The Long and Short of It

I can’t always work on novel-length projects. Sometimes I need to have something short in process. I love to read short stories and while writing them is challenging, I enjoy wrestling them onto the page.

Here’s one. I call it Tsantsa.

Tsantsa

By C. Lee McKenzie

“Matt,” his mom called. “UPS just dropped off another package from Jack.”

A package from his cousin meant some kind of stuffed critter had arrived. Matt's room already looked like a natural history museum for the wild parts of the world.  

Last year he got a miniature grinning crocodile from the Amazon. Mom hated it. When Jack followed up the next month with stuffed blow fish from the South Pacific, she used the word, banned, three times—all about Jack.

Matt entered the kitchen and his mom held out a shoebox-sized parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Here. I'm late for my appointment." She hurried down the hall. "I’m praying this isn’t another you-know-what.” 

The return address read "Mrs. R. Bradley, Roanoak, Virginia" It had been postmarked a week ago. 

Who was Mrs. R. Bradley? Matt wondered.

He read the address label. "To: Matthew Kehoe." 

He shook the package. Nothing rattled. He ripped it open and removed the lid. Inside, was what looked like layers of tree bark.

His mother hurried into the kitchen, rummaging in her purse. “I have to be downtown in ten minutes. Where did those keys go?” She started to sweep aside the wrapping Matt had tossed on the counter, but then noticed the address label. “This wasn’t from Jack. It was for him.” She peered into the box. “You shouldn’t have opened it.”

“It was addressed to me.”

“No." She held out the wrapping and pointed to the c/o in front of his name. "I didn't see that." She shook her head. “Just put it away. I don’t want to know what’s inside that . . . piece of tree.” She fished the car keys from her purse. “I’ve got to go.”

Matt lifted the bark free of the packing and peeled it back. He held it up to get a better look and immediately dropped it back into the box. His palms stung and his heart froze inside his chest. It was an ugly doll’s head with long, dark hair, inky blue-black skin, and slits for eyes. Like its mouth, they’d been stitched together with thin cord.  

He stuffed it back into the box. His mom would go ballistic if she saw that thing. He considered stowing it in the garage, but what if it was something valuable? Jack was always on about how important each of his “finds” was to an anthropologist. Matt decided to store it under his bed until Friday when his mom vacuumed. Then he’d find a better spot. 

At the dinner table that night his mother didn’t talk about the package until his dad asked if anyone had heard from, as he put it, “that globe-trotting nephew of mine.” 

“Jack got a package today,” his mother said. “Matt opened it thinking it was for him.”

“What was it?” His dad buttered a piece of bread. “More stuffed reptiles?”

“No.” Matt scooped a spoonful of corn into his mouth. Having that head hidden under his bed had made him uneasy all day. As the day ended, he became edgier. 

“Something wrong?” his dad asked.

Matt shook his head and gulped down his milk.

That night, he took his time brushing his teeth. Then he folded his clothes, instead of doing his usual strip and toss. He couldn’t stall anymore, but he wasn’t climbing into bed with that thing underneath it. He pulled out the box. Turning on the overhead lights, he set it on his desk. 

How could he be scared by an ugly blue doll’s head? Jack would laugh at him and say something like, “Get a grip, Matt. It’s only a good luck charm.” 

He lifted the lid and reached inside, but when he touched the wrapping, his fingertips felt like they were on fire. He yanked his hands back and grabbed a pencil. Holding it by the eraser end, he peeled away the layers of bark. 

The eyes stared up at him. He fell against his bedroom wall, knocking his desk chair over. His body shook. His scalp drew tight and his throat burned like it did before he threw up.  

After he'd choked down the sour taste, he grabbed the lid and clamped it on top. 

When he could breathe, he slid the box to the back of the highest shelf in his closet. 

Before he climbed between the sheets he opened the door into the hall like he used to do when he was little. Even then Matt couldn’t sleep. The vision of those eyes, wouldn't go away. What had Mrs. R. Bradley in Virginia sent Jack?

The next morning, Matt dragged himself to breakfast. Yawning and grumpy, he mashed his cereal under the milk but ate very little of it. His stomach ached. His head hurt. He cupped both hands over his eyes and leaned his elbows on the table. 

“Are you sick?” His mother put her hand on his forehead. “You’re clammy.” She pulled out the kitchen emergency kit, shook the thermometer and stuck it under Matt’s tongue. 

His dad entered, carrying the morning paper and mail. “What’s all this?” 

“Matt’s sick. I may have to take him to the doctor.” She read the thermometer. “102.”

Dad sorted the mail. “Hey, It’s a letter from Jack for you, Matt.” 

“I’m going to bed.” Matt picked up his letter and shuffled to his room. He’d never felt this sick before. He fell across his bed, too exhausted to open Jack’s letter, and slept.

Running. A dark jungle. Footsteps behind him, coming closer. Closer.  A hand grasped the back of his neck.

Matt shot up in bed.

“Good heavens,” his mother cried. She stood at the side of his bed. “We’re to see the doctor at four.” 

He fell back against the pillows. For the first time, he looked forward to seeing the doctor. Next to him was Jack’s letter. He ripped it open.

"Matt, I’m having something sent to you that’s not for your collection. Keep it safe until I come home next week. I’ve been in the field and didn’t have another address to give Mrs. Bradley who wanted to send it right away.  Leave it wrapped. Your mom's already pissed at me, and that package will make her hate me more. Tell my aunt I won’t bring more lizards or snakes when I come. Promise. Jack.

Matt read the postmark. Jack had mailed this letter before Mrs. Bradley mailed the package. The letter should have arrived before that head. Why wasn’t Jack already here?  

