway.
With nothing better to do than wait and wilt in the sun-drenched square, I study the condemned. They are a ragged bunch, their skins blistered and burnished from standing out here for what must be a few hours already. Seven human and one juvenile Hooghai – a male, if the budding spurs on his arms are anything to go by. The fact that the condemned have a native among them won’t endear them to Phantom Acres, especially not with all the tit-for-tat raiding that’s been happening these past few months.
None of them can be older than thirty, if that, and the youngest is a mere kid of around fourteen. He should be helping his Da plough fields and not be waiting here to have his neck stretched. I’m brought up short when I see the woman. Unlike the others, who’re gazing off into nothingness, she’s watching me, her eyes bug bright. A cursory glance, and she might pass for a young male, but there’s a fineness about her features despite her rugged clothing that gives her away.
‘Hani, is that you?’ she rasps.
It’s like she’s shot a dart through my chest. No one has called me Hani in over a decade. Since boarding school. Not even Mika calls me by that name. To him, I’m Hannali, the name my parents gave me. The name on my identity profile.
I can’t draw breath because I see her – the girl.
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“Nerine Dorman delivers a swift, scathing commentary on the restrictions of societal expectation, the allure of stepping away from it, and the inexorable consequences of doing so. The world is rich; it feels layered and well-conceptualised.”— Marius Du Plessis.
Nerine Dorman is a South African author and editor of science fiction and fantasy currently living in Cape Town, with short fiction published in numerous anthologies. Her novel Sing down the Stars won Gold for the Sanlam Prize for Youth Literature in 2019 and The Percy Fitzpatrick Award for Children's and Youth Literature in 2021. Her YA fantasy novella Dragon Forged was a finalist in the Sanlam Prize for Youth Literature in 2017. Her short story ‘On the Other Side of the Sea’ (Omenana, 2017) was shortlisted for a 2018 Nommo award. Her novella The Firebird won a Nommo for “Best Novella” in 2019. In addition, she is a founding member of the SFF authors’ co-operative Skolion, and the curator of the South African Horrorfest Bloody Parchment event and short story competition.
The ZamaShort imprint series is solely focused on the amazing powerhouse that is the short story. We give each short story its own publication so that it may be read and enjoyed fully as a stand-alone publication. As per the StoryTime Publishing mandate initialised in 2007, ZamaShort continues to champion and add to the ever-growing canon of African literature excellence and diversity.
Released 1st June 2025.
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