Sakolomé had gone to the field his mother had asked him to clear. The task was simple, almost mechanical, and he found in it an opportunity to test his combat techniques. He wanted to put to the test the one he considered his ultimate move: the deadly punch.
He delivered only one. The blast shook the ground, then silence fell again, and with it an overwhelming fatigue. His legs gave way, his eyelids grew heavy, and he surrendered to a leaden sleep.
When he opened his eyes again, hunger was twisting his stomach. He made his way to the apple tree at the foot of which he had left his basket of provisions, but stopped short: something was wrong.
Agile figures were hovering around his meal. Monkeys.
— "But for goodness' sake, what are monkeys doing with my food?!" he shouted.
His voice tore through the calm of the forest. The creatures turned toward him with gleaming eyes that expressed no remorse. They had no intention of giving up their loot.
— "Wait a minute, you bunch of idiots!"
He charged forward. The monkeys scattered in a tumult of cries, and one of them, with a swift movement, snatched the basket from the ground and ran off with it. The affront doubled Sakolomé's anger, and he set off in pursuit.
— "Give me back my basket, you bunch of thieves!"
The fleeing creatures leapt from branch to branch with an almost insolent ease, slicing through the foliage like shadows. But none of it could make the young boy let go. They took a detour, and their run led them into a half-devastated clearing, where the deadly punch had left its mark. A few trees still stood, and the monkeys climbed to their tops.
Sakolomé's stomach growled louder. Hunger blinded him. He tried to climb as well, missed his grip, stumbled heavily, and crashed into the earth.
— "Ouch! That hurts!"
Up above, the monkeys reached the tops of the tall trees and vanished into the canopy. Powerless, he watched their disappearance. He got back up, still hungry, tears in his eyes.
— "Damn monkeys!"
He wanted to resume his route and finish his task, but his foot caught on a rotten fruit and slipped. He tumbled into a bush, which concealed another part of the field he had devastated. Lying on his back, he opened his eyes again.
— "Hmm…?"
He looked around. Everywhere, fruit trees lay gutted, ravaged. His punch had swept everything away.
— "Oh…" he murmured. "I understand. The monkeys that stole my basket were hungry too. I destroyed all their food…"
His gaze dimmed, and a hint of compassion surfaced in it, in the face of the mistake he had just realized.
— "I should have checked the surroundings before destroying everything."
He approached a lightning-struck mango tree, its fruits scattered across the ground, crushed, and sat beside it. He picked one up, swollen with juice, but covered in sand, leaves, and swarming insects. He removed some of the dirt with his finger.
— "Darn. There's no way to remove all the ants."
His stomach rose in a long groan. Sakolomé closed his eyes and sighed.
— "After all, ants are full of protein and vitamins."
He bit into the fruit, ants included. Immediately, he grimaced.
— "Yuck! The taste of these ants is disgusting!"
He threw the fruit aside without finishing it, returned to the apple tree, and sat at the foot of the trunk. He looked up at the foliage, stripped bare.
— "Not a single apple in there… And to think I have to stay here until tomorrow, when I'm already dying of hunger."
He curled up on himself, arms wrapped tightly around his body, and surrendered to his fate.
It was then that a distant sound disturbed the silence: the roar of an engine, somewhere in the sky.
Sakolomé lifted his head.
— "Another traveler, up there!"
But a thin stream of black smoke escaped from the aircraft, which began to wobble.
— "Uh… I don't know anything about mechanics, but that's not normal."
He stood up, his gaze fixed on the sky. The plane was losing altitude, slowly at first, then faster, like a wounded bird giving up the fight.
— "It's going to crash! Given the type of aircraft, there can't be many people on board. Two or three people, at most."
A small explosion sounded at the front of the aircraft, which plunged into the forest in a crash of broken branches.
— "About eight hundred meters from here. Quick, I'm going!"
He leapt and tore himself from the ground. Yet, once in the air, he did not hurry; quite the opposite. He did not know who was on board, what their intentions were, and so he glided above the treetops with the greatest discretion, hoping only that the occupants had survived the fall.
When he was close enough, he stopped flying and landed about a hundred meters from the smoking wreckage. Taking cover in the tall grass, he advanced cautiously, bent over, in silence, until he was no more than fifteen meters from the plane. There, he stopped and observed.
A man climbed down from the aircraft, apparently unharmed. He was tall, nearly one meter ninety-five, built with muscle. He wore gloves, and his light-brown, shoulder-length hair waved in the wind. A monstrous scar crossed his right eye, which he kept closed. Above all, his face was anything but welcoming.
— "What a disappointment," he said in a deep voice.
He approached the front of the aircraft and scratched his head.
— "I think I'm lost. Well, I've always said I hate machines. If I had flown alone, I wouldn't be here!"