That afternoon the doctor prescribed rest and fluids, the same as he had when Matt had the flu which meant the doctor didn’t have a clue what was wrong with him. Matt had to find Jack. He had to get rid of that package. And he had to do both ASAP.

He opened his email. Jack didn’t use email much, but he had an address he checked occasionally. Matt typed an urgent message. "Where are you? The package came. Opened it by mistake. Doll’s head you got from that Bradley person makes me want to puke. Matt."

He clicked Send. The computer went online, sent his message, and downloaded an email from Jack.

"Delayed in Ecuador, Matt. Was in the field doing research and stumbled on something. It’s the tsantsa making you sick. Keep away from it!  I didn’t know it was dangerous until now. I have to get it back here to Ecuador. Keep this between us. Don’t want Aunt Nancy throwing me out when I arrive. Love, Jack.

p.s. Don’t look at it after sundown."

“Too late,” Matt said. He typed. "Hurry up. And what the heck is a tsantsa? 

A wave of nausea washed through him. Trying to decide if he should head to the bathroom, he pushed up from his desk and fell into bed. He tried to stay awake, but his eyes grew heavy and soon sleep pulled him into its dark self, into the . . .

jungle. That hand gripped him from behind and threw him to the ground. Matt rolled onto his back and held his arms over his head. A figure straddled him. A knife held high. The face twisted and terrible, the mouth . . . stitched closed.

Matt bolted up from his bed, shaking.

Grabbing a blanket he walked to the guest bedroom and curled into a ball. “Hurry up, Jack,” Matt whispered into the pillow before he fell into a dreamless sleep.

By the second day after he’d moved from his room, he felt great. He felt even better when Jack called from the airport. He’d be there in half an hour.

When his cousin’s taxi arrived Matt ran to the curb. Jack, his blond hair tied at the back of his head with his usual bright red string, gave Matt his bear hug greeting. 

“Wait for me,” Jack told the driver. Then to Matt, “Are you okay?”

Matt nodded.

“Where is it?”

“My closet.” Matt led the way, but stood in the hall as Jack retrieved the box.

“I can’t stay,” Jack said. “I’m booked on the next flight to Ecuador.”

“What is that?” Matt pointed at the box.

“A Jivaro warrior took the head of a relative and transformed it into a tsantsa. That's taboo—the worse kind.”

“Huh?” 

“A tsantsa is a human head taken in battle and transformed into . . .” Jack rubbed his eyes. “It’s a shrunken head.” 

“A guy’s head?” Bile rose into Matt’s throat with the vision of the blue skin, the stitched eyes and mouth.

Jack nodded. “I’m returning it to the disgraced tribe. I’m hoping that will end the need for revenge. Mr. Bradley, the last collector who owned it, died the day after he received it. When I researched the others, they’d all died within a short time after the head arrived. It was only after I’d given Mrs. Bradley your address that I discovered this. I never would have involved you, if I’d known about the curse.”  

"Curse," Matt repeated with a shiver.

“Can I borrow your duffle bag?” Jack asked.

Matt grabbed his Yankees bag from the corner of his closet, the one with his name and address inked into the canvass.

Jack set the box inside. “I’ll email and let you know what happens. See you at spring break. Promise.” 

Matt stood at the curb as the taxi drove away. He hated seeing Jack leave, but he was glad the box and its icky contents were gone.

That Monday, Matt returned to doing homework and going to bed early. Dull. Dull. Dull. Jack’s emails never came. Matt’s emails to Jack remained unanswered. No letters came, either. Then two months after Jack’s visit, the doorbell rang one Saturday morning and Matt answered it. A delivery man, holding a Yankees’ duffle bag, stood on the porch. 

Matt stared at the bag with his name and address inked onto the side. A tiny trickle of sweat started at his hairline and trailed down his neck. What had Jack sent him?

“Returning a bag to Matt Kehoe."

Matt’s hand shook as took the bag. Maybe Jack was returning it. Maybe he was sending something to make up for that head. 

It took a while before he could unzip the top, but when he did, he found the same box he’d gotten over two months ago. This time he didn’t open it. He picked it up and carried it outside where he grabbed a shovel and dug into the ground. Dropping the bag, box and all, into the small hole, he buried it. 

“What’s this?” His dad asked coming from the garage and pointing to the freshly turned dirt.

“Something Jack sent. Mom won’t want it in the house.”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Matt.” Dad clutched a letter and tears spilled down his cheeks. “Jack’s . . . been killed.” His dad handed Matt the letter.

The letter, the dank smell of their backyard dirt . . . all swept around him like a funnel cloud that snatched him into its center.

He didn't remember falling onto the freshly dug earth, but when he woke up, he was in the living room with his parents staring down at him, their faces filled with worry. 

His mom patted his arm. “I’m sorry, Matt. I know how much you loved Jack.” Her eyes were red from crying.

His dad helped him up and sat beside him on the couch. “We’ll have a small memorial service, since—” 

His dad didn’t have to finish. Matt understood. The letter from the university had explained what happened to Jack. There was no body to bury. “Our investigation failed to locate . . . dangerous Jivaro territory . . . Extremely, saddened . . . .”

That night after he was sure his parents were asleep Matt returned to the mound of earth in the backyard. He dug away the dirt until the shovel struck something soft. He reached down and lifted his bag from its grave. Then he wiped the dirt from the zipper and pulled the tab. It opened a bit. Another pull and his bag gaped, revealing the box.

The moon cast a white light over Matt’s trembling hands as he retrieved the box and set it on the ground beside him. 

His dad’s words filled his head. ‘We’ll have a memorial service since. . . .’ 

Matt removed the lid. 

Under the moonlight, lay a dark blue head, eyes and mouth stitched closed, its blond hair neatly tied with a red string.

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