He went back inside. Sakolomé, gnawed by curiosity, crawled a little closer and stopped six meters away, still hidden by the grass.
The man came back out, a tool bag in hand. He was whistling, relaxed, a tuneless melody, when he stopped abruptly.
— "Hmm!"
His gaze turned directly toward Sakolomé. The latter made himself as small as possible in his hiding place. The man dropped his bag.
— "Hey, kid! I saw you. What are you doing in such a deserted place?"
Sakolomé said nothing. He acted as though those words did not concern him.
*Wait, is he talking about me? How did he spot me?*
— "Kid, come out of your hiding place. Unless you'd rather I come get you myself?"
*Better to obey, if I want to avoid trouble.*
Sakolomé straightened up and pulled himself out of the grass that had concealed him. The man looked at him. Sakolomé returned his gaze. A silent duel began, one that no word came to disturb. Each was unaware of the other's intentions. Who could this child be? And who was this stranger?
It was Sakolomé who gave in, looking away. The stranger smiled.
— "So, who are you, kid? And what are you doing in such a deserted place?"
— "I… I…"
— "Come on, don't be afraid! You're a man, after all."
Sakolomé swallowed. The man picked up his tools and slipped under the plane to set about a repair of which Sakolomé had not the slightest idea.
— "Hey, kid, are you planning to stand there? Come help me instead!"
Perplexed, Sakolomé approached.
— "Hand me a screwdriver, from the toolkit."
Sakolomé nodded and rummaged through the bag.
— "Sir, there are three. Which one should I take: the small one, the big one, or the medium one?"
— "The medium one!"
He handed it to him. The man concentrated on his work while Sakolomé, crouching beside him, watched his movements. A heavy silence settled in, which began to weigh on him. He decided to break it.
— "Uh… Sir?"
— "Yes, my little one?"
— "Doesn't it bother you that a stranger, appearing from a place like this, is helping you? And what if I wanted to hurt you?"
The man laughed softly, with disarming ease.
— "You couldn't, my little one. I saw it in your eyes: you're not mean, and you were well raised."
Sakolomé, surprised, wondered what he was talking about.
— "Listen, I have a little sister, Néruxa. She's seventeen, very kind, caring, and shy. Earlier, I noticed that you look a lot like her."
— "Oh…"
— "Yes. I don't know why you're having so much trouble telling me who you are. If you're lost too, tell me: I'm not a monster, after all, ha ha!"
He slid out from under the aircraft and sat facing Sakolomé. He was covered in dirt and gasoline, and reeked of fuel. He held out his right hand.
— "My name is Ramos. Ramos Galru. And you?"
Sakolomé looked deep into his eyes and saw a multitude of stars there, which immediately soothed him. He shook the offered hand.
— "My name is Sakolomé. Sakolomé Satsujin Otoko."
Ramos's eyes widened.
— "Satsujin Otoko… So, you're a Killer man?"
Sakolomé nodded.
— "Ah, I see. But this little Killer man is rather cute!"
He began to tickle him, and Sakolomé burst out laughing.
— "Ha ha ha! Stop it, Mr. Ramos!"
Ramos stopped. Sakolomé caught his breath.
— "Mr. Ramos, doesn't it bother you to know who I am? Usually, when people hear my family name, they run away or try to kill me."
Ramos looked at him, then raised his eyes to the sky.
— "You know, my little Sako, the bloodthirsty Satsujin Otoko belong to the past. You are merely suffering the mistakes of your ancestors, otherwise you wouldn't resemble them. In town, I know a very kind Satsujin Otoko, and rich on top of that."
*A very kind and very rich man, and a Satsujin on top of that? It must be Uncle Baham.*
— "Is this man bald?" Sakolomé asked.
— "Yes. Do you know him? His name is Baham."
— "Yes, he's my uncle. Baham Satsujin Otoko."
Ramos smiled broadly.
— "Incredible! All that innocence in your eyes… It's crazy, but with you, the Satsujin, men and women alike, are rather pleasant to look at!"
Sakolomé blushed and smiled, a little embarrassed.
Ramos straightened up.
— "But that's not all. The Satsujin have superhuman strength and know how to fight: that's well known. So, kid, do you know how to fight?"
— "Uh… yes, a little."
Ramos smiled, as though he had just found what he was looking for.
— "Perfect! Would you like to face me, right here, right now?"
— "Uh…"
— "Don't worry, it's just a friendly fight, not a fight to the death."
Sakolomé smiled in turn.
— "In that case, no problem, Mr. Ramos!"
Ramos clenched his fists, trembling with excitement.
— "Then, my little Sako, be on your guard!"
Sakolomé stood up, leapt backward, and immediately took his stance, his gaze steady.
— "Very well. Let's go!